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Arriving at the storefront, I slowed my steps, eyes tracing the unfamiliar façade. It didn’t look like the kind of place I’d usually walk into. 

I took out my phone, checking something—maybe the name, maybe the menu—just to be sure.

Ren was already inside, exchanging easy words with the clerk at the counter. He glanced back at me between sentences, his expression bright and casual, before motioning me over. The clerk noticed too, bowing slightly in welcome.

I lingered by the doorway, hesitation tugging at me.
“Uhh… I don’t think I can dine here,” I called softly.

He blinked, once, twice, before replying.
「ハラールのこと?」

(“Is it about the halal things?”)

I nodded, worry still written across my face.

「大丈夫、もう食事のこと伝えておいたよ。」
(“It’s okay, I already told them—about your food,”) he said gently.

He must’ve seen that my expression hadn’t changed, because he added, in English this time.
“I told them—no meat, no alcohol.”

Then, after a beat. 

“And no cross-contamination.”

I stared at him, words caught somewhere between surprise and gratitude.

He gave a small, reassuring smile. 

“I read about it, after you told me why you didn’t eat at the venue.”

His voice softened, steady and certain.
“I promise. I’ll make sure to take care of your food.”

I chose to trust him—after all, he’d handled everything so carefully up until now.

Soon, a set of dishes was placed before us. A bowl of steaming udon, shrimp and vegetable tempura arranged neatly on the side, and a glass of iced green tea catching the light. For a moment, I only stared at it. 

Old habits tugged at me—the need to double-check, to question, to hesitate.

But when I looked up, he was already watching, waiting quietly. There was no rush in his expression, no pressure—just a soft patience that made it easier to breathe. I glanced at the meal again, making sure everything seemed fine. 

Then, finally, I picked up my chopsticks and took a bite. 

The warmth spread through me slowly—the flavor, the relief, the quiet realization that I could let myself trust this moment. When I looked up again, he was smiling—that small, genuine smile of his—as if the simple act of me eating had lifted a weight off his shoulders.

He leaned back slightly, his eyes still on me, a small sigh slipping past his lips—quiet, almost inaudible. Relief, maybe.

「…うまい？」

(..Is it good?) he asked, his tone light, but his gaze still steady, as if the answer mattered more than he let on.

I nodded, chewing softly before replying.

“It’s… fine.”

Something in his expression softened—the kind of smile that lingers even after it fades. He looked down, stirring his tea absentmindedly, hiding whatever emotion flickered behind that moment.

I glanced at him again, feeling a small laugh bubble up before I could stop it.

“You don’t have to look so serious, you know,” I teased.

He blinked, startled for half a second, then chuckled, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“I just wanted to make sure, I read a lot… about your dietary. I didn’t want to get it wrong,” he said, his voice gentle. 

That made me pause. I stared down at my bowl, then back at him—this guy who’d gone out of his way for something that wasn’t his responsibility, who’d cared enough to learn.

“…Thank you.” I said quietly.

He smiled again—not wide, but real. 

「はい、」

(“Yes.”)

And for a while, we ate in that comfortable silence—the clink of chopsticks, the hum of the shop around us, and between us, a quiet understanding neither of us needed to name.

We stepped out of the restaurant, the evening sunlight washing over the quiet street. The air was cooler than I expected—soft, carrying the faint scent of rain from somewhere far away.

He walked a step ahead, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. For a while, neither of us spoke. Our footsteps filled the silence in gentle rhythm—the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be broken.  

At the end of the street, a row of maple trees lined the sidewalk, their leaves just starting to turn amber. He slowed his pace and turned slightly toward me.

He then gestured toward a small path leading toward a nearby park. 

“There’s a nice view this way.”

We followed the path together, the sound of traffic fading behind us. The park wasn’t crowded—just a few people scattered around, an old man feeding pigeons, a couple sitting on a bench.

I took a slow breath. My body relaxed, melting into the quiet setting—the air was cool, but the sunlight kept it soft, warm.

He spoke up, his voice breaking the silence.

“I think you might like it here. It suits you.”

I turned my head toward him, a little surprised by the honesty in his tone. He gave a small shrug, his gaze fixed ahead. Something about the way he said it—so simple, so genuine—made me wonder how much effort he always puts into things like this… things like before.

I still couldn’t quite believe how much he’d done for someone he’d only just met. My thoughts tangled and turned heavy. My steps slowed, then stopped altogether, a sudden uneasy feeling pressing at the back of my mind.

‘How can someone… It’s childish… You never really know people…’ 

The words drifted through me like a quiet warning. When I finally looked up again, he was standing just ahead—carefree as ever—gently catching a falling leaf, smiling faintly as if the world had no reason to rush. 

He must have noticed my steps faltering, because when I looked up again, he was already watching me. There was something different in his eyes this time—a trace of uncertainty, maybe even sadness. He turned his gaze away, as if gathering courage, then spoke quietly, almost to himself.

「もう、帰るんだよね？」
(“You’ll be going home soon, right?”) his tone carried a kind of ache that made my chest tighten.

I didn’t answer.

He let out a small laugh under his breath, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
「考えてたんだ… カンファレンスが終わったら、もう会えないのかもって。」
(“I was thinking… Once the conference ends, maybe we won’t see each other again.”)

The breeze passed between us—light, cool, almost too gentle. I could hear the leaves brushing together, the distant hum of the street—everything except what I wanted to say. He took a step closer, his expression calm now, quietly resolved.

「今…付き合ってる人いるの？」
(“Are you… seeing someone right now?”)

The question caught me off guard. I blinked, unsure how to respond, the silence stretching thin between us. He nodded slowly, as if already expecting my hesitation.

「じゃあ... 決めたよ。君の彼氏になりたいんだ。」
(“Then… I’ve decided — I want to be your boyfriend.”)

He met my gaze directly, no trace of his usual teasing or shyness—only quiet sincerity.
「わたしができることを、あなたに見せたいの。もし許してくれるなら…“わたしたち”って呼ばせてほしい。それだけで、いいの。」
(“I want to show you what I can do. If you’ll allow it… I want to call us ‘us.’ That alone would be enough.”)

He paused, then added, almost whispering.
「 約束するね…あなたの迷惑にはならないから。」
(“I promise… I won’t ever be a bother to you.”)

Silence followed—long, fragile, but not uncomfortable. Only the soft rustle of leaves filled the space between us.