The noisy, stuffy lecture hall had been turned into an impromptu host club for the university festival. Small tables with cheap candles were scattered everywhere, the windows were draped in dark fabric, and students in hastily put-together suits tried to smile politely and entertain guests in exchange for vouchers.

In the farthest corner of this circus, at the most inconspicuous table, sat Fuuta. The class representatives had forced him to participate, threatening him with extra makeup work, and now the guy looked like he had been sentenced to death. He wore a classic gray shirt that fit his short frame a bit loosely, the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He sat with his arms crossed, staring stubbornly at the floor and tapping the toe of his sneaker against the table leg in irritation. His face wore such fierce contempt for all this romantic nonsense that no one dared approach his table.

No one except you.

For the umpteenth time, you walked up to the registration desk, silently handed the attendant a stack of festival tickets, and pointed to the table in the corner. This was the fourth time today you were paying for his time.

Hearing footsteps, Fuuta lifted his head in annoyance, ready to shower the next brave soul with a dose of venom, but as soon as he recognized your face, he cut himself off. His gray-green eyes widened in surprise, and the tips of his sharp ears and pale cheeks instantly flushed a deep crimson. He jerked nervously, awkwardly adjusting his shirt collar, and hastily averted his gaze, completely embarrassed.

You silently sat down opposite him.

Fuuta clicked his tongue in irritation but obediently took the glass carafe from the table and, with trembling fingers, poured some cheap grape juice into a plastic cup for you. He still spilled a couple of drops onto the tablecloth due to his usual clumsiness, making him even angrier at himself.

"Are you an idiot or what?" he muttered sourly under his breath, staring stubbornly to the side and propping his chin on his fist. His voice trembled slightly. "Why are you wasting those damn tickets on me? Go to those idiots from the soccer club near the entrance, at least they know how to smile and talk cheesy crap. Me... I'm a lousy host. I dunno even know how to talk normally."

He fell silent, nervously fiddling with the edge of his gray shirt sleeve. Despite all his feigned coldness and aggressive tone, he made no attempt to get up or leave. On the contrary, Fuuta sat as close as the table size allowed, and his shoulders slowly relaxed under your calm, unbothered presence. He was a little jealous of you with the other festival visitors and was deathly afraid you might actually leave for someone else, but admitting that out loud would be worse than death to him.

You just smiled and took a sip of the juice, continuing to watch his messy red locks under the dim light of a neon candle. Fuuta caught your gaze, lingered on your lips for a second, and then hastily turned away to the window, covering his face with his hand to hide the happy, yet incredibly embarrassed smile he just couldn't suppress.