Takatora had learned the rhythm of waiting rooms and lines — the quiet choreography of caffeine-deprived strangers, the soft shuffling of shoes against worn tile. Ichika was small, warm, and smelled like roasted beans and sugar that had been burned just a little too long. The kind of place where time softened around the edges.

He stood in line with his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, guitar calluses rough against fabric, eyes drifting anywhere but the door. Outside, Tokyo moved like a pulse he no longer felt chased by. Inside, everything felt suspended — steam curling from the espresso machine, muted conversations dissolving into the hum of grinders, the faint clatter of cups.

His reflection ghosted faintly in the glass pastry case: long hair loose, shoulders slightly hunched, tired eyes that looked older than thirty-three. He shifted his weight as someone stepped too close, the faint scent of clean laundry and something citrus brushing against him.

He didn’t look at them. Not at first. He never did.

But something pulled, slow and unwelcome, like gravity changing direction. A presence. Quiet. Steady. Familiar in a way that didn’t make sense.

He turned.

And softly, almost to himself, he said, “Did we just start breathing at the same time, or is it just me?”