now

The door slams so hard the bell screams, toppling on impact and showering the entranceway with bits of ribbon and dried lavender. Several patrons jump at the sound, a low murmuring of surprise rippling through the café. Ignoring the chattering gazes swerving in his direction, he pauses his anger just long enough to shake the rubbish from his hair, dark brown eyes narrowing like the scope of a sniper rifle. "Tachikawa."

Mimi closes the bakery's cold display case of assorted desserts, each one topped with her signature monogrammed chocolate plaques. Her honey curls are twisted into an immaculate braid, the collared pistachio green blouse she wears tucked neatly into a beige skirt. Nothing is ever out of place with her. "Yagami."

"I need to talk to you."

Her gaze sweeps down, taking in his wrinkled, faded red button-up with a hole at the hem and the stiff work jeans cuffed over muddied boots. "Well, I thank you for dressing up for the occasion."

Taichi doesn't budge. "I've put up with your music, your signage, your smells—," her nose twists, followed by another exaggerated glance down his attire, "—but this is crossing the line." And he shakes a closed fist at her, paper stub enclosed tight between calloused fingers.

"I am flattered," she replies, dusting her manicured hands, "but even the mayor's daughter can't waive parking tickets."

"Assistant mayor," he corrects, because he knows it'll sting, and it does: her smile remains, but the shine to her eyes takes a noticeable shift. Emboldened, he strides forward and slams the paper down on the counter with enough force to shake the coffee in the cup by the register. "Where is he?"

"I'm meant to keep track of your employees now, too?"

"Where is he?" he repeats, voice descending to a new octave.

Towards the back of the café, the restroom door opens. Their target is in the middle of wringing out his wet hands with a floral themed napkin, but he stops in mid-step at the sight of them together. Panicked, he yells, "I wasn't here for the coffee! I—I hate her coffee, it's bad, so—so badly brewed and fairly traded—,"

Taichi points to the cup on the counter.

"Not mine," he denies at once.

"Fine." Taichi steps aside to make a clear path to the exit. "In that case, you've nothing keeping you here. Get to work."

She stands up straight. "Have your coffee, first, dear."

"Motomiya, I mean it."

"It's getting cold," and she pushes the small porcelain cup across the counter towards him.

He takes a step forward, staring between them nervously, and Taichi intervenes, pointing at the door. "Motomiya, go."

"Daisuke, stay."

"No—you come with me, right now—,"

"Daisuke, stay—that's a good boy, stay, right there—,"

"Don't you—no, don't you pick up that cup, don't—bad, bad, Daisuke! Stop—,"

"That's a good boy, now take a sip—,"

"Daisuke, I swear to God, if you finish that coffee, I—,"

"Just one last sip, that's all there is, come on—,"

"Daisuke—no!"

But he's already gulped the scalding coffee in one go, eyes watering in pain, and puts the cup back down on the counter, coughing. He pushes his way past them, searching for the door. "That's—ugh, I mean—so gross, just disgusting," he says, backing away. "I—I'm not even—I can't even have another cup for like, three, four hours—,"

Taichi only holds the door open, waiting until Daisuke's gone stumbling out of it before glancing back at her. Still smiling, Mimi places the cup and saucer into a collectible bin for cleaning, sweeping up the countertop with a single stroke of her dishtowel. So Taichi responds as any adult would: he digs the heels of his boots into the rug in front of the door, scrapping as much dirt and grime as he can off onto the immaculate threads, and announces, "Anyone who brings their café receipt to the bar downstairs gets half-priced drinks, all night," to a delighted crowd.

"You're the devil," she says, singsong voice belying the mounting fury.

"Yes, I am," he says, sliding the last of the mud off his boots onto the doorstep. "So make a deal with me. You stay away from my employees, and I'll stay away from yours."

It's the first time her smirk slips, or rather, freezes, round hazel eyes sharpening with confusion. Her mouth opens, but then a lithe figure is racing up the stairs behind him, blushing when she sees him at the top of the steps. She stammers something Mimi can't distinguish, but which makes Taichi grin, as they pass each other in her rush to the counter. She struggles out of her jacket and into her work smock. "I'm so sorry I'm late, Mimi! I didn't sleep very much last night. You can dock my pay for the difference."

"Don't be silly, Miyako," Mimi says, voice remarkably even. "Everyone has a late night now and then."

Taichi's eyebrows are rising dangerously high, and, in the first uncharacteristic display that afternoon, she lunges forward to shove the door closed, kicking him out at last. He skips down the steps, pausing at the next set that lead to the building's basement, and shakes the bell he'd stolen on his final departure. Gritting her teeth, she turns around, back to the door, and looks into the bakery interior, gaze landing on her waitstaff. The girl is still babbling excuses, unnerved and anxious, while Mimi's eyes narrow at the sight of the small mark on the woman's neck, just under her left ear, visible as she ties her long hair up into a bun.

The devil.

Well, then. Time to raise the stakes.

Mimi resumes her confident collected self, undoing the knot at the back of her lace-lined apron. "I'll be back to help close," she tells Miyako. "Ken's in the back, so if it gets busier just ask him to come help out here."

"We'll be fine, don't worry," promises Miyako, her color fading to its normal rosy hue. She finishes winding her hair into its messy updo, tucking the loose strands behind her thrice-pierced ears. The action, instinctive, only brings Mimi's gaze back to that odd mark, and her eyes clear.

She picks up the purse she always stows under the register and undoes the clasp, fishing for her keys. "We've sold out of the coffee cake and Danishes, and there's only three more slices of the gluten-free chocolate tart. See if you can clear them out, will you? And please refresh the water jugs. And the—,"

"We got it, Mimi," Miyako interrupts gently, grinning.

She flashes the smallest hint of an apologetic smile. "Right. I'm off. I'll be back. Soon." Mimi leaves without waiting for Miyako's curious remark about the stiff wording, already berating herself for being so easily frazzled. There was no room for awkwardness here. She couldn't let him still rile her.

Marching doing the stoop to the sidewalk, she keeps her chin high and gaze straight ahead of her, ears prickling only slightly at the sounds from the bar entrance below the stairs, even despite a distinctive Daisuke shout over a chorus of laughter. There's a loud crash, some scuffling, and finally the shriek of a low bass so heavy the upstairs windows start rattling. Her windows. As she comes a stop just beside her parked car, she hears the bakery door open and footsteps sound down the stairs, turning swiftly underneath in the direction of the bar. Ken's knocks are a modest, lost cause, but Mimi doesn't bother staying to see the outcome, unable to risk what else will finally snap if she has to see the devil's eyes one more time that day.

Slamming the door shut, and finally cocooned in the solitary refuge of her precious car, she searches for her phone with one hand while the other shifts the vehicle into gear. She abruptly reverses to the rear right and then out into traffic, cutting off a smaller two-door that had been steadily approaching from behind. Ignoring the honking, she finds the number she'd been looking for where it always is, at the top of her favorites list. As soon as the line clicks, she's speaking. "Jou, don't hang up. I want a copy of the last four years of his sales permit, and I want you to send me pictures of that one time he filed for ban—I said don't hang up! Kido!" Cursing, she slams her thumb on the redial button at the same time as her heel slams on the gas, the car hurtling through the red light at the intersection and swerving, dangerously, to avoid the right-of-way minivan entering her lane.

This time, he manages a word in before her tirade. "Stop calling me about your insanities at work, Mimi!"

She raises her voice, "I wouldn't have to call you so much if you would just do what I ask you to do the first time!"

"You mean hack a municipal tax system to plot the slow financial demise of your most irritating enemy? Do you have any idea how you sound right now?"

The car swerves again, and she swallows the grunt in another angry click of her tongue. There's a shuffling sound from his end, and then his voice resumes a more manageable, respectable flatness. "You said yourself you came back from France to make a fresh start, so here it is. Whatever he did today, you need to learn to take the high road, all right? You can't control everything."

Despising his tendency to use logic in all matters, she snaps, "This from the world's foremost authority on undiagnosed neuroses—wait, no, don't hang up, I'm sorry—dammit!"

With a cry she tosses the phone into the passenger seat, gripping the wheel with both hands as she spins into a parking lot. Bypassing the empty spaces, the car instead screeches to an uncomfortable, lurching halt just inches from the curb outside the building's side entrance. She kicks the door open, emerging with the strap of her purse clutched in one hand and the keys in the other, which she tosses at the security attendant who has already started his hurried approach to her on sight of the gleaming vehicle peeling into the lot. "He's still in a meeting, Miss Tachikawa, I don't think you—,"

"Please keep it running, Iori, I won't be long."

"But, Miss Tachikawa, I—,"

"Thank you, Iori," she interrupts, and waits at the door for his reluctant admission, his badge activating the lock with a smooth click. She pauses inside the lobby to flash him a warm smile at the elevator bank, and only when she's inside the carriage does she fix her attention on her appearance. Smoothing the collar of her shirt and adjusting the pressed crease in her skirt, she pats the frayed strands back into her braid and around her small ears, puckering her lips with small even smacks to test the gloss. She takes several breaths, each successively longer than the last, and holds the final inhale until the sense of calm has anchored deep at last.

Calm, calm, calm. She is calm. She is poised. She is her father's daughter.

The elevator doors open, and her smile widens on reflex—until the man on the other side, upon meeting her shocked gaze, slips his hand behind his back. "Mimi," he greets guiltily, but it's too late.

Her eyes narrow. "What's that?"

"Hm? Oh, honey, are you sure you couldn't have called first? I'm just heading into an afternoon of—,"

She's bending over, peering around him, but he's turning his body around, too. "What are you hiding—is that—Daddy, is that coffee?" Then her face drains, mouth forming a perfect O, as betrayal floods through every bone in her body. "Daddy. Is that his coffee?"

Father and daughter remain silent, locked in an unblinking gaze. At last, Keisuke opens his mouth, chin dusted in a thin peppery beard, and bushy brows lifting in a pitiful frown. He starts, "I'm…," but then trails off, blinking up at the ceiling to avoid her searching gaze, "…yes."

"I'm going to be sick," and she's bending over, dry heaving, and Keisuke steps forward to hoist her up under the arms, leading her to a bench in the hallway, "Why, Daddy, why—,"

"Mimi, do try to pull yourself together—,"

"I make coffee, Daddy! I make coffee for a living!"

"I've told you: every Monday, I have lunch with Mayor Takenouchi and coffee to-go on the return to City Hall, and, honey, you know how important my routine is to me—,"

She protests, hands gesticulating wildly, "But you wouldn't have to change a thing, just go up three steps instead of down!"

Keisuke appears to be struggling with a serious moral quandry. "Honey, his is…better."

Mimi's mouth falls open, breathless. She heaves, "Have you ever liked my coffee?" And then, without waiting his blank face to find a suitably less offensive expression, "What about Mama?"

"Oh, your mother hates the smell of coffee—," she lowers her head, "—that's why he keeps that box of tea bags for her behind the whiskey."

She's on her feet, jaw wound in a small scream, and Keisuke's tutting, finally recovering enough of his senses to remember he is, in fact, the parent. "Mimi, please, restraint! We're in the public's eye—,"

"This isn't over, Daddy!" she yells back, stomping to the elevators once more.

He's shaking his head. "If you two could just learn to be reasonable…. I mean, you could—you could share, or make it a themed experience, really do up the entire lot, or maybe let him brew the coffee and you can serve the—,"

She only screams again, the shout cut off by the elevator doors closing, its lingering echo making him shiver. He looks down at his cheap paper to-go cup, the kind of pale, brandless variety that wouldn't have alerted anyone but the most loyal patrons of its provenance. He turns the cup around, curious to see how she distinguished this from any of other plain ones he'd find in the staff kitchen even this very minute. And then, just under the lip of the cup, snuggled between the lid, is a small mark.

T, 43.

M, 6.

…Oh.

Keisuke's sigh is the sort wherein one's entire set of life choices is gravely reconsidered, and the one memory that emerges larger than all the others is that fated, leisurely stroll he'd taken after the first Monday lunch. Trying out a new takeaway coffee hadn't required much thought at the time, likely on account of the unexpectedly pleasant meeting he'd had with the then newly elected mayor. He remembered having been unusually nervous the entire weekend prior to the lunch, for it was the first private conversation he'd had with the ever reserved and overly formal Takenouchi Toshiko since he'd phoned to concede his defeat to her in the mayoral election. And awkward it had been, but the longer they'd conversed the easier it had been to do so, and he'd left the restaurant that day feeling confident that a new era in the town had finally come to pass and even a new hope for another campaign in the next term.

In the end, Toshiko had been reelected, with Keisuke, having declined to run against her the second time, publicly pledging his full endorsement—much to the vocal dismay of his daughter, who had always been a very sore loser. He ought to have found Mimi's zeal endearing, especially when leveraged on his behalf, but in all honesty…she was a real little fright sometimes. Still, he and Satoe had raised her to believe she could conquer the world. Why fault her for trying?

With another sigh, Keisuke savors the last sip of his coffee, relishing each drop, and disposes the cup in the hallway trash bin outside his office. Once inside he closes the door quietly before taking his seat at the corner desk and picking up the phone, shoulders slumping forward in defeat. The things we do for our children, he thinks.

It rings twice, and when he finally answers it's with words not directed at Keisuke at all. "I said, turn it down!" There's some murmurs of protest, and sounds of glasses being put on a counter and a tap running somewhere nearby. Finally, Daisuke returns to the line. "You can find out our hours by just Googling the name, you kno—,"

"Daisuke, it's me."

"Oh, sorry, sir. How's the city? Still up and running?"

Keisuke rubs his forehead. "Can I speak with him, please?"

"Sure thing," says Daisuke. He glances up into the dimly lit bar room, catching sight of Taichi wiping down the booth by the entrance with far too much concentration, his gaze set on the window facing the sidewalk towards the cafe entrance. The younger man clears his throat, tapping the corded phone onto the bar railing, oblivious to the possibility that the echoing sound would be quite unpleasant for the person on the other end of the line. "Boss, it's the A.M. for you."

Taichi accepts the call, directing Daisuke to finish clearing the tables and check on the only patrons currently present. Never mind; it was still early. "Sorry, Mr. Tachikawa, I'm all out of the coffee but I'm getting a shipment in tomorrow."

"No, actually, that's what I'm calling about." He takes a deep breath. "She knows."

He just barely manages to turn his instinctive, barking laugh of delight into an exaggerated cough, clearing his throat, "What…oh, no…."

"Cut the theatrics." Keisuke shakes his head and leans back in his chair. "I don't want to drag this out. All good things and all that." His voice is now carrying a watery quality to it as he continues, "They tell you, you know, they tell you that parenthood involves a reorientation of priorities, that there will suddenly be nothing you wouldn't do for this new person you conceived and raised and threw out into the cold world one day, and they're right, son, they're very right, these wise people—,"

Taichi straightens, meeting Daisuke's curious glance. "It's…it's only coffee, sir."

"Good coffee," corrects Keisuke affectionately. "But never mind. What else defines fatherhood but sacrifice?"

Jesus, this family. "Love, sir?"

Keisuke only grunts, lost in his thoughts, and Taichi decides he can't restrain himself anymore. He stammers through a rushed goodbye, then returns the phone to its wall-hung cradles, laughing. "We're counting this as a win."

"You're the only one keeping count," mutters Daisuke. He returns to the counter with the empty glasses he'd collected from the tables. "Well, except her, I guess."

"Mouthing off while you're still in the shallow end isn't a move I'd make."

"She's good at what she does!" A vein is beginning to throb, so Daisuke tries another attempt to redirect the focus. "Plus it got you that promo crowd, didn't it? And look—," Daisuke gestures before them to the nearly empty bar. "Wait, no, don't look."

"Just go put the sign up." Taichi slides the paper towards him. It's a flyer for apartment rental listings he'd picked up at his gym's bulletin board, but the back had since proved useful, now sporting his handwritten dictation of his earlier announcement of the half-priced drinks promo stenciled in chunky block letters.

Daisuke reviews the scrawl, debating whether to point out the obvious. "It's…big."

"So to be legible."

"I would think that maybe, you know, spacings between the letters could also help on the, uh, the legibility?"

"I didn't see you offering to make the sign earlier," snaps Taichi, weirdly hurt.

Daisuke grumbles, taking the flyer. "You're always mean to me after your breakups—okay, okay! I'm sorry!" He ducks, miming fear that could just as easily be real, though Taichi hadn't so much as raised a finger, only took a single step forward. It was enough, though, and now Daisuke's scrambling up the small stairs to the sidewalk, lowering his guard only a little at the scent of warm delicacies, fresh from the oven, wafting from the upstairs window. He stands to gaze up at the cafe from the bottom of the stairs, mournful, wistful, and more than a little bit hungry.

He considers this shift in the world order more carefully. On the one hand, she is the only person who can make Taichi act like this, much to the latter's loudly-touted and oft-repeated chagrin. But, on the other hand, Daisuke isn't quite sure that maybe there isn't something else still there.

A shadow flickers above his head, and he glances up again. In the left-most cafe window is now a new sign, daintily lettered and exquisite in its penmanship: Take a selfie in the bar downstairs and tag us to receive a complimentary mini fruit tart of your choice. While supplies last!

Okay. Maybe not.

then

He wasn't an idiot. Oblivious, sometimes, to be sure, and tunnel-visioned more often than not, but he'd grow out of that at some point in his life—or, worse, grow into it. It's the latter that Sora had started complaining about of late, suggesting the events of the past few weeks were sharpening a side to his competitive edge that hadn't done much for his attention span. He'd laughed her off by insisting ever accomplishing the latter had long been shot, a claim he only realized far too late really put the argument in her corner. Well, he was who he was. And today he was about to be seriously fucked if he couldn't work his way to the top of this list.

Three people were in his way.

He started with the nervous looking applicant in a tweed sweater vest and modest checkered bowtie seated to his left, his hair parted and combed so thoroughly he swore he could count each individual strand. Mouthing along to the notecards he kept reskimming, the youth caved at the note binders that he pulled from the shoulder bag at his feet, each successively bigger than the last. By the time the last one was hefted onto his lap, the man sprung from his seat and launched down the corridor in the opposite direction, muttering about extra study time.

That was when he turned his attention to the next target. Seated to his right was a short young woman in a very smart white blouse and navy pantsuit who had lathered so much antibacterial lotion to her hands no binders would stick, let alone distract her in the same way. So he returned his materials to the knapsack, coughed loudly, and then began rummaging through the bag while sniffling. He sneezed, audibly cursing at the lack of tissues he'd forgotten to pack and the sanitizer he wasn't able to locate. A few more sneezes and one excessively vocal phlegm-clearing gasp was all it took, and then she was up and darting to the restroom, trembling in her simple brown loafers as she arched a path as far out of his contagious range as possible.

He checked his watch, straightening in the chair, and zeroed in on the last one.

"Mint?"

Her glance latched first onto the red mint tin he held out to her from across the hallway where she sat opposite him. She surveyed the offer coolly before drawing her gaze to his face. Her eyes were hazel, flecked in golds and greens, with an intensity that evaporated all thought. Long lashes blinked once at him, in an exaggerated slowness, accompanied by a smile that stretched across her small mouth and curled into a charming dimple in her left cheek. When she shook her head in a polite decline, he swore he smelled honey and shortbread in her hair. Oh, fuck.

"Thank you, but no," she said, crossing her legs. Her pink pumps clicked on the tiled floor in the movement, and the sound swung him firmly back into the present.

"You sure? I mean, these interviews are generally in pretty close quarters—,"

She shook her head and he retracted his hand, pocketing the mint tin. "You'll just have to try harder to get rid of me."

He sat back, sneaking a quick look at the door at the end of the corridor to gauge how low to keep his voice. "That? No, that was me trying to find my notes. But I guess some dust made me sneeze a little," he consented when her brow arched at the casualness of the poor cover up. He concentrated hard on the wall behind her head to keep from buckling at the sight. "Doesn't seem like the cleaning staff get to this corridor much."

"No, it doesn't."

"Makes sense why, though, right?"

The eyebrow arch returned. "How do you figure?"

Torn between his plan and the sudden desire to keep her attention on him, he leaned forward, "Listen, if I were you, I'd really be trying out for an internship with the higher ups. Just the fact that we're down in this random basement office should tell you what they all think of this guy. Don't get me wrong," he added when he detected a twitch to her smile at the assessment. "Starting from the bottom means you can only go up, sure, but you don't strike me as the kind to be satisfied by an unchallenging environment."

She directed a studied glance at the closed office door. "And you are?"

"Don't worry about me," he said, flashing a grin. "I can make the most out of anything."

"Apparently," she said. She sat back, folding her hands in her lap, and appeared to be weighing his words. "I do have a few applications out. I plan to have several options to choose from."

"I believe it."

"I don't believe you know anything about me," she said with a laugh.

"We could fix that," he said. Her breathy intake gave him all the encouragement he needed. He leaned forward again, "There's a party tonight at my friend Michael's. We could get din—,"

The door opened, and both of them looked up.

"Mimi?"

"Daddy," she greeted brightly, tone transformed. Taking up the brown paper handled bag by her chair, she strode forward. "I know you're in the middle of interviews, but I wanted to drop off your lunch." She kissed his cheek. "Don't work too hard, okay?"

Opening the bag slightly to take a tempted sniff, Keisuke sighed throatily. "Um, yes, okay—well, I should probably put this in the fridge until after the…uh…." Locking stares with the only person left in the corridor, he frowned. "Weren't there more of you?"

"Good morning, sir," he said, springing up, hand outstretched. "Yagami Taichi."

Keisuke accepted the handshake, still confused. "Yes, right, well…come in then. We should have…plenty of time to talk."

At this she cast him another glance—which, to Taichi's steadily mounting dismay, her father saw. "Oh, you two know each other? Classmates?"

"Uh—,"

"Yes," she answered smoothly, voice like cold silk. "Taichi's friends with Michael."

Keisuke's lip immediately curled. "I see."

She patted his arm, "And Michael has excellent taste, right?"

Taichi watched as Keisuke's lip attempted to uncurl, identifying with the struggle.

"Well, let's not dally," said Keisuke, stepping aside to gesture into the office. Taichi slipped inside, feeling her close watch on him. A glance back confirmed it: this time, however, her eyes were narrowed onto him in something far too concentrated to be reassuring. This shift in her temperament was as disarming as the first, but carried another kind of tenor this time. He didn't know how to explain it, a sense maybe, that she was calculating something he hadn't caught up to yet. Was that what had made their earlier exchange so intoxicating, an equal match to match? How had he missed who she was? Why could he never keep his stupid mouth shut?

"Just a moment, Mr. Yagami," assured Keisuke, and before Taichi could insist he use his given name, the door was shut, and he was left in the cramped office.

To avoid worrying over their conversation or anything else she might be tattling on him, Taichi placed his bag beside the chair opposite the desk and surveyed the room. There were no windows, and more file cabinets than should fill a regular office, suggesting the possibility that in fact this was little more than a converted storage room. Still, Keisuke had made the most of it, adapting to the circumstances with a few small personal touches (a potted succulent, two picture frames, and an inspirational poster of a tortoise with stars painted on its shells, reminding its readers to follow their own stars, however slow and steady; Taichi suppressed the reflex to gag). Between the frames and the old, creaky desktop computer was a plaque: Tachikawa Keisuke, CPA, City Manager.

"Sorry about that." Keisuke returned, closing the door behind him. He placed the lunch bag on the desk and took his own seat, waving at Taichi to sit down also. "I went to look for the other applicants," he began cheerfully, "but looks like it's just you. A walking lucky charm, aren't you?" Taichi merely forced a queasy smile, still unnerved by the odd family encounter. "Anyway, I reviewed your resume." Keisuke pointed to the papers laid out on the desk. "Quite impressive."

He snapped back, at last, into interview position, reigning in the emotions. "Thank you, sir. I think my experience shows a good range, too," Taichi added.

Keisuke nodded. "Certainly, certainly. That's what college is for, exploring your range. But what's next, for you, I mean? Where do you see yourself after graduation, in five years, or ten?"

Good. Start out with the rehearsable question. He was ready for this. "I'm looking into business school, first, maybe a joint program with law or international affairs. I'd like to be part of the new wave of entrepreneurs looking to connect public and private infrastructure—,"

"I'm going to stop you there," said Keisuke, hand raised. "All that, I gathered from your resume and application, and the first round of interviews. Let me put it another way: where's next for you?"

Taichi curled his fingers tightly in his lap, a gesture he knew Keisuke couldn't see. "…Sir?"

Keisuke tapped the papers again. "This isn't the application of someone enthralled by the inner workings of municipal governance—love it as we all do," he added with a good-natured laugh. "I guess I'm having a hard time imagining how a summer internship with my office is going to set you further on your specifically…non-mid-sized-town aspirations." He paused, but Taichi remained unusually silent. So he added, "A lot of the students who come work for me are locals with local ambitions. Nothing wrong with that, mind you; that's what I have. Just…help me understand your choices here."

His thumb traced the small scar just under his right middle knuckle. "It's important for me to be near family this summer."

Keisuke nodded, knowing not to prod further. "There would be a few long nights, and some weekends."

"That won't be an issue. I intend to make the most of the experience being your intern, sir, I reall—,"

He interrupted, pink-faced, "I'm not the mayor, son, you don't have to postulate to me."

"You've never thought of it?"

Keisuke stopped, eyes wide. "…Me? You really think so?"

"Oh, absolutely," Taichi nodded, enthusiastic, and slightly delirious at the imminent possibility of all his plans, for once, aligning properly. "I've actually been following your work," here he patted at the bulging knapsack full of carefully assembled notes and binders, "and I've been thinking a lot about what you could do, if you were interested in laying out the groundwork for a future campaign."

Keisuke sat back in the tatty office chair, still stunned. "Huh." But then he caught sight of Taichi trying to extract one of the thicker binders, and he intervened, stomach growling. "Bring it with you next Tuesday, all right? We'll talk over breakfast. You like breakfast, Taichi?"

"I like coffee," he said.

Keisuke stood, extending his hand, and they shook on the offer. "Then you can bring the coffee."

Moments later, Taichi stumbled out of the office, promising to meet back next week after the end of the term, and stopped his enthusiastic gait only when he'd rounded the corner. He needed his phone; he had to call Hikari—

"He only likes you because you cheated." She was leaning against the wall in the hallway before him, the floor still oddly empty for the mid-morning. The sight of her still there, still waiting for him, came like a rush, but the steady, narrowed way she glared at him didn't make him want to play along, however their quick banter had felt before.

So he stammered, struggling to regain his cool footing in the aftermath of extreme lows and highs, "I could say the same to you." Her face defaulted into confusion, and he bit his tongue. "You know what I meant," he muttered .

Catching on, she tossed her head back. "I want to know who my daddy spends time with. This is his reputation he's putting on the line for you, you know."

"We don't know each other."

"I know that you don't remember me." His face didn't change, so she stepped forward. "Halloween, last year, you were dressed like a walking cellphone with a bat head—," ("The Batmobile," recollected Taichi very suddenly.), "—and I was supposed to be the Sugar Plum Fairy except someone stole the plum tarts from the dorm kitchen, where I had been very obviously making them all morning for my costume."

He shifted to the side, ducking out from under her accusing finger. "And you think that was me?"

"Oh, I know it was you, because you asked me what I was making, and I told you why and what for. Then, mysteriously, they disappear." She flung her arms out, miming a lost expression, her mouth in a tight, pretty scowl.

Taichi was starting to lose his patience, annoyed most of all by her rambling. "Okay, first of all, there were a lot of people going in and out of the communal kitchens all day, not just me. Plus, no one likes plum tarts enough to willingly steal any, and, finally, who would put a real perishable on their body for a full night of partying?"

"That's just it," she protested, eyes flashing, fuck, she looks beautiful angry, "I couldn't go out that night if my costume was incomplete, because that would have automatically disqualified me from all of the contests I was planning on winning, something that the plum tart thief fully knew."

He rolled his eyes and pushed past her. To his irritation, she followed. "That's what you're upset about? You think I cost you some a stupid costume contest?"

"No, I still won," she announced, and the confusion made him pause mid-step. He glanced at her, mouth open, and she preened, "I went as Clara. Just had to tweak my original costume."

"Well, congratulations."

They turned another corner. "And then, after the costume party, was the post-awards party." ("We're still doing this? How long are your stories?") "It was a real big one, too, as they always are, and towards the middle I was walking back from the bathroom when I heard someone in a bat head telling their date, 'We could go back to mine if you're hungry. I just bought this really good plum tart.'"

Damn. "But you won."

"But you don't remember me."

It was an odd remark, and the longer he tried to understand it, the more she seemed to realize what had slipped out, and everything else that might be implied. She stepped back suddenly, pink-faced in much the same way her father looked when caught in an awkward moment. It was uncanny, and he wanted to laugh at it. He wondered if her entire family was as performative as this.

Lips pursed, she declared after a moment, "Lucky for you, I am great at not holding grudges."

"Says the one stalking me through a secluded hallway to tell me about a years-old alleged crime." She said nothing, pink cheeks deepening to red, and he swallowed the grin, biting at his lip instead. He looked back in the direction they'd left and considered his options. Fuck it. "Listen, let's just start over, okay? We're going to be seeing each other a lot over the summer, and all cards on the table: I really do want to do a good job for your dad, and I'm not planning on letting him down." He held out his hand. "Truce?"

She considered it, scrutinizing the gesture.

"And," he said, leaning forward, "I promise to never come near another one of your plum tarts, ever again."

Rolling her eyes, she accepted. "Truce."

They released each other quickly, uncertain now how to move forward. For better or worse, and ultimately unable to bear the awkward silence any longer, or risk losing the weight of her hazel gaze on him after that moment, he took another gamble, clearing his throat. "So…maybe see you tonight? At your, uh, your boyfriend's party?" Her eyebrow flared up again, and he cursed inwardly at her reaction. He had half-hoped he'd heard their conversation wrong earlier. Well, whatever. A truce was a truce, and he really did need this summer internship to go well. That was the deal, being here close to home this year, postponing his real plans. He had to make this work. So he persevered, betting everything, "It should be fun. I heard there's going to be a band."

"Ah," said Mimi, as though only just understanding his meaning, "Michael's not my boyfriend."

Oh, luck, you fickle lady.

Taichi shouldered the bag closer, fingers tightening on the strap. "Yeah?"

Mimi shook her head, chin tilting to the side, grinning cheerfully as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, marching forward. There was that honey and shortbread scent again as she passed by. He knew then and there he'd never get that sensation out of his head. "But, yes, I'll be there. My boyfriend's in the band."

A fickle, fickle lady.

Author's Note: This is not a serious story. Please endeavor to keep your standards gravely low.