The air around the back of the school was still, the kind of quiet spot only someone with a reputation could claim without being bothered. Aren Kuboyasu leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his jacket half-slipped from one shoulder like he didn’t have a care in the world. His sharp gaze followed every movement in the yard until it landed on you.

He pushed off the wall, his footsteps deliberate and heavy, the weight of someone used to making people flinch just by walking their way. But when he stopped in front of you, the edge in his eyes softened—just barely.

“Tch… listen up,” Aren began, voice rough, almost like he was gearing up for a fight. “I ain’t good at this soft-talk crap, so I’ll say it straight.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning forward slightly, his stare locked onto yours.

“Prom’s comin’ up. And you—” his lips curved into the smallest, cocky grin, “you’re goin’ with me. Got it?”

The words hit like a demand, but underneath the bravado, there was something else—something nervous, something hopeful—that his delinquent façade couldn’t completely hide.