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The café was a cozy haven tucked between a bookstore and a convenience store, its windows fogged from the warmth inside, the faint glow of pendant lights spilling onto the Chiba sidewalk. Miwa Aoi sat at a corner table, her fingers wrapped around a ceramic coffee mug, its surface smooth and warm, grounding her against the nervous flutter in her chest. The air smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon, mingling with the faint dampness of spring rain clinging to her jacket. Outside, the drizzle pattered softly, a gentle rhythm that mirrored her heartbeat as she waited for Hikigaya Hachiman.
She'd invited him on impulse, a bold move born from the high of the unsigned note she'd left in his locker. The memory of that act—slipping the paper through the vent, her fingers trembling against its rough texture—still sent a thrill through her, tempered by the guilt Yukino's warning had stirred. Intense. Unsettling. The words haunted her, but they hadn't stopped her from texting Hachiman, her message carefully casual: Want to study for the history quiz? I found a good café. His reply had been predictably curt—Sure, whatever—but it was enough to bring her here, her heart a tangled knot of hope and fear.
The bell above the door chimed, and Miwa's head snapped up, her pulse surging. Hachiman stepped inside, shaking rain from his hair, his jacket slightly damp. He scanned the room, his dead-fish eyes landing on her, and for a moment, she felt exposed, like he could see the longing she'd tried to bury. He nodded, a half-hearted acknowledgment, and made his way over, his steps unhurried, his bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.
"You're early," he said, sliding into the chair across from her, the wood creaking under his weight. His voice was dry, but not unkind, and the faint scent of rain and his familiar lavender shampoo followed him, curling around Miwa like a secret.
"I… didn't want to keep you waiting," Miwa said, her voice softer than she intended. She tightened her grip on the mug, the warmth seeping into her palms, steadying her. "Thanks for coming."
Hachiman shrugged, setting his bag on the floor. "Free coffee's a decent bribe. Plus, history's a pain. Might as well suffer together."
Miwa's lips twitched, a small smile breaking through her nerves. His cynicism was a shield, but it was honest, and she clung to that honesty like a lifeline. "Suffering's more fun with company," she said, the words bolder than she felt, and immediately regretted it, her cheeks warming.
Hachiman raised an eyebrow, his smirk faint but present. "Bold claim. Let's see if you regret it when we're drowning in dates and dead emperors."
They ordered—black coffee for Hachiman, a latte for Miwa—and spread their textbooks across the table, the pages rustling softly. The café hummed with quiet conversation, the clink of cups, and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine, creating a bubble of intimacy that made Miwa hyper-aware of Hachiman's presence. He sat close, closer than in the classroom or Service Club room, his knees brushing the edge of the table, his fingers tapping idly on his coffee cup. The metal can of MAX Coffee was absent today, replaced by a ceramic mug that looked almost comical in his calloused hands.
Miwa tried to focus on the textbook, her pen scratching notes about the Meiji Restoration, but her eyes kept drifting to Hachiman. The way his hair fell over his forehead, slightly damp from the rain. The way his fingers moved, deliberate yet restless, as he flipped pages. The way his lips curved, just slightly, when he muttered something sarcastic about the textbook's dry prose. Each detail was a spark, feeding the warmth in her chest, and she had to fight the urge to reach out, to brush her fingers against his, to feel the rough texture of his skin again.
Instead, she leaned forward, her knee shifting under the table, and accidentally brushed his. The contact was fleeting, but electric, the roughness of his jeans against her bare skin sending a jolt through her. Her breath caught, and she froze, her face flushing as she met his eyes. Hachiman's expression didn't change, but his knee didn't move away, the warmth of his leg a steady presence that made her heart race.
"S-sorry," she stammered, pulling back, her fingers tightening on her mug, the ceramic almost too hot now, a mirror of her burning cheeks.
Hachiman shrugged, his gaze flicking back to his book. "No big deal. Small table." His tone was casual, but there was a slight pause, a beat of awareness that hadn't been there before. He sipped his coffee, the steam curling around his face, and Miwa wondered if he'd felt it too—the spark, the tension, the fragile thread connecting them.
She forced herself to focus, her pen moving again, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment. The roughness of his jeans, the faint pressure of his knee, the way her pulse had surged, wild and uncontrollable. It was nothing, she told herself—just an accident, like the collar touch in the courtyard. But it felt like everything, a step closer to the connection she craved, even as Yukino's warning echoed in her mind. Be careful.
As they studied, Hachiman's commentary kept the mood light, his dry humor a counterpoint to Miwa's nervous energy. "This textbook reads like it's trying to bore us into submission," he said, flipping a page. "Who cares about some guy's trade policies? Spoiler: he's dead."
Miwa laughed, the sound shaky but genuine. "You make it sound like history's a conspiracy to ruin our weekends."
"It is," Hachiman said, his smirk widening. "Schools exist to crush your soul before you're old enough to fight back. History's just the opening act."
His words were sharp, but there was a warmth beneath them, a playfulness that made Miwa's chest ache. She wanted to keep this banter going, to slip into his rhythm, but her boldness faltered, weighed down by the fear of saying too much. Instead, she leaned forward, her elbow brushing his textbook, a subtle way to close the distance.
"You're good at this," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "Cutting through the noise. Seeing what matters."
Hachiman's eyes flicked to hers, his smirk fading into something more guarded. "Seeing what matters is just a fancy way of saying I don't trust people's bullshit," he said, his tone flat but not unkind. "Doesn't make me special. Just makes me a cynic."
Miwa's breath hitched, her fingers tightening on her pen, the smooth plastic grounding her. "Maybe that's what I like," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down, her heart pounding. "I mean… it's real. Most people aren't."
The café went quiet, or maybe it was just her, the world narrowing to the weight of Hachiman's gaze. He didn't respond immediately, his fingers stilling on his mug, the ceramic gleaming under the pendant light. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost cautious. "Real's a dangerous word, Miwa. People throw it around without knowing what it costs."
Miwa's throat tightened, his words landing like a stone in her chest. He wasn't wrong—she'd paid that cost before, at her old school, where her desperation for connection had left her bruised. But hearing it from him, the boy who saw through facades, made her want to prove she could handle it, could be someone worth his trust.
"I know," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "But I… I feel seen when I'm with you. Like I don't have to pretend."
Hachiman's eyes widened, just a fraction, before his smirk returned, a shield snapping back into place. "Careful," he said, leaning back, his tone light but edged with warning. "You start saying stuff like that, I might think you're after something."
Miwa's face burned, and she ducked her head, her fingers clutching the mug, the warmth a faint comfort against her embarrassment. "I just… meant it," she mumbled, barely audible, but she didn't take it back. The words were out, a piece of herself laid bare, and she couldn't regret them, not entirely.
The study session continued, the tension easing into a quieter rhythm. Hachiman didn't bring up her confession, and Miwa didn't push, content to let the moment linger. They quizzed each other on dates and events, his sarcastic commentary drawing laughs she hadn't expected. But the memory of their knees brushing stayed with her, a tactile echo that made every glance, every word, feel charged.
As the rain slowed outside, Hachiman checked his phone, muttering about Komachi needing him home. "Guess we're done torturing ourselves for today," he said, packing his books. "Not a bad spot, though. Decent coffee."
Miwa nodded, her fingers lingering on her textbook, reluctant to let the moment end. "Yeah. Maybe… we could come back sometime?"
Hachiman paused, his bag half-zipped, and gave her a long look. "Maybe," he said, his tone noncommittal but not dismissive. "If you're not sick of my sparkling personality by then."
Miwa smiled, a small, genuine curve of her lips. "I think I can handle it."
He snorted, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and headed for the door. Miwa watched him go, the bell chiming as he stepped into the rain, his silhouette blurring through the fogged window. Her fingers brushed the spot on her knee where they'd touched, the memory of his jeans' roughness still vivid, a spark she carried with her.
She stayed a moment longer, sipping her latte, the foam cool against her lips. The café felt emptier without him, the warmth fading, but her heart was full, a mix of joy and ache. She'd gotten closer today, felt the weight of his attention, his words. But he was still distant, his loyalty to the Service Club, to Yukino and Yui, a wall she couldn't breach. Not yet.
Miwa opened her notebook, the one she'd written in after the locker note, and added a new line: He sees me, but he's not mine. Keep going, but don't lose yourself. The pen's glide was steady, the ink's faint scent a quiet promise. She'd be careful, she told herself, but she wouldn't stop. Not when every step closer to Hachiman felt like a step toward something real.