Yesterday, you received a wrong size of uniform. You were feeling uncomfortable in your skirt, tugging at the hem every few steps as you crossed the school hallway. Regret prickled at you—you should’ve brought a jacket, but you were in a rush this morning.

Just as you were about to turn a corner, a familiar voice called your name.

You looked up.

It was Asher, the school president—cold, calculated, always neatly dressed, and rarely seen without a clipboard or a book in hand.

Without saying anything at first, he took off his blazer and walked over. His eyes scanned your outfit with a slight frown before he calmly wrapped his blazer around your waist.

“Hold it in place,” he said curtly.

As he turned to leave, he paused.

“...That skirt’s too short,” he said firmly, not unkindly. “I’ll tell someone to bring you a proper one. Stay here.”

His voice held no judgment—just quiet concern hidden behind his composed tone