It was supposed to be a lazy weekend.
Rain tapped gently against the windows like a lullaby. The gray light draped itself over Haruki's apartment like a cozy blanket. No school. No plans. Just soft pajamas, lukewarm cup ramen, and a half-watched detective show murmuring in the background.
For a while, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
But nothing ever stayed quiet for long between Haruki and Miyako.
Not now not with everything they weren't saying.
They sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of Haruki's room, building a lopsided tower out of empty instant ramen cups.
"Architectural genius," Miyako declared proudly as she placed the final cup with trembling fingers.
Haruki raised an eyebrow. "That's not genius. That's gravity roulette."
"It's called drama, Haruki. Let me live."
And then, just as the last cup tilted into place… the power went out.
The apartment plunged into darkness with a low hum and a final flicker.
A beat passed.
"...Whoa," Miyako whispered, suddenly aware of how close they were in the dim gray light. "Mood lighting."
Haruki didn't flinch. "Probably a breaker issue."
"Or fate," she said, inching just slightly closer, "forcing us into unresolved romantic tension."
"You're impossible."
"Say that again when we're wrapped in a blanket, whispering our secrets under candlelight."
He stood up, groping along the shelf for a flashlight.
But Miyako's fingers closed around his wrist.
"Hey," she said softly, all teasing gone. "Just sit. For a minute. No distractions. No jokes."
He hesitated.
Then slowly lowered himself back down beside her.
The rain whispered against the glass like a lullaby for everything they hadn't said.
Haruki's voice broke the stillness.
"I read your note again."
Miyako stilled. "Oh."
"Did you hate it?"
"No."
"Was it too cheesy?"
"No."
She bit her lip. "Did you… write one?"
He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a slightly crumpled, folded piece of paper. Wordless, he offered it to her.
Miyako took it as if it might dissolve in her hands. The paper was warm from being close to his chest. It smelled faintly like his detergent and something else him.
She unfolded it slowly.
And read:
I think I started liking you the night you fell asleep on my shoulder and muttered my name like it belonged to you.
Or maybe when you stood up to Kazuki for me even when you acted like you didn't care.
Or maybe when I realized every quiet moment I spent with you didn't feel empty.
You scare me sometimes.
Because you're bold and loud and always two steps ahead of everyone.
But I'm not scared you'll leave.
I'm scared I'll never say what I mean.
And what I mean is
I want you to stay. For real.
Miyako stared at the page. Then again.
Her fingers trembled.
"You…" she began, voice catching. "You like me."
Haruki looked straight at her. His expression didn't falter.
"Yeah."
"Like like?" she asked, her voice cracking halfway through.
He scooted closer, their knees brushing. The air felt tight between them charged, heavy.
"Like," he said, low and certain, "want-to-hold-your-hand-and-stop-pretending kind of like."
Her chest stuttered. Her breath felt too shallow.
Their fingers brushed.
Then laced.
"If you're about to kiss me," she whispered, "I swear to God, I'm gonna lose my mind."
He gave a ghost of a smile. "Do you want me to?"
Her eyes shimmered. "I think I really do."
They leaned in.
One breath apart.
Two heartbeats.
His eyes searched hers like he wanted to memorize her hesitation. Her want. Her yes.
Closer. Close enough to feel her breath on his lips.
And then
BZZT.
The lights surged on with a buzz.
The ceiling fan spun to life. The TV screen glowed bright and screamed an anime opening theme at full volume.
They both jerked back like they'd been electrocuted.
Miyako buried her face in her hands with a groan. "That was so anime. Like, offensively cliché."
Haruki sank back against the wall, hand covering his face. "I hate this apartment."
She peeked at him through her fingers. "Still wanna kiss me?"
He looked at her. Something in his eyes had shifted. Steadier. Warmer.
"Yeah," he said softly. "More than ever."
Miyako's cheeks went crimson. She clutched the letter against her chest and grinned.
"Next time," she said, "I want a proper setup. Candles. Thunderstorm. Soft music. Maybe a slow dance."
"No cartoons," he agreed.
"No interruptions."
They sat together in the glow of the relit room, side by side, hands resting close but not quite touching.
There was no need to say it.
Not yet.
They were already close enough to burn.
And it was only getting harder to stop.