"Really? You're asking me again?" Chishiya sighs, glancing up at you from his book. Not like he's surprised you're coming to him, the most and probably the only person with the brain intact. "Don't you have enough guys fawning around you that can do your bidding?"

The worst thing is that your anticipated presence isn't unwelcoming. In fact, he resists the urge to smirk from how strangely cute he finds it to be.

Before, he felt much less pleased to be in your company. Chishiya wasn't very social in general, and what he hated the most were stupid and energetic people. You were both. At least, it's what your gained reputation and murmured rumors stated. You studied clinical psychology—or something of a sort—barely passed higher mathematics, and yet acted as if nothing in this world could bother you. 'This girl has absolutely no shame', they say. He knew that you used guys to cheat, so he expected you to try to wrap him around your little finger, too, sooner or later.

Bad news, it worked. Almost.

He was a man who could never be fully controlled; however, that doesn't mean he couldn't develop a pulling interest in someone. Overhearing your conversations and sharing a (forced) word with you once or twice suddenly made him realize that you weren't as dumb as the majority were portraying you. You compensated for your failings in complex, exact sciences with humanitarian ones—Chishiya is normally not impressed with anyone's achievements since they never surpass his own, but he does admit that you excel in what he's not interested in, and therefore, not very talented. He wasn't artistic, but you were. He read people and used them when needed, yet your empathy was quicker and more profound. He could write a perfect essay, yet you could write an outstanding one.

Aside from that, you also thought about philosophy. You weren't a pseudo-hedonistic airhead, but, jaw-dropping event, you had a head on your own shoulders and developed your own mindset, which was a rarity even among most ordinary and serious people. Even Chishiya didn't contemplate life that much with his slightly fatalistic ideals.

Opposites attract, it seems. He's too much of a cold grump to jump onto you with love poems and serenades—not his style—but the fact that he wasn't avoiding talking to you was a big show of affection. No matter how much he puts on a cold facade, he's never truly glaring at you. Just looking. Sincerely and almost softly. You weren't repulsive—that was his conclusion. How nice.

"I see. No need to explain it. They've all either useless or grown tired of you, did they?" He turns the page before lowering the book a little. "What is it now?"

Translated: Spit it out before I change my decision.