If he ever got the chance to collect Aizono Moe's underwear in the future, Kuroha Akira would have completed the set—all three Literary Club members' intimate apparel. Would that unlock some kind of bizarre achievement?
Probably not.
But Aizono Moe was a shy, reserved girl. She definitely wouldn't be as bold as these two. And this time had been purely accidental. Given Shirai Shiori's personality, if she hadn't just taken them off and forgotten to put them back on, she never would have thrown her underwear at him. So getting this souvenir was genuinely good luck on his part.
The only person who would voluntarily hand over underwear upon meeting was the class president. But the class president was an exception—her value system was utterly unique.
Still, after learning about the class president's mother's parenting methods, Kuroha Akira could understand why she'd turned out that way. Her twisted values stemmed from rebellion against her family. She strongly disliked accepting anything provided by her parents, which was why she constantly sought validation from within herself.
At its core, it was an intense desire to prove her worth.
Perhaps only after earning her parents' approval could the class president resolve her inner conflict and return to normal…
Speaking of which, that plotline was pretty interesting. He might as well write it into a future story, Kuroha Akira mused, twirling the underwear thoughtfully on his finger.
On the other side of the room, Shirai Shiori suppressed her embarrassment and pointed at Kuroha Akira, delivering her lines like a villainess in a shoujo manga.
"Akira-kun! Wash it and wait! I'll defeat you sooner or later!"
"Heh…"
Kuroha Akira hooked his index finger into the waistband of the underwear, swinging it back and forth like a trophy.
"I'll wash these clean," he said with a smirk. "Just waiting for you to come and take them back."
Then he turned gracefully, waved without looking back, and exited her room.
Seems Shirai Shiori isn't just a cold literary girl, he thought. She's got an interesting soul in there too.
....
After Kuroha Akira left, Shirai Shiori felt all the strength drain from her body. She collapsed weakly onto her bed, staring at the ceiling.
So much had happened today. And none of it had ended the way she'd expected.
Replaying the day's events in her mind, Shirai Shiori squirmed and twisted on the bed, absolutely dying of embarrassment.
So embarrassing! So embarrassing! So embarrassing!
If he ever told anyone what happened today, she probably wouldn't have the face to show up at school ever again!
But Shirai Shiori trusted that Kuroha Akira wasn't the type to blab. He'd keep their secrets safe. After all, he'd deliberately waited until today to resolve things peacefully—otherwise, he could have thrown that publishing contract in her face much earlier.
Actually… if I hadn't insisted on fulfilling the bet, I wouldn't have needed to take them off at all.
But she was glad she did. No—she was right to do it.
This way, she wouldn't feel inferior in front of him. Kuroha Akira hadn't become her nightmare. Instead, he'd become her mentor and confidant. It was like something out of an adventure novel—enemies turning into friends.
And this incident hadn't become a knot in her heart. Instead, it had helped her advance further in the field of writing.
That stripping was incredibly valuable.
If every time she took off her clothes she could gain benefits from him, Shirai Shiori would genuinely be willing to do it many more times. It was still the same logic—he'd already seen everything anyway. And after he saw it, he'd have to suffer in silence, just like today. This would become a secret shared only between the two of them…
"Hehe…"
Shirai Shiori giggled to herself.
She felt happy. Really, genuinely happy. Something that should have been humiliating had somehow made her feel this good. It was like a dream.
Wait a minute.
Thinking about it carefully—what happened today, this extraordinary event in everyday life… it felt very much like a novel!
Inspiration struck!
She felt like she could write even more interesting content now. So that was it—just being immersed in books wasn't enough. Compared to him, what she lacked was an understanding of life itself.
Reading ten thousand books isn't as good as traveling ten thousand miles. Traveling ten thousand miles isn't as good as meeting countless people…
As long as she continued getting along well with him, she should be able to improve further in story plotting and character development.
Speaking of which… he'd been lying here just now too.
Shirai Shiori pressed her face into the pillow. His scent clung to the cotton—something clean underneath, like soap and fresh laundry detergent, but layered over with something earthier. Something male. The warmth of his body had left an imprint in her sheets that hadn't fully cooled.
She inhaled again, deeper. Her thighs pressed together without her meaning to.
Oh.
The previous urge to urinate had transformed into something else entirely—a stirring, tingling impulse that pooled low in her belly and spread downward with each thudding heartbeat.
I shouldn't…
But even as she thought it, her hand was already moving to the top button of her blouse. The first one came undone. Then the second. The fabric parted over her collarbones, exposing the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered visibly.
Although I can't yet confirm if my feelings for him are romantic…
She tugged the blouse free from her skirt, letting it fall open completely. The cool air of her bedroom kissed her bare stomach, raising goosebumps across the sensitive skin.
…my body is definitely reacting.
Shiori sat up just enough to shrug the blouse off her shoulders. Her bra followed—plain white cotton, practical, nothing special—and she tossed it somewhere toward her desk chair. Her small breasts sat high on her chest, nipples already peaked from the chill, from anticipation, from the lingering memory of his voice saying I'll wash these clean. Just waiting for you to come and take them back.
The skirt was next. She lifted her hips, shimmied the fabric down her thighs, kicked it off her ankles. Then she was bare. Completely, entirely naked in her own bedroom, in sheets that still smelled like him.
Not shy at all. Just… honest.
He saw everything anyway.
Her eyes fell on the discarded white silk gloves near her pillow. She reached for them, sliding the smooth fabric over her fingers one at a time. The silk stretched thin enough to show the outline of her knuckles, the shadow of her nails. When she flexed her hand experimentally, the material whispered against itself—ssssshh—and the sound alone made her shiver.
A little friction would make it more comfortable…
Shirai Shiori was not pure or innocent. Having devoured countless sensual descriptions across every genre—literary, commercial, imported translations with their flowery euphemisms, domestic light novels with their bold straightforwardness—she understood those kinds of things intimately. Academically. And practically too. Although she had no real experience, when it came to self-sufficiency she'd long since graduated from trembling novice to something approaching connoisseur.
Before, she'd always done it in secret. Furtively. Lights off, covers pulled up, one ear listening for footsteps in the hall. Like she was committing a small crime. Guilt always crept in afterward—sticky and sour, making her want to shower immediately.
But tonight?
Tonight felt different.
Tonight, not doing it would be unfair to her body. Unkind. Almost cruel. She was already wet—had been since she'd smelled him on her pillow—and ignoring that seemed like self-denial of the most pointless sort.
She lay back against the mattress, her dark hair fanning out beneath her. One knee bent, falling open to the side. The other leg stretched straight, toes pointed toward her bedroom door—locked, double-checked, she wasn't stupid. The white silk gloves caught the dim lamplight, gleaming like something from a period drama about noble ladies with secrets.
Hh...
Her right hand traveled down first. Over her collarbone. Across the soft swell of her left breast—she paused there, traced one fingertip in a slow circle around the areola until the nipple stiffened further, until a small sound caught in her throat that she didn't quite permit to escape.
Then lower.
The silk against her belly was cool and impossibly smooth. Like water, almost. Like being touched by something not quite real. The muscles beneath her skin fluttered involuntarily, ticklish and aroused in equal measure.
Her hand continued its descent.
Past the small divot of her navel. Into the gentle curve where belly became groin. And then—
"Mmn...!"
The sound that left her lips was startled and breathy, high-pitched in a way that would have embarrassed her if anyone else had been there to hear.
Oh. Oh, I'm already this wet…
Her fingers—sheathed in white silk—pressed between the slick folds of her sex, and the fabric immediately grew damp. Slippery. The friction shifted, became something smoother and stranger, the glove soaking through as her arousal spread.
It's fine. I'll just throw them in the wash tomorrow.
She found her rhythm easily. Middle finger tracing slow circles around her clit—not touching it directly yet, that was a shortcut, and tonight she wanted to feel it properly. Let it build. Let herself imagine.
He was lying right here. Right in this exact spot.
Her hips rolled upward, chasing her own hand. The wet sounds of her fingers working between her thighs—schlck, schlck—filled the quiet room like a metronome.
His voice. His stupid smirk. The way he said 'Just waiting for you to come and take them back.'
"Ahn... hhn..."
What would it feel like if it was his hand?
The thought hit her like ice water and wildfire simultaneously. She shouldn't be thinking that. She didn't even know if she liked him like that yet—they'd been rivals hours ago, for god's sake—but her fingers pressed harder, faster, and her back arched off the mattress with a cry she barely managed to muffle against her own shoulder.
His fingers would be bigger. Rougher. He wouldn't be gentle like this—
"Mmph—! Akira—"
Oh god. Did I just say his name out loud?
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The tension coiled low in her belly was winding tighter, tighter, and her toes curled against the sheets and her free hand gripped the pillow and brought it to her face so she could breathe him in while she—
"Hnn! Haaah—nnh! Ah, ah, ah—!"
Her entire body seized. Thighs clamped shut around her own wrist. Spine bowed. A long, shuddering moan tore free from her throat, and then another, and another, each wave of pleasure cresting and receding until she was trembling in the aftermath, oversensitive and breathless.
For a moment, she just lay there.
Chest heaving. Heart pounding. A thin sheen of sweat cooling on her skin.
…Okay. Maybe I do like him.
She laughed weakly at the ceiling.
What a stupid way to figure it out.
After a long, long while, she finally relaxed her tense body. She removed the white silk gloves—soaked through now, ruined, useful only as the world's most expensive tissue paper—and tossed them carelessly beside the bed.
Thoroughly satisfied, her mind clearer than it had been in weeks, Shirai Shiori pulled the rumpled covers up to her chin and let her eyes drift shut.
Twenty-one sleepless nights. And all it took to cure my insomnia was—
She snorted.
—masturbating to Kuroha Akira's scent.
He can never know.
Sleep claimed her between one breath and the next, and for the first time in ages, Shirai Shiori slept deeply and well, her body curled on its side in sheets that smelled like him.
---
When she woke the next morning, she felt completely refreshed.
However, there was a price.
She found a large, dark stain on both the bedsheet and the quilt.
Because she'd been chatting so happily with Kuroha Akira, Shirai Shiori had forgotten that she'd been holding in her urine. She'd also forgotten to use the restroom before bed.
And the result was…
She'd wet the bed.
…I'm going to burn these sheets.
,,,,
It was already nine in the evening when Kuroha Akira returned to the Kobayashi residence.
The moment he opened the door, he saw Shinomiya standing at the entrance to greet him. She wore a slight smile, but something felt off. She seemed gloomier than usual—not her normal self at all.
"Akira-kun…" Her voice was soft. "You're home very late today."
"Oh, I went to a friend's house to hang out."
Kuroha Akira replied casually, kicked off his shoes, and walked inside. His eyes landed on the table—a plate of rice covered with plastic wrap.
And most importantly? It wasn't curry rice!
"You left me food? And it's egg and ham fried rice?" His face lit up. "This wasn't made by the Old Woman, was it?"
"Hmm. Miss Kurenai bought ingredients today and made fried rice. I learned a bit by watching her."
"Yay! Long live Miss Kurenai!"
Kuroha Akira was absolutely starving at this point. Facing familiar, home-style cooking, he happily bounded forward, ready to feast.
As Kuroha Akira sat down and began devouring the fried rice, Shinomiya silently walked up behind him. She bent down toward his neck and concentrated, sniffing his scent.
Her eyes narrowed.
There's the scent of an unfamiliar woman on him.