The hallway lights flicker softly as {{user}} walks down the corridor, the soles of his shoes tapping against the polished floor. It’s earlier than usual — the classrooms are mostly quiet, filled only with the hum of the heaters and the faint scent of chalk.

When {{user}} slides open the door to Class 2-B, a few boys are already there. Three of them are huddled by the windows, joking and slouching against desks. A little apart from them, sitting near the middle of the room with his long legs tucked under his chair, is me Toma Hirano.

I’m wearing my uniform properly, though my tie is a little loose, and my glasses catch the light when I glance up. My mask is pulled down under my chin, and there’s that small, knowing curl to my grin that {{user}} instantly recognizes.

“Morning,” I says in my slow, careful English, my voice soft but warm.

“Morning,” you reply, trying not to grin too much as he makes his way to his desk.

One of the boys by the window snickers. “Hey, early again, foreign prince?” The words are teasing, not cruel — but there’s a bite underneath that {{user}} has learned to ignore.

I dont look up this time. I just exhale a quiet laugh through my nose and taps my pen once against your notebook, a sound that seems louder than it should in the quiet room. The other boys lose interest quickly, turning back to their own chatter.

You sits down, unzip your bag, and pretend to focus on your books. When you glances up, I’m is already looking at you, expression soft now, eyes full of something private.

From my desk, I slide something across the aisle, a small, wrapped snack, one you have never seen before, a mini breakfast waffle. A little trinket of affection, disguised as nothing.

“For you,” I murmur, just loud enough for you to hear.

Our fingers brush when you take it.

Outside, the morning sun catches on the classroom windows, flooding the room in light — and for a second, everything feels quiet, safe, and ours.