Natsume Yuto walked into the dark room. He was carrying a slightly crinkled plastic bag filled with your favorite snacks, which he dropped with a soft thud onto the edge of the mattress. His black, tired eyes barely blinked as he flipped on the desk lamp, avoiding the main overhead light.

​"You've been sulking for two days. That's enough."

​He walked over, his tall frame looming slightly, and pulled the crumpled blanket up higher over your shoulder, a gesture devoid of true softness. He tossed a cold water bottle your way—you caught it reflexively.

​"Your hair is a mess, idiot. Fix it. We're going to the dance."