Haruaki didn't fall asleep right away.
The lamp on his desk had been switched off for nearly an hour, yet he lay on his back, eyes tracing the faint outlines of his ceiling in the dark. He'd tried reading—twice—but every sentence dissolved into thoughts of her.
Mizuki Fuyune.
Not the Mizuki everyone else knew: the perfect, poised treasurer, the "ivory swan" gliding effortlessly through student life. But the Mizuki who leaned slightly forward in her seat at the library, fingers brushing the page edge, pink eyes flicking toward him as though trying to solve a puzzle she didn't have all the pieces to.
She'd looked at him like she wanted to know something. Not grades, not club roles, not gossip—him.
And Haruaki, against all the self-imposed caution he'd built since transferring, felt something shift. A little too fast, maybe. But then, maybe not fast enough.
He turned over, burying half his face in the pillow. This was dangerous territory. And yet… he couldn't help wondering what she liked when no one was watching.
Morning came too soon. The first thing he noticed, stepping into Ivory Spire's courtyard, was the crispness of the air—the kind that makes sound travel farther. Footsteps echoed in the hallway as he walked toward Class 2-C, but somewhere above them, faint and fractured, came the ghost of music.
A piano.But badly out of tune.
Haruaki paused, head tilted toward the upper floors. The notes were stubborn, clashing just enough to make the melody wobble. Most students would wince and keep walking. He didn't.
A little detour wouldn't hurt.
Haruaki slid the door to the music room open just enough to peer inside. The music room smelled faintly of old varnish and freshly polished keys, sunlight slanting in through tall windows.
And there she was.
Mizuki sat at the grand piano, hair gathered over one shoulder, long fingers hovering over the tuning lever. Her blazer hung from the chair behind her, sleeves of her blouse rolled just enough to bare her wrists. The quiet click of the tuning pins and a soft, resonant hum filled the room.
He hesitated. Mizuki—doing something herself—felt rare. Usually, she was the type to have everything already handled, perfected, immaculate.
"You look like you're about to perform surgery," Haruaki said lightly, stepping inside.
She didn't look up right away, but her eyes flicked toward him, the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips. "It's… out of tune," she murmured, voice carrying the same focus as her movements. "And the tuner is late."
"Figured you'd wait for them," he said, leaning against the wall.
"I was going to," she replied, nudging the lever gently, listening for the exact vibration she wanted. "But it bothers me to leave it like this."
Haruaki wandered closer, curious. "You know how to tune?"
"Only enough to irritate a professional," she said, a dry humor threading her words. "Father taught me when I was younger. He said every instrument needs attention, not just the player."
That last part stuck in Haruaki's mind—something about it sounding exactly like her. She was deliberate, careful… but also unwilling to just sit still when something was wrong.
Haruaki leaned on the side of the instrument, watching her slender fingers adjust the tuning pins with deliberate precision.
"…You know there are people whose job it is to do that," he said finally, voice light but curious.
"I know." Mizuki didn't glance at him, her pink eyes fixed on the keys. "But there's satisfaction in doing it myself."
He tilted his head, letting the sound of her careful plucking fill the space. "Perfectionist much?"
Her lips quirked the faintest amount. "If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right." She pressed a key, listened, and made the smallest adjustment. "Besides… it helps me focus."
"Focus on what?" he asked.
"This week." She let the note fade before speaking again. "Too many variables. I need to sort them out."
Something in her tone made him feel like he wasn't one of those "variables." Or maybe he was the biggest one.
"You could've just said you needed a distraction," he murmured, leaning closer so his words fell just past her shoulder.
Her fingers still lingered on the key, eyes scanning the strings beneath the lifted lid."You're the distraction," she said, the words crisp but lacking bite.
Haruaki's brow arched. "Me? I just walked in."
"You bring noise with you." She didn't look at him, but the faintest curve threatened her lips—as if she might be amused but refused to show it.
He stepped a little closer, careful not to touch the polished surface. "If you'd like, I could… leave and let you wrestle with the tuning hammer in peace."
"That would be ideal," she replied, though her hands didn't move to shoo him.
Haruaki tilted his head. "Right. I'll pretend you meant that politely."
She finally glanced at him, pink eyes narrowing in a way that wasn't quite a glare—more an appraisal. Then, without another word, she returned to the key, pressing it again, the faint discord ringing in the room.
Mizuki's expression didn't shift much, but there was the faintest flicker in her eyes when Haruaki added, "I could help you out, y'know."
She turned toward him just slightly. "Help me?"
He shrugged like it was the most casual offer in the world. "If you're swamped, I can at least save you some time. Unless you'd rather keep your pride intact and say no."
Her gaze narrowed, sharp but curious. "Why would my pride be in question?"
"Because," he said, leaning back in his chair, "you don't seem like the type who asks for help unless the world's on fire. And even then, you'd probably just build a boat and row out on your own."
A small, almost imperceptible huff escaped her. "You think highly of me."
"I think accurately," he corrected. "But that doesn't change the fact that it's okay to get an extra pair of hands."
She studied him for a moment, like she was weighing whether this was some sort of setup. "And what qualifies you to help me?"
Haruaki tapped his fingers on the desk, as if recalling something. "Used to help my uncle with instrument repairs. Violins, guitars, the occasional shamisen. Got pretty good at fine adjustments."
That got her attention. "Your uncle repairs instruments?"
"Mm. Works over at Hoshikaze Music," he said, naming the store without much ceremony. "Been there for years."
Mizuki's eyes flickered again—subtle, but this time it was recognition. "That's where I get most of my strings and rosin."
"Well, that's convenient," Haruaki said with a half-smile. "Guess I already know where you shop."
She didn't smile back, but the edges of her tone softened. "Convenience alone doesn't mean I trust you with my violin."
"Fair," he admitted, meeting her gaze. "Guess I'll have to earn that."
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. The distance between them wasn't gone—just… thinner.
Haruaki crouched beside the piano, gently setting a tuning lever on the floor. "So… how good are you, really?" he asked, not even looking at her, just running his hand along the frame to find the next loose pin.
Mizuki, kneeling opposite him with a screwdriver in hand, gave him a side glance. "Good enough," she said, the faintest curve on her face. "But I'm not just a student council treasurer. I'm a violinist first."
"Violinist, huh…" Haruaki tightened a screw, eyebrows lifting. "Guess I should've figured. You've got that… posture thing going on. Like you're holding an invisible bow half the time."
Her brow ticked. "That's hardly a compliment."
He chuckled under his breath, eyes still on the piano's guts. "No, I mean—" He paused, squinting at the soundboard. "Wait. Hold on. You're that Fuyune-san?"
She stopped mid-turn of her screwdriver. "…What do you mean by 'that'?"
"Fuyune Mizuki, Paganini Prize winner, Genoa, eight years old? I read about it with my grandma once. Article called it the 'most beautiful playing style of the year's competition.'" He leaned back slightly, as if comparing her face to the one in his memory. "You were wearing this white dress with too many frills, and the photo looked like you were scolding the violin into behaving."
For a moment, Mizuki just stared at him. "You remember… that?"
Haruaki shrugged, smirking faintly. "Grandma had a thing for reading international competition results. I just skimmed them while she made tea. Didn't expect the girl in the article to end up… y'know, fixing a piano with me."
The corner of her mouth almost moved—almost. "…The dress was not my choice."
"Well, you looked cute in it."
Mizuki's hand froze on the tuning lever.
For a moment, the quiet between them was just the soft hum of the strings she'd been adjusting. Then her eyes slid toward him—sharp pink, unreadable—though the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
"You looked that up just to say that?" she asked, her tone low, neutral.
Haruaki shrugged, still leaning casually over the open frame of the piano, fingers brushing away dust from the hammers. "Nah. That was in the article too. The journalist was gushing. I'm just… agreeing with professional opinion."
Her gaze lingered a beat too long before she turned back to the strings, but the deliberate precision in her movements felt a little tighter now—like she was willing them to stay steady.
"Eight years old," she said softly, her voice almost blending into the faint ring of the piano wire she'd just plucked. "That dress was heavy. My mother said it would make me look more… distinguished."
Haruaki smirked. "Pretty sure they said 'most beautiful playing style,' not 'most distinguished small human-shaped ornament.'"
That earned him the smallest, most fleeting exhale—half a laugh, cut short before it could fully escape.
He leaned closer, pretending to inspect a stubborn screw but really watching her expression in the reflection of the polished lid. "So… Paganini in Genoa. What's that like? I've only read about those competitions. And mostly in articles where my grandma wanted me to 'learn culture.'"
Mizuki hesitated, then loosened the lever in her hand with a soft click. "It's… exhausting. Even when you win." She pressed a key, letting the sound linger. "Especially when you win."
Something in her tone made him pause. Not sad, exactly—more like the way a note fades after being held too long.
He didn't press further. Instead, he reached over, plucked a middle key, and grinned. "This one's still flat. And so are you, by the way."
She blinked at him, slow, deliberate. "Flat?"
"Emotionally." He pointed to her face. "No smile for the guy who just called you cute?"
Her lips curved—just barely—but it was enough to make him feel like he'd actually won something in this little duel.
With a final twist and a satisfying click, Haruaki straightened and stepped back. "Done. That should hold for a while. Strings are stable, hammers aligned."
Mizuki ran her fingers lightly across a few keys, testing the sound. "Not bad… actually, it's good."
Haruaki crouched slightly, letting his fingers hover over the keys. He pressed a simple sequence, letting the notes ring through the room. The sound was clear, precise—soft but confident.
"You can play?" Mizuki's tone was a mixture of surprise and intrigue.
He gave a small, easy shrug. "Why wouldn't I? I tinker with pianos all the time. If I can fix them, I can play them well enough to test the tuning."
She blinked, her gaze fixed on his fingers. "…I didn't expect that."
Haruaki leaned back slightly, letting a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Most people don't. Guess it's part of being good at fixing things—you figure out how they work and then… well, make them work for you."
Mizuki's eyes lingered, not quite warm but definitely less guarded than before. "I see."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the lingering resonance of the piano, and Haruaki felt that quiet satisfaction of having repaired something and shared just a glimpse of himself with someone new.
Haruaki glanced at the clock mounted high on the music room wall. His chest tightened slightly. "Ah… I'm going to be late for my next class."
Mizuki's hands stilled on the keys. She looked up, brows furrowed in thought.
He straightened, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. "I should get going. See you later… Fuyune-san."
She nodded almost imperceptibly, still gathering her scattered thoughts as he strode toward the door. The soft click of it closing behind him seemed louder than it should have been.
Mizuki's gaze lingered on the piano for a moment longer. Then, like a slow bloom, her cheeks warmed. She remembered his words earlier—the casual, impossible-to-ignore "you were cute in it."
The memory made her lips press together in a faint, unacknowledged smile. Her pink eyes softened just a fraction, her mind quietly turning over the day's events.
And with that, she returned to her own thoughts, the notes of the repaired piano echoing in the stillness of the music room, leaving her with the strange, new feeling of wanting to know more about the boy who had so unexpectedly appeared in her world.