Th interior of the restaurant was warm and inviting, pleasnat enough to soften the chill still clinging to Dean's clothes.

It was mostly western style with hints of Japanese cultureـــ the kind of blend that felt both elegant and  charming.

Dean stood for a moment, silently taking it in, soaking in the soft lighting and calm atmosphere ... until a hand suddenly extended toward him, offering a clean towel.

The sudden gesture startled him slightly.

The man didn't say anything ـــ just held out the towel in silence, eyes fixed on Dean with unnerving intensity.

Dean hesitated, then took it. His fingers trembled slightly. He kept swallowing hard, more from nerveous than the cold.

The man's stare didn't waver.

It wasn't just eye contact ــ it was piercing, the kind of look that made it feel like every layer of thought could be peeled away.

But it wasn't just the gaze that unsettled Dean.

Now under the light, without the cover of night, he was sure.

The man in front of him was the one he'd met years ago.

The one whose face had huanted the edges of his memories all these years.

The one he thought he'd never see again.

Even if his demeanor now felt colder, more guarded ـــ his movements sharper ــ there was no doubt.

It was him.

The same man Dean met when he was just eleven years old.

He should've felt joy, maybe even relief .... but instead , he said nothing.

The man looked at him without recognition. Of course he didn't.

Dean was just a kid back then. A different face. A different life.

Now, he was a stranger.

The silence between them stretched thin, taut with a recognition Dean couldn't voice.

He feared the man might hear the pounding of his heart, the weight of old feelings pressing at the surface.

Finally, the man spoke. His voice was low and calm, but it carried a quiet gravity.

Dean blinked, caught off guard by the comment. That was the first thing he said? After all these years?

"..Huh ?" Dean replied, unsure what the man was getting at.

"You speak Japanese well," the man continued. "But you're not one."

A pause. Then more directly:

Dean stiffened.

It was just a question. Maybe even a fair one.

But coming from him ــ and paired with that unreadable expression ـــ it felt like an interrogation.

He glanced away for a moment, then back again, trying to collect himself.

His voice stayed calm, carefully measured :

"I was out with some friends and got lost, that's all." he said, pulling the towel off his head.

The man didn't respond. He just stared.

The expression on his face said it all ... he didn't believe Dean.

Dean's chest tightened. The tension in the air was suffocating.

He couldn't stay here.

If he lingered, his emotions might get the better of him.

And that couldn't happen. Not now.

He looked past the man toward the window, where faint light glimmered on the wet glass.

"Looks like the rain stopped." He said quietly. Then added, with a soft exahle:

He tried to hand the towel back, but the man didn't move.

After a second of awkward stillness, Dean placed it gently on the table and began to rise.

But just as he turned to leave, the man stepped forward ـــ calm but firm ـــ placing a hand down on the table, blocking Dean's path.

It wasn't violent.

But it was deliberate. Unspoken.

Enough to stop Dean in his tracks.

Dean's brows furrowed, surprise flashing into frustration.

Anger flickered in Dean's chest, uninvited.

Before he could catch himself, the words slipped out:

Their eyes met again, sharp and silent.

Dean's lips parted, ready to speak ـــ ready to demand the man to step aside ...

But before he could say a word, a soft voice broke through the tension:

TO BE CONTINUED .....