Unbuttoned Hours

Michiko woke up the next morning with a sore throat and a pit in her core.

She didn't remember much about what she texted.

Until she checked her phone.

[Michiko]:

Wanna see who caves first?

Sent at 2:11am.

Ji had replied at 2:14.

[Ji]:

Only if you're ready to lose. Come by after close. I'll show you something real.

The message hadn't been aggressive. Not even flirtatious.

Just that same pull they always used—like a ripple in still water, asking her to step in deeper.

She stared at the screen for a long time before typing:

[Michiko]:

I'll come. But no games tonight.

[Ji]:

No games. Just you.

She showed up at past midnight.

The bar was closed, lights dimmed, only a dull light above the shelves.

Ji was waiting inside.

They didn't say anything when she walked in—just motioned to the seat at the bar, now cleared of glasses and napkins and noise.

"Want a drink?" they asked.

"Not yet," Michiko said. "Let's talk before I decide."

Ji nodded, acknowledging her terms. They poured themselves something dark, their movements unhurried and precise. Tonight they were dressed simply—a black turtleneck hugging their slender frame, high-waisted slacks emphasizing an elegant, subtle curve, hair pinned carefully up. Their calm exterior gave nothing away, an unreadable mask perfectly in place.

Silence spread between them until Ji spoke first, voice light. "I've always liked spider lilies."

Michiko tilted her head, caught off-guard. "Spider lilies?"

"They bloom briefly in late summer," Ji explained, swirling their drink. "Beautiful but poisonous."

She arched an eyebrow skeptically. "You're not seriously trying to compare yourself to a flower."

Ji smiled faintly, eyes relaxed but sincere. "No. I'm comparing you to one."

Her breath was caught.

Ji took a slow sip of their drink. "You're hard to touch without consequences. But you're unforgettable."

Michiko exhaled. "Don't say shit like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know what to do with it."

"You don't have to know what to do with it," Ji murmured, "just accept it."

She stared at the condensation on their glass. "You always talk like you've already won me over."

Ji shook their head slowly. "I just don't like pretending when I don't have to."

"Then tell me something real," Michiko challenged, her voice a breeze that carried an undercurrent of curiosity. Her eyes, narrowed with a mix of intrigue and determination, glinted under the dim lighting. "Something you haven't shown anyone else."

Ji hesitated briefly, a flicker of vulnerability illuminating their usually composed demeanor like a crack in a porcelain mask. "I moved to Japan when I was fourteen," they began, their voice tinged with the weight of memory. "My mother hated it, the unfamiliarity of it all. My father was strict and didn't care how the rest of the family felt about it. I didn't speak the language for two years."

Michiko blinked, the revelation settling in like the beginning of snowfall. "You… moved from Korea?" she asked, her voice a whisper in the quiet room.

Ji nodded, a small, somber affirmation. "Osaka first. Then here," they replied, each word measured.

She studied them closely, her voice softening like the border of a cloud. "Is that why you didn't pursue university?"

"Partly," Ji admitted, the confession hovering in the air. "The language barrier made my grades terrible, a constant uphill battle. No point in applying when you already know people won't take you seriously."

"So you chose the bar," Michiko concluded, her eyes thoughtful pools of understanding.

Ji nodded again, their gaze turning inward, reflective. "I got good at reading people, so it made sense to stay where people drink to forget."

Their words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken truth. There was something profoundly sad in the way they said it. Real sadness. Not performative. The kind that settles deep in the bones and lingers.

The silence between them deepened, like a fog settling over a tranquil landscape, before she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, "Will you tell me your real name?"

Ji hesitated, a guarded edge crossing their features like a shadow passing over water. Their eyes, dark and searching, studied Michiko's face with a careful intensity, as if trying to discern the depths of her soul. "Would knowing change how you see me?" they asked, their voice a delicate blend of vulnerability and caution.

She pondered this question deeply before quietly admitting with a touch of uncertainty, "Maybe."

Ji stepped forward, closing the small distance, their hand lifting her chin. Their eyes softened, voice tender, nearly a whisper. "I like that you don't pretend otherwise."

And then Ji leaned in slowly, kissing her with deliberate gentleness—not hurried, not desperate, just sincere, as though offering their truth without expectation.

Michiko melted into it, instinctively clutching Ji's shirt, her heart pulsing with a fragile, new intensity.

The kiss deepened gradually, their breaths mingling, yet it remained tender—never rushed, never hungry. It was simply an unspoken promise nestled in the silence.

When they parted, Ji didn't speak, simply reached out to take Michiko's hand, guiding her toward the back room.

In the dim, shadowy confines of their hidden sanctuary, Ji's touch trailed over her skin meticulously, like a craftsman at work, echoing their past encounter. Yet, this time, there was an added heat: Ji's lips roamed over her, teeth grazing and leaving possessive marks across her chest, branding her as theirs. Michiko gave herself over entirely to the intoxicating dance of their desires, yielding to the unspoken rules that bound them together in this moment of raw intimacy. Their fingers plunged deep within her, and her body responded with fervent eagerness, drawing them in, craving more of their exquisite touch. 

As Ji's tender hands caressed her, igniting a silent, profound connection, Michiko's thoughts wandered to the tantalizing mystery of Ji's control—never permitting her to reciprocate, never inviting her to shatter the delicate balance of desire they had so carefully crafted.

That question lingered silently, a quiet promise of depths yet to be explored.