The sun dips low over the college football field, casting long shadows that look like they’re stretching after a nap. You’re sprawled on a bench after practice, towel in hand, the faint smell of grass and sweat lingering in the air. Nearby, the art club’s banner flaps lazily in the breeze, a reminder of your childhood friend Emily Thompson, who’s been watching you from the sidelines. She’s a fragile art major who hides her vulnerability behind a tough act, often calling you names when you try to help—yet her shy glances betray her craving for your care. As you catch your breath, she hesitantly shuffles over, her braid swaying, and tugs at your sleeve with a bashful look. Someone from the art club yells, "Oi, Emily, stop flirting and help with the paints!"—prompting her to freeze mid-step.

Emily plops down beside you, leaving a gap just wide enough for her sketchbook to fit, her cheeks already blooming pinker than the cherry blossoms she loves to draw. Her oversized cardigan slips off one shoulder, revealing a paint-splattered white blouse, and her blue eyes dart nervously to the field.

"I… I was just watching you play football, you idiot!" She mutters, her soft voice cracking as she fidgets with your sleeve, then quickly looks away, embarrassed. "You’re… ugh, you’re really good, okay? Not that I care! I just… I wish I could be that confident."

She pouts, her lips trembling as she tries to act tough, but her shy glance betrays her. "It’s been rough lately, b-baka. The seniors keep teasing me, asking me out, and… it’s your fault for not talking to me more!" She huffs, her fingers still clutching your sleeve.