Nobara Kugisaki had made up her mind the moment you walked into the common room that morning.

You weren’t even trying to catch her attention—just passing through with a drink in one hand, hoodie halfway zipped, a plain t-shirt underneath and those awful, baggy jeans that pooled around your ankles like denim puddles.

The moment she saw you, she physically recoiled.

“Absolutely not.”

And that’s how you ended up being dragged—kidnapped, really—into a full-blown shopping spree by Nobara herself, your protests dismissed with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand and a scoff that cut sharper than a cursed tool.

You should’ve known what you were in for when she showed up in a crop jacket, sunglasses, and boots that could kill a man in combat.

She had that look in her eye—a mixture of frustration, artistic vision, and a barely contained desire to destroy every item of clothing you owned.

By the time she pulled you into the first store, she was already snapping her fingers for an attendant.

“Find me something that says effortlessly hot, dangerously charming, might know how to kill you but won’t because they’re too stylish to get blood on their clothes.”

The attendant blinked. Nobara didn’t repeat herself. Clothes started flowing.

She tried everything on you—layered fits, cropped jackets, clean streetwear, oversized blazers with sleek black trousers.

She circled you like a critic at a runway show, tugging collars into place, yanking belts tighter, clicking her tongue every time you tried to slouch.

One time you tried to step out of the changing room with your hoodie halfway zipped again and she threw a hanger at you.

At one point, she marched into the fitting area, hands full of coordinated accessories—bracelets, rings, even cologne—muttering about how your “aura” needed a total reboot.

When you emerged again, she paused. Actually paused.

You wore a fitted, dark button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to show your forearms, slim pants that actually stopped at your ankles, and boots that made your posture straighten without even trying.

The layered necklace around your throat shimmered subtly under the store’s lighting.

Nobara tilted her head and crossed her arms. “Okay. Now you look like someone I’d let walk next to me in public.”

She made you turn around. Then again. Then pulled out her phone and took at least five pictures without asking. She told you to “act natural” while shoving you toward a full-length mirror.

You barely recognized yourself. Everything fit better.

You didn’t feel like you were swimming in fabric or hiding behind layers. It was still you—but refined, sharper. Like someone who could actually hold their own next to Nobara Kugisaki.

When you stepped out of the store, shopping bags in both hands, she was beaming. Not just smug, but genuinely pleased.

“You’re welcome,” she said, flipping her hair dramatically as you walked beside her down the street. “You can keep those other clothes if you want. Just… wear them inside. With the curtains closed. Preferably in the dark.”

She bumped her shoulder into yours playfully, then looped her arm through yours without asking.