“Midori, my sweet…” Hanma greeted her, his grin as cocky as ever.

“Oh, I’m your sweet now?” She set the glass in front of him with an arched brow.

“Do you want to be?” he asked, leaning in, his arms crossed casually on the counter. His tone was light, but the glint in his eye suggested he already knew her answer—and that infuriated her.

“No,” she shot back, though her heart betrayed her with a traitorous little flip.

“Hmm,” Hanma hummed, his expression one of smitten determination. “What's it gonna take, then? You want me to bring you flowers, maybe recite poetry?”

“Poetry?” Midori laughed softly, genuinely amused for once. “You don't look like a poetry kind of guy.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, doll.” His smirk widened, and before she could retort, he cleared his throat with dramatic flair.

“Midori, you mix with such flair,

Your cocktails a cure for despair.

Though my charm you deflect,

I'll persist, I suspect,

For a heart stirred by you is quite rare.”

Midori froze, cheeks flushing as the words registered. She blinked at him, utterly thrown. Of all the things she expected, this wasn’t it. Not the rhyming, not the effort—certainly not the way her chest tightened hearing a poem about her that he made up on the fly.

“So, was that enough to win you over?” he asked, the teasing smirk returning to his face.

She couldn't admit it, not even to herself, that the scales had just tipped very much in his favor. “That was… impressive,” she said, trying to not sound as flustered as she felt.

“Impressive?” Hanma chuckled. “That's all?” He tossed enough money on the counter to more than cover the tab, then slid off the barstool with an easy grace.

“You’re leaving?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Yep. Calling it a night.” He pushed the stool back into place and turned for the door.

“What about your beer?” she called, pointing to the untouched glass she'd just poured.

He glanced over his shoulder, his smile as cryptic as it was infuriating. “You can have it.”

“And your change?” she pressed, holding up the cash.

“Keep it.” His voice was already fading as he strode out, leaving her standing there, bewildered.

For a moment, she just stared at the door, her thoughts a chaotic mess. Did she actually want him to stay? The answer surprised her: yes. Yes, she did.

Midori reached for the beer, lifting it almost reverently. If anyone had told her a month ago that she’d be standing here, secretly hoping for Hanma’s attention, she would’ve laughed in their face. And yet, here she was. She took a sip, letting the bitter liquid wash over her, and busied herself with closing up for the night.

***

For an entire week, she forced herself to not think about it—to not think about him. And she succeeded, mostly, until Thursday night came around.

As Midori mixed drinks and served beers, her eyes periodically flickered to the spot where Hanma always sits. But each time she looked, he wasn't there. Her shift was nearly over, and he still hadn't appeared. Chiaki teased her about his absence, asking if her boyfriend was going to show up.

Midori clocked out, marking the end of a Hanma-less Thursday night. And it wasn't quite the triumphant victory she thought it would be. Her heavy feet carried her home, walking through invisible cold molasses on the sidewalk.

Why didn't he come to the bar?

Her mind circled back to the last time she’d seen him. Maybe her reaction to his poem looked like sarcasm. What if he’d finally taken her rejections seriously? The thought should’ve been comforting—it was what she wanted, after all. Wasn’t it?

Midori sighed, the warm night air doing little to clear her head. Deep down, she already knew the truth.

She didn’t want him to stop coming by.

***

Midori arrived at work two days later, bracing herself for the typical chaos of a Saturday night at the bar. The moment she stepped through the door, Chiaki intercepted her, a mischievous grin plastered across her face. In her hands was a large orange envelope—the kind reserved for important documents.

“This came for you today,” Chiaki said, thrusting it forward. “Postmarked from Kyoto.”

Midori frowned, her curiosity piqued. “Kyoto? I don’t know anyone in Kyoto.”

The handwriting on the label was unfamiliar, elegant yet unassuming. She couldn’t imagine who would send her anything, let alone to the bar instead of her apartment. Carefully, she cut the envelope open with the knife she kept behind the counter.

Inside, she found a glossy photograph and a letter.

The photo was breathtaking. Taken at dusk, it captured the Kamo River in Kyoto, its surface shimmering gold beneath the setting sun. Traditional wooden houses lined one side of the frame, their paper lanterns just beginning to glow. Across the river, cherry blossom trees leaned gracefully toward the water, their pale pink petals scattering across the ground and drifting gently downstream.

In the foreground, slightly off-center, a lone bicyclist rode across a narrow stone bridge. Their elongated shadow stretched across the frame, blurred just enough to evoke a sense of motion. The composition struck a delicate balance between old and new, day and night—a quiet beauty that lingered long after she looked away.

Midori traced the edges of the photo with her thumb, feeling an inexplicable connection to the image. Then she unfolded the handwritten letter tucked behind it.

Oh Midori, queen of the bar so fine,

With cocktails crafted, near divine.

Your name's a liqueur, all sweet and green,

And yet your glance remains so keen.

Every Thursday, I sit and I try,

To woo with wit, a twinkle in my eye.

"Another drink?" you ask, with flair,

But my heart stumbles—beware, beware!

"I'll have a Midori, shaken, not stirred,

Like my feelings—bold, though often spurred."

But you smirk, and deftly pour,

Serving me sass with liquor galore.

Rejected again? My pride won't wilt,

Though my charm's as smooth as a whiskey quilt.

I'll toast to your beauty, and raise a cheer,

For persistence—perhaps love's greatest beer.

“Oh my god,” Midori whispered, her heart skipping a beat. The words were ridiculous, sure, but there was a charm to them—honest and teasing all at once. The photograph, the poem… it was all a bit much. Too much.

And yet, it was exactly enough.

It was at that precise moment Midori decided: fuck the Ryuunosuke Rule.

“What’s that on the back?” Chiaki asked, her teasing tone softening at the sight of her friend’s expression. Midori looked smitten, and Chiaki had a pretty good idea why.

Midori flipped the photograph over and found a yellow sticky note attached to the back.

Sorry, been kinda busy, doll.

Hope you haven't missed me too much!

When I get back to Tokyo, let me take you out.

Midori blinked, heat creeping up her neck as she read the words. She wasn’t prepared for the soft sigh that sounded over her shoulder.

“Boyfriend material,” Chiaki declared, crossing her arms with a smirk. “One of his photos, a letter, and a sweet little note? I’m officially jealous.”

“One of his photos?” Midori repeated, frowning. “How do you know it’s his?”

Chiaki laughed, incredulous. “Seriously? Don’t you know who he is?”

The blank look on Midori’s face was answer enough.

Still grinning, Chiaki pointed toward the large framed image hanging above the bar. Midori had passed beneath it every day, the black-and-white photograph now as familiar to her as the bar’s scuffed floorboards. It depicted the street outside: a motorcycle speeding past the bar in a blur, a couple walking hand in hand, their forms softened by shallow focus. The whole thing was striking in its composition—dynamic and thoughtful, all at once.

And there, in the bottom corner, was the credit she’d never noticed:

Photography by Hanma Shuji.

Midori’s jaw dropped. No freaking way.

“He’s a well-known street photographer,” Chiaki explained, leaning back against the bar. “I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

Midori’s gaze darted between the framed print, the photo in her hands, the sticky note, and the poem. Her fingers shook as she fumbled for her phone. She typed his name into the search bar, holding her breath as the results loaded.

“Holy shit,” she murmured, scrolling through article after article, image after image. There were portfolios, social media pages, interviews—even glowing reviews of gallery exhibitions. His photos ranged from intimate street portraits to sweeping urban landscapes, each one alive with emotion and detail.

Chiaki laughed at her stunned expression. “Told you.”

Midori didn’t reply. Her brain was too busy reeling, her heart racing as she stared at the screen. She left the tab open, her mind already buzzing with questions she’d have to save for later.

For now, she could only clutch the photo in her hand, her thumb brushing over the note again and again.

***

Midori settled into the worn wicker chair on her balcony, a steaming cup of lavender tea cradled in her hand. The night air was warm against her skin, the city quiet at this late hour. Her phone screen glowed softly in the dark as she scrolled through the saved tab, stopping on the web page for his photography business.

The gallery was extensive, filled with striking, emotive images that seemed to tell a story with every frame. Hanma had a way of seeing the world that was both unflinchingly raw and quietly poetic. It was hard to reconcile this depth of artistry with the infuriatingly cocky man who showed up at her bar every week. And yet, the more she clicked through, the more the two versions of him began to merge.

By the time she reached the final photo, she felt like she’d uncovered a piece of him he hadn’t meant to hide, but hadn’t quite shown her, either.

Her finger hovered over the “Contact Me” link. She hesitated, glancing at the time. It was absurdly late—or ridiculously early, depending on your perspective. Probably not the best time to be sending messages, but who knew how often he checked his inbox? She clicked the link, which opened a direct messaging app, and started typing.

GreenspiritAlchemy: Beautiful photo. And I love the poem. 💚

She hit send and set the phone down, taking a sip of tea. Barely a moment passed before the three little dots appeared, bouncing in anticipation of his reply. Her stomach flipped.

ChaosInFocus: So does that mean you're finally giving in to my charms? 😏

A soft laugh slipped from her lips as she read his response.

GreenspiritAlchemy: What are you doing up this late? Are you a night owl, too?

ChaosInFocus: 🦉Hoot hoot. You didn't answer my question, doll.

She laughed again, feeling the warmth in her chest spread.

GreenspiritAlchemy: Yes, that's what it means. 💚

The app chimed almost instantly, and her heart skipped a beat as she realized he was calling. She fumbled with the phone, pressing “accept” as heat rose to her cheeks.

“Hello,” she said, her voice tinged with a shyness that betrayed her usual confidence.

“I finally won you over, huh?” His tone was lighter than usual, more genuine.

Midori smiled, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah,” she admitted softly. “You did.”

There was a pause, the sound of shuffling in the background, followed by the faint slide of a glass door. Then she heard the distant rumble of thunder.

“Want to see something pretty?” he asked, turning on his camera. “Shitty phone quality doesn’t do it justice, though.”

Midori's screen showed nothing but darkness until the outline of billowing columns of clouds lit up from within. The light pulsed with the storm’s heartbeat before a web of lightning spread out between the clouds.

“Oh wow…” she breathed, watching the beauty of the storm unfold.

“‘Wow’ is right,” he murmured. “You should see it from here.” The camera jostled slightly as he shifted, sitting down. When the screen steadied again, it was his face she saw. The storm flashed behind him, the light from his phone screen tracing the sharp lines of his jaw and catching the streaks of blonde in his dark hair. “What’s your view like? Let me see.”

Midori hesitated before turning on her camera, aiming it down at the street below. “It’s not as impressive as yours,” she chuckled, panning over the quiet scene. A streetlight bathed the alley in a weak, yellow glow, highlighting the dumpster and the orange tabby cat lazily crossing the road. “Stunning, right?”

“Kitty!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Actually, it’s not a bad view. Lots of shadows, good contrast.”

“Of course you’d see it like a photographer,” she teased, flipping the camera around to face herself. She’d been hesitant, since her hair was piled messily on top of her head, no makeup, wearing just a plain black tank top.

“Oh, now that’s a lovely sight,” he said, his smirk fading into a softer, more genuine smile. “A wild Midori in her natural state.”

She scoffed lightly, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Hardly lovely.”

“I beg to differ,” he countered, the cocky smirk returning, though it was tempered by something warmer. “Doesn’t my opinion count for anything?”

They talked until the stars began to fade, their light swallowed by the approaching dawn. The conversation ebbed and flowed like the tide—sometimes playful, sometimes quiet, but always easy. When Midori’s phone buzzed with a low battery warning, she realized with a start how much time had passed.

“Guess we should call it,” she murmured, her voice drowsy.

“Yeah,” Hanma agreed, though he sounded just as reluctant to hang up. “Sleep well, doll.”

“You, too,” she said, her smile audible.

When the call ended, Midori set her phone down and leaned back in her chair, gazing out at the street below. The world felt different somehow—like the storm she’d seen through his eyes had cleared the air, leaving something new and raw in its place.

Well, there went her plans for a quiet afternoon.

Hikari’s breath caught as memories crashed over her: the chaos at the Valhalla arcade, Hanma laughing like the devil had told him a really good joke, sweet Emma’s lifeless body sprawled in the street. Her grip tightened on the records. “I don’t hate you,” she said, though the words sounded about as convincing as a bad cover band.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “You don’t want to know.”

“Actually, I do,” he said, his grin losing its edge. “You’re judging me for something I didn’t do—at least, not in this timeline. So, come on. What was I? The villain? The rival? The guy who wouldn’t return your favorite mixtape?”

The absurdity of that last suggestion almost made her laugh, but instead, she sighed, her shoulders sagging. “You were... everything bad. You hurt people I care about. People I love.” Her voice wavered, and she looked down at the counter, hoping it might open a trapdoor beneath her. “You were… a monster.”

The words hit the air with a thud, and for once, Hanma seemed at a loss for a snappy comeback. He crossed his arms, his amber eyes narrowing as he weighed her words like a bad Yelp review.

Finally, he exhaled. “And you’ve been carrying that around this whole time?”

“It’s not fair,” she admitted quickly. “I know that. You’re not that person—not here, not this time. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget what I saw. What I lived through.”

Hanma let out a long, slow breath, his expression shifting from sharp to surprisingly... human. “You ever think maybe it’s easier for you to hate me than to deal with all that baggage?”

She flinched, his words hitting closer to home than she’d like. “Maybe,” she admitted, her voice barely audible.

He studied her for a moment before grabbing a pen and a business card from the counter, and then scrawling out his phone number on the back. He slid it to her with a grin that was somehow equal parts cocky and sincere. “Here. In case you ever want to grab a coffee and talk about the me that’s standing right in front of you.”

Hikari stared at the card for a beat before picking it up. “Thanks,” she murmured.

“Anytime,” he said, turning toward the door. He paused at the threshold, throwing her a mischievous glance over his shoulder. “And hey—next time I walk in, maybe don’t look like you’re planning my execution.”

She snorted despite herself, and as the door swung shut behind him, she realized the weight on her chest felt just a little bit lighter.

---

One night, as the stars pricked the sky above Toman’s empty meeting grounds at Musashi Shrine, Hikari found herself jogging after Hanma. “Hey, wait up!”

He turned, his smirk already in place. “What’s this? Can’t get enough of me now?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, clucking her tongue. “I just... I thought we could talk.”

“Talk?” Hanma grinned, walking backward with a spring in his step. “Careful, Hikari. People might think you like me.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” she muttered, though the corners of her lips twitched upward.

Hanma stopped, his grin turning wolfish. “You know this all sounds like flirting, right?”

She rolled her eyes harder than a set of dice at a decisive and dramatic D&D campaign.

“What do you want to talk about, then? My favorite color? My blood type?” he teased, leaning towards her.

She hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You asked me about the other timelines before. Did you still want to know about them?”

He raised a brow, his smirk returning. “You offering to tell more of the tale?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so,” Hikari said, the words tumbling out a little too quickly, her cheeks warming as she glanced at him. “I mean, there were timelines where you antagonized me, yeah, but in one of them, I fought back.”

Hanma’s grin widened like a kid being handed a slingshot. “And how’d that go for you?”

“I won,” she said simply, lifting her chin like she’d just announced she’d solved world hunger and discovered the cure for cancer.

That stopped him. For all of two seconds. Then he threw his head back and barked out a laugh that echoed across the empty lot. “You? Beating me? Come on, Hikari. You’ve got guts, but you’re what—a hundred and fifty centimeters? Maybe?”

“A hundred and fifty-five,” she corrected, smirking now, arms folded in victory pose. “And you’d better believe it. I took you out with a headscissors takedown.”

The laughter died abruptly, and he stared at her like she’d just announced she could bench-press a motorcycle. “A what now?”

“A headscissors takedown,” she repeated, slower this time, with enough enunciation to make it perfectly clear she was not joking. “Wrap my legs around your neck, flip you to the ground. That kind of thing.”

For once, Hanma was actually silent. For about three beats. Then he shook his head, his grin returning like a boomerang. “No way. There’s no damn way you pulled that off on me.”

“Oh, but I did,” Hikari said, her tone light and smug enough to give him a dull headache. “And I can prove it. If you’re brave enough to try me.”

That did it. His grin turned positively wolfish as he straightened to his full height. “You’re serious?”

“Dead fucking serious,” she shot back, already stepping toward the grassy patch at the edge of the lot. She gestured broadly, like a game show hostess inviting him to “Come on down! Unless you’re scared, of course.”

“Scared?” Hanma’s tone was somewhere between offended and delighted. He followed her, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a championship fight. “All right, shrimp. Show me what you’ve got.”

She didn’t need any more encouragement. Her adrenaline kicked in, her lips curling into a wicked smile as she took a readied stance. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Hanma, naturally, moved first. He lunged, cocky and overconfident, exactly as expected. Hikari sidestepped his grab, pivoted sharply on her heel, and then leapt—her legs hooking around his neck with a precision that would’ve made a gymnast cry tears of joy. With a swift twist of her hips, she used her momentum to send him crashing to the ground.

The world spun, and suddenly Hanma found himself flat on his back, staring up at the stars while Hikari knelt beside him, breathing harder but grinning like a cat who’d just swallowed the canary.

“Told you,” she said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face like the smug queen she was.

Hanma blinked, still processing his rapid change in altitude. Then he started laughing. A deep, genuine laugh that didn’t stop until his sides ached. “Okay, okay,” he gasped, sitting up and shaking his head. “I’ll admit it—you’ve got skills.”

Hikari stood and extended a hand, which he took, letting her pull him to his feet. “Not bad, shorty,” he said, dusting himself off with what was left of his dignity. “But I’ve got to ask—did you practice that move just for me?”

“You wish,” she said, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the playful glint in her gaze. “Hishi Kensho got it first.”

He stopped mid-stretch, his neck twisting toward her like he hadn’t heard right. “Wait, wait—Hishi Kensho got the headscissors takedown first? What am I, sloppy seconds?”

Hikari shrugged, enjoying his indignation. “Hey, maybe don’t be so cocky next time.”

“Cocky?” His grin slid into mischief as he embodied the epitome of cockiness. “You know, for a second there, my face was real close to your—”

“Don’t.” She jabbed a finger into his chest, her cheeks lighting up like she’d just eaten a ghost pepper. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Hanma raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin only growing wider. “What? Just pointing out the facts. No need to get all flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” she muttered, though the redness in her cheeks begged to differ.

“Sure you’re not,” he teased, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make her want to flip him flat on his backside again.

She shoved his arm, but there was no real heat in it. “You’re such an ass.”

“And you’re not as bad as I thought,” he countered, his grin softening, but only a little. “Don’t think this means I’m going easy on you, though.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she said, her voice light but firm as they turned back toward the lot.

“and besides, i wouldn’t let you fall for anything or anyone else.”

your nose scrunches softly at the delivery of his pickup line, and when your feet meet the ground, your knees stumble a bit from how spooked your whole body and soul were, causing you to stumble against him. shuji didn’t seem to mind, hands snaking around your body as if it were second nature to him, resting his weight on the now-parked motorbike.

“corny delivery, shu.”

“you love it,” he answers with a chuckle. “you love it, don’cha?”

you sigh quietly. “well . . . maybe a little.”

“heh, see?”

“and i swear, if you ever drive quickly again when i’m with you, i won’t forgive you.”

“but where’s the fun if we drive like old grandmas?”

“you ran a red light, shu!” you poke at his shoulder to emphasize a point.

“just once, and we had our helmets, so i don’ see the problem.”

“you’re impossible, you adrenaline junkie.”

shuji smiles, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “but you love it.”