The alarm had betrayed her.
Again.
Arohi shot upright in bed, hair sticking in every possible direction, as the shrill tone of her phone buzzed faintly under a pile of clothes on her desk. She scrambled, nearly tripping over her slippers, and grabbed it — only to see the time.
"Oh no no no no—!" she half-whispered, half-yelled.
It was already late. Her meeting was in less than an hour, and the commute would eat half of that.
She darted around her tiny Futako-Tamagawa apartment like a storm, tugging open drawers, tossing books on the sofa, nearly slipping on her own tote bag. A plain white top, a long pleated skirt, the denim overcoat that at least gave her some "presentable adult" points — she threw them on in record time.
The bread popped out of her toaster. Without a second thought, she bit into it, half a slice dangling comically from her mouth as she tried to fasten her watch with one hand. Earrings, where were her earrings—
Her fingers brushed over the oxidized jhumkas sitting in a dish on her desk. She snatched them, clipped them on in a rush, stuffed her notebook and pen into her bag, and bolted for the door.
She nearly collided with it trying to lock it, bread still stuck between her teeth, hair messy, coat slipping off one shoulder.
And that's exactly when Natsuo's door clicked open.
He stepped out casually, black cargo pants, white T-shirt, sling bag across his shoulder — the picture of calm efficiency. He locked his door smoothly, not a rush in his movements, and when he turned, he froze at the sight of her.
Messy hair. Bread dangling. Cardigan half-off.
For a full second, they stared.
Then both burst out laughing.
"You look—" he started, smothering his grin with his hand.
"Don't!" she warned through the bread.
They couldn't stop giggling, even as they walked toward the lift together.
Inside the small elevator, the laughter softened into quiet smiles. Natsuo leaned against the wall, watching her struggle to chew through her bread without spilling crumbs on her blouse. He noticed a strand of her hair sticking out like an antenna.
"Hold still," he murmured.
Before she could react, he reached forward and gently tucked the strand behind her ear. She blinked, cheeks heating, but his gaze was steady — calm, yet softer than usual.
Then his eyes fell to the tiny smudge of jam at the corner of her lips. Without even thinking, he reached into his pocket, pulled his hanky, and wiped it away.
Arohi froze. Her entire body warmed, and she stuffed the rest of the bread in her mouth to distract herself.
He blushed too — quickly looking away, pretending to check the sling of his bag.
The lift dinged. They stepped out, each pretending like nothing happened, and went their separate ways.
The week that followed was brutal for Arohi. Summer in Tokyo was no joke — the once-cool breezes of spring had turned into heavy, sticky air that clung to her skin. Work piled up mercilessly: presentations, last-minute edits, client feedback that contradicted itself.
By Friday evening, her body felt like a sponge squeezed dry. She almost considered skipping the team dinner, but her translator reminded her gently: "It will help to bond with colleagues. You'll feel less alone."
So she went.
The izakaya was lively, buzzing with chatter and the clink of glasses. She slipped into the group quietly — her head, the translator, three men, and two women her age.
To her surprise, she didn't feel out of place for long. Someone complimented her oxidized earrings. Another admired her skirt, saying she had a "unique, artistic style."
"You're really creative at work too," one of the men added between sips of beer. "We were impressed by your pitch last week."
Her cheeks warmed. "Ah, thank you…"
Then came the inevitable question.
"So, Arohi-san," one of the men leaned forward, smirking. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
She nearly choked on her drink. "W-what? No!"
The others groaned dramatically. "Ehhh? No way!"
"You must have a crush, then," another teased.
Her translator caught her eye, amused, and Arohi tried to wave it off. "Really, I don't—"
But inside, something twisted. A lie. Or at least, it felt like one. Why did her mind flicker to Natsuo's face in that elevator, the way he had brushed back her hair, so gentle it made her heartbeat stumble?
She shook her head quickly. "No crush. I'm too busy with work."
The men sighed theatrically. "Such a shame. You're cute — we thought you'd have a boyfriend already."
The conversation shifted to their own stories — funny breakups, awkward dates, and long-distance relationships. Arohi relaxed slightly, laughing with the others, and somewhere in the middle of it all, she found herself next to Yukino.
Bubbly, warm, easy to talk to, Yukino lit up the table with her chatter about K-dramas, idol groups, and pastel stationery. Her eyes sparkled when she spoke about her boyfriend, who was studying industrial design.
"You'll love him if you meet him," she promised Arohi, "he's always sketching ridiculous things, like chairs with fifteen tiny legs."
They both laughed.
Reina, the older woman, was the opposite: soft-spoken, calm, professional. She didn't talk much, but when she did, her words carried weight. "It's good you came today," she told Arohi kindly. "Team dinners help build invisible threads. They make work lighter."
Arohi smiled at that.
By the time she left, it was late. Her feet ached, her stomach was full, and her head buzzed from all the voices. She trudged home, changed into her loosest T-shirt and shorts, let her hair fall free, and brewed herself a simple cumin tea — something her grandmother used to say was the cure for overeating.
She stepped onto her balcony, cup in hand, and let the city lights wash over her. The Tama River glistened faintly in the distance. The night air was thick but kinder than the day's heat.
She lifted her cup slowly, savoring the earthy taste of cumin, when a faint scent drifted past — soap, shampoo, something fresh.
She turned.
On the adjacent balcony, Natsuo stood with a towel slung over his head, damp hair dripping onto his black tank top. His grey sweatpants hung loose on his hips, and his lean frame looked sharper under the glow of the balcony light.
For a second, Arohi just… stared.
Then he noticed her. Their eyes met, and both of them blushed.
But laughter came first.
"You look—" she started, covering her grin.
"Don't," he warned this time, towel over his head.
She laughed harder, remembering her morning rush. "Tit for tat."
"What are you drinking?" he asked, nodding at her cup.
"Cumin tea. Good for digestion."
He made a face. "I'm not in my seventies, thanks."
He disappeared inside, then re-emerged with a glass. "Barley tea. Now this is summer."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine, you win."
But as he leaned against his railing, she noticed the shadows under his eyes. Dark circles. His movements slower, tired.
"You okay?" she asked softly. "You look… worn out."
He exhaled. "Yeah. Haven't slept much this week."
"You should rest," she pressed gently.
"I'll try."
A silence hung between them, filled only by the cicadas and the faint hum of the river.
Then she asked, curious: "Who do you even compose for?"
His shoulders stiffened. "Different artists. A few labels."
"Which company?"
He hesitated. "Blue Records."
Her eyes widened. "Blue Records?? That's huge!" Her mind whirled. "Do you… do you work with Stella? Luxe? Or—oh my god—NOIR??"
Her excitement tumbled out in a rush. She leaned forward, eyes shining, every word spilling before she could stop herself. "What's it like? To work with them? Especially NOIR? His songs are—"
She stopped. Realizing she'd gone too far. "Ah—sorry. That's… too personal. I shouldn't—"
But the damage was done.
Natsuo forced a faint smile, nodding vaguely, but inside his chest tightened. Her joy at the mere mention of NOIR cut sharper because he couldn't tell her anything.
She apologized again, retreating into her tea. He shook his head as if to say it was fine, but when he finally went inside, the weight followed him.
She, on the other hand, curled into bed with a smile still tugging at her lips — tea warm in her belly, laughter echoing in her ears.
He sat at his desk, phone buzzing with his manager's name on the screen, and whispered silently:
"…I hate lying to you."