Kuroha Akira felt a complex sort of honor at having been granted this weighty 'friend qualification.' Yet, such open-ended, unconditional giving was unsettling. Being obliging to every request was the hallowed ground of true bros—a bond forged in shared struggle or the uncomplicated solidarity of the same gender. It was rare, but it existed.
Between opposite genders, however, such total selflessness was practically a statistical anomaly. The infamous 'male best friend' dynamic was often just a thin veil over ambiguous feelings, a fragile paper window that the slightest pressure could tear, leaving a complicated mess. It was a convenient, self-deceiving label.
But Asato Hitomi didn't seem to be angling for that trope. She genuinely, earnestly believed that this—the feeding, the hand-rubbing, the borderline-intimate care—was simply how friends should be. It was a perception already warped by her past, by loss and a desperate need for secure connection.
So, to her, a 'friend' warranted this level of excessive devotion? Even a 'girlfriend' might balk at some of this!
A part of his mind, the part forever corrupted by cheap manga and survivalist pragmatism, wondered: if he asked her, in the name of friendship, to help with his… ahem… 'accumulated stress,' would she even agree…?
Okay, rein it in. That's too far.
Probably. But the fact that licking his hand was on the table meant the boundaries were already dangerously blurred.
He watched as Hitomi, a playful glint in her eye, extended the pink tip of her tongue and began to lower her head toward his palm. If he didn't stop her, she would absolutely go through with it. A petty, wicked part of him wondered what Sumitomo Ryota's face would look like if he witnessed this scene.
But he couldn't let it happen.
For one, he didn't need the tactile memory of the Class Monitor's tongue seared into his brain. More importantly, he feared getting addicted to this ambiguous 'friend service.' If she truly agreed to everything, he'd be powerless to stop himself from treating her like a human-shaped Doraemon, extracting solution after convenient solution from her bottomless pocket of goodwill.
So, he raised his left hand and gently pressed his index finger against her forehead, halting her descent.
"That's enough, Class Monitor. You don't need to prove it like this."
"Mmph?"
Stopped by the finger on her brow, the upward motion forced a soft, undignified sound from her. The charged, ambiguous atmosphere popped like a soap bubble, replaced by something comical, like a child being given a boop.
Kuroha Akira's expression grew uncharacteristically serious, his usual laziness receding. "As long as you're willing to be my friend, I will never betray that. 'Forever' isn't a problem."
He had to match her gravity with his own, to offer a promise solid enough to calm her obsessive need for assurance. Of course, saying and doing were different things. A man's promise was famously fickle. But Kuroha Akira had no intention of deceiving her.
The path of the moocher was long, and a reliable friend who provided top-tier bento was a strategic asset worth preserving. If his 'Shinomiya Seiyuu Development Plan' cratered and Granny Kobayashi showed him the door after graduation, maybe he could even couch-surf at the Class Monitor's mansion under the banner of 'friendship.' One had to plan for all contingencies.
"That's wonderful!" Hitomi's face lit up, the earlier tension dissolving. "I was thinking if Kuroha-kun kept refusing, I'd have to bite him."
"So it was a bite…" Even though he knew she meant a chomp of frustration, his traitorous imagination immediately supplied a very different, much less innocent context. Why do I keep going there with her? Was it because he sensed that behind her pristine monitor facade lurked a secretly knowledgeable, potentially devious mind?
He made a mental note: once he had disposable income, he would buy her the thickest, most obscene-looking popsicle he could find, just to watch her deal with it.
Hiding these corrupt thoughts, he maintained a gentlemanly facade. "Well, I couldn't let you succeed. The rubbing is more than enough; it didn't even hurt."
"Then I'll continue rubbing." Beaming, she resumed her ministrations, her thumb pad working meticulous circles over the prominent knuckles of his right hand.
The sensation was oddly reminiscent of a foot massage… if the foot were a hand, and the masseuse was a stunning academic beauty. The idea of a beautiful girl washing his feet belonged in the realm of paid fantasy, a gateway service in dubious establishments. But the Class Monitor wasn't for sale. Her currency was something far more complex: recognition, understanding, and this bizarrely intense brand of friendship.
Seizing the moment, Akira took the initiative. He reached out and took her left hand in his, his tone light, almost teasing. "Class Monitor, your hands are so smooth. Do you use lotion?"
"Just a bit of sunscreen. Even though August is over, the midday sun is still strong."
"I see… Hmm, let's switch to the right hand next."
"Okay."
To his audacious, seemingly casual command, the Class Monitor complied without a hint of resistance, smiling as she placed her right hand in his palm, surrendering it to his inspection.
If this were Shinomiya Shion, she'd have recoiled as if scalded by now.
It just went to show how astronomically high—or perhaps non-existent—Asato Hitomi's shame threshold was. Had she personally slain the concept of 'shame' in her heart?
His intentions, however, were purely pragmatic. This was the perfect chance to copy her [Academic Ability – A] talent again. As expected, this was the most consistently useful skill. It might not be as dazzling as Shinomiya's triple S-ranks, but its versatility was unmatched—a permanent, subtle IQ boost of about twenty points.
Seeing the text over her palm shift to confirm the copy, he was about to release her hand. But she held on, intertwining their fingers playfully.
"It feels like teaching a puppy to shake hands… Hey, Kuroha-kun, am I being obedient?" she asked, her head tilted.
"Yes, very obedient."
"Then, I want you to do to me what I did to you at lunch."
"Uh…"
He paused. She was undoubtedly referring to when, after his outrageous 'I am the Class Monitor's dog' declaration, she had patted his head and cooed, 'Good doggy.'
Did she… want a head pat?
In the nuanced social calculus of male-female interactions, patting a girl's head wasn't a straightforward affection-builder. It carried a patronizing whiff of an adult soothing a child. The subtext was: I see you as someone younger, someone to be cared for.
For a truly love-starved soul, it might be a balm. But for a peer, especially a proud and accomplished one, it could easily be seen as condescending or embarrassing. Though, from a mental age standpoint, Akira was practically a fossil compared to her.
Unless explicitly requested, a head pat was a social gamble with low odds of payoff.
Asato Hitomi met his hesitation with an encouraging look. "It's fine, Kuroha-kun. Friends are equals. Consider it… reciprocation."
"Well… if you say so."
No longer hesitating, he raised his free hand and placed it gently atop her head. He didn't dare move it recklessly; her hair was a masterpiece of meticulous styling, each strand seemingly in its ordained place.
For Kuroha Akira, this was also a first. It felt less like a casual pat and more like a formal benediction. Her hair was incredibly smooth, smelling faintly of expensive shampoo and sunlight. She clearly didn't cut corners on maintenance.
In that moment, his mind treacherously conjured an image of Shinomiya Shion's legendary hair—that waterfall of straight, obsidian silk cascading down to her waist. That, he imagined, would be an even more sublime tactile experience.
With these vaguely treasonous thoughts in mind, he gave Asato Hitomi's head a few perfunctory, gentle pats, muttering under his breath like a mantra.
"Good girl, good girl…"
He wouldn't dare say 'good doggy.' To treat this paragon of academic and social excellence like a pet? Unthinkable.
Meanwhile, Asato Hitomi closed her eyes, a small, serene smile on her lips as she focused entirely on the sensation.
The warmth of his palm, solid and real against her crown, seeped through her carefully arranged hair.
It's so warm… she thought, a quiet, resolute certainty settling in her heart.
This time, I won't let you let go again.