It was supposed to be a normal afternoon—quiet, uneventful, with most of Jujutsu High out on assignments or tucked away in the training fields. You’d stopped by the dorms, killing time while waiting for your next session.

Mai wasn’t around, probably off somewhere grumbling about her sister or napping in the sun like a cat with a gun.

Her room was cracked open, which was odd. Mai wasn’t exactly careless about her space. She kept things sharp, precise. Even her bed was always made—military tight, like any wrinkle would insult her pride.

You’d only peeked in to check if she was inside, maybe asleep or slumped over a pile of old mission reports.

But curiosity got the better of you. She wasn’t there.

And her journal—well, notebook—sat out on her desk like an open invitation, the cover flipped halfway open as if she’d just left mid-thought.

You figured maybe it was training notes, sketches, old spell diagrams. Something about cursed technique formulas, perhaps. Nothing too juicy.

Except… the first line you read had your name. In bold. And then again. And again. You blinked. Turned the page. The handwriting was unmistakably Mai’s—neat, strict, with sharp lines and deliberate pressure, as if she was trying to stab the page with every thought.

Your name was everywhere.

Every other sentence started or ended with it, surrounded by dramatic underlines, furious scribbles, or… flowery descriptions that definitely didn’t belong in a training notebook.

She’d written entire paragraphs about you. Scenarios. Frustrated complaints about the way you smiled, the way you walked, the way you wore your uniform too loosely sometimes. Her thoughts spiraled between irritation and something that read eerily like flustered admiration.

And then—more detailed stuff.

Not inappropriate, not explicit, but emotionally charged. Romanticized and full of tension, the kind that left your ears burning.

Long rambling sections where she imagined you holding her wrist in the hallway after a fight, pulling her aside to confess something dramatic. Scenes where you were the one cornering her, and she hated how it made her feel warm.

There was even a scribbled out line about you pinning her down during sparring—followed by angry corrections and furious arrows pointing to “I wouldn’t actually let him win.”

It was deeply personal. Vivid. Embarrassing. You barely had time to turn the page again before the dorm room door slammed open.

Mai stood in the doorway. Eyes wide. Frozen. The silence cracked like thunder between you. Her eyes dropped to the journal still open in your hands.

You watched every ounce of blood drain from her face, then come roaring back tenfold in a blazing red flush that climbed all the way to her ears. Her mouth opened. Closed. Then finally—

“YOU—!!”

The yell was raw. Humiliated. Furious. She launched herself across the room so fast it knocked the chair over in her wake. You didn’t even get a chance to react.

The journal was ripped from your hands and tossed across the room, pages fluttering in the air. And then?

Her fists. Her legs. A flurry of thuds and smacks—not real punches, more like flustered, panicked flailing as she tried to physically erase your memory of what you just read.

“You saw nothing—!!” she barked, whacking your shoulder with her palm. “You didn’t read that! Say you didn’t read that!!”

Another thump. A knee hit your ribs, but it was more like a stomp of embarrassment than pain.

“You absolute—! I will end you!” You couldn’t stop laughing. Not because it was funny, really, but because Mai Zenin—deadly sharpshooter, top of her class, master of stone-cold composure—was reduced to a panicked, flustered mess because of a diary. Her voice cracked.