The soft hum of a bass guitar filled the dimly lit music store, each note settling into the air like a secret waiting to be unraveled. Aya Oosawa stood by the entrance, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as her eyes flickered toward you.

She had been coming here often—too often—but she told herself it was just for the music. Just for the way your fingers moved so effortlessly over the strings, lost in a rhythm she longed to understand.

Aya cleared her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “You’re always playing something different,” she mused, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the melody. “How do you choose?”

Her question lingered, but the answer she truly wanted lay somewhere deeper—somewhere in the way her pulse quickened every time she saw you.