Page 106 of Pets in Space 10

Ayear ago feels like another lifetime. Before the torn ligament, before the looming I.A.

budget axe, before the word “ghosting” became permanently attached to a specific face in my memory.

A year ago, I was just Rosa Kimura, soccer enthusiast, burgeoning I.A.

counselor, navigating the usual chaos of Yamato dating life with my signature blend of optimism and cynicism.

And then I met Rhys.

It was at one of those sprawling parties Karina’s friend Lydia throws, the kind where you know maybe three people but end up talking to twenty.

He was standing near the makeshift bar, listening to someone drone on about propulsion systems, but his eyes held this spark of amusement, like he was privy to some cosmic joke.

He was tall, with dark, messy hair that looked effortlessly styled, and a smile that… well, let’s just say it registered.

We got talking, somehow skipping past the expected small talk straight into debating the merits of classic sci-fi versus new wave, the ethics of A.I.

companionship, and the best place to get late-night ramen.

Hours evaporated. When he asked for my contact info, a genuine warmth in his kind eyes, my usual cynicism took a backseat.

So, when he followed up a few days later, suggesting dinner, I said yes faster than I probably should have.

I spent way too long deciding what to wear, eventually settling on loose dark jeans, a soft emerald green top that brought out the hints of green in my eyes, and ankle boots that added a little height without screaming “trying too hard.” I even put on makeup, a rare event usually reserved for weddings or job interviews.

Raimei watched the entire process from my bed, offering occasional critiques.

“Too much eyeliner, Rosa. You look like you’re preparing for a red carpet event, not dinner.”

“It’s a subtle smokey eye, thank you very much.” I blotted my lips. “And you’re just jealous you can’t pull off winged liner.”

He sniffed. “You’re right. I’m jealous.”

I didn’t believe him.

Rhys had suggested a place called Neon Koi, an izakaya tucked away on a side street downtown, known for its modern take on traditional dishes and its glowing, floor-to-ceiling fish tank.

Walking in, the low thrum of conversation and the savory scent of grilled meats put me at ease.

The place pulsed with a cool, vibrant energy, bathed in the soft blue light from the massive tank where koi swam in lazy circles.

He was already there, seated at a small table near the back, nursing a drink. Seeing him again, outside the context of a crowded party, sent a fresh wave of nerves (and undeniable attraction) through me. He stood up as I approached, and his smile made my heart do a stupid little flutter.

Stupid heart. I should have known better.

“Hey,” he said, his voice the smooth, calming timbre I remembered. “Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Though navigating rush hour transport almost required a sacrificial lamb. I’m glad we don’t do that anymore.”

“As a species?”

“Yes. As a species.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and immediately untucked it. Don’t fidget, Rosa.

He chuckled. “Yamato’s finest chaos. The food will be worth it. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

The initial awkwardness melted away, faster than it ever had on any other first date. We ordered drinks — saké for him, a crisp plum wine for me — and started navigating the menu.

“You have to try the grilled squid,” he insisted. “It’s delicious. Trust me.”

“Grilled squid?” I wrinkled my nose. “My adventurous eating tops out at extra spicy ramen.”

“Live a little, Rosa,” he teased, his eyes sparkling under the blue light. “Worst case, you hate it, and I get double squid.”

We ordered the squid, along with skewers of charred chicken yakitori, delicate agedashi tofu, and a plate of takoyaki, those little balls of octopus-filled batter that are basically pockets of molten joy.

He was right about the squid. It was tender, smoky, and delicious. I ate more than I should have.

The conversation flowed, weaving between lighthearted banter and deeper explorations.

We talked about our families. I gave him the condensed version of the Kimura clan chaos, and he spoke of his upbringing with his artist mother.

We talked about our passions. I described the feeling of scoring the winning goal, the camaraderie of the team, the sheer physical joy of pushing my limits on the field.

He talked about finding yoga, not just as exercise, but as a way to quiet the noise, to connect mind and body.

He was a new teacher at a friend’s studio, and his passion for it was clear, devoid of the preachy vibe some wellness types had.

“It’s about finding balance,” he explained, swirling the saké in his small cup. “Not just physically, but mentally. Learning to sit with discomfort, to breathe through the challenges instead of just reacting.”

“Sounds like therapy,” I joked.

He smiled. “Maybe it is, in a way. A physical form of it.” He sighed, looking down at his hands. “Seeing someone connect with their breath or hold a pose they’ve never tried for the first time… that’s what I love.”

I could tell he loved what he did. “What about starting your own studio?”

“Yeah, maybe.” He tipped his head from side to side. “Scheduling, invoices, trying to figure out marketing budgets, though? I don’t know.”

“I totally understand,” I said, nodding. “I’m the same.”

“What about you? Counseling at the I.A. sounds intense.”

“It has its moments,” I admitted. “Helping people navigate the pressures of space exploration, the isolation, the fear… it’s demanding.

But it’s also incredible. Being a small part of something so…

monumental. I wanted to be in space myself, but…

” I shook my head. “It only took one low-orbital flight for me to realize that was definitely not for me.”

He laughed. “I hear you. Humanity reaching for the stars,” he mused, his gaze drifting towards the hypnotic dance of the koi in the tank. “Do you ever think about where we actually came from? Not just Earth, but… before? The spark?”

And we were diving deep again, into the territory we’d touched upon at the party.

We talked about the Fermi paradox, the theories of panspermia, the philosophical implications of discovering we weren’t alone, or the crushing weight if we discovered we were.

He listened intently, asking thoughtful questions, offering perspectives I hadn’t considered.

It wasn’t just that he was smart; it was the way he thought, the curiosity in his eyes, the genuine interest he showed in my ideas.

I felt… seen. Heard. Not just as “Rosa the soccer player” or “Rosa the future therapist,” but as… Rosa.

He told a funny story about a disastrous attempt at pottery.

I recounted an embarrassing moment involving a runaway hedgehog pair at an I.A.

picnic (the incident was legendary). We laughed until tears pricked my eyes.

He had this way of looking at me, a focused intensity mixed with warmth.

It made me feel like I was the only person in the crowded restaurant.

The takoyaki arrived, steaming hot, drizzled with sauce and bonito flakes waving like tiny flags.

“Careful,” he warned as I reached for one. “Molten lava inside.”

I popped one past my lips anyway, ignoring the searing heat. “Worth the risk,” I mumbled through a full mouth.

He laughed, shaking his head. “Definitely worth the risk.”

Time slipped away unnoticed. We ordered another round of drinks, shared a dessert of matcha ice cream, and talked until the restaurant emptied, the staff beginning their closing routines. Neither of us wanted the night to end.

We walked out into the cool evening air, the sounds of the city muted on the side street. The neon sign of the izakaya cast long, colorful shadows on the pavement.

“So,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “The grilled squid was pretty good.”

“High praise,” he replied, turning to face me. We’d stopped near the corner, the streetlights creating pools of light around us. “I had a really great time, Rosa.”

“Me too,” I admitted, my voice soft. The air between us crackled, the easy camaraderie shifting into something else, something charged and electric.

He took a step closer, his gaze searching mine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” My breath hitched.

He reached out, and his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The simple touch sent a jolt through me, sharp and unexpected. His hand lingered, and his thumb traced the line of my jaw. My heart was a runaway train, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet night.

“Can I…?” he started, his voice a low murmur.

I didn’t need him to finish. I nodded, my eyes fluttering shut as he leaned in.

His lips met mine, hesitant at first. A soft exploration.

Then it deepened. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a collision, a confluence of all the sparks that had been flying between us all night.

It was heat and electricity, a silent conversation that spoke volumes more than words.

His hand slid around to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.

My hands found their way to his chest and the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the steady beat of his heart mirroring the frantic rhythm of my own.

The world narrowed to this single point of contact, the press of his lips, the warmth of his body, the soft sigh that escaped him.

It was demanding and tender all at once, a perfect balance, just like he’d talked about.

My toes literally curled in my boots. Lights exploded behind my eyelids.

I was breathless, weightless, consumed by the intensity of it.

When he pulled back, we were both trying to catch our breath. His eyes, when they met mine, were dark.

“Wow,” I whispered, my voice shaky.

A slow smile spread across his face. “Yeah. Wow.”

He walked me to the nearest main street so I could catch the bus, our hands brushing occasionally, sending fresh sparks through me with each contact. The goodbye was lingering, and it gave me more confidence than it should have.

I practically floated onto the bus home, replaying every moment, every word, every touch. The kiss lingered on my lips, a warm imprint against the cool night air. This was it, I thought, a ridiculous, hopeful grin plastered on my face. This felt different.

Real.

I couldn’t wait to see him again.

But that breathtaking kiss was the last I’d hear from him.

The silence afterwards was deafening, a stark, confusing contrast to the instant and undeniable connection I’d felt.

The ‘wow’ turned into ‘what?’ and then ‘why?’ Those questions were never answered, leaving a deep scar I didn’t notice until I saw him in the yoga studio — a ghost from my past.