Tokyo Ghoul: You're a ghoul!? What am I supposed to do now???

Thursday's patrol ran later than usual. Yamamoto kept stopping to chat with shop owners about the weekend festival in the shopping district.

"We'll need extra coverage Saturday," he explained while Mrs. Tanaka told us about her grandchildren for the fifteenth time. "Big crowds means pickpockets come out to play."

"I can take a shift." More crowds meant more paperwork afterward, but at least it wasn't combat duty.

"You sure? I know you've got university stuff."

"It's fine. Just filing reports for my job anyway." The lie came automatically now.

By the time we finished, the sun was already setting. I changed out of patrol gear in the branch office bathroom, trading the mask and official coat for my regular clothes. 6:47 PM. Anteiku closed at 7:30, but coffee sounded good after three hours of walking.

The shop was nearly empty when I arrived. Just an old man reading in the corner and soft jazz playing overhead. Touka looked up from wiping tables, surprised.

"You're late today."

"Work ran over. Still serving?"

"Until seven-thirty." She glanced at the clock. "Forty minutes enough for coffee and sketching?"

"Just coffee today. Left my sketchbook at home."

She poured without asking—by now she knew exactly how I took it. The shop felt different in evening light, more intimate without the usual afternoon crowd.

"Quiet night?" I asked.

"Always is on Thursdays. Most students have Friday morning classes." She leaned against the counter. "You look tired."

"Long day of very boring statistics." I sipped the coffee, perfect as always. "How was school?"

"Literature test on symbolism in post-war fiction. I think I passed." She shrugged. "Yoriko spent lunch trying to convince me to apply to Kamii's literature program."

"You're thinking about it?"

"Maybe. The program looks good, but..." She trailed off, that careful expression returning.

"But?"

"It's complicated. Family stuff." She straightened, moving back to professional distance. "I should finish closing tasks."

I nursed my coffee while she worked, watching her efficient movements. The old man left at 7:20, nodding goodbye. Then it was just us and the jazz and the dying light outside.

"I can leave if you need to close," I offered.

"It's fine. Manager doesn't mind if I lock up a few minutes late." She counted the register, movements precise. "Actually, would you mind flipping the sign on your way out? Since you're by the door."

I walked over and turned the sign to 'Closed,' then paused. "Which way do you usually head home?"

"Toward the station. Why?"

"It's getting dark. I could walk with you, if you want." I tried to sound casual. "I'm going that direction anyway."

She looked up from the register, studying me. "You don't have to—"

"I know. But the festival's bringing more people to the ward. Better to be careful."

A small smile tugged at her mouth. "Are you worried about me?"

"Just being practical."

"Mm-hmm." But she nodded. "Give me five minutes to finish up."

I waited outside while she turned off lights and locked doors. The evening had cooled, autumn asserting itself. She emerged carrying her school bag, casual clothes replacing the Anteiku uniform.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Lead the way, Mr. bodyguard."

We fell into step, the street busy with evening commuters and early dinner crowds. Without the coffee shop context, walking beside her felt different. More real somehow.

"So what's this festival?" she asked.

"Annual shopping district thing. Food stalls, local vendors, that kind of event. My work partner Yamamoto says it's mostly filled families and pickpockets."

"Sounds exciting."

"Thrilling. I'll probably spend Saturday filing long reports about lost wallets." We paused at a crosswalk. "You going?"

"Yoriko wants to. She loves festivals." Touka shifted her bag. "I usually just work through them. Anteiku gets busy with festival-goers wanting coffee."

"All work and no play?"

"Says the guy who comes to a coffee shop every day to do homework."

"That's different. I'm combining caffeine addiction with productivity."

She actually laughed—not just the usual almost-smile but a real laugh. "Is that what we're calling it?"

The bookstore appeared before I'd consciously decided to stop. Twenty-four hours, lights still bright in the windows, "New Arrivals" display prominent.

"Want to look?" I asked. "Unless you need to get home."

Touka's POV

I should have said no. I should have made an excuse about homework or dinner or literally anything that kept this from becoming more than a walk to the station.

Instead I just responded with a "Sure. Just for a minute."

The bookstore smelled like paper and possibility. We drifted naturally toward different sections—him to art, me to literature. But I kept glancing over, watching him flip through a book on Renaissance techniques with that focused expression.

"Find anything good?" He appeared at my elbow while I was reading the back of a Murakami novel.

"Deciding if I can handle more of his weird metaphors." I held up the book. "My test today was all about cats representing alienation."

"Sounds about right for Murakami." He showed me his selection—a book on light and shadow in classical art. "This might help with your baking."

"My baking?"

"Light and shadow are crucial in food photography. Same principles." He flipped to a page showing dramatic paintings. "See? Just pretend the fruit is a cake."

"I don't photograph my stress-baking. I just eat it."

"Shame. Bet it's pretty enough to draw."

My face warmed. "You haven't even tried it. It could be terrible."

"Doubt it. You're too precise to make bad food."

How had he noticed that about me? I shelved the Murakami carefully. "Speaking of food, there's a whole cooking section upstairs."

"Lead the way."

The cooking section was emptier, just one other customer browsing. I gravitated toward baking books while Sota wandered to basic cooking guides.

"Learning to feed yourself?" I asked, seeing him flip through "Simple Meals for Busy People."

"Trying. My vegetables keep becoming charcoal." He showed me a recipe. "Is it really this complicated to stir-fry?"

"You're probably using too high heat. Medium is plenty for most vegetables."

"The instructions say high."

"Instructions lie." I took the book, found a better recipe. "This one's simpler. Less chance of fire."

We ended up sitting on the floor between shelves, passing books back and forth. He showed me art books where food looked like paintings. I found him recipes that seemed disaster-proof. Time slipped away until the overhead announcement reminded us the store closed at nine.

"We should go," I said reluctantly.

"Yeah." But he didn't move immediately. "This was nice. Different from the coffee shop."

"Good different?"

"Yeah. Good different."

We made our way downstairs, neither buying anything but somehow having spent forty minutes just... talking. About books and food and nothing important. Like normal people did.

The station was only two blocks away. Too close. We started walking slower without discussing it.

"Thanks for the cooking tips," he said reluctantly as we reached the entrance. "Maybe my vegetables will survive this week."

"Medium heat," I reminded him. "And don't walk away from the stove."

"Noted." He shifted his weight, suddenly looking uncertain. "Do you... I mean, if you're not working Saturday during the festival..."

My heart did that stupid fluttery thing. "Yeah?"

"Maybe we could check out the food stalls. Compare them to proper cooking." He rushed on. "Yoriko could come too. If she wants. Group thing."

I bit back a smile. "I'll ask her."

"Cool. Good. I'll text—" He stopped. "I don't have your number."

"Oh." I pulled out my phone. "Here."

We exchanged numbers, fingers brushing as we traded phones. His contact name for himself was just "Sota N." Simple and direct. Like him...

"I should catch my train," I said.

"Right. Get home safe."

"You too."

I badged through the turnstile, then looked back. He was still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me go.

Sota's POV

The walk home felt longer without company. I kept replaying the evening—how natural it felt talking to her outside Anteiku's context, the way she'd sat close enough that I could smell her shampoo (something fruity), how her eyes lit up when explaining cooking techniques.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Made it home. Remember - MEDIUM heat.

I saved her contact and typed back: Instructions received. Will report vegetable status tomorrow.

Do that. Goodnight, Sota.

Goodnight, Touka.

I stared at the conversation for longer than necessary. Just two people exchanging numbers. Making tentative plans. Doing normal stuff, living a normal life... it was quite nice.

Back in my apartment, I attempted dinner with her advice. The vegetables came out actually edible for the first time. Progress.

Before bed, I checked my knives (ten, all accounted for) and set my alarm for tomorrow's morning patrol. Saturday would mean crowds and paperwork and probably no time for coffee shop visits. But maybe, if Touka wasn't working, there'd be festival food and whatever came after "good different."

I fell asleep thinking about bookstores and medium heat and the way she'd laughed at my bad joke.