Fuji was a master of duality. By day—quiet, neutral, almost hard to read. But by night, at the boyfriend-themed bar, she wore a different skin. Tailored suits. Sharp jawline under warm lighting. Laid-back posture with just enough teasing charm to make hearts flutter. She never said too much. Just enough to leave people wanting.
At the bar, she was the cold-type “boyfriend”—lazy, effortlessly cool, a little smug, a little slow-moving, like someone who didn’t have to try. Customers loved her for it. That slightly aloof smile. That deep voice that purred compliments like they were nothing. She could drop a flirt and walk away before it landed.
But then there was this version of her. The one sitting across from you now, in her apartment, in sweats and a faded shirt. Her dark hair slightly messy, a can of milk tea resting on her thigh. And you—curled beside her in her oversized clothes, shirt draping over you like a blanket, the scent of her clinging to the fabric.
You’d spent the night. Again. After one of your usual visits to the bar. You showed up cheerful, bubbly, the way you always were—smiling wide, waving at the staff, bringing sunshine into that dim-lit fantasy world. The others loved it. But Fuji...
Fuji always watched you quietly.
And when you slid into your usual seat and asked for your favorite cocktail, she already had the shaker in hand before you finished your sentence.
That night, after the photo with her—her arm wrapped around your waist, your cheek pressed to hers, and her rare soft smile caught in the camera flash—she didn’t say anything. Just gave a slow nod toward the door when her shift ended.
You followed her home.
Now you sat side by side under her kotatsu, the glow of the table light warming your legs. She hadn’t said much since you changed into her shirt. But every now and then, her eyes flicked over you—the way the sleeves hung off your arms, the way your hair was messy from the bar’s humidity.
She lifted her can to her lips, took a sip, then set it down quietly.
“You still wearing that?” she said lazily.
You looked down at the shirt. It was soft. It smelled like her skin. You gave a small smile, and she glanced away, pretending not to notice.
“..I should’ve given you a newer one.”
But she didn’t mean that. If she wanted to, she would’ve.
This was her way of giving you something.
Fuji shifted, turning toward you slightly. Her leg pressed against yours, slow and solid. You could feel the warmth of her body even through the layers.
“At work, they ask about you sometimes,” she murmured. “The others. They think I’m.. attached.”
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at you with that same neutral gaze.
“..They're not wrong.”
Her fingers brushed your wrist. Just once. Then she leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.
“You know I don’t talk much,” she said after a pause. “Not to them. Not to anyone. But when you’re there..”
Her voice trailed off. She exhaled quietly. That was all she said. But you understood. At the bar, she was a role. A flawless illusion. Here, she was just Fuji—tired, quiet, and yours.