#windbreaker fluff

Little did they know, a few minutes before his arrival, you insisted on walking him to school despite his reluctant refusal. You'd usually send him off by himself, giving him a peck often, but today you wanted to spend a few extra moments with him before parting ways. Now, you two were holding hands as you chuckled at your boyfriend's cautious behavior, as if any moment his friends will pop up and tease him down to his grave. "Relax, Haru. No one is going to see us like this," you reassured him, leaning your head over his tensed shoulder and closely wrapping your arm around his.

"Yeah, right," he grumbled, unable to meet your eyes. He may look intimidating, but his body language said the opposite. He's been so stiff that he's unable to think straight. You understand it's part of his nature to be wary, but you wish at least that he'll become more comfortable around you in public. A little psychological test wouldn't hurt, right? You pouted and slowly loosened your grip around his hand, finally catching his bewildered attention. "Maybe it's not a good idea then." Sakura slightly flinched at your faux disheartening tone, buying your little, innocent act. As he stopped in his tracks to face you, his hand unusually gripping yours, and spoke. "H-Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, tone uneasy.

"Are you… Are you uncomfortable being seen with me?" You directly stared at him, at his worried mismatched eyes, your own filled with phony sadness. Sakura had started to stumble at his own words; his face got even redder as he tried to muster up a reply. "N-No! That's not it!" Though you were not convinced, unfortunately, Sakura noticed. "I-I-I like having you around, okay?! I'm just… not used to these kinds of things," he confessed, fluster evident on his face.

You were satisfied with his answer as you leaned forward to direct his cheek with your free hand to face you, pulling his head closer to yours. Before he could retort, your lips captured his in an instant, muffling his surprised gasp. Your head tilted for better access as you deepened the kiss, feeling his initial shock melt away into reciprocation as his body became more relaxed under your grounding touch.

When the intimate moment had gotten too passionate, Sakura immediately pulled away from the kiss, a thin bit of saliva glistening between your lips, and it left him shivering at your dazed look. "What was that for, idiot?" he mumbled, touching his wet lips with a stunned expression. "I couldn't resist," you replied with a mischievous grin, earning a scoff from your boyfriend, yet there was no bite. "Whatever, I'm going now," he said, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck as he turned to leave. But as he walked away, you couldn't help but notice the small quiver on his lips, a silent admission of the effect you had on him.

What a cutie.

SUO HAYATO

One thing everyone shares in common regarding knowing the relaxed, smiley-faced boy is that he is never seen using his cellphone around in public. An insignificant detail, yet it intrigued his classmates. Others joked that Suo is secretly a spy, exchanging messages with someone more mysterious than him, and possessing a phone with him may uncover hidden truths about his concealed intentions. But Suo dismissed that notion with a laugh, simply stating, "It's a hassle gluing myself to a screen all the time." Everyone understood his reasoning; however, it lacked any real explanation on the matter. Yet, they still choose to believe in his innocence and trust his half-baked words.

Leaving a little-known fact that Suo is indeed exchanging messages with a certain somebody. No one knows who they are; no one knows that it is you. When his classmates had started parting ways to go home after a long, tiring patrol, he had already gone home earlier than usual, leaving Sakura and Nirei bewildered by his sudden disappearance. As the sunset painted the sky in hues of pink and orange, he ensured all unnecessary distractions and obstacles would stand in his way. No one was around by his side; no one had gotten the steel guts to battle him out of the blue; it was the perfect opportunity for him. The night had finally fallen and was quiet and still, the only sound being the rustling of leaves in the wind.

As he walked alone, he fished out his phone from his pocket, sliding the screen, as it didn't require any password or facial recognition. His finger clicked at the message icon, revealing his most recent conversation, none other than his lover.

(My love❤️: Darling, has your patrol finished?)

His face lit up with a smile as he read the message, then his cheeks started to blush. Even in your typing, you were still so refined.

(Suo: Yes. I'm just heading home now as we speak, my love.)

He patiently waited for your reply, watching the three connected dots dance on the screen, his pace slightly steady. If he had an existent, maroon tail, it would be wagging with anticipation. His eyebrows shot up in delight as he saw your response pop up on the screen.

(My love❤️: That's wonderful, Hayato. Though I do wish we could spend more time together. And… if you want… my door is open.)

All of a sudden, his heart skipped a beat as you sent a deliberate picture of yourself in your comfy bed, wearing one of the pieces of his neutral-colored changshan that may look oversized in comparison to your frame. His breath shook, and his eyes widened in surprise. A man who is mostly composed, shaken by the sight of his lover posing temptingly in his clothing, with your eyes dazed and a cheeky smile, head rested on your arm that was supported by a fluffy pillow.

That is enough for him to break all threads of his unwavering self-control, his fingers quickly typing out a heartfelt response.

(Suo: Whatever my love wishes, I will make it happen. I'll be there soon, my dear. Just wait for me.)

(My love❤️: Thank you, Hayato. Please be careful on your way. I love you.)

Suo let out a mere chuckle, captivated by his overwhelming love for you. "Ah, I love you too."

TOGAME JO

According to some of the nosy members of Shishitoren, Togame, their second-in-command, had been often visiting a newly established, small cafe a bit far away from their designated turf. There wasn't anything special about this speculation; rather, it was seen as a harmless curiosity among the group. After all, Togame is not the type of guy to indulge in spending a ton on overpriced coffee or sweets, wasting his precious time on frivolous activities, and instead takes pleasure in buying a carton of cold Ramune soda just for himself at the same price. A general picture of the second-in-command captured in their minds was that of a practical and frugal individual. Probably it was the best of his curiosity, right?

However, there was another picture that everyone overlooked, one that showed Togame's softer side when he occasionally treated himself to a warm cup of fresh brew at the cafe, sometimes taking small sips of the bitter coffee, savoring the peaceful atmosphere, and taking a moment to relax away from the chaos of his daily life managing a wild, youthful team under his wing, and of course, his principal responsibility of watching over the general of the team. Though the visual would not be complete if the main subject were not present: his secret lover working as the barista and owner of the humble cafe.

His dark green eyes slumped into a fond gaze, intently watching you replay a video of a tutorial to mimic the drink you are trying to experiment with to sell it on the menu. Your face was crunched in absolute concentration, clicking your tongue when the warm latte accidentally spilled over the edge of the cup. He chuckled, earning him a half-hearted glare from you, as he silently offered to clean up after your little mess. "Here, let me," he muttered, using a clean tissue to wipe up the spilled latte.

You smiled gratefully at his sweet act of service and replied, "Thanks, Jo," then you assisted him with the brief cleaning, throwing out the used tissue into the nearby trash bin. You glanced at the half-poured drink and sighed in defeat, your shoulders slumped in disappointment. "Guess I have to redo the whole thing again." Togame tilted his head in confusion, asking, "But wouldn't that be wasting the latte you already made?" You chuckled and shook your head, saying, "It's okay, I'll just make a fresh one. It's the thought that counts." Still, your boyfriend wasn't convinced of your reasoning, as he took the drink from the counter, capturing your surprised expression.

"Hey—Wait!" Too late, Togame had already emptied the whole cup in one go…. While he still has his dark brew half-full. You tried to register what happened while your boyfriend nonchalantly settled the empty cup back at the counter, then released a loud burp. "Excuse me," he said with a sheepish grin, running his hand on the back of his nape when he noticed your disbelieving expression.

"You shouldn't have done that, Jo!" You scolded, pointing your finger at him accusingly. The six-foot-two man sank his head in mock shame, pretending to be remorseful. "It was going to waste anyway…" You saw him forming a small pout on his lips, emitting a scoff from his reaction. "You absolute doofus," you dragged your two fingers on your aching temple while Togame just chuckled as if he wouldn't have any problems with his stomach later.

He took your free hand and kissed the back of it gently, his eyes softening as he looked at you. "Forgive me, please?" he said, his body leaning forward as if he was expecting something from you. You sighed, giving in to your boyfriend's charms, knowing that you're too weak to resist his sweet gestures. "Fine, I forgive you," you said with a weary smile, planting a small kiss on his lips.

"Yay," Togame silently cheered, melting over the gentle kiss like a golden retriever being showered with affection.

the first spray was cold, albeit the warm weather, it still gave sakura the chills. but he forgets about the cold sensation once he feels your soft hands, massaging the sunscreen onto his skin. your fingers slowly gliding from his shoulders to his upper back.

sakura almost missed the cold feeling of the second spray because he was too focused on how warm your hands felt om him. your hands gently making their way to his lower back.

then the third spray- your fingers suddenly stop moving. his eyes jump open, his eyebrows are up in confusion, where did the warn sensation of your touch go? he looks to the back to see you waving to a group of people on the other side of the beach.

"haru', i'm gonna go say hello to some old friends! give me a minute or two, and I'll be back, yeah?" you tell him all giddy before heading to your old friend group.

a huff leaves sakura's lips, just a tad bit annoyed some randoms stole your attention. he meticulously follows you with his eyes as you make your way to the group. sakura internally scolds himself for not telling you to wear something on top of your little two piece bikini. don't get him wrong! he thinks you look gorgeous, stunning even! but now he has to restrain himself from going over there and punching the guy who's been undressing you with his eyes the second you greeted the group.

his teeth are clenched, the veins in his neck are popped while he struggles to stay put and not make a scene. sakura knows you don't like it when he starts a fight, that's why he's using up all the patience he has to prevent himself from beating the guy. if it were up to him, he would've started a fight the moment that weirdo started smiling at you like that! who does he think he is? does he really think he stands a chance with someone like you? funny.

sakura doesn't even know what you see in him, but there's absolutely no way he's going to stand by while some sicko is flirting with his girlfriend!

as if on cue, you bump into sakura the moment he started agigatedly stomping your direction. "eh? you miss me already?" a giggle leaves your mouth as you wrap your arms around your boyfriend's neck. "I didn't know you needed me around so badly!" another silly joke of yours flew right past sakura, his attention still being at your former friend group.

"hey..! what're you looking at?" your head spins to the same direction sakura's looking at before you notice he's glaring at your old friend. after a while the realization hit; your tsundere boyfriend was jealous! ah, lovely, another thing to tease him about!

"baby~ are you jealous I was talking to him?" you laugh, turning his head to face you.

"w-what?! of course not! w-what are you on, you weirdo!" he stumbles backward a bit before gaining his balance again, your arms now detached from his neck. sakura continues to mumble, "he- he should just stop lookin' at you like that.." your raise your eyebrows as you see a blush creeps up on his face.

you bite the inside of your lip, trying your hardest to keep yourself from smiling. "like what haru'? hm?"

"you know what I mean."

you reconnect your hands with his neck, tilting your head to the side. "no~ I don't!"

"[ ♡ ]!" your first name rolls off of his tongue so smoothly, reminding him not everyone can call you that. not everyone could stand as close to you as he is standing right now. not everyone could feel your hot breath on their skin as your fingertips slowly caress their neck. and even if they could, he wouldn't let them. you're his and his only.

"like you're his girlfriend, cause you're not! he should know his damn place.." sakura sighs before hiding his face in the crook of your neck, hesitantly wrapping his arms around your waist. "y-you're mine. just- just don't forget that.."

you gulp as you stand in the middle of the beach, completely enveloped by your boyfriend, not able to move an inch because of the way he's holding you. you receive glances from passers-by but you don't care enough right now. he called you his, it felt as though you could've squealed when he uttered those 3 words.

but truth be told, you are most definitely his, and his only.

SUO HAYATO

if you squint your eyes -> a bitttt of yandere!suo at the end / nicknames / reader wears dresses !

"but- it looked so cute!" you protest, your eyebrows furrowed as you look at your boyfriend rolling his eyes playfully.

"hey now, I thought i already told you that it definitely carries like atleast 10 diseases," suo glances at you, noticing your lips were still pouted, "look, if you had touched it, you'd probably have ended up in a hospital, we don't want that now, do we pretty?" suo lets out a chuckle.

you slightly shake your head before intertwining your fingers with his.

he lets out a quiet sigh before admitting, "it did look cute, though.." you giggle at your boyfriend's statement, your giggles mixing with his chuckle.

suddenly, you hear a small thud, which makes you swiftly turn your head to the side at the sound of something falling.

"ah! su', gimme a minute, stay here with the bags please!" you let go of his hand as you make your way to the guy who had dropped some boxes. you get down and start helping him put the items back in the boxes. "h-hey, thanks for helping out!" the guy spills out before he continues grabbing his stuff, his hand accidentally touching yours as you both go to grab the water bottle. awkwardly laughing it off, you two finish up refilling the box.

little do you know on the other side of the street suo drops the shopping bags he was holding for you, he doesn't care less what could happen to those pretty pink bags filled with cute dresses you tried on earlier in the shops, which you decided were essential additions to your already filled to the brim closet. if the bags would end up stolen, suo would buy you new ones anyway. so they weren't that important right now.

not when some guy was gushing at his girlfriend. not when that same stranger had touched your hand, which only he was allowed to do. and oh, definitely not when he had the courage to shove his phone in your pretty hands, waiting for you to put your number in.

"[ ♡ ]," suo calls out your name as he reaches you. "we should go, sweetheart, we told the others we'd be at kotoha's in 10," he forces a smile before taking the guy's phone out of your hand and pointing it towards him. "yours?" cold, that was the only way to describe your boyfriend, whose smile had disappeared into thin air, tone.

the guy who you were so innocently helping earlier, started awkwardly thanking the both of you before hastily making his way to his car.

"ah, su'! my bags!" you sprint to the shopping bags on the other side of the street, worriedly checking if all the items were still inside. "everything's still inside?" your boyfriend's smile was showing again.

you nod as he grabs the bags in one hand and locks his other hand with yours. this time with a tighter grip, the last thing he'll allow is for you to stray from him again.

"stay close to me now, alright pretty? don't let go of my hand."

and you could've sworn you saw him clench his jaw before relaxing it and sending you his signature smile again. "love you."

NIREI AKIHIKO

no warnings, just nirei being adorable

how did nirei even get himself into this situation? no, but really, how? it was a perfect day; sunny weather with clouds nowhere in sight, nirei was hanging out with the people he loved being around, his friends, and of course, you! yet somehow, he finds himself in the bookstore, ignoring his friends' stories.

he isn't purposely ignoring them! it's just hard to listen to them when his, his girlfriend is being hit on by the employee.

you were talking him about how badly you wanted to read this book. it was of a psychological genre, and when you explained the story premise to your boyfriend, he got totally spooked by it! but when you two and your friends got to the store, you couldn't find it at all..

you were searching for an employee to help you find it as your earlier attempt with nirei and the others weren't really successful.

but, oh, the regret nirei's feeling right now about letting you go off on your own to find someone to help is absolutely tearing him apart! he doesn't want to seem like the possessive type by waltzing over there and snaking an arm around you, but he can't stand witnessing one more second of that guy flirting with you!

"hmm, what're you gonna do now, huh nirei?" suo teases the blond, elbowing kiryu to witness nirei's predicament.

"hah? you gonna let 'em take your girl, eh nirei?" kiryu chuckles, playfully pushing his shoulder.

nirei shakes his head before sending yet another glare at the employee. he was an older man, way too old to even think about flirting with you. what's worse is that you were completely oblivious to the situation, you probably just thought he was being friendly!

that's it. with that thought flowing in nirei's brain he makes his way to you.

"h-hey! you find the book yet, sweetheart?"

nirei usually sticks to calling you by your name or nickname, occasionally even calling you baby. but never had he called you sweetheart before. so that was what caught your attention.

"yes, darling, I have!" you giggle as you decide to play along this game of his, oblivious to the way your boyfriend's staring at the older man, waiting for him to get the hint and back off.

"well.. I'll be going then.." the employee abruptly leaves, after rolling his eyes at you two.

nirei's knot in his stomach finally seems to loosen as he intertwines his fingers with yours. "glad you found it," your blond boyfriend sends you a cheeky smile.

"thank you, sweetheart!"

"SWEETHEART?!" tsugeura yells out, fake-fainting into kiryu's arms. the pink-haired individual struggling with keeping tsugeura on his feet. "y-yo, you're 'bout to make me trip!"

suo smiles widely, one of his hands on nirei's shoulder. "my, my, you've progressed a lot in the past 5 minutes, haven't you? you even got sakura blushing like crazy.."

"hey shut up!" sakura hides his face behind the book he was holding, pretending he was checking it out. mind you, it was upside down..

oh my, nirei is going to be teased about this for the rest of the year. but honestly, he'd do it all again to see your pretty smile again. your laughing mixing in with all the ruckus the guys are making brings another genuine smile to nirei's face.

this was his happy place, right here with you.

(just look at him omg... i-)

KIRYU MITSUKI

nicknames

"ah! mitsuki, look at this top, isn't it adorable?!" completely in love with the clothing piece, you show it to your boyfriend, waiting for his opinion on it.

"mhm, it'd look so pretty on you. and it'd fit with your new shoes!" kiryu adds, slightly wiggling his eyebrows up and down to convince you the top is a must-have! "come on~, tried it on for me."

kiryu locks his hands with yours before pulling you along with him to the dressing rooms.

you hand your boyfriend your handbag and jacket before picking out where you'll try the top on. "I'll be quick, kay?" you tell him, earning a smiley nod from him.

after some time, kiryu sees your hand coming out of the dressing room, signing to him to come in. chuckling, he goes into the small space.

"baby, look how small it is! 's like a baby size.." you mumble, still trying to adjust the top.

the back of your top gets adjusted by kiryu before he shakes his head, "baby-, I'll just go grab another size for you. this size could actually be a baby's size.." you giggle as you nod, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before letting him go look for a different size.

kiryu searches at the original spot, but he doesn't seem to find the other sizes. after a long while of searching and asking the employees, going through 3 floors searching for the top, and then suddenly remembering there's a fourth floor, kiryu finally finds the infamous top.

this piece of fabric better be the best clothing piece ever.

with the top in his, your boyfriend makes his way back to you, eager to see you wearing the right size this time.

he turns the corner to get to the dressing rooms when he hears your voice. you're sitting on the couch, talking to some guy. that isn't a bad thing, it really isn't! what is, though, is the fact that the guy was giving you heavy heart eyes as he grabbed your phone to add his number. like yes, you're pretty, gorgeous, stunning, but you're taken, so no, thank you!

"h-hey.. maybe we should y'know go there togeth-"

"hey, princess, I found your top," kiryu walts over to the sofa, standing in front of the two of you. his smile disappears almost immediately once he shifts his gaze to the man next to you. "and you are?"

you widen your eyes a bit at your boyfriend's sharp tone. "baby-," you mumble

kiryu's fixed stare started to make him feel fiddly as he starts awkwardly laughing. "h-hey man, didn't know she was taken.. was just hitting up a pretty girl, right?" he chuckles before standing up.

"mhm, next time, don't hit on my pretty girl, yeah?"

another awkward laugh flows out of the man's mouth as he leaves the dressing rooms.

"mitsuki-"

"don't even get me started," kiryu hands you the top. he motions for you to try I on before plopping on the couch again, still annoyed at the individual trying to get with his pretty girlfriend.

but all that pent-up annoyance and frustration suddenly goes right out the window when he sees you walking out of the fitting room. wow, you look incredible.

the way the top hugs your figure so elegantly yet somehow still remains a casual vibe, surprises him.

"baby? what do you think?"

"you look so pretty, princess.." kiryu wraps his arms around your waist before pulling you closer to him. "you always do."

kiryu's bank account might be experiencing an existential crisis because of all the items he bought you, but he couldn't care less when he sees you smile like that.

KAJI REN

teenie tiny bit of swearing / reader's wearing a skirt

where is that damn soda of yours?! kaji's been roaming the grocery store, searching for another soda for you because you were all "baby, they're buy 1 get 1 free!". and how could he tell you he wasn't in the mood to go to the back of the store to get it for you when you were puppy-eyeing him.

damn you. (he loves you)

if kusumi were there with him, kaji just knows he'd be poking fun at him, calling him a simp again.

finally, he found the bottled soda! he angrily grabbed it, making his way back to you, who stayed in line, waiting for your turn at the cash register.

kaji moves past families with full carts, jumps over children playing on the ground, and almost knocks over a fabric softener stand.

reaching the line at the register, he hears your laugh and follows it past the others in line to get to you. wait, who were you laughing at? as he stands behind you, you turn around to greet him.

"baby! this is kai, he was telling me all about some trivia about fruits!" you giggle, waiting for ren to greet the man in front of you, who had reached out his hand to him.

your boyfriend only stares at him before the man retrieves his hand, uncomfortably running it through his hair before letting out a forced chuckle.

you smile awkwardly, turning your head a little to kaji's side. "ren. be nice," you warn with a smile still on your face.

"anyway, did you know figs aren't fruits! they're inverted flowers, isn't that crazy?" you start rambling, hoping to dissipate the awkward situation. you were completely amazed at what the stranger told you. unbeknownst to you though, kaji was fuming, he was humming at your rambles whilst scowling at the man in front of you.

you should've seen how the stranger was looking at you before kaji stood next to you! his toothy smile, flirtatious glances, the man even playfully touched your shoulder. but you, of course, being the clueless person you are, thought he was just being friendly!

as you ended your newly learned trivia about fruits, you saw the man grabbing his stuff and hastily walking off.

"y-yeah well, was nice to meet you too.. bye.." the guy turns around, not even sparing you another glance.

kaji rolls his eyes as you too load up your groceries in a bag and start heading out.

"baby, you were so rude!" you state while taking a sip from your soda, and then offering it to him. "the guy was just being nice.."

grabbing the sods, kaji lets out a scoff. unamused with your cluelessness. "the guy was trying to get in your pants," kaji's eyes shot down, only to see you were wearing a skirt. "..uh skirt, whatever, you know what I'm getting at..!"

"ren, you're exaggerating so much it's starting to give me a headache!" you joke, locking your arm with his.

another sigh leaves kaji's mouth. "baby, why else would a guy randomly tell a pretty girl some shitty trivia in a grocery store if not to get close to you?!"

a moment of silence lingers between the two of you before you look back at your boyfriend. "... you think I'm pretty?" you deadpan, holding in your laugh as you see kaji literally breaking.

"I should've let him have you-" as your boyfriend hears your giggles a tiny smile creeps up his face.

"love you too, rennie."

his arm slings around your waist and holds you even tighter to him than usual.

kusumi's right, he definitely is a simp.

you’re sitting on the long wooden bench tucked under the white canopy he set up just for you, because apparently, “my princess can’t melt under the sun like sugar.” the fabric flutters softly, shading you from the daylight, and the breeze moves enough to lift strands of your hair now and then. your legs are crossed neatly, one heel dangling lazily, tapping against the bench in quiet impatience. your outfit screams money even in a place that smells like dirt—you’re in a short cream sundress with thin straps, a delicate lace cardigan slipping off one shoulder, and your feet are wrapped in glossy designer sandals, the kind that cost more than half the plants in his garden combined. a tiny gold chain rests against your ankle, glinting every time you shift, the perfect little reminder that you don’t belong anywhere near mud.

and yet here you are, because your boyfriend—sweet, gentle, annoyingly persuasive umemiya hajime—had the nerve to text you this morning saying “come watch me garden, it’ll be fun.” which, apparently, translates to “sit here and slowly lose your mind while i roll around in dirt and pretend i’m not taunting you.”

he’s in front of you now, stretching his arms above his head while he adjusts the strap of his gardening overall, the kind made from some thick, plasticky fabric that looks half-functional and half-insane in this heat. he’s got gloves tucked between his teeth for a moment while he ties the straps, and you can see the smirk starting before he even opens his mouth.

“you look like you’re attending a funeral,” he says finally, voice dripping with amusement as he glances your way. “what’s with that face, baby? i said watch, not suffer.”

you narrow your eyes at him, resting your chin on your hand, elbow on the bench’s armrest. “you dragged me up here to sit in a literal dirt museum. what did you expect my face to look like, hajime? pure joy?”

he laughs, soft but loud enough to fill the quiet rooftop, that deep, warm sound that never fails to crawl under your skin and make you want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “come on, it’s not that bad. you’re just dramatic,” he teases, reaching for a watering can. “look at you, sitting there like royalty on her throne, glaring at the peasants.”

“if the shoe fits,” you mutter under your breath, crossing your legs tighter, one foot tapping impatiently again. “you should be thankful i even came. do you know how many people would kill for me to sit and watch them garden?”

he glances over his shoulder, half-grinning, eyes catching the sunlight just right. “oh yeah? who? your little fan club that couldn’t tell a rose from a weed?”

“don’t test me,” you warn, squinting at him through the lazy afternoon glare. “i could replace you in a heartbeat.”

“sure you could,” he says easily, turning back to the flowerbed, voice thick with sarcasm. “but would anyone else look this good in a pair of gloves while they’re elbow-deep in dirt? didn’t think so.”

you groan, flopping back against the bench. “god, you’re insufferable.”

he hums, not missing a beat. “and yet you’re still here.”

“barely.”

he chuckles again, shaking his head. “don’t act like you’re not enjoying watching me work. i can feel your eyes on me, sweetheart. or maybe you’re just mad you can’t touch me right now—don’t want to get your precious hands dirty, huh?”

you give him a flat look. “you’re disgusting.”

“mm, maybe,” he says, turning back toward you now, wiping his hands on the side of his overall and walking closer. “but i’m your disgusting boyfriend, remember?”

he stops in front of you, shadows from the canopy cutting sharp lines across his chest, and you tilt your head just slightly to avoid meeting his smug gaze. his hair’s tied back but a few strands have fallen into his face, and you hate how good he looks like that—half-sweaty, sunlit, with that grin that always promises trouble.

“you could’ve stayed inside,” he says softly this time, kneeling in front of you. “but you came up anyway. all dressed up just to complain.”

“you told me to come,” you hiss, tugging your dress lower out of habit, even though he’s already too busy staring at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“yeah,” he murmurs, leaning his arm on your knee, resting his chin there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “and you listened. that’s what makes you so sweet sometimes. you act all spoiled but you still show up for me.”

you roll your eyes, but your throat tightens anyway. “don’t say that. it’s embarrassing.”

he grins again, eyes soft now, voice teasing but warm. “what, that i think you’re the best part of my day? yeah, real embarrassing.”

“you’re so full of yourself,” you mumble, trying not to smile.

“maybe,” he says, smirking, “but you love that about me.”

“no, i really don’t.”

“sure you don’t,” he whispers, and before you can respond, he leans forward, presses a kiss to your knee—quick, playful, and just annoying enough to make you shove at his shoulder.

“stop doing that,” you scold, your voice breaking halfway between anger and laughter.

“what? appreciating my spoiled little princess?”

“go plant your stupid flowers.”

he laughs again, rising slowly, stretching his back. “as you wish, your majesty.” then, just to be an ass, he winks. “try not to miss me too much while i’m over there.”

you throw your empty water bottle at him—it misses by inches—and he only laughs harder, voice echoing across the rooftop as he goes back to his plants, humming under his breath like you didn’t just threaten his life five seconds ago.

and somehow, despite everything—the sun, the dirt, the smell of earth, his constant teasing—you can’t help but watch him anyway. because there’s something about the way umemiya hajime moves when he’s happy, something about how every word he says drips with that mix of mischief and warmth, that makes the world feel less boring.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s why you’re still here.

you keep watching him, pretending not to, even though your eyes follow every damn move he makes. the way his shoulders flex when he bends over, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he looks down, that stupid little smirk that twitches on his lips every time he catches you staring—it’s infuriating. he knows exactly what he’s doing, and worse, he’s enjoying every second of it.

he glances up again, wipes sweat from his jaw with the back of his arm, and smirks like he can read your mind. you groan quietly, slumping into the bench, muttering just loud enough, “at least he could kiss me if he’s gonna act like this.”

his head tilts like he heard you, that slow, smug grin spreading across his face as he sets down the trowel. “what was that?”

you roll your eyes, refusing to repeat yourself. “nothing.”

he wipes his hands on his overall, walks closer—too close—and the sun catches the sweat on his collarbone, makes it worse, makes him worse. “didn’t sound like nothing,” he says, voice lazy, like he’s got all day to mess with you. “say it again, sweetheart.”

“i said—” you drag the words out, slow, deliberately testing him, “if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, the least you could do is kiss me.”

“that so?” he asks, amused.

“yeah,” you say, feigning boredom. “but don’t touch me with those filthy glove-ass hands. i don’t want gardening residue on my skin.”

he laughs, short and low, his head dropping for a second before he looks back up through his lashes, and you know that look—it’s trouble. “filthy glove-ass hands,” he repeats, mocking your tone. “you’re lucky i like the way your mouth runs.”

“you’re lucky i let you near me,” you shoot back, but the words start to melt halfway through because he’s already moving.

and then—like some dramatic movie scene he thinks he’s starring in—he hooks his thumb under the glove and pulls it off with his teeth, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on you. the plastic shifts with a soft crackle, and he spits it out onto the floor like he’s doing something holy instead of stupidly sexy. it’s the kind of move that should look ridiculous, but somehow, on him, it doesn’t. it’s unfair.

“happy now?” he says, voice all lazy drawl, stepping closer until his knees bump yours.

“barely,” you answer, trying to sound unimpressed even though your pulse betrays you.

he leans down, placing his hands on either side of you, gripping the bench, boxing you in without touching you. the wood creaks faintly under his weight, and he smells like sun and soil and a hint of mint from whatever he’s been planting. you tilt your head back to meet his eyes, pretending like he doesn’t make your breath stumble.

“you said i could kiss you,” he murmurs, the words brushing your cheek like static, “not touch. i remember.”

“good,” you whisper, fingers twitching against your lap. “follow directions for once.”

he hums low, that sound that sits somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “you always talk too much before a kiss.”

“then shut me up.”

his grin widens, but he doesn’t move—he waits, eyes heavy, teasing. you finally reach up, pinching his jaw between your fingers, not too hard, just enough to make him tilt his head toward you. he lets you guide him, lets you think you’re in control, and the way he hums under his breath tells you he’s enjoying every second of your bratty little display.

when his lips finally meet yours, it’s warm and slow, a drag of heat that builds too quickly. you pull at his jaw to keep him close, lips brushing and parting, tasting faintly of sunlight and salt and something unreasonably soft. he kisses like he talks—lazy, deliberate, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what buttons to push.

he doesn’t deepen it, though; he stays there, hovering, keeping that thin line of tension just to mess with you. his mouth moves against yours just enough to keep you wanting more, and when you try to tilt your head and chase him, he pulls back a breath, smiling against your lips.

“what happened to not touching?” he whispers, eyes half-lidded.

“this doesn’t count,” you murmur back, voice low.

“no?” he teases, brushing his lips against yours again, barely there. “then what does?”

you tug his jaw again, rougher this time. “shut up.”

he hums, biting back a laugh, and kisses you properly this time—slower, longer, until the world narrows to the sound of his quiet breathing and the faint creak of the bench beneath you. his breath hitches when you drag your nails down his neck, not enough to scratch, just to make him twitch.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters against your mouth, but the smile in his voice betrays him.

the kiss is still hanging there between your mouths, lazy and a little greedy, when the sharp metallic groan of the rooftop door cuts through the heat. it’s the kind of sound that makes your stomach drop—slow, dragging, impossible to ignore. you freeze first, lips still parted, breath still shallow. hajime groans like he’s the one being punished.

“no, no, no—don’t you dare—” he mutters against your lips, chasing you forward as you instinctively lean back, tilting your head to see who’s interrupting. except the movement just gives him a new target. the kiss lands hot against the side of your neck instead, his mouth pressing there once, twice, while he laughs softly through his nose.

“hajime,” you hiss, pushing at his chest. “someone’s coming.”

“yeah,” he hums, lips brushing your skin again, “me.”

you shove him harder this time, laughing despite yourself. “not funny, dumbass—your friends are here.”

he pulls back with a low groan, eyes rolling like the universe just personally wronged him. sure enough, when you look over his shoulder, the door swings open all the way, and a cluster of familiar chaos spills through.

“yo, hajime!” hiragi shouts first, way too loud for someone just entering. behind him, kaji waves lazily with a popsicle in his mouth, and tsubaki’s already half-carrying a bag of drinks like they’re invading the place. but it’s the unfamiliar girl beside them that makes you straighten a little, the one with perfectly brushed bangs and that cautious little squint when her gaze lands on you—on you and hajime, who’s still standing far too close.

he curses under his breath, quiet but sharp enough that you bite back a laugh. “perfect timing as always,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s been caught mid-crime.

“what?” you whisper, smirking. “didn’t plan on giving them a show?”

he glares down at you, half-embarrassed, half-annoyed, but mostly caught between wanting to kiss you again and not wanting to give his friends more material to torment him with later. “you think you’re so funny, huh?”

“i know i’m funny,” you say, tilting your head, voice dripping sweet and cruel. “but please, go greet your audience before they start clapping.”

he lets out a heavy sigh, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like i hate my life, and straightens up, stretching his back like this is all just an inconvenience.

you stay seated, watching as he turns around, shoulders squaring, voice slipping into that easy tone he uses with them. “you guys really don’t knock, huh?”

“knock? on a rooftop?” hiragi says, grinning. “bro, you were just making out under a canopy—what, you want a doorbell too?”

kaji laughs so hard he almost drops his popsicle. “look at him blushing. didn’t think i’d ever see the great umemiya hajime flustered.”

“shut up,” hajime mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “you guys can’t read a room for shit.”

tsubaki snickers. “we read it just fine. you’re the one who turned it into a romance novel.”

the girl—still silent—just smiles, small and polite, but her gaze flicks to you again, curious, a little sharp. you can already feel the judgment in her once-over, that quiet so that’s the girlfriend look, and something about it makes you want to smirk wider.

you cross one leg over the other, fixing your dress, calling out lazily, “if you’re gonna stare, at least say hi first. it’s rude to gawk.”

that earns a quiet snort from hajime, even though he’s trying to hide it. he glances back at you, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin. “behave,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

“make me,” you whisper back.

he exhales sharply through his nose, mutters another curse you can’t catch, and turns back to his friends with a resigned smile that screams kill me now.

“guys, this is my girlfriend,” he says finally, and the way his voice softens on that last word doesn’t escape you. “she was just… keeping me company.”

“oh, we noticed,” tsubaki says with a smirk.

“you’re dead,” hajime says flatly, but his tone is too lazy to sound convincing.

you can’t help it—you laugh. soft, rich, bright, unbothered. the sound bounces across the rooftop, and hajime glances at you over his shoulder, shaking his head with that half-exasperated smile that never hides the fondness underneath.

you mouth the words you’re welcome, and he mouths back you’re impossible, which, of course, just makes your grin wider.

and when his friends finally turn away to start unpacking whatever they brought, he shoots you one last look—a warning, a promise, maybe both—before muttering quietly, “you and i are finishing that later.”

you hum, leaning back on the bench again, voice soft but laced with amusement. “oh, i know we will.”

you stand up, slow and lazy, like a cat stretching after a nap, the air warm and smelling faintly of soil and mint and him. your heels click against the rooftop tiles as you move closer, sliding your arm around his from behind, chin brushing the edge of his shoulder. he glances down immediately, that small flicker of surprise before the smirk catches up, his hand twitching like he wants to hold you but remembers you’re still surrounded by his friends.

you feel the shift in the air before you even look—the girl, standing a little apart from the others, her hand resting on her hip, her gaze not subtle in the slightest. there’s a glimmer in her eyes that feels too practiced, too deliberate, the kind of sparkle people wear when they think they’ve already been noticed. she’s watching him, not even pretending to look elsewhere, her stare sticky and sharp and sweet all at once.

you lean closer, lips barely grazing his shoulder, voice low enough that only he can hear. “who’s that?”

he hums, not even looking up. “that?” his tone is lazy, teasing. “that’s misaki. she hangs around sometimes. helps with the plants.”

you hum back, soft and unimpressed. “she looks like she’s about to help herself to your entire soul.”

he laughs quietly, tilting his head down toward you. “why, jealous?”

“of her?” you scoff, eyes narrowing as you watch misaki’s gaze trace the curve of his jaw. “please. i’ve met garden pests with more subtlety.”

he chuckles, low and warm, leaning a little into you like he can’t help it. “she’s just looking.”

“yeah,” you say dryly, “and i’m just thinking about taking her eyes out if she keeps doing it.”

he hums again, that amused, dangerous little sound he makes when you’re getting worked up for his entertainment. “mh. maybe she just can’t help it. maybe she thinks i’m pretty.”

“maybe she should start thinking from a safer distance,” you mutter, tightening your grip on his arm until he laughs under his breath.

“baby,” he says, that mock-warning tone, the one that usually means he’s about to kiss you into silence, “behave.”

you lift your chin, pouting but refusing to look at him. “you can’t tell me what to do.”

“sure i can,” he says softly, “i just don’t expect you to listen.”

you roll your eyes but the edge in you starts to crack, because that tone—lazy, fond, half-smiling—is the one that makes everything in your chest go stupid. “fine,” you mutter, quieter this time. “then give me a kiss and i’ll think about behaving.”

he doesn’t even hesitate. leans in, presses his lips against your forehead, warm and lingering. his breath fans against your skin and you almost forget the audience—until a shrill, high-pitched voice slices through the quiet like a paper cut.

“oh my god, look!” misaki chirps, voice bubbling with way too much excitement. “our plant’s blooming!”

the words hit you like cold water. you blink, tilt your head slightly, still resting against hajime’s shoulder. “your what?”

he stiffens for a second beside you, just enough for you to feel it.

you turn your head, watching her point eagerly at a small pot sitting on the far edge of the rooftop garden—a cluster of red roses, deep and glossy under the sunlight.

“what plant?” you ask, your tone light but your jaw tight enough to crack.

he opens his mouth, probably about to explain, probably about to say something harmless, but he doesn’t get the chance.

misaki beats him to it. “it’s the one we planted together!” she says, smiling too sweetly, her eyes flicking between you and him like she’s tossing bait into the air. “remember, hajime? i told you i wanted to see how red roses would grow here—and look, they actually did. our roses.”

she laughs, the sound airy and stupid and sharp all at once, and it lands somewhere ugly in your stomach. the way she says our isn’t just casual—it’s deliberate, pointed, smug, like a hand dragging down glass just to make you flinch.

you don’t blink, don’t move, just tilt your head a fraction and smile, sharp as broken crystal. hajime’s quiet beside you, shoulders tense, his jaw tight, and you can feel the shift in him—the low hum of frustration, the awareness of the storm about to form right next to him.

you keep your voice soft, almost sweet. “oh,” you say, staring at the roses like they’re something worth stepping on. “your plant, huh.”

she smiles wider, like she thinks she’s won something.

and hajime exhales slowly through his nose, his hand tightening once on your arm—gentle, grounding, warning.

you don’t look at him. not yet. you just watch her, eyes half-lidded, smile unchanging, while the air between all of you starts to hum with something dangerous. and you think, very quietly, this girl better hope those flowers are the only thing getting buried today.

it starts small, harmless, like a mosquito that won’t stop buzzing in your ear. first, it’s the rooftop again — her laughter floating in the background when you come to bring hajime coffee, the sound of her voice saying his name like she’s trying it on for size. she’s there, kneeling in the dirt next to him, pretending to listen while he talks about soil acidity or whatever plant bullshit he’s into that week. you try to stand there, smile polite, pretend you’re not plotting horticultural homicide in your head.

then it’s the café. your café. the one you told him was your spot, where the barista knows your name and he always sits across from you with his chin in his hand like he doesn’t see anyone else. except this time, she’s there too. standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder like she has the right, asking something about fertilizer ratios while you’re stirring your drink so hard the spoon almost snaps. she doesn’t even sit down, just exists too close, her perfume too floral, her voice too bright, and you want to pour your coffee on her goddamn shoes.

and it doesn’t stop there. somehow she’s everywhere—like she crawled out of the damn flowerpot and followed him home. when you meet him after class, she’s at the gate. when you pass by the park, she’s sitting on the bench next to him with a notebook open, pretending it’s about plants. once, when you went to grab ice cream, she waved from across the street like this is some kind of competition you didn’t sign up for.

every single time, she finds a way to talk about plants. the weather? plants. food? plants. love? fucking plants. it’s always the same, that high-pitched laugh and the way she pushes her hair behind her ear like she’s auditioning for the role of “background nuisance in someone else’s relationship.” and hajime, bless his dumb, gentle heart, doesn’t even notice the way she clings, doesn’t see the way she looks at him like she wants to bloom right there in his damn shadow.

you tell yourself it’s fine, you’re fine, until you’re not. until the next time you show up at the café and she’s already sitting at your table, her hands wrapped around his mug, nodding at whatever he’s saying about “root structure” like it’s poetry. and you stand there, staring at her, then at him, and the words come out before you even think.

“wow,” you say, voice sugarcoated and sharp. “didn’t know we were hosting a gardening seminar today.”

hajime looks up, startled for a second, then that lazy, infuriating smile creeps in. “hey, baby. you’re early.”

you slide into your seat across from him, not bothering to hide the glare you throw at the girl. “didn’t know you brought company.”

she laughs, that fake polite kind of laugh that makes your skin itch. “oh no, i was just asking hajime about pruning techniques—”

“yeah,” you interrupt, smiling with all teeth. “seems like you’ve been real interested in trimming lately.”

the silence stretches just long enough for hajime to sigh and say it, the way he always does when your tone gets sharp. “baby,” he murmurs, that warning laced with amusement, “behave.”

you turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes, voice flat. “i am behaving. this is my polite voice.”

he chuckles, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “uh-huh. and what happens when the polite voice goes away?”

“depends,” you say, stirring your drink again, metal clinking against glass. “how many limbs do you think she’d miss?”

“jesus,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s fighting a smile, eyes warm and stupid and amused. “you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet you’re still sitting here,” you hum.

he laughs quietly, shaking his head, then turns back to whatever pointless conversation the girl’s trying to resurrect. you zone out halfway through it, staring out the window, trying not to imagine every possible way to remove her from the narrative of your life.

by the time you’re walking back to the car, he reaches for your hand like everything’s normal, fingers brushing yours. you let him, but the irritation simmers under your skin, crawling up your throat.

“you didn’t tell her to back off,” you say finally, the words tasting bitter.

he sighs, looking down at you with that same gentle expression that makes you want to both kiss and strangle him. “she’s harmless. don’t waste your energy.”

“oh, i’m not wasting it,” you reply sweetly. “i’m saving it. for later. maybe when she tries to touch you again, i’ll show her just how harmless i can be.”

he laughs, a soft breath of disbelief. “you’ve got to stop threatening my friends.”

“she’s not your friend,” you mutter, but the rest gets swallowed by his low chuckle and the way his thumb strokes your hand absentmindedly, like he’s trying to calm you down without saying it out loud.

and somehow, that only makes it worse. because he’s still smiling. because she’s still everywhere. because no matter how hard you glare, she’s always there first—too sweet, too close, too damn loud.

and all you can think is how easy it would be to plant her right next to those stupid roses and see if she still smiles when you water her.

you watch the city roll past the car window, reflections sliding across the glass like water. the afternoon sun paints everything gold—terraces, storefronts, people moving too fast—and you sit in the backseat with your legs crossed, chin resting against your hand, pretending you’re not waiting for your phone to light up with a message from him. your driver doesn’t say much; he never does, just hums lowly to the sound of the traffic, and you appreciate the silence. it’s a soft kind of torture—the quiet before the storm, before the test of whether hajime umemiya actually keeps his promises.

he said he would. last night, when your voice was sharp and your patience had already started to crack, he reached across the couch, hand warm over your knee, and said, “i’ll stay away from her. i swear.” and maybe it wasn’t even the words—it was the look, the way his voice softened when you got quiet, the way he smiled like he still thought you were being dramatic but loved you for it anyway.

so now you’re here, in the backseat, hoping—no, praying—that you won’t see that girl’s face today. misaki. the name feels bitter in your mouth, like coffee that’s gone cold. one sight of her and you’ll probably walk right out, maybe throw a drink for good measure. but not before you look good doing it.

you’re wearing your favorite dress, the one that makes you feel like trouble wrapped in sweetness—a blue-and-white gingham print that hugs your waist and flares at your thighs, light enough to move when the breeze does. the neckline dips just enough, the sleeves puff slightly, the skirt short and unapologetic. your hair falls in soft curls that catch the sunlight when you tilt your head, and your shoes—bright, red, and shiny—match the lacquer on your nails. you don’t dress for him, not really, but you love how his eyes light up when he sees you. how he always leans back, looks you over like you’re the only thing worth staring at, and says something low and slow like, “you’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”

that’s what you want to hear today. that’s what you’ve been waiting for all morning.

the car slows as you pull up in front of pothos, the small corner café that smells like roasted espresso and lemon glaze. it’s warm inside when you step out, the little bell above the door chiming softly. the air smells like cinnamon and butter, and kotoha is there behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, her apron tied too tight, her smile genuine.

“oh my god,” she says as soon as she sees you. “you look so pretty today.”

you grin, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i know,” you reply, voice light, teasing. “but thank you for noticing.”

she laughs, rolling her eyes affectionately before going back to work.

you glance around, eyes sweeping the room—the cozy tables, the soft hum of conversation, the warm light spilling through the big windows. sakura’s at the bar with a few of hajime’s friends, loud and laughing, waving when they spot you. they know who you are, of course. everyone does. hajime’s spoiled princess, his temper in heels, his soft spot in a short skirt. it’s not an insult, not really—it’s just what they say when they think you can’t hear.

you nod at them, polite but detached, not stopping as you move deeper into the café. the world narrows to the back booth, the one tucked beneath the big hanging plant that hajime likes because he says it makes the sunlight softer.

and there he is.

hajime sits with his back to the window, one arm resting across the booth, his hair slightly messy, his sleeves rolled up. you almost smile when you see him—almost—until your eyes shift to the other side of the table.

misaki.

of course. fucking misaki.

sitting across from him like she belongs there, hands folded neatly over the table, that same too-sweet smile plastered across her face. she’s leaning forward just slightly, the sunlight catching the gloss on her lips, her eyes soft and full of something that makes your stomach twist.

for a second, everything goes still. you don’t even blink. just stare, expression calm, too calm, like the kind of silence that comes before a storm shatters the sky. your heels click against the floor as you take another step forward, the sound cutting through the air sharper than the hum of conversation around you.

and hajime—poor, dumb, beautiful hajime—looks up just then, eyes catching yours, and his smile falters for half a heartbeat.

and that’s when you think—yeah, someone’s going to bleed for this.

you can feel the tension long before you reach the table — the kind that makes your pulse slow instead of quicken, that eerie calm that comes right before you start smiling like someone about to commit a small, beautiful crime. your shoes echo against the floor, the soft thud of each step deliberate, measured, and you hold your bag in one hand like a weapon, your phone in the other, grip tight enough to crack the case.

misaki looks up when you’re close enough to see her expression shift — that polite mask slipping for a split second before she pastes on something almost human. her smile twitches, her jaw stiffens, and her eyes flick from your face to your legs to your neckline and back again, calculating. you can see it, that urge she’s fighting not to roll her eyes, not to look away, and it makes your own smile sharpen like glass.

and then there’s hajime.

he look at you like the sun just clocked in for overtime, grin stretching wide, the corners of his eyes creasing, the kind of smile that makes everyone else in the room fade out. you catch the way his gaze slides sideways for a second — to misaki — just long enough to make a silent point before coming back to you.

“you look so pretty,” he says, voice low, full of warmth, the kind that slips under your skin before you can stop it.

you blink at him, that half-smile never leaving your lips. “do i?”

“yeah,” he murmurs, hand already finding your waist like it’s instinct. he tugs you closer, guiding you down beside him with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before, his thumb brushing slow circles against your hip.

you murmur a small thank you, tone sweet but your eyes never leave misaki. she’s sitting stiff now, back straight, her bitter smile doing a bad job of hiding the jealousy that’s practically humming in the air. hajime leans in, presses a soft kiss against your cheek, and the sound — that quiet, affectionate little moment — feels louder than the espresso machine, than the chatter, than anything else around you.

you tilt your head slightly, still holding her gaze, smiling like you’re both in on a joke she doesn’t understand.

“you look… nice,” misaki says suddenly, her voice dipped in sugar, sarcasm leaking through like poison. “but don’t you think that dress is a little too revealing? i mean—” she glances at hajime, all faux innocence and fluttering lashes, “if i had a boyfriend like him, i’d never wear something like that. i wouldn’t want to disrespect him by dressing for anyone else’s eyes.”

there it is. pick-me poetry.

you can hear your own blood thrum in your ears, the way your smile doesn’t falter but your grip on hajime’s arm tightens. he glances down at your dress — slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of the fabric like he’s cataloguing every reason he disagrees — before looking back at misaki.

“nah,” he says simply, shaking his head once, that lazy grin sliding back into place. “she can wear whatever she wants.”

misaki blinks, like she didn’t expect him to answer at all. “but—”

he cuts her off with a shrug, still smiling. “it doesn’t matter. she’s not dressing for anyone else. i know that. she likes looking good. i like seeing her happy. that’s it.”

and then his tone dips, casual but with that rough edge of finality. “besides, if someone ever got stupid enough to think they could say something about it, they’d figure out real quick who they’re dealing with.”

you hum low in your throat, turning your head slightly toward him, voice just above a whisper. “you’re so romantic when you’re threatening people,” you tease, lips curling.

he chuckles, leaning closer until your shoulder brushes his chest, his breath warm against your temple. “you like that, huh?”

“mm.” you hum again, eyes cutting back to misaki, who’s staring at you both like she just swallowed glass. “lucky for you,” you say softly, a wicked tilt to your mouth, “you’re not his girlfriend.”

her expression twitches, that polite smile cracking for half a heartbeat.

you rest your chin against hajime’s shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns along the inside of his wrist. “see, the thing is,” you continue, tone syrupy, cruel in the prettiest way, “he actually likes it when i look this good. can’t stop touching me when i do.”

hajime lets out a quiet laugh, low and breathy, his thumb slipping under the hem of your dress just slightly — not enough to be scandalous, but enough to make a point. “don’t start,” he murmurs, voice quiet enough for only you to hear.

“what?” you whisper back, grinning. “i’m just helping her understand the curriculum. she clearly didn’t do her homework.”

misaki exhales through her nose, eyes narrowing just slightly before she pastes her smile back on, all polite poison. the air between you three stretches thin, sharp, almost fragile.

you just lean in closer to hajime, your perfume mixing with the scent of coffee and tension, your voice a lazy drawl against his ear. “see?” you murmur, just loud enough. “i told you she’d still be around.”

he sighs, half amused, half resigned, and presses another kiss to your cheek. “yeah,” he says softly, “but now she knows where she stands.”

and you smile, small and slow and devastating, because he’s right — she does.

misaki doesn’t know when to quit — or maybe she does and just enjoys testing the limits of your patience, poking around to see how far she can stretch before you bite. she tilts her head when she speaks, voice all honeyed sugar, the kind that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you want to scrub it off.

“you know,” she starts, pretending it’s casual, eyes flicking to the edge of your dress again, “with the way you dress, you probably don’t like to get dirty, huh?”

the words come out soft, almost playful, but you can hear the undertone, the spoiled little princess echo that hides underneath. she keeps going before you can even respond, smiling so sweetly it hurts. “i mean, i get it—clothes like that must cost, what, hundreds? thousands? they don’t really belong anywhere near mud.”

you can feel your jaw tense, but your smile stays, slow and deliberate. you glance at hajime, who’s sipping his drink, watching the exchange with the look of a man who’s both entertained and deeply aware that he might need to stop you before you start a fire.

“you’re probably right,” you say finally, tone bright enough to be dangerous. “they don’t belong near mud. or weeds.”

her smile falters for half a second, but she catches it, leaning forward with mock sympathy. “that’s what i thought. i just find it a little sad, you know?” she says softly, voice laced with fake pity. “that hajime has to do all that work himself. must be tiring. it’d be nice for him to have his girlfriend—” she drags out the word, lets it hang there, heavy and possessive, “—help him sometimes. gardening together sounds kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

hajime’s hand twitches under the table, probably because he can already feel the murder rising off you in slow, steady waves.

misaki isn’t done, of course. she smiles, all gentle and pure and nauseating. “but don’t worry,” she adds, her tone the perfect imitation of care. “you don’t have to stress yourself about it. i’m always there, so i can help him. really, it’s no trouble at all. you don’t even need to come to bofurin anymore. i’ll be there for him.”

it’s the for him that does it. the way she says it like it’s a promise, like it’s a shared secret you’re intruding on. she’s smiling like she’s already won, like this is her territory now, and it’s so infuriating you can practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.

you inhale slowly, turn your head toward hajime with the calm of a woman one wrong word away from an arrest record. “you hearing this?”

he hums, noncommittal, hand slipping a little higher on your thigh under the table — a silent warning, or maybe a prayer.

you tilt your chin toward misaki, the edges of your lips curling. “that’s sweet,” you say, the sarcasm so smooth it sounds almost sincere. “but i’m a little too pretty for that kind of thing. dirt doesn’t really go with my skin tone.”

she blinks, confused, and you continue, your voice low and syrupy. “i like looking good for my boyfriend. spotless. perfect. he likes when i do too. right, hajime?”

he lets out a quiet breath of laughter, squeezing your leg gently. “yeah,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between you both. “i do.”

“see?” you say, smiling wider. “i’m not built for shovels and dirt and… bugs. i’d rather make sure i look like this every time he looks at me.”

misaki’s smile is starting to crack now, but she still tries to hold on, her tone softening again, fake and trembling. “i guess not everyone’s like that,” she says. “some of us just don’t mind getting our hands dirty. it’s about… effort, i think.”

you tilt your head, grin sharpening. “oh, i don’t mind effort. i just put mine into things that actually get results. you wouldn’t understand, though.”

she frowns, a tiny twitch, and you lean in closer, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping just enough. “you don’t have a boyfriend, right? that’s why you don’t get it. it’s a different kind of work, keeping someone’s attention.”

her mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. hajime’s quiet laugh slips between the tension, low and husky, his fingers tracing slow circles against your thigh like he’s both calming you and holding himself back from clapping.

“behave,” he whispers against your ear, and you hum softly, smiling at him without breaking eye contact with her.

“i am behaving,” you murmur. “just letting her know the dress code for my relationship doesn’t include mud.”

she exhales through her nose, and for the first time, her smile doesn’t return. you can see it—the faint flicker of irritation, the moment she realizes she lost the rhythm of her own game.

you lean back against hajime, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder, your expression the picture of satisfied calm. “see?” you say sweetly, voice dripping in victory. “everything’s easier when people know their place.”

and hajime, ever the patient, lovestruck fool, just laughs quietly into your hair. “you’re gonna get us banned from this café one day,” he mutters.

you grin. “worth it.”

misaki looks at you like you’ve just thrown a glass of wine in her face. her smile collapses into disbelief, eyes darting between you and hajime as if she’s waiting for someone to back her up, to rescue her from the humiliation you’ve just gift-wrapped and handed over with a bow. when no one speaks, she laughs once under her breath, sharp and hollow. then she turns her attention fully to him.

“hajime,” she says, voice all brittle sugar, “you’re seriously going to let her talk to me like that?”

he blinks, frowning slightly, genuinely confused. “like what?”

“disrespectfully!” she snaps, sitting up straighter, eyes wide. “she’s been rude this entire time and you just sit there like—like it’s okay!”

you raise an eyebrow, leaning back against him like the show’s gotten good. his arm stays around you automatically, his hand resting warm at your hip, while you watch her unravel piece by piece.

“disrespect?” you echo softly, smiling just enough to sting. “that’s a big word for someone who told me i’m not girlfriend material five minutes ago.”

she glares at you, breath catching. “see? that’s what i mean. you twist everything. i was just being honest. you can’t even take a little advice without acting superior.”

“oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you say, voice calm, almost sweet. “i don’t act.”

hajime sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s been dropped in the middle of a storm he didn’t see coming. “misaki,” he starts, gentle, trying to smooth it out, “come on, you kind of started—”

she cuts him off before he can even finish. “i didn’t start anything! i was being nice. i was trying to have a conversation and she—” she gestures at you, voice rising—“she keeps insulting me, mocking me, twisting everything i say like i’m the problem!”

you tilt your head, resting it against hajime’s shoulder, watching her spiral. she’s not yelling yet, but her tone’s slipping—too high, too shaky, the sound of someone who knows she’s losing ground but can’t stop digging.

“you are the problem,” you murmur, but you don’t say it loudly. it’s soft, almost a purr, and it makes her freeze.

“what did you just—”

“misaki,” hajime tries again, quieter this time, glancing around because now a few of his friends at the bar have started to notice the shift in tone, the way the air’s getting thick. “hey, relax. look, i get you didn’t mean anything, but she’s—”

“stop defending her!” misaki snaps, the words hitting harder than she probably meant them to. she pushes her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, eyes glassy with anger. “you always do this—she says whatever she wants, and you just laugh like she’s some kind of joke. she’s mean, hajime. she’s—”

he leans back, posture still calm but his expression tightening. “she’s my girlfriend,” he says simply. “what did you expect me to do?”

she falters. for a moment, the silence stretches. you can see the exact second she realizes there’s no saving this, that the conversation’s already over. her lips tremble with another retort that never comes out, her pride forcing it back down.

and then she laughs again—loud, awkward, brittle. “fine,” she says, voice cracking just slightly at the edge. “whatever. i hope you two are happy together.”

and with that, she grabs her bag, turns sharply, and storms out of the café, the door swinging hard enough behind her that the bell jangles out of tune.

you watch her go, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, and hajime just sits there beside you, hand still on your thigh, staring after her like he’s watching the last petal fall off a dying flower.

you watch the door swing shut behind her, the bell still jangling out of rhythm, and you can’t help it—your mouth moves before your brain does. “god, she walks like a toddler who just got told santa isn’t real,” you mutter, leaning back in your seat, swirling your drink lazily like you didn’t just watch a girl’s ego disintegrate in front of an audience. “if she tripped on the way out, i’d call that divine justice.”

hajime lets out a soft sound beside you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and when he says your name—baby—it’s low and warm, but threaded through with that gentle warning you know too well.

you turn to him, frown tugging at your lips. “what?”

he’s looking at you, shoulders still relaxed but eyes soft, a kind of calm you find both grounding and infuriating. he exhales, long and quiet, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand before speaking. “don’t do that.”

“don’t do what?” you snap, more defensive than you meant to.

he leans back, expression patient, too patient. “that thing where you start tearing people apart when you’re mad. i get it, she pissed you off, but—”

“but what?” you interrupt, voice sharp enough to slice the air. “she started it. i didn’t even do anything until she decided to play saint mary of the mud pit. if anyone should’ve been told to shut the fuck up, it’s her, not me.”

he doesn’t raise his voice—he never does—but his hand catches yours mid-gesture, fingers wrapping around your wrist in that steady, grounding way that makes your heartbeat skip. “i know,” he says, quietly, like he’s been waiting for you to stop fighting long enough to listen. “i know she did. but sometimes you can be mean, baby.”

you freeze for a second, the word mean hanging in the air, heavy and dangerous. he must see the spark flicker behind your eyes because he adds quickly, “which i like, don’t get me wrong. i love that about you. i love that you don’t take anyone’s shit. it’s one of the reasons i—” he stops, half-smiling, thumb brushing slow circles on your knuckles. “i just wish you’d try a little harder with my friends. that’s all.”

you stare at him, incredulous, before scoffing and yanking your hand out of his grip. “wow,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “unbelievable.”

he blinks, confused but still calm. “what?”

“i do get along with your friends,” you shoot back. “i’m nice to hiragi. i laugh at tsubaki’s stupid jokes. i even let him call me princess without throwing my drink at him. i get along great with kotoha, too, by the way—maybe because she doesn’t try to fuck you over a flowerpot.”

hajime’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile, which only makes you more annoyed. he opens his mouth, probably to say something level-headed, but you cut him off before he gets the chance.

“are you seriously blaming me right now?” you ask, voice dropping low, sharp enough to draw blood.

his brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that angle. “no, i’m not blaming—”

“because it sounds like it,” you say, tone flattening. “it sounds like you’re saying it’s my fault she lost her mind, that i should’ve been nice while she was sitting there basically volunteering to be your emotional support gardener.”

he groans quietly, running a hand through his hair, the gesture slow and tired. “that’s not what i said.”

“then what are you saying?” you demand, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “that i should’ve smiled and held her hand while she told me she’ll take my place? you wanted me to what—thank her for her fucking charity?”

his eyes soften again, that gentle patience you both hate and love returning. “no,” he says, voice low. “i wanted you to not let her get to you.”

you snort, looking away, your reflection catching faintly in the café window. “too late for that.”

he hums quietly, and even though he doesn’t reach for you this time, you can feel his gaze lingering, the air between you stretching thin—frustration, affection, and something you can’t quite name humming underneath.

you cross one leg over the other, arms still folded tight, pretending you don’t care, pretending you’re not waiting for him to say something that’ll make you soften.

but he doesn’t. not yet. he just watches you, eyes calm, lips curved in that small, maddening smile that always makes you want to kiss him and punch him at the same time.

you look away, staring hard at the window like it did something wrong. the reflection of your face blurs in the glass — angry, tight, too quiet. your chest feels like it’s caving in, the kind of ache that’s more fury than sadness but still burns the same. your jaw tightens, lips pressing together, and you bite down on the inside of your cheek just to keep it from trembling. you can feel the heat pooling in your throat, that humiliating sting behind your eyes, the kind you’d rather choke on than let fall in front of him.

you hate it. hate that he gets to sit there so calm, like he’s the reasonable one, while you’re trying to swallow every ounce of frustration that’s clawing up your ribs. he’s been letting that girl flutter around him like some fucking stray cat for weeks, smiling through it, saying “she’s harmless.” harmless. sure. until now she’s made you look like the jealous one, and somehow, somehow, you’re the problem.

your arms stay crossed tight, so tight your nails dig half-moons into your skin. the air between you is heavy, the silence thick enough to taste. hajime shifts beside you — you can feel the movement, that careful lean forward, the way his shoulder brushes yours, cautious.

“hey,” he says softly, and it sounds too gentle, too forgiving for the mood you’re in. you don’t move, don’t look at him, eyes locked on the glass. “baby, look at me.”

you don’t.

“come on,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your wrist, testing. “don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean to make you feel like i was blaming you.”

you scoff quietly, the sound sharp and bitter. “yeah, sure you didn’t.”

he sighs, trying again, his hand moving to uncross your arms, his touch slow, coaxing. “hey, stop. don’t shut down, okay? we’ve got the whole afternoon—remember the date? you’ve been talking about that damn reservation since yesterday.”

you yank your arm out of his reach, turning your head away, refusing to meet his eyes. “yeah, well,” you mutter, voice low but laced with venom, “i don’t really feel like playing happy couple after you just fucking blamed me.”

his head snaps up slightly at that, eyes narrowing in disbelief, but his voice stays low. “i didn’t blame you.”

you laugh once, sharp and humorless. “you basically did.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“you did.”

he groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose, frustration bleeding through his calm tone for the first time. “you’re twisting it.”

“am i?” you shoot back, finally looking at him, eyes burning. “because it sounded a hell of a lot like you telling me i’m the problem. like i’m supposed to just let her run her mouth and behave while she calls me spoiled to my face.”

he opens his mouth to argue, but the words die on his tongue when he sees your eyes glisten. his expression softens instantly, like watching glass crack. “hey,” he says again, quieter now, voice almost tender. “don’t cry. please.”

“i’m not crying,” you bite out, even though your throat betrays you, voice warbling just slightly. you turn your head again, blinking fast, furious at yourself for even letting the tears threaten to fall. “i’m just… so fucking mad right now.”

he exhales, slow, deliberate, leaning closer until his shoulder presses into yours, his hand hovering near your knee but not daring to touch again. “i know,” he says softly. “i know you are.”

you shake your head, jaw tight. “no, you don’t. because you’re sitting here all calm and reasonable like it’s not a big deal, like i’m overreacting. but she’s been hanging all over you for weeks, hajime. and you’ve just been letting her.”

he looks down, jaw ticking, but doesn’t interrupt. you push on, the words tumbling out, hot and bitter. “and now she finally gets what’s coming, and somehow, somehow, i’m the one who needs to behave? unbelievable.”

his hand moves again, reaching for yours, but you pull back before he can touch you, crossing your arms tighter, legs turning toward the aisle. the motion is stubborn, childish, maybe even cruel, but you don’t care.

he sighs again, that long, weary kind of sigh that says he’s trying to pick his words carefully. “i didn’t blame you,” he repeats, slower this time, his tone softer. “i just… wanted to calm things down.”

you don’t respond, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the window again. outside, people move in and out of the café, laughing, holding hands, their lives simple and oblivious. you sit there in silence, the ache in your chest tightening with every second, your anger too raw to hide and too tangled to untangle.

you can feel him watching you, though. his gaze heavy, patient, worried. and you hate that, too — the way he still looks at you like he loves you through all the mess, like your anger is just another thing he wants to take care of.

you don’t even bother wiping your tears — they slip down your cheek slow and angry, hot with humiliation, and the worst part is that he still looks soft. he still looks calm. like you aren’t seconds away from burning the café to the ground. you can’t stand that gentle tone, the way he’s trying to fix it with warmth, as if warmth will make you forget how small you felt two minutes ago.

“i want to go home,” you mutter, voice cracking halfway through, sharp but trembling, the kind of voice that comes from holding too much in for too long. you reach for your bag, your phone, your composure that’s hanging on by a damn thread. “you can go on your little date with fucking misaki. i’m done.”

“hey—hey, baby, no,” hajime says immediately, his voice panicked now, eyes wide as he leans closer. “don’t say that, please. come on, don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean it that way.”

you ignore him, unlocking your phone, scrolling through your recent calls, your tears dripping onto the screen and smudging your mascara. you sniff, wipe at your face with the back of your hand, and press the call button before he can reach you.

“you don’t have to call your driver,” he says quickly, trying to sound soothing but failing miserably. “i’ll take you home myself, okay? just put the phone down.”

you shake your head, refusing to even look at him, the phone pressed to your ear, telling your driver to pick you up. “no. you can take misaki home,” you bite out after, hiccuping mid-word, the sound making you even angrier. “go drop her off, give her a flower crown, plant your fucking feelings next to your little rose bush and watch them wilt together.”

he blinks, startled, almost choking on his own breath. “what—what the hell does that even mean?”

“it means you can go play gardener barbie with your emotional support earthworm, hajime!” you snap, sniffling hard, your voice breaking into something half-hysterical and half-furious. “you two can water your trauma and compost your self-awareness for all i care. maybe you’ll grow a backbone next season.”

“jesus, baby—” he starts, but you keep going, eyes glassy and wild.

“no, i’m serious! go teach her how to hold a shovel properly, maybe she’ll finally dig herself a personality. you guys can post about it too—#couplegoals, #rootboundidiots, #photosynthesisandchill.”

he groans quietly, running both hands through his hair, clearly torn between laughing and throwing himself off the booth. “you’re insane.”

“good,” you hiss, still hiccuping, wiping your nose with a napkin like your anger’s leaking out of every pore. “then maybe i’ll finally be immune to watching you play horticultural therapist for every girl with a trowel fetish.”

“what the fuck is a trowel fetish—”

“look it up!” you snap, voice too loud, your pout deepening until it hurts. you sound like you’re scolding him and begging him all at once, and it drives you even crazier.

he reached forward, trying to grab your wrist, trying to ground you again, but you pull away sharply, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. “don’t touch me,” you warn, voice shaking. “go touch your plants. or her. or whatever living organism wants your attention today.”

he exhales, long and low, dragging a hand down his face, and when he looks at you again, it’s that same damn softness that makes you want to scream. “i’m not taking misaki anywhere,” he says firmly, trying to meet your eyes. “i’m taking you home.”

you glare at him through your tears, the kind that don’t fall gracefully but roll down hot and angry, pooling at your chin. “bullshit,” you sniff, snatching a tissue. “you’ll probably drive her to bofurin after i’m gone and plant matching sunflowers or something, then she’ll post about it with some stupid caption like ‘growth is beautiful’ and you’ll fucking like it.”

he presses his lips together, shoulders shaking slightly like he’s biting back a laugh, and it only makes your chest burn hotter.

“don’t laugh at me,” you warn, voice wobbling.

“i’m not,” he says quickly, even though he is, his thumb rubbing at his temple, his tone patient and tired but fond in that way that makes you hate him more. “you’re mad, i get it. but you know i’d never pick her over you.”

you scoff, wiping your face again, pouting so hard it aches. “you shouldn’t even have to think about picking, hajime. you should’ve uprooted that bitch the second she started growing near you.”

he blinks, then lets out a soft, helpless laugh, the kind that makes your lip tremble all over again. “baby,” he says quietly, reaching for you again even though you’re still trying to call your driver, “you’re the only person i’d ever want to plant anything with.”

“stop being cute,” you mutter, voice small, angry, hiccuping, as you jab at your phone screen again, refusing to look at him. “i hate you.”

“you don’t,” he says softly.

and that only makes the next hiccup come out louder, meaner, messier, because goddammit, he’s right — and that’s what hurts the most.

he keeps talking — god, he won’t shut up — and every word feels like sandpaper dragging across a bruise. you’re staring down at your lap, nails digging into your palm, phone still in your grip, and hajime’s sitting there beside you looking like a man drowning in guilt and desperation.

“baby, please, listen,” he murmurs, voice low and soft and frantic at the edges. “i’m sorry, okay? i’m a fucking idiot. i didn’t mean to upset you, i swear. i was trying to make it better, not worse.”

you don’t move, don’t even blink. you’re done. the silence between you is sharp and heavy, like it could slice through skin.

he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands falling into his face. “look at me,” he says, gently tugging your chin, but you turn your head, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the café window instead.

“i fucked up, okay?” he mutters, voice thick with regret now. “i didn’t think before i spoke. i said something stupid, and now my gorgeous girlfriend’s crying on the day we were supposed to have our date.”

you let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter, your lips trembling from how hard you’re biting them. “oh, you think?” you hiss, your voice tight, dripping sarcasm. “wow, someone give you a phd in emotional awareness.”

“baby—”

“don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snap, cutting him off. “you’re lucky i’m not throwing this drink in your face. i’ve seen dogs handle loyalty better than you today.”

he flinches slightly, breath catching, but still doesn’t stop. “you’re right,” he murmurs, still trying to reach for you, still gentle like an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit. “you’re right, i was a dumbass. i’m sorry. please, don’t cry anymore, okay? you’re too pretty for that.”

“oh, fuck off with that line,” you spit, still not looking at him. “if i had a dollar for every time you used ‘you’re too pretty for that,’ i’d buy a better boyfriend.”

his lips twitch — maybe in pain, maybe amusement — you don’t care. you’re done pretending you’re fine. you hear him sigh again, long and ragged, his thumb brushing a tear off your cheek before you slap his hand away.

“stop touching me,” you mutter.

he does, finally. he leans back, defeated but still watching you, his knee bouncing restlessly under the table.

“i just—fuck, i hate this,” he mumbles. “i hate making you cry. i hate that you’re mad at me. it’s the fucking worst feeling in the world.”

“good,” you snap, wiping another tear away. “maybe next time you’ll think before you decide to be a spineless, clueless, misaki-apologist piece of shit.”

his mouth opens like he wants to argue, but your driver appears outside the glass door before he gets the chance. hajime spots him first, his head jerking up in relief like he’s been waiting for divine intervention.

“wait, no—don’t go yet,” he says quickly when you stand, reaching for you again. but you’re already grabbing your bag, shoulders squared, expression cold enough to frost glass.

you don’t even look at him when you walk past. he rushes up anyway, long legs closing the distance easily. he gets to the café door before you do and pulls it open, stepping aside.

“baby, come on,” he murmurs, his voice breaking just a little. “don’t do this. not over this.”

you walk out without a glance, heels clicking against the pavement, the weight of your anger holding your chin higher. hajime follows, trailing a few steps behind, still muttering apologies under his breath like a prayer.

“i’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “i’m sorry, i’m a fucking idiot, i know i am. i didn’t mean to make you feel like shit. please—hey, stop walking so fast—”

you stop right by the car, turning to him with a glare sharp enough to gut a god. “don’t fucking please me,” you hiss, your voice trembling with the effort of holding back another wave of tears. “you can take that tone and use it on your little gardening partner, maybe it’ll make the weeds grow faster.”

his shoulders sag, his breath shaking, but he still steps forward, reaching out like he’s going to hold the door for you.

“i’ll take you home,” he says, softer now, almost pleading.

you laugh—dry, cruel, beautiful in that venomous way. “no thanks,” you say, snatching the door handle before your driver can even move. “you can take misaki’s ass home. maybe you two can plant a fucking family tree while you’re at it, carve your initials in the trunk and die under it together like the two dirt-souled lovebirds you are.”

he winces, opening his mouth to say something, but you’re already ducking into the car, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “hell, maybe you can name your kids after fertilizer brands. that way, every time someone says ‘shit,’ you’ll think of her.”

“baby, stop—”

“don’t call me baby,” you snap one last time, your voice thick and trembling and furious, “you don’t get to call me that after defending that potted-plant enthusiast.”

he grips the top of the door, knuckles white, his other hand reaching for you again like he can still fix it. “please,” he whispers, but you won’t look at him.

you sniff hard, shaking your head, and mumble, “go water your conscience, hajime.”

and then the driver starts the car, the sound of the engine swallowing whatever apology he tries to mumble next, the world blurring as the café disappears behind you — him standing there, hands in his hair, looking every bit the idiot you just called him.

and umemiya hajime tries everything—calls, texts, paragraphs that could qualify as love letters if they weren’t just him apologizing seventeen different ways. every few minutes, another ping lights up your phone, his name glowing like he’s haunting you. you see them. you just don’t care. let him sweat.

because for all his patience and warmth, hajime can’t stand one thing in this world—his girlfriend angry at him. it eats him alive, that quiet space where you don’t talk to him, where your voice is replaced by silence. he can handle a punch, a slap, a full-blown tantrum. but your silence? that’s his apocalypse.

so by eight, he shows up. no call, no warning. the housekeeper must have let him in, because the next thing you hear is the deep, hollow creak of your bedroom door being pushed open. your room is massive—big enough to echo the sound of his shoes on the marble. the kind of big that makes his apartment feel like a closet. he pauses by the door for half a second, taking it all in, that soft, low whistle under his breath that he doesn’t even realize he makes.

you’re on the bed, sitting against the headboard, your knees tucked up, silk pajamas hugging you like a whisper. the balcony doors are open, letting the night air drift in, your hair moving slightly in the breeze. you don’t even look surprised. just annoyed. pretty and annoyed—a deadly combination he’s learned to fear and adore.

“what the fuck do you want?” you say, voice low and sharp, not even turning fully to him. “i thought i made it clear i didn’t want to see your piece-of-shit self tonight.”

he doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. the insult rolls off him like water off glass. he steps inside, shuts the heavy door behind him with a soft click, then locks it. you glare at him for that, but he doesn’t care. he hums, hands sliding into his pockets as he walks deeper into your room, his lips twitching at the corner like he’s trying not to smile.

“yeah,” he says quietly, stopping at the edge of your bed before sitting down. “i’m a piece of shit.” his tone is steady, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes that gives him away. “so why don’t you tell me exactly why?”

the challenge hangs in the air between you, thick and dangerous. you finally turn your head, eyes sharp enough to kill. “you really want me to spell it out?”

he shrugs lightly. “might as well hear it from the source.”

you scoff, the sound short and mean. “fine. you’re a piece of shit because you’ve got the emotional intelligence of a rock and the situational awareness of a traffic cone. because you let some over-perfumed, photosynthesis-obsessed charity case orbit around you for weeks while she looked at you like she was about to hump the hydrangeas.”

his jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet. you keep going.

“you’re a piece of shit because you sat there like a golden retriever on standby while she called me spoiled, and you didn’t even blink. because instead of backing me up, you told me to behave—like i was the one who needed manners. newsflash, hajime, i wasn’t raised in a barn.”

you lean forward, eyes flashing. “you’re a piece of shit because you keep acting like your niceness makes you some kind of saint when really it just makes people think they can walk all over you—and by extension, me. and i don’t get walked on. not by some chlorophyll-brained pick-me with a shovel and definitely not by my boyfriend who should’ve told her to fuck off the second she batted her eyelashes.”

you exhale sharply, chest rising and falling, your anger so thick it hums. “there. that’s your summary. congratulations. you’re the human embodiment of a doormat with biceps.”

he stares at you for a long beat, jaw slack, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, eyes glassy from how hard he’s holding it in. you know that look—the one he gets when you’re being cruel and brilliant at the same time.

and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, low, wrecked and fond all at once. “okay,” he says softly. “that’s fair.”

you’re not done. not even close. your voice sharpens again, that lethal edge returning, each word slicing clean and deliberate. “and you know what else?” you hiss, glaring at him like the very sight of him is offensive. “you’re a piece of shit for letting her ruin my day. the day that was supposed to be ours. our date. the one you promised would make up for all the bullshit this week.”

you sit up straighter, arms folding over your chest, chin lifting high like a queen about to announce someone’s execution. “you’re a piece of shit because you let that girl get in between us like she fucking belonged there. you sat there—smiling, nodding, pretending she was part of the conversation—while she pissed all over the mood i built, and you didn’t tell her to shut the fuck up. you didn’t even blink. you just let her talk, and talk, and talk—like some possessed lawn decoration who didn’t realize she wasn’t invited to the goddamn picnic.”

hajime exhales softly through his nose, but you’re on a roll now. your tone slides from sharp to venomous, your words slick with sarcasm. “you should’ve told her the only thing you and her were growing was a distance, not some fucking roses. a stupid, tragic, half-dead bush that’s probably crying for help under her fake nails. i hope the thing dies, by the way.”

you pause just long enough to give him the kind of look that makes men rethink their entire life choices. “you know i love roses. you know that. they’re my favorite flower, hajime. and now—” your voice cracks, just a little, the anger melting into something raw, “now i have to find something else to like, because every time i see a rose, i’ll think of your dumb ass playing gardener with that chlorophyll-chasing, dirt-scented freak.”

he opens his mouth, but you keep going, your words picking up speed, your sarcasm dripping like honey turned acid. “i can’t even look at roses now without imagining you two standing there with watering cans, smiling like idiots, pretending you’re in some fucking cottagecore commercial for heartbreak. oh, look at us, hajime and misaki, the love story nobody asked for, sponsored by miracle-gro and emotional negligence.”

you laugh, short and bitter, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “so yeah, congratulations. you ruined roses for me. do you have any idea how dramatic that is? who the hell ruins a flower for someone? that’s psychotic behavior.”

you gesture vaguely toward him, voice trembling from equal parts fury and heartbreak. “and don’t you dare try to fix it with one of your sorry smiles or your stupid soft voice. i don’t want to hear ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ or any of that crap. you’re not charming your way out of this one. you killed my favorite fucking flower, hajime.”

his shoulders drop, and for a second, he looks genuinely stricken. like he knows exactly what he’s done but can’t find the words to climb out of the grave he dug himself.

you sniff, crossing your arms tighter, looking away toward the balcony. “piece of shit,” you mutter, quieter this time, but the venom still there, thick and deliberate. “next time you decide to plant something, plant your sense of boundaries. maybe it’ll bloom faster than your fucking stupidity.”

he lets out a shaky breath, and though you’re not looking, you can feel it—the guilt, the way it weighs heavy on him, pulling him forward, pulling him closer.

but you don’t move. not yet. you just sit there in your silk pajamas, glowing under the soft light, furious and heartbroken and beautiful, like the kind of mess only someone stupidly in love could make.

he lets you talk, lets you spill every bit of poison sitting behind your teeth. when you finally run out of words he exhales, eyes flicking between your face and the balcony door.

“okay,” he says quietly, almost hoarse. “you’re right. i let her get near you, i let her get near us. i should’ve shut it down the first time she opened her mouth. i thought she was just harmless noise, but i see how it looks now. it’s on me.”

you don’t answer, still watching him like you’re deciding whether to throw him off the balcony.

he keeps going, voice soft but frantic underneath. “i’ll fix it. i’ll get rid of the fucking roses—hell, i’ll rip the whole bed out tomorrow if it makes you feel better. i’ll plant something else, something just for you. lilies, orchids, daisies—whatever you want. i’ll bring you every damn flower in the city if that’s what it takes.”

you snort, leaning your head back against the headboard. “oh wow, a floral apology tour. maybe you can get a discount card—buy ten bouquets, get your girlfriend’s forgiveness free.”

he smiles a little at that, but it’s weak, guilty. “i mean it,” he says, reaching out. his palm catches the side of your face, thumb brushing the line where your cheek’s still damp. “i’m sorry, baby. she can keep those roses for herself, i don’t give a fuck about them anymore. she’s not coming near you again. not at the garden, not anywhere.”

“good,” you mutter, still not looking at him. “because if she did, i’d turn her into mulch and send her to her own funeral in a flower pot.”

he huffs a laugh, forehead falling forward till it touches yours. “you really scare me sometimes.”

“you should be scared,” you whisper, your voice all sugar and steel. “you’re the one who thought sharing a hobby meant adopting a parasite.”

his shoulders shake with a quiet chuckle, and he leans closer until his nose brushes your temple. “no more parasites. just you. i promise.”

you hum, still pretending you don’t care, even though your hand’s already in his hair, tugging once like punishment. “you better, or next time i’ll be the one planting something—and it’ll be your dumb ass six feet under.”

“deal,” he says softly, kissing the corner of your mouth before you can say another word.

he kisses you like a man desperate for forgiveness, soft at first—testing the waters, lips brushing your jaw, the edge of your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—each one a quiet apology shaped like warmth. it’s annoying how good he is at this, how every gentle touch feels like he’s rewiring your anger cell by cell. you’re still mad, still seething, but your body betrays you, leaning into the familiar scent of soap and soil and him.

his thumb strokes your chin; another kiss lands just under your eye, another on the tip of your nose, and he murmurs something stupid like “i’m sorry, baby” between each one until your brain starts to blur around the edges.

you groan, half irritated, half drunk on his breath. “you think you can just mouth your way out of this?”

he grins against your skin. “maybe,” he says, voice rough, hopeful.

“yeah, well, don’t get too excited,” you mutter, pushing a hand against his chest though you don’t really mean it. “tomorrow i don’t want to see those stupid fucking roses ever again. burn them, drown them, sell them to a funeral home—I don’t care. just make them disappear before i develop a rash from secondhand betrayal.”

he laughs, low and nervous, the sound vibrating through his chest. “you really hate them that much?”

“hajime,” you say slowly, looking him dead in the eye, “if i see one more petal, i’ll start a bonfire big enough to roast your guilt on. i want that bush gone. dug out. i want the soil salted like we’re closing off a cursed graveyard.”

he presses his forehead to yours, trying not to laugh, but you can feel it—the soft shake of his shoulders.

“i’m serious,” you add, poking his chest hard. “you let that chlorophyll homewrecker touch my favorite flower. you think i can look at a rose now without hearing her voice? please. that plant’s tainted. it’s basically a botanical crime scene.”

he hums, still grinning. “alright. no more roses. i’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”

“good,” you whisper, eyes narrowing. “because if i see a single leaf left standing, i’ll personally rent a bulldozer and flatten that garden myself. and maybe your ego while i’m at it.”

he laughs properly this time, head dropping to your shoulder, the sound rumbling low against your skin. “you’re insane,” he says softly.

you smirk, fingers slipping into his hair as you pull him closer. “yeah, but at least i’m your problem.” and he kisses you again, the kind of kiss that tastes like surrender, like he’s already planning the funeral for those damned roses.

it doesn’t take long for the anger to start crumbling—not completely, not all at once, but enough that your shoulders stop shaking, enough that the edge of your voice softens. hajime’s always been good at this, at quiet apologies that sound like promises, at letting his warmth do the talking. his hands are steady against your jaw, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin, and every time he says something low and soft, you can feel the fight bleeding out of you.

his voice does that thing again—deep, patient, with that tiny tremor that always sounds like he means every word. “hey,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your cheek, “breathe, yeah? i’m right here.”

you sigh, half in frustration, half in surrender, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly. “i hate how you sound so calm,” you mutter, voice muffled. “it’s like your voice was made for manipulating me.”

he laughs quietly, his breath warm against your ear. “i’d call it soothing, not manipulating.”

“whatever,” you say, leaning closer until your forehead rests against his collarbone. your anger’s still there, simmering somewhere in the background, but it’s mixed now—with exhaustion, with affection, with that stupid ache that always shows up when you’re too close to him for too long. you murmur it before you can stop yourself, soft and tired, “i miss you.”

he stills for half a second, then hums, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “missed you too,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “and i’m sorry again, sweetheart. you must’ve been really upset if you missed me this much.”

you tilt your head up, glaring weakly. “don’t get smug about it.”

he chuckles, his hand sliding down your back, slow and careful. “not smug. just… relieved you still want to see me at all.”

“please,” you snort, swatting his chest. “i wanted to see you so i could yell at you again. don’t flatter yourself.”

he grins, that soft, stupid smile that makes your heart twitch even when you want to punch him. “fair enough. but you’re calmer now, right?”

“barely,” you mutter, though your hand’s already tracing the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you owe me.”

his brows lift. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, lips twitching. “you better plan another date. and i don’t mean one of your boring, coffee-shop, let’s-hold-hands-and-watch-you-pretend-to-be-a-gardener kind of dates. i want something nice. something expensive. something that doesn’t involve dirt or that woman’s cursed aura.”

he laughs, low and soft, tilting his head until your noses almost touch. “so… spa day, dinner, rooftop champagne?”

“keep talking,” you murmur, smiling against his mouth. “and maybe i’ll let you live.”

he grins, brushing his lips over yours again. “deal.” you hum, satisfied, closing your eyes as you let him kiss you again, the taste of apology and warmth and just enough smugness to remind you why you fell for the idiot in the first place.

you stay quiet for a long time, tracing the seam of his shirt between your fingers, the air heavy and warm from all the things you threw at him earlier. it sits there between you both—your anger, your guilt, your pride—like a ghost that doesn’t know when to leave. hajime keeps running his thumb along the back of your hand, like he’s waiting for something to shift, like he’s scared you’ll pull away again.

finally, you sigh. not the soft kind, the world-weary, dramatic, “fine, i surrender but only halfway” kind. your head stays against his chest, voice muffled and small but still sharp enough to sting. “i was mean,” you mutter. “like… really mean.”

he tilts his head down, kissing the crown of your hair. “mm.”

“and i said some fucked up things,” you continue, twisting your fingers into his shirt, “about you, not about her. i don’t regret any of the shit i said to her. she deserved every syllable. if anything, i wish i’d used bigger words.”

he laughs quietly, low in his throat, the sound vibrating under your ear. “noted.”

“but you…” you pull back enough to look at him, eyes still narrowed but softer now. “you didn’t deserve all of that. maybe eighty percent, tops. i might’ve… gone nuclear when a regular slap would’ve done.”

he hums, pretending to think. “so i’m only eighty percent a piece of shit now? progress.”

you glare, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “don’t push it.”

his grin widens. “you’re apologizing. that’s new.”

“don’t get excited,” you warn, flicking his collar. “this is a limited-time offer. i’m still mad, i just feel bad for calling you a spineless gardening simp and comparing your emotional awareness to a traffic cone. that was… maybe too creative.”

he bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “i liked the creativity part.”

“yeah, you would,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “you’re lucky you’re hot. if you looked like a thumb, i’d still be screaming.”

he smirks, leaning closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “you’re forgiving me because i’m hot?”

“no,” you correct, voice dripping with sarcasm. “i’m forgiving you because i’m merciful. the hotness just makes it easier to look at your dumb face while i do it.”

he chuckles, kissing the tip of your nose, his hands coming up to cup your jaw again. “i’ll take it.”

you tilt your head, pretending to think. “but just to be clear, i’m only apologizing for being mean to you. not the rest. not the part where i threatened to salt your garden or to start a bonfire with the roses. that’s still on the table.”

he laughs against your skin, the sound so warm it almost makes your chest hurt. “deal.”

“good.” you tug at his shirt, voice softening just slightly. “now start planning my damn date before i change my mind and go back to hating you again.”

he smiles, that stupid, gentle, hajime smile that always makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. “already on it, princess.” you hum, resting your head back against him. “yeah, you better be. and it better not include a single fucking rose.”

you stay where you are for a bit, your head on his chest, heartbeat steady under your ear, the air thick with warmth and that faint post-argument stillness. his thumb keeps tracing the curve of your waist, the rhythm almost hypnotic. after a while you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes skimming his face — that maddeningly perfect symmetry, the soft smirk that always looks one breath away from trouble. you try to fight the grin tugging at your mouth, suck your lips in like you’re hiding something, but he catches it instantly.

he raises a brow, knuckles brushing your cheek. “what’s that look for? you plotting something? or you’re about to say something perverted, aren’t you?”

you laugh, short and low, the sound melting into the quiet between you. “you wish,” you mutter, smacking his chest with a lazy slap that makes him chuckle.

“nah,” he says, smiling like he already knows what’s coming. “you’ve got that evil sparkle in your eye. that’s your danger zone face.”

you roll your eyes, drawing a little circle on his collarbone with your fingertip. “fine,” you whisper, voice slipping into a mock-serious tone, “you wanna have make-up sex?”

his reaction is immediate: a sharp inhale, a burst of laughter that fills the whole room, head tilting back as he grins like an idiot. you giggle too, the tension cracking open between you.

“jesus,” he laughs, still catching his breath. “you’re unreal. a whole menace wrapped in silk.”

“oh, please,” you snort, leaning closer until your lips brush the edge of his jaw. “you act like i came up with this all by myself. you’re the one who trained me for chaos, remember? i was a perfectly innocent girl before you showed up with your stupid voice and your stupid hands.”

he hums, grinning. “so now i’m the bad influence?”

“oh, absolutely,” you say, fingers curling into his shirt as you tug him closer, until he’s hovering over you. “you built this monster. now deal with it.”

he laughs again, lower this time, the sound rougher around the edges as he shifts his weight, letting you guide him down with that smug little pull. you fall back against the pillows, his body leaning over yours, the mattress dipping with the familiar gravity of him.

“god, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, voice half-amused, half-breathless.

“and yet,” you whisper, smirking, “you’re still here. congratulations on your poor life choices.”

he doesn’t answer. he just kisses you — slow at first, like he’s savoring the taste of forgiveness, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before deepening the kiss. it’s the kind that feels like an apology without words, a quiet ache that makes your chest twist. his mouth is warm, soft, a little desperate; you can feel the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor of relief underneath all the heat.

your hand slides up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he groans softly into your mouth, his laugh ghosting over your skin when you bite at his lip just to be annoying.

“still mad?” he murmurs between kisses.

“ask me again in five minutes,” you mumble against his lips, smiling when he laughs quietly, his breath catching at the sound.

he moves lower, tracing kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your throat. the world shrinks to the sound of his breathing, the slow, steady drag of his lips against your skin. he lingers there, just under your jawline, his mouth open enough to leave warmth that makes you sigh, your fingers threading into his hair as he works his way down.

“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper, breath uneven, though your tone still carries that familiar sarcasm. “you think kissing my neck’s gonna fix your entire PR disaster?”

he hums, lips brushing the spot just below your ear. “working so far,” he says, the words a low vibration against your skin.

you laugh quietly, a sound that melts into a sigh when he kisses you again, slower this time, longer — lips dragging lazily against the curve of your neck, his breath warm and steady. the scent of him fills everything: soap, coffee, and something faintly floral that makes you roll your eyes mid-blush.

“you smell good,” you whisper.

he chuckles, the sound muffled against your throat. “i showered. i’m trying to smell like redemption.”

“try harder,” you murmur, your hand fisting in his shirt.

he tilts his head, kissing higher, slower, until your breath catches again. his thumb traces the corner of your mouth, the motion tender, almost teasing.

“better?” he whispers.

you hum, pretending to think, even as your heart’s beating too fast. “you’re getting there,” you say finally, your lips twitching. “if you keep going, i might even forgive you by sunrise.”

“i’ll take my chances,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss just below your jaw before lifting his head, eyes meeting yours with that stupid, boyish smile that always ruins you.

and you sigh, pushing his hair back from his face, the sarcasm softening just a little. “fine,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “maybe i’ll keep you around.”

“oh, lucky me,” he teases, grinning.

“don’t push it,” you mutter, but you’re already pulling him down again.

the next day, the sun’s already too bright for your mood, and you’re still halfway convinced hajime dragged you out just to test your patience. you’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, your attitude set firmly to don’t talk to me unless it’s praise or apology. he’s humming to himself like an idiot, that calm little smile on his face that always looks suspiciously like he knows something you don’t.

“you’re being shady,” you mutter, swirling your straw. “you have that face. that ‘i’m about to do something dumb but it’s romantic so she can’t kill me’ face.”

he glances at you, laughing softly. “you’ll see.”

“if you brought me somewhere near dirt again, hajime, i swear to god—”

“you’ll see,” he repeats, obnoxiously patient, and keeps driving.

by the time you’re standing on the bofurin rooftop again, you’re seconds away from throwing him off it. the sun hits hard, the air smells faintly of soil and humidity, and you’re ready to start your usual speech about how this place is your personal hell on earth—until you look around.

no roses.

not a single one.

the corner where they used to bloom in arrogant little clusters is now spotless, the soil turned, fresh, bare. no sign of red, no smug petals staring back at you like a reminder of your temporary insanity. just dirt, clean and unbothered.

you hum, slow and satisfied, the sound low in your throat as you fold your arms. “well, well, look who actually listens for once in his life,” you say, smirking at him. “did you kill them yourself or did you outsource it to someone with emotional stability?”

he grins, leaning against the fence, hands in his pockets. “i did it this morning.”

“oh, how poetic,” you deadpan. “nothing says devotion like early morning floral homicide.”

he chuckles, stepping closer, his eyes soft even as yours gleam with smug triumph. “you’re welcome.”

“damn right i’m welcome,” you mutter, squinting at the empty patch of soil. “good riddance. those roses had bad energy. smelled like insecurity and pick-me perfume.”

he laughs louder this time, shaking his head. “you’re unbelievable.”

“no, i’m traumatized,” you correct, turning toward him. “do you know how cursed those things were? every time i saw one i could practically hear her voice talking about root systems and sunlight exposure. i had flashbacks, hajime. actual horticultural PTSD.”

he covers his mouth with his hand, clearly trying not to laugh, but the sound still slips out.

“go ahead, laugh,” you say, pointing at him. “but if one rose dares to regrow here, i’m calling an exorcist. i’ll sage this whole fucking rooftop and hang garlic like it’s a vampire nest.”

he grins, stepping behind you, his arms wrapping loosely around your waist. “no roses,” he murmurs against your ear. “just us.”

you hum again, smug as hell, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “as it should be. you and your dirt patch—romantic in a tragic, redemption-arc sort of way.”

“you really can’t just take the win, huh?” he teases, his voice warm, brushing against your skin.

“oh, i’m taking it,” you say, reaching up to pat his cheek lightly. “i’m taking it, framing it, and engraving ‘i was right’ in gold letters.”

he laughs, his breath against your neck. “you’re something else.”

“yeah,” you murmur, glancing over the empty garden with a self-satisfied smile. “something better than a rose.”

your issue was ren kaji, a guy so pretty yet intimidating even the tiniest glance of him sent you running in the opposite direction. so... how exactly were you convinced to start working at the one place he and the rest gathered most often? (save for the roof, of course.)

"a bet? are you crazy?!" you looked at kotoha incredulously. "this is just setting me up for failure!"

her cunning grin only pissed you off more, "i'm just saying, staring at him from so far away all the time only makes you look like a creep. i'm just trying to motivate you a little. either talk to him, or start working with me~"

"besides," she nudges your side as you walk down the busy street, pothos as your destination, "you already help me out a ton, so actually working with me will only earn you extra if you lose."

a vein in your forehead popped, "you seem to be missing the point! if i work with you, i'll be seeing him so often i might get a heart attack! and i won't even be allowed to leave!"

you'll make a fool out of yourself sooner or later, and he'll definitely hate you and call you annoying-

she only cackles at your panic, "then just talk to him! saves you so much trouble."

your whole body flushes at the idea, and even the breezy sundress you've got on does little to cool you off on the surprisingly hot spring day, "it's not that easy," you grumble.

she rolls her eyes, "yeah, sure. as if the last guy that asked you out wasn't stumbling over his words like a fool with how flustered you got him."

"i wasn't even doing anything to warrant that, he was just shy!" you argue back. "i don't think someone like kaji would like me," you add, albeit a lot quieter.

that gives her pause, "huh..? why not?"

your face scrunches up in regret, you probably shouldn't have said that. now she'll worry a bunch and ask you questions you really don't want to answer because you'll just sound conceited again-

"i'm sure the guys from furin must have a bunch of admirers, right? there must be like.. a bunch of pretty girls in there, too," you sigh. "anyway, i'm just saying, i don't really stand out much."

your little 'explanation' is met with silence, making you look over to kotoha, "girl, you good-?"

it looks as if she's trying to explode you with her mind, causing a bunch of giggles to tickle at your throat at the sight, "did i say something funny?" you snort, worries temporarily dispelled.

"they're a bunch of losers!" she explodes on you, "like hell do they have admirers, unless you mean tsubaki and umemiya, but i can guarantee you there's little competition if we're looking at kaji specifically."

"are you saying he's not likeable?" you look offended on his behalf. "are you insulting my taste?" you prod further, brows furrowed, "i happen to think he's mighty cute-"

"who's mighty cute, huh?" a strong arm is wrapped around your shoulder, just as it is around kotoha. the cheery voice could be none other than mr furin himself, umemiya.

startled out of your minds, both you and your friend shriek at an ear piercing volume before you shove ume off of you both, making him land flat on his ass. "yowch! you guys are so rude!"

the tiniest glance back confirms your fear, where there is furin, there's a chance kaji is there too. the second your gaze falls on him, who's luckily looking down at his phone and has his headphones on so loud you can hear the music from about 3 yards away, you make a run for it. throwing some measly excuse of 'gotta walk the plants!' over your shoulder before you speed walk your way in some random direction. not even the one towards your house.

bet? officially lost. not like you even accepted it, but kotoha didn't seem to care much for that detail. which got you angrily scrubbing the dishes already the day after. at least you were allowed to customize your apron, so there's that.

"i still can't believe you ran off just like that," she laughs, "you looked stupid."

"gee, thanks," you glare at her over your shoulder, the little kitten clip you stuck onto your pocket glimmering under the light.

"you're usually so happy and chipper, though," she points out, "how come a guy is making you act this way?"

she's right, of course. unfortunately for you, she usually is.

"i dunno," you shrug, frowning. "he's just cool, i guess."

you don't see her face as you turn back to your dishes, but you already know she's got her stupid brow raised and is definitely mocking you. "cool? he's got his face punched in most of the time, what's so cool about that?"

"okay, now that's rude," you wipe your hands dry and sigh, turning back to face her, leaning your hips against the counter. "promise not to laugh if i tell you?"

she nods vigorously, "yeah, pinky promise!" she holds out her pinky, glaring at you once you refuse to take it that same second.

heat creeps up your chest and neck as you recall an evening about 6 weeks back. it was a tad colder, and darkness crept up the evenings a lot sooner than now.

how when you were walking back from a a hangout with her, a group of guys started bothering you, tugging you by the hand, whistling and trying to convince you to 'have some fun' with them.

the fear that consumed you, and the subsequent shock as one of the guys grunted, a tooth clattering to the floor, where he followed. blows were exchanged left and right as you looked on in horror.

but then, a flash of blond hair whooshed past, and how you couldn't look away. heart almost beating out of your chest for an entirely different reason now. an infatuation formed right then.

but instead of thanking your savior, you ran off just before he was done. like some coward.

when you look back up at your friend, kotoha promised not to laugh, and yet her face was red as a tomato just from having to hold back.

you pout, burning up from the embarrassment, "your pinky promises don't mean shit, i see."

she shakes her head, grinning and giggling away, "you're such an idiot."

"i feel bad," you continue, looking away at the ground, fists clenching, "he got his hands dirty for nothing."

"hey now," she steps closer, placing her hands on your shoulders. she squeezes them gently before she pulls you in for a hug, "you weren't hurt, right? that means it wasn't for nothing."

you lean your cheek against her shoulder, "yeah, but that just makes me feel worse. he prevented something seriously bad, and i just left."

"you were scared out of your mind, then proceeded to fall in love at first sight, i'd be running too-"

you pull away quickly, face burning up, "it's not love at first sight! he's just hot!"

the chime of the bell, followed by black and green jackets entering sends you into a panic. you quickly turn around, returning to your dishes as to avoid being noticed.

unfortunately, that's not how it goes.

"hey, you!" umemiya greets, "about time you started getting paid for all the work you do around here."

"that's right," kotoha agrees, nudging your side playfully, "i finally got her to agree."

as the boys take their seats, she takes the guys' orders one by one, until by the end her tone changes slightly, and she glances over to you, "and for you, kaji?"

you visibly stiffen. it would've been so much better for you had you not known he was here! curse her, of course she'd do it to you. probably thinking she's doing you a favor, too. your grip on the pan tightens before you put it away and turn off the water.

you help her prepare the orders, and as if things couldn't get any worse for you, she shoves the tray into your hands when you're done, "go on, you can bring it."

the glare you shoot her way makes her snicker. shaking in your boots just a bit, you make your way over to the bane of your existence. your ankle almost twists out from under you as you nearly trip over a chair leg you can't see because of the big-ass tray.

mustering up a smile, one that definitely looks just as clumsy as you feel, you set down the plates one by one. luckily you don't have to say much, the boys take their own food by themselves, all with their own distinctive 'thank you's'. all is well until you get to the man of the hour.

when you set down the final plate, his plate, hands shaking and sweat forming at your brow, you dare a brief glance at him. and when you do, it's like time stops. he's already looking at you too, his dark blue eyes wide, sucker hanging so far out of his mouth it's about to fall out.

his face reddens the longer you keep eye contact for, and you can't hear anything aside from your own heartbeat echoing in your ears.

tsubaki is the first one to notice, and he nudges sakura, who's sitting next to him, which causes a domino effect of everyone enjoying their first row seats of kaji falling for someone in real time.

you shake your head, startled out of your little moment when you hear someone's head slam against the table. sakura, unable to handle the tension, just had to look away into the one direction he surely wouldn't be able to see a thing.

utterly horrified, your heart beating out of your chest, you hurriedly apologize, "i'm so sorry! enjoy your food!" before you scurry off behind the counter. as far away from the table as you can get without getting in trouble.

meanwhile kaji's gaze follows you the entire time, basically burning holes into your back. face as pink as his strawberry lolipop, he barely acknowledges the teasing from his friends. instead, he turns to them, "i know her. couple of guys were bothering her a while back. she ran off before i could say anything, though."

"well, it seems you stuck in her mind~" tsubakino sighs dreamily, "she's real pretty too, and clearly into you! go on, go up to her!"

kaji's shoulders rush up to his reddened ears. he looks away, frowning. he still glances up at you, before he looks away again. you look really cute in that apron.

amongst grins and laughs at kaji's predicament, the others dig in to their food, while his gaze just keeps coming back to your flustered self. he's not good at talking to women, especially the cute ones. had he not been that much a loser at speaking, he would've stopped you from leaving that night, just so he could walk you home and personally make sure you got home safe.

maybe i can do that tonight, he thinks. the sky outside is slowly turning from orange to pink, and pothos closes after it's already dark. how can he ask, though? you're clearly avoiding them, just like you did the day prior when he and a few others saw you and kotoha outside. he only got a glimpse of the back of your head that time.

the sound of your laughter makes him look up again. you're giggling about something kotoha said to you, and while he definitely thinks you look cute while startled and shy, you're truly at your prettiest when you smile.

he can feel his heartbeat spike, he'll have to figure out a way to do that soon.