Shimizu Akira splashed cold water on his face.
Just as he turned off the faucet, he heard the long-anticipated knock at the door.
He walked over and opened it.
Kamuro Masumi stood there with her arms crossed, the displeasure in her brow practically tangible.
"Come in, Kamuro-san." Shimizu calmly stepped aside to let her pass, deliberately avoiding her piercing glare.
"You can sit—"
Before he could finish, Kamuro had already strode into the room and unceremoniously plopped down on his bed.
She sat upright, hands braced on either side of her. "Well? Don't you have anything to say to me, Shimizu Akira?!"
Shimizu took a proper seat at his desk, his tone sincere. "About what happened at the start of the term—that was my fault. I shouldn't have used you as a bargaining chip, and I especially shouldn't have hidden the truth afterward. I should've explained everything to you properly."
"..." Kamuro's tense shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.
Her reason for coming here was simple: she wanted to see what kind of attitude Shimizu Akira would show.
At the very least, his apology seemed genuine.
Truthfully, it wasn't entirely his fault. She wasn't stupid—after some thought, she'd guessed that Sakayanagi Arisu was probably the one behind it.
Of course, Shimizu agreeing to it was wrong. If they were assigning blame, Sakayanagi deserved 60 lashes, and Shimizu 40.
That said, Shimizu had bought the beer—preventing her from stealing and even giving it to her afterward.
Viewed that way, it could almost offset half his wrongdoing.
But 20 lashes were still non-negotiable.
What truly bothered her, though, wasn't just being used as a bet—it was the way he'd kept her in the dark.
That feeling of exclusion pissed her off more than any wager ever could.
But now, faced with this apologetic boy and his conspicuously tidied room, the anger in her chest had unwittingly dissipated by more than half.
"Want some hot cocoa? The water's already boiled—it'll be ready in a second." Shimizu asked casually, turning to prepare the drink.
"Sure!" she answered reflexively—then suddenly realized something, her eyes widening slightly as she stared at his back.
(Wait… How does he know I like hot cocoa?!)
(This guy… Did he already know my preferences?!)
When Kamuro Masumi had arrived, she'd been furious.
If rage could be quantified, her anger meter would've been well past 90.
If Shimizu had dared say one wrong word, she would've roundhouse-kicked him without hesitation—her black-stockinged legs weren't just for show today. She'd fully intended to leave a few shoe prints on this bastard.
Yet strangely, the moment she stepped into his room, her anger had started deflating like a punctured balloon.
That earnest apology alone had halved her rage, dropping it from 90 straight to 45.
And when the words "hot cocoa" left Shimizu's mouth, she'd felt another "pfft" as 10 more points vanished.
At this point, she couldn't even muster her ultimate move—she couldn't even cast her most basic skill.
This feeling of being completely controlled by the other party pissed her off.
(Dammit… When did I start playing by his rules?)
The realization sent alarm bells ringing in Kamuro's head.
She was the one who dictated the pace. Since when did anyone else get to steer the situation?
"Who wants hot cocoa?!" she suddenly raised her voice, deliberately being contrary. "I want iced coke! With ice!"
To her surprise, Shimizu didn't even bat an eye.
He naturally picked up his jacket, his tone calm. "Iced coke, got it. I'll go buy some now. Anything else you want while I'm out?"
His unflappable demeanor only made Kamuro feel like she'd punched cotton—utterly powerless.
She opened her mouth, then suddenly found herself at a loss for words.
Just as Shimizu was about to step out the door, Kamuro finally snapped.
"...Forget it!" She turned her face away, her voice tinged with reluctance. "I'm dying of thirst right now, so I'll make do with this."
Shimizu inwardly sighed.
(But hot cocoa is your favorite, isn't it?)
This tidbit had come from one of last month's "Daily Information" reports.
What did surprise him, though, was that he'd expected this tsundere to make him run two or three errands out of spite—yet she couldn't even bear to send him on one.
(As expected, Kamuro's actually really kind at heart.)
He deftly prepared the hot cocoa and moved the small coffee table between them.
As he handed her the cup, he couldn't help but watch her with an inexplicable smile.
Kamuro squirmed under his gaze.
She took a quick sip, then slammed the cup down, her eyes suddenly sharp.
"Shimizu Akira, what the hell are you staring at?!" She glared and thrust out a hand. "Give me your arm!"
"Okay." Shimizu obediently extended his right arm.
Kamuro grabbed his forearm, pinched a patch of skin between her thumb and forefinger, and twisted with all her might—only to find it felt like she was gripping solid hardwood!
(What the hell?! Are his arms made of steel?!)
She was shocked to discover the muscle beneath her fingers was way firmer than expected. Even through his uniform, she could tell he was ridiculously toned.
(Ugh, muscle-headed idiot! No wonder he got put in Class D!)
Though her punishment had failed spectacularly, she refused to lose face. "This is what happens when you piss me off. Got it?!"
"Got it, got it!" Shimizu nodded, barely suppressing a laugh.
What kind of punishment was that? If anything… wasn't this just acting cute?
Kamuro shot him a glare, then suddenly asked a serious question: "About you being placed in Class D… Don't you have anything to say? I'm sure your homeroom teacher talked to you today too."
She remembered perfectly—in the message she'd sent Shimizu last month, he'd known about the school's hidden rules just like Sakayanagi Arisu.
(With his abilities… how did he end up in Class D? Wait, he did say he bombed the entrance exam—did he have food poisoning or something?)
From what she'd observed these past weeks, Shimizu's intelligence and emotional IQ were both remarkably high. He was nothing like Class D's usual riffraff.
"No particular thoughts." Shimizu replied evenly.
"Hey!" Kamuro slammed her cup down, the sharp clink ringing out. "Don't tell me you're planning to blend in with those Class D losers! You should at least try when it matters."
But the moment the words left her mouth, she froze.
If her shoplifting had been discovered by the school… would she have been thrown into Class D too?