The Tramonto Rosso was running like an engine in sixth gear: steam, laughter, plates coming back empty before you could even count them. At the corner table—the one they called the ship—Yuji was laughing with Nobara, Megumi and Gojo: four different waves, same sea. Every now and then, when Aiko came over with the tray, Yuji would flash her a smile that turned her knees to jelly.
Suddenly, the service bell—a sharp ding. Aiko looked up.
Hana Kurimoto.
Aiko only knew her by sight, but she'd memorized that steady gaze the day Yuji told her about Hana's approach—and about his 'No, thank you' firmer than a block of granite. That evening Hana was wearing a light-colored coat and was flanked by two senpai behind her: elegant, at ease, carrying the kind of confidence that belongs to people who know how to move through any room.
"Good evening," said Aiko, all professionalism. "Table for three?"
"Yes. If possible, by the window."
The only free table was right next to Yuji's 'ship.' There was no other choice and a shiver ran through Aiko's chest. I'm a waitress, not a screenwriter.
She led them over: steady tray, measured steps. As soon as Hana sat down, her eyes flicked to Yuji. Not a spark of mischief—something more deliberate: control, maybe disapproval, maybe a test.
Yuji noticed Hana halfway through a joke with Gojo. Half a laugh escaped before he caught himself. He gave her a polite nod—that was it. No hint of a smile. No invitation to talk.
Aiko leaned against the wooden partition, her fingers tingling with nerves. From the kitchen, her father shot her a quick look—all good, captain? without words. She gave a small nod and returned to the register to breathe slowly.
She prepared three bowls of steaming hot mussels with pepper: fresh seaweed, ginger on the side. As she headed back into the dining room, the bell rang again—two customers leaving. Good, she thought, fewer eyes watching. She set the tray down in front of the senpai; Hana lifted her eyes just slightly, thanked her politely. Then her gaze returned to Yuji. Long, direct, sharp as a blade.
Aiko felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "No scenes, no scenes." She straightened her shoulders, checked the glasses: full, perfect. She moved toward the kitchen to catch her breath.
"You're chewing the air," Nobara murmured as she passed by their table. Clever eyes, conspiratorial smile. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing just fine," she answered—but her voice came out a shade too high.
Gojo, never one to miss a chance, raised his hand like a talk-show host: "A question for the waitress! Is the broth hot enough, or does it need a bit of… emotional fire?"
Megumi shot him a razor-sharp look. Aiko glanced at him, thanking him silently.
Yuji, on the other hand, stood up—with a quick excuse along the lines of "going to wash my hands." He took a few steps toward the hallway leading to the sinks, then stopped where Aiko was, pretending to check the glasses. His eyes spoke to her: I'm here.
"Everything okay?" he whispered.
"Of course, I'm working."
"You're gripping the menus like knives."
She suddenly felt the pressure of her fingers on the plastic covers. She let go.
"It's just that…she looks at you!"
"I'm not looking at her, I'm looking at you," he said, effortlessly. And he truly did: his gaze stayed locked on hers, steady, as if the rest of the room had vanished.
Her heartbeat slowed a notch. "Thanks," she murmured. "Go back to the skewers or Nobara will steal the crispy bits."
He smiled with both mouth and eyes. "Alright—but only if you're okay."
She nodded.
---Balance restored...---
When Yuji sat back down, plate half-empty and gaze lowered, Hana looked away. She chatted with her friends, nodded at something that made one of them laugh, asked for a bit of pepper flakes to season the mussels. Her behavior was flawless, straight out of a manual: a composed tone, restrained gestures, a carefully measured smile. Hana had slipped perfectly back into the role of the polite senpai—the kind no one would ever suspect of a single misplaced insinuation.
Meanwhile, Aiko had slipped back into the warm, steady flow of work. From the pass-through, her father called out:
"Extra broth for table seven!"
Aiko didn't hesitate. A firm step, a steaming bowl in her hands and her back held straight. Work was her armor, her safe zone, the place where no one could reach her.
As she approached the girls' table, she felt Hana's gaze rise over her—not judging, but measuring. She caught it. No hostility, but no warmth either. Just a silent acknowledgment, genuine, almost… respectful. Maybe, at last, she had drawn the line.
"Thank you. It's excellent" Hana said, her voice steady but without nuance.
"Glad you like it," Aiko replied with the same neutrality. A small bow from her. A small bow from Aiko. Two mirrored gestures, like a silent truce ritual. Nothing more to say.
Ten minutes later, the senpai paid. The blonde friend cracked a joke about how full they were and Hana gave the faintest laugh. As they headed for the exit, she turned toward Yuji's table with casual ease.
"See you tomorrow, Itadori. Goodbye."
Neutral tone. No smile, no hint. Just like classmates. Nothing more.
Yuji lifted his eyes slightly. "See you tomorrow." His voice was flat, smooth.
The door closed behind them with a metallic chime. And with it, a part of the tension that had poisoned the air seemed to leave as well—like someone had finally shut off a stove left burning for too long.
Gojo stretched in his chair.
"Where are the popcorn when you need them?"
Nobara shot him a glare. Then tossed a breadstick at his chest.
"You're unbearable."
Megumi, silent as a statue until then, finally started breathing normally again.
Yuji said nothing. But under the table, his leg had stopped shaking.
And Aiko, from behind the counter, watched him out of the corner of her eye. A half-smile on her lips. Not of satisfaction—but of presence.
Later, when Aiko dimmed the lights, Yuji helped her stack plates. Her mother was whistling at the register; her father was putting the knives away.
"Sorry about earlier," she said as she wiped the counter with a damp cloth. "I froze up like a salt statue."
"You acted like a professional waitress. You're good at it," he replied.
Yuji laughed softly, then stepped close enough for his side to brush against hers. "All settled?"
She breathed in the lingering scent of broth clinging to his sweatshirt. "Yeah. A look is just a look. Choices speak louder," Aiko whispered with a smile.
"My choices shout your name."
She gave him a playful shove. "You're poetic, Itadori."
"I'm totally into you, Aiko. Side effects."
Her mother passed behind them, a sly smile flickering—she'd seen, understood and approved all in a single maternal flash. From the sink, her father raised a thumbs-up.
Half an hour later, the door closed behind them, the bell chiming their farewell. They were tired, but light. No shadows, no tanuki: just a line drawn, a gaze ignored, a hand finding the other in the darkness of the street.
***
The shutter had been down for five minutes and the last light of the Tramonto Rosso had gone dark when they all stepped out together: Yuji, Aiko, Nobara and Megumi. Gojo had already grabbed a taxi—claiming an uncontrollable urge for late-night karaoke—so the dorm felt like the quietest destination in the world.
The street was damp, patchily lit by the lampposts. Aiko kept pace beside Yuji, fingers laced with his; the broth's scent still in her nose, the good kind of tiredness resting in her shoulders. Megumi walked a few steps ahead, hands in his pockets, while Nobara chattered on about everything: being broke, her new nail polish, how much effort it would take to knock Gojo out if he sang Love & Peace again.
"…and tomorrow school will be a circus," Nobara finished, laughing. "Between the team tournament and the gossip about Itadori & Hana—"
She fell silent at once. Too late. The words had slipped out like noodles escaping a bowl. Megumi stiffened; Yuji stopped walking. Aiko felt his hand slip from hers a moment before he pulled it back.
"What… gossip?" Aiko asked, her voice lower than usual.
Nobara opened her mouth, closed it again, raised her hands. "I… I thought you knew. It's nothing. Tomorrow they're announcing the teams for the cooperation trial, and there's a rumor that… Yuji and Hana might end up together. But it's just a rumor, really."
Silence split the street in two. Aiko looked at Yuji. A streetlight cast sharp shadows across his cheekbones; he looked more tired than he had a moment before.
"Is it true?" she asked, tearing the words out. Not anger—not yet. Just that moment of emptiness before deciding which way to fall.
Yuji drew in a breath. "They hinted I might be paired with her, but nothing's official. I was going to tell you as soon as I had confirmation—"
"As soon as you had confirmation?" Aiko's voice came out impossibly steady, but the air around them seemed to quiver. "What is this, a form you need to sign? Or just a detail too small to share with your—what did you call me in front of everyone?—your girlfriend?"
Yuji took a step toward her. "I didn't want to give you half a truth. I wanted—"
"You wanted to protect me from the bother? Or from the thought that the moment Hana's name comes up, you forget to talk to me?"
Nobara started to cut in, but Megumi gripped her arm: let them speak. Aiko's eyes never left Yuji and in her pupils he saw the same spark he used to see light up only with joy.
"Aiko, listen, it's nothing. It's just an exercise, I could refuse—"
"You could, but you didn't. You chose not to tell me until it suited you. Too much like that 'steam' that never came, don't you think?"
The hit was precise: Yuji staggered, and no cursed punch had ever made his bones tremble like that. "You're right. I messed up. But let's stay here, let's talk—"
She stepped back. "I served forty bowls of fish broth without breaking a glass; I can walk 300 meters without listening to excuses."
"They're not excuses. They're explanations" he said, his voice steady.
"It's too late for explanations." Her breath came short, as if the broth had turned back to liquid in her throat. "See you, Itadori."
She turned her back and set off quickly down the sidewalk. She didn't run; she let the anger carry her. The sound of her steps drowned out Yuji's "Wait!", drowned out Nobara's whispered "I'll talk to her," drowned out even the dull thud her heart made when she realized she had let go of his hand for the very first time.
In the darkness, her house felt farther away than it had than the morning itself. Behind her, Yuji didn't follow—he stood frozen, his mouth full of words too late to speak, his hands used to holding on and now left empty.
And the streetlight above him flickered, as if even the light didn't know which way to stand.
The bedroom door closed softly, but inside Aiko the sound was sharp, final. Like a latch coming undone. She didn't switch on the light. She let the faint glow of the streetlamps, filtered through the thin curtains, sketch shadows across the walls. With mechanical movements she slipped off her coat, hung it on the chair, then let herself fall onto the still-made futon, as if it were only her body that wanted to give in. Her heart was something else entirely.
The phone buzzed. She already knew.
She looked at it.
Yuji.
Three missed calls, in a row. One notification. One line of text:
Aiko, please. Let's talk.
And then:
It's not what you think.
The screen lit up again. His name at the top. The ringtone more insistent now, like a finger tapping on the glass between two rooms.
Aiko turned the phone off. Not with anger. With something sharper, quieter.
Disappointment.
The silence in the room grew almost alive. It lay down beside her like an unwelcome guest. It slipped beneath her skin. Aiko turned onto her side, face buried in the pillow. The tears didn't come right away. It wasn't that kind of sadness. It was something deeper, slower—like water seeping through a crack, soaking everything without a sound.
Yuji.
Yuji, who had looked at her across the space between the dining room and the kitchen as though each time were the first.
Yuji, who had said "Aiko is my girlfriend" with a steady voice, in the dojo, in front of that girl who had now reappeared in the form of hallway gossip.
But this time, he hadn't said it.
He hadn't wanted to tell her.
Why?
Why hide that from her?
What was there to protect? Her? Himself?
Or something else?
She sat up, the blanket still draped over her shoulders. She looked at the stack of books by the desk, the bowls she still hadn't taken back to the kitchen. Her reflection in the glass was blurred. Eyes glistening, yes, but not red. She was angry, yes. But more than that, she was hurt.
And not because of Hana. Not just because of Hana.
It was because of the moment Yuji chose to keep the truth to himself.
That tiny gesture, almost invisible. But real.
A small, silent betrayal.
It didn't need to be a lie. Omission was enough.
Do you only trust me when you're not afraid of how I'll react?
And if so— then what was it that scared him so much?
Her judgment? Her anger?
Or was it the thought that if she heard him say "team with Hana," she might see something he wasn't ready to face himself?
Aiko pulled her knees to her chest.
The problem wasn't that they might work together. It was that he hadn't told her.
As if transparency could wait.
As if truth were a favor granted, not a foundation.
In that moment, as the darkness in the room thickened and a first distant thunder rumbled over the asphalt outside, Aiko understood.
It wasn't enough to be loved. She needed to be seen. Chosen every day, even in the smallest things.
And that night, Yuji had failed. Maybe out of carelessness. Maybe out of fear.
But he had failed.
And she had to decide whether love alone was enough to seal that crack— or if, left as it was, it would only let in more water. More silence.
She closed her eyes and stayed there. Not to sleep. But to learn how to exist inside doubt without crumbling.
The phone, dark on the nightstand, still seemed to glow. Even muted, a voice seemed to whisper:
"If you want me, come back. But tell me everything."