Between Makoto Niijima and Ryuji Sakamoto as romantic.
The amber glow of dusk bathed the streets of Tokyo in a gentle warmth, a stark contrast to the cold and calculated days that Makoto Niijima once knew. The rhythmic clatter of her motorcycle helmet's buckle sounded like a distant echo of the past as she secured it beneath the seat of her parked bike. She had chosen a life of order, aiming to shape a career in law to uphold justice in a way that didn't require a mask or a codename. But as she wandered towards a small café nestled in the corner of the neighborhood, Makoto couldn't shake the feeling that the quiet was a little too perfect, a little too still.
Two tables away, the brashness of Ryuji Sakamoto's laughter cut through the tranquility of the evening. The former Phantom Thief sat with his back to the world, animatedly sharing stories of his latest track meet with a group of similarly disheveled friends. In the span of a few years, he traded the masks and metaphysical heists for medals and the adrenaline of pure, palpable speed. But despite the mundane bliss, there was an edge to his gait, a leftover from the days when every step could lead to another battle.
Their order - a latte for her, a strawberry frappe for him - arrived, and Makoto smiled politely at the server, all the while her eyes flitting unintentionally towards the boisterous group. She found it funny, how fate worked its tangled web around their lives, bringing them to the same place at the same time, thrust aside from the lives they lived together.
As luck, or perhaps misfortune would have it, one of Ryuji's friends gestured too grandly, elbow connecting sharply with the back of his chair, which tipped perilously into Makoto's quiet space. Time stuttered, and Makoto's pulse quickened, a drumbeat from a war long since won. And like a domino, moment collided with moment, until a gale of apologies and helping hands had them locked in a surprise reunion.
"Makoto? Woah, what are you doing here?" Ryuji's voice rang with genuine surprise, and something more — a note of warmth that was once buried under the weight of greater resurgences.
"Just... passing time," she replied, her well-crafted barrier of aloofness cracking at the edges. "How have you been, Ryuji?"
The conversation flowed easier than she would have expected, reminiscing about the absurd and terrifying turn their high school years had taken. As the sun dipped lower, casting an orange hue over their shared table, the pair found themselves easing back into familiar territory. Except now the small sparks of adolescent camaraderie seemed to have grown, fanned by the shared glance and the softening of a smile.
But beneath the comfort lurked a frayed edge; an unspoken acknowledgement of the chaos that once ruled their lives, eager to rear its head once more. When Makoto's phone buzzed with a message — a cryptic note from an old teammate, hinting at trouble — the past wasn't just a memory anymore. It was a shadow at their table, a silent guest ready to remind them who they once were.
"Ryuji... I think we need to see the others," Makoto said, urgency lacing her words.
Ryuji's eyes hardened with the resolve of a thousand battles fought together but tempered with the calm of battles survived. He nodded, "Right. Let's not keep destiny waiting."
And in that moment, as the last light of day gave way to the onset of a Tokyo night, Makoto and Ryuji stood up from their table, leaving behind the remnants of coffee and cake. Turning towards a shared twilight, they didn't walk as just friends or potential lovers—they stepped forward as unsung heroes, ready to face whatever shadows awaited them. Once more, into the breach.