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The morning after is quiet, the kind of stillness that feels fragile, like it could shatter with a single word. Hachiman wakes first, Miwa's bedroom bathed in soft gray light filtering through a cracked curtain. She's curled against him, her breath warm against his chest, one leg thrown over his. Her auburn hair is a mess, spilling across the pillow, and there's a faint mark on her neck where his lips lingered last night. The sight of her—vulnerable, unguarded—stirs something in him, a mix of tenderness and unease.
He doesn't move, afraid to break the moment. Last night was a revelation, a collision of desire and connection that left him raw. But now, in the sober light of day, his mind starts its familiar churn. What does this mean? What do they want? Hachiman's never been good at navigating the aftermath of intimacy, and Miwa, with her fierce independence, doesn't seem like someone who stays.
Miwa stirs, her eyes fluttering open. She blinks at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Morning, Hikigaya," she murmurs, her voice husky with sleep. "You look like you're overthinking already."
He snorts, but there's no real bite to it. "Old habits."
She stretches, her body brushing against his, and the contact reignites the heat from last night. She notices his reaction, her smile turning mischievous. "Guess I wore you out, huh?" she teases, propping herself up on one elbow. Her breasts are bare, the sheet slipping to her waist, and Hachiman's throat tightens, his body responding despite the ache of last night's intensity.
"Not quite," he says, his hand settling on her hip, his thumb tracing the curve. Her skin is warm, inviting, and the urge to pull her closer is almost overwhelming.
Miwa leans in, kissing him softly, a contrast to the urgency of before. It's slow, exploratory, and Hachiman feels it in his chest, a warmth that's more than just desire. Her hands roam, teasing, and soon they're tangled again, the kiss deepening. She straddles him, her movements deliberate, and Hachiman groans as she grinds against him, the friction reigniting the fire.
This time, it's slower, more deliberate. Miwa guides him, her hands steady as she rolls on a condom, her eyes locked on his. When she sinks onto him, it's with a sigh, her head tilting back as she adjusts to the fullness. Hachiman's hands grip her thighs, his breaths uneven as she moves, her rhythm steady but unhurried. He watches her, mesmerized by the way her body responds, the way her moans grow softer, more intimate.
"Fuck, you feel good," she whispers, leaning down to kiss him, her hair falling around them. Hachiman thrusts up to meet her, his hands roaming her back, her breasts, memorizing every inch. The pleasure builds, a slow burn that's no less intense, and when Miwa's breath hitches, her body tensing, he knows she's close. He slides a hand between them, circling her clit, and she gasps, her climax hitting with a shudder, her nails digging into his shoulders.
Hachiman follows moments later, the release sharp and consuming, his groan muffled against her neck. They collapse together, breathless, her weight grounding him. For a moment, there's only the sound of their breathing, the world outside irrelevant.
But the quiet doesn't last. Miwa rolls off, lying beside him, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. "This is getting complicated, isn't it?" she says, her voice quieter than usual.
Hachiman turns to her, his stomach twisting. "Yeah. It is."
She glances at him, her expression unreadable. "I don't do relationships, Hikigaya. Never have. But… this doesn't feel like just sex."
He nods, the weight of her words settling over him. "I don't know what this is," he admits, his voice low. "But I don't want to stop."
Her smile is small, almost relieved. "Me neither."
They don't say more, but the unspoken hangs heavy. They spend the day together, a rare pause in their usual chaos. Miwa makes coffee, burns toast, and laughs when Hachiman teases her about it. They talk—about music, about his job, about the fears they don't usually voice. There's a new ease between them, but also a new tension, the awareness that they're treading into uncharted territory.
That night, they're back in her bed, but it's different—less frantic, more tender. Hachiman kisses her slowly, his hands gentle as he explores her, savoring every gasp, every shiver. Miwa's hands are softer too, her touches lingering, and when they move together, it's with a closeness that feels like a confession. Afterward, she falls asleep in his arms, and Hachiman lies awake, her words echoing: This doesn't feel like just sex.
He's falling, he knows it, and the thought terrifies him. Miwa's life—her music, her restlessness—doesn't align with his quiet, cynical world. Yet the idea of letting her go feels impossible. He brushes a strand of hair from her face, his chest aching, and wonders how long they can keep this up before it demands a name.
Miwa, in her dreams, sees flashes of him—his sardonic smile, his hands on her, the way he makes her feel seen. She's never wanted to stay before, but with Hachiman, she's starting to wonder what staying might look like. And that, more than anything, scares her.