Chapter 4

“Yo, you doing alright?”

The first day back after summer break. As I walk down the connecting corridor with my bento in hand, a voice calls out from behind.

Turning around, I see—a familiar senpai.

“It’s been a while. We ended up not meeting at Comiket again, huh?”

Her name is Kagajou Mashiro. The senpai, twirling the clubroom key around her finger, is the president of the handicraft club.

With a dignified presence that could easily be mistaken for someone from the kendo club and strikingly refined features that seem to appeal especially to girls, she doesn’t exactly scream “cultural club president.” For the record, this school doesn’t even have a kendo club.

“I thought I made a real effort to look for you this time, though.”

“…Maybe it has to do with my size?”

“Well, yeah, that might be part of it… but, wait, your complexion looks kinda good? Something happen? Been sleeping well or what?”

Not a fan of laughing at self-deprecating jokes, she blatantly changes the subject.

“Oh, right, I actually wanted to tell you about something, senpai.”

“Uh, sure, I’m listening…” she says, her interest piqued.

We cross the connecting corridor and head toward the less crowded annex building, where the handicraft clubroom—doubling as the home ec prep room—sits right next to the home economics classroom. Senpai unlocks the door, carelessly stacking the scattered fabric and sewing machine on the table. I set my bento down and fill the electric kettle with water.

“So, my big sister brought someone over to the house… not really a friend, more like someone I barely know—”

As I start eating my bento, I fill senpai in on the past week or so.

*—Of course, I gloss over the part about her stripping right away. No way that’s information I needed to share.

By the way, the reason I don’t eat lunch in the classroom is partly because senpai invites me here, but mostly because there’s barely any space for guys in there. At a commercial high school with a 1:9 male-to-female ratio, even if you’ve got friends, most guys lack the nerve to eat in the classroom. It’s mentally exhausting, or something like that.

So, most of us eat with clubmates or close friends in empty rooms or the courtyard—anywhere but the classroom. I’m no exception. At first, I tried eating in the crafting clubroom, but the smell of paint thinner killed my appetite. That’s when senpai called out to me, and it just kinda stuck.

Turns out, we both enjoy cosplay, and since we hit it off surprisingly well, we’ve been eating lunch together for over a year now.

Senpai, munching on a wiener cut into the shape of an octopus, listens as I wrap up my story. She makes her own bento every morning, and sometimes, when I’m stuck with just a pastry, she takes pity and shares some of hers.

“…From what I’m hearing, she sounds like quite the weirdo,” she adds, popping another bite into her mouth.

“Seriously. What’s her deal?” I reply, half-exasperated.

“Love at first sight, maybe?” she suggests, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“No way,” I shoot back instantly.

“I mean, you being the one she fell for.”

“……Nah, I really don’t think so.”

If anything, my first impression of Hiyori-san was pretty much the worst. She got rejected by some guy after trying to seduce him by stripping. Using “taking off clothes” as a bargaining chip? That’s next-level unhinged. After that, sure, I helped her dodge some creepy photographers at Comiket, but I didn’t even know it was her at the time. We barely spoke while I was helping out at her circle’s booth. There’s zero reason for her to fall for me. If she did, what is she, some kind of easy-mode heroine?

“If you were there, I think you’d get it.”

She says this while looking up at the ceiling, so I respond with a question.

“Get what?”

“Oh, come on. When a girl’s got her sights set on a guy, there’s only one kind of look in her eyes.”

“……”

I pause, considering her words. Now that she mentions it, sometimes I feel like the way Hiyori-san looks at me is kinda similar to how my big sister looks at me. So, what, like I’m her little brother or something?

“But you can tell some things without even looking,” senpai adds, her tone sharp as she points her skewer—half-eaten fried quail eggs still speared on it—toward my bento box. “What’s with those hearts?”

I glance down, suddenly self-conscious. “I… uh, wonder……”

There, standing out like a sore thumb in my bento, is the fried food. Fried stuff in a high schooler’s bento isn’t exactly rare—senpai’s eating fried quail eggs right now, after all. The issue is the shape.

“Katsu?” she mumbles.

—It’s heart-shaped.

I was too freaked out to touch them at first, but as the rest of the bento vanishes, those heart-shaped pieces of fried food stand out like a sore thumb.

Three of them, each about five centimeters wide.

Hesitantly, I take a bite—and, wow, it’s delicious.

“Ham katsu. With cheese inside,” I mutter, savoring the crispy, melty goodness.

Senpai nods, her expression like she’s cracked some grand mystery. “…I see.”

I’m almost afraid to ask what’s going through her head.

“So, she’s way into you, huh?” she says, her tone teasing but confident.

“……Isn’t that a total misunderstanding?” I protest weakly.

“People don’t cut ham into hearts anymore. Not even in rom-coms these days.”

“……Yeah, you’re right,” I concede, unable to argue.

It’s not just the shape—you can tell it’s not store-bought. Someone layered the ham, probably used a cookie cutter or something, and fried it to perfection. Why not just use a knife? Who puts in that kind of effort?

“Though, some girls who are super into their little brothers might act like that toward them.” senpai muses.

“Right, yeah.” I agree, nodding.

My sister’s the same way. Since I heard Hiyori-san’s an only child, maybe she’s got some weird longing for a little brother.

“But if someone’s acting like your big sister after meeting you just three times, that’s pretty bizarre, right?” senpai adds, tilting her head.

“Yeah, exactly……” I sigh.

That’s what I’ve been thinking. Even glossing over the stripping incident, the “crazy” vibe doesn’t fade one bit. Hiyori-san’s cooking is stupidly good, and while I don’t know much about her laundry or cleaning skills, I noticed the dust in high places—spots the robot vacuum can’t reach—was completely gone. She’s probably diligent by nature.

“But it makes sense,” senpai continues, eyeing me closely. “Your complexion and skin look better. Is it because you’re eating proper meals now?”

“…That might be part of it,” I admit.

“I mean, this is the first time I’ve seen you eating a homemade bento.” she points out.

“First time I’ve eaten one, too,” I reply.

My sleep schedule’s still a wreck, but my old habit of scarfing down instant noodles or retort pouch food whenever I got hungry has been replaced. Every meal now comes with a spread of dishes, probably balanced for nutrition. I got curious about the effort involved and asked Hiyori-san, but she just shrugged and said, “About thirty minutes?” Doesn’t sound that long, but is that fast? Normal? I have no clue.

“So, how is it? Tasty?” senpai asks, leaning forward slightly.

“…Wanna try some?” I offer, sliding my bento box toward her since there’s still a bit left.

“Alright, I’ll snag one heart. In exchange, take this,” she says, grabbing a heart katsu and leaving me a skewer of quail eggs—one of the three already half-eaten.

She’s handed me half-eaten stuff before, so it’s no big deal. My sister does the same, though she’s usually the one swiping my food.

“Mmm…” Senpai chews, swallows, and nods approvingly. “It’s just plain good.”

“Right?” I say, relieved she gets it.

Ham katsu is just ham, cheese, and breading—nothing scream-out-loud amazing. I don’t even know what a mind-blowing bento would be like. But since I can’t even make something “plain good” myself, it’s impressive enough to me.

As I munch on the quail egg skewer she gave me, senpai grins. “Indirect kiss, huh?”

I brush it off with a casual, “Ah, yeah.”

“You’re no fun to tease,” she says, feigning disappointment.

“I’m used to this stuff from my sister.” I reply, unfazed.

“…Fair, but don’t you have, like, a little admiration for an older girl or something?” she prods, a playful glint in her eye.

“Nope,” I say flatly.

Probably because the closest example—my sister—is the last person I’d ever admire. She’s way too dependent on her little brother.

Senpai pouts, puffing out her cheeks in mock annoyance, then chuckles at herself. She packs up her bento box and brews some tea for us. Sipping the tea from a cup, we relax as the lunch break winds down.

＊

After afternoon classes end, a sudden downpour crashes over the campus.

The rain pounds so hard that most students are trapped in the building. Outdoor clubs are canceled, and classmates with nowhere to go linger in the classroom, chatting idly. The forecast promised clear skies, so naturally, no one brought an umbrella.

Students in cultural clubs that meet rain or shine, or those lucky enough to have spare umbrellas, slip away. The rest of us are left staring blankly out the windows, watching the deluge.

—Then.

“Rikkun!”

Half-dozing at my desk, fiddling with my phone, I perk up at a familiar voice and turn toward it.

“…Huh?”

There stands Miyoshi Hiyori—my household’s new housemate.

She’s rocking a cool, gyaru-style outfit: a black tube top showing off her shoulders and navel, a super short skirt revealing her bare legs. Spotting me, she raises an umbrella with a cheerful “Here!”

Ignoring the bewildered stares from my classmates, I stand and approach her.

“…How’d you get here in this rain?” I ask, baffled.

“Took a taxi, duh?” she replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing.

“Oh… right.”

Come to think of it, she’s super casual about taking taxis. Even for distances I’d walk, she just hops in one like it’s nothing. Her sense of money is totally broken. But then she’ll buy the cheapest stuff at the supermarket to save a yen. What’s her logic?

Still, what high schooler takes a taxi to a school that’s a 15-minute walk away? You’re supposed to tough it out, even in a typhoon.

“You didn’t bring an umbrella this morning, right?” she says. “The rain’s supposed to ease up soon, so I thought you might need one. Came a bit early.”

“…Thanks. But, uh, is it okay for you to just show up here?”

“No one said anything. There are kids doing clubs during regular hours, right?”

“Huh…”

She’s got a point. Part-time students, whose classes start at night, sometimes join the same clubs as full-time students, so they’d need to come to school early.

“…But, uh,” I start, hesitating.

“What?” she asks, tilting her head.

“I really appreciate the umbrella, but maybe don’t do this again?”

“Why!? Was it a bother!?” Her voice spikes, drawing more attention.

“No, it’s not that it’s a bother, but…” I trail off, glancing behind me.

—Every pair of eyes in the class is locked on the unexpected visitor.

Well, obviously. She’s clearly not old enough to be a parent, so everyone’s thinking, “Who’s that?” I’d be curious too. Like, what’s your whole deal?

“…Also, what are you even gonna do, coming to school this early?” I ask.

“I was just gonna study until classes start…” she says, almost sheepishly.

“What, seriously…? That’s not your vibe at all…”

“It is my vibe!” she snaps back, so earnest it throws me off.

My sister and I both hate studying, barely scraping by with the minimum effort, so the idea of reviewing or preparing is completely foreign. Who willingly studies? But, thinking about it, maybe only serious types go to part-time high schools. Regular high schoolers just glide from middle school to high school, but part-time school’s different. There’s no “going with the flow” there.

Also, how is she unfazed by all these stares, despite being so socially awkward? Maybe she’s too awkward to notice? Or maybe she’s so used to leering eyes from her revealing cosplay outfits that it doesn’t faze her. Either way—

“…For now, let’s find an empty classroom or something,” I suggest.

“Huh, an empty classroom!?” she exclaims, way too loud.

“Don’t yell…” I mutter, wincing.

“S-sorry, it’s just…” she stammers, flushing slightly.

If I leave her where my classmates can see, who knows what kind of blunder she’ll pull. I grab Hiyori-san’s arm and tug her out of the classroom. As we pass another room, we get more intense stares.

Unable to think of an unused classroom with an unlocked door at this hour, I pause in the connecting corridor. Noticing my hesitation, Hiyori-san takes charge, pulling me along.

We cross two connecting corridors and reach the part-time school building, even further past the annex. It’s my first time here, but it feels oddly newer than the full-time school building.

She leads me to a large room that looks like a cafeteria. It’s empty now, but I vaguely recall hearing that the part-time school offers dinner for students who want it.

“So, um, I really appreciate you bringing the umbrella…” I say, scratching my head.

She tilts her head, looking puzzled, like she doesn’t quite get what I’m saying. Man, she’s really something. I won’t say what.

“…But please don’t come to my classroom again,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Why!?” Hiyori-san’s eyes widen, her tone almost a yelp.

“I don’t want to stand out… unlike you, Hiyori-san.”

“I’m not trying to stand out either…” she mumbles, her voice tinged with apology.

I sigh, thinking, Zero self-awareness, huh?

“You stand out without even trying. Pretty face, great figure,” I point out bluntly.

“Huh?” She blinks, caught off guard.

“Your presence is toxic to high schoolers’ eyes.”

“Toxic!? That bad!?” she exclaims, looking genuinely shocked.

“Yeah, that bad.”

She really didn’t realize, did she? I guess if she’s been a shut-in and hasn’t been to school in forever, it makes sense. She fundamentally doesn’t get group dynamics.

In group life, you either blend into the background or stand at the center—there’s no middle ground. By “background,” I mean either drifting along with the vibe like a breeze or, like me, fading into the air so completely that no one notices you. For those who can’t—or won’t—be the center, there’s no other way to survive.

People tear down anyone who stands out. It’s not as vicious as the internet, but the real world’s no different. Shine too brightly, and you get bashed. Say or do something off, and you get bashed. Once you’re marked as fair game, everyone piles on, no matter who you are.

“I really, really don’t want to stand out,” I stress.

“O-okay…” she says, shrinking a bit.

“When I’m with you, Hiyori-san, you draw all the attention.”

“…So doesn’t that balance out to zero?” she asks, tilting her head.

“I’d rather stay in the negative…” I mutter, exasperated.

Ugh, it’s no use. No amount of explaining will get through to her. Having dropped out before learning the obsessive conformity of group life, she’s like a foreigner to all this. Fine, I’ll just treat her like one.

“…But,” Hiyori-san starts, then shakes her head. “Never mind.”

She hesitates, then continues, “Rikkun, you’re cute, you’re great at crafting, and you make amazing costumes… You’ve got way more going for you than me, who’s just got a decent face.”

“The ‘cute’ part’s unnecessary,” I cut in.

Older women always say that about me, but it never feels like a compliment. It’s like they’re just calling me a kid.

For some reason, this seems to annoy Hiyori-san, and she pouts with a small “Muu.”

“I’m complimenting you, so just accept it properly,” she insists.

“……No thanks,” I reply, brushing it off.

“I haven’t known you long, Rikkun… oh, wait, I mean, we’ve been childhood friends since kindergarten,” she says, doubling down on her weird made-up backstory. “Anyway, I know a lot of your good qualities.”

“That setting’s still alive?” I ask, disbelieved.

“Don’t you think it’s rude to me and Umi-san when you put yourself down like that?”

“Huh?” I blink, caught off guard.

“Self-deprecation hurts others, you know.”

—She says this with a serious expression.

She’s usually spouting nonsense, so how can she make a face like that?

“Umi-san probably wouldn’t say this, so I’m saying it for her. You probably think you’re bad at studying, sports, everything, and that you’ve just got one little thing you’re slightly better at, right? …But you’re wrong.”

“……Wrong. About what?” My voice sharpens, a hint of irritation creeping in, defiant.

Wrong? —No, I’m not wrong.

After losing my parents, my big sister was all I had. I learned skills just to make her happy, and I started earning a bit of money from it. I never thought I could make a career out of cosplay crafting or costume-making—not when demand could vanish any day. I hate studying, so university’s out. I figured I’d just get some random job somewhere. Once I’m employed and don’t have time, I’ll probably stop crafting altogether. That’s normal. It’s just a hobby you do while you’re young—that’s what I thought.

—So why is she getting so worked up about someone else’s life?

“Normal people don’t have anything they’re better at than others,” she says firmly.

“……”

I stay silent, her words sinking in.

“Umi-san… she’s probably not a normal person. Even I, who’s only known her for a bit, can tell that much. You know it too, don’t you?”

I nod quietly. My big sister is different, special. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have started working right after middle school. She could’ve leaned on distant relatives who offered help or sought government assistance. I was raised by someone like that, so I know. She’s extraordinary.

“But people like me or you, Rikkun, we’re probably normal,” Hiyori-san continues. “That’s why we overthink, shut ourselves away, or get self-deprecating or reckless.”

“……”

I don’t respond, her words hitting closer than I’d like.

“For normal people like us to have even one thing we’re clearly better at—that’s something to take pride in. It’s rude not to, right?”

“Rude to who?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

“To yourself.”

She grabs my face with both hands, holding me at point-blank range, her gaze inescapable.

“I was a shut-in, thinking I couldn’t do anything. But finding cosplay, where I could become someone else, changed me. —What about you, Rikkun?”

“…Me?”

Have I changed? Could I change?

—No, I’ve definitely changed.

The day our parents disappeared, I was too young to fully grasp death—just confused. It was my big sister who pulled me out of that. She must’ve been devastated, losing our parents and our little sister. Yet she acted as strong as ever—no, stronger. Seeing her like that, I—

“Yeah… I forgot,” I murmur.

Cosplay saved me back then, too. Thanks to my sister, who gave me just the right steps to grow with my slightly nimble hands, I became who I am now. I had nothing to be passionate about, nothing to call my own, but focusing on one thing let me forget until my heart settled.

Denying who I am now is like denying my past. —That’s probably what she’s trying to say.

“Alright! I was just winging it, but looks like I got it right!” Hiyori-san beams, her tone triumphant.

“…You were just winging it?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“Yup. I mean, with Umi-san’s personality, there’s no way she didn’t do something for you,” she says, brimming with confidence.

Her words make me pause, a question bubbling up.

—Was that day at Comiket really the first time she met my sister?

I mean, it’s possible we overlapped in elementary school, but Hiyori-san was a shut-in. My sister started working right after middle school, so there’s no work connection either. So why does she trust my sister so much? Sure, she’s supporting me, but to others, she comes off as pretty free-spirited. When Hiyori-san was kicked out of her house, was my sister really the first person she thought to turn to? Maybe they talked while I wasn’t at the booth, but the morning was so hectic with sales, there wasn’t time for chit-chat.

“Rikkun, you don’t just think of me as some cute girl, right?” Hiyori-san asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Uh, yeah, no. I think you’re a pretty huge pain,” I reply bluntly.

She stomps her feet, pouting with a loud “Muuu!” Oops, wrong answer?

“Whatever the reason, I learned all the housework, and that’s why Umi-san took me in, right? But I don’t see that as my charm or anything.”

“…Really?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I didn’t try to learn it. I just picked it up because I had time, and now I’m just using it. …You’re probably the same, right, Rikkun?”

“……”

I fall silent, her words hitting home.

She’s right—I didn’t think of it as effort. But back then, in the early days, didn’t I study hard and experiment endlessly to get good at crafting costumes? I forgot those times, got used to an environment where my schedule’s packed with requests. I got used to being praised, to making people happy. So maybe I forgot the struggles I went through. Through effort, I gained something others don’t have. —For a normal person, that’s enough.

“The rain’s letting up,” Hiyori-san murmurs, gazing out the window.

Her long lashes—extensions or natural?—frame perfectly shaped brows, her makeup carefully applied. She doesn’t look like a high schooler at all. She seems so much more mature.

—And she is mature.

Even if she acts childish sometimes, she’s lived longer than me, no question. That’s why she can say things like an adult lecturing a kid. If anyone else said this, I probably wouldn’t have taken it so seriously. But I know she’s speaking from the heart. Someone who’d be far more adept at life if she had any pretense said this, so I can accept myself. I know she means it, not just tossing out flattery.

—That’s why.

“Hey, Hiyori-san,” I say, my voice steady.

“Um, I’d prefer a proposal in a more romantic setting…”

“That’s not it,” I retort, then pause. “…What did you want me to make again?”

“……Huh?” She freezes for a few seconds, like she’s forgotten what she asked a stranger the first time we met. Then her face lights up. “You’re willing to make it!?”

She leans in so close our lips nearly brush, and I jump back, knocking over my chair with a clatter.

“Uh, yeah, it’ll be a while, though…” I stammer, trying to regain my balance.

“Totally fine! Uh, um, I want you to make a bunch of stuff… but now that you mention it, uh, uh…” Her eyes dart around as she fiddles with her phone, then she nods firmly. “Arcadia! I really wanna do Arcadia! But, like, Arcadia’s not really about clothes, right? The uniform’s one thing, but I haven’t tackled it because…”

“True, Arcadia’s combat outfit is more about crafting than sewing. Shanon-chan, right?”

“Yup! I love Shanon-chan! She’s cute, makes me cry, and is so cool!!” she gushes, her excitement infectious.

“Then we’ll start with measurements,” I say, already thinking through the process.

“Got it!!” she chirps, grabbing the hem of her tube top.

I lunge forward, grabbing her arm to stop her. “If you strip at school, you’re just a pervert!”

What’s this girl trying to take off? I’m not measuring you now. But looking closer, I notice her bra straps are barely visible, it’s those transparent straps cosplayers often use. People use those in daily life?

“……Oh, right!!” she gasps, catching herself.

“Exactly,” I say, exasperated.

“Then, at home?” she asks, tilting her head.

“…Yeah. I’ll head back first, then,” I reply, already dreading the chaos.

I’d realize later what a wild promise I’d made, but at the time, I had no idea. I was so used to my sister getting naked all the time, I thought I was immune to women’s bodies.

—But,

I didn’t know until then that I wasn’t immune to anyone else’s body.

＊ ＊

“Hiyori-san, do you weigh yourself every day?” I ask, setting up in the air-conditioned living room. It’s September, but the garage is too hot for this.

“Uh, no…” she replies, sounding unsure.

“Then just a rough sense is fine. Does your body type fluctuate much?”

“Not really. I haven’t changed bra sizes in a while.”

“Got it. Let’s take measurements, then.”

I open my laptop, pulling up the 3D software, when I hear the rustle of clothes.

“Wait—” I start to say, turning around.

“Huh? I’m supposed to strip, right?” Hiyori-san says, already down to her underwear.

“…Don’t you have any hesitation?” I groan, exasperated.

“You can look if you want,” she teases, completely unbothered.

“I’m good,” I mutter, catching a glimpse of her and sighing deeply.

I haven’t even told her to undress yet. Why is she so shameless about stripping in front of a guy? Sure, measurements require less clothing, but still.

“Um… you using an app or something?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Just a measuring tape,” I say, holding up my trusty tool. “…Excuse me.”

I crouch down, trying to focus.

—Her legs are gorgeous. Laser hair removal, maybe? Not a single hair in sight.

For a cosplayer who wears revealing outfits, stray hair is the enemy—one speck means retouching a hundred photos a hundred times.

I brush her slender legs, different from my sister’s, and she lets out a squeak. “Hya!?”

“…Please don’t make weird noises.”

“Anyone would yelp if their thigh got stroked out of nowhere!” she protests, her voice sharp.

“I didn’t stroke it. Keep your voice down,” I reply, focusing on the task.

Her skin feels different from my sister’s—maybe it’s lifestyle or age. Soft, yet smooth, almost like it repels water. I stretch the measuring tape, noting her foot size, ankle width, knee size, thigh thickness, and length, jotting down every detail, even for parts we don’t need this time.

Finishing both legs, I look up—and freeze.

—Her underwear.

Slightly provocative black lace, the kind that looks almost see-through if you stare too long. Mature, adult-like, screaming “not for high schoolers.”

I’ve avoided looking until now, but at this distance, my eyes are drawn to it for a split second.

“Naughty,” she says, her voice teasing.

“……”

I can’t deny it—I did stare, even if just for a moment, close enough to touch. I look down, steadying my breathing to calm the rush of blood.

“How do you measure that part? Should I take it off?” she asks, her tone oddly serious.

“If you strip here, you’re really a pervert,” I shoot back.

“I’m not a pervert!” she insists, indignant.

“No, you kinda are…” I mutter. Stripping without a hint of shame in front of a teenage guy? That’s pervert territory, no question.

Letting out a sigh, I lift my face—

—And there’s the pervert, her face flushed red.

“…Wait, why are you blushing?” I ask, confused.

“Getting stared at from that close would make anyone blush!” she snaps, her voice wavering.

“Don’t you show off to countless strangers all the time?” I counter.

“Through a screen! No one’s seen me in person! Real life doesn’t come with retouching, so I get worried if something weird’s showing—am I okay? Nothing’s sticking out, right!?” she rambles, her panic rising.

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.

—But I do need precise measurements around the hips.

Arcadia’s combat outfit includes a bikini-armor-like piece under the armor, which can’t be store-bought and has to be custom-made. To fit perfectly against her skin, I need exact measurements.

—I do, but…

“……”

“…………”

I hesitate, and she seems to pick up on it, her own nervousness mirroring mine. The tension bounces between us, amplifying the awkwardness.

—In short, we’re at a stalemate.

“Uhm… Rikkun?” she says, her voice small.

“Yeah?”

“……Should I measure it?” she offers, almost whispering.

“Yes, please……” I reply, relieved but still on edge.

Even though I’m used to my sister, I don’t have the courage to pull off Hiyori-san’s underwear and measure her bare skin. I hand her the measuring tape, keeping my head down, unable to stand for a while.

Eyes closed, I give verbal instructions on how to measure, focusing inward like I’m meditating until she says, “Done,” and hands the tape back.

I slowly open my eyes—and my gaze lands on a piece of black fabric caught around her ankle.

“Huh?”

“Ah!”

No mistake—that’s definitely the underwear that was covering her moments ago.

“D-don’t look!” she squeaks, scrambling to cover herself.

“……Okay,” I mutter, averting my eyes.

Close call. Of course, underwear would get in the way of precise measurements, so she took it off. I completely blanked on that obvious fact.

With an exaggerated “Hup,” I hear fabric sliding up. —Idiot. Why am I listening so intently?

“…All good?” I ask, cautious.

“Give me a sec…” she replies, still adjusting.

Now I need to measure her waist, but the shock of that black fabric hasn’t worn off, and for physiological reasons, I can’t stand up yet. Deep breaths.

“Hih-hih-fooh, right?” she teases, mimicking a breathing exercise.

“That’s for pregnant women,” I shoot back.

“If you can snark, you’re fine, huh?”

“Yeah…” I mumble.

Calming down a bit, I finally look up. —Hiyori-san’s back in the same underwear as before, so why am I more nervous than at the start?

Her smug expression is mildly irritating. Well, at least she’s not pointing it out directly, so that’s something…

“Alright… let’s continue. Excuse me,” I say, steadying myself.

“Sure thing,” she replies, unfazed.

“Raise both hands. …No, not in some sexy pose.”

“That wasn’t my intention!” she protests, clasping her hands behind her head, thrusting her chest forward dramatically.

I press her stomach to straighten her posture. “I’m measuring here, so stand straight. Don’t naturally strike poses like that, you pervert.”

—After about ten minutes, I finish measuring her waist, arms, wrists, and even the length of her neck, then sit down.

Entering the measurements into the 3D software, the human model’s body takes shape, almost identical to the real thing. —Except for one part.

“…Rikkun,” Hiyori-san says, her tone pointed.

“What?”

“You didn’t measure my chest.”

“……Measure it yourself,” I say.

“No way,” she refuses.

“No way, what?” I glare, wondering what her deal is.

The underwear-clad pervert pouts, lips pursed, staring right back. “That model—you just plugged in random numbers for the chest, didn’t you?”

“……You were watching?” I ask, caught off guard.

“Of course I was. And you were obviously avoiding touching my chest. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“……”

I open and close my mouth like a gasping fish, trying to respond, but end up masking it with a dramatic sigh.

“I don’t know how to measure it, so you need to do it,” she insists.

“…You’ve been measured at a lingerie store, right? That’s good enough,” I counter.

“Don’t you want to touch?” she teases, her voice sly.

“No, I—uh, that’s not what I meant by denying it!” I stammer, flustered.

Her expression shifts to a mischievous grin. “Measure it. Properly, accurately. You want to make something good, right?”

“……Yes,” I admit, resigning myself.

I stand, bracing for the inevitable. “I’m taking off my bra, okay?”

“—!”

I scramble to move behind her, my burst of speed almost commendable.

“…It’s not like it’ll hurt me if you look,” she says, unfazed.

“That’s what the viewer’s supposed to say,” I mutter.

“Want me to show you?”

“I’m good.”

With a flutter, her bra comes off, tossed aside. She probably aimed it at me, but her aim’s so bad it lands with a soft plop on the laptop.

“……”

I gingerly lift it by the least skin-contacted part and set it aside. It felt a little warm. Must be my imagination, must be, must be, must be, must be, must be, must be—

A bra covers so little, yet the difference between wearing one and not is massive. Her bare back, completely uncovered, feels surreal in the living room, like it belongs to another reality.

Is this what Hiyori-san’s—Tsukushi Fumu’s—fans see all the time?

—A sickening feeling churns in my chest.

“Hey, Rikkun,” she says softly.

“…What?”

“Just for now, I won’t get mad no matter what you do.”

“Then take the measuring tape and do it yourself,” I shoot back.

“That’s a no.”

“Why…?”

“I can’t measure accurately myself. How do you do it with Umi-san?”

“……”

“You measure her, right?”

“Yes…”

“Then you can do mine too. What pose should I strike?”

“…Spread both arms out to the sides.”

Giving instructions from behind, I watch her slowly raise her arms.

—For some reason, that single motion sends blood rushing to a certain part of my body.

I take deep breaths, avoiding her front, but from the outside, it probably looks like I’m just getting excited over a naked person. I didn’t realize that.

I stretch the measuring tape, starting with the underbust, careful not to touch the soft curves, looping it via her stomach along the bra’s imprint. Then I measure along her sides—okay, good.

Normally, bra measurements only need top and underbust, but for bikini armor, you also need to know “where the chest begins.” A silicone mold would be ideal for precision, but that’s obviously not happening. Women’s chests have flexibility, so some leeway is fine. Some designers even make the chest slightly smaller to emphasize lift.

—And now, the final boss.

“The top, uh, measurement,” I say, my voice tight.

“Okay,” Hiyori-san replies.

“Could you, um, adjust the height of the tape on your end? That’d help.”

“To what?”

“……Ni,” I mumble, barely audible.

“Ni?”

“Ni… your nipples.” I clarify, my face burning.

“……Alright,” she says, her tone tinged with dissatisfaction as she adjusts the tape.

I wait until she stops moving, then check the number—

“…Hm?”

“What’s wrong?” she asks, catching my pause.

“No, uh… you’re fudging it, aren’t you?”

“……How’d you know?” she says, startled.

“It’s obviously bigger than your bra.”

“You calculated it!?” she exclaims, incredulous.

“Yes.”

The numbers don’t match the bra size I estimated from her underbust. A high school guy who can tell a bra doesn’t fit just from measurements isn’t exactly common, but I’m not about to explain that.

“Tch~,” she clicks her tongue, letting go of the tape. It slackens instantly. —Got it. She was pinching it on her side, thinking I wouldn’t notice.

“Hey, no pranks,” I say, exasperated.

“You want to measure properly, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you do it, Rikkun.”

She raises both arms, making it clear she won’t help. My thoughts freeze for a second.

“…Don’t complain later,” I warn.

“I won’t,” she assures me.

Steeling myself, I loosen the tape. —But wait. To measure the top, I need to know the exact position of her nipples. From behind, I can’t see them—

If it was Onee-chan’s, I wouldn’t care…

I flash back to measuring my sister six months ago, when she was drunk and I had to strip her down for measurements.

“Onee-chan, I need to take measurements for your next costume.”

“Strip me~”

“Strip yourself.”

“No waaay, you do iiiiit~”

“Fine, fine.”

With practiced ease, I removed her clothes, took off her underwear, sat her on the sofa, and started measuring. She kept swaying, so I propped her up each time. I didn’t bother staying behind her, just moved to the front, checking for changes since the last measurements. Back then, I felt nothing. So, now—

“Hya!?” Hiyori-san yelps as my fingertips brush something.

I don’t react to her exaggerated, reflexive squeak. Staying focused—no, obsessively thinking only of my sister, overwriting my brain to avoid facing reality. It’s an advanced technique.

“R-Rikkun!?” she stammers, her voice shaky.

“……”

I ignore her, feeling something small like a pebble under my fingertips. I press the tape over it, tuning out her sounds. It’s just a mannequin. A soft, moving mannequin.

“Awawawa…” she mumbles, flustered.

Confirming the top’s position, I hold the tape with one hand, guiding the other end around her back. Too much pressure would skew the measurements, so I keep it snug but not floating. Then, “Alright, you can get dressed now.”

I pull the tape away and head to the laptop, clenching my fist to erase the lingering sensation in my fingertips.

—No response. She was so noisy earlier, what happened? I glance over, and the half-naked pervert is trembling, collapsed on the floor. She’s not a pervert anymore; this is some kind of post-event meltdown. No, I just measured her.

“Uh, hey?” I call out.

“I can’t get married anymore…” she murmurs, voice small.

“Is that so?” I reply, unsure how to respond.

I want to retort, You’re the one who told me to measure, but recalling what happened risks resurfacing it, so I shake my head to reset my memory. Entering the accurate chest measurements into the software, I sigh.

“Rikkun,” she says, her voice steadier now.

“What? You said you wouldn’t get mad.”

“…I’m not mad, but.”

“But what?”

“Your thoughts?”

“B90, W59, H83, F-cup—ideal gravure idol proportions,” I rattle off, focusing on the numbers. The 3D model looks slightly larger than when she’s clothed. Maybe she looks slimmer in clothes?

“Not that kind of thing,” she says, exasperated.

“…That you’re not just a pretty face?” I try.

“Not that either. Come on, nothing else?”

“Nothing else, what?” I ask, still staring at the laptop. Her bra’s still on the desk—if I look now, I’ll see something.

Realizing that, I catch a glimpse of a naked woman reflected in the 3D software’s black background and slam the laptop shut.

“…Put some clothes on,” I say, my voice tight.

“Not until you give me your thoughts,” she retorts.

“……Quite the performance,” I mutter.

“……”

“…………”

She stays silent, and the urge to ask, What’s the right answer here? pops into my head, but saying that might make her force me to look, so I keep quiet.

Silence envelops the living room until an exaggerated “Haa…” breaks it, followed by the rustle of her grabbing her bra from the desk and slipping on clothes.

“…Alright, I’ll let it slide,” she says finally.

“Okay,” I reply, relieved.

“But, Rikkun.”

“Yes?”

“Is it like that when you measure Umi-san too?”

“No, I’m way rougher with her…” I admit. Rough, but still accurate. I don’t avoid skin contact or overthink it.

“You could’ve done that with me,” she says, almost pouting.

“…No way.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t do that with someone who’s not family,” I say, the words slipping out.

I regret it instantly as her voice takes on a slight edge. “…Not family?”

“……”

I hesitate, realizing my mistake. “So if we were family, you wouldn’t hold back?”

“No, I mean, just because we live in the same house doesn’t make us family—”

“That’s not it.”

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but a small “No, that’s not it” escapes, and she looks up at the ceiling.

As if realizing something, Hiyori-san, still in her underwear, heads upstairs to her room and returns to the living room shortly after.

In her hand is a thick book.

“Here!” she says, thrusting it at me.

It’s a hefty wedding magazine, the kind you’d find at a convenience store. “What’s this?”

“Zexy. Used it for a shoot before,” she explains.

[T/N: Zexy (ゼクシィ), a wedding planning suite.]

“Hah,” I let out, barely reacting.

“Did you know? Zexy comes with a marriage certificate,” Hiyori-san says, her voice bubbling with excitement.

“Hah.”

“And guess what—my name’s already filled in!!”

“Huh.”

“Can’t you react a little more!?” she huffs, clearly frustrated.

“Huh,” I repeat, deadpan.

No further reaction. Seriously, what is she even talking about?

Flipping through the thick wedding magazine, I find the marriage certificate tucked in as a supplement. One side is fully filled out with her name and address.

“Isn’t it bad to use your real name for a shoot?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I filled it out after the shoot!!” she insists, almost indignant.

“Very thorough. Hope you get to use it someday,” I say dryly.

She falls silent, her pursed lips radiating dissatisfaction. —Those glossy lips carry an adult allure my classmates could never pull off.

“…Hiyori-san,” I start.

“What!?” she snaps, still miffed.

“You’d be a real beauty if you didn’t talk.”

“If I didn’t talk!?” she exclaims, her voice pitching up.

“As a mannequin, I’d rate you 4.7 stars,” I tease.

“What about as a human!?” she demands, flailing her arms.

“……”

“Don’t make me answer that,” I chuckle, dodging her intensity.

—Squish. My vision goes dark.

Something soft presses against my face. It takes a moment to register—her chest. Her arms wrap around my back, trapping me.

“Punishment!” she declares, then pauses. “…Oh, wait, is this more of a reward?”

“Mmph! Mmph!!!!” I flail, slapping at her arms to break free.

Her chest is bigger than I expected, and I can’t breathe. She loosens her grip slightly, and I gasp for air, catching a scent—different from our home’s fabric softener. Probably her bra, brought from her place, unwashed. I try to shut down that thought.

Even with her hold loosened, her chest-and-arm lock is perfect. I can’t escape, and every move buries me deeper in that soft, warm sensation, even through fabric. The late-night—or early-morning—hour, her higher body temperature, the faint hum of a delivery bike from the nearby newspaper center stirring sleepy memories—it’s so comfortable that, as my tension melts, I lose consciousness completely.

Higashiura Riku, 16 years old. Cause of death: suffocation by breasts.

＊ ＊

“…Huh?”

A familiar alarm jolts me awake—the mechanical digital tone from my smartphone.

I have no memory of last night. I think I was measuring Hiyori-san’s body—

“What…?” I mumble, piecing it together.

Something happened. Slowly lifting the lid on my memories, the last thing I recall is being enveloped in something warm—

Warm—warm…?

My body’s pressed against something soft and warm, like I’m being hugged. For the record, I don’t own a body pillow. I don’t… I think.

“……”

I cautiously open my eyes.

A glimpse. —Something skin-colored.

…Oh, it’s Onee-chan.

She sometimes sneaks into my bed. Rare for her to be home on a weekday, though, especially after drinking with industry big shots. She says in-house sexual harassment is mostly gone due to compliance, but external regulations are looser, and she gets groped a lot. She endures it for work, but when stress hits her limit, she slips into my bed like this.

Assuming it’s the usual, I carefully slip out of her hold, sitting up without waking her. Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I sense something off and tilt my head.

“…Huh?”

My room has thick blackout curtains, so no sunlight gets in, even in the morning. But this room is bathed in a faint, warm glow.

…This isn’t my room.

The window’s angle tells me it’s my parents’ old bedroom, mostly used by my sister for shoots. The sheets are more hotel-like than homey.

And the person using it now is—

“……”

I glance at the bed. Sis? ——No.

“Eeeeeh……” I whisper, stunned.

It’s Miyoshi Hiyori, the freeloader and (unpaid) housekeeper of the Higashiura household.

—And for some reason, she’s completely naked.

“Why…?” I mutter, bewildered.

Come to think of it, I’m in my pajamas. I don’t remember changing, or even anything before going to sleep—

“……No, wait.”

It’s coming back. Right, I finished measuring, got hugged for some reason, and passed out (?).

So, if I’m here, I was probably carried. As for why I’m in pajamas—someone undressed and redressed me, no doubt.

I check my underwear. *—Same as yesterday.

“……Phew.”

Relief washes over me. I don’t know what happened, but waking up first is a win. Well, if something happened while I was out, I wouldn’t know.

“Nnh……” Hiyori-san stirs, kicking the blanket off with a thwap. Bad sleeper, huh.

—Wait.

“……!!” I freeze.

Right, she’s naked.

I avert my eyes just as the blanket falls, crawling off the bed as quietly as possible. Tiptoeing toward the door to escape—

“…Rikkun?” her sleepy voice calls.

“……”

I freeze. “You’re awake…?”

“…Yeah,” she mumbles.

I instinctively turn around—and, as expected, she’s completely naked. Not a scrap of underwear. For a split second, I catch her bare form and slam my head against the wall.

“R-Rikkun!? What are you doing!?” she yelps.

“…Nothing,” I groan, clutching my head.

“……Ah!” She yanks the blanket up, realizing her state.

“…Put some clothes on. See ya,” I say, bolting for the door.

“W-Wait—!” she calls, but I slam it shut with a bang.

“……Ugh,” I mutter, thumping my head against the corridor wall, replaying what I just saw.

I saw it. It was visible. I couldn’t help but see. Yesterday, I avoided looking at her naked body, and now, I catch it by surprise.

—More importantly.

“Why the hell is she naked…?” I mutter. Even my sister wears at least underwear to bed. Is Hiyori-san more extreme?

Sighing, I head to my room—my actual room—to grab fresh underwear.

＊

Stepping into the classroom earlier than usual, I feel every classmate’s gaze lock onto me. Whispers ripple through the room. “Doesn’t he look kinda worn out?” “Isn’t he always?” —Shut up, I’m just hypoglycemic. I haven’t eaten anything this morning.

No one outright grills me about yesterday, though. One guy I occasionally chat with asks, “Who was that yesterday?” and I brush it off with, “My sister’s friend.” My attitude probably signals it’s not worth prying, so the questions stop there.

—I thought the day would pass quietly like that.

But my beloved gray, uneventful life seems to be slipping away for good.

Lunchtime. I realized after arriving at school that I forgot my bento, but since the school store doesn’t open until noon, there was nothing I could do. The store, a lifeline for students who skip the convenience store, has a decent selection but sells out daily, leaving it barren like a post-war wasteland by the end of lunch. I usually grab something at the convenience store, but today I spaced out and forgot.

“Rikkun!”

As I stand to head to the store, a familiar voice calls out. My classmates’ eyes shift to the hallway.

There’s Hiyori-san, looking quite different from yesterday. She’s in an oversized shirt, flared pants, and sunglasses to hide her face. Still, her bright hair gives her away as the same person.

“Bento!” she announces, holding up a cute floral-patterned bundle.

I can’t help but wonder if we even own something like that—it feels so out of place in our lifeless household. Worried she’ll barge into the classroom if I leave her standing there, I reluctantly approach to take it.

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the bundle. “…You had this ready?”

“Huh? I made it just now. Sorry I couldn’t give it to you this morning. I saw you sleeping so peacefully yesterday and ended up dozing off with you…”

“I haven’t eaten yet, so this helps,” I cut in, dodging the sleeping face comment. People are eavesdropping. “…Also.”

Yesterday was after school, so she could enter the building. But today’s just a regular lunch break. Can a part-time student come in at this hour?

“How’d you get in? Breaking and entering?” I ask, half-serious.

“No way! Look at this!” She shows me a visitor’s pass around her neck as I take the bento. Right, delivery people and non-school staff wear these.

“You can apply to study in the library during the day, and they let you in,” she explains.

“Aah… right, you’re technically a student here,” I say.

“What’s with the ‘technically’!? I’m a legit student! Just a bit older!!” she protests.

“…Legit students don’t wander the school in the middle of the day dressed like that,” I point out.

“……Is it that weird?” she asks, tilting her head.

Weird? Not exactly. Compared to yesterday’s skin-baring outfit, this is better, but an adult in casual clothes who’s not a teacher roaming the school is, honestly, pretty odd.

“Well, if that’s all—” I start, turning to go.

“…Wait,” she says softly.

“There’s more?”

“About yesterday…” Her voice drops, and the classroom buzzes. Stop eavesdropping, guys.

“N-Nothing happened! Nothing happened, okay?” she insists, flustered.

“…Sure,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

Doesn’t she realize frantically denying it makes it sound more suspicious?

“You don’t believe me!?” she presses.

“I believe you, I believe you,” I say.

“Aaah! You totally don’t!! I got proper permission from Umi-san!” she blurts out.

“Huh? Permission for what?” I ask, alarmed. That’s scary. What kind of permission? To strip me?

“……It’s a secret,” she mumbles, looking away.

“If you’re not gonna spill, don’t say cryptic stuff to begin with,” I sigh.

“No, it’s not like that!”

“…Haah, can I go now?” My classmates’ stares are stinging.

“Yeah, sorry for interrupting your lunch. See you at home!” she says brightly.

“Right. Thanks for the bento,” I reply, bowing slightly.

She jogs off, maybe heading home or to the library to study. She said “at home,” so I probably won’t see her until then.

Turning back to my seat with the bento, every eye in the class is on me. No way to talk my way out of this. I flee to my usual lunch spot—the home ec prep room.

＊

“I heard rumors, but your sister came to pick you up yesterday?” Mashiro-senpai asks with a wry smile, already eating her bento as I enter the prep room.

She’s in a different grade, and she still knows? The girls’ network is terrifying.

“…Yeah, it’s a rumor over there too?” I say, settling in.

“I don’t know the details, but I heard it was a gyaru in a sexy outfit.”

“……”

I stay silent, wincing internally.

“I’ve never seen your sister, but I’m guessing it wasn’t her—it was that new housemate you mentioned, right?” she presses.

“…Yeah,” I admit.

“Is she a gyaru?”

“No, not really.”

Hiyori-san’s just versatile with fashion and makeup, pulling off all kinds of looks. She’s not a gyaru—yesterday’s outfit was a coincidence. If anything, she’s less a bubbly gyaru and more an extreme introvert. Her bleached hair doesn’t exactly scream “respectable working adult,” though, especially with her revealing cosplay gigs.

“Hmm…” Senpai nods, looking slightly displeased.

“…Got a photo?” she asks.

“Nope,” I reply instantly. Searching “Tsukushi Fumu” online would pull up tons of pictures, but most cosplayers look completely different in and out of costume. Same goes for senpai—she cosplays at Comiket, but we’ve never met there. The crowds are part of it, but even if she passed by, I probably wouldn’t recognize her. I’ve never seen her cosplay photos either.

“Fair enough,” she says, returning to her omurice.

I open the bento Hiyori-san brought. Today’s main dish is katsu with sauce on the side, still slightly warm, probably freshly fried. It’s crispy and delicious. How does she make a bento taste this fresh?

“Putting the second sister thing aside, are you joining our club next year or what?” senpai asks, catching me off guard.

My chopsticks, holding a piece of katsu, freeze. She’s asked me this countless times.

“Oh… speaking of, about the 3D printer,” I say, pivoting.

“Whoa, random.”

“Any chance we could get it registered as handicraft club equipment?”

“…That’s a stretch, isn’t it?”

“I think so too.”

It’s not weird for the crafting club to have a 3D printer, but in the handicraft club? That’d be odd. Plus, this prep room isn’t tiny, but where would we put it? Still, when the seniors graduate next year and the crafting club disbands, no one knows where the printer will end up. Disposing of it costs money, so it won’t be tossed right away, but if it’s moved to storage, I won’t be able to use it casually like now.

“I’ll ask the teacher, but… don’t get your hopes up,” senpai says.

“Got it. If we can keep it here, I’ll join in a heartbeat.”

“…Alright, got it.”

Senpai’s been inviting me to join since my first year, but I’ve avoided committing. It’s not something I feel I can decide alone.

“A guy in a girls’ club would stick out like a sore thumb, right?” I point out.

“I don’t think anyone would care that much,” she replies.

“Maybe not you, senpai, but normal people would. …Probably.”

I glance at the clothes hanging on the rack—regular or avant-garde fashion, not cosplay. In a small space like this, members probably don’t bother hiding when changing. That’s fine in an all-girls club, but if a guy—an outsider—joins, even if he rarely shows up, just being on the roster would change how the members feel.

“We’ve got members who haven’t shown up in, like, two years, though,” senpai says.

“What, they don’t get kicked out?” I ask, surprised.

“Hmm, maybe because she’s a part-time student? She came at the start of her first year, but… the advisor doesn’t seem to care.”

“Two years ago… so you know her, senpai?”

“Yeah. I’d say we were pretty close among the members.”

“Don’t you ever ask her about it?”

“I did back then, but she never replied.”

“……”

Seeing senpai’s rare mix of exasperation and faint anger, I can’t help but think it’s kind of irresponsible. But maybe that member has her reasons for ghosting. It’s none of my business—happened before I even enrolled, so I wouldn’t know her anyway.

“So, there’s precedent for a ghost member who never shows up,” senpai says.

“…I see,” I reply.

“Yeah, aside from the current third-years I’ve met, I don’t even know the others’ names. If we hush up the next president, no one might notice I joined.”

“That feels kinda dishonest, though…” I add, hesitant.

If I leave, the crafting club won’t have enough members to stay recognized, so the advisor doesn’t push me too hard. Cultural club advisors have it easy, barely supervising. But that’s only until the third-years graduate and the club disbands this year.

“By third year, you don’t have to come to club after summer break,” senpai says. “So even as a ghost member, it’s only about four months.”

“Oh, really? You’re retiring already, senpai?” I ask, surprised.

“Nah, this place is comfy, so I’ll stick around till the last second. Plus, if I retire, I can’t borrow the key, and we’d lose our lunch spot.”

She twirls the room’s key on her finger. “What about your third-years?”

“I haven’t been to the clubroom in a while, so I don’t know, but I don’t recall hearing about that. From the group chat, it seems like they’re always hanging out.”

“Huh, well, it’s a cultural club,” she says, shrugging.

“Yeah,” I reply, popping a piece of kiwi fruit from the bento into my mouth. It’s sweet-tart and delicious. Maybe I’ll buy some next time.

The crafting club seniors are in different classes, so the clubroom’s likely their main hangout. Unlike sports clubs with big tournaments, cultural clubs can choose when to retire.

“So, y’know, this time’s almost up, right?” senpai says, brewing tea and handing me a cup.

It smells citrusy—Earl Grey, probably. I wasn’t into tea before, but drinking it daily with her has taught me a thing or two. Dissolving a sugar cube, I take a sip. Yup, delicious. Senpai’s particular about it, using loose leaf instead of teabags.

“You’ll probably keep coming to school until March or so, right, senpai?” I ask.

“…That’s the plan. But I’m a bit worried about graduating and leaving you alone.”

“I’ll figure something out by then,” I say, brushing it off.

In my first year, before meeting senpai, I ate in random places, but eating in the hallway got me scolded. They told me to use a room, but at lunch, almost every open room is taken by girls, so a lone guy like me can’t just join in.

“Got the guts to crash another guys’ group now?” she teases.

“……Y-yeah, I do,” I mumble.

“No, you don’t,” she says instantly.

“Ugh,” I groan, caught out.

“From May last year when we met until today, do you have any memory of eating lunch with anyone but me?”

“……At home, maybe,” I try.

“You failed,” she says, smirking.

“Okay…” I concede. Last winter, when senpai was out with the flu, I—huh, I don’t remember anything. Did I lose my memory?

“If you join the handicraft club, you’d at least have a place to eat,” she points out.

“…But, like, other members come in sometimes, right?”

“Yeah. Does that bother you?”

“Of course it does…”

Maybe once a week, a club member stops by during lunch—checking projects, drinking senpai’s tea, grabbing forgotten items, or just chatting. With senpai as president, I don’t get kicked out. Early on, I got “Who’s this guy?” looks, but not anymore. But next year, a guy secretly using an all-girls clubroom alone? That’s a scandal waiting to happen.

“Then just get friendly with the members,” she suggests.

“You think third-year girls would want to befriend a random guy who suddenly joins?”

“I’d want to be friends with you,” she says, grinning.

“…That’s because you’re weird, senpai.”

If she hadn’t reached out, I’d probably still be eating alone. My social skills are rock-bottom. I’m not mute, but I don’t hang out outside school. The only students’ contact info I have are the crafting club seniors and Mashiro-senpai—five people total. That’s why even when Hiyori-san showed up two days in a row, no one bombarded me with questions.

“…It’s just, like,” senpai says, washing the teapot.

“You’ve got this vibe that keeps people at a distance.”

“……”

I stay silent, her words hitting home.

“Once you talk, you’re pretty normal, but have you always been like that?”

“Well… yeah, probably since I was little,” I admit.

I was withdrawn after my parents’ incident, sure, but I was never bubbly. Old family albums show me in kindergarten, off by myself making stuff, not playing with others. My sister, seven years older, was in middle school when I was in kindergarten, so we barely played together. Our closeness only started after we became a family of two.

“Also, you’re not great with older women, are you?” she adds.

“…Yeah, I guess.”

Probably my sister’s influence. Not just her or Hiyori-san—older women have always teased me, likely because my height makes me look younger.

“What about me?” she asks, tilting her head.

“You’re, y’know.”

“Y’know?”

“You don’t treat me like a kid.”

“…Maybe, but is that really it?”

“Yeah.”

Eating with senpai for over a year, despite my personality, is partly due to our shared hobby, but mostly her attitude. She acts like a senior but doesn’t baby me or act overly mature. She keeps just the right distance, so I’m neither tired nor uncomfortable around her. Other older women aren’t like that. Few are as extreme as my sister or Hiyori-san, but I’ve often been treated like a much younger brother from the start, even by women barely older than me.

“Hmm, if I had to guess, maybe my cousin?” senpai muses.

“Oh, you mentioned him before, right? Middle schooler?”

“Yeah, a rebellious chuuni kid. Maybe I’m used to dealing with prickly boys?”

“Prickly…” I repeat, wincing.

“You’re prickly, you know. No self-awareness?”

“It’s not like I’m unaware…” I mutter. Yeah, I’m more than aware—I totally get it.

At a commercial high school, the guys bond tightly, probably because the girls are a common, formidable “enemy.” But me? —Let’s drop this topic.

“Oh, class is starting soon,” senpai says, glancing at the clock.

“…Right, see you tomorrow.”

“Later.”

I give a small bow and leave the clubroom.

—Next year, huh.

With autumn approaching, I can’t avoid thinking about it. Mashiro-senpai graduating. The crafting club disbanding.

But, “…It’s fine for now, right?” I mutter to myself, heading to class as the warning bell rings.