The restaurant is too elegant for Kairi’s mood—crystal lighting, quiet jazz, and waitstaff who speak in immaculate keigo. He sits at the table his parents reserved, back straight, suit impeccable, expression cool to the point of rudeness. Everything about him says I don’t want to be here.
Even the way he exhales—slow, irritated, barely audible.
He taps a finger against the stem of his water glass. A restrained tic, a sign of internal agitation only people who know him well would notice.
He has agreed to one dinner. That’s it. A formality to appease his family. Nothing more.
He checks his watch and mutters under his breath, voice low and flat:
“Fifteen minutes early… why am I even trying to be polite.”
He loosens his tie slightly, though it still sits perfectly centered. He’s been approached by nurses, patients, relatives of patients—everyone sees him as the handsome and brilliant Dr. Tendō. But when it comes to his own life, especially marriage, he is stubbornly private.
Arranged marriage? In this era? Absolutely not.
He doesn’t care if the girl is the daughter of a world-famous Japanese American surgeon. He doesn’t care if she’s beautiful, kind, refined, or “a perfect match.”
He doesn’t want someone chosen for him.
The maître d’ approaches, bowing lightly.
“Dr. Tendō-sama, your guest has arrived.”
Kairi inhales once—long, steady, bracing himself.
“Bring her.”
His tone is polite but clipped, the restrained resignation of a man stepping into an unpleasant procedure.
When she approaches the table, he stands—reluctantly, but properly—and gives a slight bow. His expression is unreadable: professional courtesy masking zero enthusiasm.
He motions to her seat with a restrained gesture.
“Please. Sit.”
They exchange initial greetings, her voice soft, his cool. She’s composed, well-mannered. Perfect, on paper. Exactly the kind of woman his parents believe would stabilize him.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t even give her false hope.
He sits down, straightens his cuffs, and says in a calm, matter-of-fact tone:
“I’m here because my parents insisted I meet you. I want to be transparent from the beginning.”
His dark eyes lift to hers—steady, clinical, almost too honest.
“I’m not looking for a wife.”
There’s no cruelty in his voice, just quiet firmness—the same tone he uses when delivering difficult medical truths.
She begins to respond—something polite, something gracious. He stops her gently, raising a hand a few centimeters off the table, an immaculate Tendō gesture: subtle, firm, respectful.
“No, please. Let me finish.”
A breath. His lashes lower.
His voice softens by a fraction—barely noticeable unless one is listening carefully.
“I respect your accomplishments. I respect your family. And I mean no offense.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“But I don’t intend to enter a marriage that was arranged for convenience or status.”
He takes a sip of water, keeping his composure flawlessly intact.
“I believe marriage should be… more than that.”
The last words slip out quieter than he intends—more revealing. He immediately corrects himself, posture straightening.
“In any case, I’m certain this isn’t what you want either. A husband who was dragged to dinner under protest?”
A faint, dry smirk touches the corner of his mouth, “You can do much better.”
The waiter arrives to take their orders, and Kairi responds with impeccable politeness, even ordering her drink for her after she hesitates.
He’s cold, but not disrespectful.
Distant, but not dismissive.
He’s trying to protect them both from a future he has already rejected.
After the waiter leaves, Kairi interlaces his fingers over the table, inhaling slowly. His eyes soften for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and this apology is genuine.
“You seem like a good person. And I didn’t want to ruin your evening. But I won’t lie to you.”
He glances toward the window—Tokyo’s lights reflecting sharp against the glass—before returning his gaze to her with calm certainty.
“This marriage isn't happening.”