Chapter 27: Absolutely Not a Date

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The text arrived at 6:42 a.m.

Too early for anything normal. Too early for anything sane. Too early for anyone except emergencies and CEOs who didn’t understand the concept of weekends.

Minami Kaito:

If you’re still available today, I’ve chosen a location.

I’ll meet you there. 13:00.

A map link blinked underneath.

I stared so long the screen dimmed, then blackened, leaving my own reflection hovering back at me like it was asking:

Are you actually going?

Are you out of your mind?

Do you even have clean socks?

He said it wasn’t a date.

He said it with that calm Minami delivery that could convince the sky it was green if he tried hard enough.

But my stomach refused to listen.

I repeated the words all morning, like a mantra, like a script for someone far more composed than me:

It’s not a date.

It’s absolutely not a date.

I said it brushing my teeth.

I said it wiping the fog off the bathroom mirror.

I said it while picking outfits that whispered casually normal and not hello yes I panicked for three hours.

By the time I left my apartment, I had convinced approximately 30% of myself.

The rest fluttered nervously like startled pigeons.

---

The map led to a quiet riverside neighborhood far outside Minami turf, tucked between a pastry shop and a florist that had a chalkboard sign promising “flowers that won’t judge you.”

Children biked past. Elderly couples walked tiny dogs with more confidence than I had ever possessed. The air smelled faintly like bread and winter.

This place looked nothing like the world he belonged to.

Maybe that was the point.

I arrived five minutes early and spent all five pretending to care deeply about a sign explaining migratory patterns of storks. I could now identify six species by beak shape alone.

Footsteps approached behind me—steady, unhurried, but heavy enough to suggest someone used to walking like the world parted around him.

I turned.

And froze.

Minami Kaito—was disguised.

Aggressively disguised.

Black cap pulled so low it nearly touched his mask.

Black mask covering half his face.

Black hoodie layered under a black coat like he Googled “how to blend in” and clicked the most dramatic answer.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Head slightly bowed.

He looked like a wealthy criminal who regretted every choice that led him to this moment.

“…Fujimoto-san?” he said carefully.

“Yes,” I said, bowing instinctively. “Um. You’re—very covered.”

He tugged the edge of the mask. “It felt necessary. The press appears in places I don’t intend. And if my father found out I was…” He gestured vaguely between us. “…here—”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

I imagined headlines, lawsuits, stock crashes, boardroom screaming, planetary implosion.

“I understand,” I said.

“It may be excessive,” he added.

“It’s very… thorough.”

His ears turned a faint pink.

We began to walk—slowly, like two people who had downloaded a new firmware update on how to exist beside each other.

The river glistened. A cold breeze tugged at my scarf. Somewhere, distant music drifted from a street violinist, soft and imperfect.

“So,” he started, clearing his throat. “This isn’t—”

“A date,” I supplied.

He nodded quickly, maybe too quickly. “Not a date.”

“Just an outing.”

“Yes. An outing.”

We sounded like we were mutually gaslighting ourselves.

But the quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

Not empty, not heavy—just… gentle.

After a few moments, he said, “Did you sleep well?”

I swallowed. “Yes. You?”

A tiny pause.

“I… attempted to,” he admitted.

The honesty of it startled me so much my foot caught on completely flat ground.

He immediately stepped closer. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my dignity,” I mumbled.

His laughter was soft, breathy, real—like sunlight peeking through clouds.

---

We reached a wooden footbridge arching over the water. He rested gloved hands on the railing; I joined him, maintaining precisely enough distance to avoid spontaneous combustion.

“This is one of the few places reporters don’t follow,” he said quietly.

“It’s peaceful.”

“I thought you might prefer somewhere without attention.”

That warmth in my chest — the one that wasn’t fear or anxiety but something softer — curled deeper.

“Thank you,” I said.

He looked away as if the water was safer to face. “I’m glad you came.”

My heart fluttered as if trying to escape my chest.

“I’m… glad you asked.”

A brief, comfortable silence settled between us—this time not the awkward kind, but the kind that made the air feel warm despite the cold.

After a moment, he straightened. “There’s a café nearby. Outdoor seating, private hedges. Less risk.”

“That sounds nice.”

“I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer,” he added. “So I chose something unobtrusive.”

My chest tightened—not in a painful way, but in a someone actually thought about me way.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

He adjusted his mask, almost shy, then led the way.

Not a date.

Absolutely not.

But something was shifting.

Something small and bright and terrifying.

---

The Café

The place he chose was a tiny riverside café, modern but cozy — cream walls, wooden chairs, a string of dim Edison bulbs overhead. A barrier of tall hedges shielded the outdoor tables.

Private. Safe. Thoughtful.

A young waitress guided us to a corner booth. Her bow was a little deeper than normal — enough to suggest she knew exactly who was beneath the mask. But she said nothing.

We sat.

He waited for me first.

I pretended not to notice.

He picked up a menu. “Order anything you like.”

My reflex kicked in. “Anything is fine.”

He lowered his menu, eyes pinning me with quiet intensity. “That’s not what I asked, Fujimoto-san.”

“…Right.”

I scanned the menu again, feeling his gaze like warm static on my skin. I chose something modest but not the cheapest.

He ordered black coffee and a simple dish. Of course he did.

When the waitress left, we were cocooned in the muted noise of clinking dishes and soft chatter.

“You seem nervous,” he said.

“I’m not,” I lied.

His eyebrow lifted behind the mask.

“…Maybe a little.”

“Why?” he asked, voice gentle.

Because you are you. Because I don’t understand why you asked me here. Because I don’t want to embarrass myself. Because you look at me like I matter.

“I’m just not used to this,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “I’m not used to it either.”

The words brushed against something tender in me.

We talked in bits — halting at first, then loosening.

He told me childhood stories:

• learning piano he didn’t want to play

• strict etiquette lessons

• losing his first tooth during a board meeting and sitting silently so no one noticed

I told him about my hometown:

• the summer festivals

• the noisy neighbors

• the corner bakery that burned its bread every morning

• my mother’s habit of sending me photos of vegetables she was proud of

He listened.

Really listened.

His eyes softened with every sentence, as if he were memorizing each detail.

When the food arrived, we ate slowly, conversations threading between bites. Every so often, he tugged down his mask just enough to eat, quick, subtle, nervous.

---

The Station

Afterward, he insisted on walking me to the station.

We kept a careful distance, but even then, people glanced at us — at him, really — sensing something polished and powerful beneath the disguise.

When we reached the entrance, I stopped.

He matched the motion immediately.

“Thank you… for today,” I said.

“Thank you for coming,” he replied softly. “I wasn’t certain you would.”

“I wasn’t certain either,” I whispered.

His breath caught ever so slightly.

“It wasn’t a date,” I blurted.

His eyes curved in a smile behind the mask.

“If you say so.”

“It wasn’t!”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Then I’ll consider it… a practice run.”

I blinked. “…For what?”

“For something that might be a date.”

The world tilted.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he said. “But I hope there will be a next time.”

My pulse thrummed.

“I’ll think about it,” I managed.

He stepped back then, ready to disappear into the crowd.

“Have a good afternoon, Fujimoto-san.”

And just like that, he vanished — swallowed by pedestrians and winter air.

I stood there, stunned.

It wasn’t a date.

Absolutely not.

But for something not-a-date, it felt dangerously close to changing everything.

The world around me seemed to glow.

And for the first time in a long time…

I let it.