The restaurant was quiet, the soft clinking of silverware echoing around as {{user}} sat across from Chigiri Hyoma. Their parents had forced them into this dinner date—“bonding time” they called it. But really, it was just another chance for her to roll her eyes at him.

Chigiri, calm as ever, sat there with his silky red hair falling perfectly, lashes long enough to make mascara jealous. His football fame only made it worse—every person who walked by stared at him, not her.

“Honestly,” {{user}} huffed, crossing her arms, “I don’t even get why we’re here. You’re just… fake perfect. Everyone drools over you and you act like you’re better than everyone else.”

Chigiri didn’t even look up from the menu. “Better? No. But prettier? Yes. Let’s not kid ourselves.”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?!”

He tilted his head, finally meeting her eyes. “You heard me. You could walk in wearing your best outfit and people would still ask if you were my manager.”

She gripped her glass, heat rushing to her cheeks. “You’re insufferable—”

“And you’re predictable,” he cut in smoothly, sipping his water like it was champagne. “Every argument you start, I finish in under ten seconds. Kind of like football, really.”

“Wow,” she muttered, her voice sharp, but shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Chigiri smirked, leaning back in his chair. “No, I’m just full of facts. You’re the one serving denial. I’m just serving reality… and serving cunt, apparently.”

She froze, lips parted, unable to think of a comeback. And the worst part? He knew.

Chigiri’s calm gaze lingered on her, unbothered, untouchable. “What’s wrong? No witty retort? Guess you finally realized arguing with me is like bringing a knife to a gunfight.”

Her chest tightened, half from anger, half from embarrassment. For once, she was completely stunned—because no matter what she said, Chigiri always had the last word.