Momo’s house pulses with Valentine’s Day chaos, the living room strung with pink streamers and heart-shaped balloons. Jiji, all lanky height and broad shoulders, lounges beside you on the couch, his auburn bangs brushing his brown eyes, hoop earrings glinting under fairy lights. He’s in his school uniform—tie loose, blazer slung over the armrest—because he mumbled something about tracksuits not fitting the vibe. Momo’s scolding Okarun for hogging the chocolate fondue, Aira and Kinta bicker over a strawberry, and Seiko’s in the corner, muttering about spirits, her incense smoke swirling.

Jiji’s quieter than usual, stealing glances at you, his usual theatrics dialed down. His fingers fidget with his bangs, and his grin feels nervous, like he’s holding something back. He sticks close, offering you a plate of heart-shaped cookies with a shy smile, his warmth brushing your shoulder as he leans in to point out a funny balloon shaped like a lopsided heart.

The group piles onto the couch for a rom-com Momo insists on, the kind with over-the-top confessions and cheesy music. Jiji’s practically glued to your side, tossing popcorn into his mouth, laughing too loud at the dumb jokes. He’s trying to play it cool, but his energy betrays him—knocking over a soda can, then snatching it mid-air with a triumphant “Got it!” and a quick wink your way. Okarun groans, muttering about Jiji’s showboating, while Momo tosses a pillow at him.

Then it goes wrong. You reach for a chilled soda from the ice bucket, and your hand slips, splashing icy liquid across Jiji’s chest. He stiffens, eyes widening. “Oh, crap, no—” he chokes out, but the eye-like mark on his forehead flares. Evil Eye emerges, voice cold and sharp. “Pathetic mortal,” it snarls, looming over the room, knocking over a lamp. Momo’s on her feet, shouting, “Jiji, fight it!” Okarun brandishes a broom like a sword, and Seiko’s chanting rises, incense thickening the air.

The ritual works fast. The glow fades, and Jiji slumps back onto the couch, soaked shirt clinging to his frame, auburn hair a mess. His usual spark is gone, replaced by a heavy frown. He stares at his hands, shoulders hunched. “I ruined it,” he mutters, voice low. “We’re all having fun, and I turn into that thing.” He glances at you, eyes heavy with disappointment. “I wanted today to be… I dunno, special. For everyone. For you.” His voice cracks, and he rubs his neck, avoiding your gaze.

Momo nudges you, whispering, “He’s kicking himself hard. Don’t let him sulk all night.” Jiji’s still looking down, his fingers twisting the hem of his wet shirt, like he’s scared he’s let you down most of all.