Chapter 4
Seiryo Academy always became louder when it had something to anticipate.
The official cultural festival announcement spread through the halls before the teachers could even finish writing it on the chalkboard. Decorations, food stalls, musical performances, study booths, and committees—it was chaos disguised as school spirit.
Emilia Laurent did not enjoy chaos; she enjoyed control. But she also knew that chaos could be highly useful. Distraction, after all, lowered a person's defenses. And lately, she had found herself studying a specific person far more than her own textbooks.
When she entered the classroom that morning, she noticed two things immediately. First, the chalkboard read in large, bold letters: Cultural Festival Committee Sign-Ups — After School. Second, Ren Takahashi was smiling again.
Not at her, of course. He was smiling at Hana.
Hana stood beside his desk with an open notebook, pointing at something enthusiastically. Ren leaned slightly closer to get a better look, murmuring something in response that made her laugh—a soft, bright sound that echoed through the room. It didn't irritate Emilia. It absolutely, undeniably irritated Emilia.
She walked past them without slowing down, took her seat, and opened her notebook. She wrote the date at the very top of the page with perfectly steady handwriting, though her pen pressed just a fraction harder against the paper than usual.
Yui dropped into the chair beside her, instantly following Emilia's gaze. "Oh," Yui said quietly. "We're doing this again?"
"You look like you're calculating."
"I am."
"That's worse."
Emilia closed her notebook with deliberate calm. She would not glare. She would not overreact. She would simply observe.
When the teacher finally called for attention, Hana returned to her seat and Ren looked toward the front again. He was back to being calm and unreadable, as if absolutely nothing from his conversation with Hana lingered in his mind.
From her desk, Emilia studied the profile of his face. His composure was remarkably consistent—even yesterday when she had pushed him, even when she had leaned in close, and even when she had actively tested his reactions. He had reacted, though. Barely. A sudden tightening of his fingers, a delayed breath, a blink half a second too slow. He understood something. Not everything, perhaps, but something. She knew it, and that realization only made this game more interesting.
The class representative stood up at the podium to explain the various committee roles. "We have openings in decorations, performance, food stalls, and the study booth," he announced. "Naturally, the study booth needs our top-ranking volunteers."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the room, and all eyes instinctively flicked toward the top two names in the class. Emilia remained perfectly still. Ren didn't move a muscle.
"Laurent?" the teacher prompted from her desk.
Emilia raised her hand smoothly. "I will assist."
"Takahashi?"
After a small pause, Ren raised his hand as well. "Sure."
Of course he does.
The teacher smiled warmly. "Good. You two can coordinate the booth."
Beside her, Yui made a delighted, choked-up noise. Emilia ignored her. Coordination implied proximity, and proximity implied opportunity.
After class, the hallway hummed with festival excitement as students gathered in tight clusters to discuss their plans. Ren stood near the courtyard window, quietly reviewing the newly printed committee sign-up sheet.
Emilia approached him deliberately—not too fast, and not too slow. He sensed her before she even spoke; he always did.
"We'll need to meet," she said evenly, stopping beside him.
He nodded, shifting his gaze to her. "When?"
"After school tomorrow."
"Okay."
That was it. There was no resistance and no hesitation. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes searching his. "Tu acceptes trop facilement." [You accept too easily.]
He glanced down at her. "I volunteered."
"That doesn't mean you have to cooperate."
A faint pause stretched between them. "Are you planning not to?" he countered.
She stepped closer—just a little, but it was enough to shorten the air between them. "Je pourrais te rendre les choses difficiles." [I could make things difficult for you.]
Ren studied her face. His expression remained entirely steady, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He caught the word difficiles. He had learned that specific word recently.
"I doubt it," he said calmly.
Her lips curved into a dangerous little smile. "Tu es sûr ?" [Are you sure?]
He didn't answer immediately because he understood that one too. Sûr. Sure. Even if he didn't know every vocabulary word yet, he understood her tone perfectly. He had noticed her patterns. When her voice softened, her phrases became significantly more dangerous. When her eyes held his a second too long, she was pushing for a reaction. He may not have been fluent in French, but he wasn't ignorant either.
"I'm sure," he replied finally, his voice dropping slightly.
Emilia leaned just a fraction closer, her eyes locked onto his. "On verra." [We'll see.]
That last phrase, he knew completely. He didn't react outwardly, but his pulse shifted all the same.
From across the hallway, Kaito watched the interaction with open fascination. "You two planning world domination or something?" he called out.
"No," Ren replied automatically.
"Yes," Emilia said at the exact same time.
Kaito's grin widened. "I definitely like her answer better."
Emilia didn't look at him. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed ahead and spoke lightly in French. "Il parle trop." [He talks too much.]
Kaito squinted at her suspiciously. "That was about me, wasn't it?"
Ren shrugged faintly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Probably."
Kaito pointed a finger at him accusingly. "You're entirely too calm about this, Takahashi."
Ren didn't explain himself. Because if he explained, he would have to admit that he was catching far more than just pieces of her sentences. And that would completely ruin the game.
She stepped away with a victorious tilt of her chin, completely satisfied with her exit line.
But as she walked down the corridor, her analytical mind began to replay the tape of their conversation. Wait, she thought, slowing her steps slightly.
"Tu es jaloux ?" [Are you jealous?] -> "Are you?"
"Je pourrais te rendre les choses difficiles." [I could make things difficult.] -> "I doubt it."
"Tu es sûr ?" [Are you sure?] -> "I'm sure."
She paused near the water fountain, her eyes narrowing in deep thought. His responses had been incredibly precise. It was almost as if...
No. Emilia shook her head, a faint, amused smile returning to her lips. That's statistically impossible. Ren Takahashi was born and raised in Seiryo City. He took standard English & Japanese classes just like everyone else. There was no record of him ever taking a single French module.
Besides, if he actually understood her, he would have panicked, or smirked, or tried to correct her. Instead, he just answered with that flat, neutral calm.
He's just intuitive, she concluded, thoroughly satisfied with her own brilliant deduction. He's simply reading my tone and guessing the context based on my body language. He thinks he's being clever by playing along with vague answers.
She adjusted her bag, her confidence fully restored. Let him guess all he wanted. It only made the game easier for her. After all, a boy who relies on guesswork will eventually trip himself up.
Later that day, during literature class, the teacher assigned silent reading time. The classroom quickly quieted down as pages turned and pens scratched rhythmically against paper.
Emilia shifted in her seat deliberately. She leaned back just enough that the legs of her chair almost touched the front of Ren's desk. Almost. She pretended it was entirely accidental, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on her book as she murmured, "Tu ne m'évites pas." [You're not avoiding me.]
Ren looked up from his novel. "I never was."
That wasn't the answer she had been angling for. She turned her head slightly to the side. "Tu pourrais." [You could.]
He blinked. He recognized pourrais. Could.
"I don't see a reason to," he said smoothly.
Her gaze sharpened, and she lowered her voice just a fraction more. "Tu n'as pas peur ?" [Aren't you afraid?]
He understood that one crystal clear. Peur. Fear. He met her eyes directly. "No."
The answer was so immediate that it unsettled her far more than any hesitation would have. She had expected caution, or perhaps a defensive stance. Instead, he seemed completely steady.
"Pourquoi ?" [Why?]
Ren paused this time. He only recognized that specific word because of how often she repeated it. Why. He thought about it for a quiet moment, staring at her, before he finally offered his answer. "Because you wouldn't actually hurt me."
Her breath faltered faintly. That was absolutely not what she had prepared herself for. Caught off guard, she was the one to look away first, staring hard at the chalkboard. "Ne sois pas naïf." [Don't be naive.]
He didn't respond to that, but the look on his face softened significantly. It wasn't a mocking expression, and it wasn't dismissive. It was just entirely certain.
He's not reacting the way he should, Emilia thought, her mind racing as she gripped the edges of her book. He's not flustered at all. He's not defensive. He's steady. Why is he so infuriatingly steady? Does he actually understand more than he lets on... or am I just completely overestimating him?
That thought lingered much longer than she wanted it to, but she quickly pushed it aside. No, that's statistically impossible.
When the final bell rang, students immediately flooded into the hallway. Emilia gathered her things with her usual calm, and as she passed Ren's desk, she stopped briefly. "Tomorrow," she said.
"Yes."
She studied him for one more second before murmuring softly, "Fais attention." [Be careful.]
This time, she didn't mean it with a romantic undertone; she meant it entirely strategically.
Ren watched her walk away until her lavender hair disappeared into the crowd. I don't understand every single thing she says, he thought, his chest tightening with a mix of anticipation and nerves. But I understand enough. She's pushing. And I think... she wants me to push back. He didn't know if that was a smart idea, but he knew one thing for certain: he didn't plan on retreating.
Misheard
After school, Seiryo Academy exhaled. The building didn't become completely silent so much as it became selective—only certain sounds remained. There was the distant, rhythmic thud of balls from the sports field, the faint echo of a teacher's voice somewhere far down the hall, and the soft click of heavy doors closing one by one.
Emilia Laurent preferred this version of the world. It was much easier to hear what actually mattered.
She arrived at the library a few minutes early, because being early was a form of control. The library sat in the older wing of Seiryo Academy, a place where the wooden floors creaked slightly underfoot and the afternoon light filtered in soft and slanted through tall, arched windows. Emilia chose a table near the back, far from the check-out desk, where the towering bookshelves made the space feel perfectly contained, private, and predictable.
She placed the festival committee sheet down first, right in the center of the table. Then came her notebook, then her pen, and finally her phone—face down, because she had absolutely no intention of being interrupted.
Yui had certainly tried to warn her.
"You're meeting him in the library?" Yui had asked during lunch, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin. "That's practically a confession."
"It's practically a table," Emilia had replied flatly.
Now, sitting at that very table, she watched the entrance. Ren was late by exactly one minute, which, by standard definitions, meant he wasn't late at all.
He stepped inside quietly, as if he were afraid of disturbing the books themselves. His silver hair was slightly ruffled by the wind outside, and he carried two things: his school bag and a thin folder that looked like it contained neatly organized papers.
He spotted her immediately. His gaze landed on her—steady, calm—and something in his posture loosened by half a degree. It wasn't total relaxation, exactly; it was a quiet sort of recognition. He approached the table without any hesitation.
"You chose the back," he noted, pulling out the chair across from her.
"It's quieter."
He sat down and placed his folder down neatly. Emilia made a mental note of it. His presentation wasn't sloppy, casual, or indifferent. He was prepared. Interesting.
They opened their respective papers at the exact same time, a moment so synchronized that Emilia hated herself for even noticing it. They began their work logically, diving straight into the study booth schedule, the volunteer list, and the subject rotations.
Emilia outlined the grand strategy; Ren refined the details. She offered a complex structure, and he calmly shaved away the unnecessary steps. She didn't like that. She liked it. Apparently, both conflicting truths could exist in her mind at the same time.
"We'll need sign-up sheets," Ren said, tapping the list lightly with his pen. "And we should probably draft some sample questions."
"I already have sample questions," Emilia replied smoothly, sliding a stack of perfectly printed sheets across the wooden table.
Ren paused, looking down at the immaculate documents. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Of course you do."
It wasn't sarcasm. It was a pure, unfiltered acknowledgment of exactly who she was.
Emilia's chin lifted slightly. "You didn't prepare anything?"
In response, Ren opened his folder and slid out a single page of handwritten notes. "Volunteer shifts and contingency plans," he said.
Emilia scanned the page. It was tidy, efficient, and written in a clear, small, and tightly controlled script. She looked up, meeting his eyes. "You planned contingencies."
He shrugged faintly. "There will always be people who don't show up."
"That's pessimistic."
"That's realistic."
Emilia's lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He wasn't wrong, which was incredibly annoying.
She glanced toward the arched window for a brief moment, as if to reset her racing thoughts, before returning her gaze to him. She decided it was time to test something else—not his vocabulary, but something far more subtle: his tone.
Leaning forward, she rested her elbows lightly on the wooden table. The distance between them shrank instantly. "Tu es vraiment fiable." [You're really reliable.]
Ren blinked once. He recognized vraiment [really], and he recognized fiable [reliable] only because she said it so slowly. He had encountered it somewhere before—maybe in a vocabulary textbook, maybe on a sign, or perhaps just in scattered pieces of his own memory. But more than the words, he caught her tone. It was noticeably softer than her usual sharpness.
He answered carefully, keeping his voice low. "Thanks."
She tilted her head, her lavender eyes boring into his. "Tu comprends ça ?" [You understand that?]
Ren's eyes narrowed slightly in deep thought. He knew comprends [understand] from sheer repetition; he knew exactly what she was asking him. He chose a path of carefully measured honesty, wanting to play along without giving his secret away. "Some of it."
Emilia's eyes sharpened with immense interest. "Combien ?" [How much?]
Ren paused. He knew that one instantly: how much. He had heard it in French class drills, in videos, and from her own lips enough times to recognize it without hesitation. He decided to be deliberately vague. "Only a word or two. You do repeat certain words."
A faint, victorious smile curved Emilia's lips. "That's what I thought."
Ren kept his expression neutral. "It's the safest approach."
She studied him for a long, quiet moment, thoroughly satisfied with her own brilliant deduction. To her, his answer proved everything: he didn't speak French at all; he was just a clever boy guessing based on context clues. She sat back in her chair, looking as though she were neatly storing him away in a specific mental file.
Of course, with Emilia, it was always hard to tell what she was truly thinking.
They worked for another twenty minutes, and under their combined efforts, the plan became perfectly clean and the schedule grew neat. Sometimes their hands moved across the documents at the exact same time, and twice their fingers brushed as they reached for the same sheet of paper.
The second time it happened, Ren pulled his hand back quickly. It wasn't a dramatic gesture—just a pure, instinctive reflex.
Emilia noticed anyway. Of course she did.
She didn't comment right away, choosing instead to wait until he was looking down at the page again. Then, she asked in a perfectly casual tone, "Tu es nerveux ?" [Are you nervous?]
Ren's pen stilled against the paper. He recognized nerveux [nervous] instantly because it was so close to the English word, and because she delivered it with that slight, mocking tilt of amusement. He answered in the most neutral tone he could possibly manage. "No."
Emilia's gaze lifted, her lavender eyes watching him closely for a beat. Then, with a deliberate, heart-stopping softness, she murmured, "C'est mignon." [It's cute.]
Ren understood mignon—cute. He knew it because it appeared frequently in his vocabulary lists, and because the word was unmistakably dangerous coming from her mouth. The tips of his ears warmed slightly, but he forced his facial expression to remain entirely calm, pretending to scan the columns of the schedule.
She's doing it again, Ren thought, his pulse quickening as he stared at the blurred lines of text. She's saying things that sound like... something else entirely. But she's smiling like it's just a game. So it must be a game. It has to be.
Emilia watched his apparent lack of reaction. At first, she felt a small, sharp sting of irritation, but it was quickly replaced by a spark of immense satisfaction. He had heard it. She knew for a fact that he had heard it, and he had consciously chosen not to react.
Good, she thought, her smile widening ever so slightly. That meant she could push even harder.
Ren reached into his bag for a ruler to align the columns on the schedule sheet. But as he pulled it out, his folder shifted, catching on the zipper, and slid right off the edge of the table.
Papers fluttered everywhere.
Ren reacted instantly, diving down to catch them. Emilia stood up at the exact same moment to help, and their movements collided mid-air. Her knee hit the edge of the table lightly, his shoulder brushed against her arm, and her hand reached for a loose page at the precise second his did.
Their fingers closed around the same piece of paper. And they froze.
For half a second, their hands completely overlapped. His skin was warm, close enough that Emilia could feel the slight, rigid tension in his grip. Ren's breath caught—barely. Emilia's pulse completely tripped over itself.
She let go first, telling herself she did it because she chose to, not because she had to.
Ren picked up the paper quickly and stood up, clearing his throat softly. "Sorry."
Emilia smoothed her skirt with absolute poise, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. "You're clumsy."
"I'm not."
"You are today."
Ren blinked, finding himself entirely unable to argue with that.
Emilia sat back down slowly, folding her hands over her lap. Then, as if it were a perfectly casual observation, she murmured, "Tu fais exprès." [You're doing it on purpose.]
Ren paused. He recognized exprès—on purpose—only vaguely. He had heard it in passing, but he wasn't entirely certain of the definition. He caught just enough to understand she was accusing him of doing something intentionally, and his mind immediately jumped to the only thing that made sense to him: the teasing, the proximity, and the way she kept leaning into his space.
He thought she was accusing him of actively playing the game back. His posture stiffened slightly. "What?" he asked quietly.
Emilia tilted her head, thoroughly amused by his serious expression. "Tu me fais perdre du temps." [You're making me waste time.]
Ren caught perdre [lose] and temps [time]. Waste time. He understood that perfectly, and a wave of relief loosened his shoulders by half a degree. "You're the one who chose to meet here," he pointed out.
Emilia smiled faintly. "Exactement." [Exactly.]
That word, he knew without a doubt.
They continued their work, but the air in the back of the library had changed. It wasn't a dramatic shift—just a subtle, silent tightening, like a violin string pulled slightly tighter than before.
Emilia tapped her pen lightly against the paper, a slow, rhythmic sound. Ren's eyes followed the motion once before he forced them back to the schedule columns.
Emilia noticed the glance. Of course she did. She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. "Tu ne sais pas quoi faire avec moi." [You don't know what to do with me.]
Ren understood quoi faire [what to do] only partially. He caught the general shape of the sentence and the tone, which sounded teasing—as if she were mocking his stubborn calmness. But beneath that, there was a second layer to her words, a hidden weight that he couldn't quite define. He wasn't sure which version of her was real.
He responded cautiously, keeping his tone level. "I'm doing fine."
Emilia's eyes narrowed slightly in mild disappointment. "That's also not an answer."
Ren exhales a quiet breath through his nose. "You ask questions like they're traps."
Emilia's mouth curved into a pleased, victorious expression. "Tu apprends vite." [You learn quickly.]
Ren understood that one instantly; he had heard her say it to him before. Learn quickly.
He looked down at the paper again, forcing himself to focus on the printed numbers. She's not just teasing, he realized, a newfound sense of caution setting in. She's measuring. She's analyzing me the exact same way she measured the ranking board and my reaction to it. She's actively trying to find a weakness.
Emilia watched him look away, and a sudden, sharp realization dawned on her. He was actively trying not to look at her whenever she spoke those French phrases.
Which meant he felt something. Which meant, beneath that infuriatingly calm exterior, there was finally a crack.
As the afternoon stretched toward early evening, the library emptied out further. A librarian wheeled a heavy cart of returned books past their table without speaking, only glancing down at their papers with a nod of mild approval.
Emilia flipped to a fresh page in her notebook. "We're almost done," she said.
Ren nodded.
Then, without thinking too hard—and letting the words slip out softly, dangerously—she added in French, "Si tu continues comme ça... je vais m'habituer." [If you keep this up... I'm going to get used to it.]
Ren heard si tu continues [if you keep going] because he had encountered that specific grammatical structure in his French class drills. He also caught the root of habitu...—something. Habit. Used to it.
But he interpreted the context completely wrong. He thought she meant she was going to get used to him taking first place. To him being ranked above her. To losing.
His expression tightened slightly, his voice dropping quietly. "That's not a good thing."
Emilia paused, her pen hovering a millimeter above the page. "What?"
He looked up, meeting her eyes. "You shouldn't get used to losing."
Emilia stared at him. For a split second, her immaculate composure genuinely faltered because that was not what she had meant at all. It wasn't even close.
She had meant getting used to him. To meeting like this after school. To working together. To the low, steady sound of his calm voice across a wooden table. To the way his hands moved when he organized papers, and to the searing warmth of his fingers brushing against hers for half a second.
A sudden wave of heat rushed to her cheeks. She was deeply irritated—not at him, but entirely at herself. The sentence had been far too honest, and because she had hidden it behind a foreign language, he had completely misunderstood it. That was the ultimate danger of speaking in half-truths.
Sitting back slowly, she forced her tone into something much sharper. "Ce n'était pas ça." [That's not what I meant.]
Ren blinked, confused by her sudden shift. He understood pas ça [not that]. "What did you mean, then?" he asked carefully.
Emilia's eyes held his for a long, quiet moment. This was the exact intersection where she could clarify everything. She could lay her weapons down and say it plainly in a language they both spoke. But Emilia Laurent did not clarify feelings. Not yet.
Instead, she tilted her head and let her trademark teasing return like a shield. "Tu es vraiment lent parfois." [You're really slow sometimes.]
Ren's brows drew together. "Am I?"
"Oui." [Yes.]
He exhaled softly, clearly frustrated but trying his best to remain calm. "Then say it in a way I can actually understand."
Emilia's lips curved into a faint, mischievous smile. "Mais c'est plus amusant comme ça." [But it's more fun this way.]
Ren held her gaze. His expression was as steady as always, but his eyes—just for a fleeting second—looked tired. He wasn't angry; he just looked deeply unsure.
He didn't understand everything she was throwing at him, and she knew that now. She had been testing his absolute limits without admitting it, and he had been desperately trying to keep up with her without showing it. The game was not equal. Not yet. But the pieces were finally moving.
When they finished packing up their respective papers, Ren stood and slid his chair in neatly. Emilia gathered her notebook, her movements careful and entirely composed.
They walked toward the library entrance together. The hallway outside was darker now, illuminated only by the warm glow of the evening lamps. At the shoe lockers, they paused instinctively, a quiet, awkward beat stretching out between them.
Ren spoke first. "Tomorrow?"
Emilia nodded. "Yes."
Then, because she simply could not stop herself—and because she desperately needed to regain control of the moment—she leaned slightly closer and whispered a final French phrase. "Tu vas t'accrocher." [You're going to get attached.]
Ren heard accrocher and immediately thought of hanging posters or pinning things to a board. He didn't understand the idiom at all. Assuming she meant he was going to get stuck doing all the heavy lifting for the festival booth, he answered dryly, "I already volunteered."
Emilia smiled to herself as she slid her outdoor shoes on. He hadn't understood a thing. Good. Let that line sit inside his head anyway.
She stepped out toward the exit gates first. "Bonne nuit." [Good night.]
Ren hesitated for a brief second before answering her in careful French—his pronunciation was slightly imperfect, but it was entirely earnest. "Bonne nuit." [Good night.]
Emilia paused for just a fraction of a heartbeat. He was learning. Quietly, piece by piece, he was catching up to her.
She walked out into the cool evening air, feeling a strange sensation she didn't want to name. It wasn't the thrill of victory, and it wasn't the sting of defeat. It was something else entirely—a coiled tension that had absolutely nowhere to go.