“Alright, no more dilly dallying. First, we need to exchange general information and memorize each other’s schedules. If we can’t convince strangers that we’re dating, then forget convincing your family.” I flip to a clean page and begin writing down categories. “Age, weight, height, allergies, health conditions, hobbies, insignificant things like your favorite color- I’ll need all of it.”

“Why do we need to exchange such information?” I’m going to go crazy if he asks me another question instead of answering me directly. I wasn’t asking to see his birth certificate. Just tell me something about yourself, idiot.

“We need to get our stories straight. You don’t know anything about me. What are you going to tell your family if they ask you what my favorite color is?”

“Green.”

That was a rather quick response. This may be the first time he’s actually answered a direct question of mine, and it’s this of all things?

“What?”

“Specifically, Celadon.” Did I tell him my favorite color at some point? Why does he sound so sure of himself? He doesn’t look like he’s setting up the punchline for a joke. I fold my arms across my chest and stare at him in disbelief. What is he trying to pull?

“And what makes you think you’re right?”

“Your wallet is in celadon green. That notebook you keep writing in is olive green. You also have a bookmark that looks worn around the edges in sage green.“

“.......” I turn my head down and check my bookmark. I always thought it was more of a dusty celadon than sage green. No, I’m sure that’s what the color is. It’s too pale to be sage. Hold on, what am I thinking? That doesn’t matter right now. When I turn my head up to look at him, he appears completely unphased and nonchalant about his observation. As if to mock me, he punctuates his sentence with another exclamation of conviction.

“I think you like green.” I sit quietly and just stare at him for a moment. Then, I fold my notebook up and set it down on the table.

“...You know, sometimes you impress me, and other times, you infuriate me.”

“Is that praise you’re offering me or a scolding?”

“I wonder.” Do I, or do I not believe he’s impressive when he truly wants to be? When he says things like that, I remember that he’s actually a vicious lawyer in the courtroom. He actually behaves like an entirely different person in private. Maybe it’s like flipping a switch. It seems he thinks the same about me.

“Your mood is as fickle as the weather, sir Karma.”

“You’d be lucky if you could predict me like you can predict the weather.” I watch him eye our drinks. They’ve had enough time to cool now, but he hasn’t tried it. I thought I told him it wasn’t alcohol.

“The probability of a poor chef having access to high-grade poison just for you is very unlikely, sir Zhulong.” he doesn’t acknowledge me or my sarcastic tone. Looks like he’s paying closer attention to the swirling heat rising from his cup.

“What are the contents?” He asks it as if he’s ready to dissect it in a lab for clinical study. Does it not seem obvious to him?

“Hydroflouric acid.” He grimaces and finally looks back at me, and I roll my eyes. Even if that’s what it was, it wouldn’t be poisonous… it would just kill him instantly. “It’s just a cup of warm oat-milk with cinnamon and honey.”

“That’s it?”

“Cocoabeans and coffee beans are expensive if you want it to taste good. Honey and milk are less so.” I pick up my cup and swirl the spoon counter-clockwise before I take a sip. It’s simple, warm and homey. On days where I can’t sleep, I make my way to this restaurant and order this very drink to calm my mind. Even if the effects only hit me later, the mix of cinnamon and honey helps me sleep during heavy rain. Seito says he can make it for me in the office so I don’t have to walk all the way to the restaurant in the middle of the night, but I prefer the walk. He’s even offered to pick up drinks for me when he gets back to the office late during the night. It’s incredibly hilarious to see someone that both acts and looks like a security guard act domestic with their boss.

“You missed one.”

“What?” I wasn’t paying attention to him, so I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“You only swirled the spoon nine times instead of ten. Do you dislike even numbers?” He noticed that, too? Does he intentionally pay attention or does he just catch small glimpses and happen to remember them? That’s not possible- he wasn’t looking at my cup.

Then, did he hear me hit the corner of the cup nine times? How good is his hearing? And why did he feel the need to mention it?

“Good luck lies in odd numbers.” I bite my tongue. I can’t really ask him how he keeps noticing such inconsequential things. Maybe it’s a trade secret.

“William Shakespeare?" 

“So, you’re familiar?” Maybe that’s why he noticed? Or perhaps it was just a fluke. I do swirl the drink counter-clockwise 9 times, but not for any specific reason. I’ve just come to believe that the physics of cooling and blending the ingredients together is at its most optimal when it’s done a few minutes after it’s been served, and best done counter-clockwise. Since most people blend drinks clockwise, doing so counter-clockwise will accelerate the fusion and bring out the flavor of each ingredient faster… probably. 

Alright, so I do have my reasons. I’ve just burned my tongue with impatience way too many times, so I’ve taken certain precautions to control my impulses. 

But I can’t exactly say that, or I’d be no different than Shakespeare… or a child given their favorite treat. In any case, it would be embarrassing.

“With the fact he believed certain numbers to be divine or sacred? Yes, I am aware that Shakespeare was a peculiar man. As are most ingenious artists.” I smile and pull the cup away from my lips so I don’t chip my teeth on the ceramic by mistake.

“Should I take that as a compliment, Zhulong?”

“Why? You’re not an artist.” I pause right as I’m about to have a sip of my favorite hot drink. An impulsive thought crosses my mind, so I bite down and pretend I didn’t hear anything. 

“....No, I can’t do it, it would be such a shame.” I mutter to myself and set the cup down on the table. The taste of the drink is sweet, but its warmth has given me unnecessary ideas.

“What would be a shame?”

“Throwing this delicious cup of cinnamon milk at you.” I didn’t tell him I was an artist, but was he not told my business is nothing but an artisan shop to the general public? For crying out loud, there’s painting tools in my office! Does he think I’m just posing? Oh, whatever. This is the last thing I should be concerned about.

“Do you typically resort to violence when you’re confronted with opposition?” This is the most annoyed I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Consistently so, too.

“Strangely, only with you.”

“Should that make me feel special?”

“I don’t care how you feel. Drink or drown.” I wish I could hold a normal conversation with him just once. Although, at this point, I wonder if that would feel stranger than constantly trying to punch him with words.

“Whoever ends up in a real relationship with you will need to wear a life jacket.” 

“And whoever ends up in a real relationship with you will willingly jump into the ocean without one. Will you die if you stop talking?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m not risking it.”

I press the bottom of my palms against my eyes and rub the area with too much force for comfort. My fingers drag down my cheeks until they fall to the dining table. I only want to know one thing right now, despite how tired I am.

“..........Why did you agree?” Please, God, if he doesn’t answer anything else, let him answer this.

“Well, I wanted to speak with you in your office, but-” I hold my hand up in front of his face so I can interrupt him.

“Not that,” and then, he interrupts me before I have time to finish my thought.

“If you ever wish to change career-paths, I believe you’d make an adequate stop-sign.” I frown and put my hand down. Alright, I’ll stop telling him to ‘shush’ for the night, but then please be quiet.

“Why did you agree to act as fake boyfriends?”

“Did I agree, or did you twist my arm?” Semantics. 

“I didn’t have to do much twisting. So? Why did you agree?”

“Is the answer not that I’m desperate?” Someone so meticulous? A person who notices consistent color patterns and maps out sounds via echolocation? Am I to believe someone like this doesn’t have any other options come to mind?

“That’s too simple an answer for someone like you.”

“...Ha.” He puts his drink down on the table. He still hasn’t tried it. Does he think it’s decorative? “And I suppose you believe me to be complicated?” I tilt my head to get a better look at him. He looks unusually angry. I must have struck a nerve.

“I’d say there’s sufficient evidence to support my claim, yes.” I absolutely hit him where it hurts, although I’m not sure why. Is there some bad connotation associated with being complicated? 

“I’m going to disengage. This conversation is meaningless.” That’s the closest he’s ever come to sounding like a lawyer around me. For once, he really does fall silent. Whatever the word ‘complicated’ means to him is enough to end a conversation. I’d use it more frequently if it wouldn’t also piss him off. I can’t afford to spend more time on this case than absolutely necessary.

I need his cooperation.

“...This isn’t going to work if you throw a tantrum every time I ask a question.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you playing obtuse or do you actually have a screw loose?” I point towards the death-grip his hand is giving that poor cup of milk. “You lose your temper every time I ask a question, no matter what I ask.”

“.....”

“If you believe this transaction can be one-sided, then think again. There has to be a mutual flow of information shared between us in order for this to work. Do you understand?” He doesn’t look particularly happy to hear it, but it seems like he knows he can’t deny it either.

“......What do you want to know?” I’ll believe his sentiment when I actually have more information to work with.

Until then, it’s all just empty promises and baseless fluff.