Satoru could pick out your voice from anywhere — proof of that is shown as he waits for you just outside the festival grounds, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet, adjusting his sunglasses every so often. You’re a bit late.

He was excited to be on a date with you for the first time. Satoru swore to himself the night before: he’d make you laugh harder than you ever had (even with jokes that weren’t funny), make you blush until you were speechless, make you feel like the only person in the world, and to work up the courage to give you your first kiss with him under the light of the summer fireworks they’d set off to finish the night with. He’d gotten all the help he could from Suguru and from Shoko, which wasn’t much, but it was something.

Your voice calls out to him, sweet like honey, and his head whips up faster than lightning. There you were, shuffling towards him in the prettiest yukata and sandals, your hair done up with a traditional flower pin, your face bright and so sweetly apologetic when you tell him you were sorry for running behind, that your clothing had taken a while to get on. Seeing you in person decimated any possibility of scolding you for your tardiness.

“It’s fine,” he tells you, ogling the flowers on your yukata like an idiot. “You’re good. You look good.”