The door slides open.

Sunlight spills in—and he ducks inside.

Tall frame. Light-brown hair catching gold at the tips.

Then he lifts his head.

Ice-blue eyes. Calm, distant, unfairly bright.

While half the class is busy selling their Ishida stock and buying whatever this new guy is, I’m busy freaking out.

No way. My cold, emotionally unavailable manga prince can’t just be our new transfer student.

Without thinking, the words tumble out.
“The Prince of Trash.”

Silence.

He pauses—head tilting slightly, eyes flicking my way.

Great. I just broke immersion. The fandom’s going to cancel me for corrupting the Ice Prince’s brand. I didn’t even save before this cutscene.

“Everyone, this is our new transfer student,” the teacher says, mercifully breaking the moment.

He smiles, polite and effortless. “Good morning. I’m Louis Devereux. I just moved here from France. Please take care of me.”

Louis Devereux. Omg, so fancy—and he’s from France. Total paid-DLC-character vibes.
But when did he learn to say hi and freaking smile? My mysterious Ice Prince does not politely introduce himself. He appears in silence, radiating despair.

The room ripples with whispers—Foreign. From France. Good-looking.

Half the girls are already twirling their hair.
Even the boys look like they’ve accepted defeat.

I just stare, pretending none of this concerns me—but my brain’s already short-circuiting with questions, ready to explode.

And before I can even process any of it—

“Devereux, you can take the empty seat in the back,” the teacher says. “Next to Tanaka.”

Next to… me.
Oh, so this is what happens when the god of otaku actually listens.

Louis walks down the aisle. For a second I swear he glances my way—just briefly, like he’s checking something. My pulse jumps.

He sets his bag down with the kind of precision that makes even sitting look like a choreographed dance.

Still, something’s off.

At the shop, he was cold—quiet, unreadable, like the perfect limited-edition figurine.
Now he’s… smiling? Talking? Breathing?
Someone patch-rolled the wrong version of the Dark Prince of late-night manga runs.

It shouldn’t bother me, but it does—like watching your favorite villain suddenly apologize for character development.

“Hi,” he says, friendly smile still in place. “Nice to meet you.”

My Ice Prince doesn’t greet people. He stares out windows and radiates tragic energy. Someone definitely nerfed his aura stats.

I just sit there, mentally buffering like a lagging NPC.

“Uh… are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

That breaks the spell. “H-Hi!” I blurt, two beats too late.

Great. Perfect. I’ve officially responded to the wrong line of dialogue.

I stare straight ahead, trying to reboot my dignity while my brain runs background panic processes at 300%.

When class begins, he leans a little closer. “Could I share your textbook for today? I don’t have mine yet.”

“Sure,” I mumble, sliding it between us. Our shoulders almost touch.

That citrus scent—same as the shop. Coincidence, maybe. Or maybe he shares the same perfume as his much hotter, much colder twin.

The teacher drones about schedules.

He doesn’t recognize me. Which means either I’m in the wrong route… or the dev-gods are playing with my heart again.

Still, a tiny part of me wishes he’d look twice—just once—to prove I’m not imagining all of it.

The lunch chime cuts through my thoughts—bright and cheerful, like it’s mocking everyone’s hunger.

“Tanaka,” the teacher calls before I can stand. “Don’t forget—you’re showing Devereux around during lunch.”

Right. That.

I glance sideways. Louis is already standing beside his desk, lunch bag in hand, like he knew I’d need reminding.
“Shall we?” he asks, polite as ever.

“Y-Yeah. Sure.”

We step into the hallway together. He walks beside me—not too close, not too far—like he’s studied the optimal distance for being considerate.

Meanwhile, half the hallway’s running silent commentary like it’s a livestream: Who’s she? Why her? Did she win a raffle?

Great. I’ve accidentally triggered a public escort mission.

“So,” I start, desperate to fill the silence, “this is the first-year wing—loud, chaotic, and occasionally lethal.”

He chuckles softly. “That sounds… intense.”

We pass a few students who wave at him—already. The guy’s been here for, what, three hours? Must be nice having protagonist aura.

At the end of the hall, sunlight pours through a window overlooking the courtyard. Students scatter on benches and under trees, laughing, eating, alive.

“It’s beautiful here,” Louis says, leaning slightly toward the glass.

I clear my throat. “Yeah—come on, there’s still more to see.”

We spend the next few minutes looping through the campus—the gym, the science building, the library—until we reach the old cherry tree behind the main building.
The petals haven’t started falling yet, but the air around it still feels… cinematic.
Like something important is about to happen there.

Louis slows his pace, glancing up at the branches.
“It’s beautiful,” he says softly. “Can we sit here for a bit?”

My brain immediately hits panic mode.
Oh no. Under the cherry tree? That’s where confessions happen. 
Nothing good ever happens for background characters under a cherry tree.

“S-Sit? Sure! Totally casual, definitely-not-a-romance-event sitting!”

If this were a visual novel, I’d be hammering the skip button right now.

He blinks, amused. “Right.”

He sits beside me, opening his neatly packed lunch.
It looks like something out of a magazine—perfectly rolled omelette, glossy rice, vegetables arranged like art.

“You made that yourself?” I ask before thinking.

He nods, smiling. “Cooking helps me relax. Would you like to try some?”

Cooking. Relaxing. Not when you nearly burned your whole house down trying to make an omelette, buddy.

I wave my hands quickly. “N-No! I mean, I—uh—don’t want to steal your lunch.”

He laughs softly. “Don’t worry, I made more than enough for two. Or would you prefer I feed you?”

“Feed me—what?!” My face turns bright red. “No, no! I can feed myself!”

I grab a rolled omelette and take a bite. It tastes amazing—I’ve never eaten rolled omelette this fluffy before.

He watches me eat with a huge smile.

This is so weird. I’m used to being the NPC who eats her convenience-store bento alone on a bench—not the one sharing lunch with the hot new transfer student.
No one’s ever sat this close before, or looked right at me when they talk.
It’s… kind of nice, actually.
Even if I do miss my aura-flaming prince of the night, this vanilla shoujo-protag Louis is just as dreamy.

“So, Shizuka—what do you think of my cooking?” he asks.

…Wait. Shizuka? No honorifics, no warning—just straight-up first name like we’ve been childhood friends in an anime opening.

Calm down, brain. It’s fine. Totally normal. He’s from France. They use first names all the time. He didn’t mean anything by it. Relax.

Meanwhile, my internal temperature is approaching Sakurajima-level eruption.

He tilts his head. “Oh, sorry—should I say Tanaka-kun? No? Or maybe Tanaka-chan, right?”

Abort mission.

My heart is actually going to explode. No one has ever called me Tanaka-chan before.
What do I do? Pretend to faint? Take advantage of this moment and die later?

“N-No! Shizuka’s fine!” I blurt. “Totally fine! Very… efficient.”

I’m going to hell for taking advantage of this cultural misunderstanding.

He laughs—out loud. Actual sound.
I can’t process this. My Ice Prince is laughing. Laughing.
His smile is so warm. Gentle.

Dear otaku god, please tell me he has an identical twin.

“So, Shizuka? What do you like to do around here?”

Error 404. Everything I do involves manga, video games, or snacks.

“I… crepes. Going to eat crepes,” I say finally. “And shopping downtown. Sometimes.” (“Sometimes” meaning never, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

He seems genuinely interested. “Then maybe we can try some crepes after school. What do you say?”

And there it is—the unmistakable chime of an event flag.
Is the world ending? How am I—the least social creature in this city—getting asked out?
I’ve never even gone out with a friend, and now we’re skipping straight to Louis?!

My brain bluescreens. “You mean… like a tour?”

He nods, that easy smile still there. “Sure—a tour. Why not?”

…That’s a date. That’s literally a date.

“Uh—sure,” I say, voice a full octave too high.

He laughs again, quiet and warm, like he’s already solved the puzzle of me.

The chime rings. Lunch is over. My heart isn’t.

Oh no. I have a date with the mysterious manga guy.

Someone please unplug me before I short-circuit.

I used to dream about getting swept into a grand romantic adventure.

Turns out, it’s a lot easier when you’re safely behind the counter shipping it.

The gods of otaku really answered my prayers—just not in the patch notes I expected.

Next episode: Operation: Survive the “Not-a-Date” Date.

Thanks for reading Episode 3! 💕

I had so much fun writing this one — next chapter’s gonna be even more chaos.

New episodes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday 💫