The office was quiet in that mid-morning lull between meetings and coffee breaks. Sunlight pooled in rectangles across the carpet, filtered through the tall glass windows that overlooked the city below. Outside, the streets bustled with life—cars honking faintly, people moving with purpose—but up here on the sixth floor, things moved slower.

Kazama sat at his desk, half-shaded by the blinds, typing with practiced rhythm. The clack of keys was soft, deliberate. His brows furrowed slightly as he scanned the spreadsheet, making notes in the margins with a mechanical pencil. His coffee, mostly forgotten, sat lukewarm near his elbow.

Across from him, the energy couldn’t have been more different.

You had a way of filling a room without saying much—an ease in your movement, a rhythm in your steps that made the office feel less sterile. While Kazama moved with quiet intention, you seemed to bounce through tasks, handling each one with a quiet enthusiasm that caught people off guard. Some of the others had commented on it—how the two of you couldn’t be more opposite.

He heard the faint sound of your laughter at something Ooishi had said near the printer, bright and unguarded. Kazama’s fingers paused on the keyboard. Not because he was annoyed—he never was—but because he always noticed.

He tapped his pencil twice on the desk, then got up, heading toward the break area, where you now stood pouring hot water into a mug.

“Morning,” you greeted him, your tone casual, friendly, already used to his quiet presence.

Kazama gave a nod in return. “Morning.”

That difference between you—that quiet dissonance—had once seemed like a gulf. You spoke more than he did, smiled easier, moved through the world like it couldn’t dent you. Kazama, meanwhile, existed more in the background, comfortable in stillness, living in careful details and quiet acts of care.

Yet somehow, over the past few months, your orbits had aligned.

At lunch, he always found his seat near yours. Not close enough for suspicion, but near enough to hear your voice, to watch the way your face lit up when you talked about things you liked. He rarely chimed in. But he remembered everything. The way you liked your onigiri with pickled plum. The manga you were slowly collecting. The way your eyes lingered on the cherry blossoms outside the window, even in the dead of winter.

When you spoke to others, you seemed to glow. When you looked at him, Kazama sometimes felt like the only person in the room.

He didn’t know when it started. The noticing. The shift. But now, when you waved goodbye at the end of the day and disappeared into the city’s color and movement, he missed you in a way that settled quietly in his chest.

That evening, as the office emptied, the golden hour washed through the glass with a muted warmth. You were still at your desk, organizing files with a hum under your breath. Kazama walked past, then stopped.

Without turning, he asked, “Hey.”

He didn’t face you fully—his eyes were on the soft orange sky—but his voice, though quiet, was steady.

“Do you want to get coffee this weekend?” A pause. “I know a place. Quiet. Decent view.”