Can a misanthrope have a harem?

The sun had dipped lower by the time Aiko reached the Service Club room. The air inside was cooler, quieter, like stepping into a different season altogether. It smelled faintly of tea and paper, the window cracked open just enough to let in the whisper of wind.

Yukino sat behind the desk, her posture perfect as ever, but her eyes flicked up when he entered, sharper than usual, as if she already knew something had changed.

"You're late," she said, setting her pen down with an audible click.

Aiko stepped in, his pace slower than usual. "I didn't know we had a meeting."

"We didn't," she replied. "You just came."

He hesitated, then quietly took the chair opposite her. The silence settled like snow, light, but suffocating.

Yukino didn't speak immediately. She studied him, and he looked away. He could still feel the warmth of Alya's hand in his, the taste of her words lingering in his chest.

"You were with her," Yukino said, not as a question, but as an inevitability. "Alya."

Aiko flinched, barely. "Yeah."

"She's… persistent."

That wasn't what she meant. Not entirely.

"She said things I needed to hear," he said, voice low. "Things I didn't know I'd been waiting for."

There was a flicker in Yukino's expression, brief, but telling. A tightening around the mouth. A shift of her shoulders. She folded her hands neatly.

"She reaches you with chaos," Yukino said. "Like tearing down a wall with a smile and a hammer."

"And you?"

"I don't tear," she said quietly. "I wait until the wall cracks."

Aiko looked up at her, slowly. The sunset touched her hair, silvering it. He thought she looked older than she had just days ago. Or maybe she always looked like that when he wasn't paying attention.

"I came here because I still don't know who I was," he said. "But I think I'm starting to know who I am."

Yukino met his eyes, still and unreadable. "And does that mean you've chosen?"

"I didn't come here to choose," Aiko said. "I came because… even if I'm figuring it out with her, it doesn't erase what I felt here. What I still feel."

Her eyes darkened, hurt? Bitterness? Acceptance?

"I'm not Alya," she said simply.

"I know," he said. "That's not a bad thing."

The silence thickened again, but it wasn't angry. It was complicated.

"You kissed her," Yukino said. Not gently. Just fact.

"…Yeah."

She looked away, her gaze drifting to the window. "Then I'll just have to work harder."

Aiko blinked. "What?"

"To be remembered," Yukino said, finally allowing a small smile. "Properly. Not as a shadow behind someone else's warmth."

For the first time, he felt a tug beneath her words, not rivalry, not really, but longing, shaped like restraint. Where Alya had pulled him in with fire and touch, Yukino offered something colder, stillness, clarity, but no less real.

Aiko sat back, exhausted. "I don't know what happens next."

"Neither do I," Yukino replied. "But if we're both guessing, then let's not pretend we're not playing the same game."

And with that, she stood and turned to the shelf, pouring him a cup of tea without asking.

He took it. Steam rose like breath in winter.

Somewhere between forgetting and remembering, between the rooftop and this quiet room, he realized: these girls weren't just echoes of past lives.

They were the reasons he might still want to live through this one.

Yukino placed the teacup in front of him. Her fingers lingered near his for a breath too long, and Aiko looked up, expecting the moment to pass like so many others with her. But it didn't.

Her eyes held his.

Clear. Blue. Cutting.

"You said you didn't come here to choose," she murmured, voice almost too quiet to hear. "But you came."

Aiko nodded, unsure of the weight behind her words.

"That matters to me," she added.

He watched her, uncertain, until the quiet between them stretched thin again. Then he spoke.

"I was scared," he admitted. "That if I remembered too much, I'd lose who I was now. That if I let myself feel it… I'd just break."

Yukino's voice barely wavered. "Then let it break."

His breath hitched.

"You've always been so careful," she whispered. "Even when you loved us. Even when you left. Always watching the ice but never stepping out onto it."

Aiko blinked. "What if I fall through?"

"Then I'll pull you out," she said.

She stepped around the table, deliberate, slow, and stopped in front of him.

The room was dim now, tinged with the violet hues of evening. The silence roared.

"I never got to say goodbye," Yukino said, voice soft. "Not properly. That last winter, I think… you said goodbye to everyone else. But you left me with silence."

Aiko's fingers twitched on the teacup.

"So let me rewrite that moment," she said.

He opened his mouth, maybe to object, maybe to say he didn't know what he was doing anymore, but she was already leaning in, careful, like someone who'd waited too long for this.

Their lips met, lightly at first. Breath against breath. Then deeper, not out of desperation but memory. Clarity. Frost melting into spring.

Yukino's hands cupped his face like he was something fragile, something rare. Aiko kissed her back like he wasn't sure he deserved to.

And maybe he didn't. But she didn't care.

Their lips parted slowly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet room. Aiko's eyes fluttered closed, and as the warmth from her touch lingered on his skin, a sudden image flickered behind his eyelids.

He was walking beside Yukino along a narrow path lined with cherry blossoms, petals drifting softly like pink snow. The air smelled faintly of spring rain and fresh earth, cool but inviting. She wore a light jacket, her hair catching the breeze, and her eyes held that same quiet determination he'd seen now, but softer, unguarded.

They'd shared a thermos of tea, laughing quietly as they sheltered beneath the blooming trees. Yukino's hand had brushed his, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence. She had looked up at him, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

"I'm glad you came with me," she'd said.

Aiko remembered the ache in his chest, how he'd wanted to stay in that moment forever, to forget the weight of all the winters to come.

Then the memory dissolved, and he was back in the dim room, still holding her gaze.

His chest tightened as the memory faded, leaving behind the delicate scent of cherry blossoms and the echo of her quiet smile. It was a moment so simple, so achingly fragile, yet it felt like a lifeline thrown across the dark waters of his fractured past.

He realized then how much he had underestimated what 'knowing' her truly meant, not just the sharp edges of rivalry or the cool precision she wielded like armor, but the softness beneath it. That hesitant hand reaching for his, the unspoken trust in her eyes. It unsettled something deep inside him.

For so long, he had clung to Alya's fiery warmth, the chaos that shook loose the walls he'd built around himself. But this memory whispered of something quieter, a steadiness he hadn't dared to seek. The thought of Yukino waiting patiently, waiting for cracks to appear rather than smashing through, was both comforting and terrifying.

Because to step closer to her meant risking everything: the safety of distance, the clarity of detachment. It meant facing the parts of himself he still wasn't ready to accept, the parts that feared loss not just as an ending, but as a permanent unraveling.

His gaze dropped to the teacup in front of him, steam curling upwards like a fragile promise. Maybe, just maybe, he could let himself break a little, if it meant holding onto moments like that, moments worth remembering, moments worth fighting for.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," Yukino whispered.

"I wouldn't believe you if you did," he said.

She huffed a small laugh. "But it means I want to see how it ends. Even if I lose again."

Aiko's breath hitched.

"Even if I die again," he said quietly.

Yukino pulled back, just enough to look him in the eyes. "Then live until you don't. And remember us this time."

He nodded.

It wasn't a promise. It couldn't be.

But it was something.

...

The evening air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of blooming jasmine from a nearby garden. The sky, a deepening navy, stretched wide above them, speckled with the tentative first stars of night.

Yukino rose slowly from her chair, her movements deliberate but unhurried. She didn't break the silence with words, but her soft smile was an unspoken invitation. Aiko found himself standing, drawn into the quiet orbit of her presence.

They stepped out together, the door clicking softly behind them, shutting out the warmth of the Service Club room. Outside, the world felt vast and still, shadows pooling beneath the street lamps like dark velvet.

Their footsteps echoed faintly as they walked side by side along the school's winding path. The night was a gentle cocoon, offering a reprieve from the tangled thoughts crowding Aiko's mind.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence was not empty, it was a fragile thread tying them together, a promise of something tentative yet true.

Yukino's voice came, soft but steady.

"Do you remember the first time we walked here together?" she asked, glancing at him.

Aiko's brow furrowed in thought, the memory surfacing like a pale light through fog. "I think... it was spring. The cherry blossoms were just starting to bloom."

She nodded, eyes distant but warm. "You were quieter then. More careful. Watching everything from a distance, like you were afraid of disturbing something."

He smiled faintly, the memory as vivid as the petals drifting in that imagined spring breeze.

"I was scared," he admitted, voice low. "But somehow... with you, it felt safe. Like I didn't have to be afraid to step forward."

Yukino's gaze softened, and she reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Her fingers lingered there, a delicate touch that said more than words could.

"Maybe that's what I want to be for you now," she murmured. "A steady place. Something you can lean on when the world feels too heavy."

Aiko's heart tightened at her words. The walls he had built so carefully, brick by brick, felt like they might finally crack, not with destruction, but with the quiet hope of something new growing inside.

He looked up at her, the streetlight casting a gentle glow over her face, revealing the subtle traces of vulnerability beneath her usual composure.

For once, he didn't have to hold back, didn't have to be the one breaking down or running away. He could simply be here, beside her.

They walked on, the night wrapping around them like a soft, protective blanket. The future was uncertain, shadowed by the ghosts of past winters and the promise of inevitable farewells.

But in this moment, with her hand almost touching his, that uncertainty didn't feel so unbearable-

They slowed to a halt beneath a lamppost, the light casting a soft halo around them.

Yukino hesitated for a moment, then gently reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Aiko's ear. Her fingers brushed lightly against his cheek, the contact feather-soft but grounding.

Aiko's breath caught, but he didn't pull away.

Instead, he let his eyes meet hers, clear, steady, unguarded.

"I don't want to just be a memory this time," he whispered.

Her smile was small but genuine, like a secret shared between two people who had already endured too much.

"Then let's make sure you're not," Yukino replied, her voice barely above the night's hush.

They fall into an easy silence as they begin to walk slowly along the quiet school grounds. The city around them hums softly, distant voices, the rustle of leaves, the faint buzz of streetlights flickering on.

Yukino glances at Aiko, a softness still lingering in her eyes.

"I don't expect things to be simple," she says quietly. "But maybe that's what makes it worth trying."

Aiko nods, feeling the weight of her words settle inside him. For once, he doesn't feel the pressure to have all the answers.

Instead, he finds himself wanting to stay here, in this moment, with her.

They pause near the edge of the schoolyard, where the first stars begin to prick the twilight sky.

Without thinking, Aiko reaches out and takes Yukino's hand.

It's tentative at first, but when she squeezes back, steady and sure, he lets a small smile break through.

Maybe this time, they're not just playing the same game.

Maybe this time, they're building something new.

-It felt like the beginning of something worth fighting for.

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Thanks for reading. You can also give me ideas for the future or pinpoint plot holes that I may have forgotten, if you want.