Chapter Text
“Up.”
Dazai obeyed, willing his expression not to scowl, something he’d done naturally at this point. The moment his face gave anything away, he’d be screwed.
Seconds passed as he stood, posture stiff despite trying to desperately cosplay relaxed.
“Now walk.”
A hand gestured towards the white wall at the end of the room. It wasn’t far, six meters at best. A truly hilariously small distance that would decide his immediate future.
He put on a confident smile to mock it.
“As you wish,” he said and took the first step.
Then another.
And another.
The wall crept closer.
Freedom crept closer.
If only he could keep it up.
If only his performance would be convincing enough.
His shoes stopped inches in front of the wall. He let out the breath he didn’t notice he was holding.
He made it.
But would it be enough?
Make sure it’s enough, his mind whispered.
Not a bad idea.
He spun around and dipped into a bow, crossing his legs and leaning forward.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said theatrically, eyes slowly moving up to look at his only spectator. “I couldn’t have asked for a better audience.”
His flourish was met with silence, performance awaiting the judge’s response.
He stayed low a few seconds longer, then straightened back up and clasped his hands together.
“So?” he prompted, deliberately stretching the word.
An exasperated sigh escaped Yosano’s lips.
“I better not see you here again anytime soon.”
“Wonderful! Thank you for your service doc. Now if you’ll excuse—”
“Sit back down.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
His weight dipped the infirmary’s bed. He kept his legs straight, hands placed on his thighs. Yosano sat at her desk, pen scribbling words that looked more like ciphers. After a minute she glanced up at him, tore out the paper and gave him the note.
“For phantom pains.”
He reached out, fingers brushing the receipt before it was snatched away.
“I trust you not to overdo it,” Yosano said, tone non-negotiable.
A soft huff escaped his lips. He looked up at her and smiled, hand reaching for the paper again. This time taking it without an issue.
“No need to worry about that.”
“Hardly true with you as a patient.”
He gasped, hand flying to his chest in an exaggerated motion.
“Yosano-sensei, how could you!” he exclaimed, disbelief colouring his tone. “After I took the medicine on time for weeks!”
“You never took your medicine on time.”
“I took it the day it was supposed to be taken,” he stated it with full confidence, as though the argument were logical at all. “I even shared with a colleague once.”
“He’s right. Your standards are just too high Akiko.”
A voice cut in from the side. The door made a soft ‘thump’ sound as Ranpo let it close behind him.
“And who was that lovely colleague he shared with, hmm?” Yosano said, already getting up and walking towards the detective. Her fingers caught his ear between two gloved fingers, twisting just enough to make him hiss.
“Ow— hey! I said I was sorry,” Ranpo protested immediately, hands flying up in surrender.
“You stole prescription medication,” she said flatly. “From my infirmary.”
“Borrowed,” he corrected weakly.
She twisted once more, sharper this time.
“Stole,” she repeated.
She let go a second later, already turning back to Dazai.
“Don’t take more than three a day. If you overdose I won’t be as gentle.” Her gaze slid back toward Ranpo, who was now massaging his sore ear.
“Consider me encouraged.” Dazai smiled, slipping the receipt into his pocket. “May I have my reward for being a good patient?”
“We just established you’re a terrible patient.”
“No, we just established your standards are too high Yosano-sensei.”
Yosano sighed, and turned around towards her desk. She really didn’t seem keen on arguing with two geniuses today. She opened a drawer and reached inside.
“Colour?”
“Red,” Dazai replied, not a second of hesitation.
She took out a lollipop and threw it at Dazai without looking. He caught it, grinning like a cheshire cat. Ranpo flopped onto the bed next to him, shoulder bumping into Dazai’s.
“Finally you’ll be able to carry me around again!”
“Looking forward to it,” Dazai said, holding out the lollipop towards Ranpo.
The detective’s gaze followed the sweet, and then he snatched it without a word.
Dazai took that as a ‘thank you’.
Yosano watched them from across the room, a smile warming up her face.
“Alright you two, off you go to the office.” She waved her hand like she was trying to shoo away stray cats. “A party awaits you.”
Dazai blinked, letting the words register in his head. A party. Of course.
“Yosano-sensei, if you already told everyone that I was going off the cane today, was it really necessary to make me walk across the room like a model down the runway?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. “No model would walk that stiff.”
Dazai heard a muffled giggle next to him. He gave Ranpo a look, as though the sound itself offended him.
“I have been thoroughly humiliated today,” he whined, a sulk creeping onto his face.
“Wait till they give you your party hat,” Ranpo added without a second of hesitation.
“A what now?”
A party hat? I may just die now, thank you.
He felt Ranpo move on the bed, leaning a bit closer towards him.
“I bought you five minutes to sneak out,” the detective whispered.
“Oh?”
“What are you two scheming about over there?”
“Which colour of the hat would suit my eyes best,” Dazai fluttered his lashes innocently. “I reckon blue.”
“I reckon you should get going now—”
A ringing sound spread across the room. Dazai’s gaze fell towards Yosano’s phone, laying on her desk. He didn’t see the name, but the pit in his stomach already anticipated one.
Yosano’s face went blank the moment she reached for the phone. She let it ring two more times before answering.
“What do you want?” she spat.
Yeah, what does he want this time?
Dazai felt Ranpo go rigid. He could see out of the corner of his eye the tight grip the detective had on the lollipop. It seemed seconds away from snapping in half.
“I will address you however I want.” Her patience was already thinning. “Now get to the point or hang up.”
The room grew colder with each exchanged sentence. It wasn’t dread anymore. Couldn’t be when the calls arrived more often than the mailman.
It was simple anticipation.
They knew they would come.
They agreed to it.
I was aware he’d abuse that, but he’s pushing it.
“You really have a nerve,” Yosano snarled, voice shaking just enough for Dazai to catch it. “Try to die before I get there.”
Ranpo looked like he might jump up and snatch the phone from her. Dazai put his hand on Ranpo’s leg, a silent don’t do that.
That earned him a glare from the detective.
Yosano ended the call and shoved the phone into her bag. She opened three drawers, with enough force to rattle the whole cabinet, and started to pack.
A disillusioned huff escaped Ranpo’s lips at the sight.
“You really are just going to drop everything and run to him like a good dog?”
Dazai felt the words shatter the tension in the room like thin ice.
Yosano turned, eyes narrowing on the detective.
“What did you just call me?” Each word came out like it hurt her to breathe.
“Well isn’t that—”
“Ranpo.” Dazai cut in, trying to keep the detective from crossing a line.
“What? Don’t tell me it’s not true. He whistles and she—”
Yosano crossed the room so fast Dazai barely had time to register her hands reaching for Ranpo’s collar.
“Say that again,” she said, her face inches from Ranpo’s.
He glared at her, eyes bright with resentment. His chest heaved, like staying still took effort.
He didn’t repeat himself.
And Dazai wouldn’t risk giving him a chance.
“Yosano-sensei,” he said softly, placing his hand on her wrist.
He could feel the slight trembling in her arm.
She didn’t spare him a glance, almost as if he didn’t exist in that moment.
Then slowly her fingers loosened.
She straightened up, turned around, and reached for her bag.
“Have fun at the party,” Yosano said, but there was no warmth behind the words. She headed for the door, and without looking back added, “My piece of the cake is yours.”
Ranpo didn’t watch her go, as if he didn’t want to acknowledge the reality of the situation.
Dazai closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Way to ruin the mood eh, Mori-san?
The noises from outside the infirmary suddenly felt louder in Dazai’s head—like the world insisted everything was fine.
It isn’t.
And he didn’t know how to fix it.
And he hated how relieved he felt when they struck a new deal. When he realised Mori preferred Yosano on the leash than his demon prodigy dragged back to the Mafia.
He let out a shaky breath, already feeling the nausea building up.
His gaze slid to Ranpo’s hand, tight around the lollipop, the stick creaking under pressure.
Don’t let it break.
Don’t let him break.
Dazai stretched his arms above his head with exaggerated leisure, then stood. He hooked two fingers around Ranpo’s wrist as if he was grabbing a stray kitten, and pulled—gentle but non-negotiable.
“What—”
“I’m kidnapping you,” Dazai said brightly.
“Huh?” Ranpo dug in his heels out of principle.
“Come on!” Dazai tugged him towards the door, zero damns given about his resistance. “We have to sneak out before they bring the party hats! Ranpo-san I don’t want to wear a party hat. I’m going to look like a gnome, and then no beautiful lady will ever agree to join me in the quest off the face of this world. You cannot do this to me Ranpo-san!”
Ranpo’s face couldn’t decide between confusion, exasperation, or—god forbid—a smile. An astonishing look, truly. The only other time he saw it was when he managed to fool Ranpo with fake chocolate. First and last time he pulled off a prank on him.
“My treat,” Dazai added, tipping the scale in his favour.
Ranpo’s mouth opened—then closed. His shoulders loosened by a millimetre.
“Okay, okay, lead the way,” Ranpo gave in, letting Dazai pull him out of the room.
“A kuri mizu yokan, castella and parfait.”
“Ranpo-san have mercy.”
“You offered.”
“I did, but I didn’t know that starving for the next week would be the bonus!”
The look Ranpo gave him would be enough to make anybody question their life choices.
“You do that yourself just fine,” he said, arms crossing on top of the table. “Half the time Kunikida has to make sure you eat the dinner he prepared for you.”
Dazai suddenly found Ranpo’s eyes on him very uncomfortable.
“I’ll have a castella and black coffee, please,” Dazai said, waving the waiter off before Ranpo could reveal his credit card details.
Ranpo stared at him for a second longer, then turned his gaze to the side. He looked like himself again; no dark circles, pale skin, winces interrupting his expression every now and then. Most importantly—his appetite was back—and Dazai would indulge it as much as his wallet would allow. Which wasn’t much given that most of his time now went to trying to speed up the process of getting Ranpo’s licence back. Kunikida had been shocked to see him actually work at his desk for longer than 20 minutes.
Plates being put on their table brought him out of his thoughts.
“Two castellas, and I’ll have the rest ready soon,” the waiter said, smiling at them nervously. “Is everything good so far?”
Dazai smiled back at the boy. “Yes, thank you.”
The waiter nodded and quickly shuffled to the kitchen. Dazai’s gaze slid back to Ranpo and the still untouched cake in front of him.
“Ranpo?” Dazai called out softly, trying to catch his attention. Unfortunately whatever Ranpo was looking at outside the window seemed to be more captivating than Dazai’s voice.
“Oy, kitten?”
This seemed to have worked, if only because Ranpo would rather be caught dead than called that in public. The detective’s eyes snapped back to him with murderous intent.
“Don’t call me that!”
Dazai chuckled at how quick one word could rile the greatest detective up. Then—because he was not keen on being strangled today—he pointed towards the cake on their table.
Ranpo looked at it as if it appeared in front of him out of thin air. Then he reached for the fork and took a bite.
“Good?”
“Passable.”
“High praise.”
Dazai reached for his fork and took a bite as well. He let the sweetness soothe the worries away, even if for a second. He didn’t use to like treats very much, but the more times he took Ranpo to new cafes, the more he started to order for himself as well.
Plus that way Ranpo couldn’t accuse him of not eating that day.
Dazai watched the detective chew—almost mechanically—jaw stiff, hand clenched around the fork.
“You look like you want to murder someone with that.”
Ranpo paused mid-bite, the grip tightening, just in case someone wanted to snatch his weapon.
“Maybe I do.”
Dazai hummed in response and took another bite.
“You can do quite creative things with a fork.”
Ranpo let out a humourless huff. “You would know.”
“I would.”
He did. Used it in that room at least a dozen of times.
But before his mind could wander back in time Ranpo asked, “Which one would hurt the most?”
Dazai’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. He knew the detective was no stranger to violence, a witness to it from the very young age, but he never resolved to it himself. Ranpo preferred the easier way, the one where he didn’t have to exert much effort. Anything physical usually got delegated to other agents. Heck, Ranpo wasn’t even allowed to carry a weapon in the first place.
I don’t think a fork falls under Fukuzawa’s definition of ‘weapon’.
“Depends. Who are we stabbing today?”
“Mori,” Ranpo said, no hesitation.
Dazai let the name sit in the air. He wasn’t surprised, not really. Lately Ranpo’s mood soured at every mention of the man. Like a reminder of a case he couldn’t solve. But this time, the case was personal.
“It’s the fifth time this month.” Ranpo’s words were devoid of any warmth, as though he were reading a list of charges. “Soon she’ll be spending more time at the mafia than with us.”
“Mori-san would like that,” Dazai said, the honorific bitter on his tongue.
“He would. He always gets what he wants.”
“Not always.”
“Not always?!” Ranpo’s eyes snapped to him. “How is that not what he wanted?”
“He wanted her to join the mafia,” Dazai said, keeping his tone deliberately calm. “But Fukuzawa made sure he couldn’t choose her.”
A bitter huff escaped Ranpo’s lips. “So he chose a loophole instead.”
“Ranpo-san, you know exactly why she agreed to this.”
Dazai watched Ranpo shove a piece of cake into his mouth, likely to stop himself from saying something he might regret later.
Like the fact that he’d rather had her not agree to the new deal.
Dazai still remembers in details the day Mori came. How long he looked at each of the members. What he said about them. Mori made a spectacle out of it. Made sure that no one felt safe.
And made sure that Yosano thought he’d take someone precious to her.
Then he offered the alternative. A poison disguised as salvation.
She agreed. And Ranpo had looked haunted by it ever since.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, bringing him back to the present. He debated for a second if he wanted to check, then debated whether dealing with Kunikida’s—the likely texter—lectures was worth it. He pulled the phone out.
The screen lit up, a small text box hovering in the middle.
“I can see you’re both at Velvet’s. Are you okay?”
Dazai felt a mix of warmth and sadness lodge itself in his chest. Kunikida’s care was heart-warming. It always was—unwanted sometimes, irritating frequently, but genuine in a way that made it difficult to tease without feeling like a villain.
But the fact he was worried the moment they were out of sight?
That was the part that pressed on Dazai’s chest with quiet guilt.
He’s going to get grey hair soon.
He pictured it with infuriating clarity—Kunikida five years from now, hair dusted with silver at the temples, still clutching a notebook like it was holy scripture, still scowling at Dazai’s shenanigans like scowling could fix them. The image was almost tender.
Before Dazai could answer another text popped up.
“If you’re staying out, tell me. I’ll handle the others.”
Dazai replied before Kunikida’s mind could go into catastrophe-planning mode.
“We’re good. Have our own cake here.”
“Is that Kunikida?” Ranpo asked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to ask someone to narrate their texts.
Dazai didn’t bother hiding the screen. Hiding things from Ranpo was like trying to hide the ocean in a teacup.
“Yes.”
Ranpo made a thoughtful sound and speared the last piece of castella onto his fork.
“Tell him to save me some cake.”
Dazai flicked his gaze back to the empty plate in front of Ranpo. The fork in Ranpo’s hand looked innocent, as if it hadn’t been responsible.
“Most of it was going to be for you anyway.”
Ranpo’s expression snapped into offended disbelief so quickly it was almost impressive.
“Hey!”
Dazai’s smile curled without permission.
“You’re right,” he said solemnly. “I forgot you’re a growing boy.”
The fork in Ranpo’s hand didn’t look so innocent anymore.
“I’m not growing. I’m perfect.”
“Tragic. No room for improvement at all.”
Ranpo huffed, but it came out more amused than angry.
Dazai’s gaze drifted back to his phone screen, now dark. His reflection hovered faintly on it—eyes too sharp for someone pretending to be relaxed, smile too light to match the weight in his chest.
He felt a foot kick him underneath the table.
“Yes Ranpo-san~” Dazai asked, voice sing-song.
“Stop thinking so loud, it’s annoying.”
Dazai blinked, then let out a soft laugh. “Stop reading my thoughts.”
“As if someone would want to read them.”
“Pardon? My head is full of great ideas!”
Ranpo stared at him from across the table, unimpressed.
“Alright then,” Dazai said aloud, tapping his chin as if deeply considering, “How about we throw you a party too? That’s an amazing idea. Don’t you think?”
Ranpo leaned back in his chair, like a king allowing his advisor one last chance to save his head.
“A party? Why?” He raised his eyebrow, a smirk tugging on his lips. “To celebrate how perfect I am?”
Dazai let the joke hang in the air for a heartbeat too long, long enough for it to feel like a real suggestion rather than a tease.
Then he smiled—small, contained. Like he was tucking something fragile into his sleeve.
“Mm,” he hummed, as if considering it seriously. “That is one reason.”
Ranpo’s smirk widened, pleased with himself in that effortless way that always made Dazai want to flick his forehead. “I knew it.”
Dazai exhaled through his nose. Careful. Don’t make it sound like a pity party.
“I was thinking… we throw you a party when you get your license back.”
For a second Ranpo’s smirk didn’t move. Like his face had frozen around the idea of being celebrated for something that had been taken from him.
Then the smirk cracked.
Ranpo’s eyes flicked down to his plate, then to the window again—anywhere but Dazai.
The silence stretched.
Dazai kept his smile in place, light as tissue paper. Don’t make it sound like he needs permission to be celebrated.
He drummed his fingers once against the edge of his plate, a soft tap to keep himself from reaching across the table and doing something too earnest.
Ranpo’s mouth opened, like he was about to scoff—then shut again.
“I don’t need a party for that,” he muttered. “It’s just paperwork.”
Dazai made a sound of offended disbelief. “Excuse you.”
Ranpo’s eyes slid back to him, wary now. “What.”
“Paperwork is a sacred art,” Dazai said gravely, leaning forward as if confiding state secrets. “One that only the bravest warriors survive.”
Ranpo gave him the look that could make innocent man confess to crimes they didn’t commit.
“In fact,” Dazai continued, “I think I deserve a party.”
Ranpo blinked. “For what.”
“For not dying of boredom,” Dazai said, counting on his fingers. “For not strangling the Division’s hired interns with their own paperwork. For continuing to breathe even after reading ‘Case file discrepancy suspected—re-evaluation required’ for the forty-seventh time.”
Ranpo’s gaze sharpened. “You’re actually doing it?”
Dazai hummed, deliberately nonchalant. “Sometimes.”
Often. When no one is looking. When the office is quiet and Kunikida has gone home.
“How many?” Ranpo asked, too quickly.
He kept his tone airy anyway. “Fifty two.”
Ranpo’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not ‘sometimes.’”
Dazai shrugged one shoulder, a careful imitation of apathy. “It’s only fifty two.”
Ranpo stared at him like he wanted to argue and didn’t know where to start, because any direction he pushed would expose something he didn’t want to say out loud.
Before he could choose, the waiter returned, arms precariously balanced with plates. The nervous smile was still there, like he’d been rehearsing it behind the kitchen door.
“A kuri mizu yokan, parfait, and—” he paused, reading the table as if calculating whether he was interrupting something important “—your coffee.”
He set the dishes down one by one, hands careful.
“Anything else?” the waiter asked.
Dazai answered for both of them. “No, thank you. You’ve saved my life today.”
The waiter blinked, then laughed a little too politely. “Uh—glad to hear it,” he said, and escaped to the kitchen with visible relief.
Ranpo took a bite of the parfait. His shoulders loosened by a fraction.
He swallowed, then said, quieter, “Fifty two… is still nothing.”
Dazai stirred his coffee, the spoon tapping once against the porcelain. “I know.”
Ranpo’s gaze stayed fixed on the parfait. He dug his spoon in with more force than necessary, scooping up far too much at once.
Dazai clasped his hands dramatically. “Oh I know! We could sneak out of that party too!”
Ranpo looked up at him, a slight surprise painting his face.
“And we could steal the cake,” Dazai continued, warming to the absurdity with genuine delight. “Everyone would be so confused!”
Ranpo’s shoulders shook with a laugh that turned a head of a boy at the neighbouring table. He didn’t care. Ranpo rarely did.
Dazai did care.
Care to see his friend laughing again.
Yuto’s leg bounced under the table hard enough to nudge the chair. He forced it still, then immediately started tapping his thumbnail against the edge of his trackpad instead.
The two guys from the table behind him just left the café, cutting his anxiety level in half.
Should I report this? It didn’t sound like they were serious. But if they were, will that make me complicit? I don’t wanna go to jail for not mentioning possible fork murder being planned.
When the bell above the café door chimed, his head snapped up so fast his neck twinged.
A girl stepped in, small, like the crowd could swallow her if it wanted.
Her gaze scanned the café once, landed on him, and stayed.
Yuto raised his hand half an inch off the table, then realized that looked pathetic, and lifted it higher in a stiffer wave. His stomach did a strange flip—part relief, part dread.
She reached his table and sat next to him like she owned the place.
“You look like you’ve just witnessed murder.”
Yuto let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so close to a sob. “Actually, more like planning.”
That made her smile a little wider.
“Yuto-kun, right?”
“That’s me!” His voice came out higher than intended. He coughed and tried again, calmer. “Thank you for coming on such a short notice.”
“Couldn’t leave a promising future engineer floundering.” She leaned forward slightly, eyes bright with focus. “Alright, show me what you’ve got.”
Yuto’s hands hesitated over the laptop as if it might bite him. He turned it toward her anyway. His reflection ghosted on the glossy display—wide eyes, messy hair, the faint dark crescent of sleep deprivation under both eyes.
He watched her scan his work.
“Right.” He cleared his throat, trying to remember how he’d explained this a dozen times in his head. In his head, he sounded competent. In real life, the words had to squeeze past the panic. “So as I told you, my assignment was to design and implement a system that would be able to track drones on the night sky, and predict their future path.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, eyes moving across his interface. No judgment yet. Just intake. “And you said it worked.”
“It does, it does,” he insisted too quickly. “It just bugs in very specific conditions, but maybe it won’t during the presentation.”
She finally glanced up at him, her gaze sharp enough that it felt like she could see the exact point in his brain where denial was pretending to be optimism.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he echoed weakly.
She turned her glance back towards the screen. Then after a moment, “You used Otsu here?”
“Yeah.” He leaned in, eager to explain. “And CCL for drone extraction.”
Her brows lifted a fraction. “JPDA or k-nearest?”
“JPDA.”
“Okay.”
The word should’ve been neutral, but it landed like a gavel anyway.
Okay as in: I see what you did.
Okay as in: I’m about to tell you why it’s dumb.
She sat back slightly, tapping one nail against the table once—soft, thoughtful. Then she looked at him again, head tilted.
“Were those the algorithms you were told to use or you chose yourself?”
“I chose them.”
“Yeah, that would track.”
“What?” The word escaped him. Too quick. Too defensive. He tried to soften it immediately. “I mean—what do you mean by that?”
She didn’t seem offended. If anything, she looked like she’d expected the pushback.
“Look.” She pointed at the screen. “There’s nothing wrong with those algorithms on their own. But the way you used them here, together…”
“But they work,” Yuto said, because it was the only shield he had left.
“Yeah, they ‘work’, just not really with each other.”
He stared at the screen as if he could argue his way into a better architecture by sheer force of eye contact. Lines of code stared back, indifferent. He remembered writing them at two in the morning, feeling briefly brilliant when the output looked right. He remembered the first time it bugged out, how he’d laughed nervously and blamed the dataset. He remembered the tenth time, when the laughter had stopped.
“Okay, so can you fix it?” he asked.
The words came out small.
“I probably could fake the appearance of them working together,” she said slowly. “But that would be a lot of work.”
“Well I have to turn it in two days.”
“Yeah, exactly.” Her smile returned. “Lots of headaches and cursing.”
“So is there anything else we could do?” he asked, voice muffled.
“With such a mess?” She leaned forward again, more earnest now, like she was about to offer mercy. “Only one thing comes to mind. When the design is too jumbled up, sometimes it's easier to just throw it away and start over.”
“Start over?” His voice cracked like he was thirteen again. “I’ve been working on it for 2 weeks!”
She raised her brow at his reaction, as if she didn’t just propose scrapping his whole work.
“Yeah,” she said simply. “And I can do it in 2 days. Properly this time.”
His hands hovered over the laptop again, protective. It was ridiculous. The code wasn’t alive. It wasn’t a pet. It wasn’t even good code.
But it was his.
Two weeks of my life. Two weeks of trying. Two weeks of thinking maybe, for once, I’m not the dumbest person in the room.
“You sure?” he asked, and he hated how much hope slipped into the question.
“I wouldn’t offer if I weren’t.”
Yuto stared at her. Her blond hair framed her face in soft waves, and she looked impossibly composed, like she’d never sat at a table like this with her stomach full of dread. Like she’d never watched deadlines approach like headlights in a rearview mirror.
He realized, abruptly, that he didn’t actually know how old she was. She could’ve been a senior. A graduate. Someone who’d been doing this long enough to find his panic almost nostalgic. Or she could’ve been his age, just… built differently.
His pride wavered on a thin wire.
“Well,” he said, because he needed to say something, “if you say so.”
“But don’t you have work or school?” he added, scrambling for a reason to refuse that didn’t sound like ego.
He watched her smile fade a little before she smoothed it into a confident smirk.
“Relax. I have all the time in the world now.”