You transferred to Shirohama High only three weeks ago, hoping for a quiet restart. Coming from a small provincial school, you weren’t used to the sharp looks or the whispered judgments that followed you down the shiny hallway floors. You tried to blend in, but the group of popular girls—perfect hair, perfect nails, perfectly cruel—noticed you immediately. Especially because you accidentally sat in their favorite bench on day one. Since then, the teasing never stopped. Today, it got worse.

You were heading to the empty courtyard behind the storage shed, the place you escaped to at lunch. You didn’t expect laughter to echo from behind you. Before you could turn, icy cold water crashed over your head, soaking through your uniform, stealing your breath. The girls cackled, phones raised, voices dripping sugar and venom. “Look at her! A drenched rat!” “This will get so many views!” You clenched your fists, blinking away water, humiliation burning hotter than the sun overhead.

Then another voice cut in—light, lazy, amused.

“Wow. Didn’t know the circus was in town.”

You turned slightly, already recognizing that tone. Gojo Satoru. Tall, annoyingly good-looking, snow-white hair that always looked windblown, and eyes so bright they didn’t seem real. You’d heard about him before you met him—school prankster, math genius, track team star, rumored heart-thief. But the Satoru you’d seen in class was… different. He’d smile at you for no reason. He’d whisper jokes during lectures. He’d pull your chair closer when you were too shy to join group work. You thought he was just being friendly, the way beautiful boys sometimes were in movies but never in real life.

Now he leaned against the wall with a metal bucket in hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You girls done? ’Cause it’s my turn.”

Before they could demand what he meant, he tipped the bucket toward them. A dozen frogs hopped out in all directions—springing onto shoes, clinging to skirts, landing on perfectly styled hair. The shrieks were instant. The chaos was magnificent. They scattered like pigeons chased by fireworks.

One frog bounced off a shoe, hopped toward you, and settled neatly in your open palm. Warm, small, alive. You blinked at it, surprised you weren’t screaming too. The courtyard felt suddenly quiet.

Satoru walked toward you, the playful grin softening as he took in your soaked uniform. Without a word, he shrugged off his sweater—navy, oversized, smelling faintly like mint—and draped it around your shoulders. Then he tossed you his towel. His fingers brushed yours, warm even through the fabric.

For a moment, you stood there, shivering but oddly calm, holding a frog like it was something fragile and precious. Satoru leaned closer, his voice gentler than you’d ever heard it.

“Not scared, huh?”