The weekend after the First Year Midterm Exams arrived, a blanket of deceptive calm over the school. Students shed the weight of preparation, embracing the simple relief of free time.
Inside a tastefully quiet cafe on the commercial street, soft jazz underscored the murmur of conversation. In a plush booth by the window, Nagumo Miyabi lounged with a studied nonchalance, his finger tracing idle circles on his coffee cup. Asahina Natsume sat across from him, observing the lingering tension in his shoulders that his relaxed pose couldn't quite mask. They were in that cafe—the one where Sakamoto had once performed his bizarre, flawless service. Nagumo had chosen it, perhaps subconsciously, as a form of exposure therapy, a bid to reclaim a space touched by the memory of his humiliation.
Over a week had passed since the "interview period" had concluded. Sakamoto, as "agreed," had been installed as the Student Council secretary—a role Horikita Manabu had conveniently left vague and undefined, granting him near-total autonomy. The result was a ghost in the machine: Sakamoto was officially present, yet physically absent from daily affairs. For Nagumo, this was the optimal outcome—a bureaucratic containment of the unexplainable.
Time, that great eraser, had begun its work. The raw, visceral terror of those days—the bathroom ambush, the suffocating attentiveness—had softened at the edges, blurred by his mind's desperate need for normalcy. He had begun to rationalize it: a collective stress-induced hallucination. Surely, such things could not be real.
As the fear receded, his native cunning crept back in. The midterms were over. The poisoned "past papers" he had so carefully seeded into the first-year ecosystem must have done their work by now. Chaos, suspicion, and internal strife should be rippling through the lower classes. And Sakamoto, the perfect scapegoat, would be drowning in a whirlpool of blame he could never articulate. The thought coaxed a genuine, malicious smirk to Nagumo's lips.
"Miyabi?" Asahina's voice was a gentle probe. She tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her face. "You look pleased. Thinking of something fun?"
"Nothing," Nagumo said, the smile vanishing as he quickly took a sip of coffee. "Just enjoying the weather."
Asahina hummed, not pressing. She was glad to see the color returning to his world, even if it was tinted with his old mischief. Sakamoto's… treatment had been shockingly effective, granting her a welcome period of peace. For that, she was quietly grateful.
Nagumo's confidence solidified. The second year was his kingdom, his fortress. No matter how anomalous that first-year was, his influence ended at the border of Nagumo's domain. Here, he was safe.
Clink.
The delicate wind chime above the cafe door sang.
Nagumo glanced up idly.
His blood turned to ice.
Every ounce of color drained from his face. His stirring finger froze mid-circle. His pupils constricted to pinpricks.
Him.
The black-clad nightmare was pushing through the glass door, his movement a study in calm inevitability. And he wasn't alone.
Beside him walked a girl with long, distinctive purple hair, a small side braid resting over her shoulder—Kamuro Masumi of Class 1-A.
The silver spoon in Nagumo's hand slipped, hitting the saucer with a sharp, discordant clang that cut through the cafe's gentle ambiance.
Sakamoto and Kamuro Masumi entered side by side. The "date" had been Kamuro's initiative—a transaction framed as gratitude. Since the beginning of the semester, Sakamoto had been a silent, inexplicable guardian: correcting her mistakes at the convenience store, resolving minor crises with absurd, offhand efficiency. The cold exterior she presented to the world had developed a hairline fracture where he was concerned. Repaying the debt felt necessary.
After the exams, she'd sent a terse message: Let me treat you. She expected silence or a curt refusal. Instead, he agreed immediately. On a whim, she named this cafe—the site of his legendary part-time work—as the venue.
Now, walking beside him, she was acutely aware of the space he occupied, the quiet intensity that seemed to warp the air around them. Her heartbeat felt too loud in her own ears. This isn't a date, she told herself fiercely, stealing a glance at his impassive profile. It's a settlement. A transaction.
"Kamuro-san, please have a seat first," Sakamoto's voice was a low, calm tenor, utterly polite yet carrying a weight that made the simple instruction feel like a command from another world.
Sakamoto's gesture was minimal—a slight lift of his hand indicating an empty booth nearby. Kamuro nodded stiffly and took her seat, her eyes betraying her as they followed his retreating form to the counter. The interaction that followed was brief, but telling: the barista's face lit with immediate recognition and a warmth reserved for a valued regular. Sakamoto's influence, it seemed, permeated even the civilian infrastructure of the school.
He returned moments later, his movements fluid and silent. "I have taken the liberty of ordering, Kamuro-san," he stated, settling into the seat opposite her with an almost ceremonial grace.
"Ah… thank you." Kamuro's reply was automatic, her gaze flickering away. A heavy, awkward silence descended. She scrambled for common ground.
"The midterms… they're finally over."
"Indeed. Periods of consolidation are necessary following exertion."
"For you, it was another perfect score, I assume." She aimed for casualness, landing on stiffness.
"Results are not yet posted. Speculation is imprecise."
Another dead end. Kamuro's fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt beneath the table. Why is this so difficult? Conversations were tools she could usually wield, but with him, every topic felt flimsy, inadequate.
Then, a memory surfaced—unbidden and dangerously personal.
"Sakamoto-kun…" she began, her voice softer. "Do you remember… at the convenience store? You said next time, we would have juice together."
The moment the words left her lips, heat rushed to her ears. It sounded like a childish reminder, a plea for a forgotten promise.
Before Sakamoto could respond, their waiter reappeared, bearing a tray with a beaming smile. "Apologies for the wait! Your orders."
He set a meticulously crafted special blend coffee before Sakamoto. Then, with a small flourish, he placed a tall, chilled glass of vibrantly fresh orange juice in front of Kamuro. Condensation beaded on the glass, and the crisp, tangy scent of real fruit cut through the cafe's aroma of roasted beans.
Kamuro stared, stunned. The menu here didn't list fresh juice.
The waiter, noting her confusion, leaned in conspiratorially. "A special request from Sakamoto-kun to our manager. The manager said anything for him! Please, enjoy."
With a polite nod, he left.
Kamuro's eyes remained fixed on the drink, then lifted slowly to meet Sakamoto's impassive gaze across the table. He remembered. He hadn't just remembered—he had orchestrated its fulfillment in a place where it shouldn't exist.
Sakamoto lifted his coffee cup in a subtle, acknowledging motion.
"I do not forget commitments."
"Please, enjoy, Kamuro-san."
Kamuro's hand moved as if independent of her will, her fingers closing around the cold, smooth glass. The chill was a shock to her system, a sensation so vivid it seemed to short-circuit her practiced aloofness. A warmth, treacherous and undeniable, bloomed in her chest.
She hastily brought the juice to her lips, the tart-sweet taste exploding on her tongue, a perfect cover for the sudden, overwhelming need to hide her face—and the frantic, accelerating rhythm of her heart pounding against her ribs.
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