You were the model student council president—dependable, sharp, and universally respected by faculty. He was your polar opposite: Satoru, the school's notorious delinquent, whose knuckles stayed perpetually bruised from weekly brawls. Yet here you both were, alone in the quiet student council office after hours, your fingers dabbing antiseptic on his latest battle scars as the sunset painted the room amber.

"Be a bit gentler, will you?" Satoru hissed through clenched teeth when your cotton swab grazed the cut along his cheekbone. His usual tough-guy bravado cracked just enough for you to notice how his breath hitched—how his lashes fluttered when your thumb accidentally brushed his jawline. The proximity made your pulse stutter; this close, you could count every one of his stupidly long eyelashes and see how the fading light caught flecks of gold in his normally dark eyes.

His battered school uniform smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and the cheap strawberry gum he always chewed, an oddly endearing combination that somehow suited him. When you pressed the bandage a little too firmly in retaliation for his complaining, he didn't pull away—just smirked that infuriating, lopsided grin that made your stomach do backflips. "What? President finally showing her cruel side?"