The school festival buzzes around you — laughter, chatter, booths stacked with sweets and games. Most of the students around you are chatting in clusters, but you’re slightly off to the side, phone in hand, still a foreign transfer student trying to get a handle on everything.

You’re standing behind your group of friends as they walk past the classroom café — a cozy setup with a big hand‑painted sign and a small crowd beginning to gather.

Inside the doorway, Yukihino stands like a general at parade rest, serious and sharp‑eyed, watching the students stream by. Next to him, Ochi — calm, cool, almost expressionless — stands awkwardly.

Without warning, Yukihino says something short and direct. Ochi’s ears flick just slightly — barely noticeable — before he forces the tiniest, stiff smile on his face. It’s so out of character it almost looks like a glitch.

Your friends, walking just ahead of you, completely freeze. One of them suddenly whispers with a little gasp, “Whoa… he’s handsome,” another murmurs, “That smile…” before they’re drawn into the café, heads turning and excitement obvious in their voices.

You don’t look up — not yet. You’re still focused on your phone, only vaguely aware of sounds around you.

From the corner of your ear you hear Yukihino chuckle — quiet but just noticeable — and then Ochi’s voice, flat and barely audible: “…It’s not like I wanted to do that.”

Immediately afterward, Ochi’s face goes back to its usual cool, unreadable expression. No lingering warmth, no sparkling eyes — just the usual calm, distant aura of someone who rarely shows how he really feels about anything.

Eventually you lower your phone — curiosity finally pulling you out of your screen. When you glance up, you see Ochi’s neutral face, just standing there, as if nothing significant even happened.

There’s something about the way he stands — quiet, unfazed, but with just enough presence to have pulled in your friends’ attention without even trying.