The snow started just after six.
Not a flurry.
Not a storm.
Just soft, steady flakes drifting down like the world had finally decided to slow its breath.
The sky was an ashen gray, barely distinguishable from the rooftops it hovered above. Lights flickered on one by one in apartments, train stations, and quiet corners of the city—little pockets of warmth in a world turning white.
By seven, the city was wrapped in snow and silence.
No horns.
No shouting.
Only the occasional crunch of footsteps and the hush of tires crawling carefully across ice-dusted roads.
And somewhere in a back street nestled between an old bookstore and a florist that had long closed for winter, Roastery Gekkō glowed like a lantern in the storm.
Inside, the light was soft.
Muted gold from ceiling bulbs. Flickers of reflection on dark mahogany surfaces. The aroma of roasted beans and cinnamon lingered like a memory you didn't want to leave.
The heater hummed gently.
The piano jazz had switched to a mellow loop—soft chords that felt more like a heartbeat than music.
Riku stood behind the counter—not busy. Not cleaning. Just… waiting.
He hadn't needed to stay late.
There were no orders, no deliveries, no staff needing cover.
But around lunchtime, she had said:
("I'll drop by after class. If it's not too late.")
She hadn't said why.
She didn't have to anymore.
So he stayed.
---
At 7:42 p.m., the bell above the door chimed.
And there she was.
Sakura.
Hair slightly damp at the tips.
Snowflakes dusting her coat shoulders and catching in the ends of her scarf.
Cheeks flushed from the cold.
Gloves tucked into her coat pocket.
No umbrella. No phone in hand.
Just Sakura—quiet, steady, and more present than ever.
"You stayed open," she said.
"I was hoping you'd come," Riku replied, voice low but warm.
Her eyes swept the room.
Empty.
Still.
Peaceful.
"Quiet night," she said.
"Only the best customers left," he answered, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
She shook her head slightly—half a chuckle, half shy—and walked toward the window seat.
Her seat.
He didn't ask her order.
She didn't offer one.
Riku simply disappeared into the back briefly, then returned minutes later with something new.
A delicate cup, white porcelain, steam curling upward like a question.
She raised an eyebrow. "Experimental?"
He nodded. "Vanilla bean, white chocolate, toasted almond. I call it a Winter Confession."
Sakura took a sip.
Paused.
Then, with the smallest smile: "Approved."
Riku sat across from her, not bothering to remove his coat. A dusting of flour still clung to the sleeve—he'd been trying to bake again earlier, just to pass time. It hadn't gone well.
Outside, the snow had thickened.
Streetlamps glowed through it like distant stars caught in a fog.
The glass beside them frosted slightly at the corners.
Inside, time softened.
---
"Do you miss anyone?" Sakura asked.
It came out gently. No prelude. No defense.
Just a question released into the warm air, like breath.
Riku considered for a long while.
"My mom," he said eventually. "But only sometimes. She passed away when I was in high school. It's not constant, just... moments. Random ones. Like snow. It just comes."
Sakura didn't say anything. She just listened—completely, deeply.
He went on. "And my old friend. The one I opened my first café with. He left when things got bad. No warning. Just… vanished."
"Do you hate him?" she asked.
"I used to," Riku said. "But now… I just hope he's okay. That he found something better. Or at least peace."
Sakura lowered her eyes.
Her gloves sat in her lap, damp from the walk. She smoothed them unconsciously, fingers curling along the seams.
"I think I miss people I never got to know properly," she murmured. "Like my mother. She's still alive. But I don't really know her. Same with my father."
Riku's voice was soft. "That's a different kind of missing."
She nodded. "I always felt like a visitor in my own house. Like I had to knock, even on the rooms that were mine."
"And here?" he asked, after a moment.
Sakura looked up.
Her gaze traced the café's small world—the bar, the worn-out menus, the warm lights. The vase of dried flowers by the windowsill. And then, finally, him.
"Here… I don't feel like I have to explain myself."
A pause.
Then she added, barely above a whisper:
"Here, I feel seen."
They sat like that for a while.
No rush.
No need to fill the space.
The snow outside kept falling.
And the silence between them thickened—not heavy, but sacred.
---
The power flickered once.
Then again.
And then—gone.
The heater stopped humming.
The jazz fell into silence.
The café dimmed, suddenly shadowed, except for the faint glow from outside—muted and blue, like twilight caught in glass.
Sakura blinked.
Riku stood.
"Stay there," he said, disappearing into the back.
She heard shuffling. A small clatter. The scrape of a box being pulled from a shelf.
When he returned, his arms were full of small tea lights—round, gold-tinned, meant for emergency use.
One by one, he lit them.
Lining them along the counter, the windowsill, even their table.
Dozens of tiny flames, flickering like stars trying to speak.
And just like that, the café glowed again.
Not with electricity.
But with intimacy.
Sakura watched him.
Quietly. Deeply.
"You make broken moments feel beautiful," she said.
He looked at her—lit by soft firelight.
Then replied, gently, "Maybe that's what I'm best at."
---
Her fingers toyed with the edge of her cup.
Then, as if moved by something invisible, she reached across the table.
Her hand hovered.
Stopped.
Not touching his.
Just close.
Close enough for warmth to pass between skin and skin.
Riku didn't flinch.
Didn't close the distance.
He simply turned his palm upward—open.
Invitation. Not demand.
And after a breath—
Sakura's hand lowered.
Fingers slid gently into his.
Warmth.
Not electric.
Not sudden.
But real.
Grounding.
The kind that says: I'm still here. I stayed.
---
Outside, the snow kept falling.
Inside, the world had stopped.
Time didn't matter.
Silence didn't need filling.
And the only movement left was a shared breath—and the soft, flickering lights between them.
Then—
Their phones buzzed.
Same time.
Same tone.
But neither moved.
Neither looked.
Because some moments don't need confirmation.
They don't need texts.
Or signs.
Or signals.
Just presence.
Just touch.
Just two people choosing to stay—in the warmth, in the quiet, while snow kissed the window behind them.