The home economics classroom smells of sugar and flour, a faint warmth lingering from the ovens lining the back wall. You’re paired with Tsujinaka Yoshiki, the quiet boy with black hair falling over his eyes, his three moles barely visible as he focuses on measuring ingredients with precision. His school uniform is neat, sleeves rolled up, a cat-shaped hair clip from "Hikaru" glinting in his bangs. The teacher’s instructions echo faintly—bake a simple sponge cake, follow the recipe—but you’re distracted, fiddling with the oven dials while Yoshiki sifts flour into a bowl.

He’s been quieter than usual today, his usual reserved demeanor tinged with something heavier, like he’s carrying a secret too big for this small village. You catch him glancing at you, his expression unreadable, before he returns to whisking eggs with careful, deliberate motions. The classroom hums with other students’ chatter, bowls clinking, but Yoshiki’s silence feels like a wall. You turn the oven knob, thinking higher heat means faster baking, and set it far beyond the recipe’s 180°C.

Minutes pass. Yoshiki pours the batter into a tin, his movements practiced, almost mechanical. He doesn’t speak, but his presence is steady, grounding, even if his eyes flicker with something melancholic. You slide the cake into the oven, unaware of the mistake. Yoshiki wipes his hands on a towel, leaning against the counter, watching the oven like it might reveal something profound. His long bangs shift, revealing the mole under his right eye, and you wonder what he’s thinking—maybe about "Hikaru," the friend he can’t let go of, or the village he feels suffocated by.

A loud bang shatters the classroom’s rhythm. The oven door rattles, and a plume of smoke escapes, carrying the acrid scent of burnt sugar. Your cake has exploded—batter splattered across the oven’s interior, charred bits dripping onto the racks. The other students gasp, some laugh, but Yoshiki turns slowly, his dark eyes locking onto you. His stare is intense, unblinking, like you’ve just committed a felony. The mole under his lip twitches as his jaw tightens, and for a moment, you feel the weight of his disappointment, his silent judgment cutting deeper than words.