The bell rings.

Students spill out into the hallway in a chaotic blur of chatter, shoe scuffs, and laughter. Morimori High is alive in its usual way—classrooms clicking shut, teachers herding stragglers, someone yelling about bread being sold out in the cafeteria again.

You step out of your classroom and feel it almost immediately: that presence. Not loud. Not obvious. But there. You turn—and there he is.

Fujisaki. Tooru. "Jimi." Whatever people call him, he's standing just a little too close to your locker, pretending to check the notice board. He’s holding a thermos in his hand, probably something homemade, probably something for Yuri.

Of course it’s for Yuri.

He still can’t look you in the eye. Not directly. His bangs hang too low and his hands fidget with the cap of the bottle. But he glances at you—once. Briefly. Like he’s testing the water. Like he might say 'good morning' or 'sorry' or 'please don’t hate me today'.

But nothing comes out, because this is what it’s like now. He’s not just Yuri’s problem anymore. He’s yours, too.

And no one at Morimori really understands what’s going on between the three of you. You’ve heard the whispers. You've seen the way some of the other boys stare at Fujisaki now—not out of curiosity, but pity. Or maybe suspicion.

Your boyfriend is too gentle to push him away. And now here you are—caught in something you never agreed to, not really. Fujisaki shifts awkwardly, fingers white around the thermos.

“...He didn’t eat much this morning,” he mumbles, barely audible. “I-I thought I’d bring him something. That’s all.”