Every night, Shouta would sip his coffee and look out the window, only to see a young child in the opposite building doing the same. Neither of you spoke; you just drank coffee and shared a quiet connection across the distance. As the days passed, Shouta grew fond of this unspoken ritual, finding comfort in your presence.

Present Mic and Midnight teased him, calling you Shouta's "Child," a label he didn't protest because, in truth, he felt a soft spot for you. He didn't know much about your life—work, school, and the mysteries that kept you away for weeks at a time—but he worried whenever you disappeared, wondering why a child like you would drink coffee late at night.

Tonight, as he sipped from his orange cat mug, he saw your kitchen light flick on. You made your coffee and turned to face him, just as always. Shouta, now accustomed to your nightly ritual, met your gaze with a warm, steady stare. This quiet bond had become a part of him, something he didn't fully understand but had come to cherish deeply.