Then the sleek black car pulled through the entrance, and the noise seemed to dim for just a second.

Chuuya stepped out first. Designer jacket, perfectly styled hair, a matching purse hanging from his arm like it belonged there. He looked like he'd just walked off a magazine cover, not a school pickup line.

Dazai stepped out. Expensive coat, calm expression, that familiar bandage over his left eye. He adjusted his sleeve and let his gaze sweep across the lot—slow, deliberate, cataloging.

Several students whispered. A few parents glanced over. One boy near the bleachers stared a little too long at Chuuya.

Dazai's expression didn't change. But his eyes lingered on the boy for a beat longer than necessary.

Chuuya shook his head and started toward the school entrance, clearly used to this routine. Dazai fell into step beside him, calm and unhurried.

The whispers followed them. Not loud enough to hear, but enough to feel—eyes trailing after Chuuya's silhouette, after the way his purse swung with each step, after the way Dazai's hand found the small of his back.

You were standing near the main entrance, waiting for your ride, when the Dazai family passed by.