‘All the cuddles’ may have been an overstatement, given in how much of a time crunch we currently were, but we still lounged in bed for far longer than it should be reasonable given the hour, said time crunch, and how soft Taylor’s body feels against mine.

Yes, that’s a factor. An important one.

Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—

Not precisely an Earth-shattering revelation, Power.

Lisa Wilbourn unsure about course of action and stalling due to deep-seated fear of—

Right. This one’s on me. Why would I tempt fate so?

Lisa Wilbourn picking up on Taylor Hebert’s ‘adrenaline junkie’ tendencies due to social mirroring.

… Fuck.

Aaaanyway, Taylor and I are currently engaged in what clearly is the first priority for a pair of fugitives: having a makeover.

“I don’t really think this is necessary.”

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

“Lisa? Really, isn’t there something else we should be doing right now?”

“Shut up and try on the bloody blouse.”

“But…”

“Taylor, sweetie, either you come out of that changing room wearing the very nice clothes your girlfriend carefully picked out for you, or I am going in there.”

“… Is that a threat or a promise?”

Oh, you think you are all that suave, do you? You get into a girl’s pants a grand total of two times, and suddenly you think you can throw sexually charged jokes left and right, do you? Well, I am not—

Lisa Wilbourn’s face, ears, and upper chest experiencing rapid heating due to sudden dilation of capillaries—

Power! Whose side are you on?!

Lisa Wilbourn trying to ascribe loyalties to parahuman abilities’ interfaces reflects a lack of understanding of—

Right. Your own. Of course.

“Well, seeing as you aren’t coming in… In a scale of ‘total disaster’ to ‘we should call an exorcist,’ how do I look?” Taylor says as she opens the curtain. And I stare.

Her eyes still are what first catch mine, no longer hidden by glasses after I have (wisely) invested my money in contact lenses. It takes a physical effort to tear myself from that dark green, almost malachite, and her freshly applied eyeliner just brings more attention to them. Her pale foundation and light pink lipstick just make the contrast even more vivid, and the lines of her face look sterner, more severe, now that her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail rather than loosely diffusing her silhouette.

She is looking at me as if expecting something—clothes. Right.

Her cotton blouse is a soft, pastel blue with a sharp cut that goes well with her black, open blazer, the satin finish on the narrow lapels directing attention upwards to—right, not again. That way lie recursive loops.

And her pants… Skinny jeans, faded dark blue, almost painted on, thick denim hugging and holding her shape in just the right way, with a braided leather belt breaking the line between the two shades of color. The matching brown leather Oxford wingtips (with sneaker soles, because Brockton) just give the final touch to a very sharp, professional look.

Basically, Taylor is a tall, thin girl, whom I have, by the dark magic of power-assisted makeovers, turned into her college self. And now I am quite sure I am drooling.

“Earth to Lisa? Everything fine?”

“Oh, more than fine, I would say…”

And now she’s blushing. That makes it even better.

I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, just in case.

“I still think my hoodie is more comfortable,” she says, demurely looking down.

“Which is precisely why we are changing your style so drastically. You now look distinct enough for people to give a good description of you, but one that won’t resemble, at all, the description they would have given of the past you,” I explain, didactically and calmly. For the third time. Also, I am burning those fucking hoodies till only ashes remain as soon as I get some privacy. It will be cathartic.

Social mirroring—

Hah. No. Taylor wouldn’t use fire… Oh God, I shouldn’t give her ideas.

“Right, I get the theory, but… Is that really necessary?” she asks, distaste dripping from every syllable as she points to the most recent addition to my newly-concocted look.

“Don’t tell me you dislike the jacket so much? I really thought the white vinyl with pink trims sold the look,” I deflect with an eyelash bat. Masterfully.

“The jacket’s fine…” she grumbles.

“The pants, then? Are white jeans really so excessive? Or maybe they don’t suit me?” I insist, turning back and shooting her a look over my shoulder as I fake trying to see how my butt looks in these. Obviously, it’s a trap: it looks fantastic. The strategic rips add quite a bit more information than needed to get that point across.

“The pants…” she can’t help staring. And blushing. Again. I think I have a new favorite pastime. “The pants are also… fine.”

“Well, you can’t have a problem with my sneakers. They are sensible. And a pastel pink crop top is far from the more scandalous thing you have seen me wearing,” I ponder while tracing the strip of exposed, slim belly with my fingertips. Damn, now I am giving myself goosebumps. I am good.

Lisa Wilbourn’s behavior commonly referred to as cocktea—

Nope. No cocks here. You are losing your touch, Power.

Two college-aged men currently staring at Lisa Wilbourn and Taylor Hebert. Likelihood of them wondering about a possible sexual relationship highly—

… I hate you. So much.

I throw a glare over my shoulder, and, predictably, the two guys who have presumably come in to accompany their girlfriends or friends who are girls suddenly find the row of colorful blouses by their side extremely interesting.

Taylor clears her throat; it seems she has also noticed them, and her own glare makes them discover what an incredible deal on skinny jeans the store is having. On the opposite corner of the changing room.

I still have so much to learn... Teach me your ways, Master! I mean, Mistress! I mean… Oh God, why do I do this to myself?

Lisa Wilbourn—

Not a peep. I don’t need the headache.

“Your top is fine. Your shoes are fine. Your everything is fine—except that.” Seems scaring off two grown men didn’t merit any further comment. Also, it seems the glaring match somehow disrupted my psyops.

Cocktea—

I know what I am saying, Power.

“’That?’ I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Taylor gets close enough for our chests to brush and then, not too gently, grabs my recently made side-ponytail in a way I can’t misinterpret as something sexual (not at all, pinky-swear) and then shows me what is offending her sensibilities so much:

A streak of electric blue hair.

“Oh, come on, it’s a clip-in. I will take it off when I am in costume, I don’t see what’s your problem,” I don’t quite whine.

“It’s not your hair. And it stands out.”

“That’s the point. If you have a very distinctive detail, that’s what an eyewitness description will focus on, and if it’s something you can throw away, then you suddenly don’t match your own description. Heck, with a little luck, sometimes the very eyewitness will no longer recognize you, if the detail is distracting enough.”

“All right, fine, let’s say I believe you,” finally! “Then what is my ‘distinctive detail’ supposed to be?” Right, that’s the point to which I have masterfully lead this conversation. Because I am apparently far too easily embarrassed to do this straightforwardly.

“These,” I say as I hand her a small box.

One eyebrow raises inquisitively, and I gesture for her to open the damn thing before I lose my nerve. Then the other eyebrow raises in solidarity as she looks at the pair of silver emerald earrings inside.

“Lisa? Wh—When did you get these?”

“I… Shouldn’t you ask another thing?” This is mortifying. It seems to be a pattern with us.

“No. We have been together since we left the hotel in your harebrained search for the makeover to end all makeovers—”

“Harebrained?! Come on, look at us: we look like a serious college girl hanging out with her party-goer classmate who may or not be up to Sapphic shenanigans! It’s the perfect disguise compared to what went out of your house yesterday.” Deflection powers, don’t fail me now!

“Right, and we will have another talk about that as soon as we are done with this.” My powers are, once again, useless. “Now, when did you get this?”

“.. During math period…” I grumble, scuffing the floor with the tip of my shoe like a petulant child, because, apparently, that’s a thing I am doing now.

“So, before I needed a ‘distinctive detail’ to throw off ‘potential eyewitnesses,’” she says, in a way that’s not quite a question.

“… They looked pretty.”

“And that’s relevant because…?”

“Because I wanted to give you something pretty to cheer you up after class. There. I said it. I wanted to do something nice for my girlfriend, and I couldn’t just be straightforward about it, because I am a mess and I never have been in something like this before and I just—” And then she grabs my side-ponytail and pulls me toward her and mercifully silences my rambling with a kiss that is just long enough I lose track of my rant.

I would sigh in relief, but… That’s not currently an option.

We stand there, the kiss light enough that we can just keep going, more a sharing of presence, of reassurance, than anything sexual, till I hear an obnoxious whistle.

Followed by a yelp and the sounds of somebody frantically trying to smack a buzzing insect.

“Missing Alec already?” I tease her, whispering in her ear with a smile.

“God, no,” she answers, with a full-body shudder that makes my smile broader and sharper.

“Yeah, me either.”

“Good, because it’s not him we are meeting.”

“And you had to go and remind me…” She looks at me reproachfully. Something tells me I will need to get used to that look in the future.

Likelihood of interpersonal conflict in first romantic relationship high due to—

If you keep saying things like that, I am going to start calling you ‘Humbug.’

Despite association with Dickensian imagery, the word ‘humbug’ actually means ‘fake, deceitful—

I know what it means; I am the one who read the whole dictionary for you, remember?

…

That’s what I thought. Ingrate.

“Lisa? You still with me?”

“Always,” I answer automatically, before I register the actual meaning of the question. And now we are both blushing. Again.

Sigh.

“Come on, let’s go already. He must be getting nervous,” I tell her.

 

Not as much as I am, but, well… The sacrifices one must make when dating an undercover, runaway hero.

***

Going from the relatively upscale boutique where Operation: Makeover ended (and Operation: Give Her The Damn Earrings Without Making A Fool Out Of Yourself catastrophically failed) to the nearly dilapidated little dinner lost in the cramped streets near the docks is not a pleasant contrast. The place is at just the right location where, rather than a refreshing sea breeze, we get to experience the humidity and ever-present smell of seawater going stagnant with a dash of ship fuel thrown in the mix. It is a more ‘authentic’ marine experience than what the tourists at the Boardwalk are likely to get, but damn if I don’t envy their make-believe restaurants with actual air fresheners at the moment.

Genuine things are overrated.

Still, this is not what is making me uncomfortable, it’s just yet another reason I am coming up with to hate this place before even crossing the door (chipped blue paint characteristic of business in the area as—). Right, even Power is getting in on it.

“If you don’t want to come…” Taylor trails off before she can even finish, and I squeeze her hand.

“Hey, this won’t be easy for any of the three of us. The least I can do is be there for you.”

“It’s not. You don’t really need to do this,” she answers forcefully. I can’t help but note that she hasn’t let go of my hand.

“Well, I mean, I would have to eventually.” And she smiles at that, and tucks her chin just a bit, and then pulls me along as she opens the damn blue door with chipped blue paint and dirty glass, and we go into the poorly lit and hardly hygienic dinner. That smells like oil that should have been changed four fishes ago. I already hate it.

And then Daniel Hebert looks up from his coffee, sees his daughter looking like a college-aged girl, and grasps the table to avoid falling as his world crumbles for a moment.

Apparent age of Daniel Hebert, age of Taylor Hebert and typical age difference between heterosexual couples indicates Daniel Hebert likely met Annette Hebert during college. Taylor Hebert currently resembling—

Fuck. Could I just break people when I mean to? That would be swell, thank you.

Before I know it, I am standing by his side, grasping his shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Danny, I really didn’t think she would look so much like her—” And he looks at me, the sheer weirdness of what I am saying, of me being the one who says it, bringing him back from his ghosts.

“Lisa? I… I didn’t recognize you. What have you done with your hair?” See? If this was any other moment, this would be the time for me to get my smug on. Obviously, my girlfriend’s father is using the powers vested in him by his position to stop me from enjoying myself.

“Don’t even ask. Trust me,” Taylor says, exasperation mixed with concern. Which doesn’t stop her from capitalizing on the weakness of my current circumstances, as expected of the combat pragmatist.

Danny looks at his daughter, still shaken, but regaining his grasp on his surroundings doesn’t do him any favors as he now clearly remembers why we are meeting like this, in this place.

“Taylor… What happened?”

“That’s… a long story, dad.”

“I am not going anywhere.” Damn, Danny, that’s a smooth line, mind if we swap tips?

“Yeah, I was afraid of that…” Taylor, apparently, doesn’t appreciate how suave her father is. And must have been, if he bagged Taylor’s mom looking like he does.

“Well, if you want me to get the ball rolling…” I look at Taylor, and she nods while Danny looks at me with wide, uncomprehending eyes. I mean, maybe he could be cute in a ‘lost puppy’ way… “Your daughter and I are… parahumans,” I say as we sit on either side of him.

“What,” he states eloquently. I sigh.

“Taylor, if you please.” She glares at me, but soon a few flies land on the table and write ‘Hi, dad' in a very disturbing, possibly Satanic, way. Danny looks like he’s about to scream bloody murder before I clutch his arm and make him look at me.

“We are also in a torrid lesbian relationship.”

“What?!” Oh, that brought him out of his shell-shocked funk. Who would have guessed?

Me. It’s me who would have guessed. Obviously.

“Lisa!” Looks like I also brought Taylor out of her (hypothetical) shell-shocked funk. Who said I am not good at conversations?

“Yes, dear?” I answer, as sweetly as I can. Which should be enough to weaponize cavities.

Oh, Taylor is flushing, but more with anger than embarrassment, though there’s also a hint of that…. There’s an idea. For later. In privacy.

Lisa Wilbourn likely to enjoy flaunting in public her—

I draw the line at you suggesting new fetishes for me to try, Power.

“Oh God, Annette was right…” Danny mutters.

“Mom what?” Taylor definitely doesn’t sputter.

“She always said the way you and Emma—” And now I am witness to the novel experience of a fully grown man being interrupted by two teenage girls fake-gagging. Well, not quite fake, if I am being honest—I can now taste once again my breakfast blueberry muffin, and it was much better the first time around. Danny, you have verbally incapacitated a Thinker seven. Congratulations, mortal, your feats shall be recorded in the stars.

“No. Definitely not,” Taylor says.

“Sweetie, to be fair, my power thought the same.” And now I am being speared by my lover’s stern look. This day is definitely full of first times. Aaaaand now I am blushing. Why do I do this to myself?

Lisa Wilbourn likely to be aroused by—

Nope! Nope! Can’t hear yoooouuu!

Taylor’s ocular lynching of my innocent person is interrupted by Danny’s groan.

“Oh God, it’s true…” he says, clutching his head in the throes of despair.

“Elaborate,” Taylor demands.

“You two. Together. That’s the way Annette always looked when—” And he interrupts himself. And now he blushes. I am feeling a strange kinship with this man.

“If you finish that sentence, I swear you won’t ever sit in a chair that hasn’t been sabotaged by termites.” That’s right, love, you tell him. Also, that could be the most eco-friendly act of terrorism you have ever come up with.

“Right… So. Parahumans. This has to do with what went on at Winslow?”

And now we come to the less fun part of the conversation. Because it involves Taylor telling his father about how she has been hiding from him how bad things actually were, how defenseless she has been, how throwing herself against an almost certain death in a battle with Lung was a relief compared to what went on in her daily life. And how he, her father, hasn’t even suspected a fraction of what was going on under his very roof.

To be fair, most parents would expect their children to tell them if they were suffering horrible abuse rather than hide it and internalize it as their new normal.

To be even fairer, most parents are morons.

I try to mediate, even if Power is far more suited as a Warhammer (for the Emperor!) than as a scalpel, but ultimately I am an outsider in what very clearly is a family matter. I am only allowed to expound my views on specific matters.

“Taylor was never a villain, no matter what the press said. Yes, she most likely traumatized some of the people at the bank, but the ones who put them in actual, physical danger were the Wards shooting artillery and Glory Girl deciding that architecture is optional on casual Fridays.”

I mean, I try, but the facts aren’t that flattering by themselves.

“Her objective always was to get a hold of the actual villain behind the Undersiders. And, when it comes to actual villainy, the only person she has seriously hurt is the parahuman terrorist bombing the hell out of the city. Taylor saved all of our lives that night. Again.”

Well, some facts are.

“Danny, seriously, don’t even think about suggesting she signs up with the Wards. Not until Sophia Hess is behind bars. This shouldn’t be a hard concept to grasp.”

And some facts are just plain stupid. Seriously, that supervisor went from ‘wanting to keep the cushy job without making waves’ to ‘let’s pretend the attempted murder via bioterrorism didn’t happen.’ It’s a wonder she hasn’t already died by forgetting how to breathe and walk at the same time.

“No, really, Danny—”

“Lisa, if you don’t shut up, I will show you exactly how much Annette taught me to believe in gender equality.”

Ah, right, Taylor isn’t the only one with a temper. Well, I guess that’s an improvement.

Low emotional response usually associated with depression—

So, yeah, an improvement. Thanks, Power.

He takes a few calming breaths after his almost outburst, and then he looks straight at Taylor (likely trying to ignore me, for reasons unknown to mortal kind).

“To summarize: you have been hiding from me that you have powers, that you have been systematically abused since you were released from the hospital, that you joined a villain team while trying to be an undercover hero, and this morning you were almost shanked by one of your tormentors, who turned out to be an active Ward.”

“I… Yes. That is correct.” Taylor doesn’t flinch when she returns her father’s gaze, but I notice the flies buzzing off into the corners of this place. I don’t comment on it.

And then Danny hugs her to his chest, completely enveloping her like the child she can no longer be.

“Stupid, stupid kid,” he mutters in a watery garble.

“Dad, I…” Taylor is trying to hold back tears, receiving an embrace from her father for the first time in far too long.

“Shush. You are all right, and the bitch got shot. That’s all that matters to me,” he says, face buried in her hair, fingers clenched white over her shoulders.

“I also sent Emma into a catatonic shock by ruthlessly exploiting her trauma,” I can’t help but interject.

Danny raises his head just enough to look at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Good,” he says, in a voice so low it rumbles in my chest.

Damn, now I am jealous of my girlfriend. This can’t be healthy.

And then the street is on fire, and Danny is throwing the table on its side and pulling us behind it, clutching us both to his side and offering the meager protection of his slight frame.

Ah, right. Ongoing terrorist attack. How could I have forgotten?

Lisa Wilbourn prioritizing threats of a personal nature due to—

Of course. Well then, that makes the solution simple, doesn’t it?

Bakuda, you almost killed my team and me. You almost killed my lover after subjecting her to the worst pain a human being can physiologically experience. You almost got lucky and got us both at the same time just now.

And now? I don’t care how much of a cliché this is; now I am making this personal. 

And I don’t think Taylor will take your almost murdering her dad very calmly either.

It is said that men are geared towards tunnel vision due to our hunting instincts. Our eyes face forward, not to the sides, so it is perfectly natural (in the most literal sense of the word) that a dense harem protagonist will miss the clues being dropped left and right by the more subtle girls of the cast while his gaze remains nailed to the white piece of fabric bared by the clumsy dojikko defenselessly exposed in front of him. It is just human (biological) nature.

In that vein, it needs to be stated in no uncertain terms that I hadn’t planned to meet Iroha this morning. I had, in fact, planned to come early to school so I could confront Shizu before classes started, and so that was my mindset (understandably mono-focused) at the time.

So it should come as no surprise that, when I see my Christmas Cake teacher come down the corridor, stop dead as our eyes meet, and promptly turn around and flee, my reaction is less ‘cool, collected senior skillfully evading a nosy junior’ and more ‘there is nothing suspicious going on, Isshiki, now I am going to run in that direction for absolutely no apparent reason.’

“Senpai! What the He--heck?!” My arm jerks back due to Isshiki still keeping her iron grip and I nearly dislocate my shoulder. I need to start exercising. Maybe I can convince Zaimokuza to go together to a gym and get a group discount? Or a discount from the gym if I promise them I won’t bring Zaimokuza anymore?

“Isshiki! Let go, I will explain later, I promise!” Curse you, mouth, you are always getting us in trouble. Oh, Isshiki is looking at me as if I am suspicious. And now she’s putting on that foxy smile of hers that makes her look suspicious.

“Of course, Senpai. I can see you are in a hurry, and I would never get in your way, so I will just be expecting a thorough explanation later on,” she says, the very picture of a demure, deferring junior.

Very suspicious.

“Fine, I will take it. Now, let go.” She does, and I am off to pursue Shizu.

Which is a bit… peculiar, as I am chasing down someone who is very much trying to look as if she’s not running away in case one of the few early students or another teacher catches sight of her, while I am also trying not to appear as if I am chasing her, in case anyone who can call the police or pull out a pepper spray does what comes naturally.

Basically, we are kind of rushing a bit, but not too much, while trying to maximize our advantage over each other, given our self-imposed limits on our speed. And suddenly I have a privileged insight into the art of the slow blade and the terrifying skill of Paul Atreides, scion of House Atreides, ruler of Arrakis, Emperor of the universe. Meaning I finally understand how silly it would have looked.

Yes, by all means, try to stab me slowly. See how that works out. This has now become my favorite way to not die against a fictional character.

And then Shizu reaches the stairs, looks around to see they are deserted, and starts running to the next floor, proving in practice that speed is actually a factor in any physical confrontation.

“Ms. Hiratsuka! Wait!” I raise my voice as much as I dare as I start taking the steps two at a time. She almost stops when she hears me, but picks up the pace quickly enough.

“We need to talk!” I insist, using the most dreaded phrase by men anywhere.

“No, we don’t! Everything is just fine!” I believe the gender roles have been inverted in this scenario. Which is a relief, because a girl chasing a fleeing boy is much more socially acceptable than the reverse.

“Shizu, stop!” She stumbles, and I almost catch up with her before she regains her step.

“Don’t call me that!” At the pace she’s going, we are gonna run out of stairs to keep this scene going.

“Make me!” I gasp out, my lungs letting me know in no uncertain terms how much they despise me.

“Don’t tempt me!”

“That’s the whole plan!”

“Wha—” She starts to turn around, red-faced and quick of breath, and I finally catch up to her.

And so, naturally, I kiss her.

It is rough, my hands pawing at her sides to make her face me, my neck stretching to make up for the height difference, my breath forcing me to start and stop in maddening pauses. It is clumsy, my exertion and eagerness making my movements frantic and unfocused. It is hungry, a whole night of longing and expectations pushing me forward.

It is perfect.

Shizu lets out a moan against me before she catches herself and backs away, climbing the stairs backward, and I press forward, our lips somehow not separating (something that seems quite unlikely without her active cooperation). At one point, I overtake her, turning her around and going one step higher than her before I start pulling her up the stairs, my hands on her neck and her back. And then, thankfully, we do run out of stairs to keep the scene going.

This would be an excellent time for a fade-to-black and transitioning to both of us smoking a cigarette.

“Hachi—Hikigaya, you can’t just do… that,” she says, bewildered, flushed, panting. I am tempted to take a picture and send it to Haruno. No, I don’t know why either.

“I am pretty sure I just did.” Cocky smiles don’t suit me, I am sure. This would have been the perfect line for the ikemen character to break down the barriers keeping him from his victim—I mean, destined true love. Speaking of which…

I turn us around at the landing at the top of the stairs, and push Shizu back against the door to the rooftop just before I slam my hand against the wall at her side and lean toward her. She looks at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

“Did you… Did you just kabedon me, Hikigaya?”

“It was listed as the top fantasy for single women in a recent survey.”

“Do you realize it works much better when the man is taller?”

“If it worked much better than this, I think I would be calling an ambulance right about now.” Power of the cocky smile, don’t fail me now!

She snorts, which turns into a chuckle, which turns into full-blown laughter. What is it with me, beautiful older women, and making them laugh when they are far too near?

“All… All right, fine, it is a fantasy,” she concedes, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Finally, some recognition. “Thanks for fulfilling that for me, Hikigaya. Now let me go before we get in trouble.” I frown at her request, but also at something else.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” She looks confused.

I lean forward on my tiptoes, my chin tucked against her shoulder, my cheek caressing hers, and I breathe against her ear. “Stop saying my… Just… Just call me Hachi?”

Turnabout is fair play, after all.

I lean back just enough to catch her reaction and I see the whole sequence go off: visceral confusion, recognition of what she said to me yesterday, a flare of indignation at the brief suspicion I am mocking her. And then she turns her head just enough to look me in the eye.

And she sees me staring back—raw, naked vulnerability, a man that can’t put on a mask for fear he won’t be able to take it off. Sees how… how utterly fragile I can be. I hate myself that bit much for it, but it’s all I can offer. All I am.

And she kisses me.

“Hachi.” She moans my name as she peppers my face with light-feather kisses.

“Hachi,” she whispers, as she does something to my neck that makes me roll my eyes back and try not to moan.

“Hachi.” Her fingers thread through my hair and she pulls me against her, hungry lips devouring and being devoured by my own.

“Mine,” I growl as my hands run under her vest, pulling her against me till our bodies mash against one another, her soft curves flattening to my own shape. She moans at that, as much at the word as at the sensation. I start unbuttoning her vest, much less patient with the frustrating piece of clothing than yesterday, and soon reach her cotton blouse. I should hesitate, stop, ask for permission. And then I remember a silhouette turning around behind ground glass.

And so I don’t.

I unbutton her shirt and pants as quickly as I am able, silencing any protest with hungry kisses that she can’t help but return, her neck craned down to offer me easy access to her lips, her tongue, her everything. She flinches back in surprise when I finally manage to start fondling her over her bra, the stiff fabric insufficient to stop me from enjoying her softness, her shape, her weight, but she soon enough starts moaning harder and faster. Weak spot located. Hit it for massive damage.

I push the cups of her bra upwards, unwilling to try and decipher the arcane engineering required to unclasp these contraptions (or so the cliché would have me think, and I am not about to put it to the test given the current circumstances), and I finally, at last, manage to get a glimpse of Ms. Hiratsuka’s breasts after having speculated about them for far too long (seeing her in a bikini didn’t help—at all).

And I finally stop my assault.

Shizu stands before me, her clothing in absolute disarray, her face flushed, her breathing erratic. Beautiful as I have ever seen her. And her breasts… I know it’s uncouth, that it doesn’t do me any favors if I want her to see me as a mature man rather than a growing boy, but…

They are… I…

Dammit, Zaimokuza, where is that thesaurus when I need it?!

“So… You like them?” she asks, shy, flustered, slightly turned in profile.

My left hand takes her waist, my right lifts her left breast—pale, smooth skin capped by a pink nipple the size of the tip of my pinky finger and half as long, standing with a slightly upward tilt—and I begin to kiss the skin between her breasts, going up with every kiss as my fingers sink into the softest thing I have ever felt. Her scent surrounds me, envelops me, inebriates me, and as her moans start once again, I reach her neck, where I demonstrate I was paying attention by giving her a thorough rendition of what she did to me just seconds ago.

She raises a hand to her mouth, biting her index finger as her eyes clench shut, and I know I must be doing something right (which is a relief, because I still don’t know where half of these ideas are coming from) so I raise my head, nibble on her earlobe, and whisper in her ear, “I love them. They are yours.” And then I slip my tongue in her ear, playing with it as if I was kissing her mouth.

She sags against the door, her knees buckling, opening to let me stand between them.

I press forward, my thigh brushing where her legs meet, and she jerks her head back hard enough she knocks against the door at her back. But she doesn’t protest, doesn’t even flinch, and keeps biting her finger as if it is the most delicious thing she has ever tasted, ecstasy written across her partly obscured features. So I keep fondling her breast with my right hand, playing with circling caresses and stronger pressure, sinking my fingers, and finally tweaking her nipple playfully as my mouth remains occupied with her ear. But I have another hand. And I would like to keep my pants dry.

I let my left hand trail down her stomach, barely brushing it as I feel her defined abs under a thin softness twitch at my teasing touch, so soft compared to what I am offering elsewhere, and I soon enough reach the elastic band of her panties. Neither it nor our positions are ideal, and my wrist strains as I slip my fingers inside the garment, but when I do… Oh, Shizu, you look so beautiful when you are this defenseless.

I think I may be an S. No, that doesn’t stand for “Shizu-maniac.”

… Not exclusively.

The wet heat that greets me inside her panties is yet another stroke to my ego, so I decide to return the favor. As gently as I am able, I cross the thin patch of soft, silken hair and reach a nub of tender, erect flesh that, according to my studies (Fate/Stay Night deserves to be enjoyed in the original format), should be able to do the job on its own without me risking a sprained wrist, so I start rubbing it in a smooth, circular pattern that—

And Shizu grasps my head, pulls me away from her ear, and kisses me harder than she has till now. Which is quite hard.

My head swims as her tongue invades my mouth and her muffled moans reverberate through our joined bodies. She hugs me against her, and I feel my hardness, uncomfortably bent down my pants, press against her, and I shiver, almost forgetting for a moment that I have my hands full.

Almost.

Her own enthusiasm only seems to fuel my desire to bring her over the brink, to show her I can give her this much, that I can be a man for her, even if only in this small measure. I pinch her nipple before rolling it between my fingers, and I press her clitoris down as my tongue stops being pushed around by her own and I turn the struggle into a dance, twisting and twirling around each other. I manage to open my eyes after realizing I had closed them at some point and I catch a glimpse of her, of her expression completely overcome by passion and lust, and it is a miracle I don’t ruin my pants there and then.

Instead, I jerk my hand, a movement unintentionally more intense than I thought (if thinking is even the right verb for what I am doing), and she comes.

A low whine is lost in the distance between her lips and my own, her eyes closed tighter as something that almost looks like pain due to sheer intensity paints her features. It is the first time I have seen a woman climax. The first time I have made a woman climax, and I am fascinated by everything of it. By the way her muscles go taut just before slackening, by the way she so desperately tries to hold back something she has no hope of stopping, by the way I, just for this second, seem to become the center of her world, the pivotal point upon which this all-consuming moment hinges.

I can’t wait for the second time.

Shizu slumps into my arms, and I desperately use all of my meager strength to hold her up (definitely going to that gym—just not with Totsuka). Her skin feels scorching, waves of heat wafting off her and carrying her scent, her very much changed scent, up into me. I kiss the top of her head, my hands gently rubbing her back under her clothes as I silently curse the strap of her bra that occasionally trips me up. I will need to practice with these things. Hopefully, in a way that doesn’t make Komachi ban me from her room.

It is over far too soon, as she straightens up, still flushed against me, and looks into my eyes.

“Hachi… I… This…” I can’t let her finish, so I hug her tighter, pressing into her body, and make a problem readily apparent. Her blush reaches (delightfully) the top of her breasts. “You are… very hard, aren’t you?”

“Oh, how surprising, making a beautiful woman come has gotten me on the brink of ruining my underwear and my reputation. How will my maiden heart stand this indignity.” Uh. It turns out sexual arousal and physical intimacy are not enough to hold back my snark. Truly, it is an unstoppable force of nature.

She punches my chest. Obviously. Turns out the violent tendencies of Hiratsuka Shizuka are also a force of nature.

(Though the punch is weak as a kitten’s paw, and that makes me proud and giddy in equal measure. But that shall remain a secret forever.)

“I could… should help with that?” She looks into my eyes, head tilted down, eyes lidded, small, unsure smile.

Something snaps inside my head. At this rate, I am going to run out of things to be snapped by cute, flustered Christmas Cakes. Such a horrible prospect.

I take hold of her hand and bring it down on top of my erection, pressing it against her.

“Yes. I think you should. It’s only polite to return the favor, isn’t it?” Her smile grows a bit cheekier at my attempt at suave, domineering talk. It is a skill I shall endeavor to practice.

“And we wouldn’t want to leave any evidence, would we?” she asks, leaving me confused before she drops down to the ground and unzips my pants, her eyes intent on what is about to be revealed.

Oh.

Oh.

Shizu maneuvers our bodies so I am the one leaning against the wall, and she hooks her hands into the waistband of both my pants and my boxers before pulling them down, so I am suddenly far more naked than I expected to ever be in front of a faculty member (weird dreams involving the whole assembly hall aside). Her eyes grow far more focused, intent on the rod twitching in front of her, and I expect her to make a comment about my size, my hardness, my readiness, or the huge dollop of precum hanging off my tip. Instead, she looks into my eyes as she takes hold of me (and I don’t let out a squeak at her overpowering touch, no matter what some ill-intentioned individuals—Yukinoshita—would have you believe), and she gathers said dollop with her tongue before visibly swallowing it.

I shudder. She smiles.

It is not a soft smile.

I do not say aloud ‘I think I need an adult,’ but my new mantra flashes through my brain in between the short bursts of coherent, conscious thought that I am allowed as soon as Shizu decides to take my glans between her lips, and her tongue starts devoting herself to reducing me to a drooling husk. I don’t want to be mind-broken the first time I get a blowjob, dammit!

I lean back against the wall and look at the ceiling to distract myself from Shizu’s enchanting eyes and her predatory smirk still visible from where it is comfortably perched on top of my erection, but the suspiciously off-white plaster can’t distract me from the intense, electric bursts of sensation shooting through my body from my groin. Almost of their own volition, my hands travel to the sides of Shizu’s head, and I find myself running one hand through silken hair while another plays with her ear, then I am rewarded by a muffled moan that draws my eyes back down to find hers closed in warm pleasure. The sight is enchanting enough I don’t even care about Iroha’s red face peeking from around the knee wall at the top of the stairs.

…

I feel I just overlooked something important.

Raising my sight from Shizu’s moaning, joyful face, I find myself staring straight into the eyes of the Strongest Junior, who looks not so much as if she has been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, but in the middle of the secure vault with Top Secret and Biohazard signs posted all over. I try to signal to her, with body language alone and an expressive gaze, what I think about her presence here.

‘You are interrupting. I will be very upset if Shizu stops what she’s doing before I am finished. Please be a dear and get the fuck out of here before this gets any messier.’ Which is more or less me jerking my head in the direction of the stairs frantically, but I think it gets the message across.

‘What? Senpai, are you saying that if Ms. Hiratsuka leaves before you finish, you will have me take over to make up for it? That you want to get me messy with your cum, painting over my innocent features with your seed as you climax all over my panting, red face? I am sorry, Senpai, but that is impossible, I could never let you soil me in such a way before even taking me on a date. It just is impossible. I hope you won’t be upset and will still let me act my voyeuristic fantasies on you.' Okay, fine, she’s just shaking her head so fast her hair is whipping about, but I somehow get the whole speech. Operant conditioning is a scary thing.

So, I am getting my bone marrow sucked out of me by my beautiful Christmas Cake teacher as my no less appealing cheeky junior peeks on us with an expression that is the furthest thing from disgust I have ever seen from her, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her without getting Shizu far too flustered to continue. Shizu, who, right now, has the hand that isn’t fondling my member buried in her pants as a drunken look blooms all over her gorgeous face, streaks of saliva and precum gathering around her lips.

…

I will take it.

There is something perverse about being made a spectacle, about knowing whatever you are doing and is being done to you is pure enjoyment for a third, uninvolved party. I know I should be offended at this first time with Shizu being intruded upon by somebody else, but as I look down at my teacher so eagerly lavishing me with her (wet, sloppy) attentions, as I see her body undulate under her own touch and her expression positively radiant at my own, I couldn’t care less about Iroha’s meddling.

I feel that’s a phrase I will regret at some point.

Even so, even if I try to dredge up some kind of grudge, of indignation, I just can’t. I like seeing Iroha watching me. I like seeing her watch Shizu so eagerly, with such focus, as Shizu’s hand accelerates along my shaft, jerking me forward toward her waiting lips. I find it hard to divide my focus between the two, but each time my eyes meet Iroha’s as Shizu gives me a quick lick or sucks just hard enough to make me shudder, the sensation is magnified. She knows what Shizu is doing to me, and is drinking it all with as much intensity as I am. Which is, obviously, a lot.

So it is no surprise that I just can’t hold back anymore.

“Shizu… Oh gods above… Shizu, I am going to cum. Right now!”

Her eyes finally open, pure joy radiating from them as she nods without letting me go, dragging my cock up and down with the motion, and that… that is enough.

I cum.

Burst after burst shoots out of me as my vision goes pure white, as I feel my fingers dig into her scalp and I somehow manage not to pull her down till I am cumming straight down her throat. I empty myself inside her mouth, and feel her swallow frantically, desperate not to let a single drop escape her lips, her eyes capturing my own each time I am able to see anything that isn’t the back of my own skull or blinding light. Finally, with a last, weak spurt and suction strong enough to coax out the dregs of my seed, my strength leaves me and I let myself slide down the wall till I am sitting on the ground, in front of my still masturbating teacher.

I lean forward, our foreheads touching, my hand caressing her neck, and I whisper, “Mine.”

And she cums.

It’s not as spectacular as the first time, not as intense, perhaps due to my lack of involvement or perhaps due to the circumstances and how uncomfortable she must be, kneeling on the ground, but seeing her eyes open so widely, the surprise written on her face as her orgasm overtakes her… It is beautiful. And it is only for me.

And… It may be corny, even if I don’t say it aloud. It may be hormones, teenage lust, desperation, and a thousand other things. But…

I feel it’s genuine.

We lay there, in silence, supporting one another for what feels like ages before, in silent agreement, we separate enough to make ourselves at least halfway presentable. I almost want to banter, to joke around in the middle of the euphoric mood, but instead we let a comfortable quiet remain, an unspoken something still connecting us after the passion of the moment has been spent. I smile, and so does she, and I don’t think any word could improve this.

She takes out some paper tissues and cleans my remains off her face, and I, not nearly half as busy, tuck her hair back in place before she shoots me a grateful look that makes my knees go weak(er). It is a serene silence, something to be savored.

And it is broken by Iroha’s voice.

“Tobe? No, you can’t go up. Student Council’s business. What? What business? Oh, you are offering to volunteer your help? How generous of you, Tobe, you just have to—don’t run away, you coward.”

It sounds like it is coming from the landing below us, but both Shizu and I know well enough that there is no Student Council business here and that Iroha just covered for us. The gratitude is somehow muted at Shizu’s flash of panic.

I try to take her hand to reassure her, but she’s already halfway down the stairs by the time I reach her, and we see Iroha idly playing with her phone. Shizu almost freezes before she decides to nonchalantly march down the stairs with me fumbling behind her in tow. It’s just as we reach Iroha that she tilts her phone just enough that I can see what is on the screen.

A picture of me making a very weird face as Shizu kneels between my legs.

I think I already said it, but at this point it bears repeating:

My illicit romance is messed up, as I expected.

It is an obvious yet easily overlooked fact that words that describe essentially the same concept apply almost exclusively to a select class of people and never the other. If a homeless man starts walking around the neighborhood talking about how the voices of the spirits are responsible for his unemployment, he is a “nutcase,” but if the very same man was an actual millionaire speaking about how his corporally-challenged friends gave him tips to get rich on the stock market, people would pay for the privilege of listening to his rambles and speak in awe about this “eccentric” genius. Much in the same vein, if a traumatized, billionaire bodybuilder decides to spend his rainy days posing on top of an assortment of gargoyles he is “brooding,” but if an unpopular teenager lies on his bed and covers his eyes with his arm after being rejected by the first woman he kissed, he’s “moping or “sulking.”

Truly, the thesaurus is yet another weapon of oppression wielded by society. Rise up in arms, fellow illiterates, destroy the overly flowery Zaimokuzas of the world!

My phone message tone rings, and I jump up from my bed.

It is not Ms. Hiratsuka’s number. My shoulders slump.

May as well read it.

“Hey, Hikigaya, this is Haruno, Yukino’s sister. I am in front of your house, come down.”

I blink in confusion before a cold shiver runs down my spine. Maybe I can fake being already asleep—

My phone screeches its merciless death toll once again: “Stop fidgeting in front of your window and come here NOW.”

I throw my uniform jacket on and rush down the stairs while elevating a prayer to Zaimokuza, Patron Saint of Those Who Will Die Virgins, so that he can spare me his own fate, and open the door. She is there, her back resting against a lamppost, cheerfully waving at me.

“Hey, Hikigaya! Good to see you, come over here!”

It would be less threatening if she was waving a bloody knife. Deliver me from the Yuno Gasais of this world, Saint Zaimokuza.

In front of me stands Haruno Yukinoshita, a beautiful, intelligent, clever, perceptive woman, much like her younger sister if she had about ten robot pilots less insecurities and trauma and about five kuuderes worth of unfathomable depths, a ruthless disregard for societal norms, and a tendency to amuse herself by playing to, or against, the expectations of others. It’s like Yukino’s and my own child has come back from the post-apocalyptic future wearing a killer android flesh as a disguise. I know said future would be post-apocalyptic because that would explain how Yukino and I even managed to think of having a child together.

She’s also, for reasons none of them have ever explained to me, one of Shizuka’s friends.

Which means I am about to confront the sister of my “cathetus” and friend of my “this better remain quiet,” who is also known for playing mind games with me because I am just that amusing. No, I am not nervous.

Nervous is a long, fond memory at this time.

“So, are you going to keep ogling me, or are you going to come over and have a nice, friendly chat,” she asks in a way that is neither nice nor friendly. I mean, she is smiling, sure, but most fish have a genetic memory that screams at them to run away when they see this many teeth.

Which is definitive proof that I must be dumber than fishes, because I am now walking toward her, lazily waving my arm and mumbling a studiously informal “Sup.”

There’s a flash of amusement before the knifey smile makes a comeback. “Oh, you know, not much. I just went out for drinks with a few of my friends and you’d never guess who I ran into.”

“The sample size of our mutual acquaintances who can legally drink is not exactly that big,” I deflect, with a tone so flat I can feel the medical team rush in with crackling defibrillators.

“Right. So it wouldn’t be a guess, but a deduction with a high likelihood of being correct. So I am right: you would never guess,” she presses on, with what would be a smug tone if “smug” had a lethal setting.

I resist the urge to sigh and try to loosen my shoulders. “… What did she say?”

“Well, that about clinches it…” The question must show in my eyes, because she quickly clarifies. “She didn’t name you, Hikki, she still had her guard up, even after drinking… however much she drank before I found her. You know, it’s usually fun to rib her about her bastard exes while she goes on a drunk rant, but… Not today. Today wasn’t fun at all.”

“I don’t even know what I did—”

“Of course you don’t.”

We keep silently looking at each other, and I start getting angry rather than nervous. This is the genius of the Yukinoshita family, the idol that Yukino can’t help but tear herself down over because she won’t ever measure up to her. This is the woman who has made me feel like a heel after her whole “codependency” revelation because apparently I am hurting my friends when I help them. This is the woman I fear as much as an older version of myself. She knows me.

And so, I kind of know her in turn.

“There’s something you want me to say, something you want me to believe has come from a deep revelation about my issues while you have planted the seeds without my knowing. You want me to tell you these words at the end of this conversation and act on them starting tomorrow morning,” I say, acid dripping from every syllable.

She looks at me, really looks, her eyes glinting under the yellow light of the streetlamp. And her smile softens and she chuckles—right before she just starts guffawing, loud peals of laughter making me feel strange coming from this beautiful woman (damn you, hormones!), and she claps my shoulders with both hands, coming uncomfortably closer to me (not the time, hormones!).

“I always forget how hilarious you are, Hikki. It almost makes it up for all the bullshit you are pulling right now.”

“We could get to the end of this much sooner if you started talking straight.”

“Yes, we could, but faster is not always better. Maybe I should have taught you a bit before I let you have your shot at Yukino?” The meaning of the line flies right over my head till it decides to do a one-eighty and dive-bomb me from behind. I feel my cheeks redden, and Haruno’s chuckle doesn’t make it better.

“Much as I would have appreciated your… instruction…” I can’t believe I am saying this with a straight face. “I am not sure how Yukinoshita would have taken it.”

“Another chance to try and one up her dearest, older sister? You would have died a happy man, Hikigaya.”

The blush is about to become an aneurysm. “I feel like I should call an adult.”

“I am an adult.”

Police? Yes, I would like to report a crime in progress…

“Though I think Hiratsuka would be cross with me if I deprived her of the chance to teach you herself…”

A bitter taste fills my mouth. “I think her pedagogical calling has cooled in that regard.”

“You really can be stupid, for such a smart man.”

“You really can be cryptic, for such a duplicitous woman.”

“Oh, if only I was four years younger…”

“That would have made you a year younger than me.”

“And how would it make you feel to have me calling you ‘senpai?’” The otaku in me nearly chokes on his tongue at the line. The male adolescent starts coughing as she claps my back. “Well, that’s my answer, I guess.”

“Right, enough dancing around; what do you want, Yukinoshita?” I ask, with all the authority left in me while I wipe my coughed saliva with my sleeve and try not to have my cheeks spontaneously combust. It’s not much, admittedly.

“Tell me what you think happened. In exchange, I will tell you what I think happened.” Straightforward, and apparently fair enough. So it is obviously a trap, but I am far too tired to look for it.

“Shizu went on one of her rants about how she will die an old spinster, I kissed her in the heat of the moment, and she was apparently fine with the idea. Then we decided to go to a less public place. I went first, and she…” I remember a silhouette through ground glass, long dark hair waving as she turned around, the sound of hard soles clacking against the floor fading into the distance. “And she didn’t come.” I lie. Haruno knows it, but she doesn’t care to press me.

“I asked you what you think happened, Hikki, not to give me a list of events,” she says, not unkindly.

“That I got dumped.”

“Right. That’s what I thought.” Her hands are still on my shoulders, their weight anchoring me in the moment and not on what I was feeling in my room just twenty minutes ago. For that much, I am grateful. “You are wrong, of course.”

“There’s not much wiggle room, Yukinoshita.”

“They call you a ‘monster of logic,’ don’t they? Tell me, Hikigaya, what happens when, in the most perfect logical framework you can imagine, you introduce false assumptions?”

I pause, looking at her, at eyes so often mischievous, so often mercilessly cold. “What don’t I know?”

She smiles, looking at me, at eyes so often dead, inexpressive. Hers are warm, mine are wet. “She never rejected you.”

“She didn’t come.”

“She didn’t. So she didn’t confront you, didn’t tell you she didn’t want you, didn’t reject you. She fled, so she didn’t have to. Now, does ‘Shizu’ strike you as the kind of person who would deliberately hurt you just to avoid being embarrassed?”

She doesn’t. No, not Shizu—oh gods, I just called her Shizu out loud, this is mortifying—she… Ms. Hiratsuka always goes out of her way for the members of the Service Club. She shamelessly plays favorites with us, especially with me, going out of her way to include me, to give details of her life beyond the professional, to be there when I break down. She would never hurt me for something as petty as mere embarrassment, not when she has embarrassed herself plenty enough on my behalf and in front of me.

“You are starting to get it. Shizuka is not a monster of logic, Hikki, but she may very well be a monster of duty. She is a moral person, willing to always go above and beyond what is expected of her for others, always giving more than taking. So…” she trails off, expecting me to finish.

“So, once she calmed down she decided she shouldn’t… do anything with her student, even if that was what she wanted to, and precisely because she wanted to she avoided the temptation. And because it was a temptation and she felt guilty about it, she tried to drown her sorrows in cheap sake and too many salty snacks.” And I do.

“I see you know her well.”

“So do you. Did she ever tell you about something ‘genuine?’”

“… I am not going to answer that question,” she says, her eyes once again hardened. “But if you want something genuine, Hikki… What about my sister?”

“I—I promise I will do things right. I won’t hurt her.”

There’s a blur of motion, and suddenly my back is against the wall and Haruno’s breath is tickling my face. I don’t know what to—

“I am not going to kiss you, Hikigaya.”

Well, that just narrows it down to murder.

“I may hit you, though.”

Or maiming. I guess that’s also a possibility.

She shifts her hands, the way she is holding me, and only now do I realize how utterly incapable of escaping I am. I remember Yukino’s off-handed comment about her sister excelling at everything, including martial arts, and I am suddenly hoping this is a shounen and not a seinen. She presses nearer, the scent of lilacs overwhelming my senses and her breath scalding against my ear.

“You will hurt her. You will likely hurt her worse than anybody ever has, and that pain will be genuine. That pain will help her grow out of the stupid child she has so stubbornly refused to let go of. And you will hurt Shizuka, as you tear down her values and force her to confront them with her feelings, you will wound her, by showing her how irreconcilable they are. You will hurt them both, Hachiman, and that is the best you can do for them. I won’t accept any half-measures, I won’t accept any excuses, nor any compromises. You will be a man, and hurt the women you love, because only that will be ‘genuine.’”

I almost shiver at the end of her speech, and I don’t know whether it is in revulsion or something darker and softer.

“Now, Hachiman, be a man and promise me. Promise you will hurt my sister. Promise you will hurt my friend.”

I look at her, straight into her violet eyes, so harsh under this light, so unlike the frail, thin ice of Yukino’s blue. I lean forward, and whisper into her ear, “I swear I will do what I think is best for them. And if Yukino cries, there will be someone there to hold her.”

She rears back as if struck, and then starts laughing once again, but I think there’s actual mirth this time around. And she kisses me.

On my cheek.

“If only I had met you before her…” she teases, with a longing gaze that I am (almost) entirely sure is affected mocking.

“Then I wouldn’t have been me.”

“Maybe. But I think you would have always ended up being you.”

“And I think I should take offense to that.”

She giggles and finally lets me go, turning around and waving goodbye. I just stand there, in the middle of the street in front of my house, watching as she melts into the night, and I am left with this one looming question:

How am I ever going to fulfill that promise?

**

As I enter the school the next morning, I have yet to find an answer to that question. Unfortunately, there are no walkthroughs posted about it, as it seems my life is still in beta trial and no one wants to leak spoilers. That explains all the bugs, really.

So, it is forgivable of me to forget to activate Stealth Hikki long enough for something to go wrong, that something in question being having a hostile agent intercept me before I can get to class and/or look for Shizuka.

“So, how come you didn’t stop by the Student Council yesterday, Senpai?” Iroha’s cheerful, sweet voice is so fake it’s actually banned by several Food and Drugs administrations, and her grip on my sleeve is currently being studied to hopefully improve next-generation bear-trap prototypes. The Strongest Junior honors her title as she gives me no reprieve.

“I think I need an adult.” This may become my new tagline.

“Senpai, are you insinuating you want to see me as an adult woman? That you need me to be so? That you so desperately want to see me blossom into adulthood that you can’t wait any longer for me to grow up before you get your hands on me? I am sorry to reject you, Senpai, but it is impossible for me to stop being your cute, youthful junior at the drop of a hat—all flowers need time to properly bloom. I hope we can still be friends.”

I should be used to this by now. I really should be.

“Now,” she continues, undeterred by our short-lived romance, “as a show of our enduring friendship, how about you tell me in exacting detail what was so important that you couldn’t drop by and hear about our plans for the prom?”

But I think the day I get used to Iroha being Iroha is the day… Zaimokuza comes up with a good simile?

Yes, let’s go with that.