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The bar pulses with the raw energy of Miwa's performance, the crowd's cheers a dull roar compared to the silent current running between her and Hachiman. She's electric on stage, her voice a jagged mix of defiance and yearning, her fingers tearing into the guitar strings. Hachiman stands near the back, his beer untouched, every note she plays tightening the coil in his chest. Her eyes find his through the haze, holding him captive, and he knows he's not leaving tonight without crossing some kind of line.
When her set ends, Miwa doesn't linger for the crowd's praise. She cuts through the throng, her gaze locked on Hachiman, and grabs his wrist without a word. "Come on," she says, her voice rough from singing, pulling him toward the back exit. He follows, his pulse hammering, too caught in her orbit to resist.
Outside, the alley is narrow, the air cool and sharp with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt. Miwa leans against the brick wall, catching her breath, her chest rising and falling under her damp tank top. Hachiman stands a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to anchor himself against the pull of her presence.
"You showed up," she says, her tone half-teasing, half-surprised. "Thought you'd chicken out."
"Didn't want to disappoint," he replies, his voice steadier than he feels. His eyes trace the sweat glistening on her throat, the way her lips curve, and he's acutely aware of how close they are, how easy it would be to erase the distance.
Miwa steps forward, closing the gap until she's inches from him. "You're thinking too much again," she murmurs, her breath warm against his jaw. "I can see it in your eyes."
He swallows, his body screaming at him to move. "And what do you see?"
She tilts her head, her lips parting slightly. "You want me. But you're scared shitless of it."
The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. Hachiman's restraint frays, and before he can talk himself out of it, he grabs her waist, pulling her against him. Miwa gasps, her hands bracing against his chest, but there's no resistance—only heat, only want. Their lips crash together, messy and urgent, all teeth and hunger. Her mouth is soft but demanding, tasting of whiskey and cigarettes, and Hachiman's head spins as he presses himself closer, feeling the curve of her body mold to his.
Miwa's fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into her mouth. She bites his lower lip, a sharp sting that sends a jolt through him, and he retaliates by sliding his hand under her shirt, his fingers grazing the warm skin of her lower back. Her breath hitches, and she arches into him, her nails digging into his shoulders.
The kiss deepens, a desperate edge to it, like they're trying to consume each other. Hachiman's hands roam higher, tracing the edge of her bra, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin just beneath. Miwa moans softly, the sound vibrating against his lips, and it's nearly enough to undo him right there. He wants more—needs more—but the alley, the distant hum of the bar, keeps him tethered to reality.
She pulls back first, breathless, her lips swollen and eyes dark with desire. "Fuck, Hikigaya," she whispers, a shaky laugh escaping her. "Didn't think you had it in you."
He's panting, his body thrumming with unspent energy, his hands still on her hips. "Don't get used to it," he says, but his voice is rough, betraying how much he's affected.
Miwa grins, leaning in to nip at his jaw, her lips brushing his ear. "Oh, I plan to." Her hand slides down his chest, lingering just above his belt, and Hachiman's breath catches, his body reacting instantly. But before he can respond, she steps back, her expression a mix of mischief and promise. "Not here. Not yet."
She walks away, leaving him leaning against the wall, his heart pounding and his skin burning where she touched him. He curses under his breath, equal parts frustrated and exhilarated. The taste of her lingers, sharp and addictive, and he knows there's no going back.
In her apartment, Miwa's restless, her body still humming from the kiss. She strips down to her underwear, her skin flushed as she lies on her bed, replaying every second—the roughness of his hands, the way his groan felt against her lips. Her fingers slip beneath the fabric, slow at first, then faster, her breaths coming in sharp gasps as she imagines his hands instead, his mouth on her skin. When she comes, it's with his name on her lips, a quiet, desperate sound.
Hachiman's no better off. In his dark apartment, he's sprawled on his couch, one hand gripping the armrest, the other moving with urgent purpose. The memory of her body pressed against his, her moans, her heat—it's too much. He finishes quickly, his chest heaving, but the release only sharpens his hunger for her.
They've cracked the surface, exposed the raw want beneath, and the next step will only pull them deeper.