Chapter Text
"Sensei, with all due respect, wearing a hoodie that explicitly displays the word 'OPPAI' to a high-society tea salon in A-City yields a zero percent success rate for romantic synchronization."
Saitama stood in front of his small bathroom mirror, his hand pausing as he adjusted the collar of his clothes. He groaned, turning around to face his self-proclaimed disciple, who was currently standing in the center of the living room surrounded by three different clothing racks he had somehow manifested within twenty minutes.
"Come on, Genos," Saitama muttered, scratching the back of his bald head. "It's just tea. Why do I have to dress up like I’m going to a job interview? It’s not like Tatsumaki cares about fashion. She wears the exact same black dress every single day."
"Miss Tornado’s attire is a customized, combat-ready garment crafted from high-density, flexible fibers designed to withstand atmospheric re-entry," Genos corrected flatly, his yellow eyes flashing as he scanned a checklist on his digital tablet.
Externally, Genos remained a stoic, dedicated disciple. Internally, however, his central processing core was running millions of predictive simulations per second, and the error logs were piling up.
[INTERNAL LOG: CORE PROCESSOR 01]
Analyzing Relationship Viability: Subject A (Saitama) and Subject B (Tatsumaki). Loading...
Compatibility Index: -42.8% (Statistically Catastrophic).
Risk Assessment: High probability of localized tectonic displacement, severe property damage, and emotional volatility. Subject B possesses a highly reactive, defensive personality matrix (Class: Tsundere). Subject A possesses absolute emotional detachment bordering on psychological stagnation.
Conclusion: This relationship defies all logical paradigms of human courtship. Probability of survival past Letter 'K': Low.
"Furthermore," Genos continued aloud, masking his deep systemic doubts with a crisp, professional tone, "my database indicates that female subjects within her specific psychological demographic place immense weight on visual presentation during an initial courtship manifestation. If you appear lazy, her rejection response will likely result in localized property damage."
Genos stepped forward, his metallic fingers deftly pulling a plain, form-fitting black long-sleeve shirt from a hanger. "I have selected this. It maximizes your upper-body muscular definition without appearing overtly ostentatious. Please change immediately."
Saitama took the shirt, sighing as he pulled it over his head. As the soft cotton clung tightly to his chest and arms, he caught his reflection in the glass of the balcony door. For a second, a strange flicker of doubt crossed his face. He looked at his broad shoulders, then up to his completely smooth, bald head.
"Hey, Genos," Saitama said, his voice dropping into a quiet, uncharacteristically hesitant tone. "Do you think... I’m actually her type? Like, I’m just a guy who got strong and bored. I live in a ghost town. I eat discounted cabbage. She’s... well, she’s the... She’s always surrounded by important people and fancy hero galas. What if she realizes today that I’m just... an ordinary or something?"
Genos stopped sorting the clothes. His internal processors hummed in a low, solemn frequency. He looked at his master, recognizing the raw vulnerability in the older man's eyes.
Even the absolute strongest man in the world is paralyzed by the prospect of rejection, Genos noted mentally, saving the data to a secure file.
"Sensei," Genos said firmly, stepping to a perfect military posture. "S-Class Rank 2 professional hero of the Hero Association, known as Tornado of Terror, has clashed with the most powerful entities on this planet. She has met politicians, billionaires, and elite heroes. Yet, according to my combat data from three weeks ago, you are the only individual who has ever managed to break through her emotional defenses. You are not ordinary. You are the only man capable of standing beside her without being obliterated by her storm."
That was true. That was an actual fact. That was a discovery confirmed.
When the Hero Association spoke of Tatsumaki, they spoke of her like an unpredictable nature, a localized typhoon that you didn't reason with, didn't approach, and certainly didn't try to understand.
People, like politicians or billionaires, bowed to her out of fear nor reverence; they offered her thousands of checks just to ensure her wrath was aimed at monsters rather than their corporate headquarters. Even the elite members of the S-Class walked on eggshells around her, fully aware that a single wrong word could send them crashing through a mountain range.
No one could handle her. No one even tried. To the rest of the world, she wasn't a woman; she was a living, breathing weapon of mass destruction wrapped in a small dress.
But Saitama? He had held her hands while she was throwing a tantrum that ripped up the earth. He had looked her dead in the eye while the sky was splitting apart and treated her not like a god, but like a stubborn, incredibly loud girl who just needed someone to tell her to calm down.
Saitama blinked, a sudden, soft laugh escaping his lips. He knocked his fist playfully against Genos’s metal shoulder armor. "Heh. Thanks, Genos. I guess you're right. Let's just get this over with."
"Understood, Sensei. I have already formulated a list of approved conversation starters and a tactical behavioral layout for the venue." Genos handed him a small cue card. "Please memorize these phrases. 'Your presence is more refreshing than a spring morning,' and 'The culinary selection fades in comparison to your elegance.'"
Saitama stared at the card with wide, deadpan dots for eyes. "Yeah... I'm definitely not saying any of this."
Ten minutes later, Saitama stood outside the door of Tatsumaki’s luxury apartment complex in the high-security. He felt incredibly out of place in his nice clothes, his heart doing a weird, anxious thud against his ribs that had absolutely nothing to do with adrenaline or battle.
He raised his hand and knocked.
The door didn't just open; it flew inward with a sharp whoosh of green energy. Standing in the doorway, floating precisely two inches above the polished hardwood floor, was Tatsumaki.
Saitama’s breath instantly caught in his throat.
She was wearing a slightly modified version of her usual dark gown, the collar cut a little higher, the fabric hugging her petite curves beautifully before flaring out into those dangerous, high leg slits. Her emerald curls were neatly pinned back with a small pearl clip behind, exposing the elegant, pale curve of her neck and jawline.
She looked impossible, like a high-born princess, but her arms were tightly crossed over her chest, and her left eye was twitching with intense, defensive nervousness.
"You're late, baldy," she snapped immediately, her cheeks already dusting with a faint pink hue the moment her eyes swept over his outfit.
Her brain did a frantic, internal stutter. He wasn't wearing that stupid hoodie. The tight black shirt made his chest look incredibly solid, his wide shoulders tapering down to his waist. He looked... remarkably attractive, and it made her stomach do a violent, terrifying flip.
"I'm exactly on time, Tats," Saitama said, a slow, lazy smirk replacing his anxiety as he noticed her blushing ears. He stepped forward, offering his arm to her. "Ready to go eat some overpriced bread?"
Tatsumaki stared at his extended arm like it was a foreign object that had just fallen from the sky. Her green eyes flicked up to his face, then down to his broad elbow, then back up again.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, softly. "Why are you holding your arm out like a broken coat hanger? Are you having a muscle spasm?"
"No, it's... you know. An escort thing," Saitama mumbled, his ears suddenly warming up as he realized following King’s visual novel advice in broad daylight was a massive error. He awkwardly cleared his throat. "King said this is what civilized people do when they go out. You're supposed to take it so we can walk."
Tatsumaki’s jaw dropped. "You took dating advice from a guy who locks himself in his room playing dating sims all day?! Are you insane?!"
She crossing her arms tightly to hide the fact that her heart was currently trying to break the sound barrier inside her ribs. She floated a few inches higher, looking down her nose at him. "And another thing—whose brilliant idea was this 'Afternoon Tea' nonsense anyway? Since when do you even know what a macaron is, baldy? I know your budget. Your idea of a high-class outing is the premium drink bar at a family restaurant."
Saitama rolled his eyes, dropping his arm back to his side with a heavy sigh. "Hey, don't look at me. Genos is the one who spent all night running data on 'stress-free courtship environments.' He said if I wore my Oppai hoodie, you'd probably blast me into the upper atmosphere before we even reached the place."
"He said that?!" Tatsumaki’s aura flared, a brilliant spark of green energy snapping off her shoulder curls. "That over-clocked toaster is analyzing my demographic?! I'll dismantle him and turn him into a fancy tea kettle later."
"Yeah, well, he also said you're a high-society princess who likes fancy stuff, so he got us a reservation at some place called Le Petit Miroir," Saitama added, checking the tiny cue card Genos had shoved into his pocket. "He said it's exclusive. Personally, I'm just hoping they have free refills on water."
Tatsumaki opened her mouth to launch into a full, world-class rant about invading her privacy, but the words died in her throat as she looked at him. He was standing there, scratching his cheek, looking completely out of his element in the nice clothes his disciple had picked out—all just to match her standard of "high society."
She let out a defeated sigh, her fierce expression softening into a pout as she floated back down to his eye level.
"Fine," she mumbled, her fingers lightly, hesitantly sliding onto his forearm, just like King's stupid escort thingy had predicted. "Let's get this stupid alphabetical date over wit."
Saitama looked down, his eyes catching the exact moment her sharp, defensive posture melted into that quiet pout. With her head turned slightly away to hide her face, she looked completely different from the terrifying hero who commanded the skies. She just looked like... Tatsumaki.
And then, the ghost of a soft smile played at the corner of her lips. It was there for a mere fraction of a second, a genuine look of ease that she completely tried to mask by pulling her chin down into her collar.
The expression vanished from his face, replaced by a soft he rarely wore. He didn't say anything to ruin it, and he certainly didn't tease her about it—knowing she'd probably retract her hand and blast him into a brick wall out of pure embarrassment or rip his clothes in public. Instead, he just let out a quiet, relaxed huff of laughter, his arm shifting slightly so her small hand could rest more securely against his sleeve.
"Yeah," Saitama murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle as they finally started walking down the pavement together. "Let's go."
The journey to the venue was a quiet, agonizing exercise in mutual sensory overload.
Every time Saitama took a step, he could feel the light, constant pressure of her hand resting on his arm. She was floating alongside him, her body perfectly level with his shoulder, moving with effortless grace. The proximity meant that every gust of wind brought the sharp, intoxicating scent of her lily perfume directly to his face.
When they finally arrived at Le Petit Miroir, both of them abruptly stopped in their tracks.
The cafe was intimidatingly elegant. It featured a pristine white marble storefront, towering glass windows decorated with intricate gold leaf, and a beautifully manicured outdoor courtyard filled with white roses. Through the glass, they could see wealthy aristocrats, corporate executives, and high-ranking officials sipping tea from delicate porcelain, their movements practiced, quiet, and completely refined.
Saitama swallowed hard. A cold sweat broke out across his bald head. To him, the building didn't look like a cafe, it looked like a giant, glass piggy bank specifically designed to swallow his entire life savings.
"Uh, Tats," Saitama whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he stared at the golden velvet ropes flanking the entrance. "Are we sure about this place? It looks... kind of fragile. Like, if I trip and sneeze, I’m going to owe them a million yen."
Tatsumaki didn't answer immediately. Her hand tightened on his sleeve so hard her knuckles turned white.
For all her bravado, she was completely frozen. She was used to entering buildings by blasting through the walls, or flying over them to drop a monster into the foundation.
Walking through the front door of a civilian establishment as someone's date, under the judgmental, staring eyes of high society, made her feel completely naked. Her psychic aura flickered erratically, a faint, nervous green static popping around her ankles.
"O-Of course I’m sure!" she lied aggressively, her teeth chattering slightly as she forced her chin up. "I am a S-Class Hero! I belong in places like this! Are you saying you're scared, baldy?"
Saitama looked down at her. He noticed the way her shoulders were pulled high and tense, and how her green eyes were darting toward the crowd inside with a unmistakable flash of stage fright. She was terrified of acting "normal" in front of all these people.
A wave of calm suddenly washed over him, drowning out his financial anxiety. The deadpan look faded from his face, replaced by a reassuring look.
He shifted his arm, sliding his large, calloused hand down until his fingers gently brushed against hers. He didn't hold her hand completely, but he let his knuckles rest steadily against hers, offering a solid, unwavering anchor in the middle of her panic.
"Hey," Saitama said softly, his voice grounding her instantly over the sound of the wind. "I'm not scared. If you're going in, I'm going in with you. Let's go see how small these cups actually are."
Tatsumaki’s breath caught. The steady, radiating heat from his hand seemed to melt the icy panic in her chest. Her nose flushed pink, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she let her fingers lean just a millimeter closer into his touch.
"Just... don't embarrass me," she mumbled, her voice suddenly small and breathless.
The moment their shadows crossed the threshold of the heavy glass doors, the ambient hum inside the place died an instant, violent death.
The soft, delicate tinkling of silver spoons against porcelain stopped. The classical harpist’s fingers froze over the strings, accidentally letting a single, discordant note echo through the vaulted ceiling. Every single head in the salon, corporate executives, high-society heiresses, and impeccably dressed staff in crisp black vests, turned in unison.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to drop the atmospheric pressure in the room.
Saitama stood there, adjusting the collar of his tight black shirt, looking around with wide, deadpan dots for eyes. Tatsumaki remained floating those precise two inches off the ground, her chin jutted out defensively even as her green curls began to crackle with an anxious, warning static.
It was a vision that completely defied the logic of everyone in attendance.
"Is that... the Tornado of Terror?" a wealthy woman whispered behind a silk fan, her eyes darting frantically between Tatsumaki and the door. "What is she doing here? Is there a monster attack?"
"No, look at her hand... is she holding onto someone?" a man in a tailored suit murmured, leaning across his marble table to get a better view. "Who is that man? A bodyguard? A high-ranking government official?"
"Wait, isn't that the fraud from the deep-sea king incident? The bald one from B-Class?" a younger aristocrat hissed, his eyes widening in pure shock. "Why is the most powerful weapon in the Hero Association walking with a low-rank nobody? And why does he look so... casual?"
The ripples of gossip spread through the tea room like a deadly virus. The waitstaff were completely paralyzed, huddled near the kitchen doors with gold trays gripped tightly against their chests, actively debating who was brave enough to approach the table of a woman known for flattening skyscrapers when her tea was served lukewarm.
Tatsumaki could feel every judgmental, confused gaze scraping against her skin. Her aura flaring just enough to make the crystal chandeliers directly above them give a ominous, rhythmic vibration.
"They're staring," she hissed under her breath, her teeth gritted so hard her jaw ached. "If they don't look away in three seconds, I'm going to drop the entire roof on their expensive hats."
"Let 'em stare," Saitama said, his voice entirely too loud and conversational for the suffocating silence of the room.
He didn't look at the wealthy patrons whispering, nor did he care about the waiters sweating through their pristine aprons. To Saitama, the staring wasn't any different from the judgmental crowds that gathered after a monster attack, or the old ladies who glared at him when he took the last discounted bento box at the supermarket.
People always had something to say. It was exhausting to care. Instead, his focus remained locked entirely on the tiny hand gripping his forearm.
A soft small smile broke across his face. He casually slotted his free hand into his pocket, his posture dropping into a loose, relaxed slouch that completely ruined the expensive atmosphere of the salon.
"Besides," Saitama murmured, leaning his head just a bit closer to hers so only she could hear him over the buzzing gossip. "Look at what they’re eating, Tats. Those tiny cakes look like they're for hamsters. If you knock the roof down now, we don't get to see how funny I look trying to eat something the size of a button."
He gave her arm a nudge, his broad shoulder brushing against hers. "Let's go find our table before Genos tries to order for us."
Genos had calculated everything down to the decimal point.
According to his extensive digital research into civilian courtship rituals, high-stress individuals required low-stimulus environments to facilitate emotional transparency. Therefore, a monster-infested wasteland or a loud, chaotic arcade would only trigger their combat instincts.
To stabilize the volatile connection between his Sensei and the Tornado of Terror, the most powerful people on earth, Genos had reserved a table at the very back of the salon, hidden behind a lush arrangement of silk drapes and indoor ferns.
It was supposed to be peaceful. It was supposed to be a calming, structured environment.
Genos had not accounted for the fact that putting Saitama and Tatsumaki in a room decorated with white silk drapes, classical harp music, and delicate French porcelain was the equivalent of placing two live grenades into a crystal display case.
"If I break this," Saitama whispered, his voice trembling with a level of genuine terror he hadn't felt since he missed a Saturday supermarket sale, "how much do you think it costs?"
He was staring down at a teacup so small it looked like a toy. His massive, calloused index finger was jammed awkwardly through the microscopic ceramic handle. His knuckles were white from the sheer strain of trying to hold the translucent porcelain without crushing it into fine dust. A single bead of sweat rolled down his bald head, glistening under the sparkling crystal chandeliers.
"It costs more than your entire apartment, baldy," Tatsumaki huffed from her hovering position above her velvet-cushioned chair.
They had ordered the Grand Imperial Tier, a three-story tower of pastries and finger sandwiches that required a small mortgage to purchase. She wanted to flex her status as the Rank 2 hero. She wanted everyone to know she belonged here. But right now, the only thing she was hyper-aware of was the sheer size of Saitama sitting across from her.
"I can't do this," Saitama muttered, his thumb slipping. The teacup rattled violently against its saucer with a sharp clink. "Look at the menu, Tats. Why is a single cucumber sandwich priced like a three-pack of premium beef? It's literally just water-vegetable on bread!"
"Shh! Shut up! Stop being so cheap!" Tatsumaki hissed, her face flushing pink as she leaned across the small, lace-covered table. The scent of her lily perfume, sharp and intoxicating, hit him instantly. "We are on a high-class date! Act like a civilized human being! Lift your pinky like this!"
She demonstrated, picking up her own cup with flawless grace, her pinky finger extended perfectly.
Saitama sighed, adjusting his grip. He forced his pinky finger straight out. Because his hand was so muscular, the gesture looked completely absurd—like a bodybuilder trying to play a miniature flute.
"Like this?" Saitama asked, giving her a deadpan, dot-eyed look.
Tatsumaki choked on her tea from laughing, coughing into a silk napkin as her face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. "Y-Yes! Fine! Just... don't look at me while you do it! You look ridiculous!"
"Hey, you're the one who made the bet," Saitama reminded her, a lazy, sudden smirk breaking through his anxiety. He leaned forward, his chest pressing slightly against the edge of the table, bringing his face more closer to hers. "Remember? First one to blush pays the bill. I'm just trying to keep my money, Tornado."
Tatsumaki’s heart did a violent, erratic thud against her ribs. His face was too close. She could see the dark, intense depth in his eyes, the same eyes that looked down the barrel of apocalyptic threats without blinking, now focused entirely on her.
It was a terrifyingly quiet kind of pressure.
When she fought monsters, the air was filled with the screaming of tearing metal and the thunder of shattered earth. She knew how to navigate that kind of chaos. But here, locked in the visual tractor beam of Saitama’s gaze, the silence was deafening. He wasn't blinking. He wasn't making his usual stupid, vacant expression.
The focus of the strongest man alive was narrowed down entirely to the space between her eyes and her lips.
Her breath caught in her throat, a tiny, ragged sound that felt entirely too loud in the posh, quiet salon. The scent of him, soap, clean cotton, and a faint, metallic tang that always seemed to linger around his skin, was completely overwhelming.
"Hey," Saitama said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly pitch that vibrated right through the wood of the table and directly into her bones. "Your hair is doing that thing again."
"W-What thing?" she stammered, cursing herself internally for the pathetic tremble in her voice.
"The green glowy thing," he murmured, his eyes tracking a single emerald curl that had escaped her pearl clip and was now floating, vibrating with a high-frequency static aura. He didn't look annoyed. He looked... fascinated. Like he was studying a rare phenomenon instead of a woman currently on the verge of a gravity meltdown. "It's bright. Kind of distracting."
"Then don't look at it!" Tatsumaki snapped, though the bite was entirely missing from her tone. Instead, it sounded like a plea. Her fingers dug so hard into the fabric of her own dress that she was certain she was going to tear the high-density fibers.
"Hard not to," Saitama replied bluntly. He didn't lean back. If anything, he drifted a fraction of an inch closer, his gaze dropping for a dangerous, split-second beat to her mouth before locking back onto her eyes. "You're sitting right in front of me."
The blunt, casual honesty of it felt like a physical blow to her chest. He wasn't playing a game. He wasn't trying to be smooth, Saitama didn't have a smooth bone in his entire body. He was just stating a fact, but that lack of pretense made the underlying tension made her dizzy.
There was only the heavy, suffocating warmth of him, and the terrifying realization that she didn't want him to move away.
On the other side of the table, Saitama was dealing with his own quiet brand of panic.
His senses were a curse most days. He could hear a monster's heartbeat from three miles away; he could see the individual dust motes floating through the air in slow motion. Usually, he tuned it all out because the world was just too loud and too boring. But right now, with Tatsumaki sitting less than two feet away from him, his hyper-awareness was turning against him.
He could hear the rapid, erratic thump-thump-thump of her pulse. It was racing, like a bird trapped in a cage. He could see the way her small, pale hand were trembling against the dark fabric of her dress.
For a guy who hadn't felt a thrill in battle since he could remember, the sudden heavy in his chest was completely alarming. His hand, still awkwardly hooked through the tiny teacup, felt clumsy and dangerously heavy. He realized, with a jolt of sudden clarity, that he was more afraid of accidentally making her run away than he was of breaking the porcelain.
She looked so incredibly small in the plush, oversized chair. But the fierce glare in her bright green eyes was completely arresting. He found himself looking at the sharp angle of her jaw, the soft curve of her collarbone, and the faint, flush of pink creeping up her neck.
Man, he thought, his chest feeling suddenly tight again and hot. She's really... something.
He didn't know how to do this. He didn't know what to say to a girl to make her feel comfortable right now, let alone a girl who could lift a city with her mind. But looking at her, out of her element and trying so hard to hide how nervous she was, he felt a strange, protective warmth override his usual apathy. He didn't want to pull back.
For the first time in years, Saitama was completely, entirely checked into the present moment, and he didn't want to miss a single second of it.
To break the suffocating tension, Tatsumaki suddenly snapped. Panic surged through her veins. To prove she wasn't just entirely focused on him, she aggressively grabbed a strawberry macaron off the tier and abruptly shoved it into her own mouth.
She chewed furiously, her cheeks puffing out like an angry, emerald-haired squirrel. It was a completely ungraceful, frantic attempt to look casual, but it only made her look ten times more flustered.
Saitama blinked at the pastry on her mouth, then at Tatsumaki, who was currently glaring at him with a mouth full of pink meringue. Her hand was shaking, her small knuckles pale as she gripped the fork. She was trying so hard to mask her crippling shyness with sheer, sugar-fueled aggression.
She aggressively stabbed a chocolate macaron from the middle tier of the pastry tower, and shoved it directly into his face.
"Eat it!" she yelled, her voice a sharp, commanding screech that caused a nearby aristocratic couple to drop their gold spoons. "Normal couples feed each other! So open your stupid mouth and eat it before I blast you through that stained-glass window!"
She was glaring at him with fierce defiance, but the furious blush covering her ears and cheeks finally completely gave her away. As if suddenly realizing how overwhelmingly intimate the gesture actually was, her eyes went wide.
It was... kind of endearing.
Instead of taking the fork from her, Saitama leaned in. His eyes never left hers as he parted his lips and bit the macaron directly off the silver tines. He didn't calculate the distance properly. As his jaw closed over the pastry, his lips accidentally brushed directly against her knuckles.
ZAPPP.
It felt like a physical shockwave. Tatsumaki froze, her breath completely hitching in her throat. The sensation of his lips, firm, warm, and lingering for a fraction of a second against the sensitive skin of her hand, sent a jolt of fire straight up her arm and down into her core.
Saitama chewed slowly, his own ears suddenly burning a deep, guilty red. He hadn't meant to touch her like that, but the sudden softness of her skin had caught him completely off guard.
"It's... good," Saitama mumbled, his voice dropping into a low, husky register. He swallowed, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "Oh. You've got a little... uh..."
"...What?" she whispered, completely paralyzed by the sudden thickness in the air.
Without thinking, driven entirely by a unconscious impulse, Saitama reached his hand across the small table. His large, heavy thumb gently brushed against the corner of her lower lip, wiping away a tiny stray smudge of white strawberry cream.
He pulled his hand back, looked at his thumb, and ...lazily licked the cream off his skin.
"Sweet," he said.
Back to Genos' side, his internal diagnostic systems went into an absolute, unmitigated tailspin. The optical sensors in his glowing yellow eyes rapidly zoomed in on Saitama’s hand crossing the table. His high-definition lenses captured the exact millisecond his Sensei’s thumb made contact with the Tornado of Terror’s lip.
They captured the wipe. They captured the lick.
[CRITICAL SYSTEM ALERT: MAXIMUM VOLTAGE DETECTED]
Atmospheric static pressure: Elevated by 400%.
Subject B (Tatsumaki) surface temperature: Spiking to 104°F (40°C).
Threat Level: Imminent Localized Supernova.
"Sensei... what are you doing?!" Genos whispered loudly, his robotic vocal cords nearly cracking under the sheer weight of his panic.
His fingers blurred across his digital tablet as he frantically tried to calculate the fallout. He had researched civilian romance, yes, but his algorithms were built for average humans. They did not account for a man with infinite physical power using a high-level psychological tactical strike on a woman who controlled the energy of the Earth.
The smoke vents on Genos’s shoulders violently popped open, hissing as his internal cooling fans rapidly kicked into overdrive to prevent his own core from overheating out of proxy stress. His targeting systems were locking onto every floating teacup in the room, flashing red as they calculated trajectories.
"Tactical error!" Genos thought, his mechanical teeth grinding together as he watched Tatsumaki’s aura flare like a solar flare. "Incredible. Sensei has completely bypassed the approved verbal courtship phrases and skipped directly to high-intensity physical provocation! The structural integrity of this entire ward is at risk!"
He braced his metallic heels against the floorboards, preparing to deploy his emergency propulsion thrusters to tackle his master out of the blast zone the second the roof inevitably blew off.
Based on his current analysis, as Tatsumaki’s entire internal system experienced an absolute, catastrophic meltdown, her brain completely ceased to function.
The overwhelming weight of her own romantic embarrassment exploded outward. Her violent wave of telekinetic energy radiating from her body in a massive, pulsing circle.
RATTLE.
Instantly, the laws of gravity in Le Petit Miroir dissolved. Every single porcelain teacup, silver teapot, crystal chandelier, and plate of finger sandwiches lifted precisely two inches into the air. Fifty wealthy patrons gasped in unison as their expensive earl grey tea floated out of their cups in perfect, shimmering liquid spheres.
"M-Miss Tornado!" a voice hissed from behind them.
Saitama blinked, looking down at his hovering teacup, then looked over the edge of the velvet divider. The standing cyborg was wearing a comically oversized trench coat and a fedora in a terrible attempt to blend in, by the way, though his sensei's eyes, his glowing yellow eyes and the smoke pouring from his shoulder vents completely blew his cover.
"Your localized emotional output is disrupting the structural integrity of the cafe!" Genos whispered loudly. "The atmospheric pressure has reached critical levels! Sensei, please you may deploy emotional countermeasures immediately!"
The interruption broke the spell. Tatsumaki snapped her eyes toward Genos, her face so violently red she looked like a walking siren. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, YOU STALK-BOT?!" she screamed, her voice shattering three nearby champagne flutes.
The psychic grip vanished. The liquid tea, the pastries, and the delicate porcelain all crashed back down to earth at once.
CRASH.
Saitama, using his god-like reflexes, caught their order, one by one, in the span of a millisecond, landing back in his seat perfectly without spilling a single drop. The rest of the cafe, however, was covered in pastries and dripping tea.
Tatsumaki floated high into the air, her dress whipping around her as she pointed a shaking finger at Saitama. "You—you did that on purpose!" she yelled, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and intense shyness. "You used a... a psychological strike to make me lose the bet! That doesn't count! I am not paying for this!"
Saitama looked around at the ruined, cream-splattered salon, then looked up at his floating, cute chaotic girlfriend. Despite the absolute disaster, the rare, genuine smile on his face widened.
"I didn't do anything, Tats," Saitama chuckled, shrugged, leaning back in his chair and taking a sample sip from his perfectly preserved toy-sized cup. "You're the one who went green nuclear because I wiped some cream off your face. Face it, Tornado... you blushed first."
"I DID NOT!" she shrieked, a fresh wave of green light illuminating the room. "The room was just hot! You're paying for this, baldy! I'm ordering ten more tiers of cake just to ruin your bank account!"
"Oh, come on, that's cheating!" Saitama complained, though the playful smirk never left his lips.
"It’s not cheating, it’s a tax! A financial penalty for being an insufferable, bald jerk!" Tatsumaki fired back, smirking. Her chest heaving as she crossed her arms tightly.
To prove her point, she flicked her wrist, and the leather-bound menu on the counter zipped across the room, snapping open right in front of her face. She didn't even look at the items. She just pointed a trembling finger at the most ridiculously complex French titles she could find.
"Server!" she called out, her voice easily cutting through the whimpering of the elite patrons currently hiding under their linen-covered tables. "Bring us the Mille-Feuille d'Or, the chocolate truffle tower, and whatever that cake is that requires a literal blowtorch to serve! Bring all of them! Now!"
"Hey, hey! Cancel that! Cancel the blowtorch cake!" Saitama yelled, genuinely panicked now as he waved his arms around. He calculated the potential damage to his wallet and felt his soul physically attempting to leave his body. "Tats, come on! We can’t even eat that much! The rule of the bet was who blushes first, not who can commit credit card fraud first!"
"I told you, I didn't blush! My internal temperature regulation simply experienced a momentary fluctuation due to the poor ventilation in this establishment!"
"You're literally glowing green, your face is redder than a hot sauce bottle, and you just levitated a whole room of rich people," Saitama deadpan-stared at her, his classic dot-eyed expression returning in full force. "That’s a blush. A high-destructive, world-ending blush. Just admit defeat. Pleaseee."
"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
Before she could launch a secondary telekinetic shockwave, a heavy, metallic clanking sound echoed of the ruined salon. Genos came back again, stepped aside in the middle of their table, his oversized trench coat completely torn open, revealing his smoking, hyper-extended shoulder vents. He was holding his digital tablet in one hand and a stack of yen notes in the other.
"Sensei, Miss Tornado," Genos announced loudly, his robotic voice carrying a disturbing level of administrative efficiency. "I shall negotiate with the salon manager. I will compensated them for the shattered crystal, the cream-stained silk drapes, and the emotional trauma inflicted upon the local aristocracy."
Saitama dropped his jaw, a look of profound, disciple-worship washing over his face. "Genos... you’re a lifesaver. I thought I was about to have to wash dishes here until the next century."
Tatsumaki, however, merely floated down until her feet were an inch from the cream-splattered floor, her nose turning up in the air. "Hmph. See, Saitama? Your cyborg did it. So technically, neither of us loses money, which means the bet is a draw."
"Wait, that's not how a draw works—" Saitama started, but he stopped when he saw the faint, exhausted slump in her shoulders.
The manic, defensive energy was finally bleeding out of her, leaving her looking normal beneath all the emerald fire. Her pearl clip was sitting slightly askew somewhere her side, and there was a tiny, missed spot of macaron crumbs on her collar. Despite the total chaos of the afternoon, she didn't look angry anymore. She just looked... flustered. And remarkably pretty.
Saitama breathed half a laugh, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Well... whatever. I guess a draw is fine. But next time, we're getting street food. Somewhere with plastic plates that can't break."
Tatsumaki's eyes flicked back to him. She let out a small, sharp hmph, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward for a second before she turned away to hide it.
"Alright. But only if you're buying the cheap stuff, baldy."
As Genos frantically began apologizing to the salon management and calculating the property total damage fees, will be deducted sadly from his personal hero stipend, Saitama still looked up at Tatsumaki.
Thought that letter 'A' was a disaster of broken china, expensive tea, and wasted food. But as she floated there, yelling at him with bright red cheeks and furious green eyes, Saitama realized she looked like a small tomato and he hadn't been this entertained in a very, very long time.