Weeks went by in a state that Nagi could almost describe as blissful. 

The Cooking Research Society remained a quiet sanctuary of flour and sugar, and Kaori had—mercifully—stopped her rapid-fire interrogations, even if she still watched his hands with a strange, lingering intensity whenever he handled a knife.

It was peaceful. It was manageable. It was exactly the low-profile existence he had worked so hard to engineer.

Nagi was several blocks away from the school gates, standing on the sidewalk just outside a convenience store. He was mid-bite into a chocolate bar, the wrapped end still hanging from his mouth as he adjusted the plastic bag in his hand. He looked like any other teenager in his off-campus gear: a loose, long-sleeved black shirt and oversized black cargo pants that made his tall silhouette bleed into the cooling afternoon shadows.

 He looked relaxed, almost invisible, right until the moment the air was ripped apart by a familiar, high-decibel shriek.

“Asahinaaaaaaa!!” 

Then came the sound of thundering footsteps and the frantic, high-pitched screech of rubber against pavement.

Hayato skidded to a halt, his sneakers smoking against the sidewalk as he narrowly avoided a full-body collision with Nagi. 

The golden-haired boy was a whirlwind of neon energy, wearing... well, a quintessential "Hayato" ensemble. 

It was a chaotic explosion of style: an oversized vintage windbreaker in three clashing primary colors that hissed with every move he made, paired with basketball shorts that were far too bright for the season, and high-top sneakers with neon laces that hadn't seen a proper knot in weeks. 

Hayato fell into step beside him with the natural ease of someone who assumed his presence was always welcome, which, Nagi had come to understand, was simply how Hayato operated. The windbreaker hissed rhythmically with every swing of his arms.

They walked in the direction of the residential streets without discussing it. 

Hayato lasted approximately forty seconds before speaking.

"You know," he started, casting a sideways glance at Nagi's outfit with the expression of someone conducting a thorough and professional assessment. "You dress like you're trying to disappear."

Nagi took a bite of his chocolate bar.

"...Good."

"Black shirt. Black pants." Hayato gestured broadly at the general silhouette beside him. "All black, all the time. It's like walking next to a shadow."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't one!" Hayato looked genuinely concerned, the way only someone in a three-color windbreaker could look genuinely concerned about another person's fashion choices. "Don't you want to stand out a little? Express yourself? Live?"

Nagi glanced at him sideways.

At the windbreaker, at the basketball shorts, and at the neon laces, which had, as predicted, not seen a proper knot in some time.

"...I don't want to be mistaken for a clown."

A beat of silence.

Hayato opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

He looked down at his own outfit.

Then, with the remarkable resilience of someone who had never once in his life felt embarrassed about anything:

"Okay, first of all, this is called having a personality!"

"...Sure."

"Second of all," Hayato continued, completely undeterred, "the windbreaker is a limited edition."

"Of what?"

"Does it matter?"

Nagi considered this.

"...No."

They turned the corner onto the residential stretch, the convenience store falling behind them. The street was quieter here, lined with low walls and narrow gardens, the occasional bicycle leaning against a fence. The kind of street that looked the same in every city but still managed to feel specific to wherever you were.

Hayato shoved his hands into his pockets, matching Nagi's unhurried pace with some effort, given that his natural setting appeared to be somewhere between a jog and a sprint.

Then, with the casual air of someone changing subjects but absolutely not changing subjects:

"Hey, give me your contact."

Nagi looked at him.

"We've been in the same class for weeks."

"I know." Hayato grinned. "I kept forgetting to ask."

"...How?"

"I'm a busy person, Asahina. I have a lot going on."

Nagi stared at him for a moment with the flat, patient expression of someone reassessing a situation they thought they had already assessed.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"Fine."

Hayato's face split into a grin wide enough to be visible from the next street over. He produced his own phone with the speed of someone who had been ready for this exact moment and had simply been waiting for permission.

"We should go out later," Hayato said, his thumbs blurring across his screen as he saved Nagi’s contact with a string of fire emojis. "There’s that arcade near the station, or we could just grab some food. My treat. Well, mostly my treat. I might be short five hundred yen."

Nagi didn't even look up from his phone as he tucked it back into his cargo pocket. "No."

"No? Just 'no'?" Hayato gasped, looking wounded. "Asahina, we just exchanged digits! This is the honeymoon phase of our friendship! You can’t shut me down this early."

"I have to help my grandfather at the dojo," Nagi said, his voice flat and final. It was a reliable excuse, one that usually ended conversations because people tended to respect the sanctity of traditional martial arts training. Or, more accurately, they were intimidated by the idea of his grandfather.

"The dojo, huh?" Hayato’s eyes lit up with a dangerous, predatory spark of curiosity. "I’ve seen the sign. The Asahina Dojo. Very old school. Very 'wax on, wax off' vibes."

"It’s just work, Hayato. Don't—"

But they were already there. 

The traditional wooden gates of the Asahina estate loomed ahead, the scent of aged cedar and floor wax drifting over the wall. Nagi moved to give a quick, dismissive wave and disappear inside, but Hayato was faster. He didn't just follow; he practically lunged through the entrance, his neon windbreaker hissing like a disgruntled snake.

"Excuse me! Hellooo! Master Asahina?" Hayato’s voice echoed through the courtyard, loud enough to startle the birds in the trees.

Nagi froze, a hand halfway to his bag strap. "Hayato, stop. Get out of here."

"I’m just being polite!" Hayato shouted back, already sliding his sneakers off at the engawa with zero hesitation.

Before Nagi could drag him back to the street, the sliding door at the end of the hall creaked open. Nagi’s grandfather stepped out, his posture like a steel rod, his eyes sharp enough to cut glass. He looked at Nagi, then shifted his gaze to the vibrating, neon-clad boy standing in his hallway.

"Grandpa," Nagi muttered, sounding exhausted. "This is Hayato. He was just leaving."

"I was actually wondering if I could borrow Nagi!" Hayato chirped, bowing so low his forehead nearly hit the floorboards. "We wanted to go out, but he said he had to help you with the dojo! I didn't want to be a burden, so I came to ask permission personally!"

Nagi waited for the rejection. He waited for his grandfather to bark about discipline, responsibility, or the unfinished cleaning in the corner of the training hall.

Instead, the old man let out a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh. He looked at Nagi, who was standing there in his all-black gear, looking like he wanted to merge with the shadows.

"Help?" his grandfather repeated, his voice raspy but firm. "All he does is mope around the corners like a cobweb. Take him."

Nagi blinked. "Wait, what?"

"Go," the old man commanded, waving a hand dismissively. "I’d appreciate it, honestly. It’s hard to meditate with him radiating boredom in my general direction. Take him and don't bring him back until he looks like he’s actually seen the sun."

Hayato let out a triumphant crow of victory, spinning around to face Nagi with a grin that was bordering on maniacal. "You heard the Master! Permission granted!"

Nagi stared at his grandfather, then at the neon whirlwind currently grabbing his arm. "I hate this," he whispered to no one in particular.