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Hayase Nagatoro is relentless.
That’s not an insult. It’s just… factual.
She leans over Senpai’s shoulder like she’s got a permanent reservation there, peering down at his sketchbook with an expression that’s already halfway to trouble.
“Ooooh, Senpaiii~” she sings. “Is this another sad little drawing of a sad little boy?”
He flinches. Every time. Like his body hasn’t learned that she’s coming even though his brain knows better.
“I-It’s just a draft,” he mutters, shoulders hunching instinctively.
Nagatoro grins.
“Wow. You didn’t even deny it.”
Her friends snicker behind her.
Someone nudges someone else. The usual soundtrack.
Senpai keeps his eyes on the page. If he looks up, it gets worse. He’s learned that much.
Nagatoro taps the paper with one finger.
“You know, if you drew people with actual confidence, your art might improve.”
“I— I don’t—”
She leans closer.
“Or maybe you just like drawing yourself,” she adds sweetly. “All shy and pathetic.”
His face burns.
The laughter swells, then fades as her friends lose interest and drift away, conversation already moving on.
Nagatoro stays.
She always does.
“You okay?” she asks, casually, like she didn’t just tear into him thirty seconds ago.
He blinks. “H-Huh?”
She tilts her head, eyes sharp now. Watching. “You’re not crying. That’s an improvement.”
“I’m not—” He stops himself, exhales. “I’m fine.”
She hums, unconvinced, and plops down on the desk beside him without asking. Way too close. Close enough that he can smell her shampoo.
“You always say that,” she says. “But you get all quiet after.”
“I don’t,” he lies.
Nagatoro smirks. “You do.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… suspended.
Then she flicks his forehead lightly.
“Relax,” she says. “If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t bother.”
He freezes.
“…Like me?” he repeats before he can stop himself.
She laughs, loud and bright and completely unapologetic. “Wow, Senpai, don’t get the wrong idea!”
His shoulders sag immediately. Of course. Of course he did.
She hops down from the desk, stretching. “I just think you’re fun to tease. That’s all.”
She turns to leave, then glances back over her shoulder.
“You should be grateful,” she adds. “I don’t tease just anyone.”
And then she’s gone.
Senpai sits there for a long moment, staring at the half-finished sketch in front of him.
His chest feels tight. His face still burns.
He tells himself it’s embarrassment.
That it’s just how she is. That he should be used to it by now.
But the thought won’t leave him alone:
If she doesn’t care…
Why does she only ever stay when everyone else leaves?
Senpai tells himself he’s used to it.
That’s the lie that gets him through most days.
Nagatoro’s teasing always sounds the same on the surface — playful tone, exaggerated mockery, that grin she wears like armor. Anyone watching would say it’s harmless. That he’s just sensitive. That he should laugh it off.
He tries.
He really does.
But the problem is that her words don’t just land — they linger.
He sits alone in the art room after she leaves, sketchbook open but untouched, replaying the cadence of her voice in his head.
Sad little boy.
Pathetic.
You should be grateful.
It’s not even the insults themselves. It’s how accurate they feel. How easily they slot into the doubts he already carries around.
When someone else laughs at him, it stings — then fades.
When Nagatoro does it, it settles somewhere deeper.
Because she notices things.
She notices when he hesitates before answering. When his shoulders curl inward. When his hands shake just slightly as he erases a line for the third time.
And she teases him about those things.
That’s what makes it hurt.
The worst part is the quiet moments afterward — when she asks if he’s okay, when she stays longer than she needs to, when her voice softens just enough that he wonders if it’s on purpose.
That’s when he starts to hope.
And hoping is dangerous.
So he tells himself it’s nothing. That she’s just like this. That it doesn’t mean anything.
He keeps showing up.
It happens during club hours.
Nagatoro’s in a mood — bored, restless, itching for a reaction — and Senpai’s distracted, focus slipping between his sketchbook and the quiet pressure in his chest.
She peers over his shoulder, eyes lighting up.
“Ooo, Senpai~ Is this another self-portrait?”
He stiffens. “It’s— it’s just practice.”
She squints. “Wow. You even made yourself taller this time.”
Her friends laugh.
Something in him snaps — not loudly, not dramatically — just enough to make everything go very still.
“…Can you stop?” he says quietly.
Nagatoro blinks.
“What?”
The room seems to hush around them.
“I said,” he repeats, voice shaking despite himself, “can you stop saying things like that?”
She laughs reflexively, waving a hand.
“Whoa, relax. I’m just joking.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
The words surprise both of them.
Nagatoro opens her mouth — probably to tease him harder, probably to flip it back on him — but something in his expression makes her pause.
He’s not flustered.
He’s hurt.
“Oh,” she says, slower this time. “Come on, Senpai, don’t be like that.”
He closes his sketchbook.
“I don’t think you realise how it sounds,” he says, standing. “You don’t have to… keep doing this.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply.
He just leaves.
Nagatoro watches him go, smile frozen on her face, something unfamiliar curling in her chest.
That… wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
The silence bothers her more than his reactions ever did.
Senpai doesn’t avoid her — not completely — but something’s changed.
He’s quieter. More careful. When she teases him now, the spark doesn’t catch.
No stammering. No blush. No flustered protests.
Just polite distance.
And that scares her.
She tells herself it’s annoying. That he’s being dramatic. That he’ll get over it.
But she keeps catching herself watching him — the way his shoulders stay tense, the way he doesn’t linger when club ends.
Gamo notices first.
“…Did you break him?” she asks one afternoon.
Nagatoro bristles. “I didn’t do anything.”
Yoshi tilts her head. “He looks sadder than usual.”
Nagatoro scoffs, but the words stick.
That night, she replays the moment again and again — the way he asked her to stop. The way his voice sounded when he said it.
She realises something uncomfortable.
She never meant to hurt him.
She just… didn’t know how else to be close.
Teasing was easy. Safe. A way to keep him looking at her without ever having to admit why she wanted his attention so badly.
And now she’s afraid she’s ruined it.
She finds him alone in the art room the next day.
He stiffens when he sees her.
“Senpai,” she says, quieter than usual.
He nods. “Nagatoro.”
She hates how formal that sounds.
She crosses her arms, scowling — partly at him, mostly at herself. “About yesterday…”
He waits.
She exhales sharply. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I was joking. I didn’t think—”
She trails off, frustration flashing across her face.
“…I didn’t think it hurt you like that,” she finishes.
He looks at her then, surprised.
“I don’t hate you,” he says quickly. “I just— sometimes it feels like you’re laughing at me instead of with me.”
The words land harder than any insult.
Nagatoro swallows.
“…I don’t want to laugh at you,” she admits, almost too softly to hear. “I just don’t know how to… not do this.”
There it is.
Not a confession.
Not an apology.
But something honest.
She steps back, giving him space for once.
“I’ll try,” she says. “Okay?”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
It’s not fixed.
But it’s not broken either.
And for the first time, the teasing isn’t the only thing between them.
Something is different.
Senpai notices it in the gaps first — the pauses where teasing used to live.
Nagatoro still shows up. Still sits too close. Still peers over his shoulder like she owns the view. But the edge has dulled, just slightly, like she’s holding herself back.
That somehow makes him more aware of her than ever.
When she teases him now, it’s lighter. Broader. Less… precise.
She doesn’t comment on his posture anymore. Or his height. Or the way his voice drops when he’s unsure. She still calls him “Senpai,” still grins like she’s up to something — but she doesn’t aim for the parts of him that already ache.
He doesn’t know how to feel about it.
Relief, yes.
But also… confusion.
He catches himself missing the intensity of her attention, even knowing how much it hurt before. That scares him more than the teasing ever did.
Because it means this was never just annoyance.
It was connection — messy, unbalanced, and badly communicated — but real.
One afternoon, he overhears it.
He’s at his locker, sketchbook tucked under his arm, when a group of second-years pass by. He doesn’t recognise them well — which is how he knows this won’t go well.
“Isn’t that the guy Nagatoro messes with?” one of them laughs.
Another snorts. “Yeah. Dude’s kinda pathetic. Don’t know why she even bothers.”
Senpai freezes.
His chest tightens in that familiar way — the instinct to shrink, to let it pass, to pretend he didn’t hear.
He lowers his gaze.
“Seriously,” the first continues. “If someone talked to me like that, I’d—”
“Hey.”
The word cuts clean through the hallway.
Senpai looks up.
Nagatoro is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression flat in a way he’s never seen before.
“What did you just say?” she asks.
The second-year blinks. “Uh— nothing. Just joking.”
Nagatoro steps closer.
“No,” she says calmly. “You weren’t.”
The hallway goes quiet.
“He’s not pathetic,” she continues. “He’s
talented. He’s kind. And he works harder than any of you idiots ever will.”
Senpai’s breath catches.
The girl scoffs weakly. “Why do you care so much?”
Nagatoro doesn’t hesitate.
“Because he’s important to me.”
The words land like a shockwave.
She turns back to Senpai then — just long enough to meet his eyes — and something in her gaze softens. Not teasing. Not challenging.
Protective.
“Let’s go, Senpai,” she says.
He follows her without thinking.
They don’t talk about it right away.
They walk in silence, side by side, the space between them charged with something new.
Finally, he speaks.
“…You didn’t have to do that.”
She snorts. “Yeah. I did.”
He stops walking.
She stops too.
“You didn’t tease them,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t laugh.”
Her jaw tightens. “They don’t get to.”
“Why?” he asks.
She looks away, scowling at the concrete. “Because they don’t know you.”
That’s it.
That’s the moment something clicks fully into place.
The teasing was never random. Never careless. Never meant to push him away.
It was her way of touching something she didn’t know how to handle gently.
He swallows.
“…Thank you,” he says.
She shrugs, but her ears are red. “Don’t make it weird.”
He smiles. Just a little.
“I think it already is.”
She glances at him, startled — then scoffs, bumping his shoulder lightly with hers.
“Idiot.”
But there’s no bite in it.
Only warmth.
And for the first time, Senpai realises something with absolute clarity:
When Nagatoro teases him, it’s messy.
When Nagatoro chooses him — it’s unmistakable.
And whatever comes next?
He’s not afraid of it anymore.
Senpai doesn’t plan it.
If he did, he’d talk himself out of it.
They’re walking home after school, the late afternoon air warm and lazy.
Nagatoro’s got her hands behind her head, humming to herself, completely at ease in a way he still doesn’t know how to imitate.
He keeps replaying the hallway in his head.
Because he’s important to me.
The words sit in his chest, heavy and bright all at once.
So when they stop at the crosswalk, when the light turns red and they’re standing there with nothing but the quiet between them, something in him decides now.
“Nagatoro,” he says.
She glances over. “Hm?”
He swallows. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“About earlier,” he starts. “When you— when you stood up for me.”
She grins instantly. “What, you mean when I totally scared those idiots? Pretty cool, right?”
“I— yeah,” he says, flustered already. “But that’s not—”
She leans closer, peering up at his face. “You gonna thank me again, Senpai? Because you already did.”
“No,” he says quickly. “I mean— I just—”
The words tangle. He hates that they do. Hates that he sounds like this even now, even after everything.
“I wanted to say… it meant a lot to me,” he manages. “What you said. About me being important.”
Her grin widens.
“Oho?” she teases. “Don’t tell me you’re getting all mushy on me now.”
His face burns. “I’m not— I just—”
He forces himself to keep going.
“I don’t mind the teasing,” he says quietly. “Not all of it. But when you’re kind like that— when you choose me— it makes me feel like maybe… maybe I matter to you in a different way.”
The light changes.
Nagatoro laughs.
Not cruel. Not sharp.
Bright. Familiar. Easy.
“Wow, Senpai,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re really reading into things, huh?”
His heart drops.
She steps forward into the street, glancing back at him over her shoulder.
“I just didn’t like some randos trash-talking you,” she adds lightly.
“Doesn’t mean anything deep.”
“Oh,” he says, voice small despite himself. “Right. Sorry.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Relax! You’re so dramatic.”
She starts walking again like nothing happened, like she didn’t just tug something raw loose in his chest.
But after a few steps, she slows.
Just a little.
She doesn’t turn around.
“…You still shouldn’t let people talk about you like that, though,” she mutters. “That part wasn’t a joke.”
Then she keeps walking.
Senpai stands there for half a second longer, chest tight, before following.
He tells himself he should’ve expected it. That this is how she is. That laughing it off is safer for her — easier than admitting she meant it.
Still.
He can’t quite stop the thought from forming:
She didn’t say it meant nothing.
Just that he wasn’t allowed to name it yet.
And somehow, that hurts less than it should.
Because now he knows something else too.
He was brave enough to try.
And next time?
He won’t apologise for it.
Nagatoro doesn’t slow down because she wants to.
She slows down because her chest feels weird.
She keeps walking after him, still talking, still teasing — but her laugh rings a little hollow in her own ears. She hates that he noticed. Hates that he said it out loud.
Important to me.
She’d meant it.
That’s the part she doesn’t know what to do with.
She risks a glance back. Senpai’s a few steps behind her, hands in his pockets, gaze lowered — not sulking, not angry. Just… quiet.
The kind of quiet that means she went too far.
Or not far enough.
“Tch,” she mutters under her breath.
“Idiot.”
She doesn’t know if she means him or herself.
Because the truth — the one she refuses to look at directly — is that if she hadn’t laughed it off, she wouldn’t have known what came next.
If she admitted that it meant something, she’d have to admit why.
And that’s terrifying.
So she does what she always does.
She doubles down.
The next few days are… louder.
Nagatoro’s teasing comes back with force — bigger grins, sharper words, exaggerated mockery like she’s trying to convince herself it’s all the same as before.
“Wow, Senpai, you’re really slouching today. What, you get shorter overnight?”
“Careful, if you blush any harder you’re gonna overheat.”
“Still drawing sad little self-portraits, huh?”
But something’s off.
She avoids certain topics now.
She doesn’t comment on his voice anymore.
Doesn’t aim for the things he confessed hurt the most.
And Senpai notices.
He laughs when he’s supposed to. Flusters on cue. Plays his part.
But he doesn’t lean in the way he used to.
Doesn’t linger.
When she sits close, he doesn’t pull away — but he doesn’t unconsciously drift toward her either.
That unsettles her more than his hurt ever did.
“Oi,” she says one afternoon, nudging his shoulder harder than necessary.
“You spacing out again?”
He startles. “S-Sorry.”
She squints at him. “You’ve been acting weird.”
He hesitates. Just for a second.
“…I thought you wanted space,” he says carefully.
That hits harder than she expects.
“I didn’t say that!” she snaps.
He shrinks immediately. “I just— I didn’t want to—”
She cuts herself off before she can snap again.
“…Forget it,” she mutters. “You’re annoying.”
But the words feel thin.
Because the truth is — she’s the one who pulled away first.
Gamo is not subtle.
She corners Nagatoro during lunch, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“So,” she says. “You and Art Boy.”
Nagatoro stiffens. “What about him?”
“You’ve been extra loud lately,” Gamo replies. “That usually means you’re covering something.”
Nagatoro scoffs. “Please. He’s just being weird.”
“Yeah,” Gamo says flatly. “Because you laughed in his face when he tried to be serious.”
Nagatoro freezes.
“…He wasn’t serious.”
Gamo raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
Yoshi nods along. “Mhm. He looked kinda crushed.”
Nagatoro’s stomach drops.
“I was joking,” she snaps. “That’s just how we are.”
Gamo sighs. “Nagatoro. You don’t tease people you don’t care about.”
She leans in closer.
“And you don’t defend people you don’t like.”
Nagatoro looks away.
“I didn’t think—”
“No,” Gamo interrupts. “You didn’t want to.”
There’s a beat. Then Gamo softens, just a fraction.
“Look,” she says. “You don’t have to confess or whatever. But if you keep laughing it off, one day he’s gonna stop trying.”
That thought lands like a punch.
Nagatoro’s throat tightens.
“…He won’t,” she mutters.
Gamo shrugs. “Maybe. But people don’t keep putting their hearts out forever.”
Nagatoro doesn’t reply.
She just watches Senpai across the room — hunched over his sketchbook,
quiet, trying very hard not to look at her.
For the first time, the teasing doesn’t feel like control.
It feels like a wall she built too high.
And she realises something that scares her more than admitting her feelings ever could:
If she doesn’t choose him out loud soon…
She might lose him.
Nagatoro doesn’t mean to corner him.
It just… happens.
They’re alone in the art room again — late afternoon light slanting through the windows, dust motes hanging in the air.
Senpai is sketching, focused but tense, like he’s bracing for something.
She stands in the doorway longer than she means to.
Watching.
He doesn’t look up right away.
That hurts more than it should.
“So,” she says finally, forcing brightness into her voice as she steps inside. “You gonna ignore me now, Senpai?”
He startles, pencil jerking across the page. “I—I wasn’t— sorry.”
There it is. That immediate apology.
Something in her chest twists.
“I was joking,” she says quickly, waving a hand. “You’re not that interesting.”
The words come out automatically.
Too automatically.
He nods, eyes back on the page. “Right.”
No blush.
No fluster.
No spark.
That’s when panic hits.
She moves closer, leaning over his desk like she used to — but this time, it doesn’t feel playful. It feels desperate.
“Hey,” she says, sharper now. “Say something.”
He hesitates. “…What do you want me to say?”
That stops her cold.
She laughs — too loud, too fast. “Wow, Senpai, you’re really making this awkward.”
He looks up then.
Not angry.
Just tired.
“…You laughed,” he says quietly.
Her grin falters. “Huh?”
“When I tried to say something important,” he continues. “You laughed.
So I figured… you didn’t want me to try again.”
The room goes very still.
“That’s not—” She stops herself, fists clenching. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” he asks.
She opens her mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because for once, teasing won’t save her.
“…I didn’t know what you wanted from me,” she blurts. “You got all serious and I panicked, okay?”
His eyes widen slightly.
“You panicked?”
She scoffs weakly. “Yeah. Big shock. I don’t exactly do… feelings.”
“I wasn’t asking you for anything,” he says gently. “I just wanted you to know how it made me feel.”
That’s worse.
That’s too honest.
She presses her hands to the edge of his desk, leaning in — not to intimidate this time, but because she needs him to hear her.
“I tease you because it’s easy,” she admits, voice low. “Because if I joke, I don’t have to risk saying the wrong thing.”
He swallows. “And what if you already did?”
Her breath catches.
“…Then I messed up,” she says. “With the one person I didn’t want to.”
The words hang there between them, fragile and real.
Senpai stands slowly, heart pounding so loud he’s sure she can hear it.
“Nagatoro,” he says, voice shaking but steady enough. “I don’t need you to stop being you. I just need to know when you’re laughing because you’re having fun… and when you’re laughing because you’re scared.”
Her eyes burn.
“…I like you,” she says suddenly.
“Okay? I like you, idiot. And I didn’t want to ruin it by saying it wrong.”
There it is.
Not graceful.
Not smooth.
But unmistakable.
His breath leaves him in a rush.
“…You didn’t ruin it,” he says. “You just made me wait.”
She laughs again — but this time it’s small, shaky, and honest.
“Tch. Figures.”
They stand there, inches apart, neither quite brave enough to move first.
Then she reaches out and grabs the front of his shirt.
“Don’t make me say it twice,” she mutters.
He doesn’t.
He leans in — slow, uncertain — giving her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
Their kiss is clumsy. Brief. Warm.
And when they pull back, both of them are breathing hard, stunned.
“…Wow,” she mutters.
He nods. “Y-Yeah.”
She smirks, finally — softer now.
“Guess teasing didn’t work forever.”
“No,” he says, smiling despite himself.
“But trying did.”
She bumps her forehead against his, just lightly.
“Don’t get used to this,” she says.
“I won’t,” he replies. “But I won’t stop either.”
Her smirk widens.
“Good.”
Nagatoro leaves the art room first.
Not because she wants to — but because if she stays another second, she might actually think about what just happened.
And thinking is dangerous.
Her heart is still pounding when she hits the hallway, fingers brushing her lips like she needs to check they’re still there. The kiss wasn’t smooth. Wasn’t confident. It was awkward and brief and—
Real.
She scowls at the floor as she walks.
“Idiot,” she mutters.
She doesn’t know which one of them she means.
Her head is buzzing now, replaying everything she said — everything she didn’t tease her way out of. She hates that she blurted it. Hates that her voice shook. Hates that she grabbed his shirt like that.
And yet…
Her chest feels lighter than it has in a long time.
She reaches the stairs and stops, gripping the railing, finally letting herself breathe.
I like you.
She actually said it.
Out loud.
No joke to hide behind. No grin to soften it. Just the truth, messy and exposed.
Her face burns all over again.
“Ugh,” she groans, dropping her forehead against the cool metal. “Why him?”
Except she knows the answer.
Because he listens.
Because he stays.
Because he never once laughed at her fear — even when she laughed at his.
Because when she panicked, he didn’t push.
He waited.
That thought makes her stomach twist — not with dread, but something dangerously close to affection.
She straightens abruptly.
“Get it together,” she tells herself.
“You’re not turning into some lovesick idiot.”
She absolutely is.
The next day, she sees him across the courtyard.
He’s talking to someone — smiling softly, relaxed in a way she’s never seen before. And then he looks up and spots her.
He freezes.
Then he smiles wider.
Not flustered. Not uncertain.
Chosen.
Her heart trips over itself.
She reacts on instinct.
“Oi, Senpai!” she calls, striding over like nothing’s changed. “You spacing out already?”
He chuckles. “M-Maybe.”
She pokes his chest lightly. “Unbelievable.”
But when she does it, she doesn’t pull her hand away right away.
He notices.
Of course he does.
They walk side by side without planning it. No declarations. No labels. Just shared space and unspoken understanding.
And she realises something that scares her even more than liking him ever did.
She doesn’t need to hide anymore.
Not behind teasing.
Not behind laughter.
Not behind pretending she doesn’t care.
She can still tease him — she always will.
But now?
Now it’s not a weapon.
It’s an invitation.
Nagatoro smirks to herself, bumping his shoulder with hers.
“Don’t get a big head,” she says. “This doesn’t mean I’m going easy on you.”
He smiles back, warm and steady. “I didn’t think it would.”
Good.
Because if she’s going to fall for someone…
She wants it to be him — the one who waited, the one who stayed, the one who made her brave enough to stop laughing it off.
And this time?
She’s not running.
The first rule Nagatoro establishes is that nothing has changed.
She establishes this by immediately sitting in Senpai’s lap during lunch.
“Move,” Gamo says flatly, staring at them.
“Nope,” Nagatoro replies, popping open Senpai’s bento like it belongs to her.
“I’m comfy.”
Senpai goes completely still, face turning a shade of red that probably violates school safety regulations.
“You— you can’t just—” he sputters.
She leans in close, grinning. “What? You didn’t say I couldn’t.”
Yoshi squints. “So you’re dating now?”
Nagatoro tilts her head. “Dating? Ew. Gross.”
She immediately steals a bite of Senpai’s food.
He doesn’t stop her.
Gamo sighs. “You’re dating.”
Later that day, she starts doing it on purpose.
Showing up behind him and hooking her arm through his without warning.
Leaning over his shoulder and whispering commentary about his sketches loud enough for only him to hear. Calling him “Senpai” with a new lilt — less sharp, more smug.
When he finally works up the nerve to say something, voice barely above a whisper—
“N-Nagatoro, people are staring…”
She beams.
“Good.”
That night, she walks him home and kicks his ankle lightly before turning to leave.
“Hey,” she says. “You’re coming tomorrow, right?”
He nods. “O-Of course.”
She pauses, then reaches out and grabs his collar again — not yanking this time, just tugging him down enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
His brain short-circuits.
She pulls back, satisfied.
“Don’t get used to it,” she says, smirking. “This is just a trial version.”
He manages a smile, heart racing. “I-I’ll do my best.”
She laughs, bright and genuine, already backing away.
“Good. Try not to chicken out.”
And as she walks off, humming to herself, Nagatoro realises something important:
Teasing Senpai is still fun.
It’s just way better now that he knows she’s not going anywhere.