Chapter Text
Utahime had dealt with her fair share of strange customers, but none compared to the nameless, silent man who only ever came in at night. She knew because she’s asked her only other coworker, who swore she’d never seen any guy matching her description of an unusually tall, freakishly ripped man with a scar on his lip. Their customers were usually the same : high school students killing time, or exhausted office workers grabbing something quick before heading home.
“Her” stranger stood out for multiple reasons. He looked about as tall as Gojo, which, in this economy, was hard not to notice. His build was also ridiculously fit, his clothes stretched over a body that seemed excessive in its strength, no matter how loose they were meant to be. And he didn’t seem to own much, either — tended to rotate between the same two or three pants, and a handful shirts. Her favorite was the slightly baggy (as baggy as a shirt can be on a man of his musculature), dark grey shirt, as it was the least distracting.
Utahime was a well-behaved girl. She dressed up for herself, in a way that wouldn’t shock anybody, and only sometimes wore makeup. When she did, it was because she felt like it, not to attract anybody’s eyes. If anything, male attention always felt like a nuisance, hence why she started showing up bare faced to her shift, or never cared about how unflattering her work outfit was.
Which made it all the more unsettling when she caught herself keeping her foundation, eyeliner, and lashes for her night shifts. Even worse, she’d caught herself reapplying her nude lipstick multiple times a night.
It was useless, anyways. Her stranger never paid much attention to her, only buying the same instant noodles and cigarettes. He only did it with cash, so she had no idea what his name was, and he was clearly old enough to smoke or drink, so she couldn’t even pretend to check his ID. The silent, scarred man was simply not meant to be a part of her life, she decided, and that was better that way. She was simply curious.
It’s raining when he comes in again. His hair is wet, falling over his face, droplets slipping down and hitting the floor. It gives him a more youthful look, though Utahime is pretty sure he’s in his late twenties, or even early thirties, really. His shirt tonight is the black, tight-fitting one, clinging far too much to his torso. She clenches her jaw, hoping her makeup is thick enough to conceal the blood rushing to her cheeks. She hates how he makes her feel like a teenage girl, flustered over the smallest things… but then again, she had barely been twenty.
He grabs the same noodles as usual and places cash on the counter. Utahime feels his eyes on her, and, shamefully, realizes she’s glad she showed up in a cuter outfit than usual today. Though, with her black skirt, lace top, and cardigan, she probably looks childish to him. He probably likes mature women, doesn’t he? Someone his age. Gojo used to tease her about that sometimes : about her childish look, and how men preferred sexier women. It had bothered her then, and it bothers her now.
As the man pays without a word, she hands him his change and tries to steady her breathing. Normally, he would eat outside the supermarket and then leave, but with the rain, he’s probably about to head home. But, much to Utahime’s surprise, he walks toward the nearby tables and opens the noodles right there.
Time passes awfully slowly as he eats in front of her, not at all bothered by her presence. It’s like she isn’t even there. Utahime pulls out her phone, but she doesn’t even have anyone to text, so she ends up pretending to be interested in the soccer match replaying on the TV.
“You into soccer?”
Utahime almost gags. These are the first words he’s ever said to her. He never even greeted her in the weeks, maybe months, of him showing up. His voice is just as deep as she imagined it would be.
“Uh… no, not really.”
Silence. Utahime bites her lip so hard she tastes blood, then decides to test her luck.
“You?”
She knows jackshit about soccer.
“Used to. Don’t really have the time for it now.”
“Why? You have a job?”
It comes out all wrong. She realizes it the second his eyes widen. She meant to ask if his job was what kept him busy, but truthfully, Utahime had kind of assumed he was jobless— based on how wrinkled his cash was, his sorry excuse for clothing, and the noodles he ate nearly every night.
She clasps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— um—” She doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence.
Thankfully, the man just laughs. It’s a sight for sore eyes, really, and it sounds annoyingly good.
“You’re sayin’ that because I look homeless?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as calling you homeless,” she mumbles. “But I’m sorry.”
“Nah, don’t be. I wouldn’t eat here if I had a decent job.”
Someone on the soccer team scores. Whatever team. Utahime doesn’t look away from her customer. This feels like a fever dream, and she pinches her wrist to make sure she’s awake.
“You’re saying your job isn’t decent?”
“It pays decent enough, but it’s too much trouble.”
Utahime narrows her eyes. With the way he dresses, he doesn’t exactly look like an office worker, so what could he be doing?
“You’re too young to be working at a supermarket,” he adds. It’s a statement. He’s not wrong, but he’d know this wasn’t her full-time job if he showed up during daytime.
“I’m just trying to get pocket money.”
“Daddy’s not giving you enough?”
Utahime looks away. “Daddy’s ten feet too low to be giving me anything.”
People usually rush to apologize for bringing him up, but the man isn’t the least bit flustered. He just nods. “What about mommy?”
The way they’re discussing her parents feels awfully weird, especially with the adult tone he takes as he refers to them with such childish words. It sounds like he’s mocking her. “My mother believes we should all earn our own money, so I didn’t have a choice. It was this or the pizza joint.”
“You would’ve been one hell of a waitress. Could’ve saved that place from closing down.” He speaks in a somewhat sleazy manner, and she tenses up.
“What do you mean…?” she asks, though she has a feeling she knows exactly what he meant.
The man smiles. His teeth are oddly sharp. “You know damn well. Tons of guys woulda showed up just to see you, y’know? You would’ve made so much money.”
“It was minimum wage anyways.”
“I meant in tips.”
He leans back in his chair like he has all the time in the world, eyes dragging over her again, slow and deliberate, like he’s measuring something. It makes her skin prickle, and she feels heat creeping up her neck.
“I doubt anyone would’ve showed up just to see me,” she mutters.
It sounds like she’s fishing for compliments. God, she is fishing for compliments— and from a stranger at that. Is she that desperate? Truth be told, Utahime knew her face was… aesthetically pleasing, but Gojo made a point of reminding her she was always lacking in something. Shoko had said that was just his way of getting her attention, but Utahime disagreed. Someone like him didn’t need anyone’s attention, much less hers. No, he just liked putting her in her place, like the asshole he was.
She’s so deep in thought she doesn’t even notice the man standing up until he’s in front of the counter again. His hair has dried a little, but his shirt is still ridiculously tight. She stares for a split second, then looks away, but the slight grin on his lips tells her he knows exactly where she’d been looking.
Well, if he knew, he didn’t let it bother him. He just pulls out more cash and sets it on the counter.
“Seven Stars.”
Utahime turns around and grabs a pack from the shelf behind her, fingers brushing against the other cartons as she finds the right one. She unlocks the register with a soft click, the drawer sliding open as she places the pack down and counts out his change, trying very hard to ignore the way her hands feel just slightly unsteady.
“I think there’d be a lotta guys showing up for you,” he adds. “I would know.”
Utahime freezes.
“Wha—”
“You look sorta familiar, y’know?”
“I do?”
“Yeah.”
She musters the courage to look him in the eyes—what unsettling, dark eyes he has—and sees them soften as hers widen. There’s a kind of gentleness in his stare. It feels out of place, like she’s not even meant to be witnessing it.
This guy doesn’t look like the type to have any female friends. Could it be a sister? A daughter? That would be so humiliating. Utahime knows she’s still young, but at twenty, nobody treats her like the adult she is, not even her juniors. And while this man looks significantly older, she still doesn’t like the idea of him seeing her as a child. And so, she says something she would’ve never said in any other circumstance.
“Do I look like your girlfriend?”
Deep down, she tells herself this isn’t about finding out if he’s taken, because what the hell would she even do with that information?
The man lets out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and a laugh, then shakes his head. He takes the change from her hand, and the brush of his calloused, rough fingers makes her shiver.
“No. My late wife.”
Utahime’s eyes widen.
He continues, almost absentmindedly, “You don’t look that much alike… Well, I guess your hair’s a similar color. But there’s just something about you that’s really fuckin’ familiar…” He pauses, frowning slightly. “Can’t put a name to it.”
Utahime can’t find anything to say. The man seems to notice the shift in her expression, because he takes it as his cue to leave.
“Ah, well,” he mutters, already turning away. “Farewell, kid.”