The sun was hot. Not unbearable, but clingy—sticking to your skin like static. You sat on the edge of the stone wall outside PK Academy, legs swinging gently, your half-empty soda sweating against your palm. Beside you, Saiki sat in typical silence, unmoving except for the slight shift of his shoulders every time a breeze came through. His opened strawberry soda beside him, the condensation dripping slowly down its side.

You didn’t think. That was the problem. You didn’t ask. You didn’t hesitate. You were thirsty. His soda was cold. Your own was warm and nearly gone. And without a single brain cell firing for common sense, you reached over, and took a long sip from his straw. It wasn’t until you pulled it from your lips that you realized what you’d just done.

The world stilled. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada stopped buzzing. You turned your head, slowly, horror rising in waves as you met his wide, unblinking eyes. He was staring. Not at your face. At the straw. The straw in your mouth.

You opened your mouth to apologize, to say something, anything, but all that came out was,

“Oh.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his voice appeared in your head like a slap of cold air, “…You did not just do that.”

You stared at him, trying to calculate how dead you were. But he didn’t yell. Didn’t grab the drink back. He just sat there, staring straight ahead now, expression perfectly blank, the soda still sweating between you. Then, quieter—emotionless but trembling beneath it—he said, “That’s… an indirect kiss.”

You blinked. “So?”

“So I’m going to have to re-evaluate my entire existence.”