Disclaimer: I do not own The Girl Who Leapt Through Time. And wishful thinking gets you nowhere, except a pleasant feeling in your stomach.

x: three

Seven

Makoto flipped on the lights, rubbing her crusty eyes sleepily. This job did not pay her enough to get up this early in the morning, honestly. As her eyes adjusted the rows of glass and priceless artifacts, she was alerted to the presence of an intruder standing silently in the middle of the hall.

“Excuse me,” she addressed him groggily, “you're not allowed back here during these hours. The museum opens in two hours; please come back then.” She wished she were wearing pants or something; she didn't feel quite as intimidating in a patterned skirt that only went to her knees.

“Excuse me,” she cried louder, beginning to approach him, when he appeared to have not heard her. “Sir--”

“Sorry,” he said in a voice that stopped her in her tracks. Her eyes froze on him like those of a stunned deer, her fingers hanging slightly in mid-air. He smiled lopsidedly at her. “Hi, Makoto.”

“Chiaki . . .” she breathed into the still air. “What are you doing here?” She sounded angry—hurt, maybe. He looked away from her—she regretted it; she still wanted his eyes on her—and back at the painting tucked safely behind the glass. “That's your painting, isn't it, Makoto?”

“No,” she answered stonily.

He glanced at her from the corner of his ginger-ale eyes, an apologetic appraisal. “In the future, I saw this painting again. You restored it; I read it in the books.”

She lowered her eyes, a faint flush dusting her cheeks at being caught in a concrete lie. “Yeah, well, I had nothing better to do.” When she raised her eyes again, he was standing far too close to her. She took a step back, uncomfortable.

“How long has it been, Makoto?” he questioned wonderingly.

“Seven years,” she replied without hesitation.

Pupils dilated in disbelief.

“What?” she challenged. “How long did you think?”

A guilty expression swept across his face.

“What, has it only been months for you?” she vocalized incredulously.

“Two years,” he corrected.

“I see.” She ran a hand nervously through her short hair. She never grew it out. “Chiaki . . .” She didn't want to ask this question; she was so afraid of the answer. “How long are you staying this time?”

He shuffled down and out of the hallway. “Let's get some coffee, Makoto.”

Her eyes trailed after him, and soon enough, so did her traitorous feet. “Alright,” she said to his retreating back. Maybe it was better not knowing.

A/N: I'm really blown back by the sheer amount of support I've been getting for this. Thank you all so, so much. I really appreciate the sweet comments. In fact, motivated by just that, I've added a few more drabbles into the series (on my computer). Probably won't make chronological sense anymore, though. Then again, when did time ever make sense? So, we'll see. Can't thank you all enough. Really.