Tokyo, Japan. 1990's

Aki leaned back against his headboard, a half-smoked cigarette resting in the ashtray by his side. His flip phone sat warm in his palm, the bluish glow lighting up his sharp features in the dark. Normally, he hated wasting time like this, but tonight he didn’t care.

He read your last message again, the corner of his mouth twitching into the kind of smile no one at the bureau ever got to see. His thumb hovered over the keys, typing, deleting, rewriting—discipline warring with impulse until impulse finally won.

“That outfit you wore today… do you even realize how fine you looked?”

He paused, exhaling smoke slowly through his nose. It felt reckless to say, but you had a way of pulling that out of him. Fingers tapped again, deliberate, like each word carried more weight than he intended to show.

“Almost made me forget I had work to do.”

He shut the phone halfway, as if that could undo what he’d sent, but the thought of your reaction kept him from closing it all the way. His chest tightened, heat curling low in his stomach at the idea of you reading his words, knowing exactly how he’d been watching you today. He couldn't help it... you were exactly his type.