Date: May 3, 2025 – Saturday Night

  7:30 PM – A Celebration That Feels Like a Goodbye

  Tokyo pulsed beneath us, neon lights flickering against the glass panels of the rooftop bar, the night air crisp from the breeze rolling through the terrace.

  It should have felt celebratory—our second-to-last night in Japan, the project nearly wrapped, the client satisfied —a pre celebration with just those who had worked closely with us.

  Laughter hummed around me. Glasses clinked together. Conversations wove between easy jokes and half-drunk reflections on the past two weeks.

  But beneath the surface, something else had settled.

  A tension. A shift.

  Something I hadn’t wanted to name yet.

  Something I couldn’t name.

  I took a slow sip of my drink, the condensation cool against my palm as I watched the way the night had arranged itself around me.

  Leo was at the center of it all—like he always was.

  Reclining in his chair, sleeves pushed up, wrist resting lazily on the table as he smirked at something one of the client team members had said. He was effortlessly magnetic, completely in his element, drawing attention like he didn’t even have to try.

  And for the first time, I was aware of it in a way that unsettled me.

  Because before, I would have been watching him, in that quiet, involuntary way. The way I always had. The way that kept me tethered in place, waiting for the moment when his gaze would flick toward me, when the smirk would shift into something meant just for me.

  But tonight, I wasn’t looking.

  And the moment I realized it, I saw him realize it too.

  Leo’s laughter didn’t falter, his expression didn’t change—but I felt it.

  The flicker of his attention, the subtle shift, the way his gaze found me across the table, checking.

  Testing.

  Waiting.

  But this time, I didn’t react.

  This time, I let my fingers drum idly against my glass. Let my gaze drift to the skyline, the way the city stretched infinite and alive beneath us.

  And for the first time, I felt it.

  The quiet. The absence.

  Not of Leo.

  But of the weight I had carried for so long without realizing it.

  The weight of waiting for something that was never coming.

  And just like that, something inside me exhaled.

  I turned my head slightly—just enough to catch movement across the terrace.

  Ethan.

  Seated near the far end of the table, posture relaxed but not detached. Fingers wrapped around a glass of something dark, condensation gathering at the base. He wasn’t talking, not much, but he waslistening to the person talking to him, one of the client side engineers chatting about their family.

  Present.

  Steady.

  And unlike Leo, I could tell he wasn’t watching me to see how I would react.

  I took a slow breath, the realization settling deep in my ribs.

  8:15 PM – The Last Game Leo Plays

  Leo had always been good at reading the room.

  And even better at controlling it.

  If the attention started slipping, if the energy dipped, if something—or someone—wasn’t giving him the reaction he expected, he knew exactly how to shift the momentum.

  And tonight was no exception.

  The moment he realized I wasn’t looking at him first—

  The moment he felt the absence of my attention—

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  I watched it happen.

  The adjustment. The escalation.

  A barely-there flicker in his expression. A recalibration.

  Then—action.

  He leaned in closer to Misako, the woman from the client’s UX team who had been hovering near him all night. She was striking, with sharp cheekbones and a confident, knowing smile—the kind of person who could command attention in a room full of powerful people.

  And Leo?

  Leo let himself get pulled into her orbit.

  But only just enough.

  He tilted his head as she spoke, his smirk widening in a way that felt both casual and intentional. When she laughed at something he said—something low, just between them—he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret.

  I saw it all in real time.

  The precision of it.

  The way his fingers curled loosely around his glass, twirling it absently as if he wasn’t aware of the way it drew attention to the easy strength in his hands. The way he let his wrist brush against hers on the table—not an obvious touch, not enough to be outright flirtation—but enough to be noticed.

  And when Misako reached for the drink menu, flipping it open with a teasing, thoughtful hum—Leo didn’t just let it happen.

  He leaned over her shoulder, his lips just close enough to her ear to make it look intimate.

  Calculated.

  Measured.

  A perfectly placed move.

  And the moment I looked away—

  Leo knew.

  I felt it.

  The subtle shift. The way his smirk sharpened. The way his hand—previously resting on the table—lifted, fingers brushing against the small of Misako’s back for half a second as she laughed at something I didn’t hear.

  I should have felt something.

  That usual flicker of frustration, the irritation that always came when Leo pulled a move like this.

  But tonight?

  Tonight, I just felt tired.

  Because I had finally figured it out.

  This was never about Misako.

  It wasn’t about her at all.

  It was about whether I was still looking.

  And for the first time, I wasn’t.

  This was Leo’s version of a question.

  And for the first time, I didn’t answer.

  I took a slow sip of my drink, my fingers trailing idly against the rim of the glass.

  And I turned away.

  9:10 PM – The Rooftop Confrontation

  The warmth from the bar had started pressing against my skin.

  The noise, the bodies, the low hum of conversation threading between sharp bursts of laughter—it was all starting to blur together.

  I needed air.

  I pushed back from the table, slipping past the terrace seating, stepping toward the farthest edge of the rooftop balcony.

  Tokyo stretched out below me, sprawling and endless, the city lights flickering against the glass panels of the building.

  I inhaled slowly, letting the night air settle in my lungs.

  Then, “You really weren’t going to say anything?”

  I didn’t turn right away.

  I knew who it was.

  When I finally glanced over my shoulder, Leo was standing just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his weight shifted slightly onto one leg like this was just another casual conversation.

  I exhaled, my tone neutral. “Say anything about what?”

  Leo took another step forward. “Come on, Spoon Girl.”

  His voice was light, teasing, but there was something else beneath it.

  Not frustration. Not irritation.

  Something softer, uncertain.

  “You’re really gonna pretend you didn’t notice?”

  I met his gaze, steady, unmoved.

  “Notice what, exactly?”

  Leo studied me.

  And for the first time, he hesitated.

  Like he wasn’t sure how much to say.

  How much to admit.

  Finally, he let out a short breath, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

  “Come on, you know I wasn’t serious,” he said, tilting his head, his smirk still there, but smaller now. More thoughtful. “Isn’t this what we do?”

  He stepped closer, watching me.

  “I do something stupid, and you roll your eyes at me?”

  I swallowed.

  Because this was it.

  This was him.

  Leo only ever played as long as the game made sense.

  As long as the rhythm between us stayed the same.

  As long as he could predict the next move.

  But tonight, I had broken the pattern.

  I inhaled slowly, my voice quieter this time.

  “Maybe I just got tired.”

  Leo blinked.

  And for a second, I saw it.

  The realization before I had even said it.

  The weight of it settling between us, heavy and unavoidable.

  Leo let out a quiet exhale, the corner of his mouth twitching—like he was still trying to decide whether to joke about this or take it seriously.

  “Ada—,” he said finally, softer now.

  I turned and walked away before he could say anything else.

  9:30 PM – The Moment I Stop Running

  The air shifted the moment I stepped outside.

  Cooler, heavier—the kind of night air that still held onto the warmth of the city, the pavement beneath me radiating the last traces of heat from the earlier rain. The sounds of the bar faded behind me as I slipped past the main entrance, stepping into the narrow alley tucked between two buildings.

  A train rumbled in the distance, the muted chime of a station announcement threading through the quiet. Across from me, a man leaned against the wall, flicking the last ember off his cigarette before crushing it under his heel, exhaling one final breath of smoke before disappearing around the corner.

  It was exactly what I needed—a place to breathe, a space to step away.

  And then I saw him.

  Ethan.

  Leaning casually against the wall, one foot propped against the brick, scrolling through his phone. His posture was loose, unbothered, the glow of the screen casting faint light across his face.

  A quiet huff escaped me, something between a laugh and a breath.

  Because of course he was here.

  Ethan shifted slightly at the sound, glancing up. His gaze met mine, steady as always.

  Always there.

  The city pulsed behind us, neon flickering in the distance, but the only thing I could focus on was the space between us.

  The space that had always been there.

  The space he had always filled.

  Not demanding. Not pulling.

  Just there.

  I tilted my head, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “You always going to do that?”

  Ethan frowned slightly. “Do what?”

  I swallowed, watching him. Watching the way the dim streetlight traced along his features—sharp, certain, familiar.

  I chose my words carefully, hoping he’d hear what I wasn’t saying.

  “Already be where I need you to be.”

  Ethan’s lips parted slightly.

  Like he hadn’t been expecting that.

  Like he wasn’t sure if I meant to say it out loud.

  Then—

  The smallest, quietest smile.

  Not smug. Not teasing. Just a flicker of something unspoken. A slow exhale, something that felt a little like relief.

  And when he finally spoke, his voice was the same as always.

  Steady. Certain.

  “Yeah.”