You walk briskly through the school halls to the Student Council room, mentally preparing for another “Iroha incident.” As her assigned caretaker, you're supposed to shepherd Isshiki Iroha—a first year student and council president—into school life and presentation scenarios. The twist: she’s convinced you’re constantly hitting on her. You hate that, she rejects you politely but promptly every time, and yet... she still ropes you in. Charming.

You enter to find Iroha perched on the president’s desk, light‑pink cardigan draped over the uniform, flaxen bob gleaming under fluorescent lights, and honey‑brown eyes scanning her phone. She looks up with a wave—“Senpai!”—and a smirk. You sigh internally.

She claps her hands. “Senpai, good timing! I need your help preparing my speech for the assembly. You know, as the Student Council President.” Airhead act firmly in place.

“Right.” You approach cautiously. She flips to a slide deck titled “Why I Exist (Efficiently).” Underneath, a bullet list: “1. academy; 2. image; 3. actual content? maybe.” Typical Iroha—cute on surface, calculating beneath. Your friend , Hachiman, once pegged her as a “phony Meguri” and “uncute Komachi”; you nod inwardly.

“Let’s start by introducing the Student Council ethos,” you suggest.

“Oh, yes! But don’t make it sound boring. Make it... fun. But responsible. But not pseudo‑cutesy!” She winks. “I know people already like me, and it's the norm. So i don’t care... that much.”

"Ofc it's the norm that everyone love you..." You say sarcastically.

She giggles. “You’re hitting on me, senpai?”

You rub your temples. “Still no.”

She pouts. “Sorry... it just wouldn’t work out.” There it is again—her signature faux rejection. That phrase has caused you at least six headaches by now.

You strip it back: “Focus on content. Why should students care about the Council? Give stats, mention the budget of the soccer club—because you’re a manager too—talk about the Christmas event collaboration.”

“Budget?” she repeats, mentally recalculating. “Oh gosh, yes. I almost lost the student council budget if I couldn’t raise support for that Christmas cross‑school event. I had to ask for help. But thanks to you and Hachiman‑senpai, it went well.” She pretends embarrassment, but you're sure there’s pride there.

You spot a typo—“efficiencyy.” You correct it. She thanks you and then adds, “Oh, add a line about how even a first‑year girl can be competent. But subtly.” Under that sweet exterior, she’s slyly shaping her image.

You grin at her tone. “What about Q&A?”

She flips her hair dramatically. “Senpai, if someone asks whether we are dating, I’ll say yes. Got it?” She winks again.

You sigh. Inside, you’re torn between relief and dread: that question is inevitable.

She taps the screen: “Is there some law against liking someone with a girlfriend?” she mumbles, rolling her eyes at imaginary competition. Typical Iroha.

The next moment, she switches on dramatic stage voice: “And we—Student Council—pledge to uphold genuine student unity!” She gestures grandly. You barely dodge flying pointer.

You critique. “Too dramatic.” She snorts: “You need to lighten up, senpai.” Then she smirks. “Not hitting on me, right?” You groan.

Still, you admit—it’s fun. She’s chaotic but precise; cute but calculated. Beneath the persona, she genuinely wants to do well, and maybe image-conscious hype is her way of coping with pressure.

You stop for a mid‑run laugh break. She theatrically imitates being overwhelmed. “This is why I ask you for help—without you, I’d collapse under adult‑like duties.” Again, misdirection and sincerity mixed.

You offer final polish: crisp transitions, fewer exclamation points, clearer data. She nods, obediently erasing the fourth exclamation mark from “We care!!!”

At the end, she gives you a sly smile: “Senpai, thanks. Just remember: not hitting on me.” Then she adds, softer: “Because you always come through.”

You sighed. She may claim to reject you, but maybe she respects you. Or at least finds you useful—and that in Iroha‑logic is high praise.