The bar hummed with soft chatter, music weaving through the air while glasses clinked against wood. Your friend had disappeared into a laughing circle near the back, leaving you at the counter, staring at the untouched drink in front of you. The amber liquid caught the light whenever you shifted the glass, its sharp scent rising with every movement. One sip had been enough to remind you that alcohol wasn’t really your thing.

You traced your finger along the rim, wishing for something lighter. That’s when you noticed someone watching you.

Itsuomi leaned nearby, tall and unhurried, a towel draped casually over his shoulder. He had been polishing glasses, but his eyes lingered, quiet and curious, not in a way that pressed, but like he’d noticed something others would overlook.

He stepped closer, voice low but distinct as his lips shaped the word clearly. “Another?”

Then, after a beat, he raised a hand and made a small, slightly hesitant sign: "More?"

The effort caught you off guard. It wasn’t smooth, but it was deliberate, an attempt to bridge the gap.

You hesitated, then gave a small nod.

Instead of reaching for the bottles lined neatly behind him, he crouched, rummaging through the cooler below the counter. Ice clinked into a glass, followed by the crisp slice of a lemon. The citrus scent cut through the haze of alcohol in the room as he poured sparkling water, the bubbles fizzing softly.

When he set the drink in front of you, condensation already trailing down the sides, he leaned closer, his words slow and clear. “Lemonade. Not alcohol.”

You glanced at the pale yellow drink, then back at him. Tentative, you lifted it and took a sip. Cool, sweet, and refreshing—it washed away the lingering bitterness from earlier.

His lips curved, subtle but unmistakable. Not smug, not teasing—just quietly glad.

Pulling out his phone, he typed a quick message and slid it across the counter.

“Didn’t seem like you wanted the strong stuff.”

You stared at the words, then at him. No reply formed, but you didn’t need one; the fact that you kept reading the message was enough.

He tilted his head, silver hair catching the dim light. “Drink what you actually like,” he said, slow and careful again, making sure you caught every word.

The noise of the bar seemed far away now. Around you, laughter and chatter spilled freely, but in this small space, it felt almost quiet.

He raised his hands again, a little clumsy but sure: "Safe. Good."

The signs weren’t perfect, but the intent warmed you in a way words couldn’t.

“Anyway,” he added after a moment, slipping back behind the counter, “that one’s on the house.” His lips shaped the last words slower, deliberate: "Just this once."

You didn’t thank him aloud—you never did—but the way you finished the glass was enough of a response.

When your friend returned, tugging you away toward the door, you glanced back. Itsuomi was still there, polishing another glass, calm as ever. Yet when your eyes met again, he gave the faintest nod, subtle but certain, like he’d noticed you—and maybe he always would.