The apartment was warm and faintly scented with lavender, a subtle contrast to the cold dampness clinging to their clothes. Mizuki motioned for Takashi to enter, closing the door gently behind them. The rain outside had intensified, hammering against the windows with rhythmic insistence.
"You can leave your shoes there," she said, her voice quieter than usual, almost tentative. "And your jacket—hang it on the rack."
Takashi obeyed, peeling off the damp fabric and neatly hanging it as instructed. His socks squelched lightly against the hardwood floor. Mizuki disappeared into the other room and returned moments later with a folded towel.
"Here," she said, holding it out.
He reached for it, their fingers brushing—just for a second. But the second lingered, a jolt that made Mizuki stiffen. She quickly let go, turning away too fast, her heart doing something between a trip and a stumble.
He didn't say anything, but she could feel his eyes on her back. She walked toward the kitchenette and busied herself with the electric kettle.
"Tea?" she offered.
"Sure."
The hum of the kettle filled the space while Mizuki took out two mismatched mugs. Her hands trembled slightly as she set them on the counter.
Why was she trembling?
She inhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. It was just Takashi. A student. A kind student who had helped her carry materials, asked thoughtful questions in class, once stayed late to help organize club supplies. That was all.
Except it wasn't all.
That moment by the lockers weeks ago—when he had laughed at one of her dry jokes. Or the time he'd lingered at the door of the faculty room, pretending to ask a question just to talk. The way he listened when she spoke. The way his eyes searched hers like they could hear what she wasn't saying.
She glanced over at him now, sitting politely on the small couch. He had towel-dried his hair and was cradling the mug she had handed him like it was something precious. Steam curled between his fingers.
"You have a nice place," he said.
"Thank you."
"It's peaceful."
She smiled faintly. "I try."
Silence returned, filled only by the occasional clink of ceramic against ceramic.
Then his voice broke it again, softer this time.
"Is this awkward for you?"
She looked up sharply.
"Because if it is," he continued, "I can leave. I didn't mean to cross any line."
She studied him, his sincere expression, his shoulders still slightly hunched in restraint. She shook her head.
"No, it's not that. It's just…"
"Just what?"
She hesitated.
How could she explain what even she wasn't sure she understood?
"It's been a long time since I let anyone into this space."
He nodded, respecting the gravity of what she said. But that wasn't all of it. Not the truth that had made her palms sweat when their hands touched.
He reached for the remote and muted the TV that had been humming low in the background. She appreciated the gesture—the quiet seemed easier now.
She moved to sit on the opposite end of the couch, not too close. Her skirt tugged slightly as she settled in.
"Do your parents worry when you're out late?" she asked, trying to steer them back to safer terrain.
"They work night shifts mostly. They text, but I think they trust me to handle myself."
She nodded.
"And you?" he asked. "Does anyone worry about you?"
The question was simple. The answer wasn't.
"No one texts," she said. "Not usually."
He looked at her for a long time. "That seems lonely."
"Sometimes," she admitted.
More silence. This time, it wasn't awkward. It was charged.
She leaned forward to grab the coaster on the table, and in doing so, her hand brushed his again—twice in one night. Neither of them pulled back this time. Her fingers froze against his.
A second too long.
The space between them thinned. Not physically—they were still sitting on opposite ends—but mentally, emotionally, somewhere in the unspoken.
Her breath caught.
She should pull away.
But she didn't.
Her inner voice—the strict one, the voice of decorum and professionalism—screamed in warning.
But there was another voice. Quieter. Fragile.
*You're still human.*
His hand didn't grasp hers. He didn't push. He simply allowed the contact, unsure whether to interpret it as invitation or mistake.
And that was what made her chest ache.
This boy—this young man—was showing more restraint than many adults she knew.
She blinked, and her hand withdrew. Slowly. Purposefully.
"I should get you a dry shirt," she said, standing.
She fled to her room, closing the door gently behind her. She leaned against it, eyes shut.
Her fingertips still burned.
Her thoughts churned.
*What am I doing?*
He was a student. She was his teacher. That line was thick and red and unyielding.
And yet… that warmth. That pause in the air. That flutter she hadn't felt in years.
She changed out of her damp skirt and blouse into something dry—a soft sweater and long slacks—before returning to the living room with one of her old oversized t-shirts.
Takashi accepted it with a polite nod and went into the bathroom to change. She heard the door click behind him.
Alone again, Mizuki sat on the couch, clutching her mug. The tea had gone cold.
But the warmth inside her hadn't.
Not the good kind. The dangerous kind.
When Takashi reappeared, now in her old shirt, he looked both older and somehow more vulnerable.
She smiled faintly. "It suits you."
He laughed nervously. "It's a little big."
"Better than staying in a wet uniform."
The clock ticked audibly now. It was past 8.
"I should probably go soon," he said.
She nodded.
Neither of them moved.
He approached slowly, holding the towel in one hand. She stood instinctively to take it, their fingers brushing once more.
Three times.
This time, she let the contact linger, just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
A mistake? Maybe.
But it was a real moment. Unfiltered.
"Thank you for staying until the rain settled," she said, softly.
He smiled, gaze locked on hers. "Thank you for letting me in."
She walked him to the door, umbrella in hand.
As he stepped out into the now-soft drizzle, he turned back. "Goodnight, Mizuki-sensei."
"Goodnight, Takashi."
The door closed. She pressed her back against it.
Eyes shut.
Her heart still thundering.
She wasn't immune.
And she wasn't sure what that meant yet.
But she knew one thing.
The storm inside her was only just beginning.