Can a misanthrope have a harem?

Aiko gasped awake.

His chest heaved, skin damp with sweat despite the morning light filtering gently through his window.

It took him a moment to remember where he was.

The warmth of the dream, Utaha's touch, her voice, her steadiness, all of it evaporated beneath the weight of that final image.

Blood on snow. His name cried into the dark. A smile through the pain.

His hands trembled as he pressed them to his face.

So many moments of love.

And still, every timeline led there.

But now… now the memories were coming faster. Clearer.

And the girls, each one, was trying to save him.

Maybe this time, he thought, staring at the golden light crawling up his wall,

He wouldn't die alone.

...

The sun filtered through the trees in soft amber streaks, and the streets still held that early quiet, broken only by the sound of birds and the distant hum of traffic.

Aiko walked beside Mahiru in silence, their shoulders occasionally brushing. It was a familiar rhythm now, the casual comfort of two people who had once known each other intimately, still trying to figure out how to hold the present without collapsing into the past.

Mahiru yawned into her sleeve. "You look like you barely slept," she muttered.

"I didn't," Aiko said honestly.

Mahiru glanced at him. "Bad dream?"

"Something like that."

She didn't push further, just gave a small nod and kept pace.

As they neared the corner near the station, the outline of a third figure came into view, already waiting, as always. Silent, still, sketchbook clutched to her chest.

Komi.

She stood beneath the curved shadow of the old cherry tree near the station gate, where the first dappled light of morning passed through the leaves like a curtain.

Mahiru raised her hand in a lazy wave. "Morning, Komi-san."

Komi turned, her eyes wide but calm, and gave a small nod in greeting.

Aiko offered her a faint nod too. "You're early."

Komi blinked, then scribbled something into her sketchbook. She flipped it up briefly toward them:

"Routine is comforting."

Mahiru smiled. "Fair."

Without another word, the three of them stepped through the ticket gate and onto the platform, the quiet hum of shared silence settling around them. The train pulled in a few minutes later, just as it always did, and they boarded the same car, found their usual spot near the back, standing near the window.

Komi stood beside Aiko, as she often did, fingers brushing her page as she idly doodled in the margin of her notebook.

It was like this most mornings now. The three of them, a quiet trio in a noisy world.

When the train pulled to a stop at their station, the doors opened with a familiar hiss.

Aiko and Mahiru stepped off automatically, and so did Komi.

Aiko paused.

Mahiru turned.

"…Wait," she said slowly. "Komi-san?"

Komi looked at them, expression as neutral as ever.

"You usually ride two more stops," Aiko added. "Your school's in the city."

Komi tilted her head slightly, lips parting just a little, as if she were trying to find the words.

Instead, she held up her notebook.

"Plans change."

Mahiru narrowed her eyes suspiciously, teasing. "Komi-san… are you ditching?"

Another page:

"No."

"Then why-"

But Komi had already walked ahead of them, her sketchbook held against her chest like armor. Her steps were steady. Intentional.

Aiko and Mahiru exchanged a glance.

"…No way," Mahiru whispered. "She didn't…"

"She did," Aiko murmured, half in disbelief. "She transferred."

Komi paused just ahead of them, half-turning over her shoulder. Her eyes found Aiko's.

And she smiled, soft, brief, but unmistakable.

Then she turned forward again and kept walking, disappearing into the school gates without another word.

Aiko let out a breath.

Mahiru crossed her arms, more amused than annoyed. "She really was just gonna walk into homeroom and act like it's normal, huh?"

"Of course she was," Aiko muttered, rubbing his temple. "It's Komi."

Mahiru snorted. "Well. That's gonna stir up the class."

He glanced once more toward the gate, where Komi had vanished inside.

And beneath the surprise… he felt it again.

That strange, heavy sense of deja vu.

...

The classroom buzzed with the usual morning noise, desks scraping, bags hitting the floor, friends laughing too loudly. The windows let in a soft summer glow, casting golden rectangles across the linoleum tiles.

Aiko slid into his seat near the back, last row, next to the window. Alya was already in her seat to his right, chin resting on her hand, lazily spinning a pen between her fingers. Mahiru, one row behind Alya, greeted him with a small smile before pulling out her notebook.

The chatter blurred into background noise, familiar and easy to ignore.

Until the door slid open.

The atmosphere shifted. not sharply, but with that unmistakable hush that follows the unexpected.

Komi Shouko stood in the doorway.

Perfectly still. Perfectly silent.

She wore their school uniform. Not visiting. Not an exception. No longer someone from another world passing through this one. The fabric hung crisply against her frame, her long black hair spilling like ink over her shoulders.

This time, she wasn't just visiting.

She was one of them.

A few students blinked. Murmurs started.

"…Wait, isn't she-?"

"She's from another school, right?"

"I've seen her around before but…"

Alya shifted in her seat, straightening. Her golden eyes narrowed, not with hostility, but with an awareness. The way a chess player watches a new piece land on the board.

Komi stepped inside, each movement smooth and unhurried. She didn't glance at anyone, until her gaze briefly met Aiko's.

He didn't flinch, but something in his chest stirred.

A quiet moment passed between them. Long enough to say I remember you, even if neither of them said it aloud.

The teacher entered behind her, clutching a folder.

"Everyone, quiet down. We have a new transfer student joining us starting today," she announced, her tone as gentle as her smile. "Please welcome Komi Shouko."

Komi bowed, fluid and graceful.

Then, with familiar care, she held up her notebook. Her handwriting was delicate and clean.

"Nice to meet you. I hope we can get along."

Murmurs swept the room. A few surprised gasps. Some curiosity.

"She doesn't speak…?" someone asked.

Yui, who sat a few rows ahead, glanced over her shoulder. "She can. She just… prefers not to."

The teacher nodded. "Please give her your patience. She communicates best through writing."

Then came the practical question.

"Where should she sit…?"

"I'll guide her," Mahiru said, already standing. She walked toward the front, brushing past rows of desks, and offered Komi a smile, half welcoming, half teasing.

She gestured to the only empty desk: just ahead of her, next to Aiko, left of the window seat.

Komi moved toward it. Quiet. Measured. As she passed Alya, the Russian girl's gaze followed her.

"Tch… another quiet beauty," Alya muttered in Russian, barely audible. "How annoying."

Komi paused beside the desk.

Aiko turned toward her. "So… no warning at all?"

Komi hesitated, then pulled her notebook up again.

"I wanted it to feel natural. Like I've always belonged here."

Aiko blinked.

And somehow, for a fleeting moment, it did.

Like she had always sat there, always looked at him like that, always belonged at his side.

Even if the memories of why still lay buried somewhere beneath the snow.

...

The first period bell echoed faintly behind him, but Aiko barely noticed the bustle of students flooding the halls. Every step toward Utaha's classroom was heavy with something he couldn't shake, a weight of memories, fear, and hope tangled together.

He found her packing her things, the afternoon light casting soft shadows across her thoughtful face.

"Utaha," he called softly, his voice catching just a little.

She looked up, surprise flickering in her eyes. "Aiko?"

He gave a small, shaky shake of his head. "I need to talk. Please… the rooftop. Now."

Her expression flickered, curiosity, concern, something fragile, before she nodded and followed him silently.

The stairwell felt colder than the classroom, the clack of their shoes on the steps loud in the quiet. Outside, the rooftop stretched open beneath the pale sky, the city sprawling endlessly beyond.

Aiko swallowed hard, heart pounding loud enough he feared she'd hear it.

"I remember," he said, voice raw and unsteady, eyes locked on hers.

Utaha's breath hitched slightly. Her usual calm cracked with a sudden, soft vulnerability.

"The nickname," he whispered, like a prayer. "'Akkun.' I remember how you said it, that rainy night when everything was soaked and wild, when you whispered it like it was just for me. Like it was the only word in the world I could hear and understand."

Her eyes shimmered with something unspoken, a quiet storm held just beneath her steady surface.

"I wasn't ready then," Aiko's voice broke. "I was scared to let anyone see me. Scared to let anyone in. But… I never hated it. I never hated you. That name, it was the first place I thought I could be safe."

Utaha's lips trembled, the smallest smile breaking through. "You carried that with you all this time."

His breath faltered, chest tightening painfully. "There's more," he confessed, voice barely more than a broken whisper. "I had a dream last night, snow falling, cold and unforgiving. Blood on the ground. Me… bleeding, fading, and your voice calling out my name over and over. It felt like a warning, or maybe a promise. I don't know. But it terrified me."

She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to cover his trembling fingers with warmth and steady strength.

"You don't have to carry that fear alone anymore," her voice was tender, yet resolute.

Aiko's throat tightened. "I'm scared, Utaha. Scared of losing myself to all of this, the memories, the pain, the endless endings. Scared of losing you."

Her gaze softened, filled with unwavering care. "Then let me be the one to find you when you're lost. You don't have to face any of it alone."

His breath hitched, tears threatening to spill, but something fierce and fragile bloomed in his chest,ma fragile hope he hadn't dared to feel in so long.

"Together?" His voice cracked on the word, but he meant it with everything he had.

Her smile was a quiet promise, a lifeline cast across the chasm of his fears.

"Together," she echoed, fingers tightening their hold on his.

And in that moment, beneath the endless sky and fading light, Aiko felt something shift deep inside, the first fragile crack in a wall built of fear and solitude.

A crack wide enough for hope to slip through.

They stood close, the city's distant hum muffled beneath the weight of the moment between them. Aiko's fingers curled tightly around hers, grounding himself in the touch, the first steady thing he'd felt in a long time.

Utaha's breath was soft, warm against his skin. For so long, she had carried her own fears, her own burdens, the knowledge of his repeated fate, the fragments of memories that haunted her nights. But now, seeing him here, vulnerable and honest, it felt like a fragile thread had finally been grasped from the void.

She lowered her gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. "I never stopped hoping you'd remember. Not just the name… but that you're not alone."

His eyes flickered upward, searching hers for any hint of doubt or disappointment. But there was only steady compassion there, the kind of acceptance he'd never let himself believe he deserved.

"I'm so tired," Aiko admitted, voice trembling. "Tired of running. Tired of hiding behind walls that never keep me safe."

Utaha's thumb brushed over his knuckles. "Then let me help you lower them. Not all at once, just a little, whenever you're ready."

He swallowed, heart hammering with the sheer weight of the offer.

"Why do you stay?" he asked suddenly, the rawness of his question hanging between them. "Why do you keep coming back, knowing what might happen?"

Her smile was sad but fierce. "Because some things are worth fighting for, Akkun. Because I see the pieces of you that no one else can. Because… you're not just a memory or a fate to be rewritten. You're you. And that's enough."

His breath hitched, tears finally breaking free as they spilled silently down his cheeks.

"I don't know if I can change what's coming," he whispered. "But maybe... maybe with you, I don't have to face it alone."

Utaha reached up, gently wiping away his tears. "You never have to."

Aiko's hands trembled slightly as he lifted one to gently cup Utaha's cheek, his thumb brushing over the soft curve beneath her eye. Her skin was warm beneath his fingertips, grounding him in the moment, steadying the storm of thoughts swirling inside.

Utaha's breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed for just a heartbeat before reopening to meet his.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned in, as if afraid the fragile connection might shatter if he moved too fast.

Their lips met, soft, tentative at first, like the delicate brush of a feather.

The kiss deepened, a quiet confession spoken without words.

It was a promise: of patience, of presence, of refusing to let go despite the uncertainty ahead.

Utaha's fingers wove into Aiko's hair, anchoring him, while his hands settled on her waist, pulling her closer, as if to shield them both from the cold that haunted their memories.

When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts beating in slow, uneven rhythm.

"I don't want to lose this," Aiko whispered, voice thick with emotion.

"You won't," Utaha promised, voice steady as the steady light she had always been.

For now, there was only this moment, fragile, beautiful, and real.

A beginning.

...

She could feel his hesitation, the weight of his fears pressing down like a heavy fog between them. Yet beneath that uncertainty, there was something fragile and fierce, a spark she had seen flicker in him since the very beginning.

Calling him "Akkun" had been more than a nickname. It was a thread tying them to a moment of real connection, a fragile rebellion against the relentless tides of fate that tried to pull them apart. It symbolized trust, intimacy, a claim not of possession, but of seeing him wholly,even the parts he thought broken beyond repair.

Watching him now, so vulnerable and raw, stirred something deep inside her. She wanted to be the steady ground beneath his trembling feet, the quiet refuge in the storms that haunted his past. But more than that, she wanted to believe that this time, maybe they could rewrite the story, not as two souls doomed to fade, but as one that could grow, together.

Her heart ached with the weight of unspoken promises and past losses. Yet, as their lips met and the world fell away, she clung to the hope that this fragile moment was the beginning of something lasting.

"I will find you," she vowed silently, "no matter how many winters come and go."

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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.