Monday morning came with the same humidity, the same too-loud cicadas, and the same reluctant footsteps dragging themselves toward Sakuramine High. Elliot had hoped the weekend would slow things down. It hadn't.
Ami hadn't messaged him since the concert — not even a single cryptic emoji or passive-aggressive demand for tea. And while he would've said he was grateful for the silence, the truth was… unsettling.
He kept expecting his phone to buzz. It didn't.
And now it was Monday. Again.
And everyone still talked too loud.
He stepped into the classroom just as homeroom began, dropped into his chair, and barely nodded as Mizuki lit up beside him.
"Good morning, Elliot-kun~!" she chirped, her usual tsunami of energy somehow even worse than usual. "Did you sleep well? Have any spicy dreams?"
He gave her a look. "Please don't talk."
She leaned in dramatically, whispering, "Was she in them?"
"I said don't talk."
She grinned, resting her chin on her hands, practically vibrating with gossip-energy. "You've been so weird lately. Mysterious. You don't even glare at people properly anymore. Did you… fall in love over the weekend?"
Elliot turned to her slowly. "If I jump out this window, do you think I'd die instantly or just suffer?"
Before she could respond, the homeroom teacher clapped his hands at the front.
"Alright, everyone — I hope you're rested, because today marks the beginning of our Cultural Festival Partner Projects!"
A collective groan rippled through the room.
The teacher ignored it and continued. "This year, we're doing things a little differently. Rather than clubs running separate booths, we'll be pairing students to design their own miniature cultural presentations. The best ones will be featured in the gym on Festival Day."
More groans.
Elliot already didn't like where this was going.
"Partners," the teacher said, adjusting his glasses, "will be assigned at random."
That got the room quiet. Nervously quiet.
The teacher began reading names from a list.
"Tanaka and Hirose. Aizawa and Morioka. Rika and Kudo."
Then, inevitably:
"Graves and Hanabira."
Elliot's pen snapped in half.
Beside him, Mizuki clapped her hands like she'd won the lottery. "Fate! Destiny! Kismet!"
"Punishment," Elliot muttered.
⸻
After homeroom, she practically dragged him into the hallway by his sleeve.
"Okay, partner," she said, eyes sparkling, "you're from England, right? So we have to do something British."
Elliot rubbed his temple. "We could just sit in silence and judge everyone. That would be pretty authentic."
"Or," she said, unfazed, "we could do a full-blown British Tea House!"
He stared at her.
"You mean like… tea and scones and—"
"Yes! We'll serve tea and little sandwiches, and you can wear a waistcoat! Maybe even a fake mustache!"
"I'm not doing accents."
"You don't have to. You already sound British!"
He sighed. "I am British."
"See? Perfect!"
⸻
Their lunch break was spent sketching out ideas at the back of the classroom. Or rather, Mizuki sketched while Elliot half-heartedly pointed out everything wrong with them.
"That's not a teapot, that's a genie lamp."
"These sandwiches are stacked like Jenga blocks."
"We don't say 'pip pip cheerio' anymore. We never really did."
"But how will people know it's British if we don't lean into the stereotypes?" she asked seriously.
"Because I'll be there. Miserable and pale. It'll be obvious."
Despite everything, she worked hard. Her sketchbook was full of clumsy ideas, crossed-out names like "Tea-topia" and "Royal Brew," and cute doodles of Elliot in various levels of irritation. He even caught one where she'd drawn him holding a tray with the words 'Glum Butler Mode Activated' in a speech bubble.
She caught him looking and quickly snatched the page away, face flushed. "D-don't look at that one! It's not finished!"
Elliot rolled his eyes but said nothing.
⸻
The day dragged on. After the final bell, Mizuki insisted they visit a secondhand shop near the station to look for "authentic British props."
Elliot followed her through rows of chipped porcelain, antique clocks, and shelves that smelled like a dying museum. She held up every single teacup they passed and made him rate them on a scale from "Queen's Approval" to "Commoner Trash."
When they finally emerged an hour later, she had a box full of tablecloths and a bow tie Elliot refused to wear.
They sat on the curb outside, catching their breath. The sky was turning pink. The heat had finally started to break.
"You really don't have to try this hard," Elliot said.
She looked at him, surprised. "Why not?"
"I don't care if we win."
"I do."
He looked away. "Why?"
"Because…" She paused. "I don't know. I like doing things with you."
That made him go still.
Then she added, "Even if you act like a rainy Tuesday personified."
He snorted. "You're lucky I hate confrontation."
"I know."
⸻
They walked home side by side, not touching, not talking much.
Just enough quiet to notice it wasn't awkward anymore.
Not entirely.
They reached the school gates the next morning with Mizuki still chattering about floral-pattern teapots and maybe having a Union Jack flag made out of origami.
Elliot tuned half of it out. The other half, he found himself… tolerating. Which was worrying.
He didn't like this. The comfort. The normalcy. The way Mizuki looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention — soft, like she was trying to memorize the edges of him. It felt like standing on warm ground you knew was going to collapse.
And, as if summoned by that exact thought—
"Oi, Butler Boy."
Elliot stopped mid-step. So did Mizuki.
Standing just outside the front gate was Ami Yuzuki, leaning casually against the wall, hair down, sunglasses on, sipping a bubble tea like she'd just walked off a stage instead of straight into their school.
She took off the glasses. "Long time no see."
Mizuki blinked. "Wait, what are you—?"
"I transferred," Ami said with a shrug. "Old class was boring. I wanted a fresh audience."
She looked at Elliot, smile too sharp to be innocent.
"And I missed my manager."
⸻
The classroom practically exploded when Ami entered, late and radiant, dragging attention behind her like a comet.
Girls whispered. Boys stared. The teacher welcomed her stiffly, clearly unsure how to handle her presence.
Elliot watched from his desk, expression unreadable.
Mizuki sat beside him, noticeably quieter than usual.
Ami was placed two rows behind Elliot. Close enough to whisper. Close enough to make things complicated.
Every now and then, during class, he could feel her eyes on him. At one point, she kicked the back of his chair and passed him a folded note:
"So. You're a butler now?"
He didn't reply. Just crumpled it and kept writing.
A second note came two minutes later:
"Jealous. I wanted you all miserable and overworked for me, not for her."
He stared at that one a little longer.
Then he turned, slowly, and looked her dead in the eye.
She smirked and mouthed: "Missed me?"
⸻
Lunch was worse.
Mizuki had prepared little egg sandwiches "for the tea booth trial run," and invited Elliot to eat on the rooftop — just the two of them. He was about to agree.
Until Ami appeared beside them like a hallucination.
"Oh no, don't mind me," she said, already sitting down between them. "I just want to see what my manager's been doing behind my back."
Mizuki tried to be polite. "You're… friends with Elliot?"
Ami tilted her head. "Mmm. It's complicated. I blackmailed him once. Now we're emotionally codependent."
Elliot almost choked on his sandwich.
Mizuki gave him a look. "Is that true?"
"No," he muttered.
"Yes," Ami said at the same time.
"Which is it?"
Elliot looked at the sky. "God, take me now."
⸻
For the rest of lunch, Ami dominated the conversation. She interrogated Mizuki about the tea booth — her design ideas, decoration plans, music selection — all under the guise of "supportive curiosity."
But Elliot knew better. She wasn't asking. She was measuring.
When Mizuki brought out a small notebook full of ideas, Ami flipped through it like a judge on a cooking show.
"Hmm. A little basic. No offense," she said, smiling sweetly.
"None taken," Mizuki replied with a tighter smile.
"Though I do think Elliot looks cute in waistcoats. Just saying. I've seen him in worse."
"You've dressed him up before?"
"Only metaphorically. Though there was one time he ironed my costume. Shirtless."
"That didn't happen," Elliot snapped.
Mizuki blinked. "You ironed her costume?"
He stood up. "I'm leaving."
"No dessert?" Ami pouted.
He walked away without looking back.
⸻
After school, Mizuki didn't walk with him.
He told himself he didn't care.
He told himself Ami would've ruined it anyway.
He told himself it was easier like this — no expectations, no misunderstandings.
His phone buzzed.
📲 Ami: "You're not getting out of the next gig. Friday. I'll send details."
📲 Ami: "PS: She likes you, you know."
He didn't reply.
He didn't delete the message either.
That night, he stared at two texts — one from Mizuki (just a simple "good night") and one from Ami ("wake up early tomorrow, I'm dragging you to costume fittings").
He put the phone down, pulled the covers over his face, and muttered:
"I hate my life."