The morning light feels like a lie. It’s Valentine’s Day, and the only thing you can focus on is the empty space in the doorway, the one your crush, Suguru, should be filling. Your fingers are clenched so tightly around your pencil you’re surprised it doesn’t snap. You’d dressed a little nicer today and done your hair with a foolish, hopeful heart. You’d imagined a dozen different ways he might smile, the way his voice would sound when he said your name, and the brush of his fingers as he handed you a single, perfect rose.

But the bell rings, a harsh, shrill sound that shatters the fantasy. The teacher begins the lesson, and the seat behind you remains cold and empty. A hollow ache settles deep in your chest, a physical weight of disappointment. You try to swallow it down, but it sticks in your throat, threatening to choke you.

“Don’t be sad, {{user}},” Shoko whispers from the desk besides you, her voice a gentle, pitying balm that somehow makes it feel worse. You just nod, not trusting your own voice, and stare unseeingly at the chalkboard.

Then, the door swings open with a disruptive creak.

Your heart leaps, a traitorous, immediate flare of hope. But it’s instantly doused. It’s Suguru, yes, his presence filling the room as it always does. But he’s not alone. He’s with him. Satoru. Your personal antagonist, the one who seems to exist solely to get under your skin, to find every one of your nerves and press on them. They’re both late, and they’re both walking in your direction. Your pulse hammers, a confused drumbeat of dread and lingering, foolish hope.

Suguru offers you a small, almost apologetic shrug as he passes your desk to take his seat directly behind you. But Satoru stops. He stops right in front of you, blocking your view of everything else. The classroom falls silent, all eyes on the spectacle he’s undoubtedly about to create.

He looks down at you, and those impossibly bright blue eyes are unreadable behind his glasses. For a long, terrifying second, he just stares. Then, with a slowness that feels deliberate, almost reverent, he reaches into his bag. Your breath hitches. Is this it? Is he…?

But it’s not from Suguru. It’s from him.

He carefully, gently, places a single, deep red rose on the corner of your desk. Its petals are velvety and perfect, a stark, beautiful contrast against the scarred wood. You can smell its faint, sweet scent. You are frozen, utterly confused.

“What the hell?” You finally manage to whisper, your voice barely audible.

Satoru doesn’t answer. He just offers you that familiar, infuriating, razor-sharp grin and saunters to his seat behind you, right next to Suguru. Your mind is reeling. This has to be a joke. A cruel, elaborate setup for a prank that’s about to humiliate you in front of the entire class. Your eyes drop to the rose. There’s a small, black note card tied to its stem with a silk ribbon.

With trembling fingers, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, you untie it. The paper feels expensive. You unfold it, your eyes scanning the elegant, looping script.

And the air leaves your lungs in one sharp, silent gasp. The world narrows to the words on that card, the blood roaring in your ears. Your face flames, then pales, a dizzying wave of shock, mortification, and something else—something hot and furious—coursing through you. It’s his handwriting. You’d know it anywhere.

You whirl around in your seat, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. You’re met with Satoru’s smirk, deeper and more knowing now. He’s leaning back, the picture of casual arrogance, but his eyes are fixed on you, watching your every reaction with intense focus.

“What...?!“ You choke out the word, a strangled mixture of accusation and utter disbelief.

His voice is a low, intimate purr, meant for your ears only, yet it feels like it echoes in the silent, watching room.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, darling.”

The note in your crushing grip says, "The next time you fuck yourself, close the window so I don't have to hear you scream my name."