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He thinks he knows her hobbies, inside and out, after all these years.
Oh, sure, there’s still things about Kyoka Jiro that are a mystery to him - but that’s part of the marvel.
Even so, Denki is pretty sure he’s figured out what makes her tick.
That is until they’re at the bar after work one night, and she bypasses the cocktail menu in his outstretched hand to peer at the fridges behind the countertop.
“Have you got any Trzech Kumpli?” she asks, and he stares across at her blankly.
“That doesn’t sound like a Cosmopolitan," Sero notes.
It doesn’t.
“Y’know, I didn’t peg you for the craft beer type,” he says a few weeks later. They’re at her parents’ place, helping them pack up the house as they downsize.
Jiro scoffs. “You don’t know all my darkest secrets, dude.”
He’s about to say that he wants to, but bites his tongue.
Her mother sticks her head around the door. “Denki, dear, can you help me move these turntables?”
“Sure,” he says, stands and dusts his hands on his jeans.
He doesn’t miss Jiro’s lingering expression. He sticks his tongue out at her.
She huffs and flips him the bird.
Her birthday comes around, and he’s stumped.
Last year - his first with real solo pro money - he got her a second-hand Gretsch in bright green.
She’d squealed when she unwrapped it, taken the wind out of his lungs with a massive bear hug.
This time, he’s firing blanks.
They’re at another bar, and she’s knocking back some kind of Baltic porter with a practiced ease that’s both terrifying and arousing.
Denki has an idea.
One month later, he tells her to pack warm for a late November weekend.
Jiro arches an eyebrow. “Mystery, much?”
He grins. “Don’t you know it.”
The look of sheer wide-eyed delight on her face is worth the fourteen-hour journey.
The microbrewery is situated amid white-covered plains, nestled besides the ryokan. It feels like a picture ripped from a storybook.
Jiro pivots to stare at him, mouth agape. “Kaminari, man, this is…”
“Too much?” he offers.
“Perfect,” she counters. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, maroon wool cap pulled tight across her head and jacks tucked up inside.
He gives a nervous grin, scratches his neck. “Happy birthday, Ky.”
She stares, snowflakes dotted across her nose.
Then, she leans across the divide and kisses him.
“I think you might be onto something with these,” he admits, lifts the pale ale up to the light.
Next to him, Kyoka snuggles deeper. The tatami is warm on his bare skin.
“Told you,” she mumbles sleepily. “Nothing better after a good fuck.”
“You call that good?” he asks, incredulous. “I personally think ass-shatteringly fantastic is more apt.”
She snorts, thwacks him softly with her jack. In response, he presses the cold glass against her bare breast.
Kyoka moans, desire hot in her eyes as she straddles him.“Kinky. You ready for round two?”
Denki swallows. He certainly is.