I want to hear sendai-san voice

 Episode 7

Maika goes to a cram school.

Sendai-san attends a prep school.

[T/N- In a Japan, cram school (juku, 塾) and prep school (yobikō, 予備校) both focus on academic preparation, but they differ in purpose, structure. Cram school think it as a private tutor who help you study even after school, and prep school is to make you prepare for exams, like University ones]

My father said he’d pay for either one if I ever decided to go. But honestly, I don’t really understand the difference. To me, they’re just places where people go to study. That’s as far as my perception goes. I’m so uninterested that I barely spare them a thought. Still, I do feel a little guilty for constantly calling Sendai-san over, knowing she’s busy with prep school. So, I made a rule: I’ll only call her once a week.

Usually, I’d message her anytime something went wrong, but now I try to endure the small stuff. I decided that last week after she left. And yet, here I am again, already wanting to reach out.

“No motivation,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair with a sigh.

Across from me, Maika lets out a laugh.

“Shiori was the sacrificial lamb today, huh? That’s rough.”

“Seriously. Such bad luck. Dora-bashi was in a terrible mood,” Ami adds, seated next to Maika. She’s using our nickname for the world history teacher as he always wears blue.

I recall that class and grumble to myself about Dora-bashi, who thankfully has left the room.

“He really needs to stop taking his moods out on students. He’s the worst. The actual worst.”

Dora-bashi has a reputation for unloading his frustrations on us. Today, he came in snorting like a bull, deep lines carved into his forehead. I was determined not to get called on—but of course, he picked me. He threw a convoluted trick question my way, and when I couldn’t answer, he launched into a smug, relentless rant.

By the time he was done, he made a final jab at me by name and stormed back to the staff room. I felt like all the energy had been sucked out of me.

“I just want to go home,” I mumble, shoving my textbook and notebook into my desk.

Ami pokes my arm. “I get it, but we’ve got gym next. We should get moving.”

“I know,” I reply, grabbing my gym clothes and standing up.

The three of us head out together, walking down the corridor toward the gym. Our indoor shoes slap against the floor with every step.

Then Maika, as if she’s just remembered something, says, “Hey, Shiori, did you hurt your arm or something?”

“No, why?” I ask.

“You’ve been touching it a lot lately.”

“…Touching it?”

“You’re doing it right now,” she points out.

I glance down—and sure enough, my hand is resting on the spot where Sendai-san left a mark that’s already faded.

“Oh, you’re right,” I say casually, pulling my hand away.

The kiss mark from last week didn’t last long. It vanished in less than two days, the red fading back into the pale orange of my skin. I don’t remember touching it during that time. Even now, I wouldn’t have noticed if Maika hadn’t said anything.

Why am I doing this? It’s like some part of me wanted the mark to stay. I hate that.

“Shiori, you stopped walking,” Ami calls out behind me.

She grabs my arm with her usual firm grip, pulling me along. Her energetic short haircut suits her lively personality perfectly. I force my feet to move.

“Was getting chewed out by Dora-bashi that traumatizing?” Maika teases, laughing as she smacks me on the back.

It wasn’t just that, but I don’t bother denying it.

As Ami pulls me forward, I voice something I’ve been wondering about.

“Hey, Maika, is cram school hard?”

“It’s tough, yeah, but it’s only until entrance exams are over. Oh, are you thinking of going to cram school, Shiori?”

“Not really, but…”

“If you do, come to mine! It’s pretty decent. The lessons are really clear.”

Maika talks about her cram school like she owns the place. I’m not exactly eager to study, but maybe going to the same cram school as her would be better than just sitting alone in my room.

Then a different idea flickers through my mind—what if I went to the same prep school as Sendai-san?

But I quickly dismiss it. That’s not something I’d ever make happen. If I had to choose, it’d probably be cram school. For now, though, I have no intention of going to either.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, offering Maika a vague response.

As I glance down the hall, I see a familiar group approaching.

“Still making an entrance, huh?” Ami says, not naming anyone, but we all know she’s talking about Ibaraki-san and her entourage.

Naturally, Sendai-san is with them.

They walk down the center of the hallway like they own the school.

“Yeah,” Maika murmurs, subtly stepping aside.

I hear high-pitched giggles as they pass. My eyes meet Sendai-san’s for just a moment—but we walk past each other without a word. It’s not unusual; we often pass like this since she’s just one class over.

We don’t greet each other or exchange glances. That’s the rule. And I’m okay with that.

Still, something clings to me—subtle, sticky, and uncomfortable. It magnifies the gloom left by Dora-bashi’s outburst. I find myself wanting to call her again.

But it’s just a want. I’ve already decided to endure the small stuff.

“Hey, did you hear?” Maika says suddenly, glancing back at the group.

“Sendai-san got confessed to by a second-year from the boys’ basketball team.”

She speaks in a low tone, but there’s a gleam of gossip in her eyes.

“What?! When? Who?” Ami leans in, eyes wide with interest.

“Right after the school year started, apparently. The guy’s name is Yamada.”

I search my memory. Sendai-san never mentioned any of this. No basketball guy, no Yamada.

We’re not close enough to share everything—not even romantic stuff. There’s a lot I don’t know about her.

Still, hearing about her from someone else doesn’t sit well with me.

“He’s kinda hot, right?” Ami says, voice raised.

“Eh, I don’t really see it,” Maika replies.

“What do you think, Shiori?” Ami turns to me unexpectedly.

I stop walking. “…I don’t even know who he is. And how do you guys even know all this?”

“Someone at cram school told me,” Maika replies, already moving on to another rumor.

Today’s one of Sendai-san’s prep school days. Even if I called, she wouldn’t come until tomorrow. I know I shouldn’t contact her too often.

Still, after gym class, I sent her the usual message anyway.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

“Sorry about yesterday,” Sendai-san says as soon as she steps into my room.

“It’s fine. That’s the arrangement.”

She doesn’t come on prep school days—I’m the one who said she could just come the next day instead. I knew she wouldn’t come yesterday when I messaged her, and now she’s here. It’s all according to plan.

“Here,” I say, handing her the five thousand yen I left by her tablet and textbooks.

“Thanks,” she replies flatly, pulling out her wallet and tucking the bill inside. Glancing at the calendar, she says, “Golden Week’s coming up.”

“Feels like spring break just ended.”

“You don’t like holidays, Miyagi? You were in a bad mood before spring break too.”

She doesn’t say what made her think that, but I know she’s talking about the day I poured cider on her.

“It’s not that I hate them. They’re just… boring. Nothing to do.”

I avoid addressing the mood part directly.

“Breaks are great. You could go somewhere fun,” she says.

I do have plans—Maika, Ami, and I are going out during Golden Week. But I don’t feel like telling her that.

Instead, I flip the calendar page down and poke her arm.

“Sendai-san, show me your arm.”

It isn’t a command, but she extends her arm anyway. Still covered by her sleeve.

She knows what I mean, yet pretends not to. Irritated, I say more firmly, “Roll up your sleeve.”

“Alright, alright,” she mutters, unbuttoning her cuff and pushing up her blazer.

I take her arm, gripping the spot between her wrist and elbow.

“It faded faster than I expected,” she says, staring at it. “What about yours, Miyagi?”

“Gone quickly,” I reply.

The kiss mark disappeared within days. Even the bruise on my leg is gone. There’s no trace left. Her arm, too, is smooth and clear. It’s like last week never happened.

I run my fingers over her skin. It’s soft, smooth—almost too smooth.

What if I kissed her arm again?

If I told her not to move, I could leave another mark. I press down hard where the old one had been. No mark.

 I press harder, and she grabs my hand.

“Trying to leave another one?” she asks, like she can read my thoughts.

“No,” I say curtly, and she lets go.

I trail my fingers to her elbow, feeling something firm—bone, or maybe muscle. I follow the line of her veins, tracing them back down to her hand, then up again.

“You’re tickling me,” she says, fingers twitching slightly. But she doesn’t pull away, so I keep touching her.

I forget why I called her in the first place.

Hearing about her from Maika—about something I didn’t know—left a tightness in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t quite anger, but it hurt.

And yet now, as I look up, she’s here. With the same face she always wears at school.

This isn’t the version of Sendai-san I want to see.

I dig my nails into her soft skin, pressing until my fingertips leave dents.

“Ow. Your nails,” she says—but still, she doesn’t pull away.

“…Is that basketball guy really hot?” I ask.

I hadn’t meant to ask. But Maika’s gossip lingered in my mind, and before I could stop myself, a pointless question slipped out.

“Why the basketball guy?”

“He confessed ,” I answers simply.

“To you?”

“…You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

I know how Sendai-san is—always a little sly, never doing exactly what I expect unless I give her a direct order.

I press my fingertips harder into her arm.

She grimaces slightly, then forcibly peels my hand away.

“I turned him down,” she says quietly, offering nothing beyond the result. No denial, just confirmation.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like him. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have the time to date anyone.”

“You could make time if you wanted.”

“I’ve got prep school. And I come here, too,” she says, voice edged with irritation as she rubs the faint nail marks I left on her arm.

“If you didn’t have prep school or this… would you have said yes?”

“No. I told you—I don’t like him. Besides, don’t worry. I’ll prioritize you, Miyagi.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

I lightly kick her leg as she gives me a teasing smile.

“Wow. Rude.”

“Not as rude as you.”

She might be sitting upright now, but I don’t want to hear that from someone who lounges on my bed so casually her skirt rides up without a second thought.

“You’re jealous of the basketball guy, aren’t you?” she says lightly, as if her words could float away. She rolls her sleeve back down and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Idiot.”

Her tone is playful, clearly not meant to be serious. But I still can’t help but grumble.

It’s not that I’m jealous.

It just... bothered me.

Maika knew something about her that I didn’t. Something she hadn’t bothered to tell me herself.

That’s not jealousy—just an unpleasant feeling I can’t shake.

I sit on the floor and lean my back against the bed. My thoughts are a mess.

Ever since the start of our third year—since the day I made Sendai-san lick my foot—something inside me has been off.

The sensation of her tongue still clings to me.

I thought if we just acted like friends—played games, talked about silly things—that feeling would fade. But pretending only made everything feel more awkward.

Even now, it’s the same. I can’t talk to her like a real friend.

What do I want from Sendai-san?

The more time we spend together, the less I understand.

What started as simply giving her orders is slipping out of focus.

Being around her makes something invisible cling to me, buzzing uneasily in my chest. I feel unsettled, like I’m not fully myself. I wish this murky feeling would just pop and disappear—like the fizz in a can of cider.

I sigh and glance out the window. The light outside has dimmed without me noticing.

I reach into my bag, pull out my modern Japanese textbook, and toss it to her.

“Order: Get off the bed and read this.”

“…A textbook?” she says, raising a brow as she moves to sit beside me on the floor.

“Yeah.”

I stand up, peel off my blazer and socks, loosen my tie, and collapse onto the bed.

I’m tired—tired of thinking about things that don’t matter.

“Why a textbook instead of a manga or novel?” she asks, flipping through the pages.

“It puts me to sleep. Like a lullaby.”

If I stay awake, I’ll end up saying things I shouldn’t—and regret it.

If she’d come yesterday, maybe I would’ve had the momentum to bring it up. But now, one day later, I’m not even sure what I’d wanted to ask in the first place.

Calling her over just because of that basketball guy? Totally unnecessary.

“A textbook as a lullaby… If the teacher heard that, they’d cry,” Sendai-san says, then taps the side of my head with the book.

“Then maybe they should try being less boring,” I grumble, smacking her arm in return.

“Blaming others isn’t very admirable,” she teases.

“Shut up. Just read.”

“And when you fall asleep? What am I supposed to do?”

“Keep reading, even if I’m out cold.”

“That’s going to put me to sleep too,” she mumbles, slumping forward against the bed.

Her hand brushes my side, making me squirm.

I sit up and tug her bangs.

“You’re not allowed to sleep, Sendai-san. Stay awake.”

“Yes, yes,” she mutters.

She always says it twice, even when I don’t ask her to.

“Come on. Start reading.”

“Alright.”

Then her voice fills the room.

Back in second year, we were in the same class, and I used to hear her read during lessons. I remember envying how smoothly she read aloud—so natural and confident. I always wanted to read like that.

Even now, her voice is clear, flawless. It wraps around me like a favorite blanket. I close my eyes and roll toward the wall. In the darkness, her voice is the only thing I hear. It feels like I’ve been transported back to that spring term classroom.

Each word from the textbook flows into me through her voice. Her tone is gentler than any teacher’s, lulling me deeper.

Soon, I drift off. Not just dozing—I fall fully asleep. There are no dreams. Just the deep stillness of sleep. When I wake up, it feels like hours have passed.

The room is silent. My thoughts slowly rise to the surface. What time is it? I sit up, eyes still adjusting, and then I see her.

“I said not to sleep,” I mutter.

She’s lying beside me, breathing softly. We’re not touching—there’s a small space between us.

She’s taken off her blazer but still has her socks on. Her tie is loosened, and as usual, two of her blouse buttons are undone.

Her face, lightly made up, is so well-proportioned it almost startles me.

I touch her cheek.

If she were awake, she’d probably complain about me messing up her makeup. But she says nothing.

I run my fingers to the corner of her mouth.

These fingers have touched her lips before—inside them.

The memory rises again.

Her tongue, soft and damp, licking the blood from my wound.

The way she obeyed, swallowing it, even while wincing.

It didn’t actually ease the pain, but the look on her face—the grimace, the discomfort—made me feel something warm inside.

Until she bit me.

Then all that warmth vanished, replaced by pain.

I move my finger from the edge of her mouth to the center.

Her lips are soft—like marshmallows.

I press them gently. They yield under the pressure.

She still doesn’t move.

Say something, I think. I want her voice to stop me.

I want her to deny me.

But she stays silent, and my hand keeps going.

From her lips, down her jaw, and lower.

I brush her neck, tracing along her collarbone. She still doesn’t stir.

If I keep going, I could touch the spot she told me never to mark. I hesitate, but instead, I follow her collarbone to her shoulder. My palm presses against the strap of her bra, hidden beneath her blouse. Her body is warm.

She should wake up now—but she doesn’t even flinch. I stare at her neck—the place she warned me not to touch.

I can’t look away.

I lift my hand and lean closer. Her scent grows stronger—a sweet trace of shampoo I recognize from my own pillow.

I move in, and just under her ear, I press my lips gently against her skin. My heart pounds in my chest.

To drown out the sound, I press harder, grazing her with my teeth.

Her skin is soft. I quickly pull back.

I wipe my mouth roughly, trying to erase the moment.

Then I feel a tug on my blouse.

“What are you doing?” Sendai-san asks groggily, her eyes half-lidded.

“Nothing.”

“You were about to do something indecent, weren’t you?”

She had been asleep. She couldn’t possibly know.

…Or so I thought.

“I wasn’t,” I say firmly, despite the laughter in her voice.

“Your face is red,” she says, reaching for me.

My cheeks don’t feel warm, but my heart’s still hammering. Her hand, warmer than usual, touches my face. I flinch and lean back. Thud.

“Ow!”

My back hits the wall. I forgot it was right behind me. But the jolt helps calm me down.

“That whole ‘your face is red’ thing—wasn’t true, right?” I grumble, still lying down.

“Figured I’d mess with you,” she says.

“More importantly, why were you asleep?”

I kick her lightly in the leg—a reminder that she broke her order.

“You looked too peaceful sleeping. It made me sleepy, too. What time is it?”

I check the clock. Time has slipped away.

“Almost eight.”

“Ugh, I wanna sleep more.”

“Too bad. Get up.”

I nudge her again until she finally sits up. I spot the textbook lying near where her back had been.

“Sendai-san.”

“Hmm? What?”

“It’s creased.”

I hold up the book. The cover has a clean, sharp fold.

“Crap. Sorry. I must’ve laid on it. Really sorry.”

Her face is surprisingly apologetic.

“It’s fine. Just a textbook.”

Sure, it would be better without the crease—but it doesn’t matter much.

This arrangement only lasts for a year, anyway.

Still, Sendai-san apologizes again, whispering another soft, “Sorry.”

“It’s not like I’ll need it for long,” I say.

I gently smooth out the creased section of the textbook and place it on the pillow.

Studying has never been my thing, and I’m hardly motivated to prepare for entrance exams. Whether the cover is pristine or bent doesn’t really matter—I never intended to use it much anyway.

“I’ll make it up to you next time,” says the one responsible for the crease, her expression unusually apologetic.

“I told you it’s fine,” I reply.

I don’t know what she’s planning, but if “making it up to me” involves any kind of effort, it’s not worth it. A bent textbook cover isn’t that big of a deal. What is bothering me more is the space—or lack thereof—between me and Sendai-san. The room might be spacious, but the bed isn’t. We’re too close. I wish there were a little more distance.

“But it’s the cover. Doesn’t a crease bother you?” she asks, her tone dissatisfied, clearly more concerned about the damage than I am.

With the wall at my back, there’s nowhere left to retreat. I shift sideways a little instead.

“I don’t care,” I say.

“Even if you don’t, I do. So I’m going to make it up to you.”

Once we get into this kind of exchange, it’s hard to stop her. Sendai-san is just as stubborn as I am—maybe even more so. She’s surprisingly principled, and if she says she’ll do something, she follows through.

“Fine. Just keep it simple,” I say, cutting the conversation short. A creased cover isn’t worth dragging this out.

“Alright then, that settles it,” she says vaguely and taps my foot with hers.

“So, Miyagi, what now?”

“Nothing really. If you’re staying for dinner, I can cook something.”

“Hmm, maybe,” she hums, not sounding particularly invested. Then, as if something occurs to her, she casually fastens one of the buttons on her blouse.

I’ve seen her unbutton the second-from-the-top button countless times while in this room, but I’ve never seen her button it back up.

The simple act makes my body go still.

She noticed.

But no—that’s impossible. She was asleep when I touched her neck.

There’s no way she could have known.

So why did she suddenly button her blouse?

A pang shoots through my chest, as though something inside is being squeezed tight.

I shouldn't have done that.

Sendai-san isn’t a friend or a lover.

Touching her while she was asleep—without her knowing or consenting—wasn’t okay. If she’d been awake, if I’d ordered her not to move, it would’ve been within the rules we set. But I didn’t do that. I don’t even know why I did it.

“Your brow’s all wrinkled, Miyagi,” she says, pointing at my face. “You look scary. Go check a mirror.”

“No thanks. I’ll pass,” I mutter. More than seeing myself, I just want to escape this moment. But I can’t exactly run out of my own room.

“You’re not going to say it today?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head like nothing’s wrong.

“Say what?”

“‘Lick it.’”

“I’m not saying that,” I answer flatly. Today isn’t the time for that kind of order.

“Got it,” she replies, sounding disinterested despite having brought it up herself. Then her hand reaches out and touches my foot.

Her fingers glide from my bare toes to my ankle, making my skin prickle. I instinctively pull my foot back, but she grabs hold of my ankle.

“Let go,” I say, voice firm.

She lets go—but her hand immediately slides back, reaching for the hem of my skirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world to lift it.

“Don’t do anything weird,” I snap, grabbing her hand.

“I just wanted to check if your bruise really faded.”

“You can see that it’s gone. You don’t need to check by touching.”

“True,” she admits, brushing my hand aside and placing her fingers on my knee.

She doesn’t even glance at where the bruise was. Instead, she traces slow, aimless circles around my knee.

A chill creeps up my spine.

Her touch feels off. Like something isn’t right.

“You’re not even looking where the bruise was,” I point out.

She continues running her fingers lightly along my skin.

“Should I stop?” she asks—but her hand keeps moving.

“Stop. Now.”

I say it firmly.

But she doesn’t stop.

Her fingers slide down from my knee to my shin, then settle on the top of my foot. She touches me in that same slow, deliberate way she did the day I ordered her to lick it—following the lines of my veins with her fingertip. It’s an odd sensation, like ants crawling beneath my skin. It makes me uncomfortable, yet some part of me still hesitates to stop her.

I inhale deeply, then exhale, and finally grab her hand to pull it away.

“We’re done. Seriously. Stop. …Is this payback?”

For touching her while she slept.

Is this how she’s getting back at me?

“Payback for what?” she asks, looking genuinely confused—but I can’t tell if it’s real.

Her expression is vague, faintly amused, and it irritates me.

“If it’s not payback, fine. Show me your arm.”

I reach out and grab her arm without waiting for her answer.

“Is that an order?”

“It is. So do it.”

“You’re going to leave another mark, aren’t you?”

“Not like last time.”

I unbutton her blouse sleeve and roll it up. Between her wrist and elbow—where the old mark once was—I bite down. Hard.

Hard enough to hurt.

Hard enough that I might leave a new imprint.

Sendai-san yelps and pushes against my forehead. “Hey, that really hurts!”

She presses harder, forcing my head up and away.

“Unbelievable,” she complains. “How can you bite someone that hard? Are you crazy?”

She rubs the spot I bit, scowling, then pulls her sleeve back down.

“Payment for the textbook,” I say plainly.

“You don’t just get to decide what counts as payment!”

“It’s fine. Bite marks fade fast.”

If only everything I’d done could disappear that easily.

Besides, it was an order. She can’t complain about that. She’s not actually mad—not the way she gets when she’s truly upset.

That’s just how our relationship works, and it’s fine this way.

“That really did hurt,” she mutters, rubbing her arm with an annoyed look.

“Also punishment. For doing weird stuff earlier.”

“Compared to the weird stuff you pull on a regular basis, this was nothing,” she shoots back, clearly irritated as she stands up from the bed.

Her voice, that familiar frustration, settles something inside me.

It feels like we’re back to normal.

I let out a small sigh of relief as she glares down at me.