The morning light filtered through the curtains in a soft golden haze, stretching across the room like it was tiptoeing in careful not to disturb them.
Miyako woke up first.
Her lashes fluttered open slowly, breath still caught in the warmth of half-dreams and yesterday's feelings. The first thing she noticed was the weight of Haruki's hand curled lightly around hers. Their fingers were tangled beneath the sheets, soft and tentative, like the memory of a kiss they hadn't had yet.
She didn't move.
Didn't smile.
Just stared at their hands for a long, quiet moment.
Breathing it in.
That this wasn't pretend anymore. That maybe… it never had been.
Haruki stirred beside her, face still turned toward the wall. He blinked sleepily, dark lashes heavy with sleep, before shifting onto his back to face her.
"Morning," Miyako said softly, voice barely more than a breath.
He blinked again, squinting in the sunlight. Then his eyes dropped to their joined hands.
"Didn't dream," he mumbled.
She blinked. "That's disappointing."
He closed his eyes again. "No. It felt real enough."
Her heart fluttered stupid, silly, loud. He always said things like that. Understated. Unfiltered. And they always hit harder than they had any right to.
Their morning unfolded in its usual rhythm: messy, half-sarcastic, and strangely intimate.
Miyako burned the toast and blamed the toaster. Haruki rolled his eyes and handed her his half instead.
He reached for the milk only to find the carton empty.
"You drank the last of it again," he said flatly.
"Marital privilege," she shot back, stealing his phone off the counter.
"Hey"
Too late. She'd already changed his lock screen to a filtered selfie of her, all sparkles and fake lashes, throwing a peace sign in front of the bathroom mirror.
"Now everyone will know you're married to a literal goddess," she declared, proudly.
"You put cat ears on it."
"Don't complain. I used the good filter."
"Husband privileges don't extend to violating personal electronics," he muttered.
"Oh, but wife privileges do."
School was the same. And not.
Nothing had changed on the surface.
They still bickered in class, still tossed insults under their breath, still traded notes that were 90% sarcasm and 10% doodles.
But it felt different.
Every glance lingered just a second longer.
Every shoulder brush in the hallway felt electric. Every time their fingers touched while passing a pencil or a worksheet, there was a heartbeat of stillness between them like the world was holding its breath too.
People noticed.
Mina noticed.
Kazuki definitely noticed.
During lunch, Mina quietly stood up, excused herself from the table, and didn't return until the bell rang. No explanation. Just a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Kazuki, on the other hand, dropped his tray beside Miyako with the kind of force that made the table jump.
"You two dating now?" he asked bluntly.
Miyako didn't flinch. Just blinked up at him, her chopsticks mid-hover over a piece of karaage.
"What makes you think that?"
Kazuki snorted. "You're glowing. Like the heroine in a trashy late-night drama who just realized she's been in love the whole time."
Across the table, Haruki froze, chopsticks pausing mid-air.
Miyako leaned back in her chair, a lazy smirk curving her lips. "Would it bother you if we were?"
Kazuki didn't answer immediately. He just stared at her, lips twitching.
Then: "No. Just means I was right all along."
"Right about what?"
"That you'd fall for the guy too boring to flirt back."
Miyako arched a brow, unimpressed. "He doesn't need to flirt. I make enough noise for both of us."
Haruki choked on his rice.
Kazuki rolled his eyes. "Gross."
The walk home was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every step feel like it echoed louder than it should.
The sun was low, painting the sidewalk in long golden shadows.
Miyako stopped walking without warning, right in the middle of the street where petals from the roadside cherry trees danced in the wind.
Haruki turned back. "What is it?"
She didn't look at him.
Just stared straight ahead, arms folded loosely across her chest.
"Do you think this will last?" she asked.
He frowned. "What?"
"This… whatever this is between us."
He hesitated. His shoes scuffed the pavement as he stepped closer.
"I don't want it to end," he said simply.
Miyako's voice dropped to something small rare for her. "Even if I'm difficult? Loud? Weird?"
He didn't laugh. Didn't dodge.
He just reached out and brushed a strand of windblown hair behind her ear, fingertips lingering a little longer than they needed to.
"You make the silence feel less empty."
Her breath caught. Sharp. Quiet.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall.
She hated crying. If she did, she'd blame the wind.
That night, after dinner, Miyako handed him a folded piece of notebook paper creased, worn at the edges, decorated in pink pen with little hearts and a badly drawn cat.
"Read it when I'm not around," she said.
Haruki looked at it like it was a bomb.
"It's not a love letter," she added quickly. "More like… things I'm too chicken to say out loud."
He stared at her. "...Do you want me to write one back?"
"You better," she muttered, cheeks glowing. "I deserve emotional vulnerability at least once a semester."
In his room, later, Haruki sat at his desk with the note cradled in both hands like it was made of glass.
He unfolded it carefully.
The handwriting was messy. The lines slanted. But the words were real.
I think I started liking you the day you gave me your umbrella and walked home soaking wet without telling me.
Or maybe it was when you carried my groceries and pretended it didn't matter.
Or maybe it was the time you sat through my rant about magical girl anime and didn't interrupt once, just nodded like everything I said mattered.
I'm scared.
Because this started as a joke.
But you feel real now.
And I don't know what to do with that.
Haruki read it once.
Twice.
A third time, slower.
Then he opened his drawer, grabbed a pen, and pulled out a fresh page.
Because there were things he hadn't said either.
And maybe… just maybe…
It was finally time he did.