"So pretty!"
"What's up with those clothes?"
"What did she just call Hikigaya? Darling?"
Hachiman opened his mouth, wanting to say sothing, but his throat was dry, and not a single word would co out.
He looked at those purple eyes from his distant mories, the corners of her slightly upturned lips carrying a faint, ambiguous smile, and that dark purple silk kimono.
The cut of the kimono was quite form-fitting, perfectly tracing the curves of her body. A lace choker was partially visible at her neck; as she leaned forward, the collar naturally opened a gap. One's gaze would travel down the line of her delicate collarbones, disappearing into a expanse of warm, snowy skin. That curve was full and soft, rising and falling gently with her steady breathing.
Hachiman's gaze snapped away as if he had been burned. He quickly lowered his head, but the image from that brief glimpse remained stubbornly seared onto his retinas—the contrast of the dark purple silk against the snow-white skin, the shadows flickering beneath the lace edges, and that fullness trembling slightly with every breath.
He felt his cheeks and the tips of his ears burning. The noisy chatter of the classroom suddenly felt distant, leaving only the over-emphasized sound of his own heartbeat thumping against his eardrums.
Margo seed not to notice his embarrassnt—or perhaps she was doing it on purpose—as she maintained that slightly leaned-forward posture. Her purple pupils swirled with an elusive emotion. She tilted her head, her short purple hair sliding across her cheek, causing the mini top hat on her head to sway gently.
"Darling," her voice carried a hint of a playful, shallow smile, "where are you looking?"
Just as Hachiman was at a loss for how to respond, a familiar voice ca from the side.
"Houshou-san."
Sakuraba Ema had stood up beside Margo at so unknown point, a flawless, polite smile on her face. She didn't look at Hachiman; her gaze was fixed on Margo.
"There is a seat behind Hikigaya-kun; you may sit there." Ema's voice was gentle and clear, yet it carried an indisputable undertone. "Class is about to start."
She stood in a position that happened to cut off the line of sight between Margo and Hachiman. Those eyes, which were always warm and soft, were now calmly watching Margo, though a hard-to-describe chill was hidden deep within them, as if silently drawing a boundary.
Margo straightened up, her purple pupils narrowing slightly as if re-evaluating the seemingly docile girl in front of her. The smile at the corner of her mouth faded a fraction, but she maintained her elegant posture.
"Thank you for the reminder, Sakuraba-san." Margo's voice was still sweet, but her tone held a trace of subtle scrutiny.
She didn't sit down imdiately. Instead, she turned toward the empty seat, her wide furisode sleeves swaying gently with the movent. Then, she sat down gracefully and adjusted her posture, the purple ribbon on her back swaying slightly.
Sakuraba Ema gave a slight nod and turned to return to her own seat.
Just as the atmosphere reached a point of delicate stagnation, a soft cough ca from the podium.
"Alright, students, everyone back to your seats."
The horoom teacher pushed up his glasses, his gaze lingering on Margo for a mont before turning back to the rest of the class. His expression was stern, but Hachiman could see a hint of helplessness beneath that gravity. Clearly, the commotion caused by this new student had exceeded his expectations.
"Houshou-san, welco to our class." The teacher's voice returned to its usual steady tone. "Since the introductions are over, let's begin the lesson. Today we are discussing..."
The murmurs in the classroom gradually subsided. The students reluctantly ended the gossip they had just started. Hachiman breathed a sigh of relief and sat up straight again. He could feel Margo's gaze behind him, like tiny needle points pricking his back.
Hachiman opened his textbook, trying to focus his attention on the dense forest of formulas.
He had just picked up his pen, preparing to copy the quadratic function formula from the blackboard into his notebook, when he felt sothing lightly tap the back of his chair.
Hachiman stiffened. The tip of his pen left a small ink blot on the paper. He pretended not to notice and forced himself to keep writing, but his handwriting was already a ss—the strokes were wobbly and crooked, as if they were drunk.
The chair behind him made a faint sound. The tip of a wooden clog pressed against the crossbar of his chair leg, swinging gently and unhurriedly.
The teacher was explaining the vertex coordinate formula, his chalk writing line after line on the board, but to Hachiman's eyes, those words were blurred into a single mass—like reflections in water, swaying gently and impossible to see clearly.
Several minutes passed like this. Hachiman was in the middle of solving a problem when he suddenly felt the swinging stop.
In its place was a softer touch. It must have been her finger—a finger clad in a black lace glove. Through the thin fabric, the fingertip tapped his back once, as if testing sothing.
His breath hitched for an instant.
The classroom was quiet, save for the sound of the teacher lecturing. No one noticed this small gesture.
The finger slid gently across his spine, starting from the shoulder blade and tracing slowly downward along the line of his vertebrae.
The touch was light and slow, as if tracing a pattern. He could feel the texture of the lace glove and the temperature of her fingertip. That slow, deliberate trail moved from his cervical vertebrae to his lumbar spine, traveling all the way down before finally stopping at his waist.
His heart rate accelerated, his palms began to sweat, and his entire body was so tense he didn't dare move.
Margo seed satisfied with his reaction. She withdrew her hand and picked up her pen again, but Hachiman could feel that her gaze was still fixed on him.
Another few minutes passed. Margo made no further movents, and Hachiman could finally focus on checking the answer to the example problem on the board.
Right then, a puff of warm breath brushed lightly against his earlobe.
At so point, Margo had leaned forward again. Her lips were almost touching his ear, her voice as soft as a whisper:
"Darling, you solved this problem wrong."
Hachiman's hand jerked, and his pen drew a long streak across the paper.
Her breath brushed against his ear, carrying a faint fragrance—cherry blossoms mixed with a richer floral scent. It was sweet without being cloying, yet it made his heart race.
"In the second step, it should be multiplied by 2, not divided by 2. To get such a simple calculation wrong... what are you thinking about?"
Hachiman quickly grabbed his eraser and rubbed out the incorrect step, his movents a bit panicked.
"Thanks," he whispered, his voice dry.
"You're welco. But Darling, your ears are red again."
Hachiman subconsciously touched his ear. Sure enough, the earlobe was burning.
Sakuraba Ema put down her pen.
She looked up toward the podium, her voice calm and clear:
"Teacher, I don't quite understand the third step of this problem. Could you explain it again?"
The teacher blinked and pushed up his glasses. "Which step?"
"The step where the values are substituted for the calculation."
The eyes of the entire class focused on her.
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