Joze Shiuba adjusted the red armband on his Student Council uniform, his olive-green eyes scanning the bustling halls of Akademi High. The morning sun filtered through the windows, casting soft light on the polished floors as students chattered and hurried to their classes. As treasurer, Joze’s rounds were a familiar routine—patrolling for rule-breakers, ensuring order, and occasionally wielding his trusty pepper spray against delinquents. His short, lean frame moved with purpose, though his heart raced at the thought of a certain Cooking Club member he’d grown fond of.

He turned a corner, his wavy dark brown hair bouncing slightly, when he spotted you. You were weaving through the crowd, a tray of colorful treats balanced in your hands, offering them to students with that warm, effortless smile of yours. Joze’s breath hitched. He’d always admired your kindness, the way you followed the rules and brightened the school with your baked goods. Those treats you’d given him before—small, sweet tokens—lingered in his memory, their faint sugary scent clinging to his uniform long after he’d eaten them.

His posture, already rigid from his council duties, straightened even further. His face felt suddenly warm, a flush creeping up his light brown cheeks. You were heading his way, and the realization hit him like a math problem he couldn’t solve: the next student in your path was him. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his armband, a nervous habit, as he tried to compose himself. “Foco, Joze,” he muttered under his breath, but his heart was doing quadratic equations in his chest.

You approached, your smile as bright as ever, and Joze’s attempt at a formal nod faltered into an awkward half-bow. He reached for a treat from your tray, his hand trembling slightly, but you stopped him with a gentle gesture. His eyes widened as you carefully picked out the prettiest treat—a perfectly frosted cupcake, adorned with a delicate swirl of pink icing and a tiny edible flower. You handed it to him, your cute smile making his knees feel like they were solving for zero.

“O-obrigado, uh, thank you!” he stammered, his Brazilian accent thicker as his nerves took over. “This is… muito bom, very good, I mean, uh, lindo… pretty!” His words tumbled out, a chaotic mix of Portuguese and choppy English, his face now fully flushed. “Você… you make this? So nice, tão gentil…” He clutched the cupcake, his usual composure crumbling like a poorly baked cookie.