It had been three days since the coffee mistake.
Three long, unusually silent days.
Sakura Aihara hadn't returned to Roastery Gekkō.
Not because she was avoiding Riku. No, she told herself that more than once.
It was because she wasn't sure what would happen if she saw him again—and that kind of uncertainty made her skin itch.
She hated unexpected things. Surprises belonged in novels, not in her day-to-day reality.
Her world ran on structure—like a train schedule written in pen. Everything had a place. Every emotion, every errand, every goal. Color-coded, tabbed, annotated. Control was the invisible backbone of her entire existence.
And Riku Hayashi—coffee barista, jazz hummer, self-proclaimed villain of random Tuesdays—did not fit into any of her categories.
Which was precisely the problem.
Since that awkward-but-oddly-charming latte mix-up, she'd tried to reestablish her rhythm. Wake up. Train station. Study. Tutoring. Dinner. Rinse, repeat.
She even visited other cafés.
There was that trendy one near the university—the one with latte art shaped like hedgehogs. But the music was too loud, and the tables too crowded.
Another had excellent lighting and strong Wi-Fi. But their vanilla soy latte tasted like regret and powdered shame.
None of them felt right.
They were fine.
But they weren't Gekkō.
So, on the fourth day, Sakura found herself standing in front of the small café once more, hands shoved deep into her coat pockets.
She hadn't intended to come.
She had passed three bookstores, a bakery, and a convenience store that sold her favorite melon pan.
Yet somehow her feet had led her here.
She stood just outside, staring through the fogged windows. Warm golden light spilled out, contrasting the soft grey chill of the Tokyo morning. Inside, the same piano jazz drifted from the speakers—notes dancing like falling petals.
A customer opened the door to leave, letting out a gust of warmth. The bell above the door gave its usual polite ding, and Sakura, before her brain could stop her, stepped through.
The scent hit her immediately.
Roasted beans, faint citrus, and caramel—familiar, grounding, like being wrapped in a memory she didn't know she'd missed.
And then she saw him.
Riku.
Still behind the counter.
Still in that oversized green apron that looked like it belonged to someone bulkier.
His messy dark hair was swept a little to the side today, as though someone had almost convinced him to try brushing it. But he still looked like himself—warm eyes, relaxed posture, and an aura that was somehow both sleepy and sharp.
He glanced up—and froze mid-clean.
Their eyes met.
It was only a second, but something shifted in the air.
The jazz didn't stop. The machines didn't pause. But Sakura swore something unspoken hovered between them.
"…Sakura," Riku said, blinking in surprise. "You're back."
She nodded, trying to sound casual. "I figured it was time to face the latte again."
His expression broke into a quiet chuckle. "Brave choice. We've disinfected the sweet potato zone, just in case."
"I appreciate the caution," she replied, her lips twitching into the faintest smile.
"Vanilla soy, hot?"
"As always."
He turned, beginning the process with familiar ease. The hiss of the milk steamer, the measured syrup pumps, the soft rattle of the tamper against the espresso. Everything was second nature to him.
Sakura watched.
She didn't usually watch baristas make drinks—it felt oddly intimate, like staring at someone brushing their teeth.
But Riku's movements were… oddly graceful. Focused. Even the way he tapped the mug on the counter had rhythm.
"You hum when you work," she said suddenly, without thinking.
He looked up, eyebrows raised. "Do I?"
"Always jazz."
He laughed. "Guilty. Old habit. I used to be in a jazz band in high school."
That surprised her. "Really?"
"Yeah. I played trumpet. I was decent. Probably peaked in our school's Christmas concert when I hit the wrong note during Silent Night and turned it into a horror film soundtrack."
A small giggle escaped her lips before she could stop it. She covered her mouth, a little embarrassed.
He beamed at the sound. "That's the first time I've heard you laugh."
She cleared her throat. "Don't get used to it."
"Noted. I'll file it under Rare Events." He handed her the finished latte, caramel spiral perfectly formed.
She accepted it carefully, fingers wrapping around the heat. "Thanks."
"You always come alone?" he asked, leaning lightly on the counter.
"Yes," she replied after a pause. "It's easier to think when no one talks."
"That's funny," he said. "I come here to stop thinking."
Sakura blinked. "…You work here."
"Exactly," he said, gesturing to the espresso machine like it was a sacred monument. "Making coffee's the one time I don't overthink things. Just water, beans, steam, done. No expectations. No deadlines. It's peaceful."
She sipped the latte.
It was perfect.
Exactly what she had meant to order the first time. Comforting, creamy, warm. Like a good book you'd already read but still got lost in again.
"You're good at this," she murmured.
"Thanks," he said, not with pride, but with genuine gratitude. "You ever think about what you'd do if you weren't doing what you were doing?"
She tilted her head. "Is that a riddle?"
He grinned. "Maybe."
"I don't have time for 'what ifs.' I plan. I execute."
"Sounds like a war strategy."
She sipped again. "Some days, it is."
They stood there, caught in a bubble of jazz and steaming coffee and strange, flickering comfort.
"I should… go sit," she said eventually, motioning awkwardly toward her favorite corner table.
"Right. Of course," he said, stepping back quickly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to hold you hostage with philosophical questions."
She walked away.
But just as she sat down and opened her tablet, she glanced back.
Riku was still watching her.
And when he realized she'd caught him, he didn't look away.
He smiled.
Not flirtatiously. Not smugly.
Just gently.
Warmly.
Bittersweetly.
Sakura didn't smile back.
But she didn't look away either.
---
That Evening
After the last chair had been stacked, the counters wiped, and the café's soft glow faded into moonlight, Riku stepped out the back door and collapsed onto the staff bench in the alley.
He let out a sigh that fogged into the cold night air.
He checked his phone.
Instagram. Nothing.
Group chat with former bandmates. Still arguing about whether ska jazz was real jazz.
Nothing new.
Then—
Ping.
A notification. Simple. Quiet. Unfamiliar.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from something meaningful.
____________•••____________
He stared.
No app logo. No source.
He tapped it.
Nothing.
No redirect. No glitch.
Just that same line.
"…What the hell is this?"
He checked his settings. Notifications: no matching app.
He looked at the background—just his usual lock screen photo. A trumpet on a wooden bench. The one he left behind after quitting the band.
The message stayed.
____________•••____________
One plus away from something meaningful.
____________•••____________
He frowned.
Then, without meaning to, he thought of her.
Of Sakura.
Her quiet voice.
Her almost-laugh.
Her way of looking at the world like it was a textbook she hadn't decided whether to read or rewrite.
He put the phone down.
Stared at the sky.
And for the first time in a long while, he wondered if something was about to change.
If maybe… he was already one plus away