The elevator groaned as it ascended, its polished brass interior reflecting the sharp lines of Kenji Takahashi's tailored charcoal suit. He adjusted his cufflinks, more out of habit than necessity, and let out a breath that fogged slightly on the cool mirror of the door. His reflection stared back at him: sleek, professional, unreadable. Just how it needed to be.
The elevator dinged softly as it reached the 18th floor, the executive level of Aizawa & Partners—one of Tokyo's most formidable marketing agencies. The double doors opened to a hushed hallway lined with frosted glass offices and the quiet hum of industry.
Kenji stepped out, his Oxfords silent against the expensive carpet. The click of keyboards and the distant murmurs of conference calls surrounded him, a background score he had long since memorized.
He was halfway to his office when he saw him.
A man—tall, broad-shouldered, and hopelessly disheveled—stood near the coffee machine, blinking at it like it had personally offended him. His tie was askew, his collar slightly rumpled, and his hair… messy in a way that probably wasn't intentional. His ID badge hung crookedly from his lanyard, declaring his name as "Yuu Hayama – Creative Team".
Kenji halted. He didn't recognize the name.
Yuu squinted at the machine again, then smacked the side of it with the flat of his palm. It whirred angrily but still refused to deliver coffee.
Kenji cleared his throat. "You'll have better luck if you press the button twice. It jams on the first try."
Yuu turned, startled, his eyes wide and warm. "Ah—really? Thanks! This thing's kind of a jerk, huh?" He grinned sheepishly, then pressed the button again. The machine sputtered and finally yielded a stream of dark coffee into the cup.
Kenji raised an eyebrow. "You're new."
"Yup. Started today." Yuu held out his hand, still gripping his coffee. "Yuu Hayama. Junior copywriter. Though I guess that's a fancy way of saying 'guy who rewrites stuff until the client's happy.'"
Kenji took the offered hand. It was warm, slightly calloused, and lingered a beat longer than expected. "Kenji Takahashi. I'm the team lead for strategic planning."
"Oh." Yuu blinked. "You're that Takahashi."
Kenji tilted his head. "That Takahashi?"
"You know," Yuu said, scratching his neck, "the one whose briefs make interns cry and whose campaigns win awards."
Kenji didn't smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "I suppose I've heard worse."
Yuu chuckled, a low, unpolished sound that somehow warmed the sterile air of the office. "Well, I promise I'm not here to cry. Much."
"I wouldn't count on it," Kenji said dryly, then immediately regretted the sharpness. But Yuu didn't seem offended. Instead, he grinned like Kenji had just told a joke.
"Well, I'll do my best to survive your legendary wrath."
Kenji didn't respond. He turned back toward his office, but as he walked, he was aware of Yuu's gaze lingering on him. Curious. Unafraid.
By mid-morning, Kenji was buried in back-to-back meetings. The Q2 pitch for the Tanaka account was behind schedule, and every department was under pressure. As he stood at the whiteboard, outlining strategy, he noticed Yuu through the glass walls of the adjoining room.
He was scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad, surrounded by a group of senior creatives twice his age. Occasionally, he'd pause, say something, and make the others laugh—or nod thoughtfully.
Kenji narrowed his eyes.
Most rookies either spoke too much or not at all. Yuu seemed to know exactly how to balance both. A dangerous trait.
It was well past eight when Kenji finally stepped out of his office, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. The floor had emptied, the once-busy bullpen now dimmed except for a few scattered desk lamps.
He was halfway to the elevator when he noticed a light still on in the copywriting corner.
Yuu.
Still at his desk, chewing on the end of a pen, his expression focused. A half-eaten bento box sat nearby, forgotten.
"You're not obligated to impress anyone by staying late," Kenji said, leaning lightly against the doorway.
Yuu looked up, startled, then smiled. "Oh. It's not that. I just… had this idea for the skincare pitch and didn't want to lose it."
Kenji crossed his arms. "Ideas don't disappear. They evolve."
"Maybe," Yuu said, meeting his gaze. "But sometimes they're shy. Like they'll vanish if you look away."
Kenji was silent for a moment. Then: "Show me."
Yuu blinked. "What?"
"Your idea. If it's keeping you here this late, it better be good."
Yuu hesitated, then turned the pad toward him. "It's rough, but the concept is about imperfection. How beauty isn't always about flawless skin, but real skin. Lived-in skin. Maybe something visual—like a close-up of a birthmark, or a scar."
Kenji stepped closer, reading over the scribbled notes and rough sketches. It was good. Raw. Unpolished, yes—but honest.
"I'll send this to the art team tomorrow," Yuu said, suddenly sheepish. "Unless it's terrible."
"It's not," Kenji said quietly. "It's… different."
Yuu smiled. "Different good or different bad?"
Kenji looked at him. Really looked. The light from the desk lamp cast a soft glow over Yuu's face, highlighting the curve of his cheek, the way his lashes brushed his skin when he blinked.
"Different good," Kenji said.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, the quiet of the office felt charged—like something unspoken had just passed between them. A recognition. A pause too long to be entirely professional.
Then Kenji straightened. "Don't stay too late. First impressions only work if you survive your first week."
Yuu chuckled. "Got it, boss."
Kenji walked away, but even as the elevator doors closed behind him, the image of Yuu at his desk—smiling, illuminated, fearless—stayed with him.
And for the first time in months, Kenji found himself looking forward to coming back.