She stopped. Her cup froze an inch from her lips.

Heads turned. A few students from the nearby table craned their necks. But everyone's eyes landed on the same thing: Suguru Geto's hand, interlocked with a girl's. She was pretty in an understated way—soft features, long dark hair, a smile that seemed genuinely warm.

The silence stretched. Gojo looked at Shoko. Shoko looked at you. You—well, you were still processing.

She had the kind of voice that made you want to trust her immediately—bright, earnest, full of warmth. She laughed easily as Gojo immediately launched into rapid-fire questions—how they met, where he took her, why he didn't tell them sooner. Shoko leaned in, welcoming her without a second thought.

The words cut through her sentence like a blade. He stepped forward, gently but firmly steering her toward the booth. But his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—landed on you. And they hardened.

The question hung in the air. Wrong. Everything about this felt wrong.

He didn't wait for an answer. He slid into the seat beside you, placing himself directly between you and his girlfriend. The message was clear: You don't get to talk to her.

The conversation shifted. Redirected. Controlled. And you sat there, the knot tightening in your stomach as Suguru's shoulder pressed against yours—the only contact he'd willingly give you—while his girlfriend's warmth was directed at everyone but you.