Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rin Itoshi took the job for three reasons.

First, he needed something — anything — to fill the dragging hours of summer.

Second, he told himself it would look good on a résumé, a respectable experience: earning his own keep, learning responsibility.

And third — though he would never admit it aloud — there was a quiet, stubborn part of him that had always fantasized about it. For someone who preferred the company of books over people, who found comfort in the scent of paper and the order of shelves, the idea of working in a bookstore felt like stepping into a secret daydream.

He stood outside the modest shop now, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Through the window, the sun filtered in over stacked displays and wooden counters, giving the place a lived-in warmth. He could already imagine it — the hush of the air conditioner, the soft thud of a book closing, afternoons that stretched out in quiet routine. It was the kind of world he craved: predictable, steady, safe.

The bell above the door chimed when he pushed it open.

Inside, Yoichi Isagi was fiddling with the register, muttering under his breath as if the machine had personally wronged him. His dark hair was tied back loosely, and his shirt was rumpled in that way that spoke of someone who didn’t realize they were already working too hard.

“Oh—uh, hi!” Yoichi glanced up, blinking rapidly before recognition clicked. “You’re… Rin Itoshi, right? You’re the one who applied?”

Rin gave a short nod. “Yeah. I’m here for the first shift.”

“Oh, right, right. Come in.” Yoichi scrambled around the counter, nearly tripping on a box of unsorted stock. He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing nervously. “Sorry about the mess. My parents thought leaving me in charge would be a great ‘learning experience,’ but, uh—” He gestured vaguely at the mountain of unshelved books. “Turns out running a bookstore is a little harder than I thought.”

Rin glanced at the piles, at the way Yoichi’s optimism seemed to leak into every word even as he flailed, and said simply: “I’ll help.”

Yoichi blinked, caught off guard by the calm assurance. Then his shoulders loosened with relief. “Thanks. You don’t know how much I needed that.”

And just like that, Rin set his bag down, rolled up his sleeves, and started stacking books into tidy rows. The smell of paper rose around him, the silence broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and Yoichi’s occasional muttered complaints at the register.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t home. But for the first time in a long time, Rin felt like he was in a place that might let him breathe.

Rin had already fallen into rhythm. His hands moved with quiet precision, stacking books by size, alphabetizing titles, straightening crooked spines. Yoichi, meanwhile, was juggling between the register and trying to unpack a shipment box at the same time — which mostly meant Rin was correcting his mistakes when Yoichi misplaced books in the wrong section.

“You put a cookbook in fiction,” Rin pointed out, holding up the bright orange cover.

Yoichi blinked. “What? No way—oh, wait. That’s embarrassing.” He gave a sheepish laugh and reached out for it, but Rin was already sliding it into its proper place.

Before Yoichi could say more, the bell above the door chimed again. This time, a tall man with kind eyes stepped in, adjusting his tie as he shook off the summer heat.

“Dad?” Yoichi straightened quickly.

“Thought I’d check in on how my manager is doing,” Mr. Isagi said with a teasing smile, clapping his son on the shoulder. Then his gaze shifted to Rin. “And you must be Rin, right?”

Rin straightened immediately, polite as ever. “Yes, sir. Rin Itoshi. It’s nice to meet you.”

Mr. Isagi’s smile softened. “Thank you for volunteering to help out this summer. My wife and I are tied up with work for the season, and it means a lot knowing Yoichi won’t be running this place completely alone.”

Rin dipped his head slightly. “I’m glad to help. And… I think it’ll be a good experience for me too.” His tone was formal, but there was a trace of sincerity beneath it.

“Well, I appreciate it. And if Yoichi gives you too much trouble, you let me know, alright?” Mr. Isagi chuckled, giving Rin a friendly pat on the arm before turning back to his son. “I’m proud of you, Yoichi. You’ll do just fine.”

Yoichi flushed faintly, scratching his cheek. “Dad, c’mon…”

“Alright, alright, I’ll leave you two to it.” Mr. Isagi gave a wave, the same kind of casual warmth that made the shop feel even brighter for his brief presence, and disappeared back out the door.

The bell chimed again, leaving behind only the faint scent of cologne and the hum of the air conditioner.

Yoichi let out a breath and grinned a little. “Well… guess it’s just us now.”

Rin nodded, sliding the last book into place. “Yeah. Just us.”

The afternoon stretched on in a quiet rhythm. The little shop was never crowded, but the occasional customer drifted in with the jingle of the doorbell — a college girl looking for exam prep books, a mother ushering her child toward the comics shelf, an older man lingering in history.

Between the visits, Rin worked steadily, sliding books into their places with clean precision. He didn’t waste a movement; even the way he adjusted the displays looked practiced, careful.

Yoichi, on the other hand, filled the silence with a kind of nervous energy. He asked questions — some relevant, some not — just to hear a response.

“So… do you read a lot?” he tried, leaning against a stack of cardboard boxes as Rin sorted through them.

Rin glanced up briefly, then back at the books. “Yeah.”

“Any favorites?”

“…Changes depending on the year,” Rin said simply, tucking a slim poetry collection onto the shelf.

Yoichi tilted his head, waiting, but Rin didn’t elaborate. “…Right. Okay. That’s mysterious.” He smiled anyway and picked up a stray fantasy novel, holding it up. “This one looks cool though, huh?”

Rin gave the cover a glance. “That’s the third in the series. You’re holding it upside down.”

Yoichi sputtered. “Wha—? Oh, c’mon, give me a break.”

Rin’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but the closest he’d given all day.

When the next customer arrived, Yoichi nearly tripped trying to step behind the counter in time. Rin wordlessly slipped into place, greeting the customer politely and bagging their purchases with quick, efficient movements. Yoichi blinked, half impressed, half relieved.

“You’re already better at this than me,” he muttered under his breath once the woman left.

“I’m organized,” Rin said simply, as if that explained everything.

The rest of the shift passed like that — Yoichi tossing out conversation like fishing lines, Rin sometimes catching them, sometimes letting them sink. By the time the sun dipped low outside the window, casting gold light across the aisles, the store had emptied again.

Yoichi locked the register with a satisfied click. “Not bad for day one,” he said, stretching. “You survived working with me.”

Rin adjusted the neat stack of receipts. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Yoichi grinned at that. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Rin picked up his bag from behind the counter, slinging it over his shoulder. For a moment, the two stood together at the door, the warm evening air filtering in as Yoichi pulled the key from the lock.

“See you tomorrow?” Yoichi asked.

Rin gave a small nod, his expression unreadable but steady. “…Yeah. Tomorrow.”

The bell chimed once more as Rin stepped out, disappearing into the fading light.

The house was quiet when Rin returned. It always was these days — the clock ticking faintly in the living room, his father’s muffled footsteps somewhere upstairs, the faint glow of a lamp left on too long. Rin slipped off his shoes, padded into his room, and dropped his bag by the desk.

He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His reasons replayed themselves in his mind, the same justifications he had lined up when he took the job:
One, he needed something to fill the long, dragging summer.
Two, it was better to earn something than waste his time.
Three, and maybe most importantly, someone like him — someone who read more than he spoke, who found comfort in neat rows of spines and quiet corners — had always imagined working in a bookstore would feel… right.

And it had.

The hours had passed faster than he expected. The shelves were orderly now, his hands still faintly smelled of paper and dust, and for once he hadn’t been trapped in his own head all afternoon.

He had braced himself for the worst — for some irritating coworker, someone who talked too much or cared too little, someone who made every shift feel heavier. But Yoichi Isagi hadn’t been any of those things. He wasn’t rude, or mean, or boring. He’d been… normal. Earnest. Clumsy enough to be human, kind enough to make the silences less sharp.

Not bad. Rin thought of the way Yoichi had grinned when the shop closed, the way he hadn’t pushed too hard when Rin gave short answers, the way he filled in gaps without suffocating them.

It wasn’t bad at all.

Rin let his eyes close, the faint hum of cicadas outside lulling him into drowsiness. For the first time in months, maybe longer, he felt the faint curl of something he hadn’t expected.

He was looking forward to tomorrow. To the next shift. To the summer ahead.

The thought was soft but certain, settling into him as he drifted into sleep.

The first week slipped by like light through the bookstore windows — soft, steady, and almost too quick to notice. Morning shifts blurred into afternoons, afternoons faded into closing routines, and before Rin realized it, the bell above the door had already chimed its way through seven days.

He and Yoichi had settled into something… easy. Not just coworkers who nodded politely, not quite best friends either. They were somewhere in between — a comfortable middle ground, where silence wasn’t awkward and small talk wasn’t forced. Yoichi filled gaps with cheerful chatter, Rin answered just enough, and somehow the rhythm worked.

On the seventh day, a new shipment arrived: boxes stacked high with crisp magazines, glossy covers, and the faintest scent of fresh ink. Rin crouched beside one, slicing the tape with neat precision, while Yoichi wrestled another box open, nearly knocking over a display in the process.

“Careful,” Rin said flatly, stacking magazines into a tidy pile.

“I’m being careful!” Yoichi protested, though the way he almost tripped over the box betrayed him. He grinned anyway, holding up a thick weekly issue. “Hey, look! The new manga chapters came in.”

Rin glanced up. “So?”

“So—” Yoichi leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice like he was sharing state secrets. “We get to read them before they officially hit shelves. Perk of the job.”

That made Rin pause. “…Really?”

“Yeah. Totally legal, too,” Yoichi said with a lopsided smile, flipping the glossy cover open. “C’mon, sit. I’ll show you.”

Rin hesitated only a second before sliding down beside him on the floor, their shoulders nearly brushing as Yoichi spread the magazine between them. The faint smell of fresh ink mixed with the paper dust of the shop.

They read in silence for a while, the occasional page flip punctuating the stillness. Yoichi laughed softly at a joke panel, and Rin found his lips twitching at the corners despite himself.

The bell chimed overhead — a customer. Yoichi scrambled upright, still holding the magazine. “Ah—welcome! Just a sec!” He shoved the issue into Rin’s hands and hurried to the counter. Rin stayed seated, calmly marking the page before setting it aside.

When Yoichi returned, he plopped down beside Rin again, slightly out of breath. “Where were we?”

Rin handed the open page back without a word, and Yoichi’s grin returned, easy and bright.

It wasn’t much. Just manga on a summer afternoon, ink on their fingertips, and the quiet comfort of being side by side. But it was enough.

The days began to fold into each other, stitched together by quiet routines and small rituals only the two of them shared.

On Mondays, Rin learned that Yoichi always brought an extra sandwich, “just in case,” and without asking, he began splitting it with Rin during breaks. On Tuesdays, Rin discovered Yoichi was hopeless at alphabetizing, so he’d quietly reorder the shelves Yoichi touched, only for Yoichi to catch him in the act and laugh like he’d been waiting for it.

Wednesdays were slow, so they played guessing games with the rare customers who wandered in. “Romance reader,” Yoichi would whisper as someone walked through the door. “Mystery addict,” Rin countered. Half the time Yoichi was wrong, but he never minded losing.

By Thursday, they’d fallen into an unspoken rhythm — Rin always opened the boxes, Yoichi always carried the heavier stacks, and somehow their conversations stretched longer in the quiet lulls between. They talked about school, about their favorite stories, about the kind of lives they thought people in books lived. Yoichi admitted he sometimes felt like he’d never measure up to anything. Rin, to his own surprise, didn’t laugh.

Friday was their manga ritual. The newest chapters would arrive, they’d sit on the floor behind the counter with their knees drawn up, and read side by side until a customer walked in. Once, they both tried to stifle a laugh at the same punchline and ended up choking back snorts like schoolkids caught misbehaving.

By Saturday evening, Rin realized they were no longer just two workers sharing a shift. He still wouldn’t call them best friends — the word felt too big, too fragile — but they were something. Something in-between, something steady.

It was comfortable. It was new. It was… good.

The bell over the door jingled, and Rin looked up from the counter just as five boys pushed their way into the shop in a burst of laughter and noise.

Barou, Chigiri, Kunigami, Reo, and Nagi—though Rin didn’t know their names yet—were loud, filling the quiet store with their easy camaraderie. They made a beeline for the Shonen section, arguing over which magazine to grab first, flipping through the glossy pages with no intention of being subtle.

Rin noticed, though, that Yoichi had gone oddly still beside him. His shoulders were drawn tight, his smile polite but thin, and he busied himself with stacking returns though there weren’t enough to need stacking.

The boys didn’t linger long. They bought their magazines, teased each other on the way out, and left as suddenly as they’d arrived. The door jingled again, and silence seeped back into the bookstore.

Rin glanced at Yoichi. His face was composed, but Rin had already seen the tension beneath it. His curiosity sparked, and maybe something else—something softer, like worry.

Yoichi caught the look and exhaled a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Those guys… they were my friends. Back in junior high.” His voice was casual, but his eyes weren’t. “We used to hang out all the time. But now… I don’t know. Ever since graduation, it feels like they’ve moved on. High school’s starting soon, and… they don’t really invite me anymore.”

Rin didn’t say anything right away. He let Yoichi keep talking.

“It’s stupid, right?” Yoichi gave a crooked little smile. “I have great parents. A family that loves me. Friends—well, I had them. And still… sometimes I feel this kind of loneliness, even when I know I shouldn’t. Like I’m standing outside the group I used to be in, and no one even notices.”

His words hung in the stillness of the shop, raw in a way Rin hadn’t expected.

“...I get it,” Rin said quietly. His voice was low, steady. “It’s not stupid. I know what that feels like.”

Yoichi blinked at him, surprised. Then he smiled—softly this time, no forced curve to his mouth, just something honest. “Thanks, Rin, I mean it, really."

"...You’re  a really good listener, you know that?”

Rin turned his head quickly, heat creeping up the back of his neck. The compliment shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. And when Yoichi smiled at him like that, open and grateful, Rin felt his stomach twist in a way that was entirely new.

Like wings fluttering.

Like butterflies.

By the third week, Rin had stopped trying to lie to himself.

He’d spent too many nights staring at the ceiling, replaying the sound of Yoichi’s laugh in his head, trying to convince himself that the way it made his chest feel light was nothing. Just coincidence. Just… normal.

But it wasn’t normal, was it? Not when he caught himself noticing the smallest things—how Yoichi’s hair looked freshly trimmed one morning, neat around the edges, but still with that ridiculous little sprout sticking up like it had a mind of its own. Not when his gaze lingered on the curve of Yoichi’s smile as he helped a customer. Not when he realized Yoichi’s eyes weren’t just blue, but warm, flecked with light in ways Rin had never paid attention to in anyone before.

Every detail added up, piece by piece, until Rin was forced to admit the truth: he had a crush. A stupid, messy, unstoppable crush on Yoichi Isagi.

And the worst part? He had it bad.

The butterflies wouldn’t leave him alone. They fluttered every time Yoichi leaned close to show him a manga panel, every time their hands brushed while organizing a stack of magazines, every time Yoichi smiled at him like Rin’s presence in the bookstore mattered.

He told himself to ignore it. To focus on the job. To stop staring when Yoichi’s laugh bubbled up out of nowhere. But ignoring it only made it worse. Denying it only made his chest ache more.

Rin Itoshi was many things—organized, serious, sharp. But now, he was also hopelessly, irreversibly, down bad.

The next morning at the bookstore felt like every other so far. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air as Rin arranged the new shipment of books by genre. Beside him, Yoichi hummed softly—off-key, but cheerful—as he carried stacks to the shelves. It should have been routine. Ordinary.

But to Rin, nothing about it felt ordinary anymore.

He was too aware of the tiny sprout of hair bouncing as Yoichi moved, too aware of the warmth that lingered whenever their arms brushed by accident. Every laugh, every grin—it all sent a scatter of butterflies tearing through Rin’s chest, no matter how many times he told himself to calm down.

Rin set the last stack down with a little more force than necessary, trying to clear his head, when the door jingled open. Two small kids wandered in, maybe eight or nine years old. One of them darted straight toward the comics section, while the other lingered in front of the novels, frowning up at a shelf that was clearly too tall for him.

Before Yoichi could move, Rin crouched down beside the kid.
“Which one are you looking for?” he asked gently.

The boy pointed, hesitating. “That one. The red one. I… I think it’s the one my sister likes.”

Rin rose easily, pulled the book down, and handed it over. “Here. You’ve got good taste.”

The boy smiled shyly, clutching it to his chest. “Thanks, mister.”

Rin blinked at the “mister” but didn’t correct him. Instead, he noticed the other child holding open a book with a confused frown. The page was dense with text.
“Can you… tell me what this means?” the kid asked, pointing to a long word.

Rin leaned over, read it once, and explained simply, careful to phrase it in a way the boy could understand. His voice softened naturally, patient in a way he hadn’t even realized he could be. The kid’s eyes lit up in understanding, and he scampered off to rejoin his friend.

It was nothing. Just a small kindness. But when Rin straightened and turned back, Yoichi was watching him.

Not casually. Not like before.

His eyes were warm, wide with something Rin couldn’t place at first. Admiration, maybe. Fondness. Whatever it was, it made Rin’s chest tighten so much he had to look away, heat crawling to his ears.

“...What?” Rin muttered, busying himself with the nearest stack of books.

Yoichi shook his head quickly, smiling a little too brightly as he ducked back to his own shelf. “Nothing. Just… didn’t know you were good with kids.”

Rin grumbled something noncommittal, but inside, his thoughts were loud enough to drown out everything else. Because for the first time, he wasn’t the only one staring.

The sun was dipping low when the bell above the shop door jingled. Rin looked up from the counter, expecting another customer, only to see a middle-aged couple step in—familiar, in the same way Yoichi’s smile was.

“Mom, Dad?” Yoichi blinked in surprise, halfway through restocking the display table.

Mrs. Isagi gave him a bright wave, her husband following with a softer smile. “Yoichi, you didn’t forget, did you? Special dinner tonight. Your father’s finally off early for once.”

“Oh—right, sorry, I lost track of time.” Yoichi rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. His eyes flicked toward Rin, standing awkwardly behind the counter. “We’re just about to close.”

Mrs. Isagi’s gaze followed her son’s, landing on Rin. “Ah, this must be Rin-kun. We’ve heard so much about you.”

Rin stiffened, bowing slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am. Sir.”

Mr. Isagi chuckled, stepping closer. “You’ve been a great help this summer. Really—it means a lot. With how busy we’ve been, we couldn’t have managed the store without you.”

Rin shifted under the kindness, mumbling, “It’s nothing. I just… wanted the experience.”

“Well,” Mrs. Isagi said, eyes twinkling, “you should join us tonight. Dinner’s already prepared, and there’s more than enough for one extra plate.”

Rin blinked. “Ah—no, that’s alright. I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“Nonsense.” Mr. Isagi waved him off. “It’s settled.”

Rin tried again, polite as always. “Really, I should get home—”

“Rin,” Yoichi cut in, grinning at him, “come on. It’ll be fun. Please?”

Something in the way he said it left Rin with no room to argue. He exhaled quietly, pulling out his phone. “...I’ll just text my dad.”

He typed a quick message—staying for dinner with Isagi’s family, don’t wait up—and tucked the phone away, his chest unsteady.

It had been a long time since someone insisted he stay.

Dinner was served at the Isagis’ dining table, and Rin wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. He’d already washed them, already murmured a polite “thank you for having me,” already taken his seat at the far end, beside Yoichi. And yet, the second Mrs. Isagi set the last dish down, the room seemed to shift into a rhythm that wasn’t his own—something warm, unpracticed, but natural.

The clatter of dishes, Mr. Isagi’s low laugh as he reached for seconds, Yoichi’s mom fussing that he hadn’t taken enough vegetables, Yoichi himself protesting that he was fine—every sound folded together into something Rin hadn’t sat in the middle of for a long time.

He felt awkward, at first. Like he was peeking into someone else’s life. Like he might break the spell if he spoke too loudly.

But then Mrs. Isagi turned to him, bright-eyed. “Rin-kun, you eat too, don’t be shy. Try the miso—I made it with extra dashi today.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” he said, carefully spooning some into his bowl.

It was good. Warm in a way that sank through his chest, loosening a knot he hadn’t realized he carried.

Conversation swirled around him. Mr. Isagi asked about the store’s sales this week, Yoichi explained how they’d rearranged the magazine stand, Mrs. Isagi teased Yoichi about almost dropping a box of books, and Rin sat there, quietly listening. Every now and then, one of them drew him in—“And what about you, Rin-kun?”—and he’d answer softly, not too long, but enough. And every time, they nodded, or laughed, or smiled, like his words fit right in.

Slowly, his shoulders loosened. Slowly, he found himself smiling, even if faintly.

Halfway through the meal, Yoichi nudged him lightly under the table, tilting his head toward the grilled fish. “It’s really good. You should try some before Dad eats it all.”

Rin blinked, then reached for it, and for the first time that night, laughed—quiet, but real—when Mr. Isagi mock-groaned, “Caught me.”

It was nothing extraordinary, really. Just dinner. Just a family. But to Rin, it felt like stepping into sunlight after weeks of gray. The way Yoichi’s mom tapped her chopsticks against her son’s bowl when he didn’t listen. The way his dad asked about books with genuine curiosity. The way Yoichi leaned into the banter, exasperated and fond all at once.

It was everything Rin had been missing.

By the time they finished, and Mrs. Isagi insisted on serving fruit for dessert, Rin wasn’t thinking about how he’d intrude. He wasn’t counting the minutes until he could leave. He was… content. Full, in more ways than one.

Later, when he slipped his shoes back on by the door, he glanced at Yoichi. Words tangled at the back of his throat—gratitude, awe, something he didn’t quite know how to voice. But in the end, he didn’t speak.

He just looked at him. A warm, quiet look, heavy with meaning.

And Yoichi, catching it, smiled back—gentle, soft, like he understood anyway.

When the door closed behind Rin, silence lingered for a moment. Then Mrs. Isagi spoke.

“He’s a good kid.”

Mr. Isagi nodded. “Polite. Hardworking.”

Yoichi didn’t look away from the door. He just hummed, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… he is.”

The evening air was cool when Rin stepped outside, and he drew in a long breath before starting down the street. His phone buzzed softly in his pocket—his dad’s reply to the earlier text: Got it. Be safe. Short, like always. But he’d expected that.

Still… his chest felt light. Not the kind of light that came from an empty space, but the kind that came from something warm pressing against it.

Dinner.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy it. He thought he’d sit stiff-backed, answer a question here or there, and leave as quickly as manners would allow. But instead—he’d laughed. He’d eaten until he was full. He’d sat among voices that wove together, teasing, gentle, natural, and for the first time in so long, it didn’t feel like he was intruding.

It felt like… belonging.

Rin shoved his hands into his pockets, head tipped slightly down as he walked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a family dinner that felt like that. Not since—well, not since before. Since the house had grown quieter, since his dad had retreated into silence, since Sae had locked himself away. Since he’d gotten used to eating alone at the table, or grabbing something quick, pretending the absence didn’t ache as much as it did.

He didn’t let himself dwell there, though. Not tonight.

Tonight, he let himself replay Yoichi nudging him to take the fish. Yoichi’s mom piling fruit into his bowl with a motherly insistence that left no room for refusal. Yoichi’s dad’s chuckle when Rin answered one of his questions with more detail than he meant to, and Yoichi smiling softly, like he was glad Rin spoke up at all.

Warmth bloomed again in his chest, and he blinked against the sting at the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t sadness—not exactly. More like… gratitude, so strong it hurt.

I didn’t trouble them, he thought. I didn’t ruin their evening. I… I think they wanted me there.

And the way Yoichi had looked at him—had smiled, just for him—Rin pressed his lips together, fighting down the rush of something dangerously close to joy.

His footsteps carried him home, but his mind lingered at that table, with that laughter, with that warmth.

For the first time in a long while, Rin wasn’t just looking forward to the next day at the bookstore.

He was looking forward to the next summer evening that might end like this.

By the time the fourth week of summer rolled around, the bookstore had stopped feeling like just a summer job. At least, to Rin.

It had become routine, but the kind that softened the edges of his days. Unlocking the door in the morning. The smell of paper and dust and faint coffee from the little machine by the counter. The sound of Yoichi’s easy voice as he greeted him, always just a bit too cheerful for the hour, but never unwelcome.

And somewhere along the way—without meaning to, without ever planning it—Rin had started falling harder.

It was hopeless. And Rin knew it. But every time he told himself to stop thinking that way, his chest betrayed him with butterflies anyway.

Oh, and the weather shifted that week, too.

One afternoon, the sky outside darkened earlier than usual. Heavy clouds rolled in from the coast, the kind that looked like they could swallow the sea whole. By the time the rain came, it wasn’t gentle—it was sheets of water, hammering the awning outside, streaking the windows until the view of the street blurred into gray.

Inside, though, it was warm. Cozy, almost. The hum of the fluorescent lights above. The soft thud of books being stacked, sorted, shelved. The smell of new stock—fresh ink from magazines and manga, glue and paper from hardcovers still crisp in their wrapping.

The bell above the door had stopped ringing; no one wanted to walk in rain like that. Which left just the two of them.

Yoichi hummed tunelessly under his breath while reorganizing the display table. Rin sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a box of new arrivals, the sound of rain drumming hard against the glass like a steady percussion behind their quiet movements.

It should’ve felt mundane. Ordinary. But somehow, to Rin, it didn’t.

The storm outside only made the warmth inside sharper, and every time Yoichi drifted close—handing him a stack, brushing past him to reach the shelf—Rin felt like his heart was tripping over itself.

By now, it was undeniable.

He was falling. Harder and harder, like the rain outside. And the storm painted in reality, the storm inside his mind.

But for all the soft, almost-romantic weight hanging between them, the storm outside wasn’t easing. If anything, it was only growing worse as the afternoon slipped into evening.

The pounding of rain had turned near deafening, rattling against the glass as though the whole sea had decided to empty itself onto Kamakura. Every few minutes, the sky split with a crack of thunder, sharp and immediate, followed by the low rumble rolling over the coastal town. The wind howled against the storefront awning, spraying stray droplets through the cracks, until even the warm yellow light inside the shop felt fragile—like an island of safety in the middle of something vast.

On the counter, Yoichi’s phone buzzed. He picked it up, scanning the alert, and his brows furrowed. “They said Kamakura’s under a storm warning. People are supposed to stay indoors for the evening.” He set the phone down, then turned toward Rin, his usual cheer softening into concern. “Don’t go out yet. It’s dangerous—you’ll just get caught in it.”

Rin opened his mouth to argue—it was only a walk home, he’d managed worse weather—but another clap of thunder made him flinch before he could finish. Yoichi caught that, and smiled faintly. “See? Just wait a while. It’ll slow down.”

It wasn’t phrased as an order. It was an invitation. Gentle, insistent in its own way.

Rin exhaled and nodded, tugging his hood down. “...Fine. I’ll wait.”

And so, for the first time since he started this job, evening closed in with the shop still theirs alone. No customers would brave this weather. No deliveries were due. Just the quiet hum of lights, the steady percussion of rain, and the occasional shiver of thunder crawling over their skin.

Yoichi hopped up onto the counter, swinging his legs like a kid, tossing Rin a grin that made the storm outside seem miles away. Rin sank into the armchair tucked in the corner, a stack of books beside him. It felt… different, almost suspended in time.

No responsibilities, no interruptions. Just the two of them, stranded together in the warm glow of the little bookstore while the storm raged on outside.

The thunder rolled again, low and steady, shaking the windows. Yoichi slid down from the counter, stretching his arms before rummaging through the little staff cupboard at the back. “Guess it’s cup ramen night,” he grinned, holding up two brightly-colored packets like it was some grand treasure.

Rin blinked, then allowed himself a tiny chuckle. “That’s your emergency dinner?”

“Hey,” Yoichi shot back, already pouring hot water from the electric kettle into the cups. “Don’t insult a classic. It’s survival food.”

A few minutes later, the two of them were curled up on opposite beanbags, the steam rising from their cups, the storm outside their constant background music. The bookstore, usually full of quiet chatter or the creak of footsteps, felt like a cocoon now—thunder muffled in its walls, the glow of the lamps soft against the rain-blurred windows.

Yoichi slurped his noodles, then tilted his head, eyes catching Rin in the warm light. “So, Rin,” he asked, almost casually but with a note of curiosity, “what about you? Your life. You never really… talk about it.”

Rin froze for a moment, chopsticks hovering in midair. He wasn’t used to questions like that. Not anymore. But maybe it was the ramen, or the storm, or Yoichi’s gaze—patient, unpressing—that loosened his chest.

“Nothing much to talk about. My family,” Rin began slowly, carefully, “used to feel… whole. It was good, for a while. I was close with my mom, really close.” His voice softened at that word, and Yoichi listened without interrupting. “But… a few months ago, she died. Road accident.”

Yoichi’s eyes widened. “Rin— I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Rin cut in quickly, shaking his head. “You didn’t know.”

And just like that, the silence shifted. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just heavier, truer. Rin’s voice was low, threaded with something raw. “Since then, it’s just been… different. My dad tries, but he works all the time, and he’s grieving too. Sae—my brother—he stays in his own world. And the house, it just… it feels so empty now. Lonely.”

"Is that why you took up this— "

He swallowed as he nodded, staring into his ramen cup, though the noodles had long cooled. “And that’s why… that dinner at your place meant a lot to me. More than I can say. It was… warm. Alive. I’d forgotten what that felt like.” His voice faltered. “So… thank you.”

"Here I was, thinking my life was a mess. And you didn't even tell me. You just listened to me when I—"

"It was nothing. What we feel cannot be measured. Don't be so hard on yourself, idiot."

Yoichi didn’t think. His body just moved. He set his cup down, crossed the space between them, and pulled Rin into a hug. A quiet, firm, wordless hug.

Rin stiffened in surprise—his whole body shocked into stillness. But then, slowly, almost tentatively, his hands rose and pressed against Yoichi’s back. Hugging back. Breathing in the warmth that felt impossibly steady against the storm outside. 

Yoichi realized what he’d done only after, his face burning as he pulled back. “Ah—I, uh—sorry, that was—”

But Rin wasn’t angry. If anything, his glossy eyes held that same fragile softness from before, like something cracked open had been allowed to breathe.

The rest of the evening passed in a hush. They didn’t need to talk anymore. They just settled back into their beanbags, side by side this time, flipping through the pages of random books. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed. Occasionally, Yoichi’s quiet laugh filled the air.

And outside, the storm raged until it began to tire, its thunder rolling farther and farther away.

When it was safe enough, Rin finally gathered his bag, thanked Yoichi softly, and stepped out into the damp, salt-scented night.

But even with the rain still dripping off the rooftops, Rin’s chest was warm. Warm in a way he hadn’t felt in months.

That night, Rin lay on his bed, the storm still whispering faintly against the windows. The house was quiet—too quiet, as it always was these days. But Rin’s mind wasn’t empty.

It was filled with the warmth of the bookstore, with the taste of cup ramen still on his tongue, and with the memory of Yoichi’s arms around him.

He’d replayed it a hundred times already—the suddenness of it, the way Yoichi just moved without thinking, the steadiness of his chest against Rin’s shoulder. It wasn’t just the hug itself, though. It was the words Yoichi had said earlier, the way he’d listened—really listened—without cutting him off or brushing him aside. For the first time in so long, Rin hadn’t felt small when talking about his mom. He hadn’t felt pathetic. He’d just… felt heard.

And that hug… it was still on his skin, still tightening in his chest, still fluttering in his stomach. He buried his face into his pillow, groaning quietly. “Stupid… why am I smiling?”

His heart was light, but heavy too. It scared him a little, how much Yoichi’s smile could mean. How much one evening could mean.

The door creaked open, cutting through his thoughts. Rin sat up a little, blinking in surprise.

Sae stood there, hair unkempt, his hoodie wrinkled like he hadn’t changed out of it all day. He looked… distant. Like his body was here, but the rest of him was somewhere else.

“You said you work at a bookstore, right?” Sae asked flatly, not stepping all the way inside.

“...Yeah.” Rin straightened. “Why?”

“My friend wanted the Chainsaw Man volumes.” Sae rubbed the back of his neck, his voice tired. “You know if they have them in stock?”

Rin nodded. “Yeah, they do. New print run came in last week.”

“Alright. Thanks.”

And just like that, Sae turned, already leaving.

Rin watched the door close again, the silence swallowing his room. His brother hadn’t asked how his day was, hadn’t asked anything at all beyond the manga. And maybe Rin couldn’t blame him. Sae was grieving too—just in his own way. Shutting himself off, hiding in his room, burying himself into studies, not letting anyone close. That was just how Sae had always been. 

Still, the distance stung. The gap between them felt larger than ever, especially when he needed him.

Rin lay back down, staring at the ceiling. The warmth Yoichi had given him returned slowly, pushing against the ache Sae left behind. And as his eyes grew heavy, he clung to that feeling—the memory of laughter in a bookstore, of ramen steam curling into the air, of a hug that had been too sudden, too real to forget.

For the first time in a long while, Rin drifted to sleep with a smile tugging faintly at his lips.

Time had slipped through Rin’s fingers like sand. One day he was fumbling with the cataloging system, the next he was already shelving new arrivals like second nature. Before he realized it, summer was nearly at its end.

The thought of the bookstore without him there… it made something coil tight in his chest. Rin hated admitting it—even to himself—but the idea of walking home each day without Yoichi by his side, of not seeing his little sprout head bent over receipts or smiling at a kid who needed help, was almost unbearable. He shoved the thought away whenever it surfaced, telling himself there was no point in dwelling on it. He still had time. He had right now. That was enough.

It was one lazy afternoon when Isagi’s dad appeared from the back office, clapping his hands together with that soft energy that always seemed to fill the store. “Boys,” he said, grinning at both of them. “I’ve been thinking—we should host a little end-of-summer book fest.”

Rin blinked. “...Book fest?”

“Mmhm.” Isagi’s dad’s eyes sparkled, already picturing it. “Something simple but fun. We can set up a corner for people to donate or sell their old books, and others can buy or even just sit and read if they want. We’ll put out some tables, serve tea and lemonade, maybe order some snacks from that bakery down the street.”

Yoichi’s eyes lit up instantly. “That’s… actually a great idea, Dad.”

Rin felt his own lips twitch upward. The bookstore was usually quiet, steady, like a soft hum. But the idea of filling it with laughter, chatter, people flipping pages and exchanging stories—it sounded… warm. Alive.

His chest thudded faintly as he imagined it.

“Of course, I’ll need help pulling it together,” Isagi’s dad continued, looking at them both knowingly. “Think you two can handle it?”

“Yes!” Yoichi answered immediately, bouncing a little on his heels. Then he turned to Rin, waiting for his nod.

Rin swallowed, but nodded firmly. “Yeah. We’ll make it work.”

And just like that, a new mission seemed to settle between them. The lazy summer rhythm was replaced by an energy Rin hadn’t felt before. He and Yoichi poured over ideas for displays, made lists of tables and chairs to move, picked out which magazines to highlight, and sorted stacks of donations that already began trickling in.

For the first time, Rin wasn’t just working in the bookstore. He was helping shape something in it. Something people would come to and remember.

And beside him, Yoichi’s smile only seemed to grow brighter with each plan they made.

The following week was a whirlwind of activity. The quiet bookstore turned into something busier, lighter, almost playful. Rin and Yoichi rearranged shelves and tables, making space for the incoming donations and deciding which corners could hold little reading nooks. They made bright flyers—Yoichi doodled tiny books in the margins while Rin handled the clean, sharp lettering—and together, they slipped them into mailboxes and handed them to shop owners along the street. Some neighbors promised to stop by, others wished them luck, and every small encouragement made Yoichi’s grin stretch wider.

One evening, while they were stacking extra chairs near the window, Yoichi opened his mouth like he wanted to say something—but then faltered, chewing on his lip.

Rin caught it instantly. “...What?”

Yoichi shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” Rin pressed, pausing with a chair half-lifted. “Just say it.”

Yoichi hesitated, then sighed. “I was… thinking of calling my old friends. Y’know, Barou and the rest. But—”

Rin’s brows furrowed before he could stop himself. “Do you have other friends?”

Yoichi blinked at him. “...Other friends?”

“I mean,” Rin clarified quickly, “the nice ones. People who aren’t—rude, or who make you feel like you don’t belong.”

Yoichi stilled, then slowly smiled—like that thought had never quite occurred to him. “...Actually, yeah. There’s Hiori, Nanase, and Kurona. They’re more… low-key. Quiet types, but they love reading.”

“Perfect,” Rin said firmly, settling the chair down. “Call them. Don’t waste time on people who don’t treat you right.”

Yoichi blinked again, a little taken aback, but warmth crept into his face. “...Okay. Yeah, you’re right.” And right there, he pulled out his phone, texting each of them with the kind of easy energy Rin wished he had when reaching out to others.

Then Yoichi tilted his head at him. “Your turn. You should invite someone too.”

Rin stiffened. “...Me?”

“Of course. Invite your brother.”

Rin wanted to protest, but the way Yoichi’s eyes softened left him no room. With a reluctant huff, he pulled out his own phone, typed a short message, and hit send before he could overthink it.

A minute later, Sae replied with a single 👍.

Yoichi chuckled. “Guess that’s a yes.”

Rin didn’t answer, but for some reason, he couldn’t stop the corners of his lips from tugging upward.

Before either of them quite realized it, the end of summer crept up like an incoming tide. Three days left in Rin’s break, and already the bookstore had been transformed into something more alive than he’d ever seen. Lanterns hung in the windows, faint golden light spilling onto the rainy street, and the smell of warm bread and tea drifted from the little refreshment table Yoichi’s mother had set up.

The book festival night had finally arrived.

Neighbors filtered in with smiles, some carrying bags of books to donate, others simply curious to browse. Familiar faces from the regular customers lingered near their favorite shelves, chatting as if the place was their second home. Yoichi’s parents moved with an ease Rin found impressive—welcoming each guest, remembering names, making everyone feel like they belonged.

Yoichi himself was across the room, animated as he introduced Hiori, Nanase, and Kurona to one another. They looked exactly as he had described them—gentle, reserved, but clearly comfortable with him. The way Yoichi laughed in their circle was light and unguarded, like he hadn’t carried the weight Rin sometimes glimpsed in his eyes.

Rin busied himself restocking the donation table, guiding newcomers to where they could settle and read, answering the occasional question. He was helping, working, smiling faintly when thanked—yet his gaze kept betraying him. Again and again, it drifted toward the entrance.

The door.

He caught himself staring more than once, but the habit refused to leave. Every time it swung open—letting in a neighbor with damp hair from the rain, a couple with their child, another regular clutching a tote bag—Rin’s chest tightened, only to ease again when it wasn’t the person he unconsciously hoped to see.

It was ridiculous. He knew that. But still, his eyes pulled back to the door, as if waiting for something—or rather, someone.

At some point, Rin gave up on watching the door. It was foolish, he told himself. Why wait, why hope? The fest was already alive around him—Yoichi laughing with his friends, the soft murmur of conversations mixing with the rustle of pages, the warm glow of lamps against rain-streaked glass. He should’ve been content.

And yet, when his eyes finally wandered away from the entrance, they found Yoichi’s across the room. Yoichi’s smile—bright, encouraging, almost knowing—met his, and Rin felt his chest loosen. He exhaled, almost ready to laugh at himself.

That was when the door opened again.

This time, Rin didn’t look. Not at first. But the hush that fell near the entrance tugged his gaze, slow, hesitant—until it landed on the tall figure stepping inside.

Sae.

For a moment Rin thought—expected—that his brother would have come with that friend, the one who wanted Chainsaw Man volumes. But instead, Sae stood there with their father beside him. Their father, hair damp from the drizzle outside, with the faintest smile Rin hadn’t seen in so, so long. Sae, too, had that quiet curve of his lips—small, understated, but undeniably there.

Rin froze.

And then something inside him cracked open. A smile began to rise, unbidden, trembling at the corners, as if his body had decided before his mind could. It was a feeling words couldn’t fully reach—too layered, too sudden, too raw. Relief, disbelief, warmth. A sting at the back of his eyes he hadn’t asked for.

He hadn’t expected this. Not tonight. Not in a bookstore lit by lanterns, with neighbors browsing and the sound of rain outside. But here they were—his brother and his father, together, stepping in.

And for the first time in a long while, Rin felt… whole.

They moved quietly among the little clusters of neighbors and visitors, exchanging polite nods, hands trailing over spines of well-worn novels and glossy magazines. Rin stayed near, half afraid they’d disappear if he blinked too long. His father purchased a couple of gardening guides, Sae picked up a philosophy paperback with his usual unreadable face. Just seeing them take part in the fest was enough to knot Rin’s throat.

Then Sae reached into the tote he carried.

Rin didn’t think much of it—until he saw the faded, familiar covers peeking out. A series of cookbooks, the corners softened, some pages marked with scraps of old paper. His chest tightened.

Their mother’s.

Sae set the bag on the donation table without a word. When Rin’s eyes flew up, wide, they met his brother’s first, and then his father’s. Both looked steady, though there was something fragile beneath. His father’s voice was low, gentle:

“It’s best if they’re passed on. Someone else can make use of them now.”

Rin’s lips parted, no sound coming out. His gaze dropped back to those books—the ones his mother used to rest on the kitchen counter, her handwriting dancing in margins, grease stains marking favorite recipes. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

And then his father turned to him. His hand came to rest on Rin’s shoulder, solid and warm in a way Rin had nearly forgotten.

“You’ve grown,” his father said softly. “Working here, taking responsibility… I’m proud of you.”

The words cut deeper than Rin expected. His chest caved in, all the restraint he had clung to for months breaking apart. Before he knew it, his father’s arms wrapped around him.

It was the first time in years.

Rin broke. His sobs came raw, shaking, muffled against his father’s chest as his hands clutched at him like a child—like the boy who had lost a mother but still needed a parent to hold on to. He hadn’t cried to his dad before. Not once. But now, with the storm behind the windows and the warmth of the bookstore around them, he let it all spill out.

And his father just held him tighter, as if he understood.

Rin’s sobs wouldn’t stop. His throat ached, his chest hurt, but it all came out anyway, the words tearing free in gasps between breaths:

“I–I miss Mom… I miss us.”

His father’s hand tightened against the back of his head, the tremor in his voice betraying his own breaking point.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, Rin. I’m sorry… I should’ve been there more—for you, for Sae. I thought keeping my distance would make it easier, but…”

He faltered, and when Rin finally looked up, his father’s eyes were glossy, his jaw tight as though holding back months of guilt.

Rin shook his head weakly, but before he could say anything, his father’s arm stretched out, reaching for Sae.

"Sae..."

For a moment, Rin thought his brother would refuse. Sae’s hands clenched at his sides, jaw rigid, his gaze stubbornly turned away. But when he saw Rin’s tear-streaked face pressed into their father’s chest, something cracked. With a sharp inhale, Sae stepped forward.

Their father pulled him in, one arm around each son.

Rin felt it—the tension in Sae’s shoulders, the way he was fighting himself. But then Sae’s head lowered, his face brushing Rin’s hair, and his breath shuddered out, uneven. He didn’t sob like Rin did, but Rin felt his brother’s hand clutch at his back, tight, desperate, like he, too, had been waiting for this without knowing it.

For the first time in so long, the three of them stood together—clinging, grieving, healing—in the quiet warmth of the little bookstore, surrounded by shelves of stories, with their mother’s books resting gently on the donation table.

From the other side of the room, Yoichi froze where he stood, a half-folded flyer still in his hands. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but when Rin’s voice broke—raw, shaking—everything else in the store fell away.

He and his father exchanged a glance, both instinctively pausing, giving the Itoshis their space.

Yoichi’s chest tightened as he watched. Rin, usually so quiet, so careful, was crying like a child who’d finally let the dam burst. His father was holding him, holding both of them, and even Sae, who always carried himself with that untouchable air, was clutching back.

Yoichi felt a smile tug at his lips—small, relieved, and warm.

“Good,” his dad murmured beside him, low enough that no one else could hear. “That boy needed this.”

Yoichi nodded. For days now, he’d sensed something beneath Rin’s composure, some weight that wasn’t visible but always there. Seeing him finally fold into his family’s embrace… it made Yoichi’s chest ache in the best way.

He turned his gaze back toward the bookshelves, pretending to busy himself, but he couldn’t hide the quiet happiness spreading through him. For the first time since they’d met, Rin didn’t look lonely.

The three of them left the bookstore together, the night air thick with the after-scent of rain and the faint salt of the sea. Rin walked between his father and Sae, his steps slow, as if he wanted to stretch the walk out forever. None of them spoke much, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… steady.

When they reached home, their father suggested quietly, “Let’s eat together. Properly. It’s been a while.”

Rin blinked at him, stunned. He couldn’t even remember the last time the three of them had sat at the table as a family.

They cooked something simple—rice, miso soup, a few side dishes pulled from what they had. It wasn’t extravagant, but when Rin sat down at the table and looked at his father across from him, Sae at his side, the ache in his chest grew sharp.

For the first time in months, the chairs weren’t empty.

Their dad reached for the soy sauce, hesitating a moment before saying, “Your mother used to always scold me for forgetting the sesame seeds.” He chuckled faintly at his own memory, voice rough.

Sae huffed a little—an almost-laugh—and muttered, “She scolded all of us. Especially Rin when he picked them out of his rice.”

Rin startled, cheeks flushing. “I—I was six!” His protest cracked, and to his horror, tears slipped free. He quickly ducked his head, wiping at them with the back of his hand. “Sorry, I just—”

But no one laughed at him. His father’s gaze was soft, and Sae stayed quiet, looking down at his bowl, his own eyes glossy though he blinked hard.

They kept talking—small things, old things. About summer festivals they used to go to with their mother, about how she always burned her first pancake but claimed it was intentional, about the way she hummed when she cooked.

Rin cried more than he spoke, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to trade the sting in his throat or the blur in his vision for anything. For once, it felt like he had his family back, even if just for this one night.

And as the three of them ate, sharing stories, breaking into quiet smiles and quiet silences, Rin thought—this is what I’ve been missing. This is what I wanted.

The next morning felt different somehow. The air after the storm was crisp and clear, the kind of freshness that made the world look scrubbed clean. Rin stood inside the bookstore, sweeping the wooden floor while Yoichi dusted the front desk. Their movements were simple, quiet, yet both of them carried the same subtle brightness in their chests.

It was Rin’s last day of work. The thought should have weighed him down, but instead he felt… light. Like something had shifted last night, and this morning was the beginning of a new page in a book. A story he wasn’t ready to end.

Yoichi caught Rin’s eye and grinned faintly, his voice easy. “Feels different, doesn’t it? Like the air’s brand new.”

Rin pressed his lips together, fighting back the smile that wanted to rise. “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “It does.”

Just then, Yoichi’s mom poked her head in, her hands still damp from morning chores. “You two have worked hard enough these weeks. Leave the rest to me today. Take a break—go out, have fun.”

Both boys blinked at her, surprised, then exchanged glances. Rin almost said he could stay and help, but the warmth in her tone made it impossible to argue. Yoichi tilted his head at Rin, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

“So… what now?” he asked, half-expecting Rin to shrug.

But Rin didn’t. He looked at Yoichi’s hand, hesitation tugging at him for just a moment—then he reached out, bold in a way that surprised even himself, and laced their fingers together.

Yoichi’s breath caught.

“I know a spot,” Rin said, voice low but sure.

The faint pink on Yoichi’s cheeks and the way his hand tightened back around Rin’s told Rin enough. Whatever came next, they’d face it together.

Rin led Yoichi through Kamakura’s winding streets until the sound of the ocean grew louder, waves folding over each other in the distance. When they finally stepped onto a small, quiet stretch of seaside, Rin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The sand was pale, the air salty and clean, and the horizon shimmered under the sun that peeked through drifting clouds.

“This place…” Rin murmured, eyes soft as he looked out at the water. “I used to come here with Sae when we were kids. We’d race to see who could spot the boats first. Back then, everything felt… simpler, I guess.”

Yoichi glanced at him, the sunlight painting gold on Rin’s cheekbones, and something inside him squeezed. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

They stopped by a vendor’s cart on the edge of the sand, and each grabbed a popsicle—cheap, cold, sweet. Their hands, still linked from earlier, didn’t separate even as they licked at the popsicles, laughing under their breath at the stickiness.

For a while, there was only the sound of waves and the occasional cry of a gull. Then Yoichi’s voice broke through, quiet but unshakably honest.

“Rin… I care about you. A lot.”

Rin turned, startled by the sudden weight of his tone.

Yoichi’s ears flushed red. He fumbled, his words tumbling out clumsy and unpolished. “I mean—I like you. Like, really like you. More than just… y’know… friends who eat popsicles and shelve books together.”

Rin blinked, stunned for half a heartbeat. Then the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “You idiot,” he whispered, the fondness in his voice undeniable. “I’ve always liked you. A lot, actually.”

Yoichi froze, wide-eyed. “R–really? You… also feel the same way?”

Rin rolled his eyes, but his chest felt warm enough to burst. Before he could tease him again, Yoichi threw his arms around him, pulling him into a hug that was more like an anchor than anything else—tight, desperate, real.

Rin’s popsicle slipped from his fingers, forgotten, as he hugged back just as fiercely, burying his face against Yoichi’s shoulder.

For the first time in months, Rin didn’t feel like he was missing something. He felt whole.

The days stretched long, then quietly shortened, the humid air of August softening into something gentler. Summer had begun as nothing more than a break—work to fill time, shifts in a small bookstore—but for Rin, it had become something else entirely.

He’d walked in carrying loneliness on his shoulders, the kind that made even sunlight feel heavy. Yet somehow, between aisles stacked with stories and quiet evenings spent side by side, he had found warmth again. A dinner table where laughter didn’t feel foreign, friends who felt like they wanted him there, and a boy whose smile made his chest ache in a way that was both new and familiar.

For Yoichi, too, the summer had shifted. What started as helping his parents in the family store had turned into discovering someone who mirrored pieces of himself, someone who made routine feel alive. Rin’s quiet persistence, his sharp eyes softening at the edges, his rare smiles—it was as though the season had handed him a companion he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

Together, they weathered storms—literal and otherwise—shared secrets that weighed heavy but felt lighter once spoken, and slowly, gently, leaned into each other’s orbit. What was once ordinary had turned extraordinary, painted over with laughter, small touches, and the kind of closeness neither wanted to let go of.

And as the final days of break slipped like sand through their fingers, there was no denying it anymore. The summer had been more than just a season. It had been a beginning.

The seaside was quiet except for the steady rhythm of waves brushing against the shore. The air still held the warmth of the day, but the breeze had grown cooler, carrying the scent of salt and fading summer. Rin and Yoichi sat side by side on the worn stone ledge overlooking the water, popsicle sticks tossed aside, their laughter fading into a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable but full—like the pause after a favorite line in a book.

Rin’s head found its place against Yoichi’s shoulder, and Yoichi didn’t move, only tilted slightly to lean closer. They spoke about little things—the store, the festival, the way the clouds painted the sky in orange and violet. Sometimes their words wandered into silence, but even then, it felt like conversation, the kind only closeness allowed.

The horizon dipped lower, the sun sinking into the sea as though it too was reluctant to leave. The golden light caught on Rin’s hair, on Yoichi’s eyes, and for a moment it felt like the world had slowed down just for them.

As the sun was setting, both turned to face each other. The stillness hung between them for only a heartbeat before Yoichi leaned in, placing his lips gently against Rin’s. Rin kissed back, soft at first, then with the quiet certainty of something long held and finally released.

And everything seemed perfect. Complete.