Disclaimer: All fanfiction on this site is a non-commercial work created solely for entertainment purposes and will always be freely accessible. All related intellectual property are protected by copyright and trademark laws. No unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution is intended.
__________________________________________________________________
The Sobu High library was a sanctuary of quiet, its air heavy with the scent of old books and polished wood, the faint hum of fluorescent lights a soft backdrop to the rustle of turning pages. Miwa Aoi sat at a corner table, her fingers tracing the worn spine of a novel, its leather cover cool and smooth under her touch.
The late afternoon light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor, tinged with the golden hue of spring. Her heart thudded, a nervous rhythm that hadn't calmed since the festival, since Hachiman's refusal to dance, since her defiant vow to keep pushing, not just for him but for herself.
She'd come to the library to think, to escape the weight of Yukino's scrutiny and Yui's wary concern, to process the rejection that still stung like a bruise. Her notebook, tucked in her bag, held her latest entry—He said no, but it wasn't me—a reminder to stay strong, to find a place at Sobu that wasn't defined by Hachiman alone. The Service Club's task, to observe clubs and report her interests, loomed over her, a practical step that felt like a test of her resolve. She wanted to belong, not just to Hachiman's world but to her own, and joining a club seemed like the first step toward that.
The library door creaked open, and Miwa's head snapped up, her pulse surging. Hachiman stepped inside, his bag slung over one shoulder, a battered paperback in hand. His eyes scanned the room, landing on her with a flicker of surprise, then settled into his usual guarded indifference. He made his way over, his steps soft against the carpet, and slid into the chair across from her, the wood creaking faintly under his weight.
"Didn't expect to see you here," he said, his voice low, dry, cutting through the library's stillness. "Thought you'd be out charming some club into recruiting you."
Miwa's lips twitched, a nervous smile breaking through. "I'm… still figuring it out," she said, her fingers tightening on the novel, its leather grounding her against the thrill of his presence. "The library's quiet. Helps me think."
Hachiman grunted, setting his book down, its pages yellowed and dog-eared. "Quiet's the only reason I'm here. Crowds are a nightmare after that festival circus."
Miwa's heart ached at the mention of the festival, the memory of her dance invitation and his refusal still raw. But his tone wasn't dismissive, just honest, and she clung to that honesty, a spark that kept her hope alive. "It was… a lot," she said, her voice soft, testing the waters. "But parts of it were nice. The booth, working together."
He raised an eyebrow, his smirk faint but present. "Nice? You're digging deep for compliments, Miwa. We handed out flyers and dodged Yui's sticker attacks. Hardly a highlight reel."
She laughed, the sound shaky but genuine, and leaned forward, her elbow brushing the table's edge, the wood cool against her skin. "Maybe I just like the company," she said, the words bolder than she felt, a quiet echo of her confession in the classroom.
Hachiman's eyes narrowed, his fingers stilling on his book, a flicker of wariness in his gaze. "You're persistent, I'll give you that," he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. "Most people would've bailed after… you know."
The classroom, her admission, I like you. The memory hung between them, heavy and unspoken, and Miwa's cheeks warmed, her fingers trembling against the novel. She wanted to shrink away, to hide from his scrutiny, but she held his gaze, fueled by the defiance she'd found at the festival. "I meant it," she said, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest. "But it's not… just about you. I want to find my place here. That's why I'm thinking about clubs."
Hachiman leaned back, his arms crossing, his eyes assessing her like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. "Clubs, huh? Thought you said you tried that at your old school. Didn't exactly pan out."
Miwa's throat tightened, the memory of her old school—Reina's pity, the torn sketch, the loneliness—surging back. She gripped the novel harder, its leather biting into her palm, grounding her against the ache. "It didn't," she admitted, her voice low, raw. "I tried too hard, wanted to be what they wanted. It… pushed them away. But I'm not that girl anymore. I want something real, even if it's small."
Hachiman's smirk faded, his eyes softening, just a fraction, a rare glimpse of empathy. "Real's a tall order," he said, his voice low, echoing their first meeting in the Service Club room. "Clubs are just groups of people playing roles. You sure you're not setting yourself up for round two of disappointment?"
The question stung, but it wasn't cruel, just honest, and Miwa felt a spark of gratitude for that honesty, even as it challenged her. "Maybe," she said, her voice steadier now. "But I have to try. If I don't, I'll just… keep running. I'm tired of running."
The library was silent, the only sound the faint rustle of pages from a nearby student, the hum of lights overhead.
Hachiman's gaze held hers, sharp and unyielding, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes, a recognition that made her heart ache. "Fair enough," he said, his tone gruff but not dismissive. "Just… don't expect miracles. People are messy."
Miwa nodded, her fingers loosening on the novel, the leather warm from her grip. "I know," she said, a small smile breaking through. "But messy's okay. It's… honest."
Hachiman snorted, his smirk returning, a shield snapping back into place. "You and your honest fetish. You're gonna get yourself in trouble."
Her cheeks flushed, but she laughed, the sound lighter now, a release of the tension coiled in her chest. She leaned forward, her hand brushing his wrist under the pretense of pointing to his book, the contact deliberate but fleeting. His skin was warm, the pulse beneath it steady, and the jolt of it sent her heart racing, a spark that echoed the festival's wrist brush, the classroom's hand graze. "Maybe I like trouble," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, a challenge woven into the words.
Hachiman froze, his eyes narrowing, his wrist tensing under her touch. "Careful, Miwa," he said, his voice low, edged with warning. "You keep pushing like that, people might start asking what you're really after."
The question was a mirror, reflecting Yukino's warning, Yui's confrontation, her own fears of being too much. Miwa's breath caught, her fingers lingering on his wrist a moment too long, the warmth of his skin a temptation she couldn't resist. "I'm not hiding it," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I like you, Hachiman. But I'm also trying to be… me. Clubs, the Service Club, all of it—it's for me too."
The admission hung between them, raw and exposed, and Miwa's heart pounded, her fingers pulling back, the novel's leather grounding her again. Hachiman's expression was unreadable, his eyes flicking to his wrist, then back to her, a mix of wariness and something else—curiosity, maybe, or unease.
"You're… something else," he said finally, his voice low, almost reluctant. "Most people don't just… lay it all out like that. I don't get it, Miwa. Why me? I'm not exactly a prize."
Miwa's chest ached, his self-deprecation a mirror to her own doubts, but also a spark that fueled her resolve.
"Because you're real," she said, her voice soft but firm. "You don't pretend, don't play games. That's… rare. And I want to be around that, even if it's messy."
Hachiman looked away, his fingers tapping the table, the rhythm uneven, a sign of his discomfort. "You're gonna regret betting on me," he said, his tone gruff, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, a crack in his wall she hadn't expected.
"I'll take that chance," Miwa said, her smile small but defiant, her heart swelling with a mix of fear and determination. She stood, gathering her bag, her fingers brushing the novel one last time, its leather a quiet comfort. "I'm going to check out the literature club tomorrow. Thought you'd want to know."
Hachiman raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning, a shield against the weight of her words. "Literature club? You're diving headfirst into nerd territory. Good luck with that."
Miwa laughed, the sound lighter now, a bridge between them. "Thanks," she said, her voice steady. "I'll let you know how it goes."
As she turned to leave, her bag brushed his chair, a subtle reminder of her presence. She felt his eyes on her, sharp and unyielding, and her heart raced, a spark of hope amidst the doubt. The library's quiet wrapped around her, the scent of books and wood a steady anchor as she stepped into the hallway, her resolve stronger than ever.
Outside, the spring evening was cool, the cherry blossoms glowing under the streetlights, their petals scattered across the pavement. Miwa paused, pulling out her notebook, its cover worn and smooth, and wrote under the dim glow of a lamp. I told him again, and he didn't run. I'm joining the literature club, not just for him, but for me. Be brave, be real. The pen's glide was steady, the ink's faint scent a quiet vow, a promise to keep pushing, to find her place, to hold onto the spark without losing herself.
The library's windows glowed behind her, a reminder of Hachiman's presence, his words, his wrist under her touch. He wasn't hers, not yet, maybe not ever, but he was there, a constant in her chaotic world. And that was enough, for now, to keep her going.