It was starting to feel like a ritual.
Every morning, she arrived.
Every morning, he waited—pretending it was coincidence.
And every morning, they shared something just a little more than the day before.
But this particular morning broke the rhythm.
Roastery Gekkō was unusually packed.
Rain had driven the city inward, and the café had become a refuge. Umbrellas leaned like wilted flowers against the doorframe. The windows fogged from breath and steam. Conversations overlapped, bouncing off walls. The soft jazz tried its best to hold the mood together but was losing ground to clinking cutlery and spilled espresso.
Sakura stepped in quietly, her beige coat damp at the edges, a few strands of hair clinging to her cheek. She scanned the room quickly.
No quiet corner.
No seat by the window.
No Riku behind the counter.
Her chest tightened for a reason she didn't want to name.
She joined the line.
---
Riku was in the backroom, balancing inventory and cursing under his breath at a miscounted syrup order. Ayumu, the newest hire, was fumbling at the register, looking like a man attempting to juggle cups with oven mitts.
It wasn't until he heard Ayumu call, "Order for… Miss Sakura?" that Riku froze.
His clipboard hit the floor.
By the time he made it out front, she was already seated—well, trapped—at a table near the pastry display, shoulders drawn in like she was bracing for an exam she hadn't studied for.
He slipped behind the counter, gently pried her order ticket from Ayumu's hand, and quietly remade the drink himself.
Then, with a fresh cup and a quiet grin, he approached her.
"Didn't expect a crowd today," he said, setting the cup down like a peace offering.
She looked up, the noise behind her pressing in like wallpaper she couldn't peel off. "It's fine. Chaos is... educational."
"Your usual," he said.
She blinked. "You didn't take the order."
"I saw your name and told Ayumu to step back before he set the machine on fire."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're exaggerating."
"Only slightly. He almost poured matcha into someone's Americano yesterday."
She accepted the cup, holding it like a small anchor. Took a sip.
Paused.
"…This is different," she said.
He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "Pinch of nutmeg. Drop of orange oil."
Her gaze sharpened. "Why?"
"You looked like you needed a twist."
"I don't like twists."
"You don't like sweet potato lattes either, but here we are."
Her expression didn't change, but her silence said more than any retort.
Then, quietly, "Do you always do this?"
"Do what?"
"Watch people. Change things without asking."
"I don't change things," he said. "I adjust. For the better, hopefully."
Their eyes met again. And again, the world thinned. The noise faded just a bit.
She set the cup down, fingers still resting on it like she wasn't quite ready to let go.
"It's good," she admitted. "Strange. But good."
He smirked. "That's becoming your catchphrase."
"I don't like strange things."
He tilted his head. "And yet you keep coming back."
She didn't answer that.
Instead, after a moment, she asked, "You said you wanted to open your own café."
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
His smile faded—not disappeared, just... shifted.
"I tried. Small place in Yokohama. Partner bailed. Debt snowballed. I was twenty-four, idealistic, and way too confident in my latte art. It tanked. I moved back to Tokyo and swore off dreams for a while."
He wasn't looking at her as he said it. But he wasn't hiding, either.
"I walked into Gekkō one night looking for work, ended up staying. Never really left."
Sakura nodded slowly, eyes softening. She didn't offer advice. Didn't say "That's rough" or "You'll get there."
She just said, "Maybe you weren't failing. Maybe you were fermenting."
He blinked. "That's worse than 'still brewing.'"
"It is," she agreed. "But I meant it."
And then—for the first time that morning—she smiled.
A real one.
Not practiced. Not polite. Just... quietly real.
---
They sat there until the noise faded and time slipped past unnoticed.
No tablets. No notepads. Just warmth, breath, and unspoken words resting between two cups.
---
When it was time to leave, he walked her to the door.
"You don't have to impress me," she said.
He turned, surprised. "What?"
"You don't have to change the drink every time. I'm okay with simple."
He studied her for a moment.
Then smiled. "I know. But you're not simple. So I keep trying to catch up."
She hesitated at the door.
Then stepped out, swallowed by rainlight and the rhythm of a city that never stopped moving.
He stayed at the doorway a little longer, watching.
---
That night, as Sakura tucked herself into the quiet of her apartment, the phone buzzed again.
Another message.
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from being seen without saying a word.
____________•••____________
She read it once.
Twice.
Then placed the phone on her nightstand, screen-down.
And whispered to no one, or maybe to herself—
"…Maybe."