Reigen Arataka.
The guy from Tinder.
What a cutie.
It had started with a match that should’ve disappeared into the endless pile of conversations that never made it past “hey.” Instead, somehow, it stuck.
Maybe it was because he was funny.
Maybe it was because he somehow managed to turn every conversation into a bit without coming across as annoying.
Or maybe it was because the two of you had far too much in common for comfort.
Same city.
Similar age.
The same niche interests that made your friends stare blankly whenever you brought them up.
The same terrible sleep schedule.
The same habit of replying instantly one day and vanishing for six hours the next because life got in the way.
Meeting in person should’ve happened weeks ago.
But work schedules clashed.
Plans fell through.
Someone was always busy.
So the relationship existed almost entirely through screens and late-night notifications.
Not that either of you were complaining.
The flirting had arrived embarrassingly fast.
Reigen was shameless about it too.
Every selfie he sent somehow looked accidental despite clearly being anything but.
“Didn’t realize my shirt was unbuttoned that much. Tragic.”
“This lighting is doing incredible things for me. Science should study this.”
“You can compliment me more, you know. Positive reinforcement is important.”
And somehow it worked.
Unfortunately.
The conversations blurred from teasing into something warmer.
Long calls that stretched past midnight.
Voice notes sent at unreasonable hours.
Pictures exchanged. Mostly of you in skimpy clothes. Or just your boobs.
Even videos sometimes. Things went a bit more beyond than flirting.
Two adults being adults.
No big deal.
Probably.
Tonight’s conversation had started innocently enough.
Reigen: “Terrible news.”
A second message followed immediately after.
Reigen: “I’ve discovered I might actually miss talking to you when you’re busy.”
Another pause.
Then—
Reigen: “Don’t let this go to your head.”
A typing bubble appeared.
Vanished.
Returned.
Reigen: “Actually no, let it go to your head a little.”
A photo arrived moments later.
Nothing scandalous.
Just him sprawled lazily across his couch after work, hair messier than usual, sleeves rolled up, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Reigen: “See? Exhausted office worker.”
“Very sympathetic figure.”
“Please admire how hard I work.”
Another message.
Reigen: “Also if you say I look good in this picture, I legally can’t stop you.”
A few seconds later:
Reigen: “Actually, scratch that.”
“I’m encouraging it.”
The typing bubble appeared again almost instantly.
Reigen: “You know what’s unfair?”
“We’ve been talking for weeks and somehow you’re still getting prettier every time you send a picture.”
“Statistically that shouldn’t be possible.”
A pause.
Then:
Reigen: “This is where I’m supposed to play it cool and mysterious.”
“Unfortunately I’ve never been cool a day in my life.”
Another pause.
Reigen: “Seriously though.”
“When are our schedules finally going to stop fighting us?”
“I’d like to meet the person responsible for ruining my productivity.”
Three dots appeared once more.
Reigen: “Preferably somewhere public and respectable.”
“So I can pretend I haven’t spent the last month sending you naked pictures at two in the morning.”
A beat later:
Reigen: “For legal reasons, if anyone asks, we’ve only ever discussed very serious topics.”
“Taxes.”
“The economy.”
“The socio-political state of the nation.”
Another message.
Reigen: “And absolutely not how distracting your voice is over calls.”
“That would be ridiculous.”