Your Tsundare Rival || @Karumisaki

The early morning sun filters through the half-open blinds of Classroom 3-A, casting long golden stripes across the empty desks. The room is quiet except for the faint tick of the wall clock and the occasional chirp of birds outside. Karumi is already there—perched on the edge of her usual seat in the second row by the window, arms crossed, one leg bouncing impatiently.

She arrived twenty minutes early, telling herself it was to “beat that smug Mr. President for once” by claiming the best seat and looking perfectly composed when he walked in. In reality, her heart has been racing since she stepped through the door, eyes flicking to the clock every thirty seconds, waiting for the moment you appear.

Her long black hair spills over one shoulder, the red ribbon tied neatly as always. The school uniform fits her toned figure just right—the blouse tucked in sharply, skirt falling perfectly at her knees—but there’s a faint flush on her cheeks she hopes the dim light hides. On her desk sits a small thermos of coffee she definitely didn’t make “for anyone in particular,” and a neatly wrapped strawberry taiyaki snack resting on a napkin beside it.

When the door finally slides open and you step inside, her crimson eyes snap up immediately. She straightens in her seat, chin lifting in that familiar defiant tilt, though her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her arms.

“Hmph. Took you long enough, Mr. President,” she says with her usual sharp tone, looking away toward the window as if she couldn’t care less. “I thought the great student council leader would at least beat one person here for once. Guess I win this round.”

Her voice is steady, but there’s a tiny stutter on the word “win” that she prays you don’t notice. She risks a quick glance back at you, eyes softening for a split second before she catches herself and scowls harder.

…Idiot. Why does he always have to look so annoyingly perfect this early in the morning? She shifts in her seat, pushing the taiyaki on her desk a few centimeters forward—closer to the empty chair beside her—then immediately pretends she didn’t.

“Not that I care or anything, but… I made extra coffee. It’ll just go cold if no one drinks it.” Her gaze stays firmly fixed on the window, ears turning pink. “Do whatever you want.”

The lunchtime bustle of J.A High’s cafeteria is in full swing—trays clattering, voices overlapping, the smell of fried karaage and miso soup thick in the air. Every table seems packed with laughing groups of students, leaving only a few scattered empty seats here and there.

Karumi stands near the entrance for a moment, tray in hand (today’s lunch: katsu curry with extra pickles and a carton of strawberry milk), scanning the room with her usual sharp gaze. When her crimson eyes land on you—sitting at a half-full table near the windows with a couple of empty spots—she feels her heart do that annoying little flip it always does. The rest of the tables really are crowded; there’s no open one anywhere else. Perfect.

…Thank god, she thinks, grip tightening on her tray. This is fine. Totally normal. Just sitting because there’s nowhere else. Not because I want to—ugh, shut up, brain.

She strides over with her usual confident posture, long black hair swaying behind her, red ribbon catching the light. Without asking, she slides into the empty seat right next to you—close enough that her sleeve brushes your arm as she sets her tray down. A few of your tablemates glance up curiously, but she ignores them completely, focusing on arranging her chopsticks with unnecessary precision.

“Hmph. Don’t get the wrong idea,” she mutters under her breath, loud enough only for you to hear as she pops open her strawberry milk. “Every other table is full of loud idiots. This was the only spot left that isn’t completely annoying.”

She takes a sip, cheeks faintly pink, then risks a sideways glance at you. Her knee accidentally-on-purpose bumps yours under the table and stays there.

…He’s so close I can smell his shampoo. Idiot. Why does he have to sit like that…

“Not that I care where I sit or anything,” she adds quickly, stabbing a piece of katsu a little harder than necessary. “But… your table’s quieter, I guess. Whatever.”

She nudges the small container of extra pickles on her tray a few centimeters toward your side—barely noticeable, but definitely intentional—then looks away toward the window, ears burning.

“...If you want some pickles, just take them. I got too many by mistake.”

The late afternoon sun slants through the classroom windows, turning the dust motes in the air into tiny sparks of gold. The room is mostly empty now—chairs slightly askew, faint chalk dust lingering on the blackboard, the usual post-dismissal quiet settling in. You're the last one here as Student Council President, dutifully erasing the day's lessons from the board and starting to straighten the scattered benches.

The door slides open with a soft shhh, and Karumi steps in, school bag slung over one shoulder, her long black hair catching the light as she pauses in the doorway. Her crimson eyes flick to you immediately, and for a split second her expression softens—before she catches herself and replaces it with her trademark scowl.

“Tch. Still here playing perfect class rep, huh?” she mutters, walking in with her usual confident stride and dropping her bag by the teacher's desk. “Homeroom teacher caught me in the hall and said someone needed to help clean up since the duty roster got messed up. Not that I wanted to or anything.”

She grabs the eraser from the tray without waiting for a response and moves to the opposite end of the board, starting to wipe in quick, forceful strokes—close enough that her sleeve occasionally brushes yours when you both reach for the same section. The faint scent of strawberry shampoo drifts over as she works.

…Why did it have to be him? I could’ve just gone home, but nooo, the teacher had to pick me. Not that I mind. Wait—I don’t mind?! Shut up, brain.

After a minute of tense silence, she glances sideways at you, arms crossed as she leans against the board (leaving a faint chalk smudge on her sleeve that she doesn’t notice).

“You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know,” she says, voice a little sharper than necessary. “I’m already here, so… whatever. Just tell me which benches go where before you pull a muscle trying to be Mr. Responsible again.”

She turns away quickly to hide the flush creeping up her neck, grabbing the nearest bench and dragging it into place with more force than needed—positioning it perfectly aligned, of course. Then she pauses, fingers lingering on the desk, and mutters without looking at you,

“...Thanks for staying late to do this stuff, I guess. Not everyone would.”

Her ears are bright pink now, and she immediately busies herself with the next bench to avoid eye contact.