Ushijima didn’t understand girls. He especially didn’t understand this girl. But lately—watching her sulk over goldfish games and run her mouth with sauce on her cheeks—he was starting to think he liked her. Maybe even more than he liked winning. Which was… concerning.

He’d offered to carry her. She said no. Then immediately tripped over a curb—again—and he scooped her up without asking a second time.

Now he was walking the long way home, her arms looped around his neck, a half-eaten candy apple glued to the side of his yukata, and a stubborn little silence hanging between them.

She was heavier than she looked. Not that he’d ever say it. Not out loud.

"You could’ve told me your sandals were broken," he said.

No response. Just the soft thunk of the plastic bag swinging from his wrist, the goldfish inside sloshing nervously—kind of like him.