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“I know, I know! I’m late, but you would not bel— Hey, where is everybody?”

Mamoru slaps his phone down and springs out of his chair as Usagi blinks down at the empty table. Squashing a homicidal urge to find Minako and wring her neck, he shoves his hands into his pockets and forces his face into a neutral expression. “They cancelled.”

Usagi’s delicately arched eyebrows disappear beneath her windswept bangs. “Everyone?”

Mamoru glances back at the table to hide his cringe. He is going to kill Minako. “Seems so.” His voice sounds slightly strangled, so he presses a fist to his mouth and clears his throat. It’s a choice he immediately regrets because Usagi shoots him an odd look which makes him panic and reach for his phone. Backing out of Minako’s infuriating text chain, he reads through the list of cancellations; an unnecessary exercise, but a great way to avoid eye contact. “Makoto’s covering a shift, Ami’s stuck at the lab, Motoki and Reika had a last minute dinner come up…”

Usagi rummages around in her bright pink purse and pulls out her own phone. “What about Minako and Rei?”

“They’re…sick.”

Usagi’s brow furrows as she scrolls through her text threads. “That’s so weird, I just talked to Minako this morning. She sounded fine.”

“Food poisoning,” Mamoru offers, clenching his molars together. “Ate some bad Mexican.”

Usagi looks up and grimaces. “Damn, that sucks. You think they’ll be okay?”

“Oh, I think they’ll be just fine.” It’s impossible to keep the sarcasm out of his tone, but Usagi doesn’t appear to pick up on it.

She frowns and drops her phone back in her purse. “Well, huh. So much for group night.” Their eyes meet, and she does this weird thing with her mouth that makes Mamoru feel simultaneously awkward and aroused. “So, umm, I guess that means it’s—”

“Just us. Yeah.” He tries to sounds casual, not apologetic. He fails.

Usagi eyes the empty table again before her gaze flits to the exit. Mamoru knows what she’s about to say, and he has about two seconds to decide his next move before she says it. “Would you rather—”

“Sit at the bar?”

Usagi’s mouth pops open and her impossibly big eyes go wide, but Mamoru pretends like he doesn’t notice. He just gazes down at her with a relaxed expression that masks his inner fear and prays that she wants a drink more than she wants to escape a potentially awkward evening. He didn’t plan this, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Though he’s not a religious man, he sends out a silent, ‘Thank you,’ to the universe when her lips curve in a smile.

“Yeah,” Usagi says with a nod, “let’s do it.”

***

“…so I finally manage to pull it out and, I shit you not, the guy looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘Thanks, Doc. I told my wife she’d never get two of them up there, but the woman is stubborn as a mule.’”

“No!”

“Hand to God.”

“That poor man!”

Mamoru snorts. “Don’t feel too bad for him. Next thing he did was ask me if he could take them home.” Usagi presses a hand against her mouth to stop herself from spitting out her beer. Mamoru grins at her puffed out cheeks and shakes his head. “I told him I had to send them to pathology and advised his wife to invest in something with a flared base.”

Usagi giggles, and a tiny smirk curves her lips as she sets down her empty glass. “No base, no place.” Mamoru feels a responsive flush of warmth rush up his neck and takes a sip of his beer to cool down. Usagi motions for the bartender. “Another round?”

Mamoru eyes the empty glass in front of her—her second of the night—and deflates a little as his responsible side sweeps in to burst his giddy bubble. He’s crazy about Usagi, wouldn’t change a thing about her…except maybe her tendency to overindulge. That’s not to say she has a drinking problem, it’s just that there happens to be a very fine line between ‘happily buzzed’ Usagi and ‘all bets are off’ Usagi, and that line can usually be found between her second and third drink. Ever since the Hibiya park incident, the group has had a strict cut off policy—one Usagi herself agreed to. Sadly, she always seems to forget agreeing to it after drink number two.

Mamoru doesn’t want to kill the carefree vibe they’ve got going, but he also doesn’t want to wind up fishing her out of another public fountain. He doesn’t care how alluring she looked in her soaking wet dress, that water was cold. Still, even as he recalls the bitter chill, an irrepressible memory of soft, tantalizingly outlined curves pressed against him blooms in his mind and suddenly he’s feeling very warm. All right, he concedes, adjusting on his stool, maybe he cares a little bit, but that’s not the point.

“Mamoru? Another round?”

He forces a smile and shakes his head. “Tempting, but I know I’ll regret it in the morning. How about we switch to soda?”

He can see Usagi’s disappointment even before she opens her mouth to object, but then she seems to think better of it and dips her chin in a small nod. Mamoru asks for a soda and a water and their second awkward silence of the evening descends as they wait for their drinks. He’s wondering if he should have cut loose and thrown caution to the wind when she breaks the silence.

“So…how’s Tomoko?”

He blinks, fazed by the sudden change of subject. “Tomoko?” he echoes as the bartender brings their drinks. He steals a glance at Usagi while taking a sip of water. Are her cheeks turning pink? “She’s fine. Why do you ask?”

Usagi fiddles with the straw in her glass but doesn’t take a sip. Nor does she look at him. “I noticed that you, um, you haven’t brought her to any more group nights.”

It’s not just his imagination, her cheeks are definitely pink. Almost the exact shade of the tiny hearts embroidered on her sweater. Interesting. He hasn’t brought Tomoko, let alone mentioned her, once since that night, so why is Usagi bringing her up now, nearly four months later? Also, why is she blushing? And why won’t she look at him? Her gaze is as fixated on her straw as his is on her face.

Though his mind begins racing with possibilities and his stomach does a little flip, Mamoru wraps his fingers around his glass and schools his expression before replying. “No, she prefers to drink with people who are less accident prone. Said she sees enough blood at the hospital.”

A sharp gasp escapes Usagi’s bow lips as her head jerks up and her brilliant blue eyes go wide. It’s precisely the reaction he was expecting—she looks horrified, but the straw is completely forgotten, which was his ultimate goal. “She said that?”

“No,” Mamoru says with a chuckle and half an eye roll. Maybe it’s wrong to tease her, but she’s so gullible. And so adorable. He takes another sip of water before adding, “Of course not. She said she had a lot of fun that night, flesh wounds and all.”

Usagi’s expression calms, but after a moment she’s reaching for her straw again. Her eyes dart between the glass and his face. “Yet you haven’t brought her back.”

No, he hasn’t. Why would he? He only brought Tomoko to appease the ex, and that douchebag is history. He could tell Usagi this, a part of him dearly wants to, but another part of him—the cautious (read: cowardly) part—wants to let this play out. Wants to see if Usagi is actually leading him where he desperately wants to go, or if this is just another case of wishful thinking on his part. So, dragging a fingertip through the condensation coating his glass, Mamoru answers, “No, I haven’t. Why? Were you hoping to see her again?”

“No— I mean, not no,” Usagi stammers, cheeks burning red now, “of course I’d like to see her again. She seemed really nice.”

Mamoru nods.

“And funny.”

He nods again.

“And super smart.”

An amused smirk tugs at his mouth, prompting him to take another sip of water.

“Honestly, she seemed…perfect. Perfect for you.”

It’s all Mamoru can do not to spray his mouthful all over the bar. Somehow, he manages to swallow, but before he can sputter a reply, Usagi is speaking again.

“You’re such a great guy, Mamoru,” she says, eyes bright, a soft smile curving her lips. “You’re smart and kind and thoughtful. You’re even funny”—she grimaces briefly—“sometimes. You’re always willing to help or give advice or just listen when anyone needs an ear.” Usagi lowers her gaze to the bar and traces a finger along the edge of her coaster. “Most guys—the ones I’ve dated at least—only pretend to care in order to get what they want, but you’re not like that. You’re not selfish, even when you should be. I know how hard you work and how difficult it can be to make time for nights like these. I just…” She sighs and drops her hand to her lap before lifting her gaze. “I’d hate to think you’re spending time with me—with us—when you could be with Tomoko instead.”

It takes Mamoru a moment to gather his thoughts. Okay, more than a moment. In his defense, the woman of his dreams has just told him how amazing she thinks he is, and he wants to savour that for a little while. Possibly forever. The only thing stopping him from ascending to cloud nine is the fact that the woman of his dreams thinks he’d rather be anywhere or with anyone but her. When he regains enough presence of mind to snap his jaw shut, he straightens his spine and looks Usagi in the eye. The undisguised affection in her gaze would make his heart soar were it not for the sombre shadows lurking behind it. She’s sad—he’s not entirely sure why, but he knows he has to fix it.

To hell with letting things play out, it’s time to be direct.

“Usagi, Tomoko and I aren’t dating.”

Her eyebrows shoot up behind her thick, charmingly tousled bangs. “You’re…not?”

“No, we never were.”

“You never—” Usagi’s brow furrows. “Oh, I thought—” Her cheeks flush. “Oh.”

“And she is most definitely not perfect for me.”

A look of genuine astonishment washes over Usagi’s face, even as a tiny spark of indignation flares in her eyes. Mamoru knows, without having to ask, that Usagi is undoubtedly offended on Tomoko’s behalf even though she’s only met the woman once. He loves that about her. “Why? What’s wrong with her?” she demands.

She’s not you.

He almost says it. Courage floods his veins, daring parts his lips, longing places the words on his tongue—then the shrill ring tone of a phone shatters the moment. His phone, to be exact. Usagi blushes when Mamoru utters a foul curse and digs his phone out of his pocket. He curses again when he sees the caller display. “I’m sorry,” he says, rising from the stool, “it’s the hospital, I have to take it.”

It’s Takahashi, a fellow resident. He needs someone to cover his shift. Mamoru casts a longing glance in Usagi’s direction before he steps into the back hallway where it’s quieter. “I’m just coming off a double, and I’ve had a couple drinks.”

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t ask, Chiba, but Yamada is already working a double and Masaki is in Kyoto this week. My wife’s appointment is at seven, so I don’t need to be out of here until six.”

Mamoru glances at his watch, frowns, then rubs a weary hand over his face. “What about—”

“Eto isn’t answering my calls. You know how he is. Total ghost whenever he gets a day off.”

“Yeah, Eto’s an asshole.” A smart asshole.

“Please, Chiba, I’m begging you.”

Mamoru groans and closes his eyes as he drops his head against the wall with a dull thud. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, man, I owe you—”

Mamoru ends the call before Takahashi can finish. Takahashi owes him all right. It’s bad enough that tomorrow would have been Mamoru’s first day off in two weeks, but this is his first night alone with Usagi ever, and now he has to cut it short in order to be rested and sober enough to work in the morning. Another low curse escapes his lips as he stuffs his phone in his pocket and peels himself from the wall. Damn his bad luck.

Usagi is chatting with the bartender when he returns and taps her gently on the shoulder. Her smile is bright when she turns, but one look at his face dims her glow. “You’ve got to go.”

There’s no mistaking her disappointment, and he is simultaneously crushed and bolstered by her reaction. “I’m sorry, someone needs me to cover their shift and—”

“It’s okay, Mamoru,” Usagi says, grabbing his hand. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m just happy I got to see you tonight.”

When she smiles and squeezes his hand, Mamoru has to fight the urge to pull her into his arms—to hold her close and tell her how happy it would make him to do this every night. To see her smile, hear her laugh, feel her touch, each and every day.

Instead, he says, “Me too.”

It’s a cowardly cop out, but it’s hard to berate himself when Usagi hops off her stool and gives him one of her infamous hugs. While he hates ending any evening with her, he lives for these hugs—savours each and every moment. The jolt of enthusiasm, the tight squeeze of affection, the soothing rock of connection, and finally the slow, reluctant withdrawal. It’s easy to get lost in these moments, to get carried away, but Mamoru manages to stay grounded by reminding himself that Usagi does this with everyone. That, special though they seem, her hugs for him are no different than the hugs she gives to the others, no matter how much he wishes they were.

When she pulls away, he helps her into her coat, allowing his hands to linger on her shoulders for a moment or two longer than necessary, then follows her to the exit, fingers twitching all the way.

They both speak at the same time when they reach the sidewalk.

“Will I see you next we—”

“Can I walk you home?”

Though Usagi looks surprised by his offer, Mamoru is pleased by the sudden flush blooming in her apple cheeks. She glances down at her wrist, which is a little odd, given he’s never seen her wear a watch, then tugs on the sleeve of her jacket as if to cover the lapse before looking up again. “Are you sure you have time?”

“I always have time for you.”

They’re both a little stunned by his response. This may be the first time Mamoru has managed to tell her precisely what he’s thinking without an ounce of hesitation, and before he can panic and walk it back, a bashful smile curves Usagi’s perfect pink lips and it’s all he can do not to melt into a puddle on the sidewalk.

She flutters her lashes—or blinks, hard to tell the difference—then dips her head in a nod. “I’d like that.”

Usagi’s apartment isn’t far from the izakaya, and despite the early morning ahead, Mamoru finds himself wishing she lived much further away than a mere seven blocks. They make idle chit chat during the short walk, and when her hand brushes against his, he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket to stop himself from grabbing hold of it. As much as he wants to take her small hand in his own, thread his fingers through hers, and confirm how perfectly he knows they’ll fit together, he won’t. He’s no gambler, and he’s not willing to risk ruining a perfect night on a potentially embarrassing long shot like unsolicited hand holding.

Before he knows it, they’ve reached her street, and Usagi slows her steps to a crawl as they approach her building. “I still can’t believe everyone else ditched group night.”

Mamoru’s easy smile flattens in a momentary grimace before he forces a wry grin. “Yeah, what are the odds?” Pretty high, it turns out, with ‘friends’ like Minako.

Usagi stops and pivots toward him. “I had fun though. A lot of fun. I hope, um”—she fiddles with the strap of her purse—“I hope you weren’t too bored without the others.”

Mamoru fists his hands in his pockets and meets Usagi’s shy gaze with uncharacteristic directness. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.” He can’t because he hasn’t. Ever.

It’s hard to tell if his response makes Usagi blush given the dark night, but judging by the wide smile that splits her face, she’s pleased. After a moment, her expression turns playful, sending a rush of heat up Mamoru’s neck…and to other areas. “Maybe we should ditch the others more often.”

He’s so enamoured by her cheeky wink, it takes him a moment to find his voice. “Maybe we should.”

“It’s a date.”

Mamoru’s mouth goes dry in an instant. She doesn’t mean it—at least, not the way he wants her to mean it. It wouldn’t be a date date, she’s just being funny. She’s being playful. She’s being flippant and casual, and she has no idea how those three simple words have completely paralyzed him. How such a small statement can feel so big. How could she? She has no clue how truly, madly, irrevocably in love with her he is. How far he’s fallen. How long he’s waited. For what, exactly?

What is he waiting for?

He swallows. Purses his lips. Pulls his hands from his pockets and reaches for her.

“Usagi, I—”

“Usa?”

They blink in unison, but Usagi turns her head first, missing Mamoru’s reaction. The way his eyes close, his hands drop, his face falls, his shoulders slump. The way he instantly knows that everything has just gone wrong. His perfect night is ruined. Why?

Because he knows that voice.

“Hideyo? What— What are you doing here?”

Mamoru turns with great reluctance and settles a bleak gaze on Hideyo a.k.a Twat-wad. The ex. The Ex. The Fucking Douche-canoe EX. He’s supposed to be history. He’s supposed to be in Paraguay or Uruguay…or some other fucking country, not here. What in the flying fuck is he doing here?

When Hideyo approaches Usagi, Mamoru squashes an urge to punt him into the street. “I’m here to see you.”

“Why?” Usagi asks, voicing Mamoru’s thoughts, albeit with less vitriol.

Hideyo inhales and runs a hand through his straggly, shoulder length hair. He’s ditched the perpetual man bun, but he looks as douchey as ever. “I need to talk to you.”

Usagi crosses her arms. “About what?” Though her tone is admittedly cool, Mamoru can’t help but wonder why she’s asking. Is she just being polite, or does she actually care what this jagweed wants?

“About us.”

It’s hard to be sure given the freight train—or blood, hard to tell the difference—currently rushing through his ears, but it’s possible that Mamoru growls. Like, actually growls. Usagi glances at him and frowns before turning her attention back to the self-obsessed tool in front of her.

“There is no ‘us’, Hideyo,” Usagi says, and Mamoru stuffs his hands in his pockets again to keep himself from pumping a fist in the air in triumph. “It’s late, I think you should go home.”

“I’ve come straight from the airport, Usa.” Mamoru clenches his teeth at the nickname. “I flew all the way from Guyana to see you.” Guyana. Whatever, he’d had the right continent at least. “I know it’s late,” Hideyo says, stepping forward, “but I can’t go home, Usa.” When Hideyo takes Usagi’s hands in his, Mamoru’s heart clenches painfully. “Because you’re my home.”

Time stops. Or maybe it doesn’t, but it certainly seems to as, yet again, Mamoru experiences a flash of perfect awareness. Another window opened tonight. A perfect moment of opportunity. Finally—after all the indecision, all the fear and hesitation and pussyfooting around, he was finally ready to take the leap, but the universe said no. Not only did it say no, it’s now forcing him to watch this pretentious, loathsome, self-serving dick weasel steal his moment right in front of him.

It’s hard not to see that as a sign. It’s hard not to take it personally. It’s hard not to launch himself at Hideyo and beat the ever loving piss out of him right now.

Hard, but not impossible. While Mamoru manages to stifle the urge to commit assault, he can’t stop himself from clearing his throat rather loudly when the moment stretches on too long for his liking. Usagi starts, as if from a daze, and looks up at him before blushing and snatching her hands away from Hideyo. Sadist that he is, Mamoru can’t help but wonder if she would have done the same if he weren’t standing there. Can’t help but wonder if she’d completely forgotten he was standing there at all.

For the first time, Hideyo seems to notice Mamoru. His beady little eyes narrow in recognition just like they used to, but only for a moment. Then he nods his head and says, “Chiba-san,” in greeting before looking between Mamoru and Usagi. “Maybe I’ve come too late after all. Are the two of you—?” He doesn’t finish the question, but all three of them know exactly what he’s asking.

“No, of course not.”

Usagi’s denial is automatic. Immediate. Dismissive even. Though true, it feels like a knife in Mamoru’s heart. He reaches for his chest, thinking to pull the blade free, but of course there’s nothing there. The wound is invisible to all but him, and he has no one to blame but himself.

“I’m gonna go.”

Usagi swivels toward him, reaches out a hand, but she doesn’t touch him. Not when she sees his face. Mamoru doesn’t know what she sees; nothing, he hopes. He can feel himself shutting down. Closing off. Withdrawing. Retreating.

“Mamoru, you don’t have to—”

“I do.” His tone is abrupt. Clipped. Gruff even. His gaze shifts from Usagi’s bruised expression to Hideyo in time to catch the prick’s look of triumph. “I really do.” He starts to turn when a rush of conscience makes him pause and look back. Though it pains him to do so, he meets Usagi’s eyes. “Are you—” still in love with him? He purposefully slides his gaze to Hideyo then back to her. “Do you need me—” He doesn’t finish the question, and it’s unclear whether any of them know exactly what he’s asking.

Usagi holds his gaze for several excruciating beats before drawing her lower lip between her teeth and shaking her head. “No, Mamoru, I don’t need— I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you next week?”

He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks away. He hates himself for it, but he can’t risk opening his mouth again because there’s no telling what might come out of it. Anger. Disappointment. Raw, unfiltered honesty. No, he has to get out of there as fast as he can before he does something foolish. Something humiliating. Something unforgivable.

His phone pings as he turns a corner, and for a moment his heart soars, thinking it’s Usagi. That she’s texting to say she’s sorry. That she wasn’t thinking. That she told the jackass to take a hike. He halts, pulls his phone from his pocket, swipes up.

Mamoru stares at the phone and feels a powerful urge to throw it as hard and as far as he can. He wants to scream, curse, weep. He wants to call Minako right now and tell her to go meddle in someone else’s life. He wants to march back to Hidouchebag and tell him what a slimy, two-faced cretin he is. Most of all, he wants to look Usagi in the eye and tell her all things he’s been too shy, too scared, too stupid to say in the six hundred odd days since he first met her.

Instead, he stuffs the phone back in his pocket and heads home, heart heavy and tail firmly between his legs.

***

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