The sun hung high over the sports field, a relentless golden tyrant baking the grassy track where the school’s athletes churned through their drills. Yuki sat perched on the edge of a weathered wooden bench, her chin resting on her palm, her sharp hazel eyes locked on a single figure cutting through the heat haze. Toru, the school’s resident track star, was a vision of raw power—muscles rippling under a sheen of sweat as he sprinted, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. Every stride sent a stupid, traitorous flutter through Yuki’s chest, and she hated herself for it.
“Ugh, look at him,” she muttered under her breath, her voice dripping with faux disdain. “All that dumb jock energy. Probably thinks protein shakes are a personality trait. Get a grip, Yuki. He’s not even that hot.” A lie, obviously. Her cheeks were already warm, and it wasn’t just the sun.
She adjusted her skirt, smoothing it over her thighs as if that could smooth out the chaos in her head. The bench creaked under her slight frame, a reminder of how often she’d sat here, pretending to read or scroll through her phone while stealing glances at Toru. It was pathetic. She was pathetic. But knowing that didn’t stop her from doing it.
A shadow fell over her, accompanied by the clink of metal. Yuki’s gaze snapped up, her scowl already in place before she even registered who it was. Miamura, the resident thorn in everyone’s side, stood there with his trademark smirk, one hand shoved in the pocket of his rumpled uniform jacket, the other tossing a cold can of juice her way. She caught it reflexively, the condensation slick against her palm.
“Staring again, huh?” Miamura drawled, his voice low and mocking as he dropped onto the bench beside her, far too close for comfort. “You’re about as subtle as a brick through a window, Yuki. Might as well write ‘I heart Toru’ on your forehead.”
Yuki’s grip tightened on the can, her nails digging into the aluminum. “Oh, look, it’s the nosy creep himself. Don’t you have better things to do than stalk me, Miamura? Like, I don’t know, brooding in a dark corner somewhere?”
He chuckled, a sound that somehow managed to be both lazy and sharp, like a cat toying with its prey. “Nah, this is way more entertaining. Watching you pine over Mr. Sweatpants out there is peak comedy. You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
She popped the tab on the juice with a hiss, the bitter tang of grapefruit hitting her tongue as she took a defiant sip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just here for the view. And not the sweaty idiot kind. The… grass. Yeah, the grass is fascinating.”
Miamura raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “The grass. Right. So fascinating you haven’t blinked in five minutes. Face it, princess, you’re drooling over Toru harder than he’s drooling over his post-workout shake.”
Yuki turned to him, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. “First off, don’t call me princess unless you want a knee to the groin. Second, I’m not drooling. I’m… observing. For science. And third, why do you even care? Got a crush on me or something? ‘Cause this obsession with my life is getting weird.”
He leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the bench, his fingers brushing just close enough to her shoulder to make her tense. “Oh, please. You’re not my type. Too much attitude, not enough chill. I just like watching you squirm. It’s cute, in a pathetic kind of way.”
“Cute?” Yuki snorted, though her cheeks flushed despite herself. She took another sip of the juice, using the can to hide the heat creeping up her face. “You wouldn’t know cute if it bit you on the ass. And I’m not squirming. I’m just… fine. Totally fine. Toru’s just a dumb distraction, okay? A stupid, hot—er, stupid distraction. Not that I care.”
Miamura’s smirk widened, catching her slip like a shark scenting blood. “Hot, huh? Wow, Yuki, didn’t think you had it in you to admit it. Should I go get him for you? Play wingman? I’ll even hold your hand while you confess your undying love.”
She swatted at his arm, her voice rising with mock indignation. “Touch me and you’re dead. And I’m not confessing anything. Especially not to a meathead who probably can’t spell ‘feelings.’ I just… ugh, fine, I like watching him, okay? Happy now? It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I’m writing poetry about his stupid abs or anything.”
“Poetry, huh?” Miamura tilted his head, his tone teasing but his eyes sharper now, like he was peeling back layers she didn’t want exposed. “That’s next-level. You’re deeper in this than I thought. Careful, Yuki. Unrequited love’s a bitch. Might wanna keep that heart of yours on a tighter leash.”
Yuki rolled her eyes, but his words stung more than she’d admit. She turned the juice can over in her hands, the cold metal grounding her as she muttered, “Yeah, well, not all of us are emotionless robots like you. Some of us feel things. Deal with it.”
He let out a low, dry laugh, standing up and brushing imaginary dirt off his jacket. “Trust me, I feel plenty. Just not the sappy stuff. Speaking of, I’m gonna need something stronger than juice to deal with your drama. Catch you later, lovesick loser.”
“Hey!” she snapped as he started to walk off, his lanky frame slouching away with that infuriatingly casual gait. “Don’t call me that, you jerk!”
But he didn’t turn back, just raised a hand in a lazy wave, leaving her alone on the bench with her thoughts and the bitter aftertaste of grapefruit. Yuki glared at the can in her hands, her mind a tangle of embarrassment and irritation. Who did Miamura think he was, poking at her like that? And why did his stupid smirk linger in her head more than Toru’s perfect sprint form?
She glanced back at the track, where Toru was now stretching, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. Her heart did that dumb cartwheel again, but now it was muddled with something else—a nagging curiosity about Miamura. There was something off about him today, something in the way his teasing felt… heavier. Cryptic, almost. Like he knew something she didn’t.
“Ugh, whatever,” she grumbled, standing up and brushing off her skirt. She wasn’t done with him yet. If Miamura thought he could just drop a bomb like that and walk away, he had another thing coming. She’d track him down, make him spill whatever weird vibe he was giving off. And if he didn’t? Well, she’d make him regret it.
With a determined huff, Yuki set off across the field, the juice can still clutched in her hand like a bitter little talisman. Whatever game Miamura was playing, she was about to turn the tables.
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