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The days after their alleyway kiss are a haze of anticipation and avoidance. Hachiman buries himself in work, trying to drown out the memory of Miwa's lips, her body pressed against his. But every quiet moment betrays him—her scent, her moans, the way her nails bit into his skin haunt his thoughts. He's not used to this kind of obsession, this need that gnaws at him like a physical ache.
Miwa, for her part, channels her energy into her music, her performances growing fiercer, more desperate. She's written three new songs since that night, all laced with the heat of their encounter. She doesn't text Hachiman, though her fingers hover over his number more than once. She wants him to come to her, to prove he's as caught in this as she is.
Their next meeting is inevitable, orchestrated by chance or fate at a late-night diner. Hachiman's there, nursing a coffee and a book, when Miwa slides into the booth across from him, uninvited but not unwelcome. She's in a black crop top and ripped jeans, her hair pulled back, exposing the curve of her neck. His eyes linger there, unbidden, and she notices, her lips curling into a knowing smile.
"Fancy meeting you here, Hikigaya," she says, stealing a fry from his plate. "You avoiding me or just playing hard to get?"
He leans back, trying to reclaim his composure. "Maybe I'm just not a fan of alleyway ambushes."
She laughs, low and throaty, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine. "Bullshit. You loved it."
He doesn't deny it—can't, not when her gaze pins him like a spotlight. The diner's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, but Miwa seems to glow, her presence filling the space between them. They talk, the conversation lighter than before, but every word is laced with subtext, every glance a spark. She leans forward, her elbows on the table, and he catches the faint outline of her bra beneath her top, the sight tightening his throat.
When they leave, the night air is cool, the streets empty. Miwa walks close, her arm brushing his, and Hachiman feels the pull again, stronger now. They stop at a crosswalk, the silence heavy, and she turns to him, her expression unreadable. "You gonna keep running from this?" she asks, her voice softer than usual, almost vulnerable.
He meets her eyes, his resolve fraying. "I'm not running. I'm just… not good at this."
Her smile is small, almost tender. "Good thing I am."
She steps closer, and this time, there's no hesitation. Hachiman cups her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, and kisses her—slower than before, but no less intense. Miwa melts into him, her hands sliding under his jacket, fingers digging into his sides. The kiss deepens, her tongue teasing his, and he feels the heat of her body through their clothes, the press of her hips against his.
They stumble into a nearby park, finding a secluded bench under a streetlamp's dim glow. Miwa straddles his lap, her thighs bracketing his, and Hachiman's hands roam, one settling on her waist, the other slipping under her top to trace the curve of her spine. She gasps into his mouth, grinding against him, and the friction sends a jolt through him, his arousal evident. Her fingers tug at his hair, guiding his lips to her neck, and he obliges, kissing the sensitive skin, tasting salt and heat. She moans, soft but unrestrained, and the sound drives him wild.
"Hachiman," she breathes, her voice a mix of need and command. His name on her lips is a spark, igniting something reckless in him. His hand slides higher, cupping her breast through her bra, his thumb brushing the hardened peak. Miwa arches into his touch, her breaths ragged, and he feels her pulse racing under his lips.
They're teetering on the edge, the public setting the only thing keeping them from going further. Miwa's hand drifts to his belt, her fingers teasing the buckle, and Hachiman groans, his control slipping. But a distant laugh from another parkgoer snaps them back, and Miwa pulls away, her chest heaving, her eyes dark and wild.
"Fuck," she mutters, laughing shakily. "You're gonna be the death of me."
He's breathless, his body screaming for more. "Feeling's mutual."
They disentangle, but the air between them hums with unfinished business. Miwa stands, smoothing her clothes, but her gaze promises more. "My place next time," she says, not a question but a certainty. She walks away, leaving him on the bench, his body thrumming with need.
At home, Hachiman's shower is cold, but it does nothing to dull the fire in his veins. He gives in again, his hand moving with desperate urgency, imagining her straddling him, her moans filling his ears. The release is sharp, but it's not enough—not nearly enough.
Miwa, in her apartment, is just as restless. She lies naked on her bed, her fingers tracing the paths his hands took, lingering where his lips grazed her neck. Her movements are slow, deliberate, drawing out the pleasure as she pictures him losing control, his hands rougher, his voice raw with want. When she climaxes, it's intense, her body trembling, but it only sharpens her hunger for the real thing.
They're no longer circling each other—they're diving in, and the next encounter will break every boundary.