Warm air, thick with the scent of rice vinegar and fresh fish, wrapped around her. The low hum of conversation and the clatter of chopsticks filled the small space.

Every stool at the counter was taken. Groups of friends, a few couples, even a salaryman hunched over his phone — all with plates of glistening sushi in front of them.

She was about to turn, to find some other place that wouldn't make her wait, when a shadow fell over her.

The man standing before her was tall. Broad-shouldered. A red apron sat snug over his dark shirt, a black cap keeping his silver hair — no, grey — out of his eyes. His face was flushed, like he'd been running, and his eyes were a sharp, unusual grey.

He was... striking.

Her gaze dropped to the name tag pinned to his apron. Small, white. Two words printed in neat black ink:

Osamu Miya.