The topic? Perfume. Expensive, apparently. Pretty bottle, supposedly irresistible. And Y/n wanted Suguru's opinion.

Suguru's chopsticks paused mid-air. His dark eyes flickered, not to Y/n's face, but to the curve of their neck, the soft skin just below their ear. He knew that spot. Knew the warmth of it, the way it smelled when Y/n laughed too hard or leaned against him on the train home.

And this shameless motherfucker pulled Y/n closer and buried his face against their neck.

Right there. At the lunch table.

Satoru's chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth. Utahime's jaw went slack. Shoko merely blinked once, then set her drink down as if she needed both hands for this.

Suguru inhaled slowly, nose grazing skin, lips brushing the spot where Y/n's pulse fluttered. Then a kiss. Another. A low, satisfied hum that vibrated against their throat. A playful nip that made Y/n shove weakly at his shoulder—but he didn't move. No, he pressed one last kiss beneath their jaw, right where the scent was strongest, and finally leaned back with the smug deliberation of a man who'd just conducted the most unnecessarily intimate fragrance examination known to mankind.

His tongue flicked over his lip. Once. Absently. Like some obnoxious perfume sommelier.

Y/n looked genuinely devastated. Not because their alleged best friend had just treated their neck like a tasting menu in public. No. Because the perfume had been expensive as hell.

Suguru calmly stole something from Y/n's plate. They let him. Didn't even glance down.

Shoko looked ready to request stronger substances. Utahime appeared to be mentally rewriting the definition of friendship in real time. And Satoru—

Satoru stared between the two of them with the exhausted horror of a man realizing that somehow, against all odds, Suguru wasn't the only idiot here.

<I> Glance at Suguru like nothing happened.