The restaurant wasn’t anything special. Tucked away between gray office buildings, the kind of place only people in the know ever found—quiet, with decent coffee and tables spaced just far enough to keep conversations private.

Yoshida had picked it. “Work-related,” he’d said. Something about a report. A lead to go over. Nothing that couldn’t have been handled back at HQ—or over a quick message. But here you were, seated across from him, coats still damp from the rain, steam rising from two carefully plated meals he insisted on ordering. “This city punishes people who eat late,” he’d murmured with a smirk.

He didn’t talk much. But when he did, it was in that soft, unhurried tone that could be mistaken for indifference… if not for the way his eyes stayed locked on yours. Like he was measuring something. Waiting.

At some point, he stopped mid-sentence. Fork still in hand, idly turning the noodles on his plate. That familiar crooked smile curved his lips—playful, unreadable, always a little too sharp around the edges.

—“This isn’t a date,” he said casually. Then, after a pause, setting the utensil down and leaning back slightly, “Unless you want it to be.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation dressed up like a joke. A trap, maybe. A move that could be harmless—or not.