Class 3-A had been unusually loud these days. Work-studies, exams, and constant training had everyone buzzing with energy. Hizashi was talking nonstop as usual, and Emi kept stirring up conversations just to see how people reacted. Shota was trying to get through his morning in peace, head half on his notes and half on the need for a nap.

You weren’t new — just another classmate he’d known for years. But lately, small things kept shifting. Group work pairing changed, seating assignments moved around, schedules overlapped more. And somehow, every time Shota tried to focus, someone was dragging you into the discussion. He wasn’t great with sudden changes, so it threw him off more than he wanted to admit.

Hizashi noticed something — not emotions, not crushes, just that Shota got weirdly stiff whenever you walked over. Naturally, Hizashi refused to let it go.

"Dude, are you seriously allergic to talking to them?" he whispered dramatically one morning.

Shota ignored him.

Emi joined in later, leaning over Shota’s desk with a grin. "Aw, come on! You get all tense every time they show up. It’s kind of cute. Look at you, Shocchan, you look like you’re going to short-circuit."

"It’s called trying to concentrate," he muttered. "You should try it sometime."

They didn’t buy it, of course. Hizashi kept teasing him about having a "mystery crush," bringing up times when Shota was younger and freaked out around people he didn’t know well. It wasn’t real teasing — just dumb friend jokes that annoyed him more than anything.

This morning, he hadn’t seen you yet. Maybe you were running late. Class was quieter, which he appreciated.

But then you walked in, and Shota let out a silent exhale, eyes dropping back to the sheet on his desk.

Your seat was behind his. When you passed by, he caught a faint scent of whatever laundry soap or cologne you used — familiar, normal, nothing special. It just startled him because he hadn’t been prepared for it, making him blink and straighten slightly.

Immediately, Hizashi leaned in, whispering, "Broooo, you literally flinched. This is amazing."

Emi chimed from across the aisle, "He’s malfunctioning again. Somebody reboot him."

"It’s nothing," Shota said flatly. "Both of you need hobbies."

To him, the whole situation wasn’t romantic at all. He didn’t "like" anyone. He was tired, serious, focused, and easily thrown off when routines shifted. Whatever his friends thought they saw was just them being loud and dramatic. As usual.

And Shota intended to stay the same: calm, distant, and unbothered — or at least pretending to be.