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 rhythm of their days shifts after that weekend, a subtle but undeniable change. Hachiman and Miwa fall into a pattern—nights at her apartment, stolen moments between her gigs and his work, their bodies and conversations intertwining with growing ease. It's not a relationship, not in the way most would define it, but it's something, and neither is ready to name it. The unspoken agreement suits them, for now, but it's a fragile balance, teetering on the edge of something deeper.
Hachiman finds himself at Miwa's gigs more often, a fixture in the crowd, his presence a quiet anchor for her. She performs with a new intensity, her songs laced with references only he would catch—lines about guarded eyes, late-night confessions, a touch that lingers. Offstage, she's softer with him, her teasing laced with affection, her touches lingering longer. But there's a restlessness in her, a fear she doesn't voice, and Hachiman senses it, even if he doesn't push.
One night, after a particularly electric performance, Miwa pulls him into the green room, a cramped space cluttered with empty bottles and cigarette butts. The door barely closes before she's kissing him, her hands urgent, tugging at his jacket. "You're gonna kill me, showing up like that," she murmurs against his lips, her voice rough with adrenaline and want. "Looking at me like you do."
"Like what?" Hachiman asks, his hands sliding under her shirt, fingers tracing the familiar curve of her waist. His voice is low, teasing, but his eyes betray the hunger he's barely containing.
"Like you want to eat me alive," she says, grinning, and pushes him against the wall, her lips finding his neck.
Hachiman groans, his head tilting back as her teeth graze his skin, her hands deftly undoing his belt. The room is dim, the air thick with the scent of sweat and cheap beer, but all he can focus on is her—the heat of her mouth, the press of her body, the way her fingers wrap around him, stroking with a rhythm that makes his knees weak.
"Miwa," he breathes, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer. She's relentless, her touch both teasing and commanding, and he's drowning in it. But he's not content to just take—he spins her around, pinning her against the wall, and she gasps, her eyes flashing with delight. His hand slips beneath her skirt, finding her already wet, and she moans, loud and unapologetic, as his fingers slide inside her, curling just right.
"Fuck, Hachiman," she pants, her head falling back, her thighs trembling. He watches her, mesmerized by the way she unravels, her moans growing sharper as he works her, his thumb circling her clit. When she comes, it's with a cry, her body shuddering against him, and Hachiman feels a surge of pride, his own arousal straining against his jeans.
She pulls him into a kiss, fierce and messy, her hand guiding his to free himself. "Now," she whispers, her voice a command, and he doesn't hesitate, lifting her against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist. He enters her in one smooth thrust, both of them groaning at the sensation, and the world narrows to the heat of their bodies, the rhythm of their movements. It's fast, desperate, the kind of sex that feels like a release of everything they're not saying.
When they finish, it's with a shared intensity, their breaths mingling, their bodies slick with sweat. Miwa laughs, shaky and exhilarated, her forehead resting against his. "You're getting bold, Hikigaya," she says, but there's a warmth in her voice, a closeness that lingers.
They clean up, stealing glances, and head to her apartment, where the night continues. In her bed, it's slower, more intimate. Hachiman takes his time, kissing every inch of her, his lips tracing the scars and freckles he's come to know. Miwa's hands are gentle, her moans softer, and when they move together, it's with a tenderness that feels like a confession. Afterward, they lie tangled, her head on his chest, his fingers in her hair.
But the unspoken lingers. Over breakfast the next morning—coffee and half-burnt eggs—Miwa's quieter than usual, her eyes distant. Hachiman notices, his stomach twisting. "You okay?" he asks, his voice careful.
She hesitates, poking at her plate. "Got an offer," she says finally. "A producer in Tokyo. Wants me to record a demo, maybe tour. It's… big."
Hachiman's chest tightens, but he keeps his tone neutral. "That's what you've been working for, right?"
"Yeah," she says, but her voice is uncertain. "It's just… timing's shit. I don't know what this—" she gestures between them—"is, but I don't want to fuck it up."
He nods, the weight of her words settling over him. "You shouldn't pass it up," he says, even as the thought of her leaving claws at him. "You'd hate yourself if you did."
She looks at him, her eyes searching, and for a moment, he thinks she might say something more. But she just nods, her smile tight. "Yeah. Maybe."
The rest of the day is quieter, their touches more tentative, as if they're both aware of the fault line forming beneath them. That night, when they make love, it's with a desperate edge, like they're trying to hold onto something slipping away. Miwa clings to him, her moans tinged with something raw, and Hachiman buries his face in her neck, his heart aching with the things he can't say.
They're falling deeper, but the world outside is pulling them apart, and neither knows how to bridge the gap.