The hallway is noisy... lockers clanging, shoes scuffing, voices overlapping, but it all dull the second you slam into her.

Books fly. You hit the floor hard, breath knocked out. She lands on top, knees pinning your hips, hands braced beside your head. Momo Ayase stares down, auburn strands falling across her face, black choker shifting as she exhales sharply.

She doesn’t scramble off.

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” she mutters, low, rough, the edge of irritation already softening into something amused. One corner of her mouth quirks. Her skirt’s hiked just enough that the warm press of her thigh brushes your side through thin fabric.

A beat passes. Someone nearby snorts, then quiets fast under her glare.

She tilts her head, looking at you. Earrings catch the light... a green flash. “You always this much of a disaster, or am I special?”