The closer Michiko got to the bar, the more certain she became.
She watched the bartender—the one she'd casually labeled her "test subject"—slide between shelves and shakers like the space belonged to them. Not rushed. Not flashy. Just smooth, precise, and deliberately fluid.
It was the kind of ease that came from repetition, from control. And even from a distance, it was obvious: they didn't just work here. They owned the place—if not in title, then in presence.
Ji's gaze found her the moment she hovered at the end of the bar, poised like a statue before a silent audience. In the glow of hanging Edison bulbs, she stood still, every line of her body deliberate—the way her shoulders held back, the light catching on the high planes of her cheekbones, the faint crease between her brows as she weighed the scene before choosing her seat. Bold ones drew attention; Ji had learned that. But this woman possessed something else—an unspoken intensity that threatened to upend Ji's usual, rapid-fire assessments.
She didn't flirt like the others, tossing coquettish smiles and playful glances around like confetti. No, her gaze carried a weight, as if she inspected every detail, measuring where to pry the lock. When she settled onto the barstool, sliding across its polished surface with feline grace, Ji leaned forward slightly, reddish-brown eyes glistening in the low light.
Michiko took in the full picture up close. A soft face that could have been carved for print campaigns, fine-boned but sturdily built, every feature balanced on purpose. Her lips were pursed in quiet calculation.
Not too feminine, nowhere near masculine, but finely tuned to blur the boundaries between.
When they spoke to a passing patron, their voice drifted to Michiko's ears—a tone too high for a typical bartender, measured and sweet. It added to the illusion.
Michiko settled at the bar, elbow leaning into the mahogany counter, chin cupped in her palm. "Are you always that serious when you're mixing drinks," she asked, voice serene as a moonlit lake, "or is tonight special?"
Ji turned, revealing a faint smirk at the corner of their lips. The light traced their jawline, accentuating the smooth transition from cheek to neck, a silhouette that could have been drawn by a master. "Depends who's asking," they replied, gaze lingering on Michiko's face just long enough to feel intentional.
"Someone who appreciates good technique," she countered, eyebrow lifting.
Ji's smile deepened. "Then yes, tonight's special."
Their voice was soft, syllables rounded like droplets of honey. Michiko recognized the accent instantly—Korean—and a thrill sparked inside her. She didn't usually favor Korean-accented Japanese; it often sounded clipped. But Ji's cadence was a poem no one had bothered to transcribe, each word caressing the air.
Fumi's voice echoed in her mind: Dip your toes in.
Was this how it began? With a voice like silk and a face like alabaster?
"You run this place?" Michiko inquired, feigning casualness that belied her interest.
She normally inflated the ego of the various feminine women she hit on, but she figured a different approach was necessary for this type of woman.
"I do."
"Nice setup."
"I like things clean."
From behind the counter, Ji watched the way she tilted her head slightly, just enough to let her hair fall behind one shoulder. Not a performance, but a calculation. Ji could spot the difference.
People like her didn't flirt for sport. They tested. Prodded.
It made Ji want to pass every test.
Michiko's eyes lingered on their distinct facial features and the way their hair laid just above their collar. The person in front of her had the body of a lean woman—slender shoulders, narrow hips—but there was something about the way they stood, the way they looked at her, that made it all feel deliberately built, like a performance.
It was throwing her off.
She had never liked manliness. Not even as a child. The harshness of it, the roughness, the loudness. Men moved like they expected the world to make space for them. Women, feminine women, deserved space. There was softness there. Elegance. She loved femininity like it was her own kind of religion.
But this?
This androgyny?
It felt like stepping into a room with a dimmed view—everything familiar, but slightly off.
She should've been uncomfortable.
Instead, she moved closer, tone lowering to a near whisper. "How about I ask if you always play it this cool, or are you just nervous around pretty girls?"
Ji laughed softly, the sound a ripple through the hush of the bar. "Why not both?"
Michiko offered a slow, deliberate smile. "Smooth."
"I've had practice."
She watched as Ji reached for a mixing glass, crisp motion tempered by strength—not fragile, but perfectly controlled. It pleased her to see someone who didn't fumble under her gaze.
"What should I make you?" Ji asked, voice gentle yet carrying a bit of challenge.
"Surprise me," Michiko said, eyes bright with anticipation.
Ji paused, measuring her. "You sure?"
"I'm feeling adventurous," came the reply, breath fluttering like a trapped bird.
A slight twitch at Ji's lips—gratification, perhaps—and then they moved with balletic precision, selecting spirits and mixers. The bar smelled of crushed mint, zested citrus, and faint smoke from charred oak barrels. Michiko watched every gesture, every slight shift in expression, trying to place Ji on a scale—masculine? feminine? Neither? Both? The answer shimmered out of reach.
At last, Ji slid forward a glass painted in blush pink, a single dried orange slice perched against the rim like a teasing wink. A ring of hibiscus salt rimmed the edge, petals shining in it's own way. The cocktail was pretty―an extension of its maker.
Michiko lifted the glass, inhaled its floral tang, and sipped. The fresh flavor bloomed behind her eyes. "Not bad."
"Just not bad?" Ji's tone rose an octave in feigned offense.
"I don't give compliments too early," Michiko replied, setting the glass down. "It ruins the tension."
"I thought we were flirting, not fencing," Ji countered.
"Same difference," she said, and their laughter mingled, soft as rain.
Ji leaned in. "What's your name?"
Michiko tilted her head, studying them. "What's yours?"
A pause, then Ji offered a soft smile. "Call me Ji."
Just Ji.
No surname, just a single name hanging in the air like a challenge. Michiko's brow lifted. In Japan, they traded full names and politeness like currency; Ji paid in riddles.
She tasted the word on her tongue. "…Ji," she repeated.
It felt casual, disarming, and entirely unexpected. Yet she said it again, as if tasting grape juice at a new bloom.
"Well, Ji," she murmured, "you make a good drink."
"I do a few things well," Ji replied, voice a hushed confession.
"Oh?"
"But I like being underestimated."
Michiko took another sip of the cocktail and licked the rim of the glass slowly. "That so?"
Ji leaned fully forward now, elbows brushing the dark wood. "You're kind of trouble, aren't you?"
She smirked. "Only if you're bad at handling me."
Their eyes stayed locked, twin beacons beneath the illumination. Michiko took another sip to steady the thrum in her chest. "This has yuzu, right?"
"Among other things," Ji said, voice velvety.
"Tell me the recipe," she challenged.
Ji chuckled, low and rich. "Nope."
"Stingy," Michiko teased.
"Protective," Ji corrected with a playful wink. "Besides, you look like someone who enjoys being kept guessing."
From the other side of the room, Fumi watched with her head tilted in interest, stirring her untouched drink with a lazy finger. She caught Ji's profile, looked again, and squinted. Her eyes narrowed briefly—but when Michiko turned to glance at her, Fumi was already smiling.
She lifted her glass and mouthed: "Cute."
Michiko turned back to the bar with a light snort and leaned her elbow on the counter, shifting a little closer to Ji.
"So," she whispered, "Is this your usual routine—flirting with every pretty face that walks in?"
Ji's eyes gleamed, an ember in the gloom. "You're just very lucky."
Michiko's smile grew sly. "Good. I hate waiting in lines."
A quiet laugh from Ji. "I'll make sure you're always served first."
Silence settled for a beat, then Ji shifted, curiosity alight. "Are you here with someone?"
She pointed her thumb toward Fumi. "Best friend. She's pretending not to watch."
"Not very convincing," Ji observed, lips twitching.
"You're not the only one with admirers," Michiko replied coolly.
Ji's smile faltered for just a second—almost imperceptible. Then it returned, bright and unreadable. "She your type?"
Michiko considered, swirling the pale liquid in her glass. "Hmm…Maybe."
Ji cocked their head. "And me?"
Michiko raised her glass to her lips, took a slow sip, and said, "Still deciding."
Ji chuckled, a soft promise in the echo. "Then I'll make it interesting for you."