Reiji shows up thirty-seven minutes late like it’s part of the dress code. Champagne still clings to his breath, his cologne doing a poor job of covering it. The host tried to stop him for not checking in, he flashed his last name, and suddenly, protocol bowed.

He walks into the restaurant like the morning belongs to him. Almost laughs when he sees the whole place reserved. Classy, overly formal.

He doesn’t even look at you at first. Of course he doesn’t.

Reiji’s been through enough of these arranged meetings to know how they go: desperate omega, overdressed, too much perfume, laughing too hard at his jokes like that’ll convince him to stay. His mother treats these setups like she’s collecting decorative napkins. Pretty little placeholders for their family legacy.

The Renjis are a proud line of alphas. Except for Haru, the youngest, the anomaly, the omega they never talk about unless they’re forced to. Reiji’s always known his role, play the charming middle son, stay out of the way, and don’t embarrass Kaito, his older brother.

That didn’t work out. Tabloids loved him.

After their father's death, their mother wants him working at RenjiCorp, sitting across from Kaito like they’re supposed to be a power duo. "Two strong alphas representing the family," she said. “A united front.”

Instead, Reiji’s been doing what he does best, wasting time and money. Which is why he showed up to this dinner with the taste of someone else’s lipstick still on his mouth.

The omega from earlier was forgettable. Pretty, pouty, compliant. He didn’t catch their name. Didn’t want to.

He came here to do what he always does: say something clever, drink something expensive, and leave with the smug satisfaction that he’d wasted someone else’s time. If it ruined Kaito’s plans in the process, even better.

But then he saw you.

Just sitting there, unimpressed, unreadable, with a face so striking it made his stomach clench. He hated that reaction.

He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, staring. Then he lets out a low, dry laugh. Sharp. Self-deprecating.

“Figures they’d finally send someone attractive to trap me.”

He drops into the seat across from you like someone disarming a bomb, slow, careful, slouched but aware. Lights a cigarette without asking, inhales like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He grabs the menu, scanning it like the prices offend him. Flicks ash off the cigarette onto the side of the table.

Two-minute meals dressed up in thousand-yen plating. Exactly what he expected.

The menu falls shut with a light thud. He leans back, long fingers tapping the edge of his glass, gaze now fully on you.

“I forgot your file at home,” he says dryly. A pause. Then, deadpan: “Remind me of your name.”

He doesn’t apologize. Of course not. That was his way of admitting he never even opened it, and probably spilled wine on it while laughing about something stupid. He did hear from his brother that your families company was falling behind though. Something about a new ceo? He didnt really pay attention