"Too formal," I muttered, tossing the third dress onto my bed. "Too casual. Too... why do I own this!?"
My phone buzzed with Yoriko's fifth text in ten minutes: SEND PICTURES! I need to approve your date outfit!
No need, it's not that big of a deal, I typed back, lying through my teeth.
Your first real date with Art Boy and it's NOT A BIG DEAL?? Touka, I'm coming over.
NO. I'm fine. Just... what do people wear to museums?
Something that makes him stare. But like, respectfully.
I glared at my closet. Nothing screamed "respectable staring." Everything was either school uniforms, Anteiku work clothes, or casual stuff for hunting—
No. Not thinking about that today. Today I was just a normal girl going on a normal date to look at normal art.
Finally settled on a navy skirt and cream sweater—nice but not trying too hard. My hands shook slightly as I did my makeup. Stupid. I'd faced down territorial disputes and CCG patrols, but one museum date had me trembling like a rabbit.
Leaving now, I texted Yoriko before she could demand more photos.
HAVE FUN! BE YOURSELF! BUT ALSO BE FLIRTY!
... Those seem contradictory.
Welcome to dating! 💕
The train ride to our meeting spot felt endless. Every window reflection showed something wrong—hair not sitting right, sweater too plain, why didn't I wear the dress after all?
Then I saw him waiting by the station entrance, and all the wardrobe panic evaporated.
He'd dressed up too—dark jeans, a button-down shirt that actually fit properly, no paint stains anywhere. When he spotted me, his whole face lit up in a way that made my chest tight.
"Hi," he said, and somehow that one word held volumes.
"Hi yourself." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of every movement. "You cleaned up nice."
"You look—" He paused, visibly searching for words. "Really beautiful. I mean, you always do, but today—"
"Smooth talker."
"I'm really not. You just short-circuit my brain sometimes." He offered his arm, formal and sweet. "Shall we?"
The museum loomed ahead, all marble and glass and culture I didn't quite understand. But Sota navigated it like he lived here, getting our tickets with easily.
"I come here a lot," he admitted as we entered. "Helps me think. Plus student discount."
"Practical."
"That's me. Practical art student who definitely didn't spend an hour deciding what to wear."
"Only an hour?" I relaxed slightly. "Amateur."
The Monet exhibition was on the third floor. As we rode the escalator, I became hyperaware of how close we were standing, his arm warm against mine.
"So what's special about Monet?" I asked, needing words to fill the charged quiet.
"He painted light," Sota said simply. "Not objects, but the way light changed them. Morning versus evening, summer versus winter. Same subject, completely different feeling."
"Like seeing the world at different times."
"Exactly." He glanced at me, surprised. "That's actually a perfect description."
The exhibition hall was dimmer than expected, spotlights illuminating massive canvases that seemed to glow from within. Other visitors moved in hushed groups, speaking in reverent whispers.
"Wow," I breathed, taking in the first room. Water lilies covered entire walls, blues and greens and purples swirling together.
"This is just the beginning," Sota said smugly, and I could hear the excitement threading through his professional calm. "Come on, let me show you my favorites."
He guided me through the rooms, explaining techniques and history without lecturing. His whole demeanor changed when talking about art—confident, passionate, completely in his element.
"See how the bridge looks different in each painting?" He pointed to a series of the same Japanese bridge. "Same structure, but the light makes it feel completely different. Morning hope, afternoon peace, evening melancholy."
"You really love this, don't you?" I said, watching his animated expressions more than the paintings.
"It's like... proof that perspective matters. That the same thing can be beautiful in different ways depending on how you look at it." He turned to me. "Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense."
We were standing close, voices low to avoid disturbing others. He shifted slightly, and then—
His hand found mine.
I froze, hyperaware of every point of contact. His fingers interlaced with mine so naturally, like they belonged there. When I looked up, he was watching me with an expression that made breathing complicated.
"Is this okay?" he asked quietly.
I could only nod, face burning. He was right there, close enough to count his eyelashes, looking at me like I was more interesting than all of Monet's masterpieces combined.
"You're staring," I managed.
"You're worth staring at."
"That's—you can't just say things like that!"
"Why not? It's true." His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "I've wanted to hold your hand since the festival."
"Just my hand?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His eyes darkened slightly. "Touka..."
"Sorry, I—ignore that. Show me more paintings."
But he didn't move, still studying my face with that intensity that made me want to hide and lean closer simultaneously.
"You're beautiful when you're flustered," he said.
"I'm not flustered!"
"Your ears turn red. It's cute."
I used my free hand to tug my hair forward, covering the treacherous ears. "You're supposed to be teaching me about art, not cataloguing my embarrassing tells."
"I can do both. Multitasking." But he finally turned back to the paintings, pulling me gently along, never letting go of my hand.
The rest of the exhibition passed in a blur of color and whispered explanations and the constant awareness of our linked hands. Other couples passed us, and I realized that's what we looked like—just another young couple on a Sunday date.
Normal. Happy. Even... human.
The thought made my chest ache.
"Want to see the garden?" Sota asked as we finished the last room. "It's based on Monet's actual garden in France."
"Lead the way, art expert."
The museum garden was an oasis in the city—winding paths through carefully maintained flowers, a small pond with actual lilies, benches positioned to catch the best views. The afternoon sun made everything golden.
"It's beautiful," I said, then caught his expression. "What?"
"Nothing. Just... you look happy."
"I am happy." The admission surprised me with its truth. "Thank you for this. For asking med out."
"Thank you for saying yes." He squeezed my hand. "I know it wasn't easy."
We found a bench by the pond, sitting close enough that our knees touched. The garden was nearly empty, most visitors still inside.
"Touka," he started, then seemed to reconsider. "What do you want to do? After high school, I mean."
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "University maybe. Literature or biology. Something... normal."
"Why those?"
"Literature because stories help us understand different perspectives. Biology because..." I struggled for a safe explanation. "Understanding how things work seems important."
"You'd be good at either. You see things clearly."
"I really don't."
"You do. You saw straight through my Byzantine essay problems. You understand art better than most people who study it." He turned on the bench to face me more fully. "You're brilliant, you know that?"
"Stop."
"Never." But he smiled, softening the intensity. "What about you? After university?"
"Teaching, maybe. Or working in a museum like this. Somewhere I can share what I love without..." He trailed off.
"Without?"
"Without the other stuff. The complicated parts of my job."
Government work. Right. We both had our secrets.
"That sounds nice," I said. "Peaceful."
"Yeah. Peaceful sounds good."
We sat quietly, watching the light change on the water. His hand was warm in mine, solid and real and everything I couldn't keep but wanted anyway.
"We should probably head back," he said eventually. "Garden closes at five."
"Already?"
"Time flies when you're having fun." He stood, pulling me up with him. "Same time next Sunday? Different museum?"
"You want another date?"
"I want as many as you'll give me." Simple, honest, devastating.
"Okay," I whispered.
"Okay?"
"Next Sunday. Different museum. Maybe somewhere with less water lilies."
"Deal." He lifted our joined hands, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "Can I walk you to the station?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. We made our way back through the garden, then the museum, finally emerging into the late afternoon bustle of Tokyo.
At the station entrance, we faced each other awkwardly, neither wanting to let go first.
"I had a really good time," I said.
"Me too. Best museum visit ever."
"Even better than when you cried at the water lilies?"
"Significantly better." He stepped closer. "Touka, can I—"
"Yes."
He blinked. "You don't know what I was going to ask."
"Doesn't matter. Yes."
His free hand came up to cup my cheek, and then he was kissing me. Soft, sweet, nothing like our desperate first kiss on the hillside. This was a promise, a beginning, a choice we were both making.
When we pulled apart, I was definitely flustered.
"Your ears are red again," he murmured.
"Shut up."
"Never." But he stepped back, finally releasing my hand. "Text me when you get home?"
"Always do."
"Good." One more quick kiss, then he was walking backward, still watching me. "See you Tuesday!"
"Watch where you're going!"
He laughed, finally turning around just before hitting a lamp post. I watched until he disappeared into the crowd, then touched my lips like some lovesick shoujo manga heroine.
My phone already had messages from Yoriko demanding details. I typed back: It was perfect.
And despite everything—despite what I was, what I couldn't tell him, what would eventually destroy this—it really had been.