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The cafe is cosy, chequerboard tiles and Tiffany lamps set to a low glow, gentle hues of orange and green that soothe her soul in ways she didn’t know she needed.
“Woah,” she murmurs. “How did you even find this place?”
Kaminari scratches at the edge of his chin. She can see the scar from where a piece of gravel nicked him five weeks prior.
“I just found it one night after patrol,” he says simply. “Here, let me - ”
He takes her coat, drapes it across a hat-stand, then sweeps his arm. “After you, m’lady.”
She gives a soft chuckle.
It becomes a habit. Well, enough to be considered a habit, perhaps.
Kyoka graduates from sidekick beat to her own agency, small and close-knit with a couple of eager young bucks under her watch. He keeps himself freelancing, hopes around the big boys.
But they meet every week, close to twilight on the mosaic steps, at this all-nighter slice of heaven.
He orders American-style hash browns and sausage, she orders a black coffee and a Bloody Mary.
It’s nice. Scratch that, it’s more than nice. It’s something she hasn’t realised she needed.
He’s something she’d tried to deny she wanted.
There’s an old jukebox in the corner, the type that still has old forty-fives and coin-slot operation. He’s stood there, hair curling at the ends after the downpour.
He punches in a combo, and the sounds of Moonlight Shadow echo across the brown-oak walls and stained-glass mirror.
“I’m thinking of going solo,” he says, and she sits up. “Maybe in the spring.”
“You should,” she tells him. “You’d be great at it.”
“You think?” he says, then barks an empty laugh. “I dunno, Ky. I think I wouldn’t know how to.”
She bites her lip. “Move in next to me.”
The brown paper bag with their takeaway breakfast from the bar is on the counter. So is her torso as he kneels behind her, face buried in her ass.
“Don’t you - ugh - fucking dare stop,” she tells him, grips the edge with a moan. Her bra has shucked up in the ruckus, her breasts pressed firm against the butcher block.
“I wouldn’t - mmmm - dream of it,” he says, mouth full with her sex. It sends spasms through her navel, and she feels her legs go weak.
The aroma of coffee and hash browns washes over her. Kyoka groans, then comes.
He’s already in the booth, foot tapping against the floor as she stoops to drop a kiss on his head, then slide in opposite him.
There’s a single plate with an upturned coffee cup on it. She raises her eyebrows.
“Thirsty, were you?” she asks. He stares, and after a moment, she sighs, picks it up.
The ring is nestled on a small purple cushion. It is absolutely gorgeous.
She claps her hand to her mouth. His eyes are like pools of liquid moonlight.
“Marry me, please?” he asks.
She swallows, then smiles as the tears start to come. “Always.”