For the students of Class 1-A, the lunch break had transformed into a live, high-definition soap opera.
A love triangle!
Two boys, one girl—a confrontation crackling with unspoken tension right in their classroom!
In the monotonous river of high school life, such a dramatic ripple was irresistibly captivating. All pretense of eating or chatting had ceased; every eye was glued to the scene unfolding at the back of the room.
Kuroha Akira himself had settled into the role of an appreciative audience member. Well, this escalated quickly. He hadn't anticipated the Class Monitor personally entering the fray to deliver the finishing blow.
His initial assumption—that he was being used as a disposable pawn—was now in question. Perhaps Hitomi's goal wasn't just to recruit him, but to use his presence as the catalyst to finally, definitively, sever Sumitomo Ryota's clinging expectations.
And sever she did. Sumitomo stood frozen, his face pale as ash, the picture of utter dejection—a boy who'd just received a public, soul-crushing rejection without ever having officially confessed. The anger that had brought him here had nowhere to go, curdling into a toxic sludge of humiliation. Retreating in such a pathetic state was unthinkable. So, naturally, his furious gaze swiveled back to the one he deemed the root cause: Kuroha Akira.
Akira's relaxed, almost bored demeanor—as if he were watching a mildly interesting nature documentary—acted like gasoline on the embers of Sumitomo's rage.
You're only so calm because you're hiding behind her! You let a girl fight your battles! What kind of man does that?! You're just a worthless parasite!
The words weren't spoken aloud, but Akira read them all in the blistering, contemptuous glare aimed his way.
Ah, the classic high schooler's emotional logic, he mused. Everything is a matter of pride and posturing.
A more concerning thought followed. Unstable teenagers with wounded pride were unpredictable. In this country, extreme reactions weren't just the stuff of fiction. It was better to defuse the bomb now, before it decided to explode in some messy, anti-social way.
With an internal sigh that felt decades old, Kuroha Akira pushed himself up from his chair. He reached out and gave Asato Hitomi's shoulder a light, reassuring pat. "Class Monitor, why don't you go ahead to the Literary Club room and have lunch with the others first?"
Hitomi blinked, caught off guard. She'd assumed her icy dismissal was the final curtain. "What about you, Kuroha-kun?"
"Sumitomo-kun came looking for me, after all." Akira's tone was pragmatic. "Sometimes, accepting a challenge is its own form of etiquette."
He met her eyes, sending a silent message: I'll handle this.
Understanding flickered in Hitomi's gaze. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gave a small, reluctant nod. "…Alright. But if this turns into a physical altercation, I will go directly to Moto-sensei."
"It won't come to that. Just a friendly exchange between men." He offered a bland, non-committal smile.
With that, Akira stepped away from his desk and headed for the back door without a backward glance. He paused at the threshold, jerking his head in a 'follow me' gesture toward the still-stunned Sumitomo. "Well? You had things to say. I'm grudgingly offering you a slot in my busy lunch schedule."
The verbal jab snapped Sumitomo out of his stupor. Pride stung, he straightened his back and followed, the eyes of the entire class burning into them as they left.
Once in the quiet hallway, Akira shoved his hands into his pockets. "So? Your turf or mine? Pick a spot. Talking here just makes us a hallway exhibit."
"…Follow me." Sumitomo's voice was gruff.
He led them out of the main building, across a sliver of the schoolyard, to the secluded area behind the sports equipment shed—a location straight out of every bullying-centric anime, perfect for private 'conversations.'
(Thankfully, overt bullying was rare at a school like Hibiya; the students here were too smart for such blatantly risky behavior.)
Leaning against the sun-warmed wall of the shed, Akira cut to the chase. "Alright, we're here. Speak your piece."
The walk had given Sumitomo time to cool his head slightly. The rage had receded, replaced by a churning, confused urgency. He had to know. "…What is your relationship with Hitomi?"
"Classmates."
"Don't screw with me!" Sumitomo's composure cracked again. "You know what I mean! What kind of scheme are you running?"
Akira looked genuinely baffled. "Scheme?"
"Don't play dumb! I know that bento was for you! But Hitomi… she told us, clearly, she wouldn't cook for anyone before she was married!"
"Oh?"
This was new intel. Akira hadn't realized the simple act of receiving a bento carried such a heavy, matrimonial subtext. And how exactly does he know this 'rule' of hers? The plot, as they say, was thickening. This wasn't just a random admirer; his intel was personal.
Before Akira could probe further, Sumitomo, his expression a storm of conflict, voiced his darkest suspicion. "…Are you… her fiancé?"
Akira couldn't help it—a short, incredulous laugh escaped him. "Hah? What century are you living in? Arranged fiancés?"
"It's the only thing that makes sense!" Sumitomo insisted, desperation edging his voice. "That's why she'd break her own rule! Why else would she make a bento for you?!"
"You're building a whole drama on a pretty shaky foundation, buddy," Akira said, rubbing his temple. "Why would you even jump to that conclusion?"
"Because she told us she'd only make bento for her future husband!" The words burst out, followed by a quieter, loaded admission. "Hitomi and I… we're childhood friends."
Ah.
The pieces clicked into place with an almost audible snap. The casual use of "Hitomi," the proprietary anger, the depth of his frustration—it all stemmed from history. This wasn't just a popular guy chasing the campus belle; this was a childhood playmate watching his oldest friend drift irrevocably away.
With that identity, his actions, while immature, gained a tragicomic clarity. He saw himself as her guardian, her true friend, the one who understood her best. Yet, in reality, their relationship had deteriorated, leaving him stranded on a shore she'd long since sailed away from. And then along comes Kuroha Akira, an utter stranger, who not only steps into the space he once occupied but receives a privilege he believed was sacrosanct.
I was here first! I'm her best friend!
It was pure, unadulterated jealousy. The bitter sting of being NTR'd by circumstance and his own inability to adapt.
Well, well, Akira thought, a wry irony settling over him. So I'm being treated as the 'other man' by the guy who's already been left behind. The cuckold's cuckold. How meta.
But this also revealed the core issue: Sumitomo Ryota was living in a nostalgic past, completely blind to the present reality and his own role in creating it.
"Tsk… Kids are nothing but trouble…" Akira muttered under his breath in his native dialect, a flicker of genuine irritation surfacing. This was no longer about a bento or a club; it was about untangling years of emotional baggage.
"So," Akira said, his voice drier than the gravel underfoot. "You're childhood friends. If that's the case, why are things so… this?"
He gestured between them.
"I want to know that too!" Sumitomo's shout wasn't directed at Akira anymore; it was a roar of pent-up confusion aimed at the universe. "The five of us… we always played together. Then one day, Hitomi just said she wouldn't play with us anymore…"
"Did she give a reason?"
"No! That's just it! There was no reason! I didn't know what to do… I just wanted things to go back to how they were!"
"Did you ever actually ask her? Properly?"
"Of course I pressed her! But… she never gave me a straight answer."
"No straight answer doesn't mean no answer at all," Akira countered, his tone shifting into something resembling a bored detective. "Even if she didn't spell it out, her words must have held meaning. Couldn't you read between the lines?"
He knew better than anyone how Hitomi operated. She was a master of implication, of layered speech. A girl's heart, especially one as complex as hers, wasn't a simple open book; it was a puzzle box that required the right pressure points to unlock. And he'd already glimpsed the real, sharp-tongued person hidden beneath the monitor's smile.
Akira's rhetorical question acted like a key, forcing Sumitomo to sift through dusty, painful memories. He was pushed back to the last day Asato Hitomi had ever called him by his first name without honorifics—back when he was still "Ryota-kun."
That day… that was the day everything truly changed. The realization dawned on his face, slow and dreadful. The answer had been there all along. He just hadn't wanted to see it.