The next day, Sakura returned.
And the next.
It wasn't part of any routine—at least not one she'd scheduled—but something about Roastery Gekkō kept pulling her back.
Or maybe it wasn't the café at all.
Maybe it was the way the morning light spilled across the woodgrain table in her favorite corner.
Maybe it was the aroma of roasted beans that lingered in the air like a comforting memory.
Maybe it was the jazz that never repeated itself.
Maybe it was the boy with the lazy smile and mop of messy hair.
Whatever it was… she found herself staying longer each time.
At first, it was fifteen minutes. Just a drink and a glance at her notes.
Then it was thirty.
Then an hour.
Now, the latte often went half-cold before she remembered to drink it.
Her fingers danced across her tablet screen a little less.
Her eyes drifted toward the counter a little more.
And Riku noticed.
Of course he did.
He wasn't trying to notice. In fact, he tried not to.
But he'd come to recognize her habits, like a song you didn't mean to memorize but somehow knew all the lyrics to.
She always arrived between 9:25 and 9:35, always sat in the window corner with the cushion slightly askew, and always ordered the same vanilla soy latte—no sugar, no toppings. Just pure.
But it wasn't the order that fascinated him.
It was her.
The way she tilted her head when she read, like she was trying to listen to the words on the page.
The way she tapped her pen against her chin—not impatiently, but rhythmically. Like she was composing something.
The rare flicker in her eyes when something in her reading made her lips part in thought.
He caught himself watching her more than he should've.
And she caught him doing it, more than once.
The first time, he looked away so fast he nearly knocked over a tray of cups.
The second time, she blinked, expression unreadable.
The third time… she didn't look away either.
---
Thursday morning brought rain.
Not the aggressive kind, but the soft kind that whispered instead of wept.
Tokyo looked like a watercolor painting in the mist. Umbrellas bloomed across the sidewalks like colorful paper flowers. Every step came with the soft slap of wet shoes on concrete.
Sakura arrived with rain hugging the hem of her coat, a few strands of damp hair stuck to her cheek.
She didn't rush. She never did. But there was something different in the way she moved that day—less hesitation. Less uncertainty.
As she approached the counter, Riku looked up.
"You're wet," he said before his brain caught up with his mouth.
She raised an eyebrow slowly.
"I—I mean your sleeves! The sleeves!" he flailed, reaching beneath the counter. "Here."
He handed her a clean bar towel.
Sakura took it silently and patted her sleeves, then pressed it lightly to her forehead before handing it back.
"Thanks," she murmured. "Rain's rude today."
"Yeah. Didn't even text first," he joked, already reaching for a mug. "Midterms?"
She nodded, looking tired. "Midterms."
He grimaced in sympathy. "Your usual?"
"Yes, please."
As she retreated to her usual spot, Riku prepared the drink with care—more care than necessary. He tried to hide it, but every movement was measured.
He steamed the milk just a bit longer than normal for extra warmth.
He poured with practiced ease, then hesitated—just for a moment—before reaching for a tiny tin of ground cinnamon.
A swirl. Barely there. Subtle enough to blend, gentle enough to surprise.
He walked it over himself.
"Special delivery," he said, placing it gently in front of her.
"You walked it all the way here?" she asked, eyebrow rising.
"I figured the weather was depressing enough. You shouldn't have to line up for comfort."
She stared at the cup.
Then at him.
"What's on top?" she asked, eyeing the faint swirl.
"Cinnamon. Just a trace. You can throw it at me if it ruins everything."
"Do you experiment with everyone's drink?"
"Only when I think someone needs it."
She held the cup but didn't drink. "I'm not a science project."
"No. You're the calmest person I've ever seen drinking coffee in a thunderstorm."
She let that hang in the air before lifting the cup and sipping.
She paused.
"Well?"
"It's not bad."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's practically a five-star review from you."
For the first time in their shared café history, Sakura didn't immediately turn back to her screen.
Instead, she let the cup rest between her hands and looked up at him again.
"Why work in a café?" she asked. "You don't seem like the corporate dropout type."
He leaned against a nearby chair, brushing rain off his sleeves. "Tried the office life. Lasted three months."
"What happened?"
"I spent more time imagining which pen I'd use to fake my resignation letter than actually working."
She almost smirked.
"My brother's the golden child. Lawyer. Makes enough to have opinions on wine. I just… like coffee. And music. And people who aren't trying to sell me a self-improvement podcast."
"You mean people like me."
He tilted his head. "Exactly like you."
A long pause.
She looked at him for a while. Really looked. His smile wasn't flashy, but it was steady. There was no mask there. Just ease. And maybe a little worry he hid beneath humor.
"Why not start your own place?" she asked quietly.
"That's the dream," he said, voice softer now. "Something small. Brick walls. Bookshelves. No Wi-Fi. A place where people come to remember how to breathe."
She nodded slowly.
"That doesn't sound like failure."
He blinked. "It doesn't?"
"No. It sounds like someone with clarity."
And that…
That was the first time he didn't know what to say.
---
By the end of the hour, Sakura began packing her bag. The rain had softened, and light broke faintly through the clouds like shy apologies.
Riku looked up, expecting her usual nod of farewell.
Instead, she walked up to the counter.
"Tomorrow," she said, resting her hand briefly on the edge, "make it almond milk. Let's see if you're any good with that."
He laughed—low and real. "Challenge accepted."
---
That night, back in her apartment, Sakura sat in bed with her tablet propped on her knees.
Her original document sat open—half a sentence blinking at her like it was judging her procrastination.
Instead of continuing it, she opened a new file.
She typed a title:
Bittersweet: Encounters in Silence.
She sat quietly for a second.
Then typed the first line.
He smiled like coffee—warm, a little bitter, but strangely addictive.
She read it once. Then again.
And her phone buzzed softly beside her.
No sound. No name.
Just a notification.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from seeing someone's true dream.
____________•••____________
This time, she didn't frown.
She didn't dismiss it.
She simply locked her phone, placed it face down, and kept typing.
The words came easier now.