Saturday morning at Roastery Gekkō always started the same: early regulars, soft Miles Davis tracks, and Riku wiping down the counter with his half-tied apron and messy hair that refused to behave.
But this Saturday felt different.
He couldn't explain why. The espresso machine hissed like usual, the door chimed with its cheerful jingle, and a sleepy man spilled his croissant exactly where he did every weekend. But something in the air—maybe the pause between notes, maybe the sun breaking too gently through the windows—felt… expectant.
And then she walked in.
Sakura.
No satchel. No tablet. No papers. Just a soft grey sweater, hair loosely pinned, strands falling over her glasses like they'd made a quiet escape. She looked relaxed in a way that felt almost suspicious. Like a cat pretending it wasn't watching you.
Riku blinked.
And blinked again when she said, "Morning," with no hesitation in her voice.
He automatically reached for the almond milk. "Morning."
Sakura lingered by the counter instead of drifting to her usual corner.
"I didn't bring work today," she said.
He paused mid-pour. "Oh?"
"I just… needed to get away from the words."
"You're a literature major, right?"
"Philosophy," she corrected. "I just pretend to be literary so people leave me alone."
He laughed as he frothed the milk. "That explains the intense typing and thousand-yard stares."
"And the iced expression?"
"Yeah, that too."
She gave a tiny huff that might've been a laugh. "Do you ever stop moving?"
He looked up from the counter, confused. "What do you mean?"
"You're always doing something. Even when there are no customers, you're adjusting the sugar jars. Rearranging stir sticks. You re-sorted the napkins four times yesterday."
He froze, eyes wide. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything," she said simply, taking the offered cup.
He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "I guess I get antsy. Quiet makes me fidgety."
She sipped. "So do people."
He raised a brow. "And yet here we are."
Sakura said nothing, just looked at him—the same quiet focus that sometimes made him feel like she could see through his bones.
"Want to sit?" he asked.
"I don't know. Do you?"
It was the kind of answer that threw off normal people. It didn't seem to affect Riku. He only blinked once, then reached behind him and untied his apron.
"No apron," she added. "If we're sitting."
He hung it up and gave her a mock salute. "Apron off. Chaos unlocked."
They sat at her usual table by the window. It felt strange being there with her—not behind the counter, not delivering drinks with casual smiles—but present. Just two people, two mugs, and sunlight pouring through branches that cast bare, lacy shadows across the woodgrain.
They didn't talk for a while.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
It was the kind of silence that lived in jazz music—intentional, emotional, meaningful in its own way.
The melody shifted. A saxophone took the lead in a soft, sentimental sway.
"You know this one?" she asked.
"In a Sentimental Mood," he said instantly. "Coltrane. I hum it too much."
"I've heard."
He looked at her. "You really do notice everything."
"I like patterns. That's what I do. I find them. Break them. Study them."
"And me?"
She took a long sip. "You're not a pattern. You're noise."
"Ouch."
"You smile too much. You talk to strangers. You drink sweet potato lattes. You rearrange cutlery during conversations."
He coughed into his drink. "You make it sound like I'm a walking jazz solo."
"You are."
She set her cup down and met his eyes.
"But... you also listen more than you talk. You ask questions but don't pry. You leave space. That's rare."
It wasn't flirty. It wasn't dramatic.
It was... honest.
He lowered his cup slightly, blinking. "People don't usually see me like that."
"People don't usually see anything they weren't already looking for," she said, turning her gaze toward the window.
The café seemed to pause with them, as if even the music knew to play softer.
Outside, the world moved on—umbrellas bobbed past, delivery scooters zipped by—but in that little corner, time pooled between two cups of coffee and the space between their gazes.
"Why are you really here today?" Riku asked, not accusing, not prying—just curious in the way someone asks about a dream they're still half inside.
Sakura didn't answer right away.
Her eyes followed a single raindrop tracing the windowpane.
Then, softly, "I had a dream."
Riku leaned forward, arms resting on the table.
"Not the kind with dragons or existential metaphors," she added. "Just a quiet one. I was here. Jazz was playing. I wasn't typing or thinking. I was just... sitting. And it felt like I existed. Not for work or grades or expectations. Just… existed."
Riku didn't say anything. He let her words settle. Let them live.
"I don't feel like that often," she said. "Human. Most of the time I feel like… a walking to-do list. A high-functioning ghost."
He tilted his head. "Then I'm really glad you're here."
She looked at him.
Not glanced.
Looked.
And something in her face shifted—like a shadow moving out of the way of light.
She didn't smile, not quite.
But her fingers relaxed around the cup.
"And you?" she asked.
He blinked. "Me?"
"You're always here. Making drinks. Humming Coltrane. Rearranging sugar packets like they're chess pieces. What are you running from?"
Riku let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair.
"Maybe I'm not running," he said. "Maybe I'm just... stalling."
Sakura raised an eyebrow. "That's not better."
He laughed, rubbing his neck. "Fair."
"Stalling for what?"
He shrugged. "Myself, I guess. The version of me I haven't figured out how to be yet."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Philosophical."
"I was almost a psych major once."
"No wonder you make dangerous lattes."
He grinned. "Only mildly life-altering."
The music shifted again, this time into a light piano solo. Sakura sipped her drink, slower now. The bitterness had softened. Or maybe she had.
They sat there for a long time, saying nothing. Letting the music speak. Letting the silence breathe.
It wasn't awkward.
It was jazz.
---
Later, when she stood to leave, she didn't look hurried. The air outside had cleared, and sunlight warmed the sidewalks.
She stepped toward the door, then paused, turning slightly.
"I don't know if I'll come tomorrow."
Riku nodded. "That's okay."
"But if I do," she added, "I want to hear you hum something new."
He gave a small bow. "Your wish, Miss Philosophy."
She didn't smile, not fully.
But her eyes did.
And when she stepped outside, the wind caught the edge of her sweater and danced with her shadow.
Riku watched until she was out of sight. Then he exhaled—deeply—and reached behind the counter for his apron.
It was damp, still crumpled from earlier.
He didn't tie it right away.
Instead, he walked over to the record shelf, flipped through a few vinyls, and slid out something slow, unfamiliar, warm.
Something he hadn't played before.
He placed the needle.
The first notes played.
And in the quiet corner where she'd sat, the music curled like smoke—soft, thoughtful, and new.
---
That night, Sakura sat on her futon, half-blanketed, staring at her phone.
It buzzed.
Another One Plus notification.
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from a song meant just for you.
____________•••____________
She stared at it.
Still no app. Still no source. Just that glowing line.
She didn't try to dismiss it this time.
She didn't question it.
Instead, she opened her playlist.
Searched:
"In a Sentimental Mood – John Coltrane."
She pressed play.
The saxophone hummed softly into her room, like a memory she hadn't lived yet.
And for once, she let the music do the thinking for her.