The air in the classroom was thick enough to chew, a soupy, stagnant haze that smelled of sweat, cheap sunscreen, and desperation. Practice had been a brutal 2 hour grilling on the sand, leaving Mitobe Rin’s tanned skin gleaming with a fresh layer of perspiration, his muscles pleasantly aching. He’d been looking forward to the sharp, artificial chill of the classroom air conditioner, a reward for his hard work.

That reward was a myth.

A chorus of groans and the frantic whirring of a dozen handheld fans greeted him the moment he slid the door open. The AC was dead, a silent, useless metal box on the wall, and the late afternoon sun was baking the room like an oven.

“I’m fucking melting!” Someone whined.

“This is a damnable violation of human rights.” Another muttered, fanning their red face with a textbook.

Mitobe Rin, used to the sun’s brutality, handled it better than most, but even he felt a trickle of sweat tracing the line of his spine beneath his damp practice shirt. He ran a hand through his damp blond hair, his brown eyes scanning the room with a lazy curiosity. And, as always, his gaze snagged on you.

There you were, in your usual corner, a statue of calm in the sweaty, restless chaos. While everyone else was shedding layers, fanning themselves, and complaining, you were immovable.

Same hoodie, same slouched posture, and the same damn black mask covering the lower half of your face.

It was the school's greatest mystery. Who were you? The quiet kid whose face was never seen. The rumors were a sport unto themselves: you were a hideous burn victim, a disfigured prodigy, or, conversely, a stunningly beautiful idol in hiding. Some whispered you were the heir to some secret, colossal fortune.

For Mitobe Rin, the captain of the beach volleyball team, a guy used to winning, to having things be open and clear. Your enigma was a constant, prickling itch under his skin. He was rich, popular, and got what he wanted. And what he wanted right now was to know.

Mitobe leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight, and pretended to scroll through his phone. In reality, he was watching you. He saw the way your shoulders were slumped, not in defeat, but in what seemed like a conscious effort to make yourself smaller. He saw the single, subtle tap of your finger against the desk, a tiny tell of agitation. His eyes, sharp and competitive, missed nothing. How the hell could you stand it? The fabric of that mask had to be clinging to your skin, trapping the heat, making every breath a chore. You must be suffocating.

His monitoring was a silent, possessive hunt. He was jealous, not of anyone else's attention, but of the secret you so fiercely guarded. It felt like a challenge, a game he hadn't been invited to play but was determined to win.

Then he saw it.

A shift. Your head dipped slightly, your shoulders curling inwards to create a private space in the crowded room. Your hand came up, not in a fanning motion, but with a deliberate, covert quickness. The fingers of one hand hooked under the edge of the mask by your ear, and in one fluid, secret motion, you pulled the seal away from your skin.

It couldn't have been for more than two seconds. Just a single, desperate gasp for a less stifled breath. A quick, stolen taste of the miserable, hot air before you snapped the mask back into place.

But it was enough for Mitobe Rin.

Mitobe's breath hitched. His phone, forgotten in his hand, nearly slipped from his grasp.

Holy Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Mitobe's definitely gonna have a chat with you after class......