The lighting was soft— a cozy, warm glow spilling from crystal chandeliers, casting gentle shadows over velvet booths and tables dressed in flickering candles and delicate flowers. Akito let out a soft sigh, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the mahogany table draped in crisp white silk. Somewhere nearby, a piano’s light melody floated through the air, weaving itself into the quiet hum of high-profile chatter and the clink of half-empty glasses.

It should have been the perfect place for dinner— except… well, he wasn’t here on a date. And if he had to hear the word husband one more time, he was going to throw something. Seriously, who thought this was a good idea? The agency, more specifically An Shiraishi, that’s who. They were already about as convincing as a pair of actors who’d never read the script. Akito just couldn’t decide if it was the suit that was suffocating him, or the fact that his "husband" was staring at his wine glass like it held all the answers to life’s problems. Their latest case tangled around this very spot, and naturally, the agency had sent them to iron out the last wrinkles. Even beneath his polite, magazine-ad-level, gentlemanly mask, Akito couldn’t hide his irritation.

The waitstaff moved silently between tables, expertly balancing trays of delicate hors d’oeuvres and shimmering glasses of champagne. The faint clatter of silverware against fine china punctuated the background noise. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, mingling with the subtle undertones of aged wine and something else, something faintly spicy— perhaps the aroma of freshly baked bread from the kitchen just beyond the bar. And yet, here he was, pretending to enjoy the scenery while feeling like his insides were slowly being strangled by his clothing.

“How long is this going to take?” he muttered, tugging at his tie as he turned toward his reluctant undercover partner, watching him take a small sip of wine. “This suit’s starting to constrict my airways…”