Frill Shiranui's POV
Is this what they call… falling in love at first sight?
My heart is pounding a frantic, unsteady rhythm against my ribs—doki-doki, doki-doki—just from the sight of him walking away.
It's a physical, dizzying sensation, entirely unfamiliar and completely out of my control.
I don't understand it.
I don't understand why.
What is this violent, magnetic pull?
This reckless impulse that overrode a lifetime of calculated composure and made me call out to a stranger in a crowded school hallway?
This isn't me.
This isn't Frill Shiranui.
My heart won't slow down.
The beat is almost painful, a trapped bird trying to escape.
My breath feels tight, stuffy, at the mere thought of him vanishing into the crowd, disappearing from my life as suddenly as he appeared.
A cold, irrational panic claws at my throat.
Why…?
Is it because he was the only one who ever stopped himself?
That morning, I saw his intention as clear as day—a boy preparing to approach.
And then, he simply… didn't.
He cut the action dead, turned away with a finality that was more intriguing than any clumsy pickup line.
I'll admit, it took a different kind of bravery.
Most boys here either gawk from a distance or stumble forward with transparent agendas.
He had the courage to almost-act, and the greater, more puzzling will to stop.
But that can't be it. The entertainment world is filled with brave people. People who step onto a stage to be judged by millions. People with far more audacity.
His particular brand of withheld action shouldn't unravel me like this.
Is it because he's very handsome?
I have to be honest with myself. I appreciate beautiful things. A handsome face earns immediate, favorable attention from me—it's a simple aesthetic truth.
And this boy… Aquamarine Hoshino. His looks aren't just handsome. They are… superior. The kind of face sculpted for high-definition close-ups, born to be lit by studio lights. He has the bone structure, the subtle asymmetry, the quiet intensity of a superstar, even while standing perfectly still.
Even with zero skill, just standing mutely in front of a camera, he would gather a devoted following.
He's already gathered mine, it seems.
Attraction to beauty is normal.
Instinctual, even.
But to have my equilibrium shattered by it? To feel this consuming, possessive urgency over a face?
That feels shallow.
Beneath me.
This isn't what I believe love is.
I've always believed love is sacred. It's something built. It's forged in shared struggles, cultivated through mutual interests, solidified in the deep, quiet comfort of truly knowing another soul.
Not… this.
Not a seismic tremor from a single glance.
I refuse to acknowledge this feeling.
It's an error.
A glitch.
But my body refuses to listen to my mind's veto.
So I acted on the impulse. I pointed. I called him out. I asked him, straight to his face, why he had stopped. I needed to know the reason behind that aborted approach, to solve the puzzle he represented.
And then, for the first time in my life, someone was utterly immune to my presence.
He… dozed off.
While I was talking to him.
My words, my attention, my carefully maintained persona—they just bounced off.
He drifted into his own world.
I froze. A cold doubt, sharp and humiliating, seeped in. Had I overestimated my own charm?
The thought was a tiny, painful puncture in a well-inflated ego.
It hurt, more than I wanted to admit.
Thankfully, his sister, Ruby, broke the awful silence.
Once she moved past her initial nervous wreckage, she was surprisingly talkative.
We became fast friends, or at least a very promising facade of friendship.
We talked about a lot.
Yet he… he kept dozing off.
My cool, practiced façade threatened to crack entirely.
Right there, I made a silent, fierce vow: I will never let this boy be distracted in front of me again.
I will be the sole focus of that distant, beautiful gaze.
I will command his attention so completely that his mind has no room to wander.
Aquamarine Hoshino.
I remember your name.
And this isn't over.
...
Aquamarine Hoshino's POV
"Someone out there is definitely talking shit about me."
I sneezed violently, my whole body jerking forward, right in the middle of a tense, smoky scene in Knights of the Seven Kingdom.
The new prequel, all gritty realism and political mud, was finally out.
It was gonna be epic.
"Brother, that's disgusting," Ruby whined from the other end of the couch, scrunching her nose and instinctively leaning away. "Please cover your nose when you do that. Have some decency."
Her attention snapped back to the screen just in time to see Ser Duncan the Tall—Dunk, as the smallfolk called him—squatting in a bush, his face a mask of strained concentration as he took a loud, graphic shit while standing braced against a tree.
"Yick!" she squealed, pulling a throw pillow over her eyes partially. "Why are TV shows getting more and more vile? First my brother sneezes like a busted pipe, and now a supposed knight is doing… that on screen. Is nothing sacred?"
"I mean, it's Game of Thrones. That's the whole brand," I said, unfazed, wiping my nose with the back of my wrist. "And covering your nose during a sneeze just shoots all the pressure back into your sinuses. It's bad for you. Besides, I'm not sick. A sudden sneeze like that means someone, somewhere, is gossiping about me. Probably in vicious, lurid detail. It's a universal truth, Ruby."
"You're so narcissistic," she sighed, rolling her eyes with practiced, sisterly exasperation. "Anyway, you need to stop your caveman habits. Immediately. Sneezing openly, binge-watching Netflix until 3 AM… you're going to become a total social outcast."
"Watching the biggest global prestige show isn't about being popular, Ruby. It's about understanding the grammar of power that the world is listening to," I countered, my eyes still on the screen where Dunk was now adjusting his breeches.
"The producers who want their work to travel beyond Tokyo? They've deconstructed this. The old guard at the golf club might still be talking about Kurosawa—and you should know that too—but the ones writing the checks for the next global streaming hit? They're the ones who watched Game of Thrones and saw a blueprint, not just dragons."
"They watched Succession and took notes. It's not about taste. It's about currency. You need to know the currency of the room you want to be in. Right now, in the room that builds empires, this," he gestured at the screen, "is on the syllabus."
"But it's rated Mature! M for a reason!" she protested, though her gaze was already drifting back to the television.
"Then go to sleep, kid," I said, not looking away from the screen.
My voice was flat, a gentle dismissal. "Don't bother the adult while he's conducting important market research."
Her face darkened instantly.
The 'kid' barb always hit its mark.
"I am not a child! I'm watching it with you!" she declared, her voice full of defiant conviction.
I couldn't help but let out a low chuckle.
Reaching over, I ruffled her messy blonde hair.
She let out a soft, indignant snort but didn't pull away.
Instead, she shifted closer, letting her head come to rest against my shoulder, a silent surrender.
We settled into a comfortable silence, our faces illuminated by the flickering glow of the TV, both wearing identical masks of rapt, critical interest as the tale of Dunk and Egg truly began.