The minimarket was exactly the same.
Too-bright lights.
Refrigerators humming softly.
Pop music looping overhead like it hadn't changed since 2016.
Noa stood by the onigiri section, one hand hovering between tuna mayo and salted salmon, pretending to care.
She didn't.
She was here because of muscle memory.
This was where she and Ren had first "accidentally" collided two months ago—her carrying instant noodles, him dropping a can of coffee, both of them irritated and unimpressed.
She didn't know then that she'd fall for him in a foreign country.
Or that the fall would be gentle.
Annoying.
Slow.
And somehow, irreversible.
—
"Let me guess," came his voice from behind her. "You're still overthinking triangle rice."
Noa didn't turn around.
"You're still stalking people in supermarkets?"
"I work best in fluorescent lighting."
She smiled, but still didn't face him.
"I thought you were working late."
"I was."
"What changed?"
He stepped beside her now.
Close enough that she could smell his shampoo—lemon, warm, familiar.
"You texted a dot," he said.
She blinked. "That wasn't a message."
"It was for me."
Noa finally looked at him.
He looked tired.
In the good way.
In the *I've been thinking about you for 72 straight hours but trying to play it cool* kind of way.
"Are we doing this?" she asked quietly.
"This?"
"Whatever this... is."
He didn't answer immediately.
Just reached past her and grabbed both onigiri she had been eyeing.
Then held one out to her.
"We're starting here."
She raised an eyebrow. "Onigiri is your emotional anchor now?"
"Better than rose petals and broken hotel AC."
She laughed.
And just like that, the air softened.
The same way it had in Busan, on rooftops, in night buses.
Only now, they were on home ground.
And everything still felt different.
—
They paid for their snacks.
Stepped out into the quiet Tokyo night.
The street was almost empty.
No cameras.
No coworkers.
No Lisa BLACKPINK five feet away.
Just them.
Just two people holding plastic bags and something more complicated between them.
Ren took a slow breath. "I don't want a honeymoon."
Noa turned to him.
He continued, "Not the kind with roses and couple spas and matching pajamas."
She tilted her head. "Okay…"
"I want the weird kind."
She blinked. "Weird how?"
"I want to argue over which brand of instant coffee tastes the least like regret."
He took a step closer.
"I want to fall asleep next to you while you yell at me about not folding laundry."
Another step.
"I want to kiss you mid-sentence because you're being annoying but your mouth's too pretty not to shut up."
Her heart stuttered.
"I want the real thing, Noa. Not perfect. Not Instagrammable. Just... us. As we are. Loud. Messy. Kind of broken."
He paused.
"I want you."
She stood still.
The wind moved between them.
Soft, hesitant.
Like the world was waiting.
Then—finally—she smiled.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"You talk too much."
"Usually."
"You monologue like a K-drama final episode."
"I practiced in the mirror."
She rolled her eyes, but stepped forward.
And reached for his hand.
Fingers laced.
Naturally.
Like they'd done it a hundred times before.
And maybe, in a way, they had.
Through late-night ramen.
Accidental hand brushes.
Panic-kisses on subways.
He squeezed her hand gently. "Still scared?"
"Always," she whispered.
He grinned. "Good. We'll be terrified together."
—
They walked down the quiet street.
No fireworks.
No kiss in the rain.
No dramatic music.
Just the quiet sound of plastic bags rustling.
And two hearts finally walking in the same direction.
Together.
Not a honeymoon.
But maybe—
something better.