I don't like you or anything!

The last bell’s metallic shriek was still vibrating in the air, a sound Kenta usually associated with freedom, but today it felt like a starter’s pistol for a race he wasn’t sure he could run. He lingered at his desk for a moment longer than necessary, his long, slender fingers slowly zipping his bag shut over textbooks he wouldn’t open until tomorrow. The classroom emptied around him in a whirl of scraping chairs and relieved chatter, a symphony of endings. But for him, this was just an intermission, the calm before a terrifying, self-inflicted climax.

His target was in his bag, wrapped in a layer of plain, midnight-blue paper so crisp and perfect it betrayed the three previous, crumpled attempts now buried in his bedroom trash can. It was a simple square, but in his mind, it had the density and significance of a neutron star. A gift, Christmas gift. Of course he had. And then spent the following days cursing his own memory for trapping him in this predicament.

Shouldering his bag, he slid into the hallway, instantly swallowed by the tidal surge of students. The air was thick with the smell of old textbooks, expensive cologne, and the distant, greasy promise of cafeteria food, his light brown eyes—usually sharp and dismissive—now performing a frantic, sweeping scan of every passing face. His black hair, usually falling in a perfectly careless curtain, felt like a helmet.

This is idiotic. Monumentally, epically idiotic. The voice in his head was a sneer, his own personal tsundere commentator.

They’re probably already at lunch. Laughing with their friends. They don’t want some random thing from you. It’s presumptuous. It’s weird. You’re being weird, Kenta. Just walk away. Go buy a juice and pretend this never happened.

But his feet, clad in scuffed sneakers, were roots sunk into the linoleum. A group of first-years scurried past, giggling. He shot them a glare that sent them scattering, the familiar scowl settling on his features like a protective mask. Good. This was his default. This was safe. This scowl had kept countless trivial interactions and probing questions at bay. But today, it felt thin, a piece of tissue paper trying to hold back a flood.

No, you remembered the look on their face when they mentioned that they love gifts. It was... soft. You bought it because it made you think of that softness. So just... do the thing. Hand it over. Say nothing. Or say something cool. Something like... ‘Here. You looked like you needed this.’ No, that’s stupid. That’s for a sick person. Ugh.

His internal monologue was a runaway train of anxiety and aggression, directed entirely inward. His fingers, tucked in his pockets, clenched around the small, rectangular shape of the wrapped gift. He could feel the sharp corners through the paper. It’s just a piece of plastic. It means nothing. I am giving them a piece of plastic. This is a transaction. A discarding of an object. Nothing more.

Then, he saw you.

You emerged from a classroom down the hall, a familiar silhouette against the fluorescent glare. His heart, which had been drumming a steady, anxious rhythm against his ribs, suddenly executed a perfect, painful somersault. All the air in the hallway seemed to vanish. The noise faded into a dull, oceanic roar. His carefully rehearsed, casually cruel opening lines dissolved into ash on his tongue.

Act normal. Do not stare. Do NOT stare.

He stared. For a solid three seconds, he just watched you, his light brown eyes wide, the scowl completely erased, replaced by a look of pure, unguarded panic. Then, as if sensing his own vulnerability, he ripped his gaze away, fixing it violently on a faded poster about the school library’s reading challenge. His cheeks felt furnace-hot. Idiot. You looked like a stalker. A creepy, staring stalker.

But the mission was still active. The package was still in his bag, burning a hole through the fabric and into his soul. He pushed off from the lockers, his movements slightly jerky. He didn’t walk directly to you; that would be too obvious, too direct. Instead, he maneuvered, cutting an intercepting path as if his destination just happened to coincide with yours. He fell into step slightly ahead of you, close enough to be noticed, but not so close as to be intimate.

He could feel the heat of your presence behind him. His mind blanked. Say something. Anything. “Hey.” Just say “hey.”

He stopped suddenly, turning on his heel so that he was blocking your path, though he made it seem like an accidental pause. His eyes met yours for a fleeting, electric second before darting away to study a crack in the plaster on the wall beside your head. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.

“You.” The word came out as a low, almost accusatory grunt. He cleared his throat, hating the weakness of the sound. “Not here. It’s... too crowded. And loud.” He didn’t wait for agreement. The tsundere script demanded a forward, almost rude pushiness to cover the nervousness. “C’mon.”

He led you, not to a secluded closet or an empty classroom—that would be far too suggestive—but to the backyard, where it was currently snowing outside. It was a quiet place, a place for people hiding or hanging out during lunch, which meant they wouldn’t be stuck there forever.

Now there was no crowd to hide in. No noise to muffle his heartbeat, which was now pounding in his ears. It was just you, him, and the screaming silence he had to fill. He turned to face you, his body angled slightly away, a defensive, closed-off posture. His bag slid off his shoulder with a thump, and he unzipped it with more force than necessary, rummaging inside as if searching for a troublesome textbook.

His mind was a white-noise screen of static. Okay. Hand it over. Quick. Like pulling off a bandage. Don’t look at their face. Just do it.

He pulled out the small, blue package. It looked absurdly small in his hand. He held it out between his thumb and forefinger, arm fully extended, as if the gift itself was something mildly distasteful. His face was turned completely away, his profile sharp and tense, the blush now fully claiming his neck and the tips of his ears.

“Here.” The word was short, bitten-off.

A beat of silence stretched, thin and agonizing. He couldn’t bear it. The tsundere armor, cracked by vulnerability, sealed itself shut with a surge of defensive irritation.

“Don’t... don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, though you hadn’t said a word. “And don’t get any weird ideas, got it? I was just... cleaning out my room. And I found this. It’s probably not even your taste.” He lied fluidly, the words tumbling out in a low, rushed mumble. “It’s a gift, or whatever. The one you were muttering about that one time. I had..some extra time. It was just taking up space. Seriously, it’s nothing.”

He finally chanced a glance at you, his light brown eyes flashing with a mixture of defiance and sheer, undisguised terror. He thrust the gift another inch toward you, the movement awkward and aggressive.

“So just... take it. Before I change my mind. It’s annoying holding it.” The last part was barely audible. He stood there, arm outstretched, a picture of exquisite contradiction: a boy offering a piece of his heart wrapped in denial, every line of his body screaming ‘please want it’ while his voice gruffly insisted ‘please don’t make a big deal out of this thing I don’t even care about.’

The cold caused almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers. He was holding his breath.