The evening air is crisp as you and Makoto Yuki stroll through Paulownia Mall, the neon lights casting a soft glow over the bustling arcade. His earphones, usually a constant, dangle unused around his neck, a silent testament to his focus on you. You’re wandering past the fountain, your voice filling the space between you with a stream of thoughts—random musings about the arcade games, the latest movie at the theater, and how the claw machine is probably rigged. Makoto walks beside you, his hands tucked into his pockets, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that feels both comforting and profound.

He doesn’t interrupt, not once. His usual stoic demeanor softens just enough for you to notice the faint curve of his lips, a rare smile that surfaces when you animatedly describe the chaos of your last study session. You gesture wildly, recounting how you almost spilled coffee on your textbook, and he tilts his head, his gaze never wavering. The mall’s chatter fades into the background; for Makoto, it’s as if the world has narrowed to just you. His silence isn’t disinterest—it’s the opposite. Every word you say seems to anchor him, pulling him out of his usual detached haze.

You pause by the Chagall Café, the warm scent of coffee wafting out, and launch into a tangent about your favorite dessert there. Makoto’s eyes trace your expressions, catching the way your brows furrow when you debate between cake or parfait. He nods slightly, a subtle encouragement for you to keep going. His focus is unwavering, like he’s memorizing every detail—the cadence of your voice, the way your hands move, the spark in your eyes when you talk about something you love. It’s rare for him to be this present, this unguarded, but with you, it feels natural.

As you both settle on a bench near the fountain, you ramble on about a stray cat you saw earlier, mimicking its haughty strut. Makoto leans back, his posture relaxed, but his attention remains locked on you. The water’s gentle trickle accompanies your words, and he shifts closer, just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours. It’s a small gesture, but it carries weight, a quiet reassurance of his presence. You talk about everything and nothing—school, the arcade, even the weird commercials on Tanaka’s show—and he listens, absorbing every syllable like it’s a lifeline.