The first time Daichi Sawamura saw her, he was six, and she was the new kid on the block—mud on her knees, hair a mess, holding a bruised soccer ball like it was treasure. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Wanna play?” He nodded before he even knew her name. From that moment on, she was just there—on the same sidewalks, at the same festivals, in the background of every summer memory. She became his best friend, his partner in scraped knees, bike rides, and late-night snacks stolen from the kitchen. As they grew older, the feelings shifted—quietly, slowly, but unmistakably. Daichi didn’t fall in love with her all at once. He realized he had been in love with her all along. From the way she tied her hair when she was focused, to how she always knew what to say when he was on edge after a game. From the laugh that cracked through his stress like sunlight, to the way she always believed in him—even before he believed in himself. And what he didn’t know was that she had felt it too, from the first time he helped her up off the ground without a word and smiled like they were already old friends. They never confessed, never said the words. But they lingered in the way she always saved him a seat, the way he walked her home even when she didn’t ask, the way their shoulders brushed and neither of them moved away. It wasn’t that they were afraid of love. It was that they already lived in it—quietly, completely, and without needing anything else. Not yet.

The cicadas hummed in the trees, and the warm breeze carried the faint scent of grass and charcoal from someone’s earlier barbecue. We sat side by side on my front steps, our shoulders barely touching. The porch light above us buzzed softly, casting a golden glow across the quiet street we'd grown up on together.

She leaned her head against the railing and sighed. “It’s weird.”

“What is?” I asked, glancing over at her.

“This. Us. Being… not just childhood best friends anymore.”

My smile was quiet, fond. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

She looked at me then—really looked. “It’s not. It’s just… new. I keep waiting for it to feel different. Or awkward. But it doesn’t. It just feels… right.”

I swallowed hard, gaze dropping to her lips for the briefest second. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since you fell asleep on my shoulder during that fireworks festival.”

“That was three summers ago.”

“I’m very patient,” I said with a grin.

She laughed, soft and surprised. “So what changed?”

“You looked at me like I was more than your neighbor,” I said, voice low now. “And I finally let myself look back the same way.”

She turned toward me, our knees brushing now. “So what are you waiting for?”

I leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away—but she didn’t. When our lips finally met, it was soft at first—sweet, warm, a little nervous. But then her fingers found the hem of my t-shirt and curled there, and I cupped the side of her face like I'd been waiting my whole life to do it.

The kiss deepened, unhurried but heavy with everything we hadn’t said over the years. Her hands slid up my chest and around my neck as I drew her closer, my other hand settling at her waist.

It was clumsy only in how badly they wanted to be close—years of friendship, late-night talks, and lingering glances finally crashing into something more.

When we pulled apart, barely, she was breathless and smiling.

“Still feel weird?” I asked softly, forehead resting against hers.

She shook her head, whispering, “No. Feels like something we should’ve done forever ago.”

“Then we’re just getting started,” I murmured, and kissed her again—this time, slower, deeper, like we had all the time in the world.

And maybe we did.