Chapter Text
Kazuha stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, wielding mascara like a warrior preparing for battle. The mirror had witnessed years of efficient morning routines, hair tied back for aikido, minimal makeup for lectures, but tonight demanded something more elaborate, more intentional.
Dear future husband, she thought, here's what you need to know: I'm done with drive-by romance. No more "sorry, dead body" or "oh, there's this romantic villa in the mountains with a case do you want to come". I want actual dates. Reservations, flowers, the whole thing.
Her phone buzzed. Heiji: I'm downstairs. Take your time.
She raised an eyebrow. Heiji Hattori, early? The same man who operated on what she'd come to call "detective time," where every appointment was merely a suggestion pending Osaka's criminal activity?
Two weeks ago she got a text. Can we talk? Really talk. Not about cases.
Neither had dared use the word "date," but when a man asks you to dinner at seven-thirty somewhere with "elegant attire requested", certain conclusions could be drawn.
She grabbed her handbag and slipped into heels that brought her nearly to his eye level. After years of clinging to his motorcycle, she found the balance took some time to get used to. The dress, black, elegant, never once worn, demanded careful movements. She genuinely hoped the restaurant's portions are tiny, especially the desert, for this dress was rather unforgiving and she had already spent a good ten minutes to slip in.
Through the lobby's glass doors, she spotted Heiji crouched beside an elderly man who appeared to be conducting an inventory of his pockets on the floor.
"It has to be here somewhere," the man was saying.
"You went to the pharmacy after the bank, right? The timestamp says 2:47." His detective eyes swept the man's jacket with professional assessment. "Have you tried the inside left pocket?"
The elderly man's face lit up as he produced his bank card. "You're a lifesaver, son!"
"No problem, you put important stuff there, I can tell from the wear pattern." Heiji beamed. Then his gaze found Kazuha through the glass and his expression shifted to something approaching terror. "Oh crap! I should... good luck with everything!"
He practically ran away from the man and launched himself through the doors.
"Hey. Sorry about that. He looked really worried and I thought maybe..." His rambling stopped as his eyes took in her dress.
"Wow."
"How eloquent."
Heiji picked up his jaws from the ground, then hastily pushed the bouquet into her arms.
"For you."
She accepted the flowers. Tulips, unexpectedly thoughtful, reminiscent of that weekend in Hokkaido when they'd been young and stupid and convinced they had forever.
"You're wearing a blazer."
Now Kazuha wanted to slap herself. One, for making him instantly bright red and more nervous than he already was. Based on past experience, that was an indicator of pending mishaps. Two, she could feel her cheeks warm at his green eyes, and once again that was annoying. And the third reason: three were the years since their spectacular implosion. She had finally voiced what had been eating at her since high school: "I can't keep coming second to every corpse in this city, Heiji." Three years of careful choreography at mutual friends' parties, of perfecting the art of casual indifference. Three years of practiced nonchalance, undone by good tailoring.
"Thank you. I mean, yes." He tugged at the sleeves like the fabric personally offended him. His shoulders seemed constrained by the structure, much like she felt trapped in her own elegant armor. "My brain doesn't work in formal wear."
"Since when do you own formal wear?"
"Since 3PM yesterday." He scrapped the sole of his shiny shoes against the floor. "The neechan at the department store lectured me for a straight twenty minutes on how sneakers and suits are mortal enemies."
"So this is all for show?"
"Nah." He met her eyes, suddenly serious despite his fidgeting. "The monkey suit's for show. The effort's for you."
She stepped closer, and watched him immediately malfunction. His gaze bounced between her mouth, the ceiling, the potted plant, anywhere but her eyes. Kazuha bit back a laugh. Three years, and he still couldn't lie to save his life.
"Oi, don't... that's NOT ... ANYWAY." His voice cracked loud enough to make the receptionist jump. "We should get going. Our reservation at... " He patted his pockets frantically before finding his phone. "...Le Pont de Ciel is at seven-thirty."
"You just said seven."
"Did I?" Another glance at the screen. "Right, seven. At Le... Le Pont de Ciel." He sounded like he was doing a language app.
Dear future husband, maybe memorize your crib notes before the actual date.
But watching him fumble through this production made something warm bloomed in her chest. Heiji Hattori, who could reconstruct crime scenes in his sleep, was being tripped by dinner reservations.
"Lead the way," she said, and meant it, even as he walked them straight into a lamp post checking that app again.
For once in a long time, Kazuha was really looking forward to her date.