Chapter 18: What now?

~ Misaki ~

The room was quiet. Not in a pleasant way, but deliberately so. Dim lighting, paper walls that absorbed every sound, as if nothing else existed here but the present moment. No babble of voices, no noise from the kitchen, no smiles to distract us — just the silence between us, which was heavier than anything else.

I entered as if it were the most normal thing in the world, even though I felt my neck tense slightly where the water was still sitting. I hadn't styled myself, hadn't adorned myself, hadn't even thought about what he might have expected. That was intentional. Black, simple, casual. I didn't want to impress him.

I sat down on the back cushion, the table separating us like a line that was better not crossed. He sat down opposite me, with that controlled calm I had long been familiar with. Nothing about him was demanding, no glance too long, no word too soon – but that was precisely what made him dangerous. Men who were silent because they had nothing to say were harmless. Men who were silent because they could say anything were the opposite.

The waiter came, bowed, and disappeared again. Tea now stood between us, but neither of us moved. I didn't wait for him to speak. I wanted to see if he could take it. This silence, which was really a question. He did. And I didn't like that.

I casually ran my fingers over the teacup, but I knew he saw it.

"How much thought did you put into this place?" I finally asked, my voice soft, too soft to be an attack. But I meant it exactly that way.

He didn't answer right away, and that was his way of showing me that he understood the game.

"Enough to know that you can't ignore it," he said then.

I lowered my gaze briefly to the teapot. Of course.

Of course he had planned it that way. Of course every detail here was an invitation to reveal something. To lose something. I hated him for doing it so well.

"And now what?" I looked up again, calmer, colder. "What do you think will happen?"

He didn't smile. "You'll stay silent. And eventually you'll ask me what I actually want."

I looked at him for a long time, too long perhaps.

Because there was something in his voice — not warmth, but not harshness either.

A kind of... patience.

As if he already knew that I wouldn't stay silent forever.

I wanted to turn away. I didn't.

"Then say it. Now. Before you think I'll do it."

He looked at me calmly. "I want to see where you soften."

I felt it. That one moment. That tremor somewhere deep beneath the skin that you mustn't show. I was so good at suppressing it that sometimes I didn't even notice it myself. But now it was there.

I slowly put down the teacup.

"And if it's not me?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Then I'll stay here until I find the crack."

I should have laughed. Laughed at him. Maybe stood up, left him standing there. But I did none of those things. Instead, I lowered my gaze, the way you lower a blade, not out of weakness, but because you know exactly how dangerous you are. Then I looked at him again.

"You're too direct," I said quietly.

"And you're too quiet," he replied without hesitation.

A ringing in the air. No sound. Just tension. As if he had touched me briefly without touching me. As if he had opened the door a crack and invited me to walk through.

I didn't want to.

But I was already one step inside.

I poured tea. First for myself. Then for him. He didn't move until I lifted my cup. We drank at the same time — like two people who knew that even gestures can be a duel.

I thought of nothing and I thought of everything.

About the trembling inside me, even though I wasn't moving.

About the hunger in his eyes, even though he didn't hold my gaze for too long.

About the one sentence I could say – and it would be over with control.

But I remained silent.

Because I had no intention of making the first move.

And if he was smart, he wouldn't either.