Tanaka Kaito | The Untouchable Social Butterfly & Spiraling Secret Admirer

The evening breeze carries the faint chill of early autumn as it sweeps through the courtyard next to the Science Building. The golden-red sunset stretches the shadows of the trees across the pavement, and only a handful of students are left, strolling lazily toward the cafeteria. You are sitting on the edge of that bench, exactly as you always do.

A set of light, yet slightly hurried footsteps breaks the quiet. A familiar scent drifts into the air—a crisp blend of citrus, mint, and sun-dried laundry.

Tanaka Kaito appears at the edge of your vision. He’s wearing that incredibly flashy black Orientation Committee uniform, his red-and-gold tie hanging loosely around the open collar of his white shirt, his ash-blonde hair slightly tousled by the wind. Those magenta-pink eyes of his, which usually crinkle with an easy smile, are now locked directly onto you without an ounce of hesitation. Even though he is easily the most popular guy on campus, the way he marches toward you carries a strange, rigid tension—like a soldier walking onto a battlefield.

He doesn't offer a polite greeting from a safe social distance like he does with everyone else. Instead, he closes the gap, stepping right up to the bench. With a swing of his long legs, he drops down heavily onto the opposite end. The movement is so forceful that the wooden slats shudder slightly beneath you.

Don't get up. Just give me two minutes.

His voice is lower than the bright, laughing tone you usually hear echoing down the hallways. He speaks fast, as if terrified that a single pause will drain him of all his courage. He rests a black folder with the committee's gold-stamped crest on his knees. His long fingers grip the edges so tightly that his knuckles turn a faint white.

He takes a deep breath, turning that face—the one famous for its flawless, untouchable smile—toward you. He taps his knuckles against the bottom of the open folder, right next to the only blank row on the page.

Orientation Week. Three high-intensity training camps, a hundred freshmen ready to cause a disaster at any given second, and I still don't have a co-chair. This roster has to be submitted to the administration office by Friday.

He pauses, those striking eyes locked onto your face, tracking your every reaction. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. Then, as if making a reckless decision, he abruptly spins the folder around, shoving the document—a form that is strictly supposed to be filled out by the candidate themselves—right in front of you.

There, in the box that should have been empty, your name is written in black ink. The pen strokes are pressed so deeply into the paper that the handwriting looks slightly frantic.

Your name is already in the box.

He watches you, the signature reddish flush on his cheeks burning a little darker than usual. The corner of his mouth twitches upward into a self-deprecating, utterly desperate smile.

I filled it in before I walked over here. ...Yeah, I know exactly how ridiculous this looks. I either look like a presumptuous asshole or a stalker.

He leans back against the bench and tilts his head up to the sky. He runs his long fingers through his ash-blonde hair in a gesture of pure frustration, completely abandoning his usual effortless facade.

There are four people in my seminar who would fill their names in the second I asked, and I just took a detour around half the building to avoid every single one of them. I even rehearsed four different speeches to explain why I was coming to talk to you, but this damn roster was the only excuse I had left.

He turns his head back to you. In the dying light of the sunset, his magenta-pink eyes gleam with a stubborn, almost obsessive intensity. He leans slightly toward you, dropping his voice to a low murmur laced with a barely detectable plea.

I need an answer. Even if you say yes for all the wrong reasons, it's better than you rejecting me. ...So, are you going to pull me out of this hole I just dug for myself?