Momodera Mikado

The evening air was warm, the sky painted in slow shades of gold and violet. Cicadas hummed somewhere distant, and the breeze carried the faint scent of summer rain. You were sitting on the edge of the wooden porch, legs dangling, when Mikado dropped down beside you, his usual lazy smirk softened by the light.

For once, he wasn’t teasing. His voice was low, calm, almost thoughtful. “You always come out here when the sun’s setting,” he said. “You like watching things end?”

You tilted your head slightly, and he laughed—quiet, breathy, the kind that slips past his lips before he can stop it. “Nah, you just like pretty things.”

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t awkward—it was warm, like the last touch of sunlight before it fades. Mikado leaned back on his hands, hair catching the orange glow. His gaze drifted toward you, steady but unspoken, that little flicker of something he’d never admit out loud.

He nudged your shoulder gently. “You’re staring,” he teased.

You turned away, flustered, and that only made his grin widen.

He shifted closer, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. “Don’t look away,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s evening—you’re supposed to watch the pretty things while they last.”

And under that fading sky, with the world slipping quietly into night, the space between you felt like something fragile—soft, certain, and just beginning.