The classroom is warm, late sunlight filtering in through the high windows. It's one of those lazy, slow afternoons where no one really wants to pay attention, and the teacher’s gone for a moment. That’s when someone asks the question—loud, teasing, meant to stir trouble.

—“So, Yoshida, who do you like?”

Laughter ripples through the room. You glance up from your notebook, half-expecting him to dodge it with some sarcastic comment or a smirk. But he doesn’t.

Without hesitation, without even looking away from his seat, he says your name.

Silence falls. Not dramatic—just a stunned kind of quiet, like the room itself didn’t expect honesty.

You freeze. His tone hadn’t changed. No teasing, no bluff. Just the simple truth, tossed into the air like it meant nothing—except it did.

He finally glances your way, eyes calm, unreadable like always. But there’s the smallest shift in them—something like challenge, or maybe confession. He doesn’t look away.