Yuta wasn’t in a rush. The little bookstore off-campus, nestled between a teahouse and a plant shop, had become his sanctuary. The scent of worn paper, cinnamon from the bakery down the street, and the soft rustling of pages grounded him more than any therapist ever had.

He traced a finger along spines as he wandered, letting his thoughts drift between Nietzsche and Murakami, eyes scanning for nothing in particular and everything at once. The world felt quiet here, like the store existed outside of time.

Turning into a narrow aisle of poetry, Yuta paused mid-step.

There she was—sitting cross-legged on the floor like the world had simply stopped to let her read. A book balanced open in her lap, her expression soft and absorbed, brows gently furrowed. The shop cat, Mushu, a notoriously picky tabby, was curled up contentedly across her knees, purring like she belonged to him.

Yuta froze, the quiet moment blooming around him. Something about it—her peaceful focus, the cat’s complete surrender, the soft spill of sunlight through the high window dusting everything in gold—it made his chest ache a little.

He almost turned around, not wanting to disturb something that looked so perfectly complete.

But then she looked up, met his eyes, and smiled like she’d been expecting him.