Chapter 17

The diner was unusually quiet that morning, the soft hum of chatter almost absent. Kumoku sat in a booth near the window, the warm cup of coffee in his hands anchoring him as the sun's golden rays painted the street outside. The air carried the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee, mingling with faint traces of maple syrup from earlier breakfast orders. The checkered tablecloths and worn leather seats gave the place its familiar charm, each detail a testament to years of stories shared across its tables.

For Kumoku, mornings like this were rare—a moment to breathe, to reflect. His thoughts drifted to the path his life had taken. From his wild, reckless youth to becoming a surrogate father, a steadying hand for Hisashi, and a pillar in a community he'd once been indifferent to. These quiet moments allowed him to marvel at the transformation, though he rarely admitted it to himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door's bell jingling. Thompson strode in, his sheriff's badge catching the light as he removed his hat and ran a hand through his sandy hair. Despite the years, he carried himself with the same solid confidence. The gray streaks in his hair and mustache were the only concessions to age.

"Well, if it isn't the reformed wild child," Thompson teased, sliding into the seat across from Kumoku.

"Sheriff," Kumoku greeted with a smirk. "Come to remind me of my misdeeds?"

Thompson chuckled as a server brought him coffee. "Only if you're offering to confess. Honestly, I'm just shocked. You, running a diner and playing father figure. Who'd have thought?"

Kumoku leaned back, the smirk on his lips softening into something more thoughtful. "Life has a funny way of humbling you."

"You can thank Aimi for that," Thompson quipped, lifting his coffee in a mock toast. "She's the only one who could've pulled it off."

"True," Kumoku admitted, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "She saw the best in me, even when I couldn't."

Their conversation shifted to old memories, Thompson recounting the many stunts Kumoku and Shin had pulled in their youth. The laughter was easy and warm, a testament to years of camaraderie. But their shared moment was interrupted by the rumble of an engine outside. Both men turned to see Hen Akoto's white Nissan S14 pull into the parking lot with its signature flair.

Hen entered the diner with his usual brisk energy, greeting the staff as if he belonged there. He settled into his booth, exuding an effortless confidence that was impossible to ignore. Moments later, Hisashi approached him with a glass of iced tea, her demeanor bright but grounded. She placed the drink in front of Hen, and their brief exchange of smiles didn't go unnoticed.

Thompson's eyes followed the interaction with quiet curiosity. "Is that… something?" he asked, his tone laced with intrigue.

Kumoku chuckled. "Not officially. But she's racing with his crew now."

Thompson's eyebrows shot up. "With Takawara? That's a step."

"You know him?" Kumoku asked, genuinely curious.

Thompson nodded, leaning back with his coffee. "Good kid. Always polite when it comes to requesting permits for their meets. Reminds me of Shin in a way—wild, but with a good heart. His mother's connections with the Feds have kept him out of trouble more than once. Bright kid too—top scores on the College Board. Smart, disciplined. But he's had a rough road—father's a mystery, and he lost his half-brother in a crash. Still, he's got principles, which is more than I can say for most in his world."

Kumoku's expression darkened with sympathy. "Tough road."

Thompson smirked. "You're profiling her love interests now?"

"Just being thorough," Kumoku said with a grin. "Her last relationship wasn't exactly smooth sailing."

"Yeah, but he's not bad news," Thompson said firmly. "Might be a bit wild at parties, but he's got a good head on his shoulders. If your girl's with him, I'd say she's in good hands."

Kumoku nodded, mulling over the assessment. "I just want to be sure. Her last relationship…"

"Was a mess," Thompson finished, his tone somber. "I remember. But she's stronger than she was then, Kumoku. And Takawara's not the kind of guy to mess around when it matters."

As Kumoku reflected on Thompson's words, Hisashi approached their booth, her bright smile lighting up the room. "Morning, Thompson. What can I get you today?"

Thompson's face softened as he looked at her, the nostalgia evident in his gaze. "Morning, Hisashi. Look at you—all grown up. Following in your dad's footsteps, huh?"

Hisashi's smile faltered slightly at the mention of her father but quickly recovered. "I'm trying my best."

Thompson nodded, his gaze briefly flicking to Hen, who was engrossed in his phone. "Well, you're doing a fine job. And that Takawara kid—he's solid."

Hisashi's cheeks flushed faintly at the mention of Hen. She nodded, unsure how to respond but feeling a quiet reassurance in Thompson's words. "Thank you."

Thompson smiled warmly. "Just a Morning Slam for me, sweetheart."

"You got it," Hisashi replied, jotting down the order and heading back to the counter.

As she walked away, Thompson leaned closer to Kumoku. "You've done a good job with her. She's got your fire and Shin's calm. She'll be just fine."

Kumoku smiled, his chest swelling with quiet pride. "I'm glad," Kumoku said, finishing his coffee and setting the cup down with a soft clink. "Because I still don't have my gun permit."

Thompson chuckled at the comment, shaking his head. "You don't need a permit to keep an eye on her."

The sheriff tipped his hat as Kumoku stood, heading back toward the kitchen. But not before casting one last glance at Hisashi, who was stealing a quick look at Hen.

"Safe," Thompson murmured to himself, watching the unspoken connection between the two unfold. "And maybe a little more."

The apartment was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the slivers of a neon sign filtering through the half-closed blinds. The low hum of the city outside added an edge of stillness to the room as Hen Akoto stood in the doorway, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.

Meg leaned against the kitchen counter, her hazel eyes fixed on him as a slow, knowing smile tugged at her lips. Dressed in a loose tank top and shorts that clung to her form, she exuded casual confidence, the kind that drew people in effortlessly. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze running over him like she was sizing him up.

"Didn't think you'd show," she teased, her voice soft and playful.

Hen shrugged, avoiding her gaze as he stepped further into the room. "You called," he muttered, his tone gruff, a little too curt.

Meg pushed off the counter, walking toward him with deliberate slowness. Her fingertips brushed along the edge of his jacket, and with a smirk, she tugged it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "You don't have to act so stiff, Hen," she whispered, standing close enough for her warmth to press against him. "You know why you're here."

Hen didn't respond—he didn't need to. His hands found her waist, and she let out a soft hum of approval as she leaned in. Lips met, slow and purposeful, her hands moving up to tangle in his red-orange hair. Hen's movements were mechanical at first, his mind distant, but he let himself fall into the familiarity of it—her touch, the scent of her perfume, the heat between them.

The two stumbled back into her bedroom, Meg pulling him down onto the bed as the tension grew heavier. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, pushing it up as his lips ghosted along her neck. "That's more like it," she whispered, her breath hitching when Hen hovered over her. She tugged him down, pulling him closer.

But as he moved, something shifted in his mind. The room began to blur—Meg's face, her voice, the moment itself—until it all faded into something else, someone else.

"Niko," it came again, soft and unmistakably familiar. "I do like it too."

Hisashi.

The thought crept in like a thief, uninvited and jarring. His movements slowed, his breath faltering as the image sharpened in his mind. Hisashi's dark curls cascading across the pillow. Her soft laughter echoing faintly. Her lips parting to call his name—Niko—and the way she'd look at him with those fiery, determined eyes.

Hen froze, his heart slamming against his chest like a war drum. His breathing grew ragged as the reality of the moment came crashing back. He blinked down, his breath catching as golden blonde waves slowly came back into focus. For the briefest, damning moment, they hadn't been blonde at all. They had been dark and silky, framing a face that wasn't Meg's. He blinked hard, staring down at Meg, whose face was flushed, her expression shifting to confusion as she noticed the change in him.

"Hen?" she whispered, her brow furrowing as she cupped the side of his face. "What's wrong?"

He jolted back like he'd been burned, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his back to her. "I can't," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, his voice strained and uneven.

Meg sat up, pulling the sheet around her as disbelief flashed across her face. "What do you mean you can't? What's going on?"

Hen stood abruptly, grabbing his shirt from where it had fallen on the floor and pulling it over his head with sharp, jerky movements. "This was a mistake," he said, his voice low but firm, though it trembled ever so slightly. "I shouldn't have come."

"A mistake?" Meg repeated, anger and hurt lacing her tone as she swung her legs off the bed. "You didn't think it was a mistake ten minutes ago."

Hen paused at the door, his fingers resting on the handle. His shoulders were tense, his head bowed. "I'm sorry," he said softly, guilt heavy in his voice. "You don't deserve this."

"Says the person who's leaving me all worked up."

Her accusation hit like a slap, and his frustration spilled over. "You're a grown woman, Meg," he snapped, his voice rough, cutting. "You know damn well how to deal with it."

Her expression darkened, her lips parting with the start of a retort. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her tone icy, challenging.

But Hen didn't answer. He couldn't. The shame that clawed at his chest was too much. The words that might have explained himself—might have confessed to the citrus ghost haunting his every thought—stayed locked inside, too tangled with shame to escape.Meg deserved someone who could give her more than this broken version of himself.

Without another word, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, leaving the hurt and confusion lingering in the room behind him.

The cool night air hit him like a slap as he stepped outside, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He walked to his car, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like lead.

Hisashi.

Her name echoed in his mind, the realization hitting him like a freight train. She was in his thoughts, in his dreams, and now she had followed him here, invading the one thing he had kept simple. And it wasn't fair—to Meg, to himself, or to her.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching as he stared at his steering wheel.

For the first time in a long while, Hen Akoto Takawara felt lost, unsure of what he wanted, but knowing exactly who he couldn't stop thinking about.