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He’s short. That’s the biggest and the most obvious one but there are a lot more like, he’s skinny. There’s hardly any muscle there at all, he’d never be able to carry her across a threshold. His eyes (while they’re striking) aren’t her preferred color, his face is soft and round, and along with his stature, he’s overall cute but in a more childlike sense and not at all in a classically handsome, make-you-swoon-into-the-nearest-chair-just-by-entering-the-room kind of sense. He’s also quiet, and sometimes she can’t tell what he’s thinking behind that smile. But then that’s where the confusion starts because when he really smiles it’s open and it’s wide and it’s joyous. It’s contagious and it makes her heart do a funny little skip even though he’s totally not, 100% not, absolutely not, not in a hundred years, Not At All her type. He’s not any of her types. And Miho has two! She likes guys who are either really pretty and delicate or ones who can bench press her one handed. And it was soooo disappointing when she found out that her very first real crush (the first type) shared her preference for the later type. But that’s a very broad range of types. She gives herself credit for it! And Yugi definitely doesn’t fit into either one.
But he’s just so happy all the time and not in the annoying, fake way but in a real, genuine way that makes her want to spend as much time around him as she possibly can. And everything he’s into is just so interesting or maybe he makes it look interesting with how enthusiastic he gets about his hobbies but when they’re together, they can do practically anything and have fun. And the few times they’ve done their makeup in the same room (he likes his dark and dramatic to combat that childlike appearance and she likes hers as cute, pink and glittery as she can possibly get), they end up in each other’s space mixing colors and styles to such an extent that they’re breathless with laughter and can’t possibly go out with the mess they’ve made on each other’s faces. That’s when she first feels at the edge of something and ready to tip over, messy with glitter and pigment and grinning stupidly at him just as much as he’s grinning stupidly at her.
When she puts him in six inch platform boots so that he’s finally at her eyeline and he very awkwardly asks her to hold still so he can put an arm around her shoulders (because when else is he going to be tall enough to put his arm around a pretty girl, he says), that’s it. That’s the exact moment at which she’s head over heels for him and he’s not even her type! But then, from that point on, she can’t really remember why being her type was even so important in the first place.