The day they met, the rain had been falling since breakfast. Mochi ducked into the café with a wet paper bag of strawberry tarts she'd been saving for someone she hadn't found yet. Mars was already there, reading the last page of a book he'd only just begun.
She asked if the chair across from him was taken. He said it had been waiting for her, actually — a joke he'd been rehearsing for a stranger he hadn't met. They laughed longer than the joke deserved, and that was the first sign.
These days they share a small apartment with too many plants and not enough bookshelves. Mochi bakes; Mars reads aloud. On clear nights they climb to the roof with a blanket and a thermos of warm milk, and Mars points out the seven stars he knows by name. Mochi names the eighth.
"I'll learn the rest of the sky," he said once. "You pick the names," she answered. And that, more or less, is how they do everything.