The word leaves your lips, a soft yet final barrier. “No.”

A breath huffs out of him, not of anger, but of a performance of a wound so deep it might just be real. It’s a sound you’ve come to know well, the soundtrack to his weekly—sometimes daily—campaign for your affections.

“You don’t even have to call it a date if you don’t want to!” He tries again, the grin not quite reaching the faint, uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes.

“Still no.”

And there it is. The sigh. It’s longer this time, more drawn out, laced with a theatrical ache that somehow doesn’t feel entirely fake. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve had this exact exchange. But a small, traitorous part of you knows he hasn’t. He’s keeping score. Every rejection is a tiny nick on a pride that’s always seemed impenetrable.

That’s the part that quietly unnerves you. This is Satoru, the third-year who walks through the halls like he owns them, all effortless smiles and contagious confidence. The one who could have his pick of anyone. And for some reason, his gaze landed on you, the quiet second year who just wanted to get through the semester unscathed. He’s strong, smart, and undeniably handsome—a checklist of desirable traits that should, in theory, make your heart flutter.

So why doesn't it?

The question must haunt him, too. You see it in the way his brow furrows for a split second before the charming mask slides back into place. You are a puzzle he can’t solve and a locked door his golden key won’t open, and it’s fundamentally baffling to him. He’s got it all, so why won't you just swoon?

And you know, with a sinking certainty, that he isn’t tired. If anything, your resistance is just fuel. He’s the type to see a ‘no’ not as a wall, but as a challenge to be scaled, a fortress to be besieged with relentless, grinning charm. He’ll never admit that each of your gentle, firm denials is a small stone thrown at a glass castle, but you see the faintest web of cracks.

His gaze drops, studying the scuff on his shoe with an intensity it doesn’t deserve. The act is so transparent, so deliberately crafted to look vulnerable, and yet… it works. A sliver of something—pity, guilt, maybe just exhaustion—pricks at your heart. His voice is softer now, stripped of its usual bravado, and it lands differently.

“C’mon… At least give me a hint or tell me what it’s going to take for you to say yes.”