7:32 PM.

  The air conditioning hummed softly. The convenience store lights were glaring as usual, shelves neatly stocked, coffee machine bubbling quietly in the background. Outside it was already dark—only the neon sign above the entrance flickered gently in rhythm.

  “You've gotta loosen up, you know,” Hayashi-san said, restocking some onigiri. “I’m loose,” he replied. “You're about as loose as a mechanical pencil. Look: if a girl laughs and touches her hair—that’s your sign.” “My sign...for what exactly?” Hayashi grinned broadly. “That she feels comfortable. And that you should say something halfway charming.” “Charming like what? ‘Nice haircut’?” “Brother,” Hayashi said dramatically, “you seriously need lessons.”

  He shook his head, rearranging packs of gum. “I don’t need a date. I need sleep.” “You'll sleep when you're in a coffin. Right now, you’re alive. So, live a little.” “You should write a book.” “I did. In my head. Title: Hayashi-san’s 101 Ways to a Woman’s Heart.” “Sounds like a manga with a buyer-beware label.”

  Hayashi laughed—a real, deep laugh.

  Then: Ding. The automatic door opened. Outside, a quiet engine, headlights briefly flaring.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  She walked in.

  As always. Loose-fitting hoodie. Black jeans. And that look—calm, almost bored. He didn’t even know her name. Only that she came nearly every Saturday night. And that she drove a black RX-7 he'd only ever seen in video games.

  “Good evening,” she said, almost casually. “G-Good evening,” he replied, trying not to stare.

  Hayashi looked at him, raised a meaningful eyebrow, and whispered: “That right there—that’s a hair-touch moment. This is your cue, Romeo.” He pretended not to hear and busied himself behind the cash register.

  At the register, she placed her items on the conveyor. “Card or cash?” he asked. “Card.” She handed him the loyalty card, her fingernails short and clean. He scanned it. Beep.

  It didn’t take twenty seconds.

  “Thank you. Have a nice evening,” he said. She picked up her bag, turned toward the door—and then, just before leaving, turned halfway back. Slightly. And smiled.

  Not a broad grin, not flirtatious—just this quiet, fleeting I saw you smile.

  Then she was outside. The RX-7 started with a gentle rumble, and she was gone.

  He blinked, staring through the glass as the taillights disappeared into the distance.

  “...So?” Hayashi suddenly said beside him. “So what?” “You didn’t notice, did you?” “Notice what?” Hayashi leaned both hands on the counter as if emotionally bracing himself. “That look. That smile. Brother, I'm telling you—it wasn't random.” “Maybe she was just happy the scanner worked.” “You’re hopeless.”

  He shrugged, pretending to sort change. Yet inside, the image lingered—that small smile, hardly lasting longer than a heartbeat.

  Maybe Hayashi was right. Or maybe not.