The moment comes when she least expects it.
Not during a late-night call. Not in the safety of darkness or exhaustion. It happens in the middle of an ordinary afternoon, when the world is too awake to be romantic and too quiet to be ignored.
They're in the kitchen of her apartment, sunlight slanting in through the window, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Riku stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, rinsing two mugs. Mizuki leans against the table, watching him without meaning to.
He turns.
Their eyes meet.
It shouldn't be anything. They've looked at each other thousands of times. But this time, something lingers. The air feels thicker, charged in a way that makes her breath shallow.
He doesn't look away right away.
Neither does she.
The space between them feels suddenly too small. He takes a step closer, unconscious, drawn the way he always is when he stops thinking. Mizuki's back presses lightly against the edge of the table. Her fingers curl against the wood.
Riku says her name.
"Mizuki."
Not tired. Not distracted.
Present.
Her heart stutters. She knows this feeling—the sharp, terrifying clarity that comes right before a leap.
"Yes?" she whispers.
He hesitates.
His gaze drops, just briefly—to her mouth, then back to her eyes. The movement is so small she almost convinces herself she imagined it.
Almost.
His hand lifts, stops midair, then lowers again. He swallows.
"I—" he starts.
Time narrows. The kitchen fades. There is only the space between them and the fragile possibility vibrating inside it.
This is it, her heart insists. This is the moment everything breaks open.
Then—
Her phone rings.
The sound is harsh, sudden, shattering the quiet like glass hitting tile. Riku flinches, stepping back instinctively. The distance returns all at once, abrupt and unmistakable.
Mizuki's chest tightens.
She looks down at the screen without really seeing it. An unknown number. Probably work. Probably nothing important.
But it doesn't matter.
The moment is gone.
"Oh—sorry," she says automatically, silencing it.
"It's fine," Riku says too quickly. He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just—uh—asking if you wanted more coffee."
Of course he was.
She nods, forcing a smile. "Sure."
He turns back to the counter, movements slightly stiff now. The ease from before doesn't return. Something has been tucked away, sealed back into its proper place.
They talk again, but the conversation stays shallow. Weather. Plans. Things that don't carry risk.
Mizuki watches the line of his shoulders, the familiar shape of him, and feels the echo of what almost happened ring hollow in her chest.
Almost.
Again.
Later, when he leaves, she stands alone in the kitchen long after the door closes. The sunlight has shifted. The dust motes are gone. The room looks exactly the same—but it feels emptied of something fragile and rare.
She presses her hand against the table where she'd been leaning, grounding herself.
She understands now.
These moments are accidents. Brief alignments of timing and proximity, easily undone by the smallest interruption. They exist only as long as neither of them names them.
Riku will forget it. Or rewrite it into something safer.
She will remember.
She always does.
Mizuki exhales slowly, a quiet acceptance settling over her. Love like this survives on almosts. On pauses and interruptions and things left unsaid.
And almost—she knows now—is not the same as enough.