The crowds at Shibuya Crossing pulsed like a living thing.

  From every direction, people poured into the massive intersection, colliding and weaving in a chaos that somehow made perfect sense.

  Evan loved it.

  He stood for a moment at the edge of the crossing, letting the rhythm of the city wash over him. Neon signs flickered to life above, giant screens blared pop songs, and the aroma of sizzling food drifted from nearby stalls. The sun had dipped below the skyline, and Tokyo was slipping into that electric blue twilight that made everything look slightly unreal.

  His stomach growled.

  It had been hours since he’d eaten anything, and the scent of fried gyoza and spicy broth was too tempting to resist.

  He wandered over to a row of street food carts, colorful lanterns bobbing above them. One stall in particular caught his attention — a tiny setup with only three stools and a hand-painted sign: “Ramen of the Heart.”

  Evan grinned. Cheesy name, but he was starving.

  He managed to order with clumsy Japanese, then squeezed onto the end stool, elbow to elbow with locals slurping happily.

  As he waited, balancing his camera bag precariously between his knees, he glanced around — and nearly dropped the bag altogether.

  There she was.

  The girl from the bookstore.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She was standing just a few feet away, peering curiously at the menu posted above the cart. She wore a loose white blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans, a simple canvas tote slung over her shoulder. In the glow of the lanterns, her skin looked almost golden.

  Evan’s brain short-circuited.

  Should he say something?

  Would she even remember him?

  Before he could make a decision, the ramen vendor barked his number. Evan jerked up instinctively — and in doing so, his elbow knocked into something.

  Hard.

  A gasp.

  He turned, horrified, to see that he had clipped the edge of the girl’s tray — the one she had just picked up from the vendor.

  In slow motion, he watched as her bowl of ramen tilted, teetered, and then upended, sending noodles, broth, and toppings flying through the air.

  The crash of ceramic on asphalt was almost drowned out by the shriek of a woman nearby and the vendor’s furious shouting.

  Evan stood there, frozen in mortification.

  The girl looked down at the mess — ramen pooling around her white sneakers, a few stray noodles clinging to the hem of her jeans.

  Then she looked up at him.

  For a split second, Evan braced for her anger.

  But instead — she laughed.

  A warm, genuine laugh that made her eyes crinkle and her hand fly up to cover her mouth.

  Something inside Evan unraveled.

  “I’m— I’m so sorry!” he stammered, hastily setting his own bowl down and crouching to help. “Let me — I’ll pay for it — I’ll buy you another one — or two — or ten — whatever you want—”

  As he scrambled to pick up the chopsticks rolling away, their hands brushed.

  A jolt shot up Evan’s arm.

  Judging by the way she blinked and drew in a sharp breath, she had felt it too.

  They froze, still crouched low to the ground, ramen carnage around them, city lights blazing above.

  Then, she smiled.

  “It’s okay,” she said in English, her voice light but sure. “It was an accident.”

  Evan’s mouth fell open.

  “You speak English?” he blurted, a little too loudly.

  Her smile widened into a grin. “A little.”

  The ramen vendor, seeing the two of them laughing amid the mess, grumbled something under his breath but waved them off.

  Flustered, Evan rose to his feet and offered her his hand. She took it without hesitation, and he helped her up, trying not to notice how perfectly her hand fit into his.

  “I’m Evan,” he said, heart thudding.

  “Aki,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  Aki.

  It suited her.

  “I’m really sorry, Aki,” he said again, earnest. “Let me at least buy you dinner to make up for it.”

  She hesitated, looking at him with those thoughtful eyes — as if weighing her options.

  Then she tilted her head, smiled again, and said, “Only if you eat it with me.”

  Evan laughed — the tension breaking like the first sip of hot tea after a cold day.

  “Deal.”

  And just like that, with broth still soaking into their shoes and the chaos of Shibuya swirling around them, a new story began.