Updated Apr 15, 2026 • ~7 min read
Chapter 5: Friday Night
Keiko
Keiko’s phone rings at ten-thirty on a Friday night while she’s curled up on her couch in pajamas that cost more than most people’s rent but feel like wearing clouds, and when she sees BookwormNightOwl’s name on the screen her heart does something ridiculous that she refuses to examine too closely.
They’ve been texting for two weeks, escalating from FitMatch messages to actual phone numbers to this—the moment she agreed to actual voice calls because apparently she’s completely incapable of maintaining appropriate boundaries with men she’s never met.
She answers on the third ring, trying to sound casual instead of pathetically eager. “Hello?”
“SunnyDayDreamer,” his voice comes through, and oh god it’s unfair how good he sounds—deep and warm with an Irish accent that makes every word feel like a caress. “Please tell me I didn’t wake you.”
“It’s ten-thirty,” Keiko says, and she’s smiling like an idiot at her empty apartment. “I’m not eighty.”
“Fair point. Though I know you work insane hours so I figured better safe than sorry.” There’s rustling on his end, like he’s settling into a chair. “How was your day?”
“Long. Annoying. I ran into my work nemesis at my favorite coffee shop and he refused to leave.” Keiko pulls a blanket over her lap, getting comfortable. “Apparently the universe thinks I don’t have enough stress in my life.”
“Work nemesis?” BookwormNightOwl sounds amused. “Is this the annoying guy you’ve mentioned?”
“The one and only. Declan O’Sullivan, my professional nightmare.” Keiko realizes she’s used his actual name and winces, but it’s not like BookwormNightOwl will know who that is. “He works for our main competitor and he’s brilliant and infuriating and I hate that I can’t stop thinking about our arguments.”
“Sounds like he got under your skin.”
“He did not,” Keiko says too quickly, and BookwormNightOwl laughs—actually laughs, and it’s possibly the best sound she’s ever heard, rich and genuine and so warm she feels it in her chest.
“Sure. Totally neutral feelings about this guy.” He’s still smiling, she can hear it in his voice. “For what it’s worth, I have a similar situation. Woman at work who drives me absolutely insane. Brilliant, beautiful, completely maddening.”
“At least I’m not alone in workplace torture,” Keiko says, and something small and petty in her chest is pleased that he has his own antagonist. “What’s your Friday night looking like? Hot date with your bookshelf?”
“Actually yes. I’m rereading Patricia Highsmith and drinking whiskey that cost too much. Living the dream.” He pauses. “What about you? Besides talking to strange men you met on the internet?”
“Blanket fort, wine, and contemplating whether I’m too young for cats to be my primary social interaction.”
“You’re never too young for cats,” BookwormNightOwl says seriously. “Cats are judgmental and independent and secretly affectionate. They’re perfect.”
“Spoken like a cat person,” Keiko says, and adds it to her mental list of things she knows about him—tech sales, youngest of six, Irish, loves books, drinks whiskey, likes cats. “Do you have any?”
“One. Her name is Smaug and she’s an orange menace who knocks things off my desk when I’m on important calls. I love her more than most people.” He pauses. “Do you?”
“No. My apartment doesn’t allow pets. But I grew up with three cats and I volunteer at a shelter sometimes when work isn’t consuming my entire life.” Keiko takes a sip of wine. “Which is basically never.”
“Same. I keep telling myself I’ll have work-life balance when I land the next big deal, win the next competition. But there’s always another one.”
“Exactly!” Keiko sits up, wine forgotten. “Like, I hit every goal I set. Revenue targets, user growth, market share. And the second I achieve it, I’m already setting a new goal because apparently I don’t know how to just… stop and enjoy things.”
“We’re both terrible at being human,” BookwormNightOwl says, and there’s understanding in his voice that makes Keiko’s chest tight. “What if we practiced together?”
“Practiced being human?”
“Practiced enjoying things without turning them into competitions or achievements.” He sounds almost shy, which is adorable on a man with that voice. “Like this. Right now. We’re just talking. No agenda. No goal. Just… existing together.”
“I like this,” Keiko admits quietly. “Talking to you. It’s the only part of my day that doesn’t feel like work.”
“Good. Because I really like talking to you too.” There’s a beat of silence, comfortable and warm. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“What’s your biggest fear? Like the thing that keeps you up at three in the morning?”
Keiko considers deflecting with humor, but something about his voice—something about the safety of anonymity—makes her want to be honest.
“That I’ll wake up at fifty and realize I chose career over life. That I’ll have all the success I wanted and nobody to share it with because I was too scared to let anyone close.” She pulls the blanket tighter. “That I’m so good at being alone that I’ve forgotten how to be with someone.”
“I’m scared of that too,” BookwormNightOwl says quietly. “Of ending up alone because I never learned to be vulnerable. Because I spent so long competing and winning that I forgot how to just… be loved. For myself, not my achievements.”
“What if we’re both too broken for this?” Keiko whispers.
“Then we’re broken together. And maybe that’s okay.” He pauses. “Keiko?”
Her heart stops. “What?”
“Sorry—I mean SunnyDayDreamer. Slip of the tongue.” He sounds flustered. “You mentioned your name in passing last week and it stuck. Is that okay?”
“It’s okay,” Keiko says, even though hearing her name in his voice does things to her pulse. “What’s yours?”
“Declan,” he says, and Keiko’s entire world tilts sideways.
No.
No no no no no.
It’s a common Irish name. There are probably thousands of Declans in Seattle. It’s coincidence. It has to be coincidence.
“Declan,” she repeats, trying to keep her voice steady. “That’s a nice name.”
“Family name. My da’s grandfather.” He doesn’t sound like he’s realized anything is wrong. “So now you know. I’m Declan, you’re Keiko. Still keeping the mystery but slightly less anonymous?”
“Yeah,” Keiko manages. “Slightly less.”
They talk for another two hours—about books and music and childhood memories and the weird phobias they’ve never admitted to anyone else (hers: butterflies, his: escalators, both ridiculous and somehow perfect). And the entire time Keiko is trying to calculate the odds that BookwormNightOwl—her BookwormNightOwl, the man she’s falling for—could possibly be Declan O’Sullivan.
It’s impossible. The universe wouldn’t be that cruel.
Would it?
“I should let you sleep,” Declan says finally, reluctantly. “But I really don’t want to stop talking to you.”
“Same,” Keiko says, and means it despite the panic churning in her stomach. “Can we do this again? Tomorrow?”
“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” His voice goes soft. “Keiko? I really like you. Scary amounts. And I don’t even know what you look like.”
“I really like you too,” she whispers, and it’s true even if he might be her worst enemy.
When they finally hang up, Keiko sits in the darkness of her apartment and tries to talk herself down from the paranoia.
It’s not him. It can’t be him.
Declan O’Sullivan is arrogant and competitive and everything she dislikes in a colleague.
BookwormNightOwl is sweet and vulnerable and perfect.
They can’t be the same person.
Right?
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