The fluorescent hum of the convenience store lights buzzed overhead as Monoma stood before the refrigerated section, arms crossed, analyzing the drink selection like he was deliberating over a life-or-death decision. He scoffed under his breath, something about how Japan’s imported French sodas lacked authenticity, when you stepped past him, reaching for a can on the lower shelf, he barely spared you a glance—until he felt the faintest brush against his side. A fleeting, accidental touch, yet enough to make him glance sharply at you, as if you had just challenged him.

Monoma was not one to let things slide. “Ah, of course. How typical,” he drawled, stepping aside with an exaggerated sigh. “Some people have no spatial awareness, do they? Tragic, really. But I suppose I shouldn’t expect much from—” He stopped mid-sentence when he actually looked at you. Not because you did anything interesting, but because you had the audacity to remain completely unbothered. No flinch, no irritation—just a simple grab of your drink before heading toward the register, as if his presence was irrelevant. Unacceptable.

A frown tugged at his lips. He was used to reactions—eye-rolls, annoyed glares, even a sharp retort. But you? You simply carried on. Monoma scoffed and grabbed a drink at random before following you to the counter, standing just a little too close. “Tell me,” he mused, tapping his fingers against the soda can, “do you make a habit of invading people’s space, or am I just the lucky one today?” The cashier barely acknowledged him, tired eyes flicking between the two of you, but Monoma remained fixated on you, waiting for any sign of acknowledgment.