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The following days are a quiet torture for Hachiman. Miwa's absence feels louder than her presence ever did, her teasing voice and brazen energy haunting his thoughts. He catches himself daydreaming at work, his pen hovering over manuscripts as he imagines the curve of her jaw, the way her laugh vibrates through him. It's maddening—Hikigaya Hachiman doesn't pine, yet here he is, unraveling over a woman he barely knows.
Miwa, meanwhile, throws herself into her music, channeling the restless heat in her veins into new songs. Her lyrics are raw, laced with longing she doesn't fully understand. She scribbles Hachiman's name in the margins of her notebook, then crosses it out, annoyed at herself. She's not the type to get hung up on anyone, but his guarded eyes and sharp wit have burrowed under her skin.
Their next meeting is unplanned, a twist of fate at a local bookstore. Hachiman's there, flipping through a dog-eared copy of No Longer Human, when Miwa's voice cuts through the quiet. "Didn't know you were into depressing stuff, Hikigaya. Figures."
He turns, and there she is—jeans ripped at the knees, a faded band tee clinging to her frame, her hair loose and wild. His throat tightens at the sight of her, the memory of their last encounter flashing through him like a current. "It's not depressing," he says, recovering. "It's honest. You should try reading sometime."
She snorts, stepping closer to pluck the book from his hands. Her fingers brush his, deliberate and lingering, and Hachiman's pulse spikes. "I'd rather live than read about it," she says, her eyes locked on his, challenging. "What about you? You gonna keep hiding in books forever?"
The air between them crackles, the bookstore's hum fading to nothing. Hachiman wants to snap back, to retreat into his usual sarcasm, but her proximity dismantles him. He notices the faint freckles on her nose, the way her lips part slightly, and his body reacts before his mind can catch up.
"You talk a big game," he says, his voice lower than he intends. "But you're not as fearless as you pretend."
Her smile is slow, dangerous. "Wanna test that theory?"
They're standing too close now, the bookshelf pressing against Hachiman's back. Miwa leans in, just enough for him to feel the heat radiating from her. He could reach out, touch her, and the thought alone makes his hands itch. But the weight of his inexperience, his fear of crossing an irreversible line, keeps him rooted.
Miwa, sensing his restraint, pulls back with a smirk, but her eyes betray a flicker of frustration. "You're a tough one, Hikigaya. But I'm patient." She hands him the book and walks away, her hips swaying just enough to make sure he's watching.
That night, Hachiman's apartment feels too small, the walls closing in. He paces, restless, his body a live wire. The memory of her touch—brief, electric—loops in his mind. He imagines what might've happened if he'd acted, if he'd grabbed her waist and pulled her against him. His hand moves almost on instinct, sliding beneath his shirt, then lower, his breaths uneven as he lets the fantasy take over. Her voice, her scent, the way she'd feel under his hands—it's overwhelming, and when he finishes, he's left panting, equal parts sated and desperate.
Miwa's no better off. In her apartment, she's sprawled on her bed, the ceiling fan creaking above her. Her fingers trace lazy circles across her stomach, then dip lower, her thoughts consumed by Hachiman's hesitation, the way his eyes burned with want he wouldn't admit. She imagines pushing him past that edge, feeling his hands on her, rough and unpracticed. Her movements quicken, her breath hitching as she chases the release, his name a whisper on her lips when it hits.
The next day, Miwa texts him—a casual invite to another gig, but the subtext is clear: Come find me. Hachiman stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the screen. He knows what's waiting if he goes—their dance is teetering on the edge of something irreversible. He types a reply, deletes it, then types again. I'll be there.
As he steps into the crowded bar that night, Miwa's already on stage, her guitar screaming under her hands. Their eyes meet across the room, and it's like a match striking. The distance between them feels like a challenge, one neither can ignore much longer.