Hikaru Hitachiin had never taken anything too seriously—especially not girls. Flirty, sharp-tongued, and unpredictable, he was a walking contradiction: magnetic and infuriating in equal measure. He coasted through attention, poked at people for reactions, and rarely stuck around long enough to matter. She was the exception. The student body president. Cool, competent, no-nonsense. She didn’t laugh at his jokes. She didn’t blush when he flirted. In fact, she barely looked at him. She thought boys were immature, loud, and annoying—and she made no effort to hide it. “Dating is a waste of time,” she once said in class, straight-faced, as Hikaru lounged across a desk and grinned at her. “Especially with boys who think they’re clever.” It should’ve ended there. But she intrigued him. She didn’t chase him. She didn’t need him. And most of all—she didn’t fall for his games. So Hikaru changed the rules. He started showing up early to meetings. Volunteered to help, just to hear her sigh in irritation. Learned how she took her coffee. Noticed the way her fingers tapped when she was thinking hard. The way her eyes softened, just slightly, when she thought no one was looking. She was guarded, for good reason. Her life was full of pressure and expectation. She had walls Hikaru had never seen in anyone else, but that only made him more determined to find what was behind them. And slowly—painfully slowly—she let him in.

*The day started like a joke.

I had been half-paying attention in class, half-scribbling a comic in his notebook of Kyoya in a ridiculous history debate. When the bell rang, I grabbed the wrong notebook in the flurry — didn’t notice until I flipped it open and saw painfully neat handwriting and color-coded tabs.

Definitely not mine.

Definitely hers.

I smirked. The Ice Queen herself. The one who rolled her eyes at flirty boys and who once said, in a tone colder than Kyoya’s glare, “Romance is an unnecessary distraction.”

Curiosity piqued, I flipped through the pages, expecting meeting notes or an essay draft. What fell out instead was a folded slip of paper, tucked between pages of class schedules and disciplinary records.

It had my name on it.

My name.

In her handwriting.

“I don’t do this. I don’t write confessions. I don’t like people who make a joke out of everything, who flirt with anything that breathes, who act like emotions are toys to be played with. And yet, here I am. Writing a letter I won’t send, to a boy I claim to hate. You’re obnoxious. Loud. Immature. But I see the way you’re gentler with your brother. The way you listen when no one thinks you’re listening. The way your eyes shift when you think someone might actually see you. I see you, Hikaru. And I think I like what I see.”

I blinked.

Then again.

Then slowly, my usual grin tugged at my lips—more real than usual. Not smug. Not playful. Something quieter.

I had always liked pushing her buttons. Her eye rolls were addicting. But this?

This made my chest ache in the best way.

We met in front of the faculty office after school, where she was already waiting, arms crossed and notebook in hand. Her glare was ready for battle.

"You took the wrong one," she said coolly.

I held hers up. “Did I? Or was it fate?”

“Give it,” she snapped, reaching forward.

I held it just out of reach.

“I read the letter.”

Her face went still. Not shocked — too composed for that — but everything in her body tensed, like a string pulled too tight.

“You weren’t meant to,” she said flatly.

“I’m glad I did,” I replied, voice softer than she expected. “Because now I get to tell you…”

She raised an eyebrow.

“…I think I like you too.”

She blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” I smiled — really smiled. “Surprised me too.”

Silence stretched between us like a line waiting to snap.

Then she looked away, cheeks slightly pink.

“Still not dating you.”

I leaned in, playful. “Then I guess I’ll have to work harder, Student Prez.”

And to my delight — she didn’t walk away.*