The midday sun blazed like an enormous furnace, pouring down a heat so oppressive it made the very air waver.
Harumura Makoto stood under the shade of a parasol, enjoying the cool shadow.
Shokuhou Misaki, on the other hand, stood gracefully beneath the scorching sunlight.
Under its glare, her sunscreen-coated skin shone with a soft, fair radiance—not the icy pale of porcelain, but a pearly luster all the same.
At fourteen, she was far from tall or fully developed, so she hadn't forced herself into a figure-flaunting bikini.
Instead, she'd chosen a two-piece with lace frills, pure white.
It perfectly showcased her slender waist and straight legs while discreetly concealing the shortcomings in certain areas of her development.
"So? How about some feedback?"
Originally, she'd wanted Makoto to pick a swimsuit for her himself—then put it on and model it for him.
But that plan was derailed before they even stepped inside, when he had the gall to criticize her figure.
So, in the end, she'd chosen the suit herself.
Otherwise, she genuinely feared this man might have picked a school swimsuit for her.
Still…
Although she was now waiting for Makoto's evaluation of her carefully chosen swimsuit, the truth was… her gaze had been fixed on him this whole time.
"No wonder you're so athletic… with a body like that…"
Two soft blushes bloomed on her cheeks without her realizing it.
Normally, Makoto was always covered up from head to toe; he never wore shorts or half-sleeved shirts.
Which meant the figure hidden beneath his loose clothes had never been on display—until now.
Not an ounce of excess fat, his body was perfectly proportioned, with just the right amount of muscle along his arms, thighs, abs, and chest.
It was a balanced sort of athletic physique—one very few girls could resist.
The overblown, shirt-busting musclehead look, in contrast, tended to put people off.
Makoto's build was about as close as one could get to the ideal.
Men, when they see a beautiful woman with a great figure, can't help sneaking glances—something women often call "pervy."
But in truth, when women see a handsome man with a great body, their behavior is no different.
If they really get going, men don't stand a chance.
"Feedback?"
Makoto could clearly sense her shy yet hopeful gaze.
But—an answer was still required.
His eyes swept over her again, this time with a hint of appraisal, his gaze moving more slowly.
"It suits you," he said finally.
"It highlights your current… physical condition very well. Looks nice."
"…"
"That's it?"
So flat? Where was the lingering look? Why did he seem so calm?
"Say more. That can't be all you think."
This reaction was not what she'd been aiming for.
She'd been planning this since yesterday, even spending nearly an hour on her makeup earlier.
And all she got was that?
Absolutely unacceptable.
This is where you're supposed to say something nice, even if it's a lie.
Makoto wasn't lacking in emotional intelligence—he knew exactly what she wanted to hear.
So why… do I feel like if I say something I don't mean right now, my future self will regret it?
The compliments were already on the tip of his tongue… but something—some invisible force—kept him from letting them out.
"That's all, really," he said instead.
"With your current figure, all I can sincerely praise is that the swimsuit suits you… and your skin looks nice. If I forced a compliment about your figure, wouldn't you feel awkward about it?"
"…"
Somewhere above, a few crows might as well have flown by—silence fell instantly.
The outburst he'd expected—her shouting, stomping, maybe even throwing something—never came.
Instead, Misaki remained strangely calm.
"You really like those useless fat deposits that much?"
"Hmm…"
Makoto actually took a moment to think about it, seriously.
"I wouldn't say I'm that fixated on them. But, to me, they're definitely better to have than not. My tastes are pretty much in line with the mainstream."
Talking about this with a girl who had some feelings for him—especially one who didn't have them—wasn't exactly smart.
So why did he say it?
Don't ask.
Call it instinct.
Something told him that not saying it would make his future life a lot less fun.
"Fine. Just wait. I will grow."
Her tone wasn't that of someone sulking or bluffing—she stated it like a simple fact.
"Of course. Not that it's much to do with me, but… I'll believe your unscientific claim."
Makoto shrugged and stepped out from under the parasol to the poolside.
The term "late bloomer" was, more often than not, just a way to comfort oneself.
In this world, the average girl—even at fourteen, even as a first-year—would at least be around a B cup. That was the standard curve.
Some, like Junko walking behind Misaki, were well beyond average.
From Makoto's perspective, Junko was already at least a C—possibly more.
But Misaki, at her age, was still as flat as a calm lake.
Even if she did develop later, she'd be lucky to reach a B.
And here, a B might as well be classified as "flat."
"Hmph! Just you wait—you'll see how I grow."
Chin lifted, walking with the absolute confidence of someone who feared no one, Misaki came to stand beside him.
"Mm-hmm. Got it, got it. So, Miss Shokuhou—how about we get in the water now? Otherwise, I'm afraid I won't have enough time left to teach you."