The council room was quiet.
Even with the windows cracked open and the soft rustling of leaves drifting in, the air held a stillness only Mizuki seemed to notice. The kind of stillness that wasn't just silence—it was waiting.
She sat at her usual place—third seat from the end, her hands folded neatly over the notes from last week's discussion. She should've been reviewing proposals for the upcoming student fair. Should've been focused on Renji's usual precision-driven speech about budget allocation.
But instead... her mind kept wandering.
Back to the game.
He hadn't said anything remarkable.
Hadn't made any moves to impress her. No compliments. No arrogant remarks. Not even a request for her name.
But his playstyle lingered.
Not because it was brilliant—but because it was different.
"Are you alright, Mizuki?"
She looked up—her expression still unreadable, even as her thoughts slammed to a stop.
Across the table, Chika Hanabusa adjusted her glasses, observing her with that quiet precision that only someone like her could manage. Vice President. Orderly. Sharp-eyed. Quick to notice even a misaligned paperclip.
"I'm fine," Mizuki said softly, her voice even. "Just thinking."
Chika nodded, but didn't look convinced.
Beside her, Renji Arakawa tapped a pen twice against his clipboard, then resumed talking about logistics like nothing had happened. He rarely commented on emotional undercurrents, but he noticed them all the same.
On the couch near the window, Kaito Minakami was lounging in a half-sprawl, his head tipped back, one arm draped over the armrest like he was on vacation. He cracked one eye open and grinned lazily.
"Thinking? Must be serious."
Mizuki didn't reply. But she didn't have to.
This was the student council.
Elegant chaos, neatly filed.
Renji, the President—sharp, composed, and diplomatic to a fault. He ran the council like a company: efficient, polished, deeply strategic. Most students admired him. A few feared him.
Chika, Vice President—cold on the outside, controlled in everything she did. If Renji was the brain, Chika was the spine.
Kaito, Secretary—disarming and chill. Never seemed like he was paying attention, but somehow knew everyone's birthdays, class schedules, and what snacks were missing from the council fridge.
And then...
Nozomi.
Not present, but impossible to ignore.
First-year. Loud. Theatrical. Entirely too enthusiastic about everything from budgeting to table placements. Mizuki had, on multiple occasions, timed how long it took for Nozomi to start quoting musicals during meetings. The record was four minutes.
But somehow... they worked. The balance of cold logic and vibrant chaos kept the council breathing.
Mizuki wasn't the heart of the council, or the brain, or the voice.
She was the silence between everyone else's noise.
And normally, that was enough.
But not today.
Today, her silence was a screen—one she was using to replay every move from the match.
And every glance from the boy who made them.
She pulled out her phone under the desk, tapped the screen once, and opened the file Kaito had sent her a few weeks ago.
[RECENT TRANSFERS – 2ND YEAR CLASS BATCH LIST]
Chika had compiled it. Kaito had sorted it. Mizuki, being Treasurer, kept a copy out of habit. Normally she never looked at it again after reviewing the names once.
But now...
Now she skimmed slowly.
Eyes trailing down familiar names. Most were irrelevant. A few she recognized from hallway interactions. She paused when she reached the T's.
Tsugihara Haruaki.
Her eyes lingered.
2nd Year. No club. Transferred a month ago. Clean attendance. Mid-rank grades.
Nothing remarkable.
And yet...
She remembered his hands. Steady. Controlled. Warm. The hesitation before offering the handshake.
And the silence after.
"Found what you were looking for?" Kaito asked suddenly, eyes not on her, but definitely aware.
Mizuki didn't flinch. "Just checking a number."
Chika blinked once, silently intrigued.
Renji, still scribbling notes, didn't say anything. But she knew he caught it.
As always.
The meeting continued without issue.
Logistics were sorted. Booth placements updated. Budget approved.
But Mizuki said even less than usual.
And when it ended, she was the last to stand. She folded her notes, placed them neatly in her bag, and took one final glance at the student roster on her phone.
Tsugihara Haruaki.
She repeated the name once in her head.
Then again.
Like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit—but might, if rotated just the right way.
She didn't know why she cared.
But she did know that the next time they crossed paths...
She wanted to see what kind of move he'd make next.
Later that afternoon...
The ride home was quiet, just the soft whir of bicycle wheels and the late sun casting gold over familiar sidewalks. Haruaki pedaled down a street framed by blooming trees and weathered lampposts. Everything about this road smelled like coffee and memory.
He parked out back, walked through the café's side door, and slipped inside like he had done a thousand times before.
The bell above the door jingled. His mom glanced up from the counter, a smear of icing on her cheek.
"Welcome home."
"Hey." He gave a small nod, already tugging off his school blazer.
"You're early today."
"Didn't take Aika's bait."
His mother snorted. "She trying to rope you into another arcade run?"
"She wants a plushie with 'tragic eyes.' Whatever that means."
"You should've gone. Kids your age do things like that."
He smiled faintly. "Kids my age don't also work the espresso machine."
She tossed him a towel.
By the time he returned downstairs in his café uniform—soft brown apron, sleeves rolled up, collar loose—the place had shifted.
Café Komorebi always felt like a dream just before waking. Warm tones. Gentle lighting. The scent of vanilla and slow-brewed stories.
No students here. No whispers about grades. No judgment.
Just regulars who knew him as Haru-kun from behind the counter.
Not a transfer student.
Not the tutor.
Not whatever else he was at school.
Just him.
He started slow. Wiped the displays. Checked bean levels. Rearranged the sugar packets because Nozomi never did it right.
There weren't many customers yet. Just the early birds.
His mom worked at the counter, humming softly as she glazed some pastries. She looked content. She always did when her hands were busy.
Then, out of nowhere—
"So. What'd you do at school?"
He blinked. "Hm?"
She smirked at him like she knew something. "You're quieter than usual."
"I'm always quiet."
She raised an eyebrow.
"...Fine," he relented. "I lost a shogi match."
"Tragic. Crushed by a seasoned club master?"
"No," he said, placing mugs back into the warmer. "Some girl. Competitive. Scarily composed."
His mom grinned. "Ooooh. She could be the one."
He froze, hand still hovering over the steamer knob.
"Please don't."
"She beat you and you're still talking about her."
"I talk about plumbing, too. Doesn't mean I'm in love with pipes."
She cackled, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Pipes never make you blush."
"I'm not blushing."
"Mmhmm."
Before he could fire back, a familiar voice chimed in from the other end of the counter.
"Well well well, talking about love already?"
It was Ms. Iwasaki, one of their most loyal regulars. She taught at the university nearby and always came in with a novel tucked under her arm.
Haruaki sighed. "It's not like that."
She leaned in dramatically. "Oh, come on. You're practically the ideal catch."
He blinked. "I'm literally sweeping crumbs."
"You're kind. Polite. Smart. Tall. You brew a perfect pour-over and you remember everyone's orders. I'd marry you if I were thirty years younger."
"You're thirty-five," he said.
"Exactly," she winked.
Mr. Onishi, seated by the window, folded his newspaper and chimed in, "You were that quiz bowl prodigy in middle school, weren't you?"
Haruaki paused. "That was... a while ago."
"You crushed national rankings. Everyone thought you'd go into research or tech."
"Yeah, well," Haruaki said, voice quieter than before, "that was before high school."
His mom looked up.
Ms. Iwasaki's smile faded just a little.
"Events from the past..." Haruaki said, gaze flicking downward, "They stay in the past."
He adjusted the towel in his hand. His knuckles were white.
"I'm not the prodigy from back then. At least not anymore."
There was a pause.
Not tense. But heavy.
His mother wiped her hands slowly. "You're still you. You don't have to be anything more than that."
He looked up at her—his face unreadable for half a second.
Then he exhaled, soft and crooked. "That's a very 'mom' thing to say."
"And it's still true."
He chuckled. That tightness in his chest eased. "...Thanks."
The shift went on. The chatter softened. The sun dipped below the buildings and the café glowed amber.
They never once brought up school again.
No one here knew about Aika. Or the tutoring. Or how he'd somehow become the class repair guy for broken watches and tangled friendships.
And no one here knew about the shogi girl with the haunting stillness in her eyes.
And that was exactly how he liked it.
Later that night, dinner was quiet but comforting. His dad still hadn't returned from his meetup, so it was just him and his mom.
They talked about little things. Nozomi's latest planning rampage. The strange cat that kept showing up behind the café dumpster.
And then—like a whisper—he heard it again.
"She could be the one."
He finished his food, washed the dishes, and retreated upstairs.
In his room, he collapsed onto his bed, still smelling faintly of espresso and sugar.
He stared at the ceiling.
That girl.
The way she hadn't said a single word the entire match. The way her fingers lingered above each piece like she already knew where they'd end. The fact that her eyes had looked not cold—but lonely.
He closed his eyes.
"...Nah," he muttered, barely audible.
Probably not.
And yet...
He couldn't stop thinking about her.