[Jow Ylliard Hayle]
"I'm fine."
I stood up and dusted myself off, ignoring the hand she offered.
"Thanks for the gesture," I said with a faint smile before turning my back on her and walking out of the classroom.
She didn’t say anything else. I kept moving forward without looking back.
> Maybe I’ll just eat lunch at the clubroom.<
I headed to the canteen.
The noise was overwhelming.
Students swarmed the food counter, elbowing their way forward, trying to beat each other to lunch. The air was thick with a mix of scents—spoiled sweat, fragrant food, and something undeniably foul. Someone had clearly let one loose.
I stood in line for five minutes, squeezing in whenever I spotted a gap.
Clutched tightly in my hand was a plastic bag holding a fragrant sandwich filled with cabbage, mayonnaise, and a bit of meat. I also had a styrofoam container with two fried siomai pieces and rice.
Just as I was approaching the clubroom, I realized—
> Water. Damn it! I forgot to buy water. And the siomai is spicy!<
I lightly punched my forehead.
> Of all things to forget…<
Shoulders slumped, I continued walking until I reached the clubroom.
The door was closed. I knocked, tried the knob—it wasn’t locked—then pushed it open.
The room was quiet, the only sound coming from a lone electric fan spinning lazily. Clay was seated in front of it, eating with a blissful expression, swaying slightly as if dancing in delight.
> Let’s greet her.<
I cleared my throat.
“President. Mind if I hang out here for lunch?”
She paused mid-bite and turned to me.
Her wide smile and bright eyes twisted into a frown, eyebrows knitted.
“Alien boy? What are you doing here?” she asked like she’d rather I wasn’t.
She reached over and turned the fan off, stood up, and walked toward me.
“Just felt like it,” I replied, walking to the wall and sliding down to sit on the tiled floor.
She joined me and sat across.
“Let’s eat together,” she said with a grin, placing her lunchbox on the ground. “What do you have? C’mon, let me try some.” She pouted playfully.
“You’re shameless, you know that?” I teased.
Her eyes widened at my words.
“You’re so rude!”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
She rolled her eyes and went back to eating. The aroma of her food—sweet, saucy longganisa—drifted toward me.
> Sweet, no doubt.<
“Plastic…”
“Mind your own business,” I said, brushing her off.
I took out the styrofoam and set it on the ground, along with the sandwich. I split it in half and offered her a piece.
“For me?” she asked, surprised, then smiled. “How generous of you…”
“Don’t want it?”
She quickly took it, cheeks slightly flushed.
I opened my meal. A wave of savory aroma rose from the rice, already soaked in sauce. On top sat the siomai, larger than usual—the kind you’d buy from street vendors on motorcycles with side carts.
I scooped up a spoonful and took a bite.
The spice hit me instantly—hot, intense—and I coughed.
I reached into the bag for my drink… only to remember I didn’t have one.
> Stupid! Why’d I forget the drink now of all times?!<
Clay gave me a side glance, clearly judging me.
“You bought spicy food knowing you can’t handle it? What’s wrong with your taste buds?”
She stood and walked over to her bag by the fan, then returned holding a tumbler.
She sat down again, handing it to me. “It’s cold. Drink,” she said seriously.
I took it from her, hesitant.
> Wait… wait… wait!! Am I really going to drink from this? Her tumbler?<
My heart pounded. My face flushed with heat, but a cold sweat trickled down my back.
“Clay… a-are you sure it’s okay if I drink from this?” My voice shook.
She nodded, her attention now back on her food, smiling as she ate the sweet longganisa like it was the best thing in the world.
I swallowed hard, hands trembling around the tumbler.
“By the way... is your hand okay?” I asked casually.
She nodded again.
> Clay!!! Can’t you see I’m having a full-on panic attack here?! Stop enjoying your food like you’re in a drama commercial and help me!!<
“Cl—” I tried to say her name, but froze when she shot me a glare.
“Are you drinking or not? If you give it back, I’m finishing it myself.”
That was all the push I needed. I drank.
A tiny piece of ice slipped past my lips, chilling my mouth and washing away the spice.
And just like that, for the first time in my life, of all people… I shared an indirect kiss with Clayrin Aisfine Ezz.
> Damn it! I never even got to do this with Jovenyl!<
---
[Clayrin Aisfine Ezz]
Look at this fool. He acted like I handed him poison instead of water.
Is he seriously hesitating over a tumbler?
> I don’t have some contagious disease! Just drink it already, you idiot.<
He asked twice if it was okay.
I caught him about to speak again, so I shot him a glare.
Surprisingly, that worked.
He finally drank—and shut up. After that, he ate quickly and didn’t say a word.
We finished at the same time.
He stood after a few moments of rest and told me he was going out to buy water.
He handed me back the tumbler, and I noticed it was still heavy.
He barely drank any of it.
I didn’t get to remind him to stop staring into people’s eyes too much. He forgets it triggers his ability to see fate threads, and I worry it’s becoming a habit.
---
It was already 12:03 P.M.
I turned off my phone screen and set it on the table.
Walking up to the dark green blackboard, I paused.
> Why are you still called a *black*board when you're green?<
I grabbed a chalk stick from the tray and began writing.
> Eyeden Ylliard Hayle the Great. The legendary suspect responsible for Jovenyl’s heartbeats—and yet he fumbled. 73 reincarnations, 2,000 heartbreaks.<
I took a step back to admire my masterpiece... and immediately scowled.
I gritted my teeth.
Then I hurled the chalk at the board.
“My handwriting is worse than the animation in *Seven Deadly Sins* Season 3 and 4!”
The sound of my voice echoed in the silent clubroom. I stomped the tiles dramatically—hard enough I thought my heels would crack them.
> Wait… why am I comparing handwriting to animation? I'm so full of myself sometimes.<
I ruffled my hair and let out a deep breath, strong enough to see my bangs flutter.
I fixed them, then laughed at myself.
“No, it’s not my handwriting. It’s Jow’s fault! His tragic 73 lives and 2,000 heartbreaks are messing with my art!”
I nodded in self-approval.
I never told Jow what I’d really written the first time I showed him the board, listing details about him and the rest of the supernatural club.
> Come to think of it… he didn’t even complain about my writing earlier.<
---
To be continued.