Rain painted silver streaks across the library's arched windows, blurring the world into a watercolor of grays and greens. The air hummed with the scent of aged paper and damp wool, punctuated by the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of droplets against glass. In their secluded corner—a fortress of bookshelves shielding them from prying eyes—Hiyori sat curled in an oversized armchair, a fortress of literature beside her: The Tale of Genji, Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet, and a chess strategy guide dog-eared at the Sicilian Defense.
When Kiyotaka slipped into the adjacent chair, she didn't glance up but nudged a steaming mug toward him. Hot chocolate, crowned with a drift of whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon.
"The librarian's secret stash," she murmured, turning a page of Baudelaire. "She hides it behind Dostoevsky. Claims caffeine ruins the poetry."
He cradled the warmth, watching her. Hiyori read like she breathed—deeply, fluidly, her finger tracing lines as if absorbing meaning through touch. Today, a strand of hair escaped her braid, curving against her cheekbone like an ink stroke. For twenty silent minutes, they existed in parallel: Hiyori lost in Les Fleurs du Mal, while Kiyotaka annotating a journal on quantum entanglement. Only the sigh of turning pages and distant thunder filled the space between them.
Then—
"Kiyotaka-kun."
Her voice was a feather brushing his consciousness. She pointed to a line: "Le printemps adorable a perdu son odeur."
"Spring has lost its scent. It's... haunting, isn't it? How something so vibrant could become hollow."
He followed her gaze out the window. Raindrops slithered down the pane, merging, separating, reborn with each collision. "Maybe it's not gone. Just forgotten until someone notices it again."
Hiyori's pen hovered over her notebook—a leather-bound thing filled with pressed flowers and marginalia. Slowly, she sketched a sprig of cherry blossoms beside the quote, petals half-unfurled. "Like memories," she mused. "Or people. We fade until someone pays attention."
Kiyotaka watched her shade a petal with delicate cross-hatches. "Do you feel faded, Hiyori?"
The pen stilled. She looked up, eyes wide and luminous as wet slate. "Not today," she said softly. "Not when it rains. Rain makes everything... honest."
He slid his journal toward her, open to a diagram of entangled particles from a passage he read a few chapters ago. "Like this? Two things bound, even when apart."
Her smile dawned slow as sunrise. "Exactly." She pulled a volume from her stack—The Poetics of Space—and read aloud about nooks and corners nurturing dreams. Outside, the storm swelled, but in their book-fortress, the world felt small and safe. When her hand brushed his reaching for the sugar bowl, neither pulled away. The touch lingered—a comma in the quiet.
The rain softened to a drizzle as they walked, shoulders nearly touching under Kiyotaka's umbrella. Hiyori's steps were light, purposeful; she navigated puddles like a dancer, her canvas tote bulging with books.
"Darcy recognizes footsteps," she explained, pushing open the café's lavender-painted door. A bell chimed, and the air bloomed with bergamot and cat fur. "She'll demand Earl Grey. It's her right as a literary cat."
True to form, a plump calico materialized, weaving figure-eights around Hiyori's ankles. The café was a labyrinth of squashy sofas and climbing shelves where cats dozed like living paperweights. They claimed a window nook framed by hanging ferns. Hiyori ordered matcha and star-shaped sesame cookies; Kiyotaka, black coffee.
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Random COTE One-shots
FanfictionClassroom of the Elite scenarios and subtle but welcomed crossovers. I like writing at random but this has served as a memory of my improvements in writing. Updates will vary depending on the schedules. A story uploaded depicts a sudden burst of m...
