I sense her in my mind, she's my collar

It's not a joke. You know that. But it doesn't feel real. Nanami says it like he's from the local newspaper: a woman grew a gargantuan zucchini, they're repaving the highway, he's dying-

"Uh." You swallow and try to think of the appropriate reaction. It's not like you know the man past early morning small talk; it's not like you can ask why or how or when. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

He nods with a shrug, very casually, then brings his drink to his lips and drains the whole thing in one big gulp. The waiter described the whisky as smooth, and yet Nanami shakes away the taste. You follow suit, draining your own drink with a little less grace.

"You're the first person I've told," he says after a while, with an levity he's never had before. "I don't have anyone else to tell."

Oh. There's no window into other's lives, no secret door to peer through and learn what's going on when the curtains are drawn. You almost reach a hand over the table, but the waiter comes with the first course of what you assume to be the tasting menu. He asks if you both would like second drinks and Nanami nods firmly. When the waiter looks to you, you look back at the man who's paying; Nanami raises a brow as if he's surprised.

"Order whatever you want."

You do. You need something to do with your hands. Nanami does too-- he keeps twisting at his watch, this tastefully elegant, refined thing with a beautiful face, something only with discerning taste and deep pockets could choose. The interruption has only built tension between the two of you. There's so many questions, but you refuse to ask them.

Nanami clears his throat.

"I poured my life into my work." Nanami examines his plate. You had nearly forgotten there was food in front of you. "I told myself that I could always go on vacation next year, once I had the promotion or once business slowed down. That I could start a family in a couple of years, once I had the time to do it properly. I could see my friends, visit my nephew, once I had the time."

He picks up his fork.

"Now, I'm forty, I have no time, and I have no one."

You wonder about his parents, his nephew, his sister. No man is an island: someone must love Nanami. Someone must.

"So, yes. I did invite you here simply to share the menu," Nanami says. This whole time, he's been placid. He takes a bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully for a long, long time. "Do you like it?"

You still haven't tasted it.

"I'm really sorry." is all you can manage to say. You think of texting your mother, despite everything between you.

"If this goes well, I have a proposition," he continues, taking another bite. "Pretend to be my partner. Just for a couple months, until I'm a burden. I would pay you, of course-"

"I'm sorry, I'm not-- I going to have sex with you-" you blurt out, too loudly for the mature space around you.

His eyes go ridiculously wide and he throws up his hands in defense. "I would never, ever ask that of anyone. This isn't about-- I don't expect-- I don't expect any physical contact. Just companionship."

You aren't sure you believe him. Why would you? Despite his boyish smile and romantic blinde hair, he's a man. You don't even know if he's really dying.

"I just..." Nanami sighs. "I want to live in a delusion for a bit. I want to pretend I didn't waste my life."

Wasted life. You want to laugh. There's no way to relate to how he feels, but you know the feeling of the days feeling worthless. The coffeehouse has been draining your soul as your college degree sits around, gathering dust.

"I-- Can I think about it?"

Nanami nods. "Of course."

"If I say no, would you still pay for dinner?"

Again, he gives you a perturbed look.

"I'm not a monster. Of course I would. This isn't a place you go on a barista salary."

Brutal, but true. You finally taste the food in front of you, chewing slowly as an excuse to think. What does companionship even entail? Do you have to pretend to be in love with him, or can you keep being yourself?

"I think you wasted this meal on me," you whisper. "I don't like it very much."

Nanami breaks into his first smile of the night. He leans back in his chair with a ghost of a laugh.

"I didn't either," he admits. "Six more courses, though. Hopefully, we'll like one."

"I'll buy a pizza for us if we don't," you offer. "I can afford that on a barista budget."

.

Nanami doesn't let you pay for the slice.

“Hey, I was here first,” you try to argue, and you stop in your tracks. A tall, strikingly beautiful woman with flowing teal hair stands in front of you. The black leather jacket she wears hangs loosely around her shoulders, and her yellow eyes read impatient at the sound of your quip. She fidgets her hands in her crossed arms and taps her foot, and you can’t help but to take in all of her charming aura.

Your mouth parts a little as it tries arguing again, but your brain falls short. Your gaze ultimately softens, and the world stops spinning temporarily as your eyes lock onto hers.

“Well?” She huffs out, equally annoyed. “Are ya gonna hurry up?”

You close your mouth and turn around, blood rushing through your veins from your neck to your feet. You definitely weren’t expecting someone as alluring as her to beam behind you. You were used to assholes and pricks as unattractive as their attitudes bothering you at gas stations and convenience stores. You turn to the oblivious clerk and clear your throat.

“A pack of Lucky Strike and a pack of Casters,” you edit your request, and the young man places the cigarettes on the counter. The woman behind you raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

“That’ll be 3000 yen,” the man says, and you shell out some cash from your pocket, grabbing the pack of Casters and handing it behind you.

“And they say romance is dead,” she smirks and comments, taking the pack and shoving it in her pocket. You shrug and shove the change in your pocket, walking out of the convenience store with the woman following you.

“What can I say? I’m nothing if not a romantic,” you flirt back and step outside, leaning against the building and pulling out a cigarette and lighter. It clicks repeatedly but doesn’t light since the gas is running low. You groan frustrated to yourself, trying again and failing. She joins you and leans against the wall as well, taking out her lighter and lighting it for you.

You look up in surprise, and she grins cheekily. “Guess you can say the same for me,” she winks. You grin in return and inhale, letting the dirty air fill your lungs before blowing out slowly. Nothing satisfies and eases your nerves more than the taste of tobacco.

“(Y/N)”, you introduce yourself, and she takes the lit cigarette from your fingers, inhaling next.

“Cute name,” she lilts and keeps her eyes on you, scanning every feature and mentally making notes. You’re notably shorter, and your long eyelashes bat your eyes in the most adorable way. You chuckle and shrug, taking turns inhaling the shared smoke.

“Bet yours is cuter,” you playfully say, and she laughs.

“Rion,” she answers, and you nod.

“I was right. Cute name for an equally cute girl,” you continue flirting. She leans in her hand on the wall and passes you the cigarette, her body almost caging you in. She notes how your pupils dilate at the sound of her voice, and she can’t help but find it adorable.

“A romantic and a flirt. Is it my lucky day?” She plays along, and you grow bolder with each huff of smoke. You shouldn’t be indulging in something like this. You’re currently on assignment and need to complete the job before the day is over. However…

“I dunno. You tell me,” you lean in and drop the cigarette butt, putting it out with your shoe as you stare infatuatedly into her eyes. You can’t help but have a little fun while you’re here.

Rion looks down at you, and she notes the butterfly knife peeking out in your jacket pocket. Another assassin? She thinks to herself. Or just a paranoid psycho?

“Tell me, (Y/N), what’s a girl like you doing in a quiet town like this?” Rion inquires. If you are an assassin, your answers should be just vague enough to throw a normal civilian off.

You think quickly to yourself and realize she’s most likely figured you out. “Just passing through, that’s all. Just like you, no?” You answer delicately and flip the question onto her.

She shrugs and remains close, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, feeling around for the knife she keeps stored. She can’t detect any bloodlust off you, but better to be prepared than caught off guard. If she’s not careful, your siren-like voice and eyes can put her in a trance and cause her to lose her focus.

“Yeah, I suppose,” she responds, and you smile once more. Before things can escalate further, a man with white hair approaches you both.

“Rion, we have to go,” he says with insistence, then looks over at you. You adjust your posture, annoyed that you were rudely interrupted by this random. Rion looks at the man and appears irritated. Still, she decides to agree with his urgency.

“Guess this is goodbye,” you say sadly, pushing off the wall and walking off in the opposite direction. The fun had to end at some point. Stupid idiot, you imagine yourself putting the guy in a headlock, just enough to have him pass out while the two of you continued conversing. We were clearly in the middle of something, you grumble internally.

“(Y/N), wait,” Rion calls out and stops you. “Take this.”

She hands you her lighter, and you look up at her grinning face. “See ya,” she simply says and walks off in a different direction. You look down at the piece of plastic, and you’re able to make out the phone number scribbled on with black Sharpie.

You look up again but don’t see her anymore.

“Oh, you're good” you chuckle out to yourself and store the treasured item in your pocket.

That night, after washing off the blood of your target from a successful mission, you pull out your phone and dial the number. Your heart beats nervously as the phone rings.

“Hello?” Her alto voice answers, and you smile at the sweet sound of it.