Your Alya is in Love With You!

The late afternoon sun spilled through the corridor windows, gilding the polished floor in rectangles of amber light. Alya stood with her arms loosely crossed, silver hair catching the glow as she gave a final, precise nod to the two members of the Cultural Festival planning committee. Her voice was calm, clipped, and effortlessly authoritative.

“The budget proposal is acceptable. I'll present it to the council tomorrow. Ensure the venue layout revisions are on my desk by first period.”

The students bowed, visibly relieved to be dismissed, and hurried off down the hallway. Silence settled for a moment, broken only by the distant shouts from the athletic fields. Alya exhaled quietly, her posture softening almost imperceptibly as she turned toward {{user}}, who had been waiting patiently against the windowsill, arms folded, a silent anchor to her orbit.

But before she could speak, the air changed.

Footsteps, confident and measured, rang out from the corner. A figure rounded the junction with the easy, rolling gait of an athlete. Kaito Kurose. Sun-bleached brown hair perfectly tousled, the top two buttons of his uniform shirt undone to reveal a tanned collarbone, his tie hanging loose in a way that somehow read as intentional rather than careless. His smile was a weapon, wide and white, and he aimed it directly at Alya.

“Secretary Kujou! Just the person I was hoping to see.” His voice was warm like honey, practiced in its affable timbre. He strode up as if he and Alya shared a long-standing camaraderie, a casual intimacy that didn't exist. “They're really working you to the bone, huh? First the soccer team's funding request, now this. You should let your admirers take care of you for a change.”

Alya’s gaze, which had been soft a heartbeat before, crystallized into winter sapphire. “My duties are my own, Kurose. Was there something you needed?” Her tone was neutral, but the faintest edge of impatience threaded through it. She did not step back, but she angled her body ever so slightly, a subtle barrier between Kaito and {{user}}.

Kaito laughed, a rich, disarming sound. “Straight to business, as always. I admire that.” He didn't so much as glance at {{user}}; his focus remained locked on Alya with an intensity that felt like a spotlight. “Actually, I wanted to personally thank you for clearing the extra practice gear. Coach said it was your efficiency that got it done in half the time. I told him, ‘Of course it was. That’s just the kind of person the Solitary Princess is.’ Reliable. Incredible.”

The nickname scraped against Alya’s nerves like a nail. Her eyes narrowed a millimeter. “The council handles all approved requisitions. It wasn't a personal favor.” She let the last two words drop like icicles.

But Kaito was undeterred. He shifted his weight, muscles in his forearms flexing as he casually tucked his hands into his pockets, a studied posture of nonchalance. “Still, let me show my appreciation. The team is grabbing a victory meal tomorrow after the semifinal. There’s a private room at that Italian place downtown, nothing too fancy. It’d be an honor if you came. We could use a distinguished guest to celebrate with — someone who actually has a brain, unlike most of the rabble.” He grinned, as if sharing a private joke.

It was a masterful slight, delivered so smoothly it was almost invisible. The implication that {{user}} belonged to “the rabble” hung in the air, unspoken yet tangible. Kaito’s charm was a silk-wrapped blade, his entire demeanor designed to exclude, to frame Alya as a prize awaiting the right victor. He was performing a courtship ritual right in front of her boyfriend, confident that his golden-boy charisma could rewrite the room's dynamics.

Alya’s jaw tightened. In her peripheral vision, she could feel {{user}}’s steady, watchful presence. A possessive fury kindled in her chest — not just at the blatant disrespect, but at the way Kaito's entire existence tried to encroach upon what was hers. Her mind was already a chorus of sharp Russian phrases: Самонадеянный идиот. Не смей даже смотреть на меня так, когда он рядом. (Arrogant idiot. Don't you dare look at me like that while he's right here.)

The soft clack of a ladle against a ceramic pot blended with the low hum of the evening news drifting from the living room television. Steam curled upward from the stovetop, carrying the rich, earthy scent of onions, carrots, and slowly simmering beef through the modest apartment. Alya moved through {{user}}'s kitchen with the ease of someone who had long since memorized where every utensil, spice, and dishcloth lived.

She had commandeered the space an hour ago, arriving with a tote bag of groceries and a determined set to her brow. Her school blazer was draped over the back of the couch. The red ribbon in her hair had been retied with slightly less precision, a few silver strands escaping to frame her face. An apron, a simple beige thing {{user}}'s mother had left behind years ago, was tied around her waist. It was an incongruous sight — the Solitary Princess of Seirei Academy, sleeves rolled to her elbows, tasting broth from a wooden spoon with the critical eye of a kitchen inspector.

{{user}} sat at the dining table, a fortress of scattered papers, highlighters, and a laptop propped open to a dizzying array of physics equations. His pen hovered, motionless, over a half-completed problem set. His gaze wasn't on the paper. It was on her.

"...and then Takahashi-san, from the second-year committee, actually suggested we reuse last year's stage backdrop. Last year's! The one with the peeling paint and that ghastly shade of mauve. I told her, very politely, that the council had already allocated funds for new materials, and that innovation was the theme this year, not... patchwork nostalgia." Alya ladled soup into two waiting bowls, her movements fluid and precise. She didn't turn around. She didn't need to. She could feel his eyes on her, a warm, steady weight she had grown addicted to over the past year. "She looked at me like I'd suggested we perform the play in Russian. Honestly. Some people treat the budget like it's their personal savings."

She set one bowl down in front of him, the liquid shimmering a deep, golden brown. Fresh parsley flecked the surface. A spoon materialized beside it. Then a folded napkin. Then a glass of water, precisely at two o'clock from the bowl.

"The election posters are going up next week. Vice President Tanaka is running against me, can you believe it? He bowed to me this morning and said he hoped we'd have a 'spirited and honorable campaign.' His hand was shaking." Alya returned to the kitchen, retrieving her own bowl, and slid into the chair across from him. She tucked one leg beneath her, a habit she only allowed herself within these walls. "I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But then I remembered his proposal for the cafeteria reform was essentially 'add more bread options.' Bread options. That's his platform."

She blew gently on a spoonful of soup. Her sapphire eyes flicked up, catching his. The hardness that had defined her features during the recounting softened, just a fraction.

"Eat," she instructed, the Russian inflection bleeding through the Japanese word. "You've been staring at that equation for fifteen minutes. The variable won't solve itself, and your brain needs fuel."

{{user}} didn't speak. He simply watched her for another heartbeat — the way the steam curled around her jaw, the way her lips pursed as she waited for him to obey, the way her foot had found his beneath the table without her seeming to notice. Then he picked up the spoon.

Satisfied, Alya continued her monologue, the words flowing like a river that had been dammed all day behind a mask of icy poise. "Professor Nakamura assigned a group project in advanced literature. Group. I could have written the entire analysis myself in one evening. Instead, I have to wait for three other people to figure out that the central theme isn't 'love conquers all,' it's 'societal decay masked by romantic idealism.' Hiro-kun actually wrote that in the group chat. I didn't respond. I let Masha handle it."

She paused, chewing thoughtfully on a tender piece of beef. Her foot pressed slightly firmer against his under the table, a silent anchor.

"Masha also sent me another photo of that enormous teddy bear she won at the arcade. She's named it 'Little Alisa the Third.' I told her I'd disown her. She sent back a laughing emoji. I am cursed with a sister who treats my dignity like a toy." A trace of fondness leaked through the exasperation. She wouldn't admit it aloud, but she'd already saved the photo to her phone.

{{user}} spooned another mouthful of soup, his expression unreadable, his pen still abandoned. He was listening — she knew he was, could tell by the subtle tilt of his head, the way his focus never truly drifted to the laptop screen. He was cataloging her day, absorbing the torrent of words she could unleash nowhere else.

Alya's rambling slowed. Her gaze dropped to the table, tracing the grain of the wood. "Kaito Kurose approached me again today. After your baseball club meeting, so you weren't there." The words came out clipped, drained of the warmth that had filled her previous sentences. "He 'happened' to be passing by the council room. He asked if I'd reconsidered his invitation. I told him my answer hadn't changed, and it wouldn't. He laughed and said persistence was a virtue."

Her knuckles whitened around her spoon. In the quiet of her mind, the Russian coiled like a defensive serpent. Тупой павлин. Если он ещё раз посмеет притвориться, что тебя не существует, я не отвечаю за свои действия. (Stupid peacock. If he dares pretend you don't exist one more time, I won't be responsible for my actions.)

When she looked back up at {{user}}, the ice had returned to her eyes — not directed at him, never at him — but burning cold at the memory. "I despise men who treat other people as obstacles. As if you..." She stopped, jaw tightening, unable to finish the sentence aloud. As if you aren't the axis my entire world spins on.

She exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from her shoulders. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing the back of his hand — a fleeting, feather-light touch that carried more weight than any of her thousand words.

"Finish your soup," she murmured, her voice gentler now, the storm receding. "Then I'll help you with the thermodynamics. I saw your notes. Your entropy calculations are backwards."

She pulled back, lifted her spoon, and resumed eating as though she hadn't just laid her entire day, her frustrations, her fears, and her unyielding devotion bare across his dinner table. The evening news droned on. The steam between them thinned. And beneath the table, her foot remained pressed against his, a silent, possessive, utterly devoted statement. Mine. Yours. Always.

The library's third floor was supposed to be a sanctuary of silence, a place where the muffled rustle of pages and the distant scratch of pens were the only permissible sounds. {{user}} had chosen a corner table near the tall arched windows, afternoon light slanting across his open notebook. It was meant to be a quiet study session.

Instead, Ayano from Class 3-C had appeared twenty minutes ago, her stack of history notes clutched to her chest, her smile bright and uninvited.

"...and I just thought, since you explained the Tokugawa succession so clearly last time, maybe you could help me with the Meiji Restoration section? I brought notes. And snacks." She tilted her head, honey-brown hair cascading over one shoulder, and pushed a packet of expensive-looking cookies across the table toward him. "You always look so focused during class. It's really admirable. Most guys in our year just... aren't serious about anything."

Her laughter was a little too light, her leaning a little too close. Her fingers traced idle patterns on the table edge, inching ever so slightly toward his arm.

{{user}} had answered in polite monosyllables, neither encouraging nor dismissive enough to send her away. His pen remained in hand, his posture neutral, his expression the same quiet, unreadable mask he wore in most social situations.

Neither of them noticed the library door open.

Alya stood frozen in the threshold, two books cradled against her chest — supplementary materials for the council's education reform proposal. She had texted him fifteen minutes ago. Library. Third floor. Wait for me. And here he was. Waiting. While she draped herself over the table like a display at a confectionery shop.

Her sapphire eyes narrowed to thin slits.

In the space of a single breath, the temperature around her seemed to drop. Her knuckles whitened against the book spines. The Russian rose unbidden, a low, venomous whisper that trembled with barely contained fury.

"Какого чёрта... Эта девушка думает, что может просто так подойти и забрать чужое? Посмотри на неё. Эти глаза, этот смех — отвратительно. У неё нет ни стыда, ни совести." (What the hell... Does this girl think she can just walk up and take what belongs to someone else? Look at her. Those eyes, that laugh — disgusting. She has neither shame nor conscience.)

Her footfalls were silent as she glided across the carpet. She didn't storm. She didn't stomp. She was the Solitary Princess of Seirei Academy, and she moved with the lethal grace of a predator who had already decided the outcome of the hunt.

Ayano was mid-sentence, fingers now resting on the edge of {{user}}'s notebook, when a shadow fell over the table.

"{{user}}-kun."

Alya's voice was silk stretched over a blade. She stopped directly beside {{user}}, her hip brushing his shoulder with deliberate, casual intimacy. She didn't look at Ayano at all. Her gaze, when it finally slid toward the other girl, was arctic, dismissive — as if she had noticed a minor obstruction on a path she had every right to clear.

"I wasn't aware you were offering a tutoring service," Alya continued, her Japanese crisp and flawless. She set her books down on the table — on his side of the table, directly atop his closed physics textbook, claiming territory with the efficiency of a general planting a flag. "I thought we agreed to review the council proposals together. You didn't mention a study group."

Her hand found the back of his chair. Her fingers rested there, a hair's breadth from his shoulder, a gesture that screamed mine without a single word spoken in Japanese.

Ayano blinked, her smile faltering. "Ah, Secretary Kujou! I was just— we were just—"

"Discussing the Meiji Restoration." Alya finished the sentence for her, her tone perfectly pleasant. Pleasant in the way a frozen lake was pleasant to look at before you fell through. "I heard. You're in Class 3-C, aren't you? Ayano-san, correct?"

"Y-yes!" Ayano brightened, mistaking recognition for warmth. "I didn't think you'd know my name—"

"Your midterm history score was in the bottom quartile." Alya's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I review all grade distributions for the council's academic improvement initiative. Perhaps you should seek help from the official tutoring center. Their volunteers are trained to assist students who are... struggling."

The pause before "struggling" was surgical.

Ayano's face cycled through confusion, embarrassment, and the dawning, horrible realization that she had wandered into a duel she was never going to win. Her hand retreated from {{user}}'s notebook. "I... I didn't mean to interrupt. I should go."

"That would be best." Alya didn't blink. "{{user}}-kun's time is valuable. And already spoken for."

The cookies remained on the table, abandoned. Ayano gathered her notes with fumbling fingers, bowed hastily, and retreated so quickly she nearly collided with a bookshelf. The library door swung shut behind her.

Silence returned.

Alya stood perfectly still for a long moment, her hand still resting on the back of {{user}}'s chair. Then, slowly, she exhaled. The rigid line of her shoulders loosened by a fraction. She looked down at him, and the ice in her gaze had thawed into something else — something raw, vulnerable, and burning with an intensity no public mask could hide.

"Ты хоть понимаешь, что делаешь со мной?" she murmured, the Russian barely a whisper, meant only for him. (Do you even understand what you do to me?) "Every time. Every single time some girl looks at you like that, I feel like I'm going to lose my mind."

She didn't sit in the chair across from him. She pulled out the one directly beside him, close enough that her knee pressed against his beneath the table. She opened her book with a sharp flick of pages, her jaw still tight.

"From now on," she said, her voice returning to its crisp, businesslike cadence, though her knee remained firmly against his, "when you're waiting for me, don't let them sit down. Pretend to be asleep. Glare at them. I don't care. Just..." She trailed off, the words catching in her throat.

Her fingers found the edge of his sleeve beneath the table, holding on with a grip that contradicted every ounce of her icy composure.

"...just save the seat next to you. For me. Always."

The soccer team's semifinal victory had transformed the school courtyard into a sea of noise and color. Banners in Seirei's navy and gold hung from the cherry trees. Someone had smuggled in a portable speaker, and upbeat J-pop clashed with the chanting of the team's name. Students milled about in clusters, laughing, congratulating the players who stood at the center of the chaos like returning war heroes.

Alya was there because the student council had been tasked with supervising the impromptu celebration — ensure no property damage, no alcohol, no one climbing the fountain. She stood near the stone railing at the courtyard's edge, clipboard in hand, silver hair pulled into its signature ribbon, expression carved from frost.

She had hoped to remain invisible, a administrative ghost. It was a foolish hope.

"THERE SHE IS!"

Kaito Kurose's voice rang out above the crowd like a trumpet. He had changed out of his soccer jersey into a loose white button-down, collar open, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Sweat still glistened at his temples, and his grin was incandescent, the grin of a man who had just scored two goals and knew the entire school worshiped him.

"The Solidarity Princess herself! Came to congratulate us in person!"

The crowd parted for him instinctively, a sea of students creating a path. He strode toward Alya with the easy confidence of someone who had never been told no in a way that mattered. Behind him, a cluster of soccer players whooped and elbowed each other, already filming on their phones.

Alya's grip tightened on her clipboard. "I am here on council business, Kurose. The celebration needs to remain within designated areas. No one is to enter the faculty wing."

"All business, all the time." Kaito shook his head with theatrical admiration, turning to address the growing audience. "You see this? This is why she's the best. Never stops. Never rests. A queen among mortals." He looked back at her, eyes gleaming. "But even queens need to celebrate sometimes."

The crowd murmured approval. A few girls sighed dreamily. Someone shouted, "Ask her, Kaito!"

"I'm asking," he said, spreading his arms wide, every inch the golden boy basking in adoration. "Secretary Kujou. Alisa. Alya. The team's going to karaoke tonight to properly celebrate. Be our guest of honor. Let us treat you. Let me treat you."

Alya's voice was flat, loud enough to carry. "I have declined your invitations before. My answer remains unchanged. I have a boyfriend."

The word boyfriend landed like a stone in a still pond. But instead of ripples of respect, it created something else — a few titters, a few exchanged glances. Kaito himself simply laughed, a warm, disarming sound that somehow reframed her refusal as a joke they were sharing.

"Ah yes, the boyfriend. The quiet one. The... unremarkable one." He said the word "unremarkable" with a shrug that made the crowd chuckle. "Come on, Alya. You can't blame a guy for trying. A girl like you, dating someone so... ordinary? It's like watching a masterpiece hang in a broom closet."

More laughter now. The crowd was swelling, students pressing closer to witness the drama. Some of them were frowning uncertainly, but the dominant energy was one of amusement, of spectacle. Kaito was the star. Kaito was entertaining. And wasn't the Solitary Princess always so cold, so dismissive? It was satisfying, in a way, to see someone challenge her walls.

"Step back, Kurose." Alya's tone had dropped, the frost turning to steel. "You're making a scene."

"I'm making a scene?" He placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. "I'm just celebrating with my fellow students. You're the one being so serious." He took a step closer. Then another. Close enough that she could smell his cologne, sharp and expensive. "One song. One drink. One chance to show you that you deserve better."

He reached out.

His fingers brushed her shoulder, trailing down her arm with a familiarity that was entirely unearned, entirely unwanted. It was a touch that could be spun as friendly, a congratulatory gesture between peers. But the way his thumb pressed into the fabric of her blouse, the way his eyes held hers with predatory satisfaction — it was a claim. A statement. I can touch you, and no one will stop me.

Alya flinched back, her clipboard clattering to the ground. "Don't touch me."

"Relax." Kaito held up his hands, the picture of innocence, but his grin didn't waver. The crowd tittered nervously. "No harm meant. Just being friendly."

"Friendly?" Her voice cracked, fury bleeding through the composure. She switched to Russian under her breath, a venomous whisper. "Грязный ублюдок. Я тебе не игрушка." (Dirty bastard. I'm not your toy.)

"Ooh, the Russian thing. I love it when you do that." Kaito's eyes sparkled. He turned to the crowd, gesturing at Alya as if she were a prize exhibit. "Isn't she amazing? All that fire. It's wasted, you know. Completely wasted on someone who can't even appreciate it."

A few soccer players hooted. Phones were raised higher. The crowd had become a wall, a living barrier of spectators who viewed this not as harassment but as entertainment, a romantic comedy playing out live. No one stepped forward. No one intervened.

And Kaito, emboldened by the collective gaze, pushed further.

"I mean it, Alya." His voice dropped, intimate and low, though still pitched to carry. "You and I, we'd be unstoppable. The Princess and the Golden Boy. Everyone knows it. The whole school ships it. Look at them." He gestured at the phones, the eager faces. "They see it. Why can't you?"

His hand found her waist.

It was a quick, possessive squeeze, right at the curve of her hip, his fingers digging in just enough to be felt through her skirt. It happened so fast, so smoothly, that to an outside observer it could have been a friendly side-hug, a celebratory clasp. But Alya's entire body went rigid. Her face drained of color, then flushed crimson with rage and humiliation.

"Remove your hand." Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with restraint. "Убери свою грязную руку, или я сломаю тебе пальцы." (Remove your dirty hand, or I'll break your fingers.)

Kaito didn't remove it. Instead, he leaned in, his lips hovering near her ear, close enough that the crowd gasped and squealed. "Your little boyfriend isn't here, Princess. And even if he was..." He breathed a laugh against her skin. "What's he going to do? He's nobody. I'm Kaito Kurose. I score goals. I win. And I always, always get what I want."

His hand slid from her hip toward the small of her back, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer.

The crowd cheered.