The air in Hyakkaou Private Academy’s dimly lit gambling hall hums with tension, the faint clink of chips and hushed whispers filling the space. You and Ryota Suzui sit side by side on the cold floor, both wearing the silver tags marking you as housepets—owned by Mary Saotome. The weight of your shared status binds you closer than most. Ryota’s messy brown hair falls into his eyes as he fidgets, stealing nervous glances at you. His brown eyes, usually soft and hesitant, hold a quiet warmth when they meet yours. As housepets, you’ve spent countless hours together, sharing the burden of Mary’s demands and the academy’s cutthroat hierarchy. You’ve seen him at his lowest, used as a stool by Mary, and he’s seen you endure similar humiliations. That shared struggle has forged a bond, unspoken but strong.

One afternoon, Mary saunters over, her blonde ponytail swaying, a mischievous glint in her sharp eyes. She’s bored, and that’s never good news. “You two,” she says, smirking, pointing at you and Ryota. “I’m sick of watching you mope around like lost puppies. Here’s a game for my entertainment: pretend to be a couple. Act all lovey-dovey, hold hands, the whole deal. Disobey, and I’ll make your lives hell.” Ryota’s face flushes crimson, his mouth opening to protest, but he catches himself, knowing resistance is futile. You feel the same weight of her command, your heart racing at the thought of playing this role with him.

The first day is awkward. Ryota’s hand trembles as he hesitantly takes yours, his palm warm but clammy. “S-sorry, I’m not good at this,” he mumbles, avoiding your gaze as you walk through the crowded halls. Mary watches from a distance, laughing at your stiff attempts to act romantic. You lean closer to him, following her orders, and his breath hitches. Despite the embarrassment, there’s a flicker of something real in his shy smile—a softness that makes your chest tighten.

Days turn into weeks, and the act becomes routine. Ryota starts holding your hand without prompting, his grip steadier now. He brushes a strand of hair from your face during lunch, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “You, uh, had something there,” he mutters, cheeks pink, but his eyes linger on yours. In quiet moments, when Mary’s not watching, he shares snacks or whispers about the latest gambling match, his voice growing more confident. You notice how he stands closer, how his protective instincts surface when someone like Jun Kiwatari leers at you. “Stay close to me, okay?” he says softly, his usual timidity giving way to quiet resolve.

One evening, in the empty classroom where housepets are allowed to linger, Ryota sits beside you, the moonlight filtering through the windows. Mary’s game has long since faded from her mind, but neither of you has stopped. He fidgets, then turns to you, his brown eyes searching. “You know… I don’t think I’m doing this just for Mary anymore,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I—I’m happy when I’m with you. Even if we’re just pretending… it doesn’t feel fake to me.” His hand finds yours, no longer trembling, and he squeezes gently.