Sasaki's lips brushed Miyo's cheek with deliberate firmness. Not tenderness, not affection— just precision. A strike meant to land where it would hurt most: in Rina's heart. She had paraded Aoi like some prize stallion, laughed while stripping Sasaki of dignity, of love, of home. Today, with cameras flashing and the city council steps crowded with curious eyes, Sasaki would return the humiliation. He wanted Rina to choke on regret.
Miyo froze for a breath, her doe-like eyes wide. She hadn't expected the sudden intimacy, not here, not like this. Yet she didn't resist. Her hand steadied itself against his chest, her lips curving into the smallest of uncertain smiles.
"Are you done," she murmured, voice soft but edged with curiosity, "or are you still busy?"
"No. I'm done." His words were sharp, final. But when he looked at her, his gaze softened by a degree. "Are you free for an early lunch, babe?"
The word slid from his tongue too easily, like he'd said it a thousand times before. Miyo tilted her head, caught between amusement and disbelief. Their last meeting had been cordial, distant —and now here he was, claiming her in front of a crowd. She saw the storm in his eyes, though, and swallowed her questions.
"I can make time," she said simply.
Her agreement sparked warmth in him, faint but undeniable. And when Rina's papers trembled in her hand, Sasaki felt the satisfaction sink deep. Miyo wasn't just beautiful— she made Rina look suddenly small.
"Does she even know?" Rina's voice cut the air, shrill and cruel. "That you're nothing but a janitor? That you don't even have a roof over your head? Or are you planning to waste her time the way you wasted mine?"
The words sliced open old wounds. Sasaki's jaw locked, fury simmering beneath his skin. Before he could answer, Miyo slid closer, looping her arm boldly around his waist. Her perfume— light, floral, citrus —rose between them.
"Babe," she said sweetly, eyes lifted to his with knowing playfulness, "who are they?"
The casual dismissal made Rina's face tighten, anger blooming where pride had been.
"Nobody," Sasaki said coldly. His voice carried across the marble lobby, silencing the hum of onlookers. "Just ghosts. And I'll make sure they stay buried."
The words landed like stone. Sasaki laced his fingers through Miyo's and strode forward, dragging his fury behind him like a stormcloud. But after only a few steps he stopped, shoulders squared, voice low and venomous.
"Now that the separation is complete," he said without looking back, "don't cross my path again. Because if you do, Rina, I swear you'll regret it."
The silence afterward was heavy, final. Rina stood frozen, lips parted but soundless. Aoi shifted uneasily, stripped of his swagger. Even Sakura's whisper couldn't mask the flicker of unease in her eyes. For the first time since their betrayal, fear reached Rina.
Sasaki didn't glance over his shoulder. His grip on Miyo's hand tightened as if she were an anchor, the only thing keeping him steady. She let him lead, though curiosity burned behind her gaze.
They walked until the noise of the council faded into the hum of the city. Vendors called, cars honked, scents of roasted chestnut drifted by, but it all blurred into nothing for Sasaki.
"You kissed me," Miyo said at last.
"I did."
"On the cheek."
"Yes."
"And you called me babe."
"I did that too."
She tugged his hand gently, making him turn toward her. "Why?"
His eyes dropped, shadows crossing his face. "Because I needed to. Because she needed to see it."
Miyo's expression softened. "You wanted to hurt her."
Silence was his answer.
She should have been offended —most women would be. Instead, what she felt was pity. Behind his sharp edges, he was bleeding.
"Then let's have lunch," she said suddenly, lightening her tone.
Sasaki blinked. "Lunch?"
"Yes," she smiled, playful now. "If I'm going to be your 'babe,' I think you owe me at least a good meal."
For the first time that morning, Sasaki's lips curved into something real. A smile, faint but genuine. "Fair enough."
They found a quiet restaurant tucked between glass towers, wood-paneled and warm, music soft as a murmur. A waiter led them to a booth.
Sasaki ordered steak, rare, with red wine.
"Expensive taste for a janitor," Miyo teased.
His gaze cut to her, searching for mockery. But her eyes sparkled with mischief, not cruelty.
"I wasn't always a janitor."
"And you aren't now, are you?"
The fork paused in his hand. "What makes you think that?"
She leaned forward slightly. "Because men who are broke don't wear suits that cost more than rent. And because you carry yourself like someone planning his next move —not someone stuck cleaning up other people's messes."
Sasaki studied her, intrigued. Rina had reduced him to nothing in the world's eyes. But Miyo— she saw more.
"Well," he said at last, lips curving faintly, "I have you and your parents to thank for this suit."
She smiled, accepting the jest.
Their food arrived. Miyo ate delicately; Sasaki carved his steak with cold precision. Silence lingered, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
At length, Miyo spoke. "So. The woman back there —who is she really?"
"Rina," Sasaki said flatly. "My ex-wife."
"And the man?"
"Aoi. My ex-boss. Her lover."
Her lips pressed thin. "Ouch, that's cold."
"Colder than you know." His voice thickened with bitterness. He stared into his glass. "They betrayed me. Mocked me. Took everything. But their day is coming."
"And you'll be the one to bring it?" she asked.
His eyes lifted. For a heartbeat, she saw all of him— pain, rage, humiliation, fire. "I swore to myself. She'll regret leaving me. He'll regret underestimating me."
Miyo didn't flinch. "Then don't lose yourself on the way."
The words pierced him. Nobody had said that before. And for a moment, the ice around his heart cracked.
When lunch ended, Sasaki paid without hesitation, the gesture smooth, decisive.
As they stepped back into sunlight, something in him felt lighter. Miyo walked beside him, hair catching gold in the sun. Maybe fate had handed him not just a weapon to wound Rina, but an ally.
He didn't know why Miyo hadn't walked away from his storm. But he knew one thing— she was part of his story now.
And neither of them could predict where it would lead.