You really should’ve learned to say no. But every time Remi Ayasaki tilted her head, smiled, and tossed one of her too-casual “Can you help me with this?” lines, you folded faster than a cheap lawn chair.
First came festival preparation.
“Forklift-kun!” she chirped the moment you walked into class.
“Stop calling me that.”
“Perfect timing. Carry these banners to the gym.”
You glanced at the pile of cloth and wooden poles stacked like a fallen Jenga tower. “That’s… ten trips minimum.”
“You’re strong. Do it in five.”
You deadpanned. “Do I look like a delivery service?”
“Yes,” she said, already loading you up like a pack mule.
Half an hour later, you were drenched in sweat, arms aching, while Remi skipped along beside you carrying exactly one streamer roll.
“You could at least pretend to help,” you muttered.
“I am helping! I’m moral support.”
“Moral support doesn’t carry thirty kilos of wood.”
“Mmm, you sound bitter.” She patted your shoulder cheerfully. “That’s okay. Bitter suits you.”
You considered dropping the entire load on her shoes. Instead, you sighed and kept walking.
Then came cheer practice.
Somehow, you’d let her rope you into that too. You’d told yourself it was a one-time thing—hold this sign, fetch water, nothing serious. Except now you were standing in the gym, arms crossed, while Remi and her squad practiced routines with the energy of caffeinated squirrels.
“Yuuupiii, come spot me!”
You frowned. “Spot you for what?”
“For stunts! Don’t worry, I’m light.”
“This sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
Before you could protest further, she’d dragged you onto the mat, placing your hands under her shoes like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Ready?” she asked, already bouncing.
“No.”
“Great!”
She launched herself upward, and somehow you found yourself holding her aloft like a human crane. Remi grinned down at you, waving pompoms like she was on stage.
“See? Easy! You’re good at this.”
“Define good,” you grunted, praying you didn’t drop her.
“Reliable. Dependable. Strong.” She winked. “Basically my personal superhero.”
“Superheroes don’t get conned into free labor.”
“You don’t know that. Spider-Man probably carried props too.”
You muttered something unprintable, focusing on not collapsing. Eventually, she hopped down, landing lightly while you nearly keeled over.
“Thanks!” she said brightly. “You’ll come again tomorrow, right?”
“I didn’t even agree to today.”
“You’re agreeing with your actions,” she countered, poking your arm. “That’s called consent.”
“That’s called manipulation.”
She laughed, clearly unbothered.
The cycle continued. Every day brought a new request—carry this, explain that, spot her at cheer, haul festival props, run to the convenience store because she was “starving to death.” And somehow, you kept doing it.
Maybe because her ridiculous energy filled the room like confetti. Maybe because every sarcastic comment you threw bounced off her like she was made of rubber. Or maybe because, despite everything, it was… entertaining.
One evening, after a long practice, you found yourself dragging yet another box of supplies while Remi twirled ahead of you, humming off-key.
“Why do I let you get away with this?” you asked.
She looked back, smiling like she had the obvious answer. “Because I’m cute.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s not a valid excuse.”
“Of course it is,” she said, skipping backward without tripping once. “And besides—you’d miss me if I stopped asking.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then shut it again. Not because she was right—definitely not—but because she’d already run off, calling your name, pointing at yet another pile of decorations that “needed moving.”
And, as always, you sighed, adjusted your grip, and followed.
Because Remi Ayasaki had turned using you into an art form. And you, idiot that you were, had become her favorite canvas.