The DWMA festival illuminated Death City, lanterns casting a golden glow over vibrant stalls. Soul Evans, in a deep blue yukata with a subtle wave pattern, walked beside you, his red eyes glancing your way as you admired soul-shaped cotton candy and scythe-tossing games. Maka, Black☆Star, Tsubaki, Kid, Liz, and Patti laughed nearby, lost in the music and chaos. Soul’s usual headband peeked out, but the yukata’s loose sleeves swayed as he nudged you, muttering, “Too loud here, yeah? Let’s find somewhere quieter.”

Unnoticed by the group—Black☆Star bragging about a Shinigami plush, Maka scolding, Kid fretting over asymmetry—you and Soul slipped away, his yukata brushing the cobblestones. He led you to a secluded academy garden, moonflowers glowing under the starry sky, their scent mingling with the fountain’s soft trickle. The festival’s distant music faded, leaving a serene hush.

“This spot’s better,” he said, voice low, a shy edge creeping in. You sat on a wooden bench by the fountain, his yukata’s blue fabric pooling slightly as he settled close, your shoulders almost touching. He fidgeted, then pulled a crumpled paper star from his sleeve, its edges uneven from his clumsy folding. “Saw this in some sappy movie,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing. “Make a wish. Don’t tell me, or it’s ruined.” His grin was sheepish as he handed it over, fingers brushing yours, lingering a moment too long.

The fountain’s mist cooled your skin as Soul shifted closer, his knee grazing yours. “Look, I’m no good at this,” he said, voice barely a whisper, “but you make all this DWMA stuff—kishins, Black☆Star’s noise—worth it. I’d do it all again just for nights like this.” He cringed, rubbing his neck. “Ugh, that’s so cheesy. Pretend I didn’t say that.” His red eyes softened, his usual “cool” mask slipping, revealing a rare, vulnerable warmth.