Chapter 50
Kokoro sat alone near the back of the parfait shop, slouched in the corner booth with one elbow propped against the window and the other hand stirring the remnants of his half-melted parfait. The spoon clinked idly against the glass bowl, a rhythmic echo of boredom. The bustling shop buzzed around him—customers chatting, parfait glasses clinking, the soft whir of the ice cream mixer behind the counter—but Kokoro’s mind had long detached from it all.
He let out a low sigh, glancing once more at the entrance. The doorbell jingled as another group entered. Kokoro, stirred by instinct, looked toward the sound, eyes faintly glimmering with hope. Maybe, finally, it was them.
And it was.
Sakura and Naomi had finally arrived.
Kokoro straightened subtly in his seat and sighed—not dramatically, but with honest relief. It had been over forty-five minutes since Sakura’s message, and he’d nearly dozed off twice.
Sakura wore a clean white, womanly long-sleeved blouse paired with a flowing blue skirt that danced around her calves. Her white heels clicked softly against the tiles as she entered, and her brown hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, bouncing lightly with every step.
Naomi, by contrast, had a more casual charm—her light pink hoodie slightly oversized, tucked into tight jeans that showed off her long legs. A pair of stylish blue sneakers grounded her steps with ease. Her short, messy black hair framed her face effortlessly, and her naturally light brown skin made her stand out in the soft-lit interior of the shop. A subtle smile played on her lips—a childlike joy that showed how genuinely excited she was to enjoy this day.
Despite the heels, Naomi stood slightly taller than her younger sister. Her presence carried a kind of calm maturity, albeit wrapped in a playful exterior.
Kokoro suppressed a yawn and gave his limbs a slow, calculated stretch under the table. His shoulders rolled back, spine loosening. He refrained from fully extending his arms—he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself than he already had. The disguise he wore wasn’t doing him any favors.
A soft brown coat hung over his shoulders, hiding the simple white shirt he had underneath. His blue pants were modest, but it was the fake black mustache and short black beard that really caught looks. Every now and then, a passing customer would glance his way, eyes flickering with subtle curiosity. In Japan, facial hair like this—especially fake ones—weren’t exactly commonplace. Kokoro was aware.
But he didn’t take it off.
Since, again, despite how dumb he looked—and he fully admitted he looked dumb—he kind of liked it. It made him feel like a sophisticated undercover agent. Or at least a weird uncle with a mission.