Diagnostics

The restaurant was quiet enough that Fuji could hear the ice shifting in Sakura’s glass.

“I just can’t believe people actually think Momo and I have autism.”

Fuji looked at her. The candle between them caught the line of her jaw, the particular stillness she carried when something had gotten under her skin. He took a breath.

“I’m going to be honest with you.”

Sakura’s eyes didn’t move. “You’re going to agree with them.”

“I’m going to agree with them.”

He glanced sideways at the darkened window beside their table. In the glass, the tiger sat perfectly upright, ears flat, tail cutting a slow arc through the air. Not pacing. Just waiting. And staring directly at him.

His own reflection stared back. A T. rex, scarred and broad-shouldered, wearing the furry collared coat Sakura had picked out for him three months ago in Seoul because she said it suited him and he hadn’t argued. The T. rex didn’t look like it wanted to say something smart. Fuji winced slightly staring at his and Sakura’s reflections knowing this could go wrong. But he was going to say something smart anyway.

He turned back.

Sakura’s expression was the same as always — composed, a little cool, the disappointment somewhere underneath where most people wouldn’t think to look. Fuji looked.

“You both have difficulty with social cues,” he said, in the same tone he’d use reading a weather report. “Eye contact. Inflection. Nuance tends to get lost, metaphor especially. Your reactions to things don’t always land the way people expect.” He paused. “Like right now, for example.”

He let that sit a moment before adding, “And that’s before I bring up the Destiny 2 situation.”

“The Destiny 2 situation was a shared decision.”

“You made a spreadsheet. For builds. Optimized per encounter.”

Sakura opened her mouth. Closed it. Set her glass down with the precise care of someone choosing their battles. “I can’t argue with that.”

Something shifted in her face then — small, private, the thing she didn’t show most people. Fuji had learned to recognize it the way he’d learned to recognize a lot of things. Not because she’d explained it. Just because he’d paid attention.

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” she said.

“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.” She reached across the table and found his hand, her fingers settling around his with that careful deliberate weight she had, like everything she chose to touch was worth the decision. She held it there.

After a moment she said, quietly, “I’ll make it up to you when we get back.”

Fuji looked at her.

“Okay,” he said.

The dinner continued.

It was a tsukemen they both liked, a place they’d been coming to since Sakura had first shown it to him two years ago when they were both in Southern California and neither of them had named what they were doing yet.

The broth was the same as it always was. So was the booth. So was the way they ate without needing to fill the silence.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Fuji said, “I have Akroyd’s syndrome.”

Sakura turned to look at him. “What is that?”