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The Sobu High school festival transformed the campus into a vibrant tapestry of light and sound, the night air thick with the scents of takoyaki, grilled corn, and cotton candy. Lanterns strung across the courtyard cast a warm golden glow, their reflections dancing in puddles left by an earlier rain. Miwa Aoi stood behind the Service Club's booth, a modest setup with flyers and donation jars for their charity project, her fingers brushing the smooth edge of a laminated poster.
The crowd's laughter and chatter swirled around her, a chaotic symphony that made her heart race, not with excitement but with anticipation. Tonight, she was working alongside Hachiman, and the proximity felt like a gift, a chance to bridge the gap widened by her confession in the classroom.
Her uniform had been swapped for a festival yukata, its deep blue fabric adorned with white cherry blossoms, the cotton soft and cool against her skin. The obi tied tightly around her waist grounded her, a steady pressure against the nervous flutter in her chest. She stole glances at Hachiman, who leaned against the booth's counter, his usual school blazer replaced by a dark green yukata, the sleeves slightly rolled up, revealing the faint calluses on his hands. His dead-fish eyes scanned the crowd with practiced disinterest, but Miwa caught the subtle tension in his posture, a sign he wasn't as detached as he seemed.
"Crowds like this are a scam," Hachiman muttered, his voice low, barely audible over the festival's hum. "People spend money to feel like they're having fun, then go home broke and miserable."
Miwa's lips twitched, a smile breaking through her nerves. "You make it sound like joy's a conspiracy," she said, her tone light, testing the waters of their banter. "Some people might actually like it."
Hachiman snorted, his eyes flicking to hers, sharp and assessing. "Some people are delusional. You one of them, Miwa?"
Her heart skipped, his use of her name a small spark that warmed her from within. "Maybe," she said, her voice softer, bolder than she felt. "Or maybe I just like the chaos. It's… alive."
He raised an eyebrow, his smirk faint but present. "Poetic again. You're gonna start reciting haikus about fried squid next."
Miwa laughed, the sound shaky but genuine, and turned to rearrange the donation jars, her fingers brushing the cool glass, grounding her against the thrill of his attention. The festival's energy pulsed around them, but in this moment, the booth felt like their own small world, a fragile bubble she didn't want to break.
The booth was busy, students and families stopping to read flyers or drop coins into the jars.
Yui, in a bright pink yukata, flitted between the booth and the crowd, her enthusiasm infectious as she handed out stickers and chatted with passersby.
Yukino, elegant in a silver-gray yukata, managed the logistics with her usual precision, her sharp eyes occasionally landing on Miwa, a silent reminder of her earlier warning. Miwa felt the weight of Yukino's scrutiny, the echo of intense, unsettling, but she pushed it aside, focusing on Hachiman, on the chance to be near him.
As the night wore on, the crowd thinned, drawn to the main stage where a folk dance was starting, the rhythmic beat of taiko drums vibrating through the air. Miwa's heart raced, an idea forming, bold and reckless. The dance was a tradition, couples and friends linking hands to circle a bonfire, their laughter mingling with the music. She'd seen Hachiman's discomfort with crowds, his reluctance to join in, but the thought of dancing with him—of holding his hand, feeling his warmth in the firelight—was too tempting to resist.
She turned to him, her fingers trembling as she smoothed her yukata, the cotton soft under her touch. "Hachiman," she said, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest. "Do you… want to dance? Just one round. It could be fun."
Hachiman froze, his hand pausing on a stack of flyers, his eyes widening slightly before his smirk returned, a shield snapping into place. "Dance?" he said, his tone dry, edged with unease. "You're joking, right? I'd rather wrestle a bear than flail around in public."
Miwa's cheeks flushed, but she pressed on, her resolve fueled by the memory of their umbrella moment, his defense on the rooftop, her confession in the classroom. "It's not flailing," she said, her voice softer, almost pleading. "It's just… moving with the music. With me."
The words hung between them, heavy with subtext, and Miwa's heart pounded, her fingers tightening on her yukata, the obi's pressure a faint anchor. Hachiman's gaze locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding, and for a moment, she thought he might say yes, might take her hand and step into the firelight.
But he looked away, his fingers tapping the counter, the rhythm uneven. "Not my thing," he said, his voice gruff, a wall rising between them. "Crowds, dancing, all that—it's too much. You go, though. You'd probably enjoy it."
The rejection stung, sharp and cold, like a blade slipping between her ribs. Miwa's smile faltered, her eyes stinging, but she forced it back, refusing to let him see her hurt. "Okay," she said, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. "Maybe next time."
Hachiman grunted, his eyes flicking to hers, a flicker of guilt in their depths. "Yeah. Maybe."
The moment passed, the booth's rhythm resuming as Yui returned, her laughter bright but tinged with concern as she glanced between them. "Everything okay?" she asked, her eyes lingering on Miwa's flushed cheeks, her protective instincts flaring.
"Fine," Miwa said, forcing a smile, her fingers brushing the donation jar, its glass cool against her overheated skin. "Just… talking about the dance."
Yui's smile softened, but the wariness remained, a silent echo of their rooftop confrontation. "You should go, Miwa-chan! It's super fun. I'll drag Hikki out there one day, promise."
Hachiman snorted, his smirk returning. "Good luck with that, Yuigahama. I'd rather eat raw octopus."
Yui laughed, the tension easing, but Miwa felt the weight of Hachiman's refusal, a rejection not just of the dance but of the closeness she'd sought. She turned to the flyers, her fingers trembling as she straightened them, the glossy paper crinkling softly, grounding her against the ache in her chest.
As the dance continued, the taiko drums pulsing through the night, Miwa stole glances at Hachiman, memorizing the way his yukata hung on his frame, the faint calluses on his hands, the guarded curve of his lips. He wasn't hers, not yet, maybe not ever, but his hesitation wasn't cruelty—it was fear, the same emotional awkwardness he'd admitted in the classroom. I'm bad at emotions. The thought gave her strength, a spark of defiance amidst the hurt.
She stepped closer, under the pretense of handing him a flyer, her fingers brushing his wrist, the contact deliberate but fleeting. His skin was warm, the pulse beneath it steady, and the jolt of it sent her heart racing, a reminder of the spark she'd chased since the beginning. "Thanks for staying," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "Even if you hate this."
Hachiman's eyes flicked to hers, narrowing slightly, as if sensing the weight behind her words. "It's not… hate," he said, his tone gruff but not dismissive. "Just… not my scene. You're doing fine without me making a fool of myself."
Miwa's lips curved, a small, defiant smile. "I'll get you out there someday," she said, the words a promise to herself as much as to him. "Even if it's just one step."
He smirked, shaking his head, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a crack in his wall she could hold onto. "Keep dreaming, Miwa."
The festival wound down, the crowd dispersing, the lanterns dimming as the night grew cooler. Yukino returned, her silver yukata catching the moonlight, and took charge of closing the booth, her instructions crisp and efficient. Miwa worked alongside her, her movements mechanical, her mind replaying Hachiman's refusal, the brush of his wrist, the defiance in her own words. Yui's laughter filled the gaps, her warmth a balm to Miwa's hurt, but the ache remained, a quiet reminder of the distance she still had to cross.
When the booth was packed, Miwa lingered, her fingers brushing the edge of her yukata, the cotton warm from her body heat. Hachiman was packing the last of the flyers, his yukata sleeves slipping down, revealing more of his wrists, the faint pulse visible under his skin. She wanted to reach out, to hold his hand, to feel the spark again, but she held back, the memory of his refusal a quiet warning.
"Night," Hachiman said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers briefly, unreadable but not cold. "Don't stay out too late. Festival's over."
Miwa nodded, her heart heavy but unbroken. "Goodnight," she said, her voice steady, a vow woven into the word. She watched him leave, his silhouette fading into the crowd, the lanterns casting long shadows across the pavement.
Alone, Miwa pulled out her notebook, its cover worn and smooth, and sat on a bench, the wood cool against her thighs. Her pen moved, the glide of ink steadying her, the faint scent a quiet comfort. He said no, but it wasn't me—it was him, his fear. I'll keep pushing, but I'll be me, not a shadow. The words were a defiance, a promise to keep chasing the spark, but with strength, with self-respect.
The festival's last notes faded, the taiko drums silent, the cherry blossom scent lingering in the air. Miwa stood, her yukata rustling softly, and walked home, her heart aching but alive, a fire that wouldn't go out.