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The specter of Miwa's potential departure casts a shadow over their days, though neither speaks of it directly. Their time together grows more intense, as if they're trying to cram a lifetime into stolen moments. Hachiman spends most nights at her apartment now, their bodies finding each other with a familiarity that's both comforting and terrifying. But beneath the heat of their touches, there's a current of unease, a question neither is ready to answer: what happens when she leaves?
Miwa's gigs are electric, her performances carrying a raw edge that draws bigger crowds. Hachiman watches from the sidelines, his chest tight with pride and dread. She's a force on stage, her voice a weapon, her presence magnetic. But offstage, she's quieter, her smiles less certain. He catches her staring at him sometimes, her expression unreadable, and it makes his stomach twist. He wants to ask what she's thinking, but his own fears—of being left behind, of not being enough—keep him silent.
One rainy evening, they're in her apartment, the patter of rain against the window a soft backdrop. Miwa's strumming her guitar, half-working on a new song, while Hachiman reads on the couch, his book forgotten as he watches her. The lamplight catches the curve of her cheek, the way her fingers move with practiced grace, and he's struck by how much he's come to need her—not just her body, but her chaos, her laughter, her sharp edges.
She catches him staring and sets the guitar aside, crawling onto the couch with a grin. "What's with the look, Hikigaya? Falling for me or something?" Her tone is teasing, but there's a flicker of something deeper in her eyes, a question she's not voicing.
He doesn't answer, just pulls her into his lap, kissing her with a hunger that surprises them both. Miwa responds instantly, her hands tugging at his shirt, her lips fierce against his. They're a tangle of limbs and need, clothes shed in a frenzy, and soon she's beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist. He enters her with a groan, the heat of her overwhelming, and they move together, fast and desperate, like they're trying to outrun the inevitable.
"Fuck, Hachiman," she gasps, her nails raking down his back, leaving marks he'll feel for days. He thrusts harder, driven by her moans, by the way her body arches into his. His hand slides between them, finding her clit, and she cries out, her climax hitting hard, her body trembling beneath him. Hachiman follows, his release a white-hot surge, his breaths ragged as he collapses against her.
They lie there, panting, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his shoulder. But the silence feels heavier now, the rain outside louder. Miwa's the first to break it, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm going to Tokyo next week. For the demo."
Hachiman's heart lurches, but he nods, his face buried in her hair. "When do you leave?"
"Tuesday," she says, and there's a tremor in her voice. "It's not permanent. Not yet. But… it could be."
He pulls back to look at her, her eyes wide and unguarded, and for the first time, he sees fear there—fear of losing him, of losing herself. "What do you want, Miwa?" he asks, his voice low, steady despite the storm in his chest.
She hesitates, her fingers tightening on his arm. "I want this to work," she says finally, her voice raw. "You. Me. But I also want the music. I've fucked up every chance I've had, Hachiman. I can't let this one go."
He nods, the weight of her words settling over him. "I wouldn't ask you to," he says, even as it hurts to say it. "But I don't know how to do this—us—if you're gone."
Her laugh is shaky, almost a sob. "Me neither. I'm shit at this kind of thing."
They don't solve it that night. Instead, they cling to each other, their touches slower, more deliberate. In her bed, they make love again, and it's different—gentle, almost reverent. Hachiman kisses her like he's memorizing her, his hands mapping every curve, every scar. Miwa's moans are softer, her hands cradling his face, and when they come together, it's with a closeness that feels like a vow.
Afterward, she curls against him, her voice muffled against his chest. "Stay with me," she whispers. "Until I go."
He doesn't hesitate. "I will."
The next few days are a blur of intimacy and avoidance. They spend every moment they can together—cooking meals that inevitably burn, watching old movies, losing themselves in each other's bodies. But the looming deadline of her departure hangs over them, a fracture they can't ignore. Hachiman catches himself wondering what it would be like to follow her, to leave his stagnant life behind, but the thought feels reckless, impossible.
Miwa, too, is torn. She's never wanted to stay for anyone, but Hachiman's become her anchor, her safe place. The idea of leaving him behind—of facing Tokyo's chaos without him—makes her chest ache. She writes a song about it, late at night while he sleeps, the lyrics raw and unfiltered: Caught between a dream and your hands, don't know how to let go.
On the night before she leaves, they lie awake, the silence heavy with everything they haven't said. Hachiman traces the curve of her spine, his voice quiet. "You'll be back, right?"
She turns to him, her eyes glistening. "I want to be. For you."
It's not a promise, but it's enough for now. They kiss, slow and deep, and hold each other until dawn, the fracture between them growing but not yet breaking.