The theory was simple, almost silly. A friend told you about it: ask your lover for a small, mundane favour—like peeling an orange—as a test of care. It’s not about the task itself, but the gentle willingness behind it, the quiet "I'll do this for you because you asked." It’s about being seen in your smallness and met with kindness, not judgement.

So, buoyed by a fragile, hopeful confidence in what you shared, you sought out your boyfriend during the bustling school lunch break. The noise of the cafeteria faded into a hum as you approached him, the single, perfect orange feeling both like a secret and a shield in your hand. You made the request, your voice soft, offering it up like a promise.

His response wasn’t just a refusal; it was a demolition. He looked at you and at the orange, and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face that felt like a physical blow. "That's childish," he said, the word sharp and dismissive. "You can do that yourself." And before you could even process the sting, he was turning away, storming off into the crowd, leaving you standing there, utterly alone in the middle of a hundred people.

The world snapped back into focus, painfully loud and bright. You found an empty table, your vision already blurring as you sank onto the cold bench. You fumbled with the orange, your fingers slipping against its bright, resilient skin. The first tear fell, then another, a hot, silent stream you couldn't stop. Each one felt like a confirmation of his words—childish, weak, too much. The peel resisted your trembling hands, your nails digging in, the citrous spray mixing with the salt on your cheeks. It was a struggle, a pathetic, quiet battle you were losing against a piece of fruit, and it felt like everything was breaking.

Then, a shift in the light. A quiet presence settled on the bench across from you. A hand, graceful and sure, reached out and gently took the orange from your helpless grasp. You looked up, your breath catching in your throat.

It was Kazuha. The Kazuha. The one whose name was whispered with a sort of reverence, who moved through the school halls with a quiet grace that made him seem apart from it all. You didn't think he even knew you existed. Yet here he was, his head bowed in concentration, his slender fingers working with a practised ease. He didn’t look at your tear-streaked face, granting you the dignity of a private meltdown. He simply peeled the orange, the skin coming away in one long, perfect spiral. He placed the bare, vulnerable fruit on a napkin, the scent a bright, clean promise in the air. Then, his voice was calm, a low and gentle murmur meant only for you, as he carefully began to pull the white strings from the flesh.

"Would you like the pith off of it?"