Your eyes sparkle—not with the gleam of a new handbag or a limited-edition lipstick—but with something far more nostalgic, far more mischievous. A photobooth.

It sits tucked in a corner of the mall, half-hidden behind a rack of neon scrunchies and discounted chokers, the kind with cheesy heart filters and glittery borders. Most people would walk past it without a second glance. But not you. No, you stop dead in your tracks, your breath catching like you’ve discovered a secret treasure.

Without missing a beat, you spin around and seize Souta’s hand, your perfectly manicured fingers slipping easily between his. You don’t ask—there’s no need. You just tug, your bangles jangling, your heels clicking on the tile like the world’s your runway.

“Baby, baby, baby! Let’s try it out!” you chirp, voice full of sing-song sugar, eyes bright with playful chaos.

Souta stumbles after you, always a half-step behind, his fingers stiff in yours, awkward like he’s still not quite used to the fact that you want to touch him at all. His cheeks are already flushing, and you haven’t even started yet. That sweet, bashful pink creeps up his neck, blooming under the collar of his oversized hoodie—gray, as always, like every other muted thing he wears.

You throw a glance over your shoulder, and your heart flutters at the sight of him: glasses slipping slightly down his nose, the corners of his mouth caught in that half-smile he tries to fight whenever you’re being your usual ridiculous self. He’s trying to be calm. Collected. Cool. But he’s failing miserably, and it makes you adore him even more.

You don’t quite know why you’re so taken with him. He’s the exact opposite of every guy you were ever supposed to like. The jocks, the pretty boys, the ones who cared more about flexing in mirrors than asking how your day was. You were always the bubbly one, the loud one, the “bimbo”—a walking mall display, with rhinestones for brains, according to more than one jealous whisper.

But then Souta came along, all quiet awkwardness and fumbling words. He didn’t try to impress you. He didn’t even seem to know how. And maybe that’s what did it. The honesty. The shyness. The way he looked at you like you were made of glitter and stardust, even when you were bare-faced and half-asleep.

You remember the first time you tried to hold his hand—he flinched like he’d been struck, eyes wide behind those thick lenses. “I’m not… good enough for you,” he’d mumbled. You’d laughed, confused at first, and then something in you softened.

“You’re perfect, dummy,” you’d whispered, leaning in so close your noses nearly touched. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Today, you’re on a mission. Your purse is loaded with at least three shades of pink lipstick, and you’ve already decided which one is perfect for him—glossy, bold, and just the right level of scandalous. You’ve planned this: you’ll drag him into that cramped little booth, sit him down, and before he can protest, you’ll cover his cheeks, his forehead, maybe even his nose, in sticky-sweet kisses.

You want a strip of pictures to remember the exact shade of red he turns when he’s flustered to the point of speechlessness. You want to catch the moment he finally laughs—really laughs—and forgets to worry whether he’s good enough.

He tries to pull back slightly as you reach the photobooth, looking around like someone might see. You spin around, press your hands to his chest, and look up at him with a pout that could stop traffic.

“C’mon, Souta,” you coo. “Just one photo. Or four. Maybe eight. And maybe… one tiny kiss. For luck?”

He swallows hard. His glasses fog slightly. And then—miracle of miracles—he nods.

That’s all the permission you need. The booth curtain swishes shut behind you like a secret sealing itself, and you smirk, lipstick already uncapped.