Archive of Our Own

The coffee shop was one of those places you’d never find unless someone dragged you there first. It was wedged between a dog grooming boutique and a vintage bookstore that only opened on full moons or Thursdays, no one was quite sure.

The sign above the door read “Prince Cafe”, the lettering uneven and hand-painted in light blue. It looked like a thrift store or a child’s daycare from the outside, and Reo Mikage didn’t drink caffeine before noon, so he never would’ve gone in on his own. But Bachira was already halfway through the door, and Chigiri was shoving him forward.

Reo blinked as he stepped inside.
Warm light. Smell of toasted cinnamon and burnt espresso. Indie music playing faintly over mismatched speakers. The walls were covered in band posters and doodles and old Polaroids strung up with clothespins.

And behind the counter, leaning one hip lazily against the espresso machine, stood him.

A tall barista with white hair flopped across his forehead, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, a small silver ring on his middle finger. He looked exactly how a cat would if you forced it to take your order, unimpressed and already tired of your existence.

“That’s Nagi,” Bachira whispered, as if that explained anything.

Nagi didn’t look up as Reo approached the counter. Just tapped his pen against the side of a paper cup and drawled, “Next.”

Reo arched an eyebrow. “Right. Uh… iced oat latte, two pumps vanilla, half sweet. Light ice. Extra foam”

Still no eye contact. Nagi moved like he’d already heard it before. His hands were efficient, practiced, milk, shots, swirl. No fuss, no wasted movement. Reo watched the whole process with an amused tilt of his head. The cup landed in front of him a moment later with a soft thunk .

No name written. No smile. Just, “Done.”

Reo sipped it.
Perfect.
He hated how perfect it was.

The second time he went, it was a Tuesday.

The place wasn’t busy, just a college girl crying into a biscotti and a guy sketching on a tablet, but Nagi was still exactly where he’d been the first time, standing behind the counter like it was some kind of throne.

“Same thing?” he asked, without looking up.

Reo blinked. “You remember?”

A shrug. “It’s not that complicated.”

Reo opened his mouth to respond, but Nagi had already turned away to make the drink.

He stayed for an extra ten minutes, pretending to look at pastries.

The third time, Reo brought his laptop.

He didn’t even like working in cafés, too loud, too many people, the smell of dairy curdling in the air by hour three. The Wi-Fi was usually trash, and the chairs were never built for someone over six feet. It was all so performative anyway, all these people typing like they were writing novels when they were really just doomscrolling Twitter and checking their ex’s tagged photos.

But still. He showed up.

It was raining that morning, soft and silver and constant. The kind of rain that muted the city, made everything feel slowed down and closer to something important. Reo had slept like shit. His hair wouldn’t cooperate. Chigiri had left seventeen unread messages in the group chat about some group dinner this weekend that Reo didn’t have the energy to respond to yet.

And yet, he found himself standing outside Prince Cafe at 8:40 a.m., cradling his laptop bag and telling himself he just wanted to be somewhere warm for a few hours.

It wasn’t about the barista. Obviously.

Except, it kind of was.

Nagi glanced up when Reo walked in.

Just a flick of his eyes, a quick acknowledgment. Barely even a nod. But it was enough.

Reo’s heart did something inconvenient in his chest, tightened, maybe. Folded. Whatever it was, it was annoying and it lingered far too long.

He stepped up to the counter without speaking.

Nagi didn’t ask for his order. Just turned and started making it.

That was new. That meant something. Right?

Reo watched the way his hands moved, lazy, precise. Like he didn’t need to think. Like he already knew every step. The clink of the ice, the hiss of the espresso machine, the slow pour of milk. It wasn’t just practiced, it was instinctual. Beautiful, even.

It shouldn’t have felt intimate. But it did .

The café was mostly empty. Just an old man reading a newspaper near the window and a girl with AirPods in, aggressively typing like her keyboard owed her money. The heater hummed low. Reo wiped a sleeve across the fogged edge of the window and stared out at the rain while he waited, pretending he didn’t care.

The drink landed in front of him a few minutes later—light ice, two pumps vanilla, oat milk, half sweet, extra foam. Perfect. Exactly how he liked it.

No words. No smile. Just Nagi looking past him, already grabbing a new cup for someone else.

Reo stared at the cup. Then at Nagi’s face. But Nagi didn’t glance back.

Still, Reo slid a five-dollar bill into the tip jar without thinking. It wasn’t about the money. He could’ve left a twenty. He could’ve left nothing.

But it felt like a ritual now. Like maybe Nagi would notice, finally look up and say something, anything, and it would mean—

But Nagi didn’t look.

He just wiped down the counter with slow, indifferent movements, eyes half-lidded with boredom, the silver ring on his middle finger catching the light every time he twisted his wrist.

Reo exhaled through his nose and walked toward the far table by the wall.

He opened his laptop and pulled up a half-finished spreadsheet he wasn’t actually getting paid to do yet. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t really working. Not for real.

He kept glancing back toward the counter.

Nagi didn’t glance back.

But Reo stayed there for three hours anyway.

Because the drink was perfect.
Because the heater was warm.
Because the silence felt better here.
And maybe, just maybe, because of the boy behind the counter who never asked for his name but still somehow remembered how he liked things.

Reo didn't get any work done that day.
But when he left, coat zipped halfway, laptop shoved haphazardly into his bag, he paused at the door and glanced back over his shoulder, just once.

Nagi was wiping down a table. Still didn’t look up.

Still, Reo smiled. Just a little.

Within two weeks, Reo was a regular.

He told himself it was just about the coffee. That someone had to make his drink right, and this place had better lighting than the other shops in the neighborhood, and Bachira was always here anyway.

But then there were the other things.

Like the way Nagi’s hair always had a slight wave to it in the morning. Or the way his fingers tapped against the counter when he was bored. The soft click of his tongue when someone tried to flirt and he couldn’t be bothered to play along.

Nagi was a mystery wrapped in a hoodie and apathy, and Reo had always been weak to puzzles.

The fourth Thursday, Chigiri finally said something.

“You’re obsessed,” he told Reo over a shared croissant. “You talk about him like he’s a new skincare product.”

Reo scoffed, brushing sugar off his sleeve. “I do not.”

“You literally said ‘his hands are elegant’ yesterday.”

“Yeah, because they are, ” Reo muttered. “He holds the portafilter like—like—okay whatever. Shut up.”

Bachira grinned around his iced matcha, eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that meant trouble. “You should get his number.”

Reo snorted. “I’m not doing that.”

“Oh come on ,” Bachira drawled, practically bouncing in his seat. “You flirt with your eyes every morning like a Victorian widow, and then act surprised when nothing happens. Grow up and text someone.”

Reo shook his head, gaze flicking toward the counter.

Nagi was at the register, staring at the screen like it had personally wronged him. His hair was a little messier today, the sleeves of his crewneck pushed up, revealing long wrists and the silver ring Reo was definitely not obsessed with.

He looked bored. Not lovestruck. Not curious.

Reo sighed. “Nah. He doesn’t even know my name.”

Bachira raised an eyebrow.

Then—without warning—he twisted in his seat and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“ Oi, Nagi! ” he called out, voice cutting through the gentle hum of the café. “Reo here wants your number~!”

Reo choked .

“What the fuck— Bachira! ” he hissed, slapping his friend’s arm. Chigiri nearly dropped his croissant, eyes wide with horror and delight.

Heads turned. A few customers snickered. But Nagi didn’t react immediately, just blinked, slowly, as if buffering.

Then he looked up.

His gaze slid lazily toward their table. Landed on Reo.

And stayed there.

Reo froze.

Nagi didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just tilted his head slightly and said, as calm as if he were reading from a receipt:

“Phone.”

Reo blinked. “...Huh?”

“Give me your phone,” Nagi repeated, already tugging a pen from behind his ear.

Reo, in a daze, dug through his jacket pocket and handed it over.

Nagi took it without ceremony, tapped for a second, then handed it back.

His number was already saved, “Nagi ☕”, with a little coffee emoji beside it.

“Text me if you want,” he said, turning back toward the counter, already moving on. “Or don’t. Whatever.”

Reo stared down at the contact, ears burning.

Bachira was grinning so hard he looked like he might burst. “You’re welcome. ”

Chigiri just shook his head. “I’m so glad I came today.”

Reo didn’t say anything.
Didn’t have to.

He left the café smiling. Again.
Only this time, his phone was warm in his hand, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it.

[Reo Mikage]
hey
i was gonna wait like a normal person to text you
but bachira’s already betting on whether i’ll do it at all so
here i am

He stares at the screen, thumb hovering, regretting everything.

Then, a soft buzz.

[Nagi ☕]
yo

[Nagi ☕]
you texting because of bachira
or because you actually wanted to

Reo’s breath catches in his throat.

[Reo Mikage]
…little bit of both
mostly because i wanted to
but if this is weird you can pretend you never got it lol

There’s a pause.

Then—

[Nagi ☕]
typings a pain                                                                                                                         call me

Reo freezes.

He stares at the screen like it’s a trap. Like if he presses call, the spell will break and Nagi will answer with, “lol jk.”

But, what the hell. It’s past midnight, the city is quiet, and his chest is already warm from hope.

He hits Call.

It rings twice.

Then—

“Sup,” Nagi says, voice lower than usual. Sleep-rough. Barely a whisper.

Reo sits up straighter, phone tucked under his chin. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Nagi says. A beat. “I was playing Mario Kart in bed.”

Reo laughs. Quiet and a little breathless. “Figures.”

A silence. Comfortable. Weightless.

Then: “You really wanted my number?”

Reo swallows. “Is it that surprising?”

“Kind of.”

Reo scoffs. “You’re the only barista in the city who knows how to make my drink without getting it wrong. Obviously I had to secure that.”

“Oh,” Nagi says, voice flat. “So it’s just for the oat milk.”

Reo rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Not just .”

Another beat of quiet. Then Nagi exhales. It sounds like a laugh that forgot how to be a laugh.

“I don’t talk to people much,” he says eventually. “Not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Late,” he says. “Voluntarily.”

Reo’s heart trips over itself.

“Well… you could hang up.”

“No,” Nagi says, fast. Then quieter. “I don’t want to.”

The silence that follows is electric. Soft. Like rain waiting behind the clouds.

Reo closes his eyes. “Do you always sound like that at night?”

“Like what.”

Reo huffs a smile. “Like you mean things.”

Nagi doesn’t respond right away. When he does, it’s barely a murmur. “Maybe I do.”

Reo opens his mouth. Closes it again.

His hand is warm where it holds the phone. His chest is warmer.

“I’m glad you said yes,” he says.

“To what.”

“To Bachira calling you out. To giving me your number. To… this.”

There’s a pause.

Then Nagi says, soft and sure, “Me too.”

The minutes drip by like honey.

They talk about nothing. Favorite snacks. Bad movies. The worst customers Nagi’s had that week (“the guy who wanted a half-decaf espresso with no caffeine—like bro, drink water”). Reo tells him about his childhood dog. Nagi admits he’s never been kissed at a party.

At some point, Reo lays down sideways in his bed, phone cradled between cheek and pillow, Nagi’s voice like a tide against his ear.

“You always sound like this at night?” Reo asks.

“Like what.”

Reo hums. “Like you’re not pretending to be bored.”

Another pause.

“Don’t have to pretend with you.”

That’s the last thing Reo remembers.

The light filtering through the curtains is pale and gold and annoying.

Reo squints against it, groaning, and rolls onto his back. His phone is still tucked under his cheek, screen dimmed.

And then he hears it.

Soft breathing.

Not his.

The call is still connected.

Reo blinks. Pulls the phone back to look at it.

Ongoing call – 6h 45m 12s

“Nagi?” he whispers.

A faint rustle. No answer. Just the sound of even breathing, steady and real.

Reo presses the phone back to his ear, smile tugging at his lips before he can stop it.

He doesn’t hang up. Not yet.

Instead, he stays there, listening, heart light, chest full of something terrifying and warm, until the sun finishes climbing into the sky.

Reo didn’t expect to see Nagi outside the café.

He’d built him into something so specific—someone stitched into the rhythm of a 9 a.m. oatmilk latte, someone who only existed between steam wands and register beeps, and late night phonecalls when neither of them could sleep.

So when he opened the door to Isagi’s apartment one lazy Friday night and found Nagi sprawled on the floor between Rin and Bachira, playing Mario Kart with one hand and sipping soda with the other, it short-circuited something in Reo’s brain.

“Oh,” Reo said before he could stop himself.

Nagi barely glanced over. “Hey.”

As if they saw each other all the time.

Reo stood in the doorway for too long. The room smelled like kettle corn and cheap beer. Fairy lights looped across the ceiling like tangled constellations. There were blankets on the floor, mismatched cushions, someone’s sock hanging off a potted plant. He should’ve expected this kind of chaos, Isagi and Bachira hosted like they were trying to build a cult—but still.

Chigiri elbowed him from behind. “Don’t hover, it’s weird.”

Reo muttered something and stepped inside.

The night folded around him in warm layers.

The apartment was overstuffed with bodies and sound, the kind of chaos that felt lived-in rather than loud. Card games had replaced any real structure hours ago, drinks passed freely from hand to hand, half-finished, watered down, vaguely sticky. Someone brought weed and passed a joint like a peace offering. Someone else forgot about the grilled cheese on the pan and set off the fire alarm for three seconds before slapping it into submission with a dish towel.

No one seemed to care.

Music buzzed from someone’s half-dead Bluetooth speaker, lazy, lo-fi, with too much bass, but the conversations spilled over it. Sprawled across couches and pillows and crooked kitchen stools, they talked in loose, looping spirals. Stupid things. Good things. Pet peeves. Terrible exes. The worst coffee in the city.

Reo was curled between Chigiri’s knees and a floor cushion, drink in hand, watching the party orbit around itself. He hadn’t meant to stay this long. Hadn’t meant to make himself comfortable. But the air was warm and smelled like toast and incense, and—

And Nagi was there.

Not behind a counter. Not half-asleep at work. Just there . Slouched on the floor across the room, long legs stretched out like he’d forgotten how bones worked, hoodie sleeves bunched at his elbows. He wasn’t smiling , exactly, but there was a quietness to his face that made Reo feel like he’d just passed some kind of invisible threshold. Something unlocked.

He wasn’t talking much, but he was talking. Lazy commentary. Deadpan jokes. The kind of dry humor that made people double-take before realizing they’d been insulted or flirted with or both. His voice didn’t change. His face barely moved. But somehow, every time he said something, the whole room bent toward it.

And Reo?

Reo couldn’t stop watching him.

He tried not to make it obvious. Sipped from his drink. Laughed at whatever dumb story Rin was half-heartedly trying to tell. Poked Chigiri in the ribs when he made a comment about someone’s socks not matching. But always, always, his eyes flicked back to Nagi.

The worst part?

Nagi kept looking back.

Like it was a habit. Like it wasn’t strange at all.

Their eyes would catch and hold for a second too long. Nagi never looked away first. He didn’t smile or wink or tilt his head like someone who knew how to weaponize eye contact. He just looked.

Steady. Blank. Calm.

But seeing him.

And that was somehow worse.

Because Reo didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention. It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t encouraging. It just was. Like Nagi was cataloguing him quietly, saving pieces for later. Like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t hate the fact that Reo was here.

At some point, Bachira declared war on everyone by turning the lights red and starting an impromptu game of charades that spiraled out of control within fifteen minutes.

Nagi didn’t move from his spot. Just leaned against the couch, half-curled up like a cat that had wandered in from the rain and refused to leave.

Reo made his way toward the kitchen for more ice, already too warm in his oversized shirt. The light was harsher here, white and humming. The counter was covered in solo cups and a bowl of chips that no one had touched in hours. He leaned back against it and rubbed the edge of his thumb over the condensation on his cup.

And—like clockwork—Nagi appeared a few seconds later.

No fanfare. No words. Just materialized at the other end of the counter like he always had a foot in whatever room Reo was in.

They stood there in the kitchen haze, music low and pulsing through the walls. Someone yelled something about shot glasses in the other room. Neither of them moved.

Reo looked over. “You hiding too?”

Nagi shrugged one shoulder. “Too loud in there.”

Reo smiled faintly. “I thought you didn't like being bored.”

“I don’t,” Nagi said. “This is different.”

Reo glanced sideways at him, pulse skipping. “Different how?”

Nagi looked at him then. Really looked. Hair a little messy, eyes low-lidded and unreadable in the light.

“I’m not bored,” he said.

Reo’s mouth went dry.

They stood there for another long moment, each pretending not to wonder what the other was thinking. The kitchen lights hummed like they were listening.

Eventually, Chigiri called out for Reo from the hallway, his voice sing-song and teasing. Reo startled, turning his head toward the sound.

When he looked back, Nagi had already turned away. Wandering back into the red glow of the living room, hoodie trailing just slightly off one shoulder.

And Reo?

Reo stood there for another beat longer, heart annoyingly loud in his chest, wondering why it felt like he’d almost missed something he hadn’t even been offered.

They ended up sitting near each other. Not close , not touching, but close enough that Reo could smell whatever laundry detergent Nagi used. Something cottony. Clean.

They passed a bottle of something sweet and fizzy back and forth between them.

Reo sipped. “So. You talk.”

Nagi gave him a half-lidded look. “Only when it’s worth it.”

Reo let himself smirk. “I’m flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

That should’ve shut him down. But instead, Reo felt the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

They didn’t talk much after that, but they didn’t move either.

Reo stayed rooted to that little spot beside Nagi for the rest of the night, laughing with his friends, brushing shoulders when they reached for the same chips, pretending it was nothing.

After that, it kept happening.

Nagi wasn’t at every hangout, but when he was , Reo found himself orbiting around him without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to in the quiet, desperate way that didn’t want to be named.

They kept falling into these casual, easy back-and-forths. Sharing snacks. Arguing about movie plots. Reo liked pushing. Nagi liked resisting.
It wasn’t flirting, not really. Or maybe it was, but Reo didn’t let himself think about that too long.

Because Nagi didn’t seem interested. Not really.
He never leaned in. Never touched. Never lingered when it was time to go.
Reo would walk home with Chigiri and overthink the way Nagi’s eyes had flicked toward him during the movie. The way he’d handed him a drink without asking. The way their knees had touched for a heartbeat too long.

But then he’d remember how fast Nagi had pulled away. How unreadable his face always was.

Probably nothing, he told himself. Probably just friendly.

Then came the invitation.

It was a Wednesday. Reo walked into the café expecting his usual, but this time Nagi didn’t have a drink waiting. He was leaning against the counter, chewing on a red straw and scrolling through his phone.

Reo raised a brow. “Not making it ahead today?”

Nagi blinked at him, slow. “Didn’t know if you were coming.”

Reo’s pulse did something annoying. “You keeping tabs on me now?”

“No,” Nagi said flatly. “You’re just late.”

Reo laughed under his breath and leaned against the opposite side of the counter, mimicking his posture. “Rude.”

They stared at each other. It stretched. Felt weirdly like a game. Or a dare.

Then Nagi said, “There’s a party Friday. At Rin’s.”

“Oh?” Reo said, careful not to sound too interested.

“Chigiri’s going,” Nagi added, tone maddeningly neutral. “Thought you might want to come. Or not. Whatever.”

It was so casual that Reo almost missed it.

He blinked. “Wait—are you inviting me?”

Nagi gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Bachira said I should. Said you’d sulk if I didn’t.”

“Is that right,” Reo said slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You do think about me.”

“Only when I have to.”

“Mm.” Reo reached for his drink. “I’ll be there.”

Nagi didn’t look pleased or displeased. Just nodded like that settled something.

Reo didn’t stop smiling until he was halfway down the block.

They didn’t speak again before the party.

But Reo thought about it. Obsessively.

What did the invite mean ? Had Bachira really told him to ask, or was that an excuse? Was it friendly or—

No. Couldn’t be more than that.

Nagi had too many walls up. Too quiet. Too unreadable. If he liked Reo, wouldn’t he act like it?

Reo spent an hour choosing his outfit and told Chigiri it was because he needed new pictures for his story. Chigiri didn’t believe him.

At the party, the air was hot and fizzy with summer. People spilled out onto the balcony. Music buzzed through the floor.

And Nagi was already there when Reo arrived, curled into the corner of the couch, hood half up, nursing a lime soda like he was trying to blend into the wall.

He looked up when Reo stepped inside. Their eyes caught across the room.

Reo waved. Nagi didn’t wave back.

But later, they ended up standing next to each other at the kitchen counter, waiting for someone to finish their rant about cheap vodka.

Nagi nudged his elbow. “You showed.”

“You invited me.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

Reo tilted his head. “Why not?”

Another shrug. “Didn’t think I mattered that much.”

Reo stared at him, heartbeat tipping.

“You’re wrong,” he said softly.

Nagi blinked. But he didn’t say anything. Just looked at Reo like he was trying to understand a puzzle with no picture on the box.

They stood like that for too long, too close, the music buzzing around them.

Still, no one made a move.

The party breathed like a living thing.

Bodies pressed together in corners. Neon lights bled against the ceiling. Music thudded through the floor like a second heartbeat. Someone was making out against the coat rack. Someone else was burning popcorn in the kitchen.

Nagi and Reo stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, nursing drinks that had long since gone warm. Neither of them moved to leave.
They weren't touching, but the distance between them felt deliberate. Charged. Like any closer might break something open.

“You look tired,” Reo said after a while, low and lazy. Almost a joke. Almost not.

Nagi yawned instead of answering. “Too many people.”

Reo turned slightly to face him. “You didn’t have to come.”

“You did.”

Reo’s breath hitched. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all.

The music shifted, some low R&B track with too much bass and not enough melody, and someone bumped into Reo’s back, pushing him forward.

He caught himself on the counter, shoulder brushing Nagi’s.

Nagi didn’t flinch. Just glanced sideways. “You okay?”

Reo nodded, but his mouth was dry.

He should say something cool. Something that would change things. He could. He wanted to.
But the silence stretched again, soft and pulsing, and Reo let it win.

They didn’t drift far from each other for the next hour.

It wasn’t intentional. At least, not out loud. They didn’t follow each other through rooms, didn’t stand side by side on purpose. But somehow, like magnets spun in the same lazy orbit, they kept ending up close.
Not touching. Not quite. But close .

Whenever Reo looked up, Nagi was there.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor during a round of bullshit, leaning his weight into the wall while Chigiri told a story with his hands, so animated he nearly knocked a drink over. Nagi didn’t react to most of it, just blinked slowly, maybe muttered something under his breath, but he was there . Present in a way that Reo hadn’t quite seen before.

Like he wasn’t just tolerating the room. Like he was quietly choosing it.

Reo tried not to read into that.

Tried not to notice the way Nagi’s gaze flicked toward him every few minutes, quick, almost careless, like checking to see if Reo was still there. Sometimes they locked eyes across the room, both of them pretending it wasn’t happening. Nagi never looked away fast enough to be shy about it, and Reo never looked away fast enough to hide that it mattered.

It wasn’t one-sided. Reo was sure of that now.

There were too many glances. Too many silences that hummed just under the conversation. Too many moments where the party went fuzzy around the edges and Reo could feel it, feel him , like pressure against a bruise he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t a crush. That was too clean a word. Too simple.

This was something else.
Almosts.
Almost touching. Almost saying something. Almost enough.

But Nagi never moved first.

Even when they were standing three feet apart in the kitchen again, sharing a drink from the same bottle without a word. Even when their fingers brushed reaching for the same handful of chips and Nagi didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, just let the contact happen like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Even then, he didn’t move first.

And Reo—Reo couldn’t risk moving at all.

Because what if he was wrong? What if those glances were habit, nothing more? What if Nagi’s stillness wasn’t calm but apathy? He was hard to read. Always had been.
What if Reo ruined the only real thing they had by naming it too soon?

So instead he laughed at Bachira’s stupid jokes. Let Chigiri braid his hair with glitter string while Rin made dry commentary. He half-listened to the music, let his head tip back against the couch, tried to pretend he wasn’t waiting for someone to sit next to him.

He didn’t have to check to know Nagi was still somewhere nearby. He could feel it.

That constant hum. That presence.

Always close enough to see. Never quite close enough to reach.

At some point, Reo ended up sitting on the balcony steps, breath fogging slightly in the night air, watching smoke curl from Barou’s cigarette as the rest of the party blurred behind him.

Someone was laughing inside, loud and drunken. Someone else dropped a glass and didn’t bother picking it up. The cold nipped at his fingers through the sleeves of his jacket, but it felt good. Anchoring. Real.

He didn’t hear Nagi approach.
Just felt the shift.

A body lowering next to his own. Long legs folding. Elbows on knees. Head tilted lazily toward the stars like he’d been waiting for the silence all night.

They sat like that, not speaking. The muffled music behind the glass door made everything feel wrapped in cotton, softer, heavier. Like the night had shrunk down to just them and nothing else mattered.

Reo swirled his drink and watched the ice clink. “You always do that?”

“Do what.”

“Stare at people like you’re trying to telepathically open their brains.”

A pause. “Didn’t know I was doing that.”

“You were,” Reo said, glancing over.

Nagi didn’t deny it. His voice was quieter this time. “Were you gonna let me?”

Reo froze.

The question didn’t come with a smile. It wasn’t a tease. Just a simple, blunt offering, like a pebble dropped in still water.

Reo looked at him then. Really looked.

The porch light threw shadows under Nagi’s cheekbones, caught in the soft edges of his hair. His eyes were unreadable, half-lidded and calm. There was nothing pushy about him. Nothing eager. Just there . Waiting. Still.

It felt like standing on the edge of something.

Reo’s throat went dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Liar.

But Nagi didn’t call him out. Just nodded like that was fine. Like he expected it.

The moment bent there, trembling on a wire.
All it would take was a single lean forward.
All it would take was—

Reo kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. Wasn’t planned. One second he was looking at Nagi, and the next he was tipping forward, mouth brushing against his in a sudden, breathless rush.

It was brief. Barely more than a press. Soft, stupid, trembling at the corners. Nagi’s lips were warm and still, caught mid-thought.

And then it was over.

Reo pulled back like he’d touched fire, stumbling to his feet so fast his drink sloshed onto the concrete.

“Shit—shit, I—sorry, I shouldn’t have—fuck.”

He didn’t look at Nagi. Couldn’t. His heart was pounding in his ears, mouth still tingling, body already flooded with regret.

“I was buzzed—I am buzzed, I didn’t mean to, that was—shit,” he muttered, backing toward the door.

Nagi hadn’t moved. Not a word. Not a reaction. Just watching him with that unreadable look.

And that silence— that was what undid Reo completely.

“I gotta go,” Reo said, voice cracking.

And then he turned. Left.

Inside, the lights felt too bright. The music too loud. He let Chigiri ask where he’d gone and gave a shrug in return. Let Bachira hand him another drink and poured it down the sink when no one was looking. Laughed too loudly at someone’s joke and wiped the glitter from his face like it was glue.

But his mouth still burned. And his hands were shaking.

And when he left the party early, no one stopped him.

The next morning, Reo didn’t go to the café.

He told himself it was because he had errands. Told Chigiri he was just tired. Ignored Bachira’s texts entirely.

Saturday passed. Then Sunday.

Each day, he hovered over Nagi’s name in his phone, thumb aching with indecision.

He couldn’t stop replaying it. The kiss. The look on Nagi’s face. The unbearable silence that followed. His own voice, desperate and cracking, apologizing for something he couldn’t even name properly.

“I gotta go.”

God. He was a coward.

By Monday, the ache settled into something worse: stillness.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Nagi’s mouth.
Couldn’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if he’d waited —if he’d just stayed still long enough for Nagi to say something . Anything.

But he hadn’t.

He’d kissed him.
And then he ran.

And now he couldn’t go back.

Reo’s bedroom was a mess of soft lighting, half-finished coffee cups, and crumpled laundry he couldn’t bring himself to fold. His laptop sat untouched on his desk. His phone buzzed occasionally, group chat nonsense, calendar reminders, a text from Bachira that said “nagi’s been quiet too 👀👀👀” followed by seventeen emojis. He ignored them all.

He’d been ignoring a lot lately.

The knock on his door came sharp and quick. Before Reo could move, it opened.

Chigiri.

Hair pinned up, eyes narrowed, the usual softness in his expression traded in for something more focused.

“I brought food,” he said, holding up a bag of chips and something that looked vaguely like a matcha latte. “But if you think this is a social visit, you’re delusional.”

Reo sighed, sinking further into his comforter cocoon. “Hi to you too.”

Chigiri set the drinks on the desk. Crossed the room. And then, instead of sitting down, he stood there , arms crossed, waiting.

“Wanna explain why you haven’t been to the café in four days?”

Reo didn’t answer.

“Or why you left that party like you were on fire?”

Still nothing.

Chigiri raised an eyebrow. “You kissed him, didn’t you?”

Reo groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what? Like it happened?”

“Like it ruined everything.”

Chigiri didn’t speak right away. Then, carefully: “Did it?”

Reo peeked out from under the pillow. “He didn’t say anything, Hyoma. Not a word. I kissed him and he just… sat there . Like I’d asked for his first 7 children. And then I panicked and left, and now I can’t show my face again because he probably thinks I’m an idiot and—”

Chigiri rolled his eyes and cut him off, deadpan. “You are an idiot.”

Reo blinked. “Wow. Rude.”

“Yeah, well, someone had to say it.” Chigiri finally sat at the edge of the bed, folding his legs neatly. “Reo, you kissed him. It happened. And yeah, maybe it was dumb, maybe the timing sucked, but you did something about your feelings instead of just talking about how ‘elegant’ his hands are.”

Reo buried his face again. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” A pause. “You’re scared.”

“…so what if I am?”

Chigiri’s voice softened. “You really think Nagi’s the kind of person who’d push you away if he didn’t want you around? You think he wouldn’t have said something if he hated it?”

Reo hesitated.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Nagi hadn’t pushed him. Hadn’t said no. Hadn’t even looked angry. Just… quiet. Still. Like he was waiting.

“You kissed him and ran away,” Chigiri said gently. “And now you’re hiding. That’s not protecting anything, Reo.”

Reo sat up slowly, hair a mess, hoodie bunched around his elbows.

His voice was small. “What if I made it weird?”

Chigiri shrugged. “Maybe you did. So what?”

Reo blinked at him.

“So what , Reo? Talk to him. Apologize if you need to. Tell him you were nervous. Be honest. If it’s weird, let it be weird until it isn’t anymore. But at least then you’ll know .”

The silence stretched.

Then Chigiri stood again, brushing imaginary dust off his pants.

“I’m not letting you rot in here forever,” he said. “Go talk to him. Or I will.”

Reo groaned. “Threatening me with emotional violence?”

Chigiri grinned, already halfway to the door. “It’s called friendship.”

And then he was gone.

Reo sat in the quiet for a long time, heart thudding.

Eventually, he picked up his phone.

And stared at Nagi’s name.

Still saved as “Nagi ☕”.

Still untouched since the call that never happened again.

He didn’t type anything. Not yet.

But for the first time in days, he wanted to.

Reo was lying on his bed, hoodie half-zipped, the room dark except for the blue wash of his phone screen.

He hadn’t texted Nagi.
Hadn’t visited the café.
Hadn’t even walked down that street.

He’d thought about it, though, so many times it made his head ache. Replaying the moment on the balcony like a song stuck on loop. The kiss. The stillness after. The silence. The way Nagi had looked at him without blinking, like he was waiting .

And Reo had run.

He kept telling himself it didn’t matter. That Nagi probably didn’t care. That it wasn’t that deep. But none of the lies were sticking anymore. They fell flat against the truth: he missed him. That lazy voice. The too-calm eyes. The way he looked at Reo like he was something interesting, something worth remembering.

So when his phone buzzed and lit up, Reo didn’t expect anything.

But then he saw the name.

Nagi ☕

And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

The message was short. Exactly what Reo should’ve expected. No emoji. No punctuation.

you gonna keep hiding or can i see you soon

Reo stared.

It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t even sound particularly bothered.

But it hit .

Because Nagi had noticed.

Because Nagi had waited .

And because, despite all of it, he still wanted to see him.

Reo sat up slowly, fingers tight around his phone. His pulse was thunder-loud in his ears. He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t find words fast enough to fill the weeks of silence.

But another message buzzed through before he could respond.

it wasn’t bad
the kiss
i just didn’t know if you meant it

Reo’s mouth went dry.

It hadn’t been a rejection. It had been hesitation .

That stunned, quiet stillness, it hadn’t been no. It had been wait . And Reo hadn’t waited. He’d bolted.

He read the messages again. Then again.

And finally, his fingers moved.

i meant it

He didn’t overthink it. Didn’t add anything else.

Three words. That was all he could manage. But it felt like everything.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Then stopped.

Then came back.

Then stopped again.

Reo stared, heart in his throat.

Until finally:

then come tomorrow
i’ll be on break around 10

Reo didn’t smile.

Not yet.

But something loosened in his chest. Something that had been tied up and aching for days.

He held the phone against his chest and lay back on the bed, eyes stinging, throat tight.

Tomorrow.
He could do tomorrow.

The café looked the same.

Same smudged windows. Same chalkboard menu with half-erased specials. Same vinyl crackling faintly through the overhead speakers, some jazzy indie loop no one could name but always felt like background noise in a dream.

Reo hesitated just inside the doorway, fingers curled around the strap of his shoulder bag. The smell of espresso hit him like muscle memory, warm, bitter, grounding, and for a second, he forgot how to move.

He hadn’t been here in nearly a week. But everything was in its place. Everything but him.

His eyes found the counter without meaning to.

Nagi was there.

Leaning back against the espresso machine, hands tucked into the front pocket of his apron, head tilted slightly as if he’d just woken up from a nap he hadn’t told anyone he was taking. His hair was a little messy, one sleeve pushed up higher than the other. He hadn’t seen Reo yet.

Or maybe he had.

Reo stepped forward, slow.

The bell above the door jingled softly behind him. The woman in front of him placed her order and shuffled off to the side. Reo took her place without thinking, legs suddenly too light and too heavy at once.

Then Nagi looked up.

And everything else disappeared.

There was no gasp. No cinematic swell of emotion. Just eye contact , direct and steady, like always. And something else beneath it.

A flicker. A pulse.

Like he’d been waiting.

Reo’s voice almost caught. “Hey.”

Nagi’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted around the edges, something soft. Tired. Real.

“Hey,” he echoed. “You came.”

Reo licked his lips. “You said to.”

“Didn’t know if you would.”

“I almost didn’t.”

They stared at each other for a beat too long. Reo’s heart was loud in his chest, but everything else felt still. Balanced. Like the air between them had settled into some private, fragile gravity.

Then Nagi moved, just a step to the left, slipping out from behind the counter.

He untied his apron with one hand, eyes never leaving Reo’s.

“I’m on break,” he said, low. “You wanna sit?”

Reo nodded, too fast.

They found a quiet table near the back, half-shadowed by a hanging plant and the soft flicker of a dusty lightbulb. It was quieter here, cocooned from the rest of the café. The noise faded. The world narrowed.

Nagi sat across from him, legs stretched under the table like he always needed more space than his body allowed. His fingers tapped lightly against the table edge, nervous, maybe. Reo had never seen him fidget before.

Reo didn’t know where to start. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Picked at the sleeve of his sweater.

Nagi’s voice came first, soft as steam. “You didn’t have to run.”

“I panicked.”

“I figured.”

“I…” Reo trailed off, breathing shallow. “I didn’t know what you were thinking. You didn’t say anything.”

Nagi’s gaze dropped to the table for a second. Then back up.

“I didn’t know what it meant to you,” he said. “And I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I’m… slow with this stuff.”

Reo blinked. “I kissed you. That’s not exactly subtle.”

“You also apologized like you just shot me,” Nagi replied, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Made me think maybe I imagined it.”

Reo laughed, but it caught in his throat. “It wasn’t just the drinks. It wasn’t nothing.”

Nagi leaned in slightly. Not much. But enough that Reo felt it. Like a shift in temperature.

“It wasn’t nothing for me either.”

Silence spilled between them again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full . Charged and close and humming with unsaid things.

Reo’s eyes dropped to Nagi’s hands. Long fingers. Resting now, still. No twitching. Just waiting.

He reached across the table, tentative. Not touching, just close enough to offer.

And Nagi met him halfway.

Their fingers brushed.

Then rested. Interlaced in a quiet tangle between the coffee rings and the woodgrain.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t brave.

But it was real.

Reo exhaled like he’d been holding it for days.

“I missed this,” he whispered.

Nagi nodded, his thumb brushing lightly over Reo’s knuckles.

“Then don’t leave again.”

It didn’t start with a question.

No “do you want to be my boyfriend?”
No awkward talk with too-long pauses and too-fast heartbeats.

It just… happened.

A week after the café, Reo was at Nagi’s place with takeout on his lap and glitter still stuck in the corner of his eye from something Bachira had insisted on earlier. Nagi was sitting next to him, sockless, legs folded beneath him on the couch like a cat that belonged nowhere and everywhere.

They were watching a movie. Something neither of them was really paying attention to. The volume was low. Reo’s head was tipped against Nagi’s shoulder, and Nagi’s hand was resting casually over Reo’s thigh like it had always belonged there.

And somewhere between the third bite of cold dumpling and the part in the movie where the guy missed the train, Reo said:

“I told Chigiri we were dating.”

Nagi didn’t look away from the screen. Just blinked slow. “Okay.”

Reo glanced up. “You’re cool with that?”

Nagi turned his head, his hair brushing Reo’s cheek. “You kissed me. I held your hand. You keep showing up with food. Pretty sure that counts.”

Reo’s mouth twitched. “I’m a very attentive boyfriend.”

“You’re loud.”

“You like that.”

“Mm,” Nagi said, dragging his thumb slowly along Reo’s knee. “I like you .”

And that was it.

No dramatics. No overthinking.

Just that warm, unspoken click .

Dating Nagi was like being folded into someone’s routine.

Not because he was predictable, he wasn’t, but because being with him felt like learning a rhythm you didn’t know you’d already memorized.

He didn’t text a lot, but when he did, it was always deliberate. A photo of his lunch. A meme that made no sense. One night: u alive? when Reo hadn’t shown up at the café on time. Followed by jk i saw ur story calm down.

He didn’t always say how he felt. But he showed it. Subtle and steady.

Reo would find an extra pastry set aside for him at the café, labelled “not for customers.” Nagi would lean just a little closer during card games, knees knocking gently together. One night at a party, Reo caught him stealing one of his hoodies out of instinct. “Smells like you,” he’d mumbled, slipping it on like it was no big deal.

Reo never asked for more. He didn’t have to.

Because Nagi stayed .

He showed up at Reo’s door when he was studying late, dragging his laptop and a convenience store sandwich. He waited outside dance class, earbuds in, head tipped against the wall like he’d been resting the whole time. He remembered how Reo liked his tea, too sweet, barely steeped, and always made it that way without asking.

And Reo?

He softened in return.

He held Nagi’s hand under tables. He kissed him in the corners of rooms when no one was watching. He defended Nagi’s weird, blank one-liners when people misunderstood. He played with the ends of his hair when Nagi fell asleep on his shoulder, scrolling aimlessly through his phone like he didn’t know what else to do with stillness.

They didn’t label it.

They didn’t need to.

Because dating Nagi felt less like a chapter and more like a tone shift , like the story had always been heading here, but no one had said it out loud until now.

A few nights later, they were brushing their teeth side by side in Reo’s tiny bathroom.

It wasn’t the first time Nagi had stayed over. That had started happening without discussion, late-night movies turned into sleepovers, which turned into lazy mornings, which turned into drawers filling themselves. A spare charger appeared on Reo’s nightstand one day, and neither of them questioned it. The hoodie Nagi had worn to the party was still hanging off Reo’s desk chair. It hadn’t moved in a week.

But something about this night felt different.

Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the toothbrushes.

Nagi had taken over half the counter like he lived there, his phone plugged into the wall, his hoodie draped over the towel rack like a flag of silent victory. His toothbrush sat in the same cup as Reo’s now. Reo didn’t remember when that started. It was just there , a soft green next to his own blue, always slightly damp from use.

Nagi brushed slowly, lazily, like even dental hygiene wasn’t exempt from his complete commitment to doing the bare minimum. His hair was still damp from the shower. He was wearing one of Reo’s old shirts, stretched slightly across his chest, the sleeves too long. Reo caught his reflection in the mirror and nearly forgot how to breathe.

Two boys. One room. Too much silence.

Reo leaned against the sink, toothbrush idle in his hand. Something about the mundanity of it, their shoulders bumping occasionally, the sound of running water, the faint smell of mint and warm laundry, made his chest feel full in a way he couldn’t name.

He looked over.

Nagi was blinking at him in the mirror, toothbrush still dangling from his mouth.

“What?” Nagi mumbled, toothpaste thick in his voice.

Reo just shook his head, lips twitching. “Nothing.”

But that wasn’t true.

He was thinking about how easily this had all happened. How Nagi reached for the same mug every morning now. How he stole Reo’s socks and never gave them back. How Reo knew, without needing to check, that Nagi hated the orange-scented body wash and would always leave the last dumpling untouched for him. How the coffee table was cluttered with both their things now. How the rhythm of his life had shifted without resistance, like Nagi had always been meant to slide into it.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was real .

And maybe Reo hadn’t realized it until now.

Until this tiny, shared space.

Until they were brushing their teeth side by side like they’d been doing it for years.

Reo turned his head slightly, watching Nagi spit into the sink and rinse with his usual efficiency, just enough effort to not die, as always.

And still, Reo’s heart thudded.

“I like this,” he said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could second-guess them.

Nagi wiped his mouth on Reo’s towel, his face towel, not even apologetic about it, and looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Brushing your teeth?” he asked, voice flat but teasing.

Reo huffed a laugh, setting his toothbrush down. “No. You. Here. Us.”

Nagi blinked.

Then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed him.

Minty and warm. Soft and slow. The kind of kiss that said yeah, me too without needing to speak.

Reo melted into it, hand curling gently in the hem of Nagi’s shirt. The toothbrush cup clinked behind them as Nagi’s fingers brushed the sink’s edge. Their mouths moved in quiet rhythm, like they had nowhere else to be. No one else to impress.

It wasn’t their first kiss. Not even their best. But it felt different.

It felt like an answer.

When they finally pulled back, Nagi didn’t step away. He just rested his forehead lightly against Reo’s, eyes barely open.

“You’re sappy,” he murmured.

Reo smiled. “You’re in my bathroom.”

“Yeah.”

Reo’s voice was quiet, playful. “Kinda domestic of you.”

Nagi shrugged. “You started it.”

And then he yawned.

Reo laughed, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Nagi followed him out of the bathroom without hesitation.

And Reo realized, somewhere between turning off the hallway light and slipping under the covers, that this was it. Not the beginning of something, not the nervous middle. Just being . Just them .

No announcement. No label change.
Just a toothbrush in his cup, a boy in his bed, and the quiet, comforting knowledge that he’d come back tomorrow, too .

They didn’t change overnight.

Reo still talked too much, and Nagi still said entire paragraphs with a single blink. Reo still dragged him to parties, and Nagi still didn’t like to stand unless he had to. But now, they went together . Now, there was a toothbrush at each other’s places and a second set of keys quietly passed between fingers without comment. Now, there were looks across crowded rooms and lazy kisses against doorframes and the kind of comfort that only came from choosing someone over and over again, even on the boring days.

Nagi still brewed Reo’s coffee every morning.

No matter how long the line was, no matter how many customers he had to serve, Reo’s cup was always made by him . It sat near the register, hazelnut, two sugars, almond milk, extra foam, waiting like a promise. Nagi never charged him. Not once.

“You can’t keep giving it to me for free,” Reo said once, teasing, stirring in his sugar.

Nagi didn’t even blink. “You kiss me. That’s payment.”

Reo nearly dropped the cup.

They went to parties together now, and their friends hated them for it.

Or said they did.

Chigiri rolled his eyes when Reo sat in Nagi’s lap and fed him chips one by one like he was some half-asleep prince. Bachira fake-gagged every time Reo pressed a dramatic kiss to Nagi’s cheek mid-sentence. Rin left the room more than once with a muttered “gross” when Reo curled his fingers into Nagi’s shirt and mumbled something indecipherably sweet into his neck.

“Get a room,” someone yelled once.

“We’re in one,” Reo called back cheerfully, arms slung around Nagi’s shoulders.

And Nagi? He didn’t stop him.

Didn’t flinch when Reo kissed his cheek. Didn’t push away when Reo laced their fingers together or pulled him into his lap. He let it happen. Let Reo be too much. Let himself be soft in a way that was almost invisible unless you knew where to look.

He didn’t say “I love you” with words, not yet.

But he said it every time he brewed that morning coffee just the way Reo liked it.
Every time he leaned into the PDA with slow, deliberate affection.
Every time he turned his face toward Reo’s mouth and kissed him back.

Not rushed. Not performative.

Just theirs .

And for the first time in a long time, Reo didn’t feel like he was waiting for something else to begin.

Because this was already it.
Warm coffee. Lazy kisses. A boy who brewed love into every cup, free of charge.

And the simple, undeniable fact that they were together .