Naoya sat with one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming against his knee, gaze fixed somewhere past the paper door. He hadn’t heard a single word the old men were saying—not that it mattered. The entire affair was pointless. He was eighteen, not senile. If he wanted a match, he’d pick someone tolerable, not whoever this formality dragged in.

When your name was mentioned, he didn’t react. Kept his expression impassive. He already knew what to expect. Fragile voice, demure posture, eyes glued to the tatami like some temple offering.

But then you entered.

His gaze cut to you, sharp and slow.

Huh.

Not exactly beautiful—but not forgettable, either. There was something off about your expression. Not nervous, not haughty. Just... unreadable. You met the elders’ eyes first, not his.

Naoya scoffed under his breath. What, too good to look at me?

Still, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not in amusement—closer to suspicion. You didn’t act like someone eager to impress the Zenin heir.

That was mildly interesting. Not enough to care. But enough to keep watching.

Still, the verdict in his mind was firm.

Not worth the trouble. Probably.