Saturday morning.
Inside a cooking class.
Sakurai Saki sat beside Nakano Miku, listening to the instructor with half an ear. The blackboard displayed detailed steps alongside extremely cute illustrations—the kind of aesthetic girls probably appreciated. The instructor himself was a good-looking young man.
Sakurai Saki noted this with clinical detachment.
The training institution understands human nature perfectly.
Consider: if you were an office worker, who would you rather have as your boss? A young, beautiful woman, or an average-looking man?
The answer was obvious. In this society, attractive people were simply more welcome. Office workers would even exploit their... remaining value to curry favor with a female boss.
Ah no at this rate, I'll be drained!
(Referring to remaining value. Obviously.)
"Saki-kun." Miku's calm, pleasant voice cut through his wandering thoughts. "You should listen."
Her statements always came out soft, sometimes broken into fragments mid-sentence. Like she was parceling out words one careful piece at a time.
Sakurai Saki glanced at the ingredients laid out before them. Miku was taking notes—more diligently than she ever did for actual studying.
He felt utterly helpless about this.
Miku, Matcha Alien. I really hope you can apply this much effort to your academics someday.
If she channeled even one-third of the energy she devoted to matcha soda, matcha cake, and Sengoku period games into her studies, she wouldn't be in this situation.
Sakurai Saki's internal monologue had, at this moment, taken on the distinctly exasperated tone of a long-suffering mother.
The handsome instructor finished explaining the steps and transitioned to demonstration.
"First, we'll make the cake batter. Add sugar to the egg whites and whisk until stiff peaks form..."
Sakurai Saki reached for the whisk.
"No." Miku stopped him.
His mind flashed back to last year. The first time they'd attended a cooking class together. Assigned to the same group. The other male member had ended up in the infirmary after eating their group's product and hadn't been seen for the rest of the afternoon.
Since that day, Sakurai Saki had never again allowed Miku to take the lead in cooking tasks.
"Here." He handed her the whisk.
You whisk. I'll supervise. This is safer for everyone involved.
A few minutes passed.
Miku cracked eggs with painstaking care, then began separating the whites. Her movements were excruciatingly slow.
Sakurai Saki could barely watch.
As a boy raised in a wagashi shop—a family business built on precise, efficient technique—her approach was physically painful to witness.
"Miku. Eggshell." He pointed.
"Mm. Thank you." She picked up chopsticks, attempting to fish the offending shell fragment from the bowl.
Sakurai Saki watched from the side, suppressing every instinct to correct her. It felt like standing in a park, watching elderly men play chess—each move so terrible it was almost impressive, and he had no right to intervene.
More time passed.
"Alright, everyone has completed the first step?" The instructor surveyed the room. His gaze landed on Sakurai Saki and Miku's station. Still not finished. "Everyone, check your whisking progress. We'll wait a few more minutes."
On stage, the instructor was ready to move to step two.
Sakurai Saki became acutely aware of the stares.
The class demographic skewed heavily female. Specifically, he was the only male student. And among the JK-aged girls present, priorities revolved around appearance, not financial status or personality.
At the peak of his peer group's looks, Sakurai Saki had become the unwitting focal point.
The girls' gazes were intense.
He shifted, positioning himself behind Miku. Using her as a human shield.
"Here." He reached around her, hands covering hers on the whisk. "Follow my lead."
Her hands were small. Soft. The knuckles were clearly defined, and her skin had a slightly unhealthy pallor—too much time indoors, probably.
Miku turned her head to look at him, voice serious: "I can do it myself."
"Too slow." He kept his voice low. "Haven't you noticed everyone staring?"
She looked up. Looked around.
Realization dawned.
"Ah."
A wave of embarrassment washed over her. She lowered her head, fell silent, and allowed Sakurai Saki to guide her movements without further protest.
"Whisk in one direction." His voice was calm, instructional. "Speed doesn't matter. Consistency does."
Miku's hand moved under his. Her back pressed lightly against his chest. She could smell his clothes—lavender, clean and soft.
So close.
Sakurai Saki, focused entirely on achieving proper peak formation in the egg whites, remained blissfully unaware of her racing heart.
More than an hour later.
The cake rested in the oven, baking behind warm glass.
Miku stood before it, eyes fixed on the slowly rising surface with undisguised anticipation.
Sakurai Saki watched her watch the cake.
At least she's consistent.
Matcha alien indeed.
Sakurai Saki exhaled internally.
Safe. Finally safe.
This time, he hadn't let Miku anywhere near the flavoring. He'd set the oven timer himself. No incidents. No culinary disasters. No classmates sent to the infirmary.
They'd made it.
While the cake baked, Sakurai Saki and Miku noticed the rest of the classroom had dissolved into casual chatter. Couples whispered. Friend groups giggled. The atmosphere had shifted from instructional to social.
They, too, attempted conversation.
"I originally thought you'd use the wish ticket to make me play games with you," Sakurai Saki offered.
Miku pouted—a small expression that transformed her face into something resembling an adorable hamster.
"Saki-kun doesn't even like Sengoku history."
"Who said that?" He raised an eyebrow. "The Sengoku period began in 1467. I know names. I know dates. I even know their Musou skills!"
"That's just video games!" Her soft voice carried a note of protest, distinctive in its gentleness.
"And what's wrong with hack-and-slash?" Sakurai Saki genuinely didn't understand the objection. Stress relief. Destructive urges channeled productively. If the difficulty weren't so pathetically low, he'd consider it the perfect daily outlet.
"The character designs are all wrong..." Miku insisted stubbornly.
"Is it strange for Oda Nobunaga to wield a demonic sword? He's the Sixth Heavenly Demon King—shouldn't he have wings?" Sakurai Saki pressed. "Besides, in some games, Nobunaga is outright female. I've seen plenty where famous generals are missing something below and gain something above."
Miku's eyes widened. "Don't play those strange games!"
"Strange games?" He couldn't resist. "Which kind exactly?"
Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. A blush crept across her cheeks. She looked away, anywhere but at him.
"Those... 'various' games."
"Ah." Sakurai Saki nodded slowly, a smile tugging at his lips. "That kind."
Interesting.
Of the five sisters, Miku might actually be the most knowledgeable about sex education. She liked the internet. She spent time online. And the internet, as everyone knew, contained substantial amounts of 'yellow waste'.
A cute, quiet, devoted otaku girl who secretly qualified as an experienced driver?
That's... actually kind of interesting.
The thought gave him pause.
Am I slipping lately?
Ever since becoming a vampire, his acceptance of 'various' topics had noticeably increased. His mind connected things to that aspect more readily than before.
Mr. Zhou Shuren's observation was remarkably apt: See a white arm, think of thighs. Think of genitals. Think of intercourse. Think of hybridization. Think of illegitimate children.
Human thought really was that jumpy.
"I haven't... haven't played them." Miku's mumbled explanation cut through his rumination. Both hands pressed against her chest, her posture uneasy and utterly endearing.
"Did you accidentally click into them? Or did you—"
Before he could finish, a small fist connected lightly with his chest.
Thump.
"...Saki-kun is bullying me."
"Cute," Sakurai Saki said. The word escaped before he could filter it.
Miku's face ignited.
She glanced left. Glanced right. Found no escape route, no convenient exit, no way to flee this conversation with dignity intact.
So she squatted.
Right there on the classroom floor.
Hands wrapped around her knees, face buried, acting for all the world like a very flustered little ostrich.
Sakurai Saki looked down at her.
Definitely cute.
The oven timer hadn't rung yet. He had time.