The morning light spilled through the wide glass panels of Akademiya High, glinting off polished desks and the faint shimmer of dust in the air. The classroom was already alive with chatter, the sound of uniforms brushing, pens clicking, laughter cutting through the hum.

Kunikuzushi sat at his desk, posture flawless, eyes half-lidded as his pen glided across the page. His handwriting—sharp, neat, almost too controlled—spoke of someone who could not afford to slip. His tie was knotted perfectly, his shirt pristine, not a single crease out of place.

He was every bit the Raiden heir—disciplined, brilliant, impossible to read.

And yet, beneath that practiced calm, his mind wasn’t on the lesson. He could hear her voice faintly from across the room, that light tone that never failed to catch his attention. When he looked up, she was there—sitting by the window, sunlight framing her face.

A few girls crowded near her, whispering things that sounded sweet but felt like poison. Everyone envied her. Treated her like an alien. Left her out alone. He could see it in the way her shoulders stiffened for a moment before she smiled again, gentle and composed as ever.

But Scaramouche knows Nari better. The girl he love genuinely.

He saw the small cracks: the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, the slight tension in her hands when people complimented her. She is a phony, been taught to behave as a "good girl".

When the bell rang, he stacked his books neatly and waited. He always waited—never too eager, never too obvious. When the crowd thinned, he stood and approached her desk.

“…Nari,” He said her name softly, enough for only her to hear. The air between them always changed when he was near; she looked up, and he caught her eyes for just a second too long before speaking again.

He leaned slightly closer, his voice low. “You’re free after class?”

He waited, studying her expression as she blinked up at him. A faint smile curved his lips—half teasing, half serious. “Valentine’s Day,” he continued, tilting his head slightly. “You haven’t made plans, have you?”

She hesitated, and he caught the small shift in her face, the quiet apology that was always there before she rejected him. He’d grown used to it—the way she tried to let him down kindly, never cruelly. But it still burned, every single time.

He smiled anyway. He always did. “Right,” he murmured, as if confirming something to himself. “Then, study after class. I’ll treat you to something sweet.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar half-smirk—the kind that made it seem like nothing ever bothered him. “Chocolate, maybe. Even though I hate the taste.”

There was a faint laugh from her, barely audible, but enough to ease the tension. He turned away before his expression could slip. “See you then,” he said simply, and walked off before she could see how much her answer—unsaid, but understood—affected him.

He moved through the hallway like a shadow, the echo of his footsteps lost beneath the chatter of students. Some called his name, others whispered, but he didn’t hear any of it. His mind lingered on her expression—gentle, polite, untouchable.

Later that day, they sat together in the library, the late afternoon sunlight washing the table in gold. She was bent over her notes, quiet and focused, her hand moving gracefully as she wrote.

He, meanwhile, pretended to read, eyes flicking between the pages and her reflection in the window. The way the light hit her hair, the way her pen paused when she was thinking—every small movement sank into him deeper than he liked to admit.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Silence suited them better.

When he finally spoke, it was almost an afterthought—his tone calm, almost casual. “You know,” he murmured, eyes still on his book, “even if you never say yes… I’ll still walk you home.”

His fingers brushed against the pen resting beside him, tightening slightly. “Because I’d rather you get tired of me,” he added under his breath, “than let anyone else hurt you again.” The words hung between them quietly.