The first message from Fumiko Yamaguchi arrived at 7:18 p.m., while Tooshiro was standing in his apartment wearing one sock, holding a cup of instant miso soup, and trying to decide if a convenience store croquette counted as dinner or not.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Thank you again for passing along the book.
Tooshiro stared at the screen. His brain did not respond with words. It responded with a full-body emergency drill.
He set the miso soup down on the low table, realized he had put it directly on top of a stack of manuscript pages, moved it, picked up the phone, put it down again, then picked it up with both hands like a formal document. He had received many messages in his life. From his sister. From work. From delivery group chats where grown men argued about parking zones with the energy of feudal lords defending land rights.
None of those messages had made him forget he was wearing one sock. Yamaguchi Fumiko was typing. Then she stopped. Then typing again. Then stopped.
Tooshiro watched the little dots appear and disappear with the focus of a man observing battlefield signals from a distant ridge.
Finally, another message appeared.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: I would like to talk about it properly, but only if it would not be inconvenient.
He sat down too fast and nearly crushed the croquette bag.
Properly? It sounded like she had notes. It sounded like she had thoughts. It sounded like she might say things about Ghaldre's philosophy while looking directly at him, and Tooshiro had no confidence his face was built for that.
He typed, deleted, typed again.
Senda Tooshiro: Not inconvenient. I can pass along feedback.
He stared at the message after sending it. Pass along feedback... Cowardice had a keyboard.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Are you free tomorrow after work?
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Tomorrow. After work. A café, probably. A meeting. With Fumiko. About The Kingslayer King. About Shin Kaidou. About him, but not him. This was all legal in the way climbing over a fence might technically be legal if the sign had fallen over.
Senda Tooshiro: Around 6 should be fine. Depends on route delays.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: There is a café near Nakano Station called Café Hidamari. Do you know it?
He did. It was tucked down a side street near the north exit, not far from the covered shopping arcade. A warm little place with wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and desserts in a glass case that looked more emotionally stable than most people. Tooshiro had passed it often and gone inside exactly twice, both times because rain had bullied him.
Senda Tooshiro: I know it.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Then 6:30?
Senda Tooshiro: Sure.
He almost sent just that, then worried it sounded too flat.
Senda Tooshiro: Looking forward to hearing your thoughts.
The reply took longer.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: I will try not to be too intense.
Tooshiro looked at the message and smiled despite himself.
Senda Tooshiro: No promises needed.
There was no reply after that. He put the phone down, picked it back up, reread the messages, then placed it face down on the table like that would stop him. His croquette was cold by then, but he ate it anyway.
The next day felt designed to test him.
Route 17 had apparently woken up and chosen violence. Rain started just after morning loading, the kind of thin, steady rain that did not look impressive but soaked everything with persistence. Two customers had selected morning delivery and then vanished from the physical world. One building's elevator was under inspection, which meant Tooshiro carried a box of cookware up five floors while wondering what kind of person ordered cast iron during rainy season. A refrigerated package had to be redelivered within its window, and the customer who answered the door spent an entire minute complaining that the last driver had rung the bell too loudly and Tooshiro apologized for the volume of a bell he had not rung. Such was the job.
At lunch, he ate a tuna mayo rice ball in the van while parked near a coin laundry, watching rain stripe the windshield. His phone sat in the cup holder. No messages from Fumiko. That was fine. Adults did not need constant communication before meeting for coffee. Adults confirmed plans and then went about their day with maturity and reasonable hydration.
He checked the phone anyway. Nothing. He took another bite of the rice ball. Normal. This is normal. She is working. You are working. Society continues. The scanner beeped so loudly he nearly dropped the rice ball into his lap.
By the time he returned to the depot, the rain had slowed to a damp mist. The sky remained gray, but the streets glittered with reflected signs and headlights. Tooshiro unloaded returns, finished paperwork, and tried to escape without being noticed, but of course, Daiki noticed.
"You're moving fast," Daiki said from beside a stack of parcels.
"I always move fast."
"No, you move like someone who forgot something. Today you move like someone remembered something."
Tooshiro ignored him and hung his scanner on the charging rack.
Daiki leaned closer. "Date?"
"No."
"Suspicious denial."
"It's not a date."
"I didn't say it was romantic."
"You said date."
"Could be a court date."
"Why would I dress casual for court?"
"So you're changing clothes?"
Tooshiro stopped.
Daiki smiled with the spiritual peace of a man who had stepped on a land mine and discovered it was full of candy.
"I hate you," Tooshiro said.
"No, you hate that I'm good at this."
"You're good at being irritating."
"And married. Which means experienced."
"You keep saying that like marriage is detective training."
"It is. My wife can tell when I ate pudding she was saving by how I open the fridge."
"That sounds like fear."
"It is love with consequences."
Tooshiro grabbed his bag. "I'm leaving."
"Have fun at your not-date."
"It's book feedback."
"From the cute customer."
"She is a reader."
"Oh, forgive me. Have fun at your not-date with the cute reader."
Tooshiro walked away before Daiki could add anything else, though Daiki still managed to call after him.
"Don't discuss sword symbolism too early. Women love mystery."
A driver near the lockers snorted.
Tooshiro did not turn around, because if he did, Daiki would win. He already had, but Tooshiro saw no reason to make it official.
He biked home through wet streets with his work bag thumping against his side. Once inside his apartment, he changed out of his uniform and stood in front of the small mirror on the closet door. Casual clothes should have been easy. They were clothes. You put them on your body and society mostly left you alone.
Yet somehow he found himself staring at two shirts like they represented opposing futures.
The black T-shirt was safe. The navy button-up looked like effort. Too much effort meant a date. No effort meant a delivery guy who wandered in by mistake. He settled for the black T-shirt, a gray overshirt, jeans, and sneakers that were clean if no one inspected them with malice.
His hair remained a problem. It had been a problem since middle school and showed no signs of professional growth. He wet it, pushed it down, watched it rise again, and gave up before their relationship became toxic.
The walk to Nakano Station took a little under fifteen minutes. The rain had stopped, leaving the evening air damp and cool. The streets around the north exit were already crowded with office workers, students, and people drifting toward restaurants under the glow of signs. Somewhere down the shotengai, a vendor was calling out discounts. A group of college students laughed too loudly near a takoyaki shop. The smell of grilled meat, wet pavement, and coffee mixed in a way that felt specifically like Tokyo after rain.
Café Hidamari sat on the second floor of a narrow building beside a small stationery shop. Its sign was plain, wooden, and slightly old-fashioned, with a little sun symbol carved beside the name. Warm light spilled through the windows onto the stairwell.
Tooshiro arrived at 6:21. Not dramatically early. But early enough to look eager if she happened to arrive at the same time. He considered walking around the block, then imagined Fumiko arriving first and thinking he was late. That was worse. He considered standing outside, then realized that looked like he was waiting for a spy contact. He went in.
The bell above the door gave a soft chime, and warmth wrapped around him at once. The café smelled like coffee, toast, and baked custard. It was not crowded, but most tables were occupied by people lingering over books or laptops. A couple near the window shared a parfait. An older man in a cap read a newspaper as if time had politely stopped for him.
Tooshiro chose a table along the wall, not too hidden, not too exposed.
He ordered iced coffee because ordering hot coffee when nervous felt like handing fate a weapon. Then he sat with his hands around the glass and tried not to check the door every five seconds. He checked it every seven. At 6:31, Fumiko arrived.
She paused in the doorway, scanning the room, and for one brief second he saw her before she saw him. She wore a cream blouse under a soft blue cardigan, with a dark skirt and a beige tote bag over one shoulder. Her hair was down, still slightly waved from the damp air, and she looked like she had come straight from work but had taken just enough care to make it look like she had not.
Then her eyes found his. Tooshiro raised a hand. Fumiko walked over with a small, polite smile that looked completely normal to anyone else. Tooshiro, who had seen her at her doorway trying to pretend Selena was hypothetical, recognized the danger under it.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said.
"I got here early."
"Then I didn't keep you waiting?"
"Technically no."
Her lips curved. "Technically matters."
He blinked, then smiled, "You remembered."
"I remember important things."
She sat across from him, and that sentence had no business feeling like something. She placed her tote bag beside her chair and pulled a notebook from it. Not a large one. Small, pale gray, with neat tabs along the side.
Tooshiro stared.
Fumiko followed his gaze.
"What?" she asked.
"You brought notes."
"I said I would try not to be too intense."
"You did say try."
"I failed before leaving my apartment."
"That's honest."
"I value accuracy."
A server came by. Fumiko ordered a hot café latte and a slice of baked cheesecake after hesitating for exactly three seconds, which told Tooshiro she had wanted the cheesecake before entering and needed only a symbolic resistance. He respected that. Dessert was a battlefield of appearances, and she had surrendered with dignity.
When the server left, Fumiko folded her hands on top of the notebook.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
It should have been awkward, and maybe it was, but not in the worst way. It was the kind of awkward that came from both people standing near a door neither had opened before. Outside, evening pressed against the windows. Inside, the café hummed with quiet conversation and the soft clatter of cups.
Fumiko cleared her throat. "First, I want to say that I am still annoyed by how I received the book."
"Reasonable."
"It was suspicious."
"Also, reasonable…"
"And if anyone else did that, I would probably have refused."
"Good instinct."
"But," she said, looking down at the notebook for half a second before meeting his eyes again, "I am glad I read it."
Tooshiro's hand tightened around his glass. There was no joke ready. No easy dodge. No stupid container comment to hide behind.
"I'll tell him," he said quietly.
Fumiko studied him, "Will you?"
"Yes."
"Word for word?"
"Maybe not word for word."
"Why?"
"Because if I tell him word for word, he might get unbearable."
"That sounds like an author problem."
"It might be."
"He should be a little unbearable," she said, and her voice gained a warmth that made Tooshiro's chest tighten. "If he wrote something good, he should be proud of it. Quietly, maybe. Privately, if he has to. But still proud."
He looked down at his coffee.
Please stop being kind to the fake version of me while the real version is sitting here like an idiot.
Fumiko opened her notebook, and the moment shifted before he had to answer.
"So," she said. "The gods."
Tooshiro looked up.
"The gods," he repeated.
"I like that they leave."
"Most people like gods showing up."
"Most people are cowards."
The sentence came so smoothly that he laughed before he could stop himself.
Fumiko blinked, then looked a little embarrassed. "I mean narratively."
"No, I got it."
"I enjoy divine intervention in fantasy, but having the gods abandon the world creates a better wound. Everyone is acting inside the absence of authority, not under its direct control. Ghaldre thinks he is cutting the last strings, but the gods are not even there to answer him. That makes him more tragic. Or more pathetic. I haven't decided."
Tooshiro leaned back slightly.
She was not casually talking about it. She was in it. Her eyes were brighter than usual, her careful office voice loosening as she spoke. The notebook sat open, but she barely looked at it now. She did not need to. The story was already organized in her head.
"That is a pretty strong read," he said.
"I told you I read fantasy seriously."
"I believe you."
"Most people don't."
The words slipped out quieter than the rest, but he caught them. Fumiko seemed to notice she had said it too, because she reached for her latte the moment it arrived and busied herself with the cup. The server placed the cheesecake between them and left. For a few seconds, Fumiko stirred her drink though there was nothing to stir.
"To be clear," she said, "I don't walk into the office and say things like 'the gods' absence creates a better wound.'"
"That's a shame."
"It would be a short career."
"Finance has no room for abandoned gods?"
"Finance has plenty of abandoned gods. They're called quarterly forecasts."
Tooshiro laughed again, and this time she smiled with him. That was the first dangerous part of the evening. Not the praise. Not the notebook. Not the way she had clearly read every chapter. It was that. The rhythm. The ease that appeared for a second and then made both of them aware of it.
Fumiko cut a careful bite of cheesecake, then paused with the fork in her hand. "Do you want some?"
He looked at the cake. Then at her, "No, it's yours."
"I know it's mine. I'm offering."
"I didn't order cake."
"That's not a moral stance."
"I might steal too much."
"I work in finance. I can calculate acceptable loss."
"Then yes. I'll accept controlled damages."
She pushed the plate slightly toward the center, and he took a bite with his coffee spoon because there was no extra fork and asking for one would make the moment too official. The cheesecake was rich and slightly lemony.
He nodded. "That's good."
"Right?"
"You chose well."
"I usually do."
It was said calmly. Not boastful. Just true. He liked that more than he should have. They talked about The Kingslayer King for almost an hour.
Fumiko had opinions about everything. Ghaldre's final command. Baerlon's last defiance. Johanus trying to become "just a man" after being shaped into a weapon. Quintin being sheltered but not weak. Selena's introduction at The Bladed Bow. The ravangers. The way Knoxorn's tragedy made the world feel larger and crueler without stopping the journey cold.
She did not gush like a teenager, though there were moments where she came dangerously close. She gushed like an adult who had spent years holding a door shut and had finally found someone standing on the other side who would not laugh.
That made it worse? Better? Both.
"To be honest," she said, tapping her finger lightly against the notebook, "I expected it to feel amateur."
"Ouch."
"You said your friend was independent. And the delivery method was, frankly, deranged."
"It's been established."
"I thought I would read ten pages, find three spelling errors, feel bad, and quietly dispose of it."
"Dispose."
"Kindly."
"Ah. Gentle murder."
"But it wasn't like that." Her voice softened again. "It had rough edges. A few. But it had confidence where it mattered. The emotional core worked. The world felt like it existed before the page and would continue after it. That is rare."
He looked at her across the table, at the way she held her cup with both hands, at the notebook filled with thoughts on something he had made alone in his apartment while wearing sweatpants with a hole near the knee.
This is too much. Not bad too much… dangerous too much. The kind that made a person want to tell the truth, but instead he said, "You should write reviews."
Fumiko's shoulders pulled in slightly, "Oh? No."
"Why?"
"I'm not good at that."
"You just spent an hour giving a better analysis than half the blogs I've read."
"That's different."
"How?"
"This is… private."
Fumiko looked at the table, then seemed to make a decision she did not fully enjoy, "At work, everyone thinks I'm quiet… Some probably think timid. I don't correct them. It's easier."
"To be seen that way?"
"To be left alone that way." She took another sip of her latte, then set it down carefully. "I work in finance at a company in Shinjuku. The people there are not bad, mostly. They're busy, ambitious, tired, a little too interested in drinking parties. They know I'm reliable. They know I meet deadlines. They know I don't make scenes. That's enough for them."
"But not all of you."
"No," she said. "Not all of me."
The café noise filled the pause between them. Someone laughed near the window. A spoon clinked against a cup. Outside, headlights slid across wet pavement.
Tooshiro could have made a joke. He almost did. Something about finance workers secretly being fantasy final bosses. But the look on her face stopped him.
So he said the honest thing, "You really beam when you talk about it."
Fumiko looked up. "Beam?"
"Yeah. Like when you talked about Selena. Or the gods. Or how Ghaldre might be pathetic, which I think would wound him deeply."
Her mouth twitched.
"I never would have guessed you were timid," he continued. "Or shy. Maybe careful, but not timid."
She held his gaze for a second, then looked down at her latte.
"Careful is a generous word."
"What word would you use?"
"Precarious," she said.
"To be open?"
"Yes."
Fumiko rubbed her thumb along the cup handle, "People like others to be simple. The quiet one. The dependable one. The cute one. The serious one. If you show them another side, they either don't believe it or decide the new side is the real one and everything before it was fake. It's tiring."
Tooshiro thought of his uniform. His route. His books hidden under the desk. Daiki calling him author-sensei in a warehouse that smelled like cardboard and canned coffee. Customers seeing only the teal shirt, the scanner, the polite bow, the hands carrying their boxes.
"I get that," he said.
Fumiko tilted her head, "Do you?"
He should have been careful, but he was not, "People see the delivery job and think they understand the whole shape of you. Like you're either temporary, or stuck, or not trying hard enough. Sometimes they're polite about it, which is worse because then you have to pretend you didn't hear the judgment."
Her expression changed, just a little, "Is that why you write?"
His pulse kicked. There was the trap again, except this time she had not set it. He had walked there by himself, carrying a shovel.
"I mean," she added, "you said you write privately."
Right. He had told Daiki that. Had he told her? No. He had not. Or maybe he had implied it. The night bent strangely around secrets.
"I write a little," he said.
"What kind of things?"
"Nothing as complete as The Kingslayer King."
Technically true if the subject was anyone other than himself, but also spiritually dishonest enough to make his ancestors sigh.
"Short stories?" she asked.
"Fragments. Ideas. Scenes."
"That sounds familiar."
"You write too?"
Fumiko shook her head quickly, "No."
Too quickly.
He smiled, "That was fast."
"I don't write."
"You sounded like someone denying a crime."
"I read. That's different."
"Readers can write."
"Some readers should not. I am one of them."
"Harsh."
"Accurate."
He leaned his elbow on the table, forgetting to be nervous for once. "Now I'm curious."
"Don't be."
"That's not how curiosity works."
"I have old notes. That's all."
"What kind of notes?"
"Embarrassing ones."
"All old notes are embarrassing."
"Mine involved a moon kingdom."
"That sounds great."
"It was not."
"Was there a prince?"
She looked away.
His eyes widened, "There was a prince!"
"He had silver hair."
"Of course he did."
"And a cursed eye."
"Naturally."
"And I was thirteen, so you are not allowed to judge me."
"I am not judging. I respect the foundations of literature."
"You're laughing."
"I'm admiring with my face."
"You are a terrible liar, Senda-san."
The words came lightly, but Tooshiro felt them like a small blade pressed to the ribs. A terrible liar. Yes, he was.
Fumiko did not seem to notice the way his smile almost slipped. She was too busy looking embarrassed, which was a rare and powerful thing. He found himself wanting to protect that expression from the world, then immediately scolded himself because that was an absurd thought to have about a woman he had known for two deliveries and one cheesecake. Still, it was there.
The conversation shifted after that, less book and more life, though the book stayed between them like a third cup on the table. Fumiko told him about her office in Shinjuku, the kind of place with glass walls, too many meeting rooms, and a break area nobody used because relaxing in view of managers felt illegal. Her team handled financial planning and internal reports, which sounded clean and professional until she described the chaos of budget season with the quiet horror of a battlefield medic.
"There is a man in sales," she said, "who submits expense reports like he is testing my will to live."
"What does he do?"
"Receipts with no dates. Taxi fares with no destination. Client dinner claims where the client clearly did not attend because the receipt is for one ramen set and extra gyoza."
"That might be a lonely client."
"It was him."
"You can prove that?"
"He ordered the same spicy miso ramen he always eats near the office."
"That's not evidence."
"It is when he expensed it nine times."
Tooshiro nodded solemnly. "A serial offender."
"He also staples receipts in the middle."
Tooshiro winced. "Monster."
"Thank you."
"In delivery, we have our own criminals."
"Oh?"
"People who choose morning delivery, then leave. People who order water to fifth-floor apartments with no elevator. People who write delivery instructions like 'leave by door' while living in a building that requires three keys, a prayer, and a resident escort."
Fumiko laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. It was not the small laugh from the hallway. This one had more air in it, less restraint.
He liked that too.
The cheesecake disappeared slowly between them. At some point, the server came by and asked if they wanted anything else. Fumiko ordered a second latte after a brief internal war, and Tooshiro got another iced coffee because apparently sleep was tomorrow's problem.
"You'll be awake all night," Fumiko said.
"I'm usually awake all night."
"Writing fragments?"
"Sometimes."
"Thinking?"
"Unfortunately."
"About what?"
He looked at her. A dangerous question. Too open. Too easy to answer wrong, "Stories."
She seemed to accept that, or perhaps she chose to, "That must be nice."
"What must?"
"Having somewhere else to put things."
He did not answer right away.
Fumiko looked out the window, where people moved under umbrellas though the rain had stopped, "Work is clean because numbers either match or they don't. If they don't, you find the problem. You fix it. Or you explain why it cannot be fixed yet. Feelings are not like that. You can't reconcile them in a spreadsheet."
"You could try."
"I have."
He laughed.
She smiled into her cup, "It was not useful."
"What did the sheet say?"
"That I should sleep more and stop checking messages from people who annoy me."
"Good sheet."
"Cruel sheet."
"Accurate sheet."
"Unfortunately."
A silence followed, but it was comfortable now. The kind that did not demand to be filled. That was new. Tooshiro had always been bad at silence with people. He either talked too much, trying to be entertaining, or said too little and watched the other person decide he was strange. With Fumiko, silence seemed to sit down between them and behave.
His phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it. Nana.
Nana: Mom says if you don't come by this weekend she's sending me with food and judgment.
Tooshiro made a face.
Fumiko noticed. "Problem?"
"My sister."
"Older or younger?"
"Younger. Spiritually older."
"That sounds dangerous."
"She is."
He typed back quickly.
Tooshiro: I work Saturday.
Nana: Sunday exists.
Tooshiro: Unfortunately.
Nana: Bring your laundry if you're going to act helpless.
Tooshiro: I am not helpless.
Nana: Send photo of kitchen sink.
Tooshiro locked the phone.
Fumiko was watching him with open amusement.
"Family?" she asked.
"Threats disguised as concern."
"That is family."
"You have siblings?"
"No. Only child."
"Ah. Peaceful."
She shook her head. "Lonely, sometimes. But clean."
He laughed, "I see."
"My mother worries in a quiet way. My father worries by pretending not to. If I visit, my mother sends me home with side dishes in containers I must return, which means visiting becomes a subscription service."
"To side dishes?"
"To obligation."
"Good food?"
"Very."
"Then it's a fair contract."
She smiled. "You would side with the food."
"Always."
It was around 8:40 when Fumiko glanced at the time and blinked like she had been lightly slapped by reality,
"I didn't realize it was this late."
Tooshiro looked at his phone. "Oh."
The evening had stretched without permission. The café had thinned out around them. The couple near the window was gone. The older man had folded his newspaper and left. The server was wiping down empty tables with the patient energy of someone who was not kicking them out but had started the emotional paperwork.
Fumiko closed her notebook. "I'm sorry. I talked too much."
"You didn't."
"I did."
"I asked questions."
"That only makes you an accomplice."
"Then I accept responsibility."
She looked pleased by that, though she tried to hide it by putting the notebook into her tote bag. When she reached for the bill, Tooshiro reached too, because instinct took over before financial reality could intervene. Their hands stopped near the receipt tray.
"No," Fumiko said.
"No?"
"We split it."
"I can get it."
"You brought the suspicious book. You do not get to also buy forgiveness with coffee."
"That wasn't my plan."
"It would be a bad plan. I work in finance."
"I'm starting to fear that phrase."
"Good."
They split the bill.
Outside, the street smelled like rain again, though none was falling. Nakano Station glowed a few streets away, the flow of people moving toward and away from it like the city was breathing. For a moment, they stood under the café awning, neither immediately choosing a direction.
Tooshiro pointed vaguely. "Station?"
"Yes. I'll take the Chuo Line."
"Same direction?"
"Depends. Where are you?"
"Close enough to walk."
"Then not the same direction."
"Right."
That should have been the end. A normal goodbye. Thanks for the coffee. See you around. Maybe another message if the fake author made a fake website that the real author had not yet built because he was busy committing emotional fraud.
Fumiko adjusted the strap of her tote, "Would it be strange if we did this again?"
His heart did something unhelpful.
"For the book?" he asked.
She looked at him. There was a tiny pause. Then she nodded, "For the book."
"Not strange," he said.
"Good."
"And if Shin Kaidou has updates, I can tell you."
"Yes. Updates."
"And if you have feedback, I can pass it along."
"Yes. Feedback."
They were both doing it again. Standing there in public, adults with jobs and bills, pretending the obvious was safely hidden under book discussion. Tooshiro was almost impressed by their combined dedication to nonsense.
Fumiko smiled first, small, tired and warm, "Thank you for meeting me, Senda-san."
"Thank you for reading."
"I would have read it anyway."
"You almost gave it back."
"I was correct to almost give it back."
"I can't argue."
"No, you cannot."
They started walking together toward the main street without really discussing it. Not all the way to the station, but in that direction. The sidewalk was narrow enough that they had to fall into a slightly uneven rhythm, sometimes shoulder to shoulder, sometimes one step apart when other pedestrians passed.
A group of high school students rushed by, laughing over something on a phone. A salaryman walked past talking into an earpiece with the dead voice of overtime. A woman in a long skirt held a convenience store umbrella even though it had stopped raining, because Tokyo weather had trust issues.
Fumiko slowed near the corner where she would turn toward the station.
"Senda-san," she said.
"Yes?"
"Your friend."
His stomach tightened, "What about him?"
"If he really values privacy, I won't push to meet him."
"Oh."
"But," she said, looking at him directly now, "I hope he knows that hiding too much can make good things harder to reach."
There was no accusation in her voice. No suspicion, maybe. Not enough to count. Still, it slipped between his ribs, "I'll tell him…," Tooshiro said.
Fumiko nodded, then gave one small wave before turning toward the station. He watched her disappear into the crowd, her beige tote shifting against her shoulder, her dark hair catching the light from the shops.
He stood there longer than he should have. His phone buzzed. For once, it was not Daiki.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: I forgot to say this earlier, but Selena is my favorite so far.
Tooshiro stared at the message, then laughed quietly in the middle of the sidewalk like a suspicious person.
Senda Tooshiro: I'll warn my friend.
Her reply came a minute later.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Please do. I have expectations.
He looked toward the station, though she was already gone. Then he typed back.
Senda Tooshiro: That sounds like a threat.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: It might be.
Tooshiro slipped the phone into his pocket and started walking home through Nakano's wet evening streets. His shoes splashed lightly through shallow puddles. His apartment waited. His laptop waited. Chapter Ten waited like a dog that knew it had been ignored.
For the first time in weeks, the thought of going home to write did not feel like crawling back into a sealed room.
It felt like carrying a conversation forward.
By the time he reached his building, he had three new ideas, one problem, and a very stupid smile he could not fully get rid of.
The problem was obvious. Fumiko liked Shin Kaidou. Fumiko liked talking to Tooshiro. And Tooshiro was beginning to understand that those were not separate problems. They were the same.
ns216.73.216.214da2
and then Add to home screen.