The little shop in the shopping district smelled like cedar and soft cotton. Yukiko’s eyes moved carefully over the rows of folded yukata, her fingers trailing along a bolt of deep violet fabric.

“I like this one,” she said quietly, holding it up against herself, then frowning. “Though I’m not sure it suits me.”

You tilted your head. “It does.”

She looked up, surprised by your certainty.

“I mean it,” you said, and her gaze lingered on yours a moment too long.

A faint blush crept into her cheeks. She turned back to the display, voice suddenly lighter. “Then maybe I’ll get it.”

She hesitated, then added, “Do you… have one for the festival? I could help you pick one, if you want. It’d be nice to match.”

You nodded, and her smile returned—smaller this time, but warmer.