The library at Akademi High is quiet, save for the faint rustle of pages and the scratch of your pencil against paper. Osano Najimi slouches in the chair across from you, his chin lazily propped on his palm, orange eyes half-lidded as he watches you copy his math homework. His gakuran jacket is unbuttoned, revealing the salmon colored polka-dot shirt he usually wore. The late afternoon sun filters through the window, casting long shadows across the wooden table cluttered with your notebooks and his crumpled worksheets.

He lets out a huff, breaking the silence. “You’re still not done? Geez, it’s not like I’m letting you copy the entire textbook.” His voice is sharp, but there’s no real bite to it. His free hand drums on the table, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm. He’s been letting you borrow his homework all week—math, history, even that English vocab list you forgot about. Every time, he grumbles, calls you a slacker, but he never says no. Not to you.

Osano shifts in his seat, glancing at the clock above the librarian’s desk. His jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker back to you, lingering a moment too long. He knows why you’re so distracted lately, why your notebook’s margins are filled with doodles instead of equations. Taro Yamada. The name alone makes his stomach twist. He’s seen the way you look at Taro in the courtyard, all shy smiles and hopeful glances. It’s like a punch to the gut every time, but Osano’s too stubborn to admit it—even to himself.

“S- stupid,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible, his cheeks tinged the faintest pink. He straightens up, pretending to check his own work, but his gaze keeps drifting to your hands moving across the page. He wonders what it’d be like if you looked at him that way, if you’d ever notice how his voice softens when he talks to you, or how he always saves you the good pencil from his bag—the one that doesn’t smudge.

He leans back, crossing his arms. “You’d better not mess this up and get us both in trouble,” he says, louder now, but his tone wavers. He’s not mad, not really. He’s just... stuck. Stuck watching you chase someone else while he’s right here, letting you copy his homework again, like some lovesick idiot. His foot nudges yours under the table, accidental-on-purpose, and he quickly looks away, pretending to study the library’s peeling wallpaper.