The dim silence of the room still lingered.
Even though the tension had been defused just moments ago, a faint trace of heat seemed to smolder beneath the surface—like embers buried beneath ash, not yet extinguished.
Jinguu You was leaning back in his chair now, one arm resting lazily on the armrest, but his eyes remained locked on Yokoyama Ritsuko.
She'd returned to sipping her beer as if nothing had happened, but there was a flicker—an undeniable flicker—of something in her expression. A shift too subtle for words, but too loud to miss.
"You're quite something, you know that, Ritsuko-san?" Jinguu said, his voice low, with a touch of dry amusement. "Playing with fire like that."
"Hm? Fire?"
Ritsuko tilted her head slightly, her jet-black hair swaying against the frame of her glasses. "You mean just now? You're the one who couldn't keep your hands to yourself, weren't you?"
There was a teasing glint in her eye, but the way she leaned back on the bed, one leg draped over the other, made it clear—she wasn't as unaffected as she pretended to be.
"Careful," she added, her voice silky. "A mature woman like me might just burn a boy like you alive."
"Then maybe I'm into getting burned."
The line slipped out before he could second-guess it. He wasn't trying to play cool—he wasn't that kind of guy. It just felt... natural. The tension between them didn't feel forced. It was electric, yes, but also strangely comfortable.
Maybe it was because he could tell: Ritsuko wasn't like the other women he knew.
This wasn't just about sex appeal. It was about presence.
Her body had all the fire and softness of a woman at her physical prime—legs hugged by those sleek black stockings, full curves wrapped neatly in a form-fitting suit—but it was her aura that drew him in. The way she carried herself. The subtle authority in her voice. The playful danger behind every smirk.
This woman was real.
Not a fantasy. Not a girl. Not an idol. A woman—sharp, intelligent, and utterly, devastatingly alive.
Ritsuko looked at him for a long moment.
And then, finally, she spoke.
"…You're more dangerous than you look, little master."
There was no sarcasm in her tone this time. Just a flat honesty, tinged with something else. Something warmer.
"Is that a compliment?"
"A warning."
She stood up, brushed her skirt down, and walked toward the door with the empty can in her hand. Her high heels clicked softly against the wooden floorboards, each step deliberate.
Just before she stepped out, she paused.
"I'm heading home. I've got meetings in the morning," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "Tell your gardener team I'll drop by next week to check on the sakura."
"…Alright."
Her hand touched the doorknob—but then stopped. Without turning around, she added:
"By the way—your draft manuscript on the desk… it's good. Rough, but good. Don't hide it next time."
Then, she was gone.
— — —
The door shut softly behind her.
Jinguu sat there for a long time, the echo of her presence still hanging in the air like the lingering notes of a jazz track fading into silence.
He exhaled.
Goddamn.
His fingers moved unconsciously toward the mouse, clicking open his storyboarding software.
He wasn't going to sleep tonight.
He had a scene in his head now. One with legs in black stockings, eyes behind glasses, a smirk sharper than any blade.
A mature woman...
Like a cigarette lit under moonlight.
The kind of character you don't draw unless you've met one.
The kind that leaves a burn when she leaves.