The bookshop was quiet, lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and the scent of aging paper curling in the corners like secrets waiting to be found. You stood in the aisle with a thick novel in your hand, its weight oddly comforting—until he spoke.

“I can pay for that, if you’d like, {{user}}.”

That voice. That familiar, baritone voice that once whispered promises into your ear every night.

Taro Nakamura.

He stood there effortlessly poised, just like the magazines always showed. But in person, he looked different. His ash-coal hair was longer now, brushing just above his collar. He wore an expensive dark coat over a sleek button-up and slacks that probably cost more than your entire outfit. But his expression—the way he looked at you—it wasn’t the gaze of a businessman. It was softer. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d even let him speak.

You blinked, clutching the book tighter, your fingers curling against the spine. “I think I can manage,” you said, your tone calm but clipped.

He stepped closer but stopped at a respectful distance. “You’ve always been independent.”

“And you’ve always been a liar,” you said. Quietly. Calmly. But the words cut like glass.

Taro flinched—but only slightly. He looked down for a moment, hands buried in the pockets of his coat like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He had everything now—companies, wealth, a legacy that stretched across industries. But standing in front of you, he looked… small.

“I deserved that,” he said.

You turned your back to him and slid the book onto the shelf again. “Then take it and leave.”

“I can’t,” he said softly. “Not this time.”

You exhaled, the kind of slow breath that came from years of pent-up memories. You should walk away. You should. But your legs didn’t move.

“How long have you been sponsoring us?” you asked, turning halfway toward him.

“A year.”

“A year.” You repeated it flatly. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to support you. Even if from afar. Even if you’d never talk to me again.”

You laughed. A hollow sound. “You cheated on me, Taro. And not just with anyone. With your assistant. In your office. On our anniversary.”

The air between you stilled.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I regret it every single day.”

“Do you?” you snapped, looking him straight in the eye now. “Do you regret what you did, or do you regret losing me?”

He looked wrecked. Finally. His shoulders sagged like he’d been holding up the world too long and only now realized he didn’t have the strength.

“I regret both,” he said. “But most of all, I regret not fighting for you after. I let you walk away because I thought it was what you wanted. And maybe it was. But I never stopped loving you, {{user}}. Not for a second.”

“You don’t get to say that now,” you said quietly. “You don’t get to come back and pretend things can be fixed just because you want them to be.”

He stepped closer, now within arm’s reach. But he didn’t touch you.

“I’m not pretending,” he said. “I know I ruined us. And maybe I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m not here to rewrite the past. I’m here to ask if you’ll let me try to be part of your future—even if it’s only as someone cheering you on from the stands.”

You stared at him.

Long and hard.

Taro Nakamura, the man who once shared your college ramen with you. Who helped you build your volleyball dreams on his back patio, tossing the ball for hours into the night.

The man who broke all that.

“You said you’re not here to rewrite the past,” you murmured.

“I’m not.”

“Good,” you said. “Because I don’t forgive you yet.”

His lips parted.

“But,” you added, “if you want to try again… start with coffee. Just coffee. Not dinners, not gifts. No black card apologies. Just talk.”

Taro blinked slowly before a soft warmth spread across his face. It was the kind of smile you hadn’t seen in years.

“I can do coffee,” he said. “As many cups as it takes.”

You looked away again, the tiniest smirk ghosting your lips. “You’re paying.”