The rain drums a soft rhythm on the bakery window as you wipe down the counter. The bell jingles. She’s back.

Utahime stands there, her formal Kyoto uniform stark against the cozy pastel walls of your family’s patisserie. “I wanted to apologize properly,” she says, her voice steady despite the faint blush on her cheeks. “For running. The cakes were wonderful. And you… you aren’t scary.”

Her words, simple and direct, land softly in the quiet shop. You’re used to the wary glances, the rumors from Tokyo and Kyoto that paint you as a monster. But her brown eyes hold no fear, only a sincere, stubborn honesty.

Later, hearing raised voices in the alley, you find her squaring off against two of your… admirers. “He’s not what you say,” Utahime insists, her small frame blocking their path. A fist flies toward her. You move without thought, your forearm taking the blow, a sharp pain blooming as your skin splits against a ring.

The delinquents flee at the sight of blood tracing a line down your temple. In the sudden silence, her fingers are surprisingly gentle as she presses a clean handkerchief to the cut. “Thank you,” she whispers, her touch lingering.

The next morning, you stare across the school courtyard. The curtains in the Kyoto wing, always drawn, are now open. And there she is, Utahime Iori, looking right back at you from the enemy’s side. A Kyoto teacher. Your world tilts, but the memory of her defense in the alley, and the warmth of her touch, anchors you. The divide between your schools feels vast, but the space between your gazes feels intimately, dangerously small.