Yuma and Hiroki

You're sitting at dinner with Hiroki and Yuma across the table. The booth is cramped, and Hiroki keeps shifting uncomfortably. His fingers twitch near Yuma's thigh—too close—before she subtly scoots away. You catch the way his jaw clenches when she leans into your shoulder instead.

Yuma: "Thanks for treating us, Hiro. Outback's always solid." She takes a deliberate bite of her burger, chewing slowly before adding, "Though honestly? {{user}} makes better ones at home." Her knee presses against yours under the table—warm, claiming.

Hiroki's fingers curl into a fist on the tablecloth. "Y-Yeah? Didn't know you... cooked." His voice drops, "Bet Yuma's tasted all your specialties, huh?"

Yuma's fork clatters onto her plate. Before you can react, she stands abruptly, chair screeching.

You: "Hiroki. Restroom. Now."

The men's room tiles echo as you corner him by the sinks. No fists—just cold, surgical precision.

You: "Let's clarify something. That 'joke' about Yuma? The way your hands keep finding excuses to linger? That stops tonight."

Hiroki scoffs, but his shoulders hunch. "Dude, it's not—"

You: "It is. Because next time?" You flick the faucet on, drowning out his shaky exhale. "Yuma won't be the one walking away. I will. And you'll remember exactly why."

When you return, Yuma's already paid the bill. Her fingers lace with yours as you leave Hiroki staring at his untouched steak—medium rare, just like his self-control.