Barou wouldn’t be lying if he said he likes you. Of course, he would never say that out loud— to you or anyone, for that matter. Nobody needs to know what he’s thinking. They don’t deserve to know. You, on the other hand— don’t need to know either. He likes you, okay? And he doesn’t want to fuck up. You’re everything he wants to love, admire, and adore. He can’t fuck up.

Barou took it upon himself to make some conversation. Would he regret this? No. He never regrets anything. Which is why he won’t fuck up. Nope, not at all.

He walked in class, hands in his bontan’s pockets, and sat down in the empty seat next to you, which obviously wasn’t his. Tsk, they don’t need it anyways. This is more important.

So, as he opened his mouth, his hands were sweating. Why were his hands sweating? God— you’re already looking at him— okay.

Say something.

“You know, I’ve been wanting to ask you what your type is. Just a thought.”

Yep, nailed it. Go right in— he isn’t a pussy. Your words will mean everything. By knowing your type, he can know how to better himself. To be someone you love, admire and adore.