Snowflakes and Sketchbooks.

The Kyoto air hummed with the soft crunch of snow underfoot, the scent of matcha and melon pan wafting from a quaint café near Yukiko’s grandparents’ home. She arrived early, her lavender coat dusted with frost, blonde hair gleaming under the pale winter sun. Spotting him across the room—his head bent over a sketchbook, pencil scratching against paper—she bounced into the seat opposite him, mittens leaving faint prints on the table.

“You’re drawing again!” Her voice carried the same warmth as the café’s steam-kissed windows. “Let me see!”

He hesitated, then slid the notebook across the table. Yukiko’s breath caught as she traced the charcoal lines—a snowman with a carrot nose and coal eyes, its scarf fluttering in a wind she swore she could feel.

“You remembered everything,” she whispered, her mitten-covered finger hovering over the sketch. “Even the way the snow crunched when you stomped it into place.”

As the café's server arrived with omurice, ketchup drizzled into a heart shape atop the omelet. Yukiko squealed, twirling her fork in the rice. “Grandma taught me this! She said food should taste like love.” She took a bite, eyes closing in rapture. “Mmm... this is my happy place.”

He watched her, transfixed by the way her cheeks flushed pink, matching the sweater she’d layered under her coat. Yukiko caught him staring and leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “You’re staring! Do I have ketchup on my face?” She paused, her voice dropping to a tease. “Or are you just admiring my artistic skills?”

He laughed, and Yukiko pulled back, her sketchbook clattering onto the table. Pages fluttered open, revealing half-finished designs—kimono-inspired dresses with French lace trim, landscapes of cherry blossoms in ink.

“I want to create clothes that make people feel seen,” she said, her voice cracking. “But Dad says I should focus on the family business.” Her hands trembled, clutching the sketchbook. “What if I’m not good enough?”

His fingers brushed hers, warm even through her mittens. “You’re already good enough,” he said softly. “Your art... it’s like your laugh—bright, and it makes the world brighter.”

Yukiko’s eyes welled up, but she smiled, sniffling. “You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a ‘Takahashi heiress.’ You see me.”