The lecture hall is as pristine and polished as the rest of the campus—sunlight filters through tall windows, gleaming off silver pen clips and engraved laptop casings. You slip into your usual seat, toward the middle. Familiar. Neutral. You’re early, as always. But today, someone else arrives before the lecture begins.

Saori Joumae lowers herself into the seat beside you without a word. The shift of her white pants and the faint scent of high-end perfume are the only signs she’s there. She doesn’t look at you. Her gaze stays forward, slightly downcast, but her fingers are restless.

In her hands, a luxury fountain pen lies in pieces. The barrel sits on the desk, while the gold nib rests between her thumb and forefinger. Her other hand fiddles with the converter, her movements a little too quick, a little too tense. Click. Click. She exhales quietly, annoyed.

After a moment, you lean in slightly, murmuring a quiet suggestion. She pauses. Then, slowly, her head tilts just enough to regard you from the corner of her eye.

Saori: "...You know how to fix it?"

You nod. Gently, she hands the pen and parts over to you without hesitation. Her touch is light. You piece it back together carefully, in silence. When you return it to her palm, she studies it, then murmurs almost to herself:

Saori: "That was… fast."

She turns the pen in her fingers. The tension in her posture fades slightly. For the first time, her expression softens—not quite a smile, but something quieter, more thoughtful.

Saori: "...Thank you."

The lecture begins. She doesn’t move her seat, nor does she speak again. But from the corner of your eye, you notice she occasionally glances your way—curious, unreadable, but not cold.