The café air hung thick with the aroma of roasted beans, softened by the low hum of background music. It was an atmosphere of cultivated leisure—plush sofas cradled students deep in novels, and murmured conversations blurred into a soothing white noise. For a moment, the space held the quiet, suspended peace of a sanctuary.
That peace shattered with the jarring swing of the entrance door.
Three boys in crisp, burgundy uniforms spilled inside, their laughter a boisterous intrusion. Leading them was Yamauchi Haruki of Class D, his messy brown hair a testament to his perpetual excitement. A self-satisfied grin was plastered across his face as he gestured broadly around the room, drawing faintly annoyed glances from nearby tables.
"See? Told you!" Yamauchi announced, his voice unchecked. "Highest female-to-male ratio in the school! Good ambience, great coffee—perfect for, well... encounters."
His followers—the tall, red-haired Sudō Ken and the shorter, more anxious-looking Ike Kanji—flinched at his volume. Ike tugged urgently at Yamauchi's sleeve. "Keep it down! Everyone's staring!"
"Yeah," Sudō grunted, crossing his arms. "You're being embarrassing."
Yamauchi looked at them with theatrical disappointment. "Embarrassing? This is called confidence! You gotta show presence, taste, strength! How else are we supposed to get noticed?" His eyes glazed over as he scanned the room. "Don't you want a girlfriend like Kushida-san soon?"
The name acted like a incantation. The three fell into a brief, shared silence, each face softening with the same idealized vision of Class D's angelic idol.
"Whatever," Yamauchi scoffed, regaining his bravado. "My love radar's pinging today. I can feel it. Now, let's order—and we're getting the good stuff!"
He marched to the counter, his friends trailing reluctantly behind. Without glancing at the descriptions, Yamauchi pointed to the top of the menu. "Three of these. The premium pour-over."
Ike paled at the price. "Are you insane? That's half a week's points!"
"What do you know?" Yamauchi hissed, leaning in. "No risk, no reward! Ordering the expensive stuff sends a message. It says we've got style, taste, resources. A girl notices that, and bam—opportunity knocks." He puffed out his chest. "Trust me. It's an investment."
Despite their pained expressions, Ike and Sudō relented, their private points dwindling with a beep of the terminal. They claimed a window table to wait, their conversation inevitably circling back to their classmates.
"Kushida-san is definitely the cutest," Sudō stated, as if announcing a natural law.
"No argument here," Ike agreed fervently.
"Obviously," Yamauchi preened, as if her beauty were a personal discovery of his. He then smirked at Ike. "But you? Thinking you could land a girl like that? Dream on, man."
Ike's neck flushed red. "W-Why not?!"
Sudō chuckled. "Look who's talking, Yamauchi. Your 'love radar' has a history of critical malfun—"
Yamauchi was about to fire back a retort when his attention—and the attention of his friends—was abruptly commandeered.
A waiter approached their table, carrying their order on a tray. But his presence immediately felt incongruous. He moved with an efficient, unnerving steadiness, his posture too straight for casual service. His features were handsome yet placid, framed by black-rimmed glasses that did little to obscure the calm, assessing depth of his eyes. The dark mole beneath his left eye was a precise, almost intentional detail.
It was Sakamoto. And his utterly neutral gaze seemed to see right through their posturing, reducing their loud confidence to what it truly was: a performance for an audience that wasn't watching.
On the tray in his hands, three cups of premium pour-over coffee steamed with a delicate, aromatic heat—their extravagant purchase made manifest. He moved with an unnerving steadiness, the liquid's surface never once trembling.
From her position beneath the cherry blossom tree across the path, Shiina Hiyori's violet eyes widened in recognition. Sakamoto? Her gaze tracked him—the apron, the tray, the composed efficiency so utterly out of place. Why was he here, performing this role?
Not far off, Kamuro Masumi observed the same scene, her sharp eyes narrowing beneath her lilac bangs. A scoff caught in her throat. Sakamoto… a waiter? The incongruity was almost laughable.
Sakamoto reached the table. With a fluid, silent motion, he set the tray down and presented each cup, his movements precise to the point of clinical grace. "Your premium pour-over coffees. Please enjoy."
His duty discharged, he began to turn away.
It was then that Yamauchi's wandering eyes snapped to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Two figures stood under the blooming sakura. A girl with long silver hair. Another with flowing purple. And their attention—was it fixed on him?
His heart stuttered, then hammered against his ribs. It's working! My radar was right! A torrent of vindication and pride flooded his senses. He felt seen, validated, triumphant.
"Ha! Look! See that?" he hissed, leaning toward Ike and Sudō, his grin stretching ear to ear. He jerked his chin toward the window. "Two beauties. They're watching us. The coffee—it's a signal! They noticed!"
His excitement was physical, a tremor running through him. His crossed leg began to jiggle violently, transmitting nervous energy into the table. The dark, expensive liquid in the cups shivered.
"Yamauchi, stop shaking the table!" Ike warned, eyes darting to the precarious cups.
"Cut it out! You'll spill it!" Sudō growled.
But Yamauchi was lost in his own narrative of success. "Relax! So what if I spill? Points are meant to be spent!" His leg bounced harder, a frenetic piston of glee.
"Yamauchi—!" both boys cried out in unison.
The table lurched.
A sharp, ceramic crack split the air.
The cup Sakamoto had placed with such care tipped over the edge. Hot coffee arced through the air—a dark, fragrant cascade headed for the floor, and for the shoes and trousers of anyone in its path.
In the suspended silence of the disaster, Sakamoto's back was still partly turned. His expression, unseen by the panicking trio, did not change. He had already calculated the trajectory, the velocity of the liquid, the range of the splash. His body had subtly shifted a half-second before the impact, a minimal, efficient adjustment to avoid staining his apron.
The reaction was not one of surprise, but of simple, cold confirmation.
Guys, you can get more advanced chapters and early releases on my patreon: Rene_chan, it comes along with many privileges and polls Q&A