The café was quiet.
Muted jazz played from hidden speakers, and the scent of roasted barley tea hung in the air. Everything felt carefully arranged to look accidental. Tiny flower vases, mismatched mugs, handmade cushions that didn't match the chairs they sat on.
Roset was early.
She sat near the window, hands wrapped around a warm cup of hojicha, staring at the glass, not really seeing the street beyond.
She wondered if he would recognize her.
She hadn't sent a photo, only received his. What if he walked past? What if he was already here, watching her and rethinking the entire meeting?
A voice interrupted her spiralling thoughts.
"Miss White?"
She looked up.
He was taller than his photo suggested. Dark grey coat, slightly wrinkled. A neat messenger bag slung over one shoulder. His face was thinner than in the image, less polished, more real.
But the eyes were the same. Kind.
He bowed. She stood, unsure of the right etiquette, then gave a small nod and smiled.
"I'm Hino," he said, softly.
"I know," she replied. "Thank you for meeting me."
"Thank you for saying yes."
They sat across from each other, both reaching for their drinks at the same time, then pulling back. A nervous chuckle escaped her lips. He smiled.
There was a pause, neither uncomfortable nor easy. Just two people trying to find a rhythm in a room full of silence.
"I asked what tea you liked," he said after a moment.
"I heard," she said. "Hojicha's a good guess."
"I cheated. My friend used to drink it when she had migraines."
Another pause.
Then she said, "Soo. How does one normally start a government-approved conversation about lifelong commitment?"
That earned a genuine laugh.
"I have no idea," he said. "But… maybe we don't start there."
She nodded, relieved.
"So… tell me something ordinary about you."
He thought for a moment.
"I rewatch the same two cooking shows every winter. Even though I don't cook much."
She smiled. "Comfort noise?"
"Exactly."
He looked down at his tea, then back up.
"What about you?"
She hesitated, then said, "I alphabetize my spices. Even if I only use, like, five of them."
That made him laugh again, quiet, but real.
The conversation drifted after that. Light things. Safe topics. Food. Books. Her strange obsession with learning local idioms. His work at the municipal office, and how it somehow always smelled like vinegar.
But beneath the words, there was still distance. Caution.
Neither one reached across the invisible line between them yet.
But the tea was warm. And they were still talking when the sky began to dim.