Ayaka stormed into the building with a scarf wrapped tightly around her face and sunglasses shielding her eyes—not for fashion, but survival.
Whispers followed her down the hall like waves crashing behind her. Staff members peeked from behind their desks, phones subtly raised, eyes wide.
She could hear it.
"He said it live! On air!"
"They're collaborating, right? They must be dating!"
"She's the reason he showed his face! That's so romantic…"
Ayaka groaned and speed-walked toward Daiki's office like it was the only safe place left on earth.
*Knock knock.*
"Come in." a familiar voice called.
She opened the door and froze.
Makoto Miura stood by the window, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that fit him too perfectly to be fair.
The morning sunlight streamed behind him like a spotlight from the heavens, casting a faint glow on his golden hair.
He turned with that same signature smile—smooth, unreadable, confident.
"Good morning, Ms. Midnight" he said, his voice as melodic as his pen name.
"I wore a scarf and sunglasses." Ayaka muttered as she shut the door behind her.
"And still, I had to survive a gauntlet of gossip and gasps just to get here."
Makoto chuckled softly, gesturing to the chair in front of Daiki's desk. "You're quite the celebrity today."
Ayaka sank into the chair, tugging the scarf down with an exasperated sigh. "You planned this."
"I promised proof." He shrugged innocently, though there was a glint of mischief in his emerald eyes. "And I like keeping my promises."
Daiki entered seconds later, a huge grin on his face and coffee in both hands. "You two figure out who's buying coffee yet?"
"I did." Makoto said smoothly, placing one of the cups in front of her. "Your favorite, Ms. Midnight. Black, three sugars."
Ayaka blinked. "…How do you know that?"
"Pages 117 and 293 of The Detective's Journal. Your main character orders it in scenes that mirror your old blog entries—before you go dark."
"You read my old blog?" she asked, startled.
"I archived the whole thing." he replied casually. "It was the blueprint of a genius in progress."
Ayaka gawked. "Are you insane?"
Makoto leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his expression suddenly serious. "Only about the things that matter."
There was a long beat of silence before he finally said what he came to say.
"I'm here to propose a collaboration." he said. "A dual-author project. You and me. Moonlight Sonata and Ms. Midnight. A romantic mystery novel—something that would shake the industry."
Ayaka's lips parted slightly, caught off guard.
"It's a fresh idea." Makoto continued. "Two different perspectives. A split narrative. Our styles are different, but they would contrast in exactly the right way.I've drafted a loose concept. All that's missing is you."
Ayaka froze upon hearing this.
'Akihiko...'
His image surged into her mind like lightning on a clear day.
The way his silver hair would fall into his eyes when he was tired.
The sound of his voice when he whispered her name.
That night in her apartment, when he reached for her in the dark—not with words, but with quiet, aching closeness.
The kiss they shared together on her birthday.
Her hand instinctively reached up to touch the chain around her neck—the small, delicate necklace he had given her. It had never left her since he disappeared.
She clenched it tightly, and a cold wall slammed down inside her chest.
Ayaka stood abruptly, eyes darkened, mask slipping back into place.
"I'm sorry." She said flatly. "I don't do collaborations."
Makoto blinked. "Why?"
"I've had enough romance." She said, her voice like frost.
And before he could speak another word, she turned and walked out, her heels echoing against the marble floor like a drumbeat of finality.
Makoto remained still, the smile on his face finally fading as the sunlight behind him dimmed beneath a passing cloud.
He watched the door for a long time after she left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence returned, hollow and heavy.
The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air—soft, floral, with a trace of something citrusy.
It reminded him of early spring mornings. But her words… they felt like winter.
"I've had enough romance."
Makoto remained seated, staring at the door as if it might open again. It didn't.
He slowly leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose.
His hand brushed against the edge of the coffee cup she didn't touch.
Still warm.
"She didn't even take the coffee." he muttered, half to himself, half to the echo of her presence.
Daiki stepped in just then, taking one look at Makoto's face and raising an eyebrow. "She turned you down?"
Makoto let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Not just the proposal. Everything."
Daiki shut the door behind him and walked over, crossing his arms. "Did you expect her to jump into a collab with you after being ambushed on national TV?"
"I wasn't ambushing her. I was making a statement." Makoto's jaw tensed. "She never would've believed me otherwise. And I wanted her to see that I'm serious."
"Well, she saw it, alright." Daiki plopped down across from him. "And ran the other way like the building was on fire."
Makoto didn't respond.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook—worn at the corners, filled with scribbled outlines, sketches, bits of dialogue that hadn't found a story yet.
He flipped it open to a page with two names: Ms. Midnight, Moonlight Sonata
Beneath them, a title written in elegant black ink: "Where Shadows Bloom."
A novel they were meant to write together.
Makoto stared at the page in silence. Then, without breaking his gaze, he asked quietly, "Who hurt her?"
Daiki raised a brow. "What?"
"She doesn't just hate romance. She's afraid of it." Makoto's voice was calm, but his eyes were storming. "Earlier, she looked terrified."
There was a pause. Daiki looked away.
"I'm just her editor." he finally said. "Her private life isn't mine to share."
Makoto closed the notebook, slid it back into his coat, and stood. "That's fine. I'm good at finding answers."
"You're not giving up?" Daiki asked, sounding somewhere between impressed and concerned.
Makoto adjusted his collar and gave a slow, confident smile. "No. I've chased her books for years. I'm not stopping now."
As he headed for the door, Daiki called after him, "She's not some character in a novel."
"I know." he said without looking back. "She's better."
In Makoto's Car...
Rain began to fall as he stepped out of the building.
He paused beside his sleek black car, letting the drizzle hit his shoulders.
From his coat pocket, he pulled out the small gift he had originally planned to give her today: a limited-edition fountain pen engraved with her pen name—Ms. Midnight.
He held it in his hand for a moment… then tucked it back away.
His reflection in the car window stared back at him—sharp green eyes, a faint smirk, perfect posture—but even he could see the flicker of something else in that reflection.
Determination. And something deeper.
"Who are you, Ayaka Yamamoto?"
------
One moment, she was walking out of Daiki's office like the ground beneath her didn't exist, and the next, she was on the street—face bare, breath unsteady, her scarf clutched in one hand like a useless prop from a performance she couldn't keep up anymore.
The whispers were still echoing in her head.
"They're collaborating, right? They must be dating!"
"She's the reason he showed his face!"
"So romantic—"
Romantic.
The word felt like poison now.
Her hand trembled as she shoved the scarf deep into her bag.
And then, beneath her notes and notebooks, her fingers brushed something soft. She paused. Slowly, she pulled it free.
The cardigan.
Not just any cardigan—the cardigan.
Akihiko had given it to her for accidentally ruining her favorite one on their first encounter.
And it was the day she realized she was truly in love with him.
That time...
She wore it for the rest of the day...
And kept it ever since.
Even when he left.
Especially after he left.
Now, without a second thought, she pulled it on.
It felt too big, wrapping around her like a second skin.
The sleeves fell past her hands, the fabric still carrying the faint, familiar scent of his cologne.
Her heart clenched the moment it touched her.
It felt like him...
Warm...
Real...
It made everything worse.
She walked fast, then faster, like she could outrun the sudden ache rising in her throat.
Street after street blurred past until she found herself in front of a quiet restaurant with a bar tucked into the corner.
The world inside was dim, soft, untouched by gossip or cameras.
She slipped into a corner seat at the bar and exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
"Red wine." she said, voice brittle. "Dry. Something strong."
The first sip didn't taste like much. The second was better.
By the third, it had settled into her chest like a false comfort—warm, numbing, heavy.
She rested her elbows on the counter and stared at the half-empty glass, fingers unconsciously toying with the edge of the sleeve.
Why did she wear this?
Why did she keep it?
Because it was so precious to her.
Because when everything else felt like it had fallen apart, this was all she had left that made her feel like he might come back.
He hadn't called.
He hadn't written.
He hadn't even said goodbye.
Just vanished—after touching her like he meant it, after kissing her like she was more than a contract, more than an arrangement.
She blinked hard, her vision blurring not from the wine, but the sting behind her eyes.
"You're a jerk Ice Prince... I hate you..." she whispered to the glass.
But the way she held onto the cardigan said otherwise.
The fabric soaked up her warmth, cradled her trembling shoulders, anchored her to the memory of a man she couldn't forget no matter how hard she tried.
She finished the glass in one long, quiet pull and signaled for another.
The bartender nodded wordlessly.
The world around her softened, but the ache inside her only sharpened.
She missed him.
She missed him so much.
And she was done pretending she didn't.