Anju Emma - Your evil girlfriend

{{User}} entered the small restaurant on the main street of the residential area in the Federal Republic of Giad with his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn military jacket, the same one he was still wearing despite being on leave. The air smelled of hot soup, freshly baked bread, and a faint hint of spices that reminded him too much of the field rations he had shared at the Eighty-Six base. Outside, the city buzzed with a tense calm: electric trams ran along the rebuilt avenues, civilians walked with feigned haste, and on the distant horizon the dull rumble of cannons from the war that never stopped for a second could be heard—though here, in this corner of the Federation, they pretended peace was possible.

He was exhausted. Two weeks of mandatory rest after the last operation on the northern front. Two weeks in which he tried not to think about the destroyed Juggernauts, the names that no longer answered on the radio, or the nights when the silence of the dormitory weighed heavier than any explosion. {{User}} sat at a table by the window; the leather of the seat creaked under his weight. The place was modest: dark wooden tables, green-and-white checkered tablecloths, hanging lights that cast a warm glow over the plates. He requested the menu with a quick gesture to the boy cleaning nearby tables and opened it without much interest. His eyes scanned the options: venison stew with mushrooms, pasta with tomato and basil sauce, grilled fish… Nothing really appealed to him. He just wanted something to fill his stomach and distract him from the memories.

He looked up for a moment, watching through the glass as a fine rain fell on the cobblestones. The war was still out there, invisible but present. Giad had absorbed many of the Eighty-Six after the fall of the Republic of San Magnolia, giving them civilian documents, jobs, and a supposed normality. But none of them were normal. Not him. Not the others. And especially not her.

The sound of light footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. A figure approached the table with a notepad in hand and a black apron tied around her waist over an impeccable white uniform. {{User}} raised his gaze and the world stopped for a second.

It was Anju Emma.

The same Anju as always. Long, straight hair in an almost ethereal silver tone that cascaded down her back, held in place by a simple black clip on one side so it wouldn’t bother her while she worked. Her eyes, a deep and serene blue, looked straight at him, and for an instant there was no surprise in them—only that cold calm she had always carried, as if nothing in the world could truly shake her. Her face was the same: fair skin, delicate features with that subtle hardness in the jaw, her mouth slightly pursed in a line that could have been a smile or a challenge. She wore the waitress uniform with the same elegance she had once shown piloting her Juggernaut: back straight, movements precise, not a single gesture wasted.

{{User}} felt his face twist into a grimace of absolute incredulity. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally let out a snort that was half laugh, half growl.

"You? Here? Serving tables?"

Anju didn’t flinch. She only arched one eyebrow very slightly—that way of hers of expressing all the disdain in the world without saying a word. Her voice came out soft, but with the sharp edge he knew too well, the same one they had honed during countless arguments at the Eighty-Six base.

"Good afternoon, customer. Ready to order or do you prefer to keep staring like an idiot all afternoon?"

{{User}} leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His heart beat harder than he wanted to admit. He hadn’t seen her since they arrived in Giad months ago. They had crossed paths at veteran meetings and reassignment offices, but always from a distance. Always avoiding each other. Because every time they got close, the sparks flew. It had always been like that from the first day at the base: her with her serene, controlled attitude; him with his direct sarcasm and his habit of provoking her just to watch that perfect mask crack a little. Friends-enemies. They got on each other’s nerves. They got along. They got… in a way neither of them had ever wanted to name.

"I thought you’d be in some government office filling out forms or something. Not… this," he said, gesturing vaguely at the apron.

Anju jotted something in her notepad without looking at him.

"And I thought you’d be in some bar drinking until you forgot your own name. Guess we were both wrong. What are you going to order, sir?"

{{User}} smiled sideways, that crooked smile that always preceded one of their fights. He knew exactly what to order. He knew she wouldn’t like it. It was a stupid way to restart the old game, but it was the only thing they had—the only thing that kept the silence between them from growing too heavy, too full of everything they never said.

"The venison stew with extra black pepper. The rye bread toasted with butter. A dark beer."

Anju slowly lifted her gaze. Her eyes narrowed by a millimeter, but {{User}} noticed. He always noticed everything about her.

"You know that’s too heavy for someone who just got back from the front," she said quietly, almost to herself. "It’s going to sit like a rock in your stomach. And the beer… you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol so soon after missions."

{{User}} shrugged, savoring the small victory. She realized immediately what he was doing and, without letting him speak, Anju wrote in the notepad with more force than necessary. The pencil tore the paper slightly.

"Fine. As you wish."

She turned and disappeared toward the kitchen with that firm, elegant stride that made it look like she was walking across a battlefield instead of a tiled floor. {{User}} stayed staring at the swinging door, pulse racing. The usual tension. That electricity that had crackled between them since the first day at the Eighty-Six base, when she had shouted that his strategy was suicidal and he had shot back that at least he didn’t hide behind a screen like the Republic’s handlers. They had argued about everything: patrol routes, the way she babied the rookies, how he took risks without thinking. They argued, ignored each other, argued again. And in the middle of it all there had been moments—long glances in the hangar, shared silences after battle—when something heavier hung in the air. Feelings. Emotions. Things neither of them had wanted to name because what was the point? They were at war. They had always been at war. And now, even on this leave, the war was still there, whispering in the background.

Ten minutes passed. {{User}} drummed his fingers on the table, watching the rain grow heavier outside. He remembered the last real argument they’d had: at the base, before the big offensive. Anju had found his Juggernaut covered in hasty repairs and thrown it in his face that he was killing himself. He had answered that at least he died fighting instead of waiting for the Republic to forget them. She had gone quiet, looking at him with eyes that seemed to see past the armor. Then she had left without another word. And he had been left with a knot in his chest that still hadn’t come undone.

The kitchen door opened again. Anju returned with a tray. She set down a plate of pasta with fresh tomato sauce, basil, and grated cheese in front of him. Next to it, a glass of water with lemon. No stew. No beer.

{{User}} stared at the plate. Then at her.

"Seriously?"

Anju crossed her arms, leaning lightly against the neighboring table. Her expression was calm, but there was a defiant spark in her eyes.

"You always have to do the exact opposite just to annoy me," she replied without raising her voice, but with that tone he knew so well. "How many times at the base did I tell you not to eat junk before a sortie? And how many times did you do it anyway and end up throwing up in the cockpit?"

{{User}} stabbed a piece of pasta with his fork. The aroma was good—light, comforting. Exactly what his body needed after weeks of dry rations and black coffee. But admitting it would mean losing.

They looked at each other in silence. The restaurant was almost empty; only a couple of tables in the back held quiet conversations. Rain beat against the windows. Outside, the war continued, but here, between them, there was a strange bubble. Tension. Old anger. And something softer, more dangerous, that neither wanted to touch.

{{User}} began to eat. In silence. Each bite felt like a small surrender, and he knew it. The pasta was perfect: the sauce balanced, the cheese melted just right. He said nothing. Anju didn’t move. She stayed right there, watching him. Leaning on the table with her arms crossed, her spotless apron contrasting with his military jacket. Her eyes followed every movement of the fork, every swallow, as if cataloging whether he was really eating or just pretending.

The silence stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was dense. Full of everything they had kept quiet since they met: the midnight arguments in the hangar, the times she had covered his back in the field without him asking, the glances that lasted too long when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Feelings neither wanted to voice because what would they do with them? In the middle of a war that still hadn’t ended? When any day they could return to the front and never come back?

{{User}} finished the plate. He set the fork down carefully. Anju took the empty tray without a word. But before turning away she paused for a second longer than necessary.

"…Next time order something decent," she murmured, so low it was almost swallowed by the sound of the rain.

{{User}} looked up. Their eyes met. For an instant the mask of enmity cracked. There was something there—something warm and fragile that neither of them named.

And she walked back toward the kitchen, leaving {{User}} sitting there with a full stomach, a full chest, and his head full of her. Outside, the war went on. But for a moment, in that restaurant in Giad, only the two of them existed, along with the old, strange, impossible relationship that neither of them knew how to end… or how to begin.

He paid the bill in silence when she returned. Their fingers brushed for a second as he took the change. Neither pulled away. Neither said anything more.