The night sky was clear, scattered with stars that shimmered faintly above the temple's tiled rooftops. The air was cool but not harsh, the kind of evening that carried stillness in every breath.
Ren Nakamura sat alone on the veranda, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the distant lanterns swaying gently along the temple paths. His outward composure had not wavered, but inside, something restless had begun to stir.
He had always believed desire was dangerous—an opening for weakness, a fracture in the armor he had built. Yet lately, the silence between him and Hana Takahashi no longer felt like enough. It comforted him, yes, but it also left him aching.
Every glance, every fleeting brush of her presence, lingered too long in his chest. He found himself noticing details he should not: the faint curve of her smile when she sketched, the way her hair caught the lantern light, the calm steadiness in her eyes that disarmed him more than any blade ever could.
It was hunger. Quiet, unspoken, but consuming all the same.
The soft creak of the veranda steps pulled him from his thoughts. Hana approached, carrying a small lantern of her own. She hesitated only briefly before settling beside him, leaving a respectful distance.
"The stars are clear tonight," she said softly.
Ren gave a faint nod, his gaze never leaving the sky. "Clearer than usual."
For a time, they simply sat together, the night folding around them like a cloak. But the silence was not the same as before. It was heavier, laced with something unspoken—longing, fragile yet insistent.
Hana placed the lantern carefully at her side, its glow brushing against her face. Ren caught the movement in the corner of his eye and, against his will, allowed himself to look.
Her expression was calm, serene even, but there was something in her eyes that unsettled him—something that mirrored the restlessness in his own chest.
He looked away quickly, clenching his hand against his knee.
"Ren-san," Hana murmured after a pause, "when you look at the sky like that… it feels as though you're somewhere far away."
Ren exhaled slowly. "Perhaps I am."
"Do you wish to be elsewhere?" she asked.
He shook his head, his voice low. "No. If I wished that, I wouldn't be here."
Hana's lips curved faintly, but she said no more. Her silence was steady, patient, yet Ren felt the weight of it pressing against him.
The hunger in his chest grew sharper. He wanted—no, needed—to close the distance. To say the words that pressed at the edge of his tongue, to reach out and hold onto the warmth that had quietly become his refuge.
But the fear of breaking what they had held him back.
His hand twitched against his knee. Almost, almost he reached toward hers. But at the last moment, he withdrew, folding it into his sleeve.
Hana noticed. Her eyes flickered down to his restrained hand, then back up to his face. She did not move, did not press. But her gaze softened, as if she understood the war inside him.
Ren's chest tightened painfully. It was unbearable—this distance that felt smaller with each day yet wider than ever.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost raw. "Hana… do you not fear it? This silence between us?"
Her eyes lingered on him, calm and unwavering. "No. Because silence can carry longing too."
Her words struck deep. She had given name to the ache he could not admit.
Ren's throat tightened. He could not speak further, not tonight. But his gaze lingered on her longer than it should have, his cold eyes betraying the fire within.
Hana did not look away. Her faint smile was quiet, understanding, but beneath it he sensed something more—a longing that matched his own.
The hunger of the heart was no longer his alone.
And though neither reached across the distance, the bond between them pulsed stronger than words could hold.
The night carried on, stars glowing faintly above, as two hearts sat side by side—silent, aching, and unable to deny the flame growing within.