The smell of sugar, polish, and overcooked mochi hung thick in the air.
It was the morning of the school festival.
Class 1-B's door was propped open with a chalkboard sign that read:
Welcome to Café Belle Rose!
Serving charm, sweets, and smiles all morning!
Inside, desks had been transformed into cozy café tables. String lights hung from the ceiling. Pink and white curtains lined the windows. A fake antique register sat at the front, complete with a laminated "menu" Saito had designed in ten minutes after being told "something that looks cute but is balanced by structural simplicity."
Saito Kagami stood behind the counter in a black vest and white dress shirt, sleeves neatly rolled, collar straight, hair perfectly in place.
He looked like a stage prop brought to life.
He also looked like he'd rather be at a tax audit.
A cluster of girls entering the classroom gasped.
"Wait—he's working the café?!"
"Look at that deadpan face! It's like a butler anime character came to life!"
"Is he real?!"
Riko, in a pink-trimmed maid outfit that matched the rest of the class's café team, breezed past with a tray.
"Seat three is ready, Kagami!"
He moved fluidly, almost too efficiently, placing parfaits and drinks down like chess pieces.
The customers swooned.
Riko leaned in. "Hey, you're kinda popular."
"Deeply unfortunate."
"Smile a little! You'll break less hearts."
"I'm here under duress."
"Mm. But you look good doing it."
He paused at that.
Then turned back to the register without a word.
Riko grinned.
By mid-morning, their classroom was slammed with students, parents, and even upperclassmen.
Mari handled seating, Aki refilled water, Ryota passed out flyers in the hallway.
Riko rotated between greeting customers and ensuring no one lit anything on fire.
Saito, to his own horror, became the most requested server.
He didn't flirt. He didn't perform. He just delivered food with robotic precision and said things like:
"Here is your matcha parfait. Please do not spill it."
Somehow, that made people like him more.
"Alright!" Riko called near the back wall. "Last orders before we prep the concert space! You've all been amazing!"
Cheers erupted from the class.
Exhausted but proud, the group began cleaning up.
Tables were pushed aside. Costumes were swapped for concert setups.
Speakers. Guitars. Microphones.
And a small crowd gathering just outside the classroom for the afternoon performance.
Riko moved like she had six limbs.
She checked cables, adjusted signs, and coached her classmates like a natural-born emcee.
Saito helped quietly from the side—taping loose wires, rechecking power cords, checking off names on the performer rotation list.
As the musicians started tuning instruments, Shun—the class vocalist—stood near the door with a water bottle, clearing his throat.
Riko noticed.
"Hey, you good?"
Shun nodded. "Yeah. Just a little dry."
"Don't strain it! Drink honey tea or something!"
He gave a weak thumbs-up.
She turned and walked off.
Saito, still holding the equipment checklist, watched Shun cough into his sleeve.
The sound was hoarse. Raw.
And most importantly—not improving.
Shun took another drink from his bottle and winced.
Saito narrowed his eyes.
That evening, after the festival shut down for the night, Saito returned home and sat down at his laptop.
Aoi passed by with a juice box.
"You're still working?"
"Yes."
"Did the parfait café collapse?"
"No."
She peered at his screen.
"…Music?"
"I'm checking the files the band used. Reviewing tempo charts and verse structures."
"Why?"
"I have a hunch."
She blinked.
Then sat at the edge of his bed, arms crossed.
"You planning something?"
"Contingency planning."
"For what?"
"…The singer might not perform tomorrow."
Aoi stared at him.
"You're backing him up?"
"I'm preparing to. Silently."
She sipped her juice.
"That's… weirdly thoughtful of you."
"I don't want anyone to be disappointed."
"…You mean Riko."
He didn't reply.
Saito listened to the audio tracks late into the night.
He read the lyrics, memorized the syllables, broke the rhythm into parts.
He timed his breathing. Matched pitch to tone. Analyzed the vocalist's phrasing. Adjusted.
Song 1: 112 bpm. Bridge repeats. Key of E minor.
Song 2: Vocal leap at chorus. Pause between verse two and chorus.
Song 3: Lyrics slightly awkward—adjust cadence for smoother flow.
He read. Listened. Practiced.
Didn't tell anyone.
Especially not her.
The next morning, Café Belle Rose reopened for an hour-long encore window before the concert.
Saito was back at the front, armed with his vest and expressionless charm.
Riko passed by, smiling as she handed him an order slip.
"You're getting better at this."
"I've internalized all table rotations and menu timings."
"…So you like it?"
"No."
She laughed, brushing a stray hair from her cheek.
"You never change, do you?"
But her voice had a lilt of something else now—something warmer.
She didn't know why.
But when she looked at him standing there, meticulous and unreadable, she felt her stomach do a little flip.
Backstage, the band set up early.
Shun sat with a scarf around his neck, not speaking much.
Riko brought him warm tea.
"You good?"
He nodded.
But his throat bobbed in a nervous swallow.
Mari glanced at Riko. "He doesn't look so hot."
"He's fine," Riko said, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
Then she turned and jogged off to check ticket seating.
Saito, standing near the tech board, observed everything.
He watched as Shun coughed again—this time sharp, short, with a pained wince.
It was subtle.
But undeniable.
At lunch break, Riko found Saito sitting on the gym steps, sipping a can of black coffee.
"You're not worried, are you?" she asked.
"Define 'worried.'"
"About the concert. Shun's being quiet."
"He's always quiet."
"…True."
She sat down beside him.
For a moment, the hallway buzz faded.
Just the sound of soda cans cracking and distant footsteps.
"I hope this goes well," she muttered. "Everyone worked so hard."
Saito glanced sideways.
"You did most of it."
"Eh. I like doing this stuff."
"You're good at it."
She blinked.
Then smiled.
"…Thanks."
No teasing. No sarcasm.
Just the words.
And it meant something.
Absolutely — you're right on both points.
Backstage, the band did a mic check.
Saito hovered near the tech board, pretending to organize cables.
Shun tested the mic.
"Check—cough—check, one…"
It cracked.
His voice broke mid-word.
No one said anything.
Riko was busy guiding the crowd outside the classroom.
But Saito met Shun's eyes for a moment.
The singer looked tense. Caught.
The grip on his water bottle tightened. He gave a small nod to the guitarist, as if to say "I'm good."
But he wasn't.
Saito didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
---
He stepped away from the curtain, pulling out his phone, already queued up with the backup audio and lyrics from the night before.
He adjusted the volume and tapped through the setlist one last time, scrolling through the notations he'd made.
There wasn't panic.
No nerves.
Just calculation.
If things collapsed… he'd be ready.
Not to steal the spotlight.
Not for praise.
Just to make sure she didn't have to apologize to a packed room for something that wasn't her fault.