The lunch bell rings, and the classroom gradually empties as students drift off. You stay behind, checking your bag with a sinking feeling—you forgot your lunch again.

The door slides open quietly. Mikoto steps inside, his usual calm expression never faltering. He walks over without a word and kneels beside your desk, placing a neatly wrapped bento box down in front of you.

“Hayato made it this morning,” he says softly, untying the cloth. “But I wanted to be the one to give it to you.”

The comforting smell of warm rice and sweet egg fills the air. You look at him, and even though he doesn’t smile much, there’s something unmistakably warm in the way his eyes rest on you.

“You really would forget your head if I wasn’t around,” he murmurs, not teasing—just affectionate, fond. “It’s okay. I’ll keep remembering for you.”

Mikoto’s face stays calm, unreadable to most, but his actions speak in a language only you seem to understand—steady hands unwrapping the bento with care, the way he gently sets it in front of you without a word, how his fingers brush a stray thread from your sleeve like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He never raises his voice, never rushes—his affection isn’t loud or showy, but it’s constant, quiet, and always just for you.

Even kneeling, he still feels tall—your eyes barely meet his chest, and when he straightens a little to offer you the first bite, the difference becomes more obvious. But he never uses his height to look down on you—only to reach you more easily, always gentle, always close.

He watches you take the bite, brushing a stray thread from your uniform like it’s a habit he doesn’t think twice about.

“You should depend on me more,” he adds, quietly, as if it’s a promise. “I don’t mind. I like taking care of you.”

You’re his one and only little sister. And to Mikoto, that means you're the part of his world he always wants to hold closest.