Friday, late afternoon.
The sky over Tokyo that day was painted orange, and the Kichijōji neighborhood moved to the crackling rhythm of an early autumn. Small paper lanterns swayed above the alleys, distant taiko drums rumbled between the shop signs, and the line for okonomiyaki looked like a rite of passage. It seemed like a beautiful day, so Aiko stepped out of the house, lifted her gaze to the sky: the air smelled of cotton candy and fried food.
She moved along with the cooler bag hooked over her arm, her backpack full of fresh herbs and her patience hanging by a thread. Her mother had desperately begged her for reinforcements — and for an XXL eggplant parmigiana. According to her, it was the only way to survive the onslaught of hungry customers that evening at Il Tramonto Rosso, thanks to the festival (an event that happened only once a year). And she was absolutely right.
She stopped in front of a stall selling fresh vegetables and was in the middle of a discussion with an older woman about the quality of the cherry tomatoes when she heard a voice behind her:
"Careful with those tomatoes. Once you taste them, you'll need subtitles for how Italian they are."
She turned quickly enough to see him: Yuji, backpack slung over one shoulder, conspiratorial smile, dressed in his training tracksuit, hair still damp, and with that same awkward way of standing in the crowd, as if he were the unwitting protagonist of a romantic comedy.
"Itadori. Here for some spiritual carbs?"
"Actually, I've been sent on lantern duty. I lost Nobara somewhere between the kimonos, and Megumi's arguing with a guy over the price of masks. I thought: maybe I'll find someone who doesn't bite."
Aiko laughed, then handed him one of her many bags.
"Here, take these too. Come on, my mom's parmigiana isn't going to make itself."
"Chef, yes chef!" he replied, bowing with theatrical exaggeration.
They walked among yakitori stalls and the scent of mirin, pointing out every stand and challenging each other to ridiculous reviews of the mochi ("this one beats Sukuna three to one"), festival games included. Aiko was laughing so hard she had to stop near a lamppost decorated with red lanterns, hands on her knees.
Later, once things had calmed a bit, they paused under a pergola of magnolias still in bloom. The murmur of the crowd felt far away, covered only by the steady beat of distant drums and the scent of broth and cotton candy.
Yuji looked up at her, hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice and stepped closer:
"Can I ask you something… like, kind of personal?"
Aiko turned toward him, blue eyes meeting his, her face relaxed.
"Go ahead."
"Do you have a boyfriend? I mean… someone waiting for you after all these marathon days?"
She raised an eyebrow. Looked at him straight in the eye. For a moment she seemed surprised, then shrugged, fiddling with the edge of the cooler bag.
"No. No one waiting for me. For now, tomatoes and basil are enough. And you? Got some secret admirer tailing you after your exorcisms?"
Yuji chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
"Just Megumi, but he's not exactly the love-letter type."
They looked at each other. And for a second — just the blink of an eye — neither of them spoke.
Then a gust of wind lifted the lanterns above their heads, and the voice of a dango vendor burst their little bubble. Aiko smiled, brushing her fingers lightly against his arm at the elbow:
"Come on, let's go!" she said, lifting the bag. "The parmigiana is calling."
Yuji nodded.
"Parmigiana > unrequited love. Sounds wise to me."
And they set off again, elbow to elbow, into an evening beginning to smell of sugar and shared secrets.
***
Ten o'clock had just swallowed nine, but The Tramonto Rosso still had its signs lit. Outside, the streets of Kichijōji were slowly emptying: paper lanterns swayed in the first gusts of wind, the scent of the afternoon had almost vanished, and the crowd was thinning like cotton candy in the rain — or under the idea of rain, which hadn't yet fallen but could already be felt in the air.
Inside the restaurant, Aiko moved between the empty tables with a blue cloth in hand. Her movements had the slow, automatic rhythm of someone who had worked too much, bracing for the last post-festival rush. The kitchen still smelled of basil and sautéed garlic, but her feet burned, her legs begged for mercy, and her hands, raw from constant scrubbing, demanded a truce. Her eyes were tired, but she didn't give in.
The phone buzzed on the counter. Again.
Yuji 🍝: How many servings of parmigiana does it take to save a tired heart? Asking for a friend.
Aiko 🌻: Depends — did this friend run around chasing lanterns for six hours, or just pretend?
Yuji 🍝: I held an umbrella for Kugisaki for twenty-five minutes. Serious stuff.
Aiko 🌻: Medal of honor for meteorological bravery. 😎
While waiting for the second batch of arancini to be ready, Aiko had sat down for a moment on the bench near the entrance. Her legs finally relaxed, and she took a deep, steady breath. Outside, the sky had turned opaque. Thick clouds hung low like heavy thoughts, and the streetlamps, blurred, seemed to float in the night's haze.
Then a flash of lightning lit up the sky above her. Brief. Blinding. And right after, the rain came—merciless. Not a polite drizzle, but a sudden, impatient downpour, almost tropical. Water drummed on the roof, streamed down the glass, swallowing every other sound.
"Of course… right now," she muttered, resigned, as she grabbed the "Please Wait Here" sign and hung it outside, trying not to get drenched.
As soon as she came back in, her phone buzzed again.
Yuji 🍝: You still there?
Aiko 🌻: I'm defending the parmigiana with the power of thought.
Yuji 🍝: On my way. I've got an umbrella big enough to hold the karma too. Wait for me.
Aiko froze for a few seconds, eyes fixed on the door. Then on the phone. As if there were something hidden between those simple words. She fussed with her hair (at least three times), smoothed her apron, then stood up, pretending to look busy.
Five minutes later, the door opened with the familiar jingle of the bell.
It was him.
Yuji, soaked from the waist down, holding a giant umbrella decorated with smiling onigiri and a bright orange handle—like something borrowed from a third-rate anime. His eyes searched for hers. When they met, his smile was so genuine it made her forget, for a moment, every trace of exhaustion.
"Flood rescue taxi!" he announced, waving the handle like a magic wand.
Aiko laughed.
"I thought you were just a sugar-deficiency hallucination."
"Nope. Flesh, bone, and very wet shoes," he said. "And with a mission: save the neighborhood waitress from endless shifts."
She looked him over with mock severity, raising an eyebrow.
"Does Gojo-sensei know you're stealing his spotlight with that umbrella?"
Yuji shrugged, a little sheepish.
"Pretty sure he designed it."
They stepped out together to switch off the sign. He held the umbrella over her head, moving it carefully, almost protectively. The rain-washed street reflected the red of the lanterns and the blue of the neon, laying out a glossy carpet beneath their feet. Metal shutters coming down, distant horns, drums that had only just stopped playing. Aiko thought about why Yuji was there, so careful, so intent on keeping her dry. Then she slowly turned to him, searching for his eyes:
"You ran all the way here just for a bit of parmigiana?" she asked, as they stepped back inside the now-empty restaurant.
Yuji shrugged, looking at her with that easy, unpretentious way of his — the kind that never tried to impress.
"Maybe for a bit of parmigiana. But mostly… to see if you were okay."
Aiko paused. She met his eyes, searching for any trace of a lie, any hint he might be pretending. There was no hidden agenda in those words. No second layer. Just the truth, spoken with the lightness of someone who didn't realize they'd just hit the mark.
She looked at him, surprised.
"Did I seem that bad?" she asked with a smile.
Yuji scratched the back of his neck, smiling.
"No, not at all. But when you're tired, you get that 'I'm holding it all together even if everything's falling apart' face… and I don't like it. So here I am."
He noticed that too… Aiko thought, lifting her shoulders in a small shrug.
Yuji, standing in front of her, gave her a sideways glance — the kind that gathers momentum before landing — then smiled, honest and almost boyish, and gave her a light tap on the arm.
"Hey, Aiko-san…" a pause, a breath. "Are you… free on Sunday, by any chance? I was thinking… maybe… would you like to go to the movies… with me?"
She studied him for a moment, tilting her head. A stray lock of hair fell over her eye; she brushed it away with the back of her hand, still smiling.
"Mmm… I think I'd be up for it," she said, letting the air hang for a beat. "But only if we go see Tanuki Trouble – Sushi Operation."
Yuji's eyes widened.
"Wait— the one with the three talking raccoons?! The illegal sushi restaurant? And the showdown with the yakuza??"
"Exactly." A beat. "That one."
He ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to straighten out his thoughts along with it. Then his enthusiasm burst out, unchecked:
"Yes! Oh man, that's awesome! I mean… it's ridiculous, but it sounds amazing! I can't wait to see the tanuki fight with chopsticks!"
Aiko laughed softly, watching him enjoy the idea almost more than himself. She swung her bag over her shoulder, then raised a fist in the air with mock solemnity.
"Then it's a deal. Sunday: movies!"
"Deal," Yuji echoed, as if sealing an important pact. For a moment, he didn't know what to do with his hands; in the end, he shoved them in his pockets, but the smile stayed on his face.
They stayed like that, looking at each other for a second longer than necessary. The rain outside kept falling the same way, but inside, something had shifted — the sound of a heart slowing down when it realizes that, suddenly, it's not alone anymore.
***
Sunday afternoons in Tokyo had that suspended air of a pause between parentheses: the trains still ran, people still hurried, but everything felt a little slower, a little more tired, a little more human.
Aiko tucked her hair behind her ear for the tenth time as she waited in front of Kichijōji Station. It was a breezy day, and she'd left it down — long, glossy, a golden river reaching almost to her hips. Light blue fitted jeans, a white T-shirt tucked into a cropped peach jacket, white sneakers, and just a touch of clear gloss: nothing excessive, but everything in its place. She felt good. A little nervous, but good.
Yuji arrived two minutes late, wearing an oddly quiet expression. A gray hoodie, the hood half-pulled up, black jeans, backpack slung over his shoulders, and that usual way of walking that seemed to say Don't worry, I've got this — though that day, with his hands in his pockets and his cheeks faintly pink, it looked more like I hope this goes okay.
"Hey," he said, immediately running a hand through his hair before tugging the hood down in an awkward gesture. "I didn't realize you were so… long. I mean… your hair. I mean…"
He stopped, blushing to the tips of his ears.
Aiko laughed softly, giving him a little shoulder bump.
"Relax, you're losing the battle with grammar, but you're winning in charm."
Yuji gave an exaggerated half-bow.
"I accept the honor with humility. I'm a mess, huh?"
"Not really — you're just nervous. You look like someone who's stolen something and is afraid of getting caught."
"Technically, I did steal. An hour from my training to come here."
She glanced at him sideways, smiling.
"Ah, so that's why you're so stiff. Guilt?"
"No, I'm just… nervous. I'm not very good at… these things."
"These things like… going out with a girl?"
Yuji scratched the back of his neck, eyes lowered.
"Yeah. That. But in a chill way, I mean. Are you… chill? Because if you're chill, maybe I can be too."
Aiko pretended to think it over.
"Hmm, let's see… my hair's down, my sneakers are new, and I feel cute today. So yes, I'd say I'm chill."
Yuji looked at her for a second, then quickly looked away.
"You're way more than cute."
Aiko made an exaggeratedly surprised face.
"Wow. The awkward Itadori has flashes of bravery."
"Happens once every thousand tries. Like comets."
They started walking toward the cinema. Passing a taiyaki stand, he stopped.
"If I get a fish with chestnut cream after the movie, will you judge me?"
"Only if you get two and share one with me."
"Deal."
In front of the multiplex, they picked the most ridiculous movie poster they could find, just as they'd agreed: Tanuki Trouble – Sushi Operation. Three talking raccoons, an illegal sushi restaurant, and a culinary showdown with the yakuza. Yuji shot her a look.
"This is either going to be a masterpiece or the worst thing we watch in 2025."
"I'm hoping for both. I need to laugh, not think."
While they waited in line, Aiko kept sneaking glances at him: he seemed a little nervous, his hands never staying still, his eyes darting around like he was trying to memorize everything he saw. She could understand the agitation. She decided to distract him:
"So, Itadori… what kind of movies do you really like? Like if nobody knew you and asked you this question, what would you say?"
"Ah, easy. I like stupid stuff that, by the end, makes you want to hug someone. You know, those romantic comedies with way-too-perfect endings."
"No way — you seem more like the 'I'll-smash-your-face-in-slow-motion' action movie type."
"Those are fine for the gym. But if I'm on the couch, I want stuff like: they hate each other, they ignore each other, then it rains, and they kiss."
Aiko laughed.
"You just described an episode of literally any Korean drama."
"Exactly! K-dramas destroy me. I get attached and then cry like an idiot."
She looked at him, genuinely amused.
"I swear, if I see a tanuki cry today, I'm buying you tissues."
Yuji put a hand to his chest.
"I can feel I'm about to witness something epic."