Chapter 9: “Yukata, Fireworks, and Brain Short Circuits”

Yui said she’d “be ready in a minute.”

Haruki had been sitting outside the inn’s rental yukata changing room for twenty minutes, staring at the paper lanterns swaying overhead and trying not to spontaneously combust.

He wasn’t nervous.

Nope.

He was simply… preparing emotionally.

Preparing for what, you ask?

To see his girlfriend in a yukata. Which, historically speaking, had the power to destroy men.

Be cool, he told himself. She’s still Yui. Same girl who steals the blanket and makes cursed curry. This is fine.

Then she stepped out.

And he immediately lost his ability to function as a human being.

She wore a light blue yukata patterned with delicate white flowers. Her hair, usually loose and soft, was pulled into a loose updo with a matching floral hairpin. A pale obi cinched around her waist. She looked like she had walked out of a summer romance manga panel and directly into his soul.

Haruki blinked. Forgot to breathe. Then blinked again, just to make sure his eyeballs weren’t hallucinating.

“...Hi,” she said, tilting her head.

And all he could manage was:

“Uhh…”

Not a greeting. Not a compliment.

Just a vowel sound.

Great start.

Yui looked at him, amused. “Do I look weird?”

“NO. No, no—uh, not at all. I mean, yes. I mean—yes you look great. Not weird. Like. In a good way. Not a weird way. AHH.”

Yui’s mouth twitched into a grin. “That sentence went really well, I think.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I worked hard on it.”

The festival was small but perfect.

Food stalls lined the garden paths. Paper lanterns glowed overhead like tiny floating stars. Guests wandered in pairs, laughing, playing games, sharing grilled mochi and sweet potato skewers.

Yui walked close to Haruki, her sleeve brushing his arm every now and then.

Every time it happened, Haruki’s brain threw confetti and screamed THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

They tried yakisoba first.

“You’ve got sauce on your cheek,” Yui said.

Haruki reached up to wipe it.

“No, the other cheek,” she added, clearly enjoying herself.

He swapped sides.

“Still wrong.”

“Yui—”

She reached up and wiped it for him with her sleeve, giving him the softest, most teasing smile.

He stared at her.

She stared back.

And for a split second, he forgot how legs worked.

Next up was the goldfish scoop.

Haruki: “I’m totally going to win you a fish.”
Yui: “You’ve literally never done this before.”
Haruki: “I’ve watched anime. I’m basically a professional.”

Ten seconds later, his scoop broke, and the goldfish swam away triumphantly.

Yui giggled. “RIP, Goldy.”

“To be fair, she was too powerful. I admire her spirit.”

Eventually, he won her a tiny stuffed bear from a ring toss booth instead.

It was round, fluffy, and had the same blank expression he wore every time Yui looked too cute.

She clutched it to her chest. “This is the best bear I’ve ever received.”

Haruki smiled. “You’ve only ever received one.”

“Exactly. Perfect score.”

They ended the evening with ema plaques—small wooden boards guests could write wishes on and hang on the festival wall.

Haruki turned his back while Yui wrote hers.

“No peeking,” she warned.

“Fine,” he said, scribbling on his own.

When they were done, they hung them side by side.

Yui peeked at his.

I hope she’s always this happy when she’s with me.

She blinked.

Looked up at him.

Then slowly, very gently, leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

Right as the fireworks exploded overhead.

His heart stopped.

Actually stopped.

Like, medically speaking, he wasn’t sure it started again for a good six seconds.

Yui pulled back, her face lit by pink and gold bursts of light. “That was for the bear.”

“I’ll win you a hundred,” he blurted.

On the walk back, the air was still warm, their footsteps quiet on the stone path. Firework smoke lingered in the sky like soft ghosts of joy.

Yui’s hand brushed his.

Again.

And again.

Until finally—finally—Haruki laced their fingers together.

No drama.

No big gesture.

Just natural. Like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Yui looked down at their hands.

Then up at him.

“I wanted you to look at me like that,” she whispered.

Haruki blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you saw me.”

He stopped walking.

Turned toward her fully.

“I’ve never not seen you, Yui.”

She smiled.

And the world around them, the inn, the trees, the echo of fireworks—it all faded.

Because sometimes romance didn’t need grand declarations.

Just a look.

Just a hand held in the dark.