The snow melted slowly the next morning, slipping from rooftops and tree branches in quiet drips that echoed like a clock's second hand across the silent streets. Puddles replaced powder. Ice lost its grip on the curb edges. But in certain corners of Tokyo, winter still lingered—less in temperature, more in feeling.
Yet within Roastery Gekkō, there was warmth.
A kind that didn't come from the heater.
Or even the steam from freshly ground espresso.
But something else.
Something new.
Something that settled deep and stayed long after the cup was empty.
---
Sakura arrived earlier than usual.
No scarf.
No gloves.
Just a soft grey sweater, hair loose down her back, and something different in her steps—unhurried, sure, and quiet in the way only confidence can be.
Riku looked up from behind the counter.
He saw her before the bell even chimed.
Noticed the tiny flecks of dampness clinging to her sleeves. The way her gaze softened when it landed on him. The way her presence felt less like a customer, and more like—
A constant.
"Kitchen's yours today," he said.
Sakura paused just inside the doorway. "I didn't agree to that."
"You said last night that my winter confession latte was 'approved,'" Riku replied, already pulling out his notebook. "That makes you part of the tasting committee."
She stared at him, unblinking.
Deadpan.
Then walked to the bar stool and sat with mock resignation.
"I expect hazard pay."
"Hazard pay is a second drink," he said, "on the house."
She smirked—barely.
But to Riku, it counted as a win.
---
They tried seven combinations.
One by one.
Each with a ridiculous name scribbled into Riku's notebook—Midnight Toast, Sweet Storm, Mocha Eclipse, and other disasters not worth remembering.
The counter became a battlefield of half-finished mugs, dribbled napkins, scattered notes, and one poor croissant torn apart in frustration.
Riku scribbled. Crossed out. Scribbled again.
Sakura?
She judged like a queen at a blind wine tasting.
Her feedback came sharp, quick, and devastating:
("Too sweet."
"This one tastes like wet flowers."
"Whatever that was? Burn the recipe."
"This one's… quietly good. Like a warm hand in a cold pocket.")
That last line made Riku stop mid-sentence.
He looked up.
"You speak in poetry now?"
Sakura shrugged, sipping. "Just caffeine talking."
But her eyes?
Softer than usual.
And he caught it.
---
By noon, the jazz had looped twice, and the sunlight shifted from gold to silver as clouds moved overhead. The light through the window was gentle—like a memory someone was trying not to forget.
Sakura leaned back in her chair, one hand absentmindedly spinning a spoon between her fingers.
Riku leaned on the counter opposite her, chin resting on his hand, eyelids drooping slightly from too many sips and not enough food.
"This is harder than it looks," she murmured.
"You only now realizing that?" he replied.
"You make it seem effortless."
He gave a quiet laugh. "Do you know how many times I failed that first year?"
She glanced at the messy table between them. "Makes sense now."
"Wow," he said flatly.
She smiled.
Genuinely.
Like something had thawed.
And stayed thawed.
---
A stillness settled in the air then.
Not awkward.
Not cold.
Just… full.
Like the space between breaths before something meaningful is said.
Sakura broke the silence first.
"Do you remember the first time I came here?"
Riku looked up from his notebook. "Of course."
"You gave me the wrong order."
"Technically," he said, "Ayumu did."
"You made the latte."
"I was trying to impress you."
She blinked.
"You didn't even know me."
He shrugged. "Didn't have to. You looked… different."
"Different?"
"Like someone who wasn't just passing through."
Her expression shifted—subtle, unreadable. Then it softened.
"I almost didn't stay that day."
"But you did."
"Yes," she whispered. "And every day after."
---
He slid a cup toward her.
A new blend. Unnamed.
"I think this might be the one," he said.
Sakura lifted it slowly, like it mattered.
She sipped.
Eyes closed.
The taste unfolded—smooth, gently sweet, notes of caramel warmth and roasted quiet. Like something remembered, but not yet lived.
She opened her eyes.
"This…" she said, "feels like a memory I haven't had yet."
Riku stared at her.
And then nodded.
"I was going to call it the House Blend," he said. "But now… maybe something else."
"What?"
He smiled.
"Sakura Roast."
She blinked.
Stared at him.
"Don't worry," he added quickly, teasing. "I won't put your full name on the menu."
"That's not what I'm worried about," she said softly.
He tilted his head.
Her fingers traced the rim of the cup.
"I'm afraid," she admitted. "That one day all of this will feel like a dream. The drinks. The jazz. You."
He leaned in—just slightly.
"It won't."
"How do you know?"
His answer came with a smirk, but behind it was truth.
"Because even dreams don't taste this good."
---
Their phones buzzed.
Same time.
They didn't check them right away.
This time, Sakura reached first.
She flipped her phone toward him.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from a moment that will live in someone else's memory forever.
____________•••____________
Riku checked his.
Same message.
Same second.
They looked at each other.
And for once, there was nothing playful or poetic in their eyes.
Just clarity.
That something was happening.
That this moment—this blend of sunlight, jazz, unfinished croissants and coffee-stained fingers—would not fade.
Not for her.
Not for him.
Maybe not ever.
Sakura lowered her gaze, back to the cup that now carried her name.
Riku spoke, just above a whisper.
"Is it weird that I want this to be the thing I'm remembered for?"
"What? Naming drinks after girls?" she teased.
"No," he said. "Creating moments that feel like… they matter."
Sakura tilted her head.
"You already are."