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The next week passes in a blur of routine for Hachiman, but Miwa's presence lingers like a stubborn earworm. He catches himself scanning the streets, half-hoping, half-dreading another encounter. His cynicism tells him it was a fluke—people like her don't stick around people like him. Yet, when he steps into a dingy live music bar on a rainy Friday night, there she is.
Miwa's on stage, her guitar slung low, fingers coaxing raw, jagged chords from the strings. Her voice is rough, unpolished, but it cuts through the smoky air like a blade. She's singing about heartbreak, about wanting something you can't have, and Hachiman feels exposed, as if she's peeled back his skin. The crowd is small, mostly drunk salarymen and bored locals, but Miwa performs like she's in a stadium, sweat gleaming on her collarbone, her auburn hair sticking to her neck.
When her set ends, she spots him leaning against the bar, his coffee swapped for a cheap beer. Her grin is electric as she saunters over, still buzzing from the performance. "Didn't peg you for a music guy, Hikigaya. You stalking me now?"
"Hardly," he retorts, but his eyes betray him, lingering on the way her tank top clings to her skin. "Just needed a break from my thrilling life of editing grammar errors."
She laughs, grabbing his beer and taking a swig without asking. "You're funny when you're not trying to be a grouch. Come on, let's get some air."
They end up outside, the rain reduced to a drizzle, streetlights casting wet reflections on the pavement. Miwa leans against the wall, lighting a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her face. Hachiman watches her exhale, the smoke curling upward, and feels a pull in his gut—something primal, unfamiliar. He's not used to wanting like this.
"You're good up there," he says, surprising himself. "Not my kind of music, but… you make it work."
She smirks, blowing a ring of smoke. "High praise from Coffee Guy. Bet you're secretly a fan now." Her tone is teasing, but her eyes are searching, probing for something deeper.
They talk for hours, the conversation veering from music to dreams to the ways life has disappointed them. Miwa admits she's scared—of failing again, of being nothing. Hachiman, loosened by the beer and her openness, confesses he's forgotten how to hope. It's the most honest he's been in years, and it terrifies him.
When the bar closes, they're still outside, closer now, their shoulders brushing. The air feels charged, heavy with possibility. Miwa stubs out her cigarette and turns to him, her breath visible in the cold. "You ever just… do something because it feels right? No overthinking?"
He swallows, his throat dry. "Not really. Overthinking's my specialty."
She steps closer, her scent—cigarettes, leather, and something faintly sweet—overwhelming his senses. "Maybe you should try," she murmurs, her voice low, daring.
For a moment, they're frozen, inches apart. Hachiman's heart pounds, his body screaming at him to close the gap. He can see the pulse in her neck, the slight part of her lips. His hand twitches, wanting to touch her, to feel the heat of her skin. But his mind—his cursed, cautious mind—holds him back.
Miwa senses his hesitation and pulls back, her smile softer now, almost vulnerable. "Night, Hikigaya. Don't overthink it too much."
She walks away, her silhouette fading into the rain, leaving him standing there, his body thrumming with unspent energy. He curses himself, fists clenched, knowing he's already in too deep.
Back in her apartment, Miwa strips off her damp clothes, her skin prickling with the memory of his gaze. She stands in front of her mirror, tracing the curve of her hips, imagining his hands there instead. Her breath hitches as she lets her fingers wander, slow and deliberate, her thoughts consumed by the way he looked at her—like he wanted to devour her but didn't know how. She wants to be the one to show him.
Hachiman, alone in his apartment, can't sleep. His body is restless, his mind replaying every detail of her—the way her lips moved, the heat of her proximity. He gives in, his hand slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, his breaths ragged as he imagines her voice, her touch. It's quick, intense, and leaves him feeling both relieved and hollow. He stares at the ceiling, knowing he's crossed a line he can't uncross.
The spark has ignited, and neither of them can ignore the heat.