Work Text:
She hears him from the stage—“HARuhiiiii!”—and although her stomach drops he’s still less embarrassing than he was at his graduation, what with the crying and the jumping into the audience and pulling her to his chest.
She knows better than to make eye-contact—she knows—but she does it anyway and sees him miming explosions with his hands. No, no, they’re bunches of flowers: the roses that were delivered to her house at the crack of frickin’ dawn.
And although she knows better, she still imagines the instant coffee on his breath and almost doesn’t hear her name.