"Would you… like to come to my place to watch a movie?"
Mochizuki Haruka's voice was soft, but the words carried a strange weight that immediately set off alarm bells in my head.
Wait. Did she just—? A direct invitation to her place?
Could it be… yes. Typical. That woman, Ito Rieko, must have filled her head with wild "advice" again.
"Um… yeah… Ginjo-san," Mochizuki continued, fiddling with her fingers as her head bowed down, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. "When would you be free?"
That blush… yep. Confirmed. Something definitely fishy about this.
"I'm free anytime. Honestly, Mochizuki-san, you could've just messaged me on LINE."
I sipped my coffee as calmly as I could, though my brain was anything but calm.
"N-no, that… I haven't seen you face-to-face in so long. Doing it over LINE felt… rude. So I thought it'd be better to talk like this instead."
Her voice was flustered, her eyes avoiding mine.
Normal? Nothing about this was normal.
"If it's convenient, Ginjo-san… how about tomorrow night?"
"Okay. No problem," I agreed, my answer so casual that it clearly lifted a great weight from her shoulders.
She exhaled, visibly relieved, as though she'd just solved some major life crisis.
The rest of the café meeting wasn't so dramatic. She ordered black tea and a scone, enjoying it with refined OL grace, while I tried to relax my brain off this sudden "movie invitation."
Later, as we left the shop, we took a walk through a small deserted park beneath an overpass. The sunset painted the path golden-orange, filtering through gently swaying trees.
Mochizuki brushed back strands of her loose hair, the evening glow settling on her like a halo.
…Yeah. Suspicious. Way too suspicious. Nobody looks that much like a romance drama heroine unless they've gotten backup strategy from Ito-sensei.
And then came the next night.
I arrived in front of Mochizuki Haruka's apartment precisely on time.
Alright. Let's see what "movie night" really means.
Knock, knock.
The door was flung open almost instantly.
"C-come in, Ginjo-san…"
My brain short-circuited. So did my vocabulary. I stood there, frozen like a glitchy video file.
"…Uh."
After about five seconds of paralysis, my body rebooted. "O-okay…"
But by then, the damage was already done.
Because Mochizuki Haruka, who stood in the doorway, was not dressed like she wanted to watch a movie.
This outfit—if it qualified as such—was…
Thin black halter top. "Flowy." But calling it flowy was a joke—it was practically see-through, doing nothing to conceal the very things it was supposed to cover.
Every single line, curve, and peak of her body—something clothes usually tame in polite society—was now magnified.
Her skin glowed beneath the dim corridor light, snow-white neck curving smoothly into slender shoulders, down to an inviting collarbone. Her slim waist seemed sculpted for hands to grasp it, while her thighs—full, soft, flawless—pressed together in a way that made my throat dry.
This wasn't "homewear." This was a declaration of intent.
"What… what's going on today, Mochizuki-san?" I blurted, because my vocal cords betrayed me before my brain could censor them.
"Eh… strange? Does it look… strange?" she asked stiffly, face burning red.
"No, but this outfit…"
"I-I always wear this at home…" she stammered, tone as shaky as an actress reading her script for the first time.
'I always wear this at home.' Yeah right. As if. This is not a 'lounging on the couch with takeout' outfit. This is a 'Rieko advised me into buying lingerie' outfit.
It couldn't be clearer that this was Mochizuki's "apology," her attempt to… compensate for that drunk incident.
"Okay… Ginjo-san, stop standing there gawking. Come in."
She turned and walked toward the room, her hips swaying naturally—but in that outfit, every movement became a calculated seduction.
And then I saw it. Smooth pale back, impossibly tight curves, and—
Two thin black straps crossing in an "X."
—Wait. Wait, wait. That's… oh no.
I felt the temperature spike inside my body. Another provocative image permanently etched into my memory.
There was no doubt now. "Movie night" was a flimsy cover story.
Haruka could feel my eyes burning into her back.
Each step forward felt like dragging chains; her heart thumped fast enough to shake through her ribs, her shame so intense it threatened to kill her then and there.
But… this was proof, wasn't it?
That Ginjo-san liked her this way. That her body could move him. That her dressed-up form could pull his gaze.
Rieko was right…
Two nights earlier, Mochizuki had confessed her fears over dinner with Ito Rieko—that she hadn't been able to face me properly since that night.
Rieko, being Rieko, offered a solution: "Spice it up. My husband lost interest after the baby, until I wore something daring. Men are simple creatures. Change your skin, and they'll look at you again."
Mochizuki had been horrified at first. But… also intrigued.
She wanted things to change. She wanted to close the distance we'd left between us.
—And so she'd given in. Ordered that dress from some daring site, anxiously waited for it to arrive, and the moment it did, impulsively invited me over.
The second she'd hit 'send' on that LINE message, her stomach had dropped.
And yet, here we were. Now that Ginjo Sousuke had seen her like this… there was no going back.
Well… all or nothing. Tonight…
She paused at the short corridor leading to her room, turned slightly, face flushed but voice steady:
"W-well then… please come in, Ginjo-san."
We stepped forward together, the charged silence between us growing hotter with each footfall.
And then, finally—her door.
Her room.
Her trap disguised as a "movie night."
Alright, Mochizuki. If this is how you want to play it… I'll bite.