Mochizuki Haruka, coming back to her senses after a heady morning, bowed deeply in front of .
Was it because we hadn't had a real date in so long? Today, she was practically beaming and blushing, her every gesture reminding of soone on their first-ever romantic outing.
"It's getting late, let's go," I prompted, trying—and failing—to sound nonchalant.
"Hmm!"
She nodded with the kind of energy only sheer happiness can summon, holding my arm tightly. Her warm cheek brushed my bicep. I felt her fingers squeeze just a little each ti she glanced up at .
We must look like a couple in a romance ad right now.
Our sweet weekend date began in earnest.
The rhythmic rocking of the train, the sunlight slanting through station windows, the electricity of anticipation in the air—by the ti we stepped out together at the big shopping mall, it already felt like a proper Tokyo date.
This mall was a beast: endless floors, a city's worth of shops, a the park for the fashion hungry. You could lose an entire day (or wallet) in here without even blinking.
Haruka and I found ourselves in the clothing section, swept into a shop aid at younger crowds. Its signage was as loud as its music, promising 'the latest,' 'the must-haves,' 'debut like a model!' Stuff I'd never pay attention to by myself.
I tend to just… exist in whatever fits. School uniform during the week, plain T-shirt and jeans when I can get away with it. Nothing that would catch a magazine editor's eye—but Haruka apparently had other plans today.
I barely had ti to blink before she was stacking T-shirts and shorts into my arms, efficiently ushering toward the fitting area.
"Try this one! And this! Oh—that pastel blue looks good… Ginjo-san, go on, hurry up!" she said, eyes sparkling with glee.
Being on the receiving end of a full girlfriend-style makeover was…
Embarrassing?
A little.
Fun?
Weirdly, yeah.
I stood dutifully in front of the mirror for each new outfit. Haruka's gaze lingered not-so-subtly every ti I changed, and I saw her biting her lip more than once as I switched shirts or showed a little too much muscle.
Honestly, it felt like she was the one getting flustered, not .
"Every T-shirt suits Ginjo-san so well," she murmured at one point, an adorable, slightly goofy smile tugging at her lips.
And then—she started to drift, spacing out while looking at my reflection in an outfit.
Her cheeks went from pink to full-on red, her gaze worriedly far-away.
She's up to her daydreams again. I'd bet anything she's already imagining a dostic life scenario: brushing my hair, fixing my tie, telling to work hard, welcoming ho with—
"Mochizuki-san?" I had to repeat myself twice before her eyes focused. She looked so embarrassed I wanted to laugh… or maybe just give her a hug.
Having a handso classmate by your side is a blessing and a curse, isn't it, Haruka?
She finally shook her daydreams away. "Since we're here, Ginjo-san, try these pants on as well!" she declared, running damage control and passing one last pair.
Pants required the fitting room, of course.
I ducked inside the cramped little booth, changed quick, then pulled aside the curtain. Mochizuki Haruka was waiting right outside, hands clasped behind her back, peeking inside.
"How is it, Mochizuki-san?"
"Oh, it's perfect, Ginjo-san!" she bead.
Honestly, I could've walked out wearing a garbage bag and she'd probably still praise .
But then, as if possessed by a mischievous spirit, Mochizuki Haruka stepped right in, pulling the curtain closed behind her and sealing us in a space barely big enough for one.
My mind blanked.
Her perfu, the brush of her arm, the heat of her breath all wrapped in with the cramped quarters.
"…Excuse , Mochizuki-san—?"
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