Chapter 5: Ours
After talking for a while they decided to watch a movie while eating the muffins and ice cream
The third movie credits began to roll, a soft, orchestral score filling the comfortable silence that had settled between them. They had migrated during the second film; Nami, lulled by the darkness and the warmth of his body, had found herself leaning against his side, her head tucked perfectly into the space between his shoulder and chest. His arm had been around her the entire time, his thumb drawing slow, absent-minded circles on her arm through the thin fabric of her top. It was a level of physical intimacy she had never known, and it felt as natural as breathing.
Arima shifted, reaching for his phone to check the time. The bright screen illuminated his face, highlighting the faint freckles and the slight surprise in his expression. "Wow," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "It's past ten. Time does fly by when you're with those you love."
The words were spoken so softly, so casually, as if it were a simple, universal truth. But to Nami, they landed with the force of a physical blow. Those you love. Had he meant to include her in that category? Was it just a turn of phrase? Her heart, which had been beating a calm, contented rhythm, suddenly kicked into a frantic, pounding gallop.
He stretched, the movement causing her to sit up straight. "I should leave," he said, his voice tinged with genuine reluctance. He made to stand up.
Panic, pure and unreasoning, seized her. The thought of him walking out the door, of this perfect, impossible bubble popping, was suddenly unbearable. The cozy apartment would feel vast and empty again. The silence would be deafening.
"You can stay!"
The words blurted out of her, loud and rushed, before her brain could engage and censor them. His movements froze, his eyes snapping to hers, wide with shock.
She immediately backtracked, the heat of a monumental blush exploding across her face and chest. "I mean, it's fine... tomorrow's the weekend! Or—no, yes, maybe you should leave, obviously, it's what you should do, what am I even saying?" The words tumbled out in a frantic, mortified mumble. She couldn't bear to see the expression on his face—pity, amusement, perhaps disgust at her forwardness.
Scrambling off the couch as if it were on fire, she frantically grabbed the empty muffin plate and the ice cream carton, the spoon clattering loudly in the sudden tension. "I'll just... clean this up," she stammered to the empty air, and practically fled into the kitchen.
Her hands were shaking. She turned on the faucet full blast, the roar of the water drowning out the sound of her own frantic heartbeat. She scrubbed the already clean plate with a ferocious intensity, her vision blurring with unshed tears of humiliation. You can stay. What had she been thinking? He was Arima Kousei. He probably had a penthouse suite with a view of the entire city. He wouldn't want to stay in her small apartment, on her couch. She was being ridiculous, a silly, infatuated girl reading far too much into a few kind words and kisses.
She rinsed the plate, the water splashing everywhere, and placed it in the drying rack with a clatter. She then yanked open the freezer door, the cold air doing little to cool her burning cheeks, and shoved the half-eaten ice cream container inside. She stood there, gripping the freezer handle, her head bowed, utterly paralyzed. She couldn't turn around. She couldn't face him.
She heard the soft sound of his footsteps on her wooden floor. He was standing in the doorway to her small kitchen. She could feel his gaze on her back, on the thin pink top that now felt like a beacon of her foolishness.
"Nami."
He said her name quietly. It wasn't a question or a command. It was just her name, spoken in that deep, calm voice that always seemed to settle her chaos.
She didn't move, her knuckles white where she gripped the freezer.
He didn't come closer. He gave her space, understanding her turmoil. "Look at me," he said, his voice still soft, but with an undercurrent of something firm.
Slowly, hesitantly, she released the freezer handle and turned around, but she couldn't lift her eyes higher than his chest. She stared fixedly at the soft grey cotton of his henley.
She heard him take a slow, deliberate breath. "Did you mean it?" he asked.
She gave a tiny, jerky nod, still staring at his shirt.
"Why?"
The question was simple, but it demanded a truth she was terrified to voice. She swallowed hard, her throat tight. "Because... because I don't want you to go," she whispered to his chest. "The apartment will feel too quiet."
There was a long silence. She risked a glance upward. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes searching hers. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't mocking her. He looked... profoundly serious.
"Where would I sleep?" he asked, his tone practical, testing the reality of her offer.
Her blush intensified. "The... the couch pulls out. It's a bed. It's comfortable, I think. I've never... I mean, it's fine for guests." She was digging herself deeper into a hole of awkwardness.
He took a step into the kitchen, and she instinctively took a step back, her hips bumping against the counter. He stopped, respecting the invisible boundary.
"You understand what you're asking, Nami?" His voice was low, laced with a gravity that made her shiver. "It's not just about a place to sleep. If I stay here tonight, in your space... it changes things. It makes this more real than it already is. There will be no pretending tomorrow that this is just a... a courtship between meetings."
She understood. He was giving her one last chance to retreat, to put the professional, safe distance back between them. To let him walk out the door and pretend this intense, intimate evening was an anomaly.
But she didn't want to pretend. The thought of him leaving hurt more than the fear of what staying meant.
She finally lifted her eyes to meet his, her gaze steady despite the tremor in her voice. "I know," she said. "I want it to be real."
The words hung in the air between them, a line crossed, a decision made.
Arima's stern expression finally softened. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, one that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated happiness.
"Okay," he said, the single word filled with a world of meaning. "Then I'll stay."
He didn't move to touch her, not yet. He simply stood there, looking at her as if she had just given him the most valuable gift in the world. The frantic panic that had consumed her moments before melted away, replaced by a warm, steady glow. He was staying. The bubble wasn't popping; it was strengthening, becoming their new reality.
"Now," he said, his tone shifting to something lighter, more practical. "Show me how this couch turns into a bed. I'm a CEO, not a handyman. I might need instructions."
---
Her blush deepened, a warm, rosy tide that seemed to originate from the very core of her being. The fear and awkwardness that had gripped her moments before dissolved under the weight of his simple, accepting smile. It wasn't a smile of triumph or conquest, but one of shared understanding, of a mutual decision that felt both terrifying and utterly right.
Driven by an impulse she didn't fully understand, she closed the small distance between them in the kitchen. She didn't say a word. Instead, she stepped into the space he had respectfully kept, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek against the soft grey cotton covering his chest. She hugged him, a tight, earnest embrace that conveyed everything her flustered words could not.
"Thank you," she whispered into his shirt, her voice muffled.
She felt the rumble of his chuckle against her ear before she heard it, a low, warm sound that vibrated through her. His arms, which had been held slightly away, now wrapped around her small frame, pulling her securely against him. One hand splayed across her back, the other came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling gently in her damp hair.
"For what?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur against her hair. He genuinely seemed not to know.
She didn't know how to articulate the storm of gratitude inside her. For not laughing at her. For not making her feel foolish for her impulsive, vulnerable invitation. For taking her offer seriously. For giving her a choice. For seeing the real her, the one hidden beneath layers of shyness and baggy clothes, and wanting to stay with her. For making her feel, for the first time in her life, like she was enough.
So she just shook her head slightly, burrowing deeper into his embrace. "Just... thank you," she repeated, her voice thick with emotion.
He seemed to understand. He didn't press her. He just held her, his chin resting on the top of her head, and let the silence speak for them. They stood like that in her small kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of muffins and vanilla, for a long, peaceful moment. It was a silent covenant, a sealing of the promise made with her whispered "I want it to be real."
Finally, he stirred. "Alright," he said, his tone practical but infused with a deep warmth. "You mentioned something about a couch that turns into a bed? I should probably see this engineering marvel."
She pulled back, her blush returning but now accompanied by a small, shy smile. "It's not a marvel," she said, leading him back into the living room. "It's just a pull-out couch."
She knelt and, with a bit of effort, tugged at the hidden mechanism. The couch groaned and shifted, unfolding into a decent-sized double bed with a built-in mattress. It was a little lumpy, and the sheets she pulled out of a nearby cupboard were her second-best set, a simple floral pattern, but it was serviceable.
Arima watched her, a fond smile playing on his lips. "It's perfect," he declared, though it was clearly a far cry from the luxury he was accustomed to.
An awkwardness descended again. The reality of the sleeping arrangements was now physically present between them. The large bed seemed to take up the entire living room.
"I, um... I should get you a pillow," Nami said, fleeing back to her bedroom. She returned with a pillow and a spare blanket, her arms full. She busied herself with making the bed, fluffing the pillow and smoothing the sheets with excessive care, avoiding his gaze.
He simply stood and watched her, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. He was a silent, appreciative audience to her nervous domesticity.
When the bed was made, she stood wringing her hands. "So... there's a new toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet. And towels are in the closet. Is there... anything else you need?"
He pushed off the doorframe and walked over to her. He stopped just in front of her, his gaze soft. "I have everything I need," he said quietly. His eyes dropped to her lips for a heartbeat before returning to hers. "Goodnight, Nami."
He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. It was a kiss of profound tenderness, a "goodnight" that felt more intimate than any passionate kiss they had shared. It was a kiss that promised a tomorrow.
"Goodnight, Arima," she whispered back.
She turned and almost fled to her bedroom, closing the door behind her and leaning against it, her heart pounding. She could hear him moving around in her living room—the soft creak of the floorboards, the sound of the bathroom door closing. The sounds of another person in her space. The sounds of him.
She changed into her own pajamas—a soft, long-sleeved set—and climbed into bed, but sleep was impossible. Her entire being was hyper-aware of his presence just a few feet away, separated only by a thin wall and a closed door. She listened to the quiet sounds of him settling in, the rustle of sheets, his weight shifting on the bed. Then, silence.
She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. What was he thinking? Was he comfortable? Was he regretting his decision? The vulnerability of having him here, in her most private space, was overwhelming.
After what felt like an hour, she heard a soft sound. A sigh. Then, his voice, so quiet she almost missed it, came through the wall.
"Nami?"
Her breath hitched. "Yes?" she called back, her voice small in the darkness.
"Are you awake?"
"Yes."
A pause. "I can't sleep."
A small smile touched her lips in the dark. "Me either."
"The couch... bed... is surprisingly comfortable," he said, and she could hear the lie in his voice. It made her smile widen.
"Liar," she whispered.
She heard a soft chuckle. "Okay. It's a little lumpy. But it's fine."
Another silence stretched between them, but this one was different. It was a comfortable, shared wakefulness.
"Nami?" he said again.
"Yes, Arima?"
"Thank you for letting me stay."
Tears, unexpected and warm, pricked at the corners of her eyes. "You're welcome," she whispered back.
They didn't speak again after that. But the knowledge that he was there, just on the other side of the wall, awake and thinking of her, was a powerful comfort. She listened to the sound of his breathing until, eventually, it deepened and slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep. Only then, wrapped in the profound safety and strangeness of his presence, did Nami finally allow herself to drift into a deep, peaceful sleep, a small, contented smile still on her face.
---
The first rays of Saturday morning sun filtered through Nami’s curtains, painting pale gold stripes across her floor. She woke not with a start, but with a slow, dawning awareness, the events of the previous evening settling over her like a warm, heavy blanket. He was here. The knowledge was a quiet, thrilling hum in her veins. She lay still for a moment, listening. The apartment was silent, but it was a different silence—a shared one, filled with the potential of his presence in the next room.
A sudden, fierce desire to do something for him, to anchor this surreal morning in something normal and nurturing, seized her. She slipped out of bed, moving with a careful quietness, and padded into the kitchen. She would make breakfast. A proper Japanese breakfast, the kind her mother used to make on lazy weekends.
She was just rinsing the rice when her doorbell rang, a soft, insistent chime that made her jump. Her heart leaped into her throat. Akari? Panic flared. How would she explain a CEO sleeping on her pull-out couch?
Cautiously, she peered through the peephole. Standing in the hallway was not her sister, but the stoic chauffeur from the café incident, Koji. He held a sleek, black leather overnight bag. Relief, followed by a fresh wave of surrealism, washed over her. Of course. Arima wouldn’t go a day without a fresh, impeccably tailored suit.
She opened the door a crack. "Good morning," she whispered.
Koji gave a slight, formal bow, his expression as impassive as ever. "Ms. Watanabe. Mr. Arima requested this." He handed her the bag. It was surprisingly heavy.
"Th-thank you," she stammered, taking it.
"Will there be anything else?" he asked, as if delivering a CEO's change of clothes to a junior employee's apartment at 7 a.m. on a Saturday was a perfectly routine errand.
"No. Thank you, Koji."
Another bow, and he turned and left, his footsteps silent on the carpeted hall.
Nami closed the door, leaning against it, the bag clutched in her hands. She carried it into her bedroom, placing it carefully at the foot of her bed. The presence of his things in her personal space felt like another significant threshold crossed.
Returning to the kitchen, she poured her focus into the food. She shaped the rice into perfect, triangular onigiri, stuffing some with umeboshi plum and wrapping others with crisp nori. She whipped the eggs for the tamagoyaki, adding a dash of dashi and sugar, cooking them in layers until they formed a sweet, golden roll. She grilled two small mackerel until the skin was crisp and smoky. The small apartment filled with the most comforting, savory aromas—toasted rice, sweet egg, and grilled fish. It was the smell of home, of care. She set the small table for two, her movements precise, a silent ritual of devotion.
It was as she was placing the final onigiri on a plate that she heard a soft rustle from the living room, followed by a low, sleepy groan. Her breath caught. She tiptoed to the doorway and peeked around the corner.
Arima was stirring. The floral quilt was tangled around his legs. He was lying on his back, one arm flung over his head. As she watched, his long eyelashes fluttered, and his eyes slowly opened. They were hazy with sleep, unfocused for a moment before they landed on her, standing in the kitchen doorway.
And then, something miraculous happened.
A deep, rosy blush spread across his cheeks, climbing all the way to the tips of his ears. He looked… boyish. Adorably flustered. With a sudden, jerky movement, he grabbed the edge of the quilt and yanked it up over his head, completely hiding himself.
Nami’s heart melted into a puddle of pure, unadulterated affection. She stepped fully into the room.
"Arima?" she called softly.
A muffled voice came from under the quilt. "I'm asleep."
A giggle escaped her, light and bubbly. She walked closer and sat on the edge of the bed, near where she guessed his shoulder was. "Are you… shy?" she teased, her voice full of wonder.
He sighed, a long, dramatic sound from beneath the floral barrier. "It was adrenaline that got me through yesterday," he confessed, his voice still muffled. "I can't believe I get to see you early this morning, like this. It's quite embarrassing. My hair is messy."
The admission was so endearingly human, so far removed from the powerful CEO, that she felt a surge of protective tenderness. This was the man who commanded boardrooms, whose mere presence could silence an entire auditorium, hiding under a quilt because his hair was messy.
Gently, she reached out and tugged the quilt down, just enough to reveal his eyes. They were wide, slightly wary, and utterly captivating. The freckles stood out starkly against his flushed skin.
"Your hair is fine," she whispered, her fingers itching to smooth the dark, unruly locks that were indeed sticking up in several directions. "It's… cute."
He groaned, the sound half-embarrassed, half-pleased. "No one has ever called me 'cute' in my entire life."
"There's a first time for everything," she said, her smile widening. "I made breakfast. And Koji brought you a bag. It's in my room."
He blinked, processing this. "Koji was here?"
"Mmhmm. You're very efficient, even in your sleep."
This drew a reluctant smile from him. He slowly lowered the quilt further, revealing his face fully. He looked around the sunlit room, at the made-up bed, at her sitting beside him. A look of profound wonder settled on his features.
"This is real," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
"It is," she confirmed softly.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position, the quilt pooling around his waist. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt, and the sight of him like this, rumpled and soft from sleep in her living room, was more intimate than anything that had happened the night before.
"The food smells incredible," he said, his gaze shifting to the kitchen.
"Then you should get ready before it gets cold," she said, standing up. She felt a sudden shyness herself under his sleepy, appreciative gaze. "The bathroom is all yours."
He nodded, running a hand through his disastrous hair in a futile attempt to tame it. "Give me ten minutes."
Nami returned to the kitchen, her heart feeling too big for her chest. She heard the sound of the bathroom door closing, then the shower running. She busied herself with brewing green tea, the familiar ritual calming her nerves.
When he emerged, he was transformed. He wore dark, tailored trousers and a fresh, light blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was damp and neatly styled, the freckles mostly concealed once more. But the softness in his eyes remained. He looked like Arima Kousei, CEO, but he had the relaxed posture of a man spending a lazy morning at home.
He came to stand beside her at the small kitchen table, his eyes taking in the spread of food. "Nami… you made all this?"
"It's nothing special," she demurred, looking down at the table.
He gently hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her face to his. "It is special," he said, his voice low and sincere. "No one has ever made me breakfast like this before."
They sat down together. The first few minutes were quiet, punctuated only by the clink of chopsticks and the pouring of tea. He took a bite of the tamagoyaki, and his eyes closed in bliss.
"This is… perfect," he said after he swallowed. "The balance of sweet and savory is exquisite."
He devoured the food with a focused appreciation that was incredibly gratifying. He ate two onigiri, a full piece of fish, and several slices of the tamagoyaki. Watching him enjoy her food so thoroughly filled her with a deep, quiet pride.
As they ate, the initial shyness faded, replaced by a comfortable ease. He told her about the first time he had to fire someone, his voice laced with a regret she'd never heard from him. She told him about the disaster of her first solo recipe test, when she’d accidentally used salt instead of sugar in a cake batter. He laughed, a real, full-bodied laugh that made her soul sing.
After breakfast, he insisted on helping her wash the dishes. They stood side-by-side at her small sink, him washing, her drying. His shoulder brushed against hers with every movement. It was the most mundane of activities, yet it felt more significant than any board meeting or product launch.
Once the kitchen was clean, they drifted back to the living room. The pull-out bed was still there, a stark reminder of the night's intimacy. The air between them grew thick with unspoken questions about the day ahead.
Arima stood by the window, looking out at the quiet Saturday street. "I don't have any meetings until Monday afternoon," he said casually.
Nami's heart gave a hopeful leap. "Oh?"
He turned to face her, leaning against the window frame. "I was wondering… if you'd let me take you out today. A proper date. No office. No titles. Just… us."
The hope blossomed into full-blown joy. "I'd like that," she said, her smile radiant.
"Good," he said, his own smile mirroring hers. He pushed off the window frame and walked over to her, stopping just in front of her. He reached out, not to pull her into a kiss, but to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. "Then go get ready. I have a whole day planned for us."
As she hurried to her room to change, the scent of grilled fish and green tea still hanging in the air, Nami knew with absolute certainty that this was no longer a courtship born of fascination or power. This was the beginning of something real, something built on shared laughter, quiet mornings, and the breathtaking sight of a powerful man blushing under her quilt.
The process of getting ready felt entirely new. It wasn't about choosing an armor or a disguise; it was about curating an expression of the happiness fluttering in her chest. She chose a soft, cornflower blue long-sleeved shirt and paired it with crisp white shorts—a combination that felt both playful and put-together. The fancy sneakers with their subtle blue stripes were a nod to her comfort, but also a step towards the effortless style she associated with him. She expertly twisted her red hair into a bun, securing it with a scrunchie before tugging a matching blue beanie over it. Finally, she put on her glasses, the large frames making her green eyes seem even larger. She looked in the mirror. The reflection showed a young woman who looked… cute. Approachable. Happy. A blush naturally rose to her cheeks, and she decided that was the final, perfect touch.
She grabbed her white sling backpack, performing a mental checklist. Phone, wallet, a couple of the chocolate bars she relied on to soothe sudden anxiety spikes, and a portable charger. It felt like preparing for an adventure.
When she emerged from her bedroom, Arima was waiting by the door. Her breath caught. The CEO was gone. In his place stood a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread on urban casualwear. He wore a simple, well-fitting blue t-shirt that made his eyes look like chips of summer sky, black, slightly baggy trousers, and sleek black sneakers with a single blue accent stripe. His brown hair, usually meticulously styled, was left to its own devices, falling in soft, natural waves that made him look years younger. And with the freckles fully on display and the absence of his usual severe expression, the word that came to mind was… cute. Devastatingly so.
"You look stunning," he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration.
She rolled her eyes, a playful gesture that felt wonderfully natural. "Nothing fancy. We look like we wore matching clothes." A delighted laugh bubbled out of her as she gestured between them. "I'm the blue angel, you're my blue demon. See? The black and white." She pointed to his trousers and shoes against her white shorts and sneakers.
His smile was wide and unguarded. "I like that. Angel and demon. A fitting pair."
They left his overnight bag in her room, a tangible promise of a return. After locking up, they headed downstairs. Instead of the imposing black sedan, Koji was standing next to a low-slung, sleek sports car in a deep, metallic blue. He handed the keys to Arima with a nod.
"The Audi R8, sir, as requested. I've ensured it's fueled and detailed." Koji’s eyes flickered to Nami for a fraction of a second, and she could have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile before he turned and hailed a taxi for himself, seamlessly disappearing into the Saturday traffic.
Arima opened the passenger door for her—a low, sculpted thing that required a slight contortion to slide into. The interior was a cocoon of black leather and brushed aluminum. He closed her door gently and went around to the driver's side, sliding in with an easy grace. The engine purred to life, a deep, potent rumble that vibrated through the very frame of the car.
He glanced over at her, buckling his seatbelt. "Comfortable?"
She nodded, her eyes wide as she took in the minimalist dashboard, the perfect stitching on the leather. "This is… quite a car."
"It's for special occasions," he said simply, his eyes meeting hers. "And today is the most special occasion I've had in a very long time."
Her heart did a happy little flip. As he pulled away from the curb, the car responding with an eager, silken surge of power, she turned to him.
"So," she said, unable to contain her eagerness. "Where are we going?"
"A surprise," he said, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. "But I'll give you a hint. It involves fresh air, and it's a place where no one will know us."
He navigated the city streets with a confident ease, soon guiding the powerful car onto a highway leading out of the urban sprawl. The buildings began to thin, replaced by glimpses of green hills and distant mountains. The tension that was a constant companion in the city—the tension of being seen, of their secret being discovered—slowly began to evaporate with each passing mile. Here, in this expensive car with the windows down, the wind whipping through the cabin, they were just a handsome couple on a weekend drive.
After about an hour, he took an exit marked for a regional park. The road narrowed, winding through dense forests of cedar and pine. The air that rushed in through the windows now smelled of damp earth and sun-warmed needles. Finally, he pulled into a gravel parking lot overlooking a breathtaking vista. A vast, placid lake stretched out before them, its surface a perfect mirror for the surrounding mountains and the clear blue sky. A few sailboats dotted the water, their white sails like tiny triangles of paper.
"It's beautiful," Nami breathed, utterly captivated.
"It's one of my places," he said, turning off the engine. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the call of a distant bird and the gentle lapping of water against the shore far below. "When the boardroom feels like it's shrinking, I drive here. It helps… recalibrate."
He got out and came around to her side, offering his hand to help her out of the low-slung seat. His fingers laced with hers, and he didn't let go. He led her not to a crowded lookout point, but down a narrow, barely-there path that zigzagged down the hillside towards a secluded, rocky beach.
They found a flat, sun-warmed boulder by the water's edge and sat, their shoulders touching, still holding hands as they looked out over the serene landscape. For a long time, they said nothing. The peace was a physical presence, wrapping around them.
"It's hard to imagine you here," Nami said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "It's so quiet. So… simple."
He squeezed her hand. "This is the real me, I think. Or at least, a part of him that I have to lock away most of the time. The man who just wants to sit by a lake and hold a beautiful woman's hand." He looked at her, his expression open and vulnerable. "Thank you for coming here with me. For seeing this."
"I'm honored you showed me," she replied, her voice sincere.
They talked for what felt like hours, but the sun had barely moved in the sky. He told her about his childhood, spent in rigorous tutoring and expectations, his only escapes being rare trips to the countryside with a grandfather who had since passed. She told him about growing up with Akari, about their chaotic but loving home, and how her love for food was born in her grandmother's kitchen. The conversation flowed effortlessly, a river of shared confidences and understanding.
Eventually, he stood, pulling her up with him. "I'm getting hungry. And I know just the place."
He drove them to a small, rustic town on the other side of the lake. The main street was lined with charming, old-fashioned shops and cafes. He parked, and they walked hand-in-hand, drawing a few appreciative glances from locals who saw nothing but a strikingly handsome, well-dressed couple perfectly in sync. He led her to an unassuming restaurant with a patio overlooking the water, known for its wood-fired pizzas and local craft beer.
They shared a pizza loaded with fresh vegetables and local goat cheese, and he insisted she try a sip of his IPA, laughing at the face she made at the hoppy bitterness. The formality of their office interactions was a distant memory. Here, he was just Arima—a man who loved good food, who teased her gently, and who looked at her as if she were the only person in the world.
After lunch, they explored the town, poking into an antique bookstore where he bought her a vintage cookbook from the 1950s, and an ice cream parlor where they got double scoops and ate them on a park bench, watching ducks paddle in a pond.
As the afternoon began to wane, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, they started the drive back to the city. The mood in the car was content and quiet. Nami watched the landscape blur past, her hand resting on the center console. After a few minutes, Arima reached over and covered her hand with his, lacing their fingers together. He drove one-handed the rest of the way, his thumb stroking slow, absent circles on her skin.
It was the most perfect day of her life.
When he pulled up in front of her apartment building, the city lights were just beginning to twinkle. The spell of the lake and the small town was broken, but a new, warmer intimacy had taken its place. He walked her to her door, his hand a comforting weight on the small of her back.
At her door, she turned to face him. "Thank you, Arima. For today. For everything."
He cupped her face in his hands, his touch reverent. "No, Nami. Thank you." He leaned in and kissed her, a slow, deep, tender kiss that tasted of sunshine, wood-fired pizza, and a future she was no longer afraid to want.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers. "I have to go to Osaka tomorrow evening. A two-day summit. I'll be back Wednesday."
A pang of disappointment shot through her, sharp and surprising. She was already missing him.
"Okay," she whispered.
"I'll call you every night," he promised. He kissed her once more, a soft, lingering press of his lips. "Goodnight, my blue angel."
"Goodnight, my blue demon," she whispered back, her heart so full it felt like it might burst.
She watched him walk back to the sleek blue car, a solitary, elegant figure under the streetlights. He waved once before sliding inside and driving away. As Nami let herself into her now-too-quiet apartment, she knew with a certainty that settled deep in her bones that this was no longer a secret affair or a dangerous game. This was the beginning of a love story, and the first chapter had been more beautiful than she could have ever imagined.
