Nemuri "Midnight" KayamaNemuri Kayama was halfway through perfecting her eyeliner when her phone buzzed across the vanity.
`Yamada: NEMURI!!! đâď¸ CAFE LUCA!!! 4 PM SHARP!!! >:D`
`Yamada: THIS IS A BLIND DATE INTERVENTION! YOUR MATCHMAKING REIGN OF TERROR ENDS TODAY! đ¤`
`Yamada: I FOUND SOMEONE WHO CAN MATCH YOUR ~VIBES~! â¨đ GET READY TO BE SCHOOLED IN THE ART OF THE SET-UP!`
`Yamada: (Shota didnât say ânoâ when I told him! Thatâs a TACIT BLESSING! đ WE HAVE THE HIGH GROUND!)`
`Yamada: WEAR SOMETHING DEVASTATING! đđ¤ THIS IS GONNA BE LEEEEGENDARY!`
She snorted softly, the kind of sound she only made when she was truly amused. Of course he dragged Shota into this. And of course Shota hadnât stopped him. That man would let you walk straight into a trap as long as it built character.
Her fingers didnât pause as she slid the liquid liner outward in a wicked wing, but her eyes narrowed at her reflection. A date. A blind one. Set up by Hizashi. That meant the possibilities ranged from charming chaos⌠to complete disaster.
Her reply was deliciously ominous.
`Kayama: Darling, if this is your idea of a counterattack, Iâm almost touched by your optimism. đ`
`Kayama: My âreign of terror,â as you so crassly put it, is a public service. đ ⨠Youâre providing a cautionary tale.`
`Kayama: 4:05. If my date isnât already there, looking suitably dazzled and nervous, Iâm leaving. And your next three patrol shifts will mysteriously coincide with the Laundry Hero: Washâs district. đ§źđŚ`
By the time she stepped into CafĂŠ Luca, the sunlight had warmed the brick walls to a golden hue. The interior was cozy without being quaintâbohemian light fixtures, mismatched mugs, the faint sound of jazz playing under the low murmur of late afternoon chatter.
Nemuriâs heels clicked against the tile as she entered, coat draped over one arm, dress catching the light like silk spun from midnight. She didnât need to look around. She was the event.
The barista glanced up, faltered slightly, then smiled. âWelcome in! Would you like to see a menu orâ?â
âDarling, if I looked at a menu, Iâd only order trouble,â Nemuri said, her voice a low, melodic purr that seemed to make the air itself lean in. âAn Americano. Black. Ferociously hot. And that exquisite table by the window is mine, I believe.â
The girl nodded, cheeks just a touch pink. âRight away.â
Nemuri slid into the seat nearest the far wall, angled just enough to give her a clear view of the door. She crossed one leg over the other, settled her arm on the back of the chair, and let the soft clatter of mugs and spoons fill the silence.
This was a ridiculous setup. A surprise match made by a man whoâd once tried to hook Aizawa up with a documentary filmmaker who called Pro Heroes
Still.
She lifted her chin slightly, fingers toying with the base of her water glass. Heâd gone through the trouble. Even picked a place with decent atmosphere. And the fact that he didnât tell her who it was meant one of two things: either he genuinely thought sheâd enjoy it⌠or he was terrified of what sheâd do if he told her ahead of time.
Both options amused her.
Her eyes flicked to the door again. Who would he set her up with? Someone bold? Someone stupid? Someone Hizashi thought could handle her? That last one narrowed it down considerably. Or maybe it didnât. People got bold when they thought they were special. Got boring even faster.
The Americano arrived. She thanked the barista with a practiced smile and lifted the cup to her lips, breathing in the scent more than tasting it. Her gaze drifted again. The bell hadnâtâ
Chime.
Her eyes landed on the figure now standing just inside the cafĂŠ. For a perfect, suspended second, she simply looked. Then, understandingâand immense, wicked amusementâdawned.
It wasnât a smile that bloomed; it was a revelation. Her lips parted, her eyes glittering with a challenge that was also an invitation. She set her cup down with a soft, definitive click.
âMy, my,â she murmured, her voice like smoked velvet. âHizashiâs idea of a compatible âvibeâ is far more⌠intriguing⌠than I gave him credit for.â
Her chin dipped, her lashes lowering just enough to turn her gaze into something intimate and direct. When she spoke, her voice was a low, honeyed wire, vibrating with pure, undisguised anticipation.
âSit downâŚâ A deliberate pause, her smile all edges and promise. ââŚif you think you can handle a date with Midnight.â
`Yamada: NEMURI!!! đâď¸ CAFE LUCA!!! 4 PM SHARP!!! >:D`
`Yamada: THIS IS A BLIND DATE INTERVENTION! YOUR MATCHMAKING REIGN OF TERROR ENDS TODAY! đ¤`
`Yamada: I FOUND SOMEONE WHO CAN MATCH YOUR ~VIBES~! â¨đ GET READY TO BE SCHOOLED IN THE ART OF THE SET-UP!`
`Yamada: (Shota didnât say ânoâ when I told him! Thatâs a TACIT BLESSING! đ WE HAVE THE HIGH GROUND!)`
`Yamada: WEAR SOMETHING DEVASTATING! đđ¤ THIS IS GONNA BE LEEEEGENDARY!`
She snorted softly, the kind of sound she only made when she was truly amused. Of course he dragged Shota into this. And of course Shota hadnât stopped him. That man would let you walk straight into a trap as long as it built character.
Her fingers didnât pause as she slid the liquid liner outward in a wicked wing, but her eyes narrowed at her reflection. A date. A blind one. Set up by Hizashi. That meant the possibilities ranged from charming chaos⌠to complete disaster.
Her reply was deliciously ominous.
`Kayama: Darling, if this is your idea of a counterattack, Iâm almost touched by your optimism. đ`
`Kayama: My âreign of terror,â as you so crassly put it, is a public service. đ ⨠Youâre providing a cautionary tale.`
`Kayama: 4:05. If my date isnât already there, looking suitably dazzled and nervous, Iâm leaving. And your next three patrol shifts will mysteriously coincide with the Laundry Hero: Washâs district. đ§źđŚ`
By the time she stepped into CafĂŠ Luca, the sunlight had warmed the brick walls to a golden hue. The interior was cozy without being quaintâbohemian light fixtures, mismatched mugs, the faint sound of jazz playing under the low murmur of late afternoon chatter.
Nemuriâs heels clicked against the tile as she entered, coat draped over one arm, dress catching the light like silk spun from midnight. She didnât need to look around. She was the event.
The barista glanced up, faltered slightly, then smiled. âWelcome in! Would you like to see a menu orâ?â
âDarling, if I looked at a menu, Iâd only order trouble,â Nemuri said, her voice a low, melodic purr that seemed to make the air itself lean in. âAn Americano. Black. Ferociously hot. And that exquisite table by the window is mine, I believe.â
The girl nodded, cheeks just a touch pink. âRight away.â
Nemuri slid into the seat nearest the far wall, angled just enough to give her a clear view of the door. She crossed one leg over the other, settled her arm on the back of the chair, and let the soft clatter of mugs and spoons fill the silence.
This was a ridiculous setup. A surprise match made by a man whoâd once tried to hook Aizawa up with a documentary filmmaker who called Pro Heroes
necessary evilsin the first fifteen minutes of dinner.
Still.
She lifted her chin slightly, fingers toying with the base of her water glass. Heâd gone through the trouble. Even picked a place with decent atmosphere. And the fact that he didnât tell her who it was meant one of two things: either he genuinely thought sheâd enjoy it⌠or he was terrified of what sheâd do if he told her ahead of time.
Both options amused her.
Her eyes flicked to the door again. Who would he set her up with? Someone bold? Someone stupid? Someone Hizashi thought could handle her? That last one narrowed it down considerably. Or maybe it didnât. People got bold when they thought they were special. Got boring even faster.
The Americano arrived. She thanked the barista with a practiced smile and lifted the cup to her lips, breathing in the scent more than tasting it. Her gaze drifted again. The bell hadnâtâ
Chime.
Her eyes landed on the figure now standing just inside the cafĂŠ. For a perfect, suspended second, she simply looked. Then, understandingâand immense, wicked amusementâdawned.
It wasnât a smile that bloomed; it was a revelation. Her lips parted, her eyes glittering with a challenge that was also an invitation. She set her cup down with a soft, definitive click.
âMy, my,â she murmured, her voice like smoked velvet. âHizashiâs idea of a compatible âvibeâ is far more⌠intriguing⌠than I gave him credit for.â
Her chin dipped, her lashes lowering just enough to turn her gaze into something intimate and direct. When she spoke, her voice was a low, honeyed wire, vibrating with pure, undisguised anticipation.
âSit downâŚâ A deliberate pause, her smile all edges and promise. ââŚif you think you can handle a date with Midnight.â
3916
