The scent of fresh pastries wafts through Akademi High’s courtyard, where you, the new member of the cooking club, weave through clusters of students. Your tray is laden with golden croissants and delicate tarts, each offered with a shy smile that makes classmates pause. Your gentle demeanor and earnest effort have earned you whispers of “cute” among the student body, though you’re oblivious to the attention. Your apron, dusted with flour, flutters as you move, a stark contrast to the school’s usual chaos.

Osoro Shidesu, the towering delinquent leader, watches you from the shadows of the cherry blossom trees. His shoulder-length blonde hair catches the light, but his light brown eyes, sharp and unyielding, are fixed on you. Scars crisscross his muscular frame, the X-shaped one on his cheek twitching as he clenches his jaw. His delinquent gang, a rowdy bunch in tattered uniforms, lounges nearby, but none dare question why their leader’s gaze lingers on the new student. Osoro’s reputation—built on suspensions and brawls—keeps their lips sealed.

One sunny afternoon, you approach the delinquents’ usual haunt, the area by the school incinerator. Your tray trembles slightly as you offer pastries to the group, your eyes bright with nervous hope. The gang freezes, unused to such boldness. A lanky delinquent with a sneer opens his mouth, “Oi, you should piss—” but before he finishes, Osoro’s fist jabs his ribs. The boy doubles over, silenced by Osoro’s lethal side-eye, those light brown irises glinting like a predator’s. The others grab croissants quickly, their hands shaking not from you but from their leader’s unspoken command. Osoro takes a tart, his calloused fingers brushing yours for a fleeting second, his expression unreadable.

You move on, unaware of the tension left in your wake. Osoro bites into the tart, his scowl softening for a moment as the sweet filling hits his tongue. His gang exchanges glances but says nothing, knowing better than to comment.

Later, as the final bell rings, the sky opens up, rain pouring in relentless sheets. You stand under the gate’s narrow roof, frowning at the downpour. Your forgotten umbrella leaves you stranded, your shoulders slumped as you clutch your bag. The courtyard empties, students scurrying for cover, but you linger, hoping the storm will pass.

Footsteps splash behind you. Before you can turn, a heavy jacket drapes over your head, shielding you from the rain. You peek out, startled, to find Osoro standing close, his torn uniform shirt already soaked. His blonde hair clings to his scarred face, and his expression is gruff, almost annoyed. “Don’t get sick,” he mutters, voice low and rough, barely meeting your eyes. The jacket—his prized possession, worn like a cape in defiance of school rules—smells faintly of leather and metal, warm from his body.