I came out of the dressing room and smiled at her, pulling a hand through my hair again, my idea of brushing it. Daiyu laughed. Seeing her always made my body buzz—a visceral response vacillating between anxiety and desire. She was dressed in a pale purple suit and casually held her helmet under one arm. Her black hair was swept back in a ponytail. I studied her expression and posture, trying to see if she remembered anything. But then, why would she be here?

“Good morning,” I said. “I might have overslept. Mocha?”

“I’d love one.” She settled herself at the dining table and placed her helmet upon it, comfortable and at ease, looking as confident as ever.

My own shoulders relaxed, and I felt the tightness that had been in my chest loosen. The memory-wipe was holding. “Did you want anything to eat?”

“I’ve already eaten,” she replied. “But you can take me out to dinner after the tour.”

I smirked. “Are you asking me out?”

“You’d know if I were asking you out,” she replied.

I laughed and pounded a fist to my heart, as if I’d been wounded. “All right, then. Dinner together—but only out of convenience and necessity.”

She arched an eyebrow at me and I dodged into the kitchen, too easily captured by that gaze. I ordered two mochas and toasted three slices of thick taro bread as I wolfed down a banana. Even after six months, I wasn’t used to eating whenever and whatever I wanted. My body still remembered what it was like to be constantly hungry.

“Isn’t it a school day for you?” I set her mocha on the table as she waved a hand in the air.

“It’s my senior year. And I have an internship at my father’s. The school’s very flexible with my schedule.” She took a sip of mocha, licking the cloud of whipped cream from the top.

I tried not to stare.

“Besides I’m at the top of my class,” she said.

I sat down across from her and ate as her gaze wandered around the apartment. “No photos of family or friends?” She paused, then looked me dead in the eyes. “Why so Ro?”

Blood rushed to my head, pulse spiking. The same exact question she had asked me during her kidnapping. I reached for my mug, clasped it, and took a few long breaths, using the espresso’s rich aroma as an excuse to slow my racing heart. “I haven’t had the time. Guess I’m not sentimental,” I finally said.

“Not sentimental?” Her full mouth lifted into a smile. “And you have your mother’s favorite flower tattooed above your heart?”