As the night dragged on, Naoya kept his hand firmly wrapped around yours.

It wasn’t new. Not anymore. It had become one of those things he did without explanation, like it was obvious, like it didn’t warrant discussion. You’d learned the hard way not to comment on it. The last time you had—casually, lightly—he’d gone cold. Moody. Unreachable. A full week of silence before he returned as if nothing had happened, as if you were the one who’d imagined the distance.

So now, you let him hold your hand.

The festival buzzed around you, lanterns glowing warmly overhead, voices overlapping, laughter spilling through the streets. Naoya, however, looked utterly unimpressed. His expression was tight, brows furrowed, lips pulled into a constant scowl as his gaze flicked over the crowd with clear disdain. He walked like he was tolerating the place rather than enjoying it, shoulders stiff, grip on your hand just a little too tight.

And yet—he hadn’t let go once.

He huffed under his breath, eyes narrowing as another group brushed past. “It’s too loud,” he muttered, irritation dripping from every syllable.

A few steps later, another annoyed click of his tongue. “Too many damn people,” he groaned, as if the entire festival had personally offended him.

He sounded like he expected you to fix it. Like you could wave a hand and make the crowd vanish just to suit him. Still, despite all the complaining, he stayed close. Didn’t suggest leaving. Didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he drifted nearer, positioning himself slightly in front of you whenever the crowd thickened, possessive without acknowledging it.

Eventually, you stopped at a stand selling sweets. The air was warm with sugar and batter, the scent rich and inviting. You ordered a Japanese-style crepe without much thought. Naoya watched you from the corner of his eye, pretending disinterest.

Then, after a brief pause, he ordered the same.

Purely out of curiosity, he told himself. Just to see what the fuss was about. When the vendor handed it to him, he scowled like the choice had already ruined his night.

“You really picked this?” he muttered, casting the crepe a suspicious look, as if it had personally wronged him.

Once you both stepped aside, he lingered, watching you take the first bite. His eyes tracked the movement despite himself, sharp and focused. Only after you did did he finally lift his own crepe and take a bite.

And then—he froze.

The sweetness hit immediately. Rich, soft, unexpectedly good. Too good. It startled him enough that his grip tightened unconsciously around the paper wrapping. He swallowed, jaw tensing as embarrassment crept up his spine.

He liked it.

Worse—his mind betrayed him. The flavor lingered, warm and sweet, and somehow his thoughts drifted straight back to you. To the way you’d chosen it without hesitation. To how natural it felt standing beside you, sharing something so stupidly simple.

Frustration flared in his chest.

He scowled harder, turning his head away as if the night itself had insulted him. Liking the crepe was one thing. Associating it with you was another problem entirely—and one he absolutely did not intend to acknowledge.

Not out loud. Not ever.

But his hand never loosened its hold on yours.