Chapter 4
Seiryo Academy becomes louder when it has something to anticipate.
The cultural festival announcement spreads through the halls before the teachers even finish writing it on the board.
Decorations. Stalls. Performances. Study booths. Committees.
Chaos disguised as school spirit.
Emilia Laurent does not enjoy chaos.
She enjoys control.
But chaos can be useful.
Distraction lowers defenses.
And lately—
She has been studying someone more than her textbooks.
When she enters the classroom that morning, she notices two things immediately.
One:
The chalkboard reads in large letters:
Cultural Festival Committee Sign-Ups — After School
Two:
Ren Takahashi is smiling again.
Not at her.
At Hana.
Hana stands beside his desk with a notebook open, pointing at something enthusiastically.
Ren leans slightly closer to look.
He says something.
She laughs.
The laugh is soft and bright.
It does not irritate Emilia.
It absolutely irritates Emilia.
She walks past them without slowing.
Takes her seat.
Opens her notebook.
Writes the date at the top of the page with steady handwriting.
The pen presses slightly harder than usual.
Yui drops into the chair beside her.
"Oh," Yui says quietly, following Emilia's gaze. "We're doing this again?"
"We are not doing anything."
"You look like you're calculating."
"I am."
"That's worse."
Emilia closes her notebook.
She will not glare.
She will not overreact.
She will—
Observe.
When the teacher calls for attention, Hana returns to her seat.
Ren looks forward again.
Calm.
Unreadable.
As if nothing lingers.
Emilia studies the side of his face from a distance.
His composure is consistent.
Even yesterday, when she pushed.
Even when she leaned closer.
Even when she tested his reactions.
He did react.
Barely.
A tightening of fingers.
A delayed breath.
A blink half a second too slow.
He understands something.
Not everything.
But something.
She knows it.
And that makes this more interesting.
The class representative stands to explain committee roles.
"Decorations, performance, food stall, and study booth," he says.
"Study booth needs top-ranking volunteers."
Murmurs ripple.
All eyes instinctively flick toward the top two names in class.
Emilia remains still.
Ren does not move.
"Laurent?" the teacher prompts.
Emilia raises her hand smoothly.
"I'll assist."
"Takahashi?"
A small pause.
Ren raises his hand as well.
"Sure."
Of course he does.
The teacher smiles.
"Good. You two can coordinate."
Yui makes a delighted choking noise.
Emilia ignores her.
Coordination implies proximity.
Proximity implies opportunity.
After class, the hallway hums with festival excitement.
Students gather in clusters discussing plans.
Ren stands near the window reviewing the committee sheet.
Emilia approaches deliberately.
Not too fast.
Not too slow.
He senses her before she speaks.
He always does.
"We'll need to meet," she says evenly.
He nods.
"When?"
"After school tomorrow."
"Okay."
That's it.
No resistance.
No hesitation.
She tilts her head slightly.
"Tu acceptes trop facilement."
(You accept too easily.)
He glances at her.
"I volunteered."
"That doesn't mean you have to cooperate."
A faint pause.
"Are you planning not to?"
She steps closer.
Just a little.
Enough to shorten the air between them.
"Je pourrais te rendre les choses difficiles."
(I could make things difficult for you.)
He studies her face.
His expression remains steady.
But his eyes narrow slightly.
He catches "difficiles."
He's learned that word.
"I doubt it," he says calmly.
Her lips curve.
"Tu es sûr ?"
(Are you sure?)
He doesn't answer immediately.
Because he understands that one too.
Sûr.
Sure.
He understands tone if not every word.
He's noticed patterns.
When her voice softens, the phrases get more dangerous.
When her eyes hold his longer—
She's pushing.
He may not be fluent.
But he isn't ignorant.
"I'm sure," he replies finally.
She leans just slightly closer.
"On verra."
(We'll see.)
That one he knows completely.
He doesn't react outwardly.
But his pulse shifts.
From across the hallway, Kaito watches with open fascination.
"You two planning world domination?" he calls out.
"No," Ren replies.
"Yes," Emilia says at the same time.
Kaito grins.
"I like her answer better."
Emilia doesn't look at him.
Instead, she speaks lightly in French.
"Il parle trop."
(He talks too much.)
Kaito squints.
"That was about me, wasn't it?"
Ren shrugs faintly.
"Probably."
Kaito points at him accusingly.
"You're too calm about this."
Ren doesn't explain.
Because if he explains—
He'll have to admit he catches pieces.
And that would ruin the game.
Later that day, during literature, the teacher assigns reading time.
The classroom quiets.
Pages turn.
Pens scratch.
Emilia shifts in her seat deliberately.
She leans back just enough that her chair almost touches Ren's desk.
Almost.
She pretends not to notice.
"Tu ne m'évites pas."
(You're not avoiding me.)
Ren looks up from his book.
"I never was."
That wasn't what she meant.
She turns slightly.
"You pourrais."
(You could.)
He blinks.
He knows "pourrais."
Could.
"I don't see a reason to."
Her gaze sharpens.
She lowers her voice slightly.
"Tu n'as pas peur ?"
(Aren't you afraid?)
He understands that one clearly.
Peur.
Fear.
He meets her eyes.
"No."
The answer is immediate.
That unsettles her more than hesitation would have.
She expected caution.
Instead—
He seems... steady.
"Pourquoi ?"
(Why?)
He pauses this time.
Because that word he only recognizes from repetition.
Why.
He's heard her say it enough.
He thinks for a moment.
Then—
"Because you wouldn't actually hurt me."
Her breath falters faintly.
That is not what she prepared for.
She looks away first.
"Ne sois pas naïf."
(Don't be naive.)
He doesn't respond.
But something in his expression softens.
Not mocking.
Not dismissive.
Just—
Certain.
Internal Emilia:
He's not reacting the way he should.
He's not flustered.
He's not defensive.
He's steady.
Why is he steady?
Does he understand more than he lets on?
Or am I overestimating him?
That thought lingers longer than she wants it to.
She pushes it aside.
If he understands partially—
Then she will test it.
Not today.
Not recklessly.
Gradually.
When the final bell rings, students flood into the hallway.
Emilia gathers her things calmly.
As she passes Ren's desk, she stops briefly.
"Tomorrow," she says.
"Yes."
She studies him one more second.
Then, softly—
"Fais attention."
(Be careful.)
This time, she doesn't mean it romantically.
She means it strategically.
He watches her walk away.
Internal Ren:
I don't understand everything she says.
But I understand enough.
She's pushing.
And I think—
She wants me to push back.
He doesn't know if that's smart.
But he knows one thing.
He doesn't plan on retreating.
Misheard
After school, Seiryo Academy exhales.
The building doesn't become silent so much as it becomes selective—only certain sounds remain. The distant thud of balls from the sports field. The faint echo of a teacher's voice somewhere down the hall. The soft click of doors closing one by one.
Emilia Laurent prefers this version of the world.
It's easier to hear what matters.
She arrives at the library a few minutes early, because being early is a form of control.
The library sits in the older wing of Seiryo Academy, where the floors creak slightly underfoot and the afternoon light comes in soft and slanted through tall windows. Emilia chooses a table near the back, far from the check-out desk, where the shelves make the space feel contained.
Private.
Predictable.
She places the festival committee sheet down first. Then her notebook. Then her pen. Then her phone—face down, because she doesn't intend to be interrupted.
Yui tried.
"You're meeting him in the library?" Yui had asked at lunch. "That's practically a confession."
"It's practically a table," Emilia had replied.
Now, she watches the entrance.
Ren is late by exactly one minute.
Which means he's not late.
He steps in quietly, as if he's afraid of disturbing the books themselves. His silver hair is slightly ruffled by the wind outside. He carries two things: his bag, and a thin folder that looks like it contains papers he actually organized.
He spots her immediately.
His gaze lands on her—steady, calm—and something in his posture loosens by half a degree. Not relaxation, exactly.
Recognition.
He approaches without hesitation.
"You chose the back," he says.
"It's quieter."
He sits across from her and places his folder down neatly.
Emilia notes it.
Not sloppy.
Not casual.
Not indifferent.
Prepared.
Interesting.
They open their papers at the same time.
Almost synchronized.
Emilia hates that she notices.
They begin logically.
Study booth schedule, volunteers, subject rotation.
Emilia outlines.
Ren refines.
She offers a structure; he removes unnecessary steps.
She doesn't like that.
She likes it.
Both truths can exist, apparently.
"We'll need sign-up sheets," Ren says, tapping the list lightly. "And sample questions."
"I already have sample questions," Emilia replies, sliding a stack of neatly printed sheets across the table.
He pauses.
Looks at them.
"Of course you do."
It isn't sarcasm.
It's... acknowledgment.
Emilia's chin lifts slightly.
"You didn't prepare anything?"
Ren opens his folder and slides out a small page of handwritten notes.
"Volunteer shifts and contingency," he says.
Emilia scans the page.
It's tidy.
Efficient.
The handwriting is clear, small, controlled.
She looks up.
"You planned contingencies."
He shrugs faintly.
"There will be people who don't show up."
"That's pessimistic."
"That's realistic."
Emilia's lips press into a thin line.
He isn't wrong.
Which is annoying.
She glances toward the window as if to reset her thoughts.
Then she returns her gaze to him and decides to test something else.
Not vocabulary.
Something more subtle.
Tone.
She leans forward, resting her elbows lightly on the table.
The distance between them shrinks.
"Tu es vraiment fiable."
(You're really reliable.)
Ren blinks once.
He recognizes vraiment (really). He recognizes fiable only because she says it slowly, and because he's heard it somewhere before—maybe in a textbook, maybe on a sign, maybe in his own memory in pieces.
But he catches the tone.
It's softer than her usual sharpness.
He answers carefully.
"Thanks."
She tilts her head.
"Tu comprends ça ?"
(You understand that?)
Ren's eyes narrow slightly, just in thought.
He knows comprends (understand) from repetition. He knows she's asking if he understands.
He chooses honesty without revealing too much.
"Some of it."
Emilia's eyes sharpen with interest.
"Combien ?"
(How much?)
Ren pauses.
He knows that one: how much. He's heard it in class. He's heard it in videos. He's heard it enough to recognize it instantly.
He decides to be vague.
"Enough."
Emilia's lips curve faintly.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the safest one."
She studies him for a long moment.
Then she sits back, as if she's satisfied with something.
Or as if she's storing him away in a mental file.
It's hard to tell with Emilia.
They work for another twenty minutes. The plan becomes clean. The schedule becomes neat. Their hands move across papers at the same time sometimes, and twice their fingers brush as they reach for the same sheet.
The second time, Ren pulls back quickly.
Not dramatically.
Just instinctively.
Emilia notices anyway.
Of course she does.
She doesn't comment right away.
She waits until he's looking down at the page again.
Then she says, casually:
"Tu es nerveux ?"
(Are you nervous?)
Ren's pen stills.
He recognizes nerveux (nervous) because it's close to the English word, and because she says it with that slight tilt of amusement.
He answers in the most neutral tone he can manage.
"No."
Emilia's gaze lifts.
She watches him for a beat.
Then, with deliberate softness:
"C'est mignon."
(It's cute.)
Ren understands mignon—cute—because she's used it before. Because it appears in his vocabulary lists. Because it is unmistakably dangerous in her mouth.
His ears warm slightly.
He keeps his face calm.
He pretends to scan the schedule.
Internal Ren:
She's doing it again.
She's saying things that sound like... something else.
But she's smiling like it's a game.
So it must be a game.
Emilia watches his lack of reaction and feels a small sting of irritation.
Then a spark of satisfaction.
He heard it.
She knows he heard it.
And he chose not to react.
Good.
That means she can push.
Ren reaches into his bag for a ruler to align the schedule sheet. As he pulls it out, his folder shifts and slides off the edge of the table.
Papers flutter.
Ren reacts instantly, reaching down.
Emilia stands at the same time.
Their movements collide.
Her knee hits the edge of the table lightly. His shoulder brushes her arm. Her hand reaches for a loose page at the exact moment his does.
Their fingers close around the same paper.
And they freeze.
For half a second, their hands are overlapping.
Warm.
Close enough that Emilia can feel the slight tension in his grip.
Ren's breath catches—barely.
Emilia's pulse trips.
She lets go first, because she decides to, not because she has to.
Ren picks up the paper quickly and clears his throat softly.
"Sorry."
Emilia smooths her skirt as if nothing happened.
"You're clumsy."
"I'm not."
"You are today."
Ren blinks.
He can't argue with that.
Emilia sits back down slowly.
Then, as if it's a casual observation, she says:
"Tu fais exprès."
(You're doing it on purpose.)
Ren pauses.
He recognizes exprès—on purpose—only vaguely. He's heard it, but he isn't certain. He catches enough to understand she's accusing him of doing something intentionally, and his mind immediately goes to the only thing that makes sense.
The teasing.
The proximity.
The way she keeps leaning in.
He thinks she's accusing him of playing back.
His posture stiffens slightly.
"What?" he asks quietly.
Emilia tilts her head, amused.
"Tu me fais perdre du temps."
(You're making me waste time.)
Ren catches perdre (lose) and temps (time). Waste time. He understands that.
Relief loosens him by half a degree.
"You're the one who chose to meet here," he says.
Emilia smiles faintly.
"Exactement."
That word he knows: exactly.
They continue.
But the air has changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Like a string pulled slightly tighter.
Emilia taps her pen lightly against the paper. Ren's eyes follow the motion once. Then he forces them back to the schedule.
Emilia notices the glance.
Of course she does.
She leans forward again, voice softer now.
"Tu ne sais pas quoi faire avec moi."
(You don't know what to do with me.)
Ren understands quoi faire (what to do) only partially. He catches the shape of the sentence and the tone. It sounds teasing—like she's mocking his calmness.
But there's a second layer there—something else.
He isn't sure which one is real.
He responds cautiously.
"I'm doing fine."
Emilia's eyes narrow slightly.
"That's also not an answer."
Ren exhales through his nose.
"You ask questions like traps."
Emilia's mouth curves, pleased.
"Tu apprends vite."
(You learn quickly.)
Ren understands that one. He's heard her say it before. Learn quickly.
He looks down at the paper again.
Internal Ren:
She's not just teasing.
She's measuring.
Like she measured the ranking board.
Like she measured my reaction.
She's trying to find a weakness.
Emilia watches him look away and realizes something else.
He's trying not to look at her when she says those things.
Which means he feels something.
Which means—
There is a crack.
As the afternoon stretches toward early evening, the library empties further.
A librarian wheels a cart of returned books past their table without speaking, only glancing at their papers with mild approval.
Emilia flips to a fresh page in her notebook.
"We're almost done," she says.
Ren nods.
Then, without thinking too hard, she adds in French—softly, dangerously:
"Si tu continues comme ça... je vais m'habituer."
(If you keep this up... I'm going to get used to it.)
Ren hears si tu continues (if you keep going) because he's heard that structure in French class, and he catches habitu— something. Habit. Used to it.
But he interprets it wrong.
He thinks she means she'll get used to him being first place.
To him being above her.
To losing.
His expression tightens slightly.
"That's not a good thing," he says quietly.
Emilia pauses, pen hovering above the page.
"What?"
He looks up.
"You shouldn't get used to losing."
Emilia stares at him.
For a second, her composure genuinely falters.
Because that isn't what she meant.
Not even close.
She meant:
Getting used to him.
To meeting after school.
To working together.
To his calm voice across a table.
To the way his hands move when he organizes papers.
To the warmth of his fingers against hers for half a second.
Her cheeks heat.
She is irritated.
Not at him.
At herself.
Because the sentence had been too honest.
And he misunderstood it.
That's the danger of speaking in half-truths.
She sits back slowly and forces her tone into something sharper.
"Ce n'était pas ça."
(That's not what I meant.)
Ren blinks.
He understands pas ça (not that).
"What did you mean?" he asks, careful.
Emilia's eyes hold his for a moment.
This is the moment where she could clarify.
She could say it plainly.
But Emilia Laurent does not clarify feelings.
Not yet.
Instead, she tilts her head and lets the teasing return like a shield.
"Tu es vraiment lent parfois."
(You're really slow sometimes.)
Ren's brows draw together.
"Am I?"
"Oui."
(Yes.)
He exhales softly, frustrated but calm.
"Then say it in a way I can understand."
Emilia's lips curve faintly.
"Mais c'est plus amusant comme ça."
(But it's more fun this way.)
Ren holds her gaze.
His expression is steady.
But his eyes—just for a second—look tired.
Not angry.
Just... unsure.
He doesn't understand everything.
And she knows that now.
She's been testing his limits without admitting it.
And he's been trying to keep up without showing it.
The game is not equal.
Not yet.
But it's moving.
When they finally pack up their papers, Ren stands and slides his chair in neatly.
Emilia gathers her notebook, careful and composed.
They walk toward the library entrance together.
The hallway outside is darker now, lit by warmer evening lamps.
At the shoe lockers, they pause instinctively.
A quiet, awkward beat.
Ren speaks first.
"Tomorrow?"
Emilia nods.
"Yes."
Then, because she cannot stop herself—because she needs to regain control of the moment—she leans slightly closer and whispers in French:
"Tu vas t'accrocher."
(You're going to get attached.)
Ren hears accrocher and thinks of hanging things. He doesn't understand the idiom. He assumes she means he'll get stuck doing festival work with her.
He answers dryly.
"I already volunteered."
Emilia smiles to herself.
He didn't understand.
Good.
Let that line sit inside him anyway.
She steps away first.
"Bonne nuit."
(Good night.)
Ren hesitates, then answers in careful French—pronunciation slightly imperfect, but earnest:
"Bonne nuit."
Emilia pauses.
Just a fraction.
Because he's learning.
Quietly.
Piece by piece.
She walks out into the evening air feeling something she doesn't want to name.
Not defeat.
Not victory.
Something else.
Something that feels like tension with nowhere to go.