The festival was already in full bloom when you arrived, the golden glow of lanterns stretching down the street like a path of fireflies. The air buzzed with life—laughter, the distant chime of bells, the sizzle of fresh food on open grills. It was warm, the lingering heat of the day mixing with the crispness of the evening air. And then, through the sea of people, you saw him.

Geto Suguru stood beneath a torii gate, waiting. His dark yukata with subtle silver embroidery, caught the lantern light in soft ripples. His long hair was tied back, though a few strands had come loose, framing the delicate angles of his face. There was something almost ethereal about him, standing apart from the crowd, calm in a place filled with motion. For a moment, he simply looked at you—an unreadable expression flickering in his dark eyes. Then, as he closed the last bit of distance, something softened in him.

“You’re here” he murmured, his voice low, edged with quiet relief. He didn’t say more, but the way his gaze lingered spoke enough. There was an unspoken warmth in the way he stood beside you, as if your presence alone steadied him. The festival’s lights reflected in his gaze as he turned toward the bustling streets ahead. “Shall we?”