Chapter 65: Chapter 64 — Asking the Wrong Two People
It seemed, at the time, like a reasonable idea.
Kaito had been turning the proposal question over for weeks — not whether, but how, and specifically how to approach something this large without either trivializing it through scale or making any single person feel like an afterthought in a list. He needed advice. He didn’t trust his own perspective on romance, having spent most of his previous life avoiding it entirely and the current one being thrown into it sideways.
So, on a slow Tuesday at the café, between customers, he made the mistake of asking Riku and Kenji.
"I need help thinking through something," he said. "Romantic advice, specifically."
Riku set down the cup he was drying with the speed of a man who had been waiting years for this exact sentence.
"Finally," he said. "FINALLY. Kenji, get the notebook."
"We don’t have a notebook," Kenji said.
"Get a notebook," Riku said, with the urgency of a man who considered this a historic occasion.
Kaito immediately regretted his decision.
By the end of the shift, Riku had produced an actual notebook — borrowed from a confused customer who had left it on the counter — and filled three pages with what he called "Proposal Strategy: Comprehensive Edition."
"Okay," Riku said, reading from his notes with theatrical seriousness. "First principle: spectacle. You need spectacle. Skywriting, maybe. Or a flash mob. I know a guy who knows a guy who can organize a flash mob on short notice."
"I don’t want a flash mob," Kaito said.
"That’s because you haven’t seen a GOOD flash mob," Riku said. "Once you see a good flash mob, your whole perspective changes."
"Riku," Kenji said. "He’s proposing to nine different people. A flash mob nine separate times is not romantic, it’s a logistics nightmare."
"Then we do ONE big flash mob," Riku said. "Efficiency. One event, nine proposals, everyone happy."
"That defeats the entire point," Kaito said. "Each person deserves something specific to them, not a shared spectacle."
Riku considered this, visibly disappointed to abandon the flash mob concept, then brightened.
"Fireworks, then," he said. "Nine separate firework displays. One per person. Symbolic. Each one represents their unique—"
"That’s a fire hazard," Kenji said. "And extremely expensive."
"Love is expensive," Riku said solemnly.
Things did not improve from there.
Riku’s subsequent suggestions, delivered with unwavering confidence over the following days, included: a synchronized swimming routine ("I know a guy"), a proposal disguised as a surprise pop quiz during one of Kaito’s university lectures ("educational AND romantic"), renting a hot air balloon ("for the symbolism of rising above all the drama"), and, memorably, a plan involving trained doves that Riku insisted he had "basically figured out" despite having no actual access to trained doves or any indication that such a service existed.
Kenji’s suggestions were marginally more practical but consistently centered around food.
"You propose with the food they love most," Kenji said, with the conviction of a man whose entire worldview revolved around snacks. "Nana, you make her favorite dish and put the ring inside the rice. Romantic. Classic."
"That’s a choking hazard," Kaito said.
"Romantic choking hazard," Kenji said.
"That’s not a category."
"It could be," Kenji said.
By the end of the week, Kaito had a notebook full of plans ranging from the impractical to the actively dangerous, none of which felt remotely close to what he actually wanted, and a growing sense that he had made a significant error in judgment.
He found Yuki at the coffee station, watching the entire ordeal unfold with the patient, slightly amused expression of someone who had predicted exactly this outcome.
"You knew this would happen," he said.
"I had a fairly strong suspicion," Yuki said, not looking up from the espresso machine. "You asked the two men whose primary life experiences are café shifts and elaborate snack theories for romantic advice. What did you expect."
"I thought they might have useful perspective."
"They have enthusiasm," Yuki said. "That’s different from useful perspective."
He looked at the notebook in his hand, at three days of dove-related nonsense and choking hazards.
"Who should I have asked," he said.
Yuki finally looked up, considering the question with genuine thought rather than her usual deflection.
"You already know each of us," she said. "Better than anyone’s advice could tell you. You don’t need a strategy from Riku and Kenji. You need to actually think about each person specifically — what matters to them, what they’d remember, what would feel like it was made for them and nobody else." She paused. "You’re overcomplicating something you’re already equipped to do well. You’ve been doing it since the alley. Since the tap you fixed. Since the breakfast you made before anyone woke up. You don’t need a strategy meeting. You need to just keep doing what you’ve always done, but with intention this time."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"That’s actually useful advice," he said.
"I know," she said, returning to the espresso machine. "Unlike the doves."
He found Riku and Kenji at the end of the shift, both still clearly proud of their contributions.
"I’m not doing the flash mob," he said. "Or the doves. Or the choking hazard rice."
"That’s disappointing but understandable," Riku said. "The doves were a long shot anyway, I’ll be honest."
"I appreciate the enthusiasm," Kaito said, and meant it, despite everything. "But I think I need to figure this out myself. Individually. For each person."
"That’s actually smarter," Kenji admitted. "We were kind of going big because it’s fun to think about, not because it’s actually what anyone needs."
"Speak for yourself," Riku said. "The flash mob would have been incredible."
"Can we still help, though," Kenji said. "Even just logistics. I’m good at logistics. Less good at romance, apparently, but genuinely good at logistics."
Kaito considered this.
"Logistics, yes," he said. "Romance, I’ll handle myself."
"Fair," Riku said. "Probably wise, given the dove situation."
That evening, sitting in the garden with Saki’s wedding folder open beside him — the venues, the consultant’s contact information, all the practical groundwork already laid — Kaito began, finally, to actually think clearly about what each proposal should look like.
Not spectacle. Not strategy. Just attention, the same attention he’d been paying since the very beginning, applied now with deliberate purpose.
He thought about Yoru and the slipper that started everything, the door left open, the bookmark she’d slipped into his manga without saying a word about it.
He thought about Nana and a tap he’d fixed, a concrete step, an envelope with no conditions attached.
He thought about Tsukasa and a tree, a note that had survived eleven years and every address since.
He thought about Haruka and a high ceiling, a question asked before anything else mattered.
He thought about Yuki and a mirror turned fifteen degrees, a cup dropped that she’d never admit to dropping on purpose.
He thought about Satsuki and a stool, a spreadsheet, eleven weeks of patient documentation that had never once asked for anything in return.
He thought about Elena and basil planted for morning light, a notebook that had watched him long before he’d known he was being watched.
He thought about Saori, new and still uncertain, deserving of something that told her clearly she belonged here too, not as an afterthought to an already-full house.
Nine people. Nine entirely different stories. Nine entirely different reasons he loved each of them, none of which could be captured by a flash mob or a dangerous rice dish.
He closed the notebook, the plan finally settling into something real.
"One at a time," he said quietly, to the garden, to the rain-fed herbs, to the quiet dark. "Properly. Each one specific."
The house hummed warmly behind him, full of the people he was about to spend considerably more thought on than Riku’s doves had ever deserved.
He had work to do.
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