Mitsuya Takashi *"

The sewing room was quieter than usual. The sound of scissors and needles clicking against the table was the only thing that broke the calm. You were there again, even though you'd promised yourself you wouldn't return. Not after him.

Mitsuya stood in front of you, giving instructions to the group. His voice was the same as always: calm, clear, patient. But to you, it was a stab disguised as tenderness. Because that voice had once told you "I love you," and now it sounded as distant as if it had never happened.

They had broken up a few months earlier. Not for lack of love, but because they both hurt each other with pride and words that couldn't be taken back. However, fate was cruel: they remained teammates at the club.

“The fabric is wrinkling because you’re not holding it properly,” Mitsuya suddenly said, approaching your table. His hands brushed against yours as he arranged the fabric, and a shiver ran through you.

—I don't need your help —you responded curtly, avoiding looking at him.

But he didn't move away. He lowered his voice, almost a whisper. —You're still just as stubborn.

You couldn't stand him. That tone, somewhere between sweet and defiant, made you want to hate him even more, but only made you miss him.

And the worst part was the scene that followed: one of the club girls, wearing pigtails, approached with an overconfident smile and asked for help with some embroidery. Mitsuya agreed, leaning toward her patiently. She laughed at his every instruction, as if she were looking for something more than just learning how to sew.

You felt your blood boil. That girl was too close, touching his arm, looking at him as if he belonged to her.

You couldn't keep quiet. —Do you also give private lessons, Mitsuya? —you said with venom in your voice.

He looked up, surprised by your comment, and his expression changed from calm to annoyed in a second. —What do you care? —he replied coldly.