The clink of glass against wood was the only sound that filled the space around her.
The restaurant was mostly empty now—just a few couples murmuring quietly in the background, their laughter and soft conversations blurring into meaningless noise.
The romantic jazz playing overhead felt like a cruel joke.
Ayaka sat at the bar, shoulders hunched slightly as she cradled her fourth glass of wine in both hands.
Her cheeks were flushed, but it wasn't from the alcohol. Not entirely.
The warmth in her chest did little to melt the heaviness she felt there.
"I've had enough romance." The words had slipped from her lips too easily earlier—sharp, defensive, final.
She took another sip. Then another.
Across from her, the bartender glanced over cautiously but said nothing.
She probably looked like a woman waiting for a date that wasn't coming.
Or maybe just a woman who had already been left behind.
Her hand drifted to the silver necklace around her throat, the one Akihiko had given her.
She clutched it tightly, fingers curling around the pendant like it might ground her—anchor her to something solid, something that made sense.
But nothing made sense anymore.
Akihiko was gone. No goodbye. No explanation. And still—still—he was the only one she couldn't let go of.
Then came Makoto Miura—the infamous Moonlight Sonata.
All charm and sharp edges, elegance in a perfect storm.
Those green eyes had seen through her too quickly.
He wore his mystery like a tailored suit, but when he smiled at her, there was something disarming behind it.
And worse than that, he saw through her.
Not just Ms. Midnight—but Ayaka Yamamoto.
She laughed bitterly into her glass.
"What the hell is up with men and dramatic entrances?" she muttered under her breath, blinking slowly as the room swayed just slightly.
She took another long drink, setting the glass down a little too hard this time.
He had offered her a collaboration. A romance-mystery.
His voice had been smooth, hopeful, like he already saw the words they could write together.
And for a second—for the briefest second—something in her had trembled.
But not in excitement.
In guilt.
Because her heart still belonged to someone else.
Someone who didn't choose to stay.
"Sorry. I don't do collaborations. I've had enough romance."
She had said it and it was colder than she meant to.
But she needed him to hear it.
Needed herself to hear it.
Because if she said it enough times, maybe it would start to feel true.
She stared into the bottom of her glass.
The wine was gone.
The ache wasn't.
The dimly lit lounge hummed with soft jazz, the clink of glassware, and the murmur of distant conversations.
Ayaka sat at the bar, her posture slouched, eyes unfocused as she stared into her glass.
The weight of the day pressed heavily on her shoulders.
A familiar voice broke through the haze. "Ms. Yamamoto, what are you doing here?"
She turned slightly, recognizing the voice before she even saw him.
Makoto Miura stood a few steps away, his presence as composed as ever.
His gaze softened as he looked at her with concern.
"So Moonlight Sonata has become a stalker now?" Ayaka's voice was tinged with sarcasm, though there was an edge of vulnerability beneath it.
Makoto chuckled softly, his lips curving into a knowing smile. "I frequently eat in this place. Didn't expect to find you here."
Ayaka's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening around her glass. "Good. Then pretend you didn't see me."
She took another sip, her movements deliberate, as if trying to drown the thoughts swirling in her mind.
But Makoto wasn't so easily dismissed.
He slid onto the stool beside her, his presence steady and unwavering. "You've had enough."
She scoffed, not meeting his gaze. "I think I know when I already have enough."
Makoto's expression remained unchanged, though his eyes held a flicker of concern. "You're clearly drunk."
"Just leave me alone." she snapped, her voice sharp, but there was a tremor beneath the surface.
He hesitated, then gently placed a hand on her wrist, stopping her from reaching for another drink. "You'll regret it in the morning."
Ayaka's eyes met his, her gaze unfocused but intense. "I regret a lot of things already."
Before he could respond, she took another long drink, her hand trembling slightly.
The room seemed to tilt, and her vision blurred.
She swayed, her body betraying her.
Makoto's instincts kicked in. "Yamamoto-"
But it was too late. She lurched forward, vomiting into a napkin-covered corner of the bar.
He acted swiftly, catching her before she collapsed. "Shit—" he muttered under his breath, his arms steady as he cradled her against him.
Her head lolled against his shoulder, her breathing shallow.
Her lips murmured something incoherent, her words lost in the haze of alcohol and emotion.
Makoto's heart clenched. He couldn't leave her like this.
He reached under her legs, one arm supporting her back, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms in princess-style.
The scent of wine and perfume clung to her like grief.
She was light—too light—and Makoto's jaw tightened as he looked down at her pale, tear-streaked face.
He whispered. "What broke you Ms. Midnight?"
Then he turned, carrying her through the restaurant, past the startled gazes and hushed whispers.
His expression was unreadable, focused solely on getting her the help she needed.
Outside, the night air was cool, the rain beginning to fall in gentle sheets. He opened the door to his car, carefully placing her in the back seat.
He slid into the driver's seat, starting the engine.
The car pulled away into the night, the city lights blurring past.
Makoto's thoughts raced.
He had seen the pain in her eyes, the walls she had built around herself.
But for now, all he could do was be there for her.
------
The soft click of the door echoed faintly as Makoto stepped into his apartment, carrying Ayaka carefully in his arms.
The space was warm and quiet, lit only by the low ambient glow from the hallway sconces.
Marble floors, high ceilings, and expensive silence—Makoto Miura's penthouse was everything the world expected of him.
Polished.
Immaculate.
But right now, none of it matters.
"She needs help." he said simply to the staff who rushed in with startled gasps at the sight of the woman in his arms.
The maids—long accustomed to his unpredictable whims—nodded without a word, immediately moved to prepare for the guest room.
One of them stepped forward with a blanket.
Another fetched a basin of warm water.
Makoto paused only to glance down at the woman he carried.
Ayaka's face was pale, her lips parted in sleep, a damp strand of hair stuck to her cheek.
The cardigan was still draped over her like a shield she didn't know how to let go of.
He laid her gently on the plush mattress, brushing the hair from her forehead.
"She's drunk." he said quietly. "Don't wake her."
He turned away as the maids began their delicate work—removing the soiled clothes, wiping her down with warm towels, dressing her in a clean satin robe, tucking her under the blankets like porcelain.
And then he waited.
He sat in the velvet armchair near the window, legs crossed, a glass of untouched scotch resting on the side table.
The city lights sprawled beyond the glass like a galaxy, but he barely looked at them.
His eyes were fixed on the woman in his bed.
Ayaka Yamamoto.
Ms. Midnight.
The woman who said she had no room left for romance.
The woman who looked like she'd been broken by it.
He couldn't leave her alone.
But he knew better than to get involved in other people's messes—especially when they came wrapped in haunted eyes and desperate silences.
Yet something about her made it impossible.
She wasn't like the other women who flitted through his world.
She didn't fawn over him.
She didn't try to seduce him.
She wasn't charmed by his mystery—if anything, she recoiled from it.
And yet, when she drank, when she broke, it wasn't a performance.
It was real.
Raw.
Makoto watched her beneath the covers.
She was sleeping heavily now, her brows occasionally twitching in a dream.
Her hand remained curled around the edge of the blanket like she was still clutching something she didn't want to let go.
The same hand that reached for her necklace earlier.
The same expression he caught when he said romance.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a contemplative look in his eyes.
"Did I arrive too late?" he murmured under his breath.
His gaze dropped on the necklace round her neck again.
Makoto's jaw tightened.
He downed the scotch in one shot, the burn doing little to distract him from the ache of thoughts swirling in his chest.
She stirred slightly, her brow furrowing.
He rose, silent and fluid, walking over to her side.
For a long moment, he just looked down at her—at the delicate curve of her mouth, the tear stains that still lingered faintly on her cheeks, the shadow of exhaustion beneath her eyes.
She looked fragile in sleep.
Too fragile to break again.
Without a word, he reached down and gently pulled the cardigan back over her shoulders.
She sighed in response, settling more deeply into the bed.
Makoto stepped back, running a hand through his hair. He didn't return to his chair.
He sat on the edge of the couch instead, watching her in the dim room, the hours slipping by in a slow, steady hum.
She didn't speak.
But her presence lingered in the air like a secret he hadn't yet read.