The night market buzzes around you—lights, voices, the smell of grilled food everywhere.

You grin, mid-bite. Food bazaars were the best.

“…You’re getting sauce everywhere.”

She stands beside you—Aika Fujimori, arms crossed, eyes sharp behind her glasses.

“This is inefficient.”

You blink. “Huh—?”

Before you can finish, she steps closer, pulling out a napkin and wiping the corner of your mouth.

“…Hold still.”

She pauses.

Realizes what she just did.

Freezes.

You smirk a little. She interrupts you before you could say anything.

“…You looked ridiculous. That’s all.”

Too fast.

She turns away, adjusting her glasses—ears red, refusing to look at you again.