For the first time in years, Yuki woke to stillness that didn’t feel empty.

  Aoi was beside him on the bookstore’s tiny loveseat, curled beneath a blanket they’d forgotten was there. They’d talked for hours after the kiss — not about big things, not about Rin, or the past, or what came next. Just the little things. Favorite smells. Bad handwriting. The first book that ever made them cry.

  Morning sunlight peeked through the shutters, golden and kind.

  Aoi stirred, blinking blearily, her hair a wild halo of sleep and dreams.

  “You drool in your sleep,” she mumbled.

  Yuki raised an eyebrow. “So do you.”

  A pause.

  “Touché,” she said.

  They shared a quiet laugh — the kind that didn’t need volume to be full.

  For a brief, shining moment, the world outside the bookstore didn’t exist. There was only her hand brushing his, only her cheek pressed against his shoulder.

  But real life is a persistent thing.

  The doorbell jingled.

  They both looked up — startled, guilty, laughing.

  Kenta stood in the doorway, blinking at the scene like he’d walked into a private movie. He raised both eyebrows in exaggerated surprise.

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  “Well,” he said, drawing the word out like a bowstring. “Am I interrupting a chapter or a whole new volume?”

  Aoi buried her face in Yuki’s shoulder.

  Yuki groaned. “Don’t you have a café to run?”

  “Sure,” Kenta said, winking. “But gossip brews faster than coffee.”

  As Kenta left, he muttered something about “wedding bells and poetry slams,” which Aoi pretended not to hear.

  They shared a look. Embarrassed. Giddy. Undeniably close.

  But the moment was already changing — too delicate to last forever.

  Yuki stood and fetched two mugs of tea from the back, trying not to think about the letter from Shirou still tucked in his jacket pocket.

  Aoi accepted hers with a smile, but her gaze lingered.

  “You haven’t told me what she really said,” she murmured. “Rin.”

  Yuki froze.

  He wanted to lie. To say it was nothing. But he couldn’t.

  “She gave me a letter,” he said quietly. “But it wasn’t from her.”

  Aoi looked up, eyes narrowed. “Then... who?”

  “Shirou.”

  A long silence stretched between them. Aoi’s fingers curled tighter around the mug.

  “You told me he left. That you hadn’t heard from him in years.”

  “I hadn’t,” Yuki said. “Until now.”

  Something unspoken flickered between them — a new weight, pressing gently against the fragile thread of what they were becoming.

  Aoi looked out the window, where the rain had left the world glassy and clean.

  “Are you going to read it?” she asked.

  “I already did.”

  “And?”

  Yuki sighed, sitting beside her again.

  “It wasn’t an answer. It was a challenge. Like he wants me to come find him.”

  Aoi didn’t speak for a long moment.

  Then, softly: “Will you?”

  Yuki met her gaze.

  And for once, he didn’t run.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But if I do… it won’t be alone.”

  Aoi reached for his hand.

  Held it.

  Tight.