Volume 1 Episode 06

The first time there was no five-thousand-yen exchange was the day I visited Miyagi’s house with a muddled mix of frustration and resolve. The clothes I brought back that day now lie buried in the back of my chest of drawers, beside my piggy bank.

Ideally, I would’ve returned them. But since they ended up serving as payment for one of her so-called “orders,” there’s nothing I can do about it. Just like the five thousand yen—it’s all part of the same system. I have no intention of wearing them.

Still, that day stood apart.

A few days have passed, and today, I received the usual five thousand yen from Miyagi. But things aren’t exactly the same.

Instead of cider, she served barley tea. And she’s been noticeably more talkative.

I understand the switch to barley tea. What I don’t get is why she’s suddenly inclined to make conversation. Even so, it’s far more pleasant than the heavy silences we used to share.

“That book was boring,” Miyagi murmurs, breaking the stillness. I’m lying on her bed with a romance novel open in my hands. I glance up.

“Really? I thought it was interesting.”

“It didn’t have a happy ending.”

“Hey, spoiler alert! I just started it.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s not whatever.”

The exchange is shallow, lacking substance, yet it feels like progress. Watching Miyagi willingly initiate conversation is like having a skittish stray cat finally nudge your hand. It’s been over half a year since early summer. It took that long to get this close to her, this guarded, distant girl. I’m not sure I’ve completely won her over, but it’s something.

Still, spoilers are inexcusable.

I close the book and place it next to the pillow. Then I reach over and grab the manga Miyagi was reading and lie back on the bed. She doesn’t object, so I casually flip through the pages. It’s not volume one, but I’ve read it before, so it’s fine. About a third of the way through, Miyagi—who had been sitting on the floor, her back resting against the bed—stands up.

“Sendai-san, play a game with me.”

“A game?”

I lower the manga and look at her.

“Yeah. This one.”

She pulls something out from under the TV—an object I’ve never seen powered on before—and turns to face me. In her hand is a game case with a cartoonish car on the front.

“It’s boring playing alone,” she says, holding up what looks like a racing game. She pushes aside the small table to make room.

I remember asking her once if she played video games. She said she didn’t play the type where hot guys fawn over you, but she never mentioned what she did play. This might be the answer. Still, racing games don’t suit her image. It’s unexpected.

Then again, maybe she’s more into the character on the cover than the racing part.

“That’s the game where you race, right?”

“Yeah. You race to the finish line while sabotaging your opponents.”

“I don’t know much about it, but don’t these have online modes?”

“…If you don’t want to, we don’t have to,” she says, her tone turning sulky as she moves to put the game away.

I panic. A change of pace is welcome. I love books and manga, but sometimes, I want something different.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t know how to play.”

I slide off the bed and sit beside her on the floor.

“I’ll teach you,” Miyagi replies, turning on the console. She sits next to me and begins explaining, but the controls are more complex than I expected. Before long, she gives up on detailed instructions and starts issuing vague ones. I interrupt her.

“Oh, by the way, I’ve started going to prep school. So I might not be able to come by as often.”

“Prep school?”

“I’m a third-year, after all. No real choice.”

My parents only care about my older sister—the perfect student. If I manage to get into the university they expect, maybe I can return to how things were when I was little.

Getting accepted into that university is my last chance to fit back into my family. But at the same time, I’m not even sure I want that anymore. Even if I could make it, I’d rather reject the idea. Still, I filled out the prep school application they gave me.

—As if going to prep school now would magically change anything.

I lean against the bed and gaze up at the ceiling.

The wallpaper is a different color than mine at home, but somehow, it feels familiar.

“You can come later, if you have prep school,” Miyagi says, her voice flat and unreadable.

“Prep ends pretty late, so it might not be possible. If I came after, I’d be getting home close to midnight.”

“Then just come the next day.”

“Got it.”

With that, Miyagi finishes her half-hearted tutorial and starts the game. But my car refuses to do what I want. I tilt my body right when turning right, left when turning left—completely unintentional. I try to go straight but end up swerving. Meanwhile, Miyagi passes me with ease.

Annoying.

Clearly, the car’s the problem—not me.

And she’s being ruthless. She throws banana peels and bomb-like items at me. She wins every time. I don’t even come close.

“Miyagi, go easy on me.”

“Nope.”

“I’m a total beginner.”

“I know.”

“Ugh. Let’s take a break. This isn’t fun if I can’t win at all.”

I toss the controller before the race ends. On screen, Miyagi’s car keeps speeding forward and finishes first.

“You’re way too weak, Sendai-san,” she says, not pulling any punches. She puts down her controller and stretches her legs.

She’s still not particularly chatty, but today, she’s unusually talkative. I wonder if she talks to Utsunomiya like this, just with more warmth. The thought feels so off it might snow tomorrow.

Thinking something that rude, I glance at Miyagi again. Even as a third-year, she’s hardly changed. She doesn’t wear makeup. Her uniform skirt is a little short, but nothing too noticeable.

Safe, you might call it.

Just enough to avoid teacher scrutiny. Honestly, I think she could get away with shortening it a bit more.

Maybe about this much?

I give her skirt a light tug, and that’s when I see it—about ten centimeters above her knee, a bruise tinged blue.

“What’s with you?” Miyagi pulls her skirt back, glaring.

“You’ve got a bruise.”

“Ran into something at school.”

“Does it hurt?” I ask, poking it lightly. She smacks my hand away.

“Not really. But it could hurt, so why poke it?”

“Just felt like it.”

“Instead of poking bruises, let’s keep playing.”

She hands me the controller again, looking clearly displeased. I don’t hate the game, but losing every time kills the fun. I need to divert her attention somehow.

Then I remember something.

“Hey, Miyagi. Did you know putting a cut lemon on a hickey makes it fade faster?”

“No, but that sounds like personal experience,” she teases, referencing the annoying rumor that I’m secretly wild beneath a modest facade.

“Not from experience. Umina said it.”

“So you’re suggesting I put lemon on this bruise?”

“Bruises are technically internal bleeding, just like hickeys, so maybe it works.”

“Highly doubtful. Anyway, did Ibaraki-san’s hickey actually fade faster?”

“She said it did. But maybe it would’ve faded anyway. I heard warming or cooling helps too, so maybe try that.”

“It’s already a few days old. Too late to bother,” Miyagi says with clear disinterest. She puts down the controller, takes a sip of cider next to the barley tea, and switches off the console—apparently done with the game.

Relieved to be free from my role as perpetual loser, I pick up the manga again and flip it open. But before I can start reading, Miyagi taps me on the shoulder.

“Let’s do an experiment.”

“An experiment?”

“Yeah. Take off your blazer for now.”

Her voice is unusually cheerful. I get a bad feeling.

“Is that an order?”

“An order. Come on, take it off.”

There’s no room for negotiation in her tone. Taking off my blazer isn’t a big deal. I’ve done it countless times in this room. But being told to do it—that’s different.

“I want to know what kind of experiment first.”

I can already guess what’s coming. If it’s what I think, it’s not exactly appropriate—and it doesn’t fit the kind of relationship we have. That’s why I need to be sure.

“I’ll tell you after you take off your blazer.”

As expected, that’s what she says.

I let out a quiet sigh.

If Miyagi were the kind of person to explain things honestly, she wouldn’t give vague orders like this. She’s hiding something—something suspicious. But since her command doesn’t technically violate any rules, I wordlessly slip off my blazer and lay it on the bed. Her next instruction comes without delay.

“Roll up your sleeve.”

I expected her to tell me to unbutton my blouse, assuming the experiment would involve that part of my body—but apparently not.

“Why?” I ask, though I can already guess.

“You said hickeys fade if you rub lemon on them, right? We’re testing whether that’s true—on your arm.”

Miyagi has a habit—no, a tendency—of saying things that make absolutely no sense. Giving me a hickey just to try removing it. I’d suspected that’s what she meant, but I still don’t understand why she wants to do it.

“What if the experiment fails?”

“It’s just your arm. Even if the mark doesn’t fade, your blouse will cover it. No big deal, right?”

“No, it is a big deal.”

Leaving a mark on my body—that crosses a line.

My connection with Miyagi isn’t like that. Sure, we’ve licked each other’s hands or feet, bitten or been bitten, but those things never left lasting traces.

This time is different.

Even if it’s hidden by my uniform, if the mark remains, it’ll stay on me—a reminder I can’t shake off. And that’s something I’m not comfortable with.

“It’s not like I’m leaving it here, so what’s the problem?” she says nonchalantly, lightly touching my neck.

Her fingertips trail downward and stop on my collarbone. With two buttons undone on my blouse, she could go further if she wanted. I swat her hand away.

“If you leave a mark there, I’ll slap you.”

“‘Slap you’? So much for your innocent-girl image, Sendai-san.”

“Your school persona is just as fake. Who cares? I can be whoever I want.”

“Fine, be whoever. Just roll up your sleeve.”

Miyagi’s voice is authoritative—like she expects to be obeyed—and she grabs my right arm.

I have good reasons to refuse. It might show during gym class when we change. That’s a valid excuse within the bounds of our agreement. It might make her back off. But I don’t use it. Instead, I unfasten my cuff and roll up my sleeve, revealing my arm.

“There. Happy now?”

I doubt pointing out a rule violation would end what we have, but Miyagi’s erratic. One moment she pushes me away, the next she’s unusually close—like now. Her mood swings are unpredictable. It wouldn’t surprise me if she suddenly said she’s done paying me five thousand yen.

Sendai Hazuki—liked by everyone, admired by teachers.

I need this place where I don’t have to play that role. A place that isn’t home. I need Miyagi—someone I don’t have to perform for. I need all of this, even if just a little.

“Here’s fine?” Miyagi mutters, pressing the middle of my forearm, between my wrist and elbow.

“Do whatever.”

“I was planning to.”

Of course you were.

I keep that thought to myself as she touches the soft inner part of my arm, like she’s prepping for an injection.

After a pause, her lips press against my skin.

It’s not sharp like a needle. Her tongue flicks out, and she sucks slowly, deliberately. There’s no particular sensation—being licked or bitten just feels like being touched. It’s not a big deal.

But even though her lips and tongue aren’t hot, the spot feels strangely warm.

“That’s enough.”

I push her head away. The skin feels like it’s settling back into place, and Miyagi looks up at me.

“It left a mark. So, the experiment’s a success, I guess.”

I glance down and see a small red blotch on my arm.

It’s not that different from the marks I used to give myself while playing as a kid—or the ones I’ve seen on Umina’s neck. But the fact Miyagi made it… that makes it different.

I sigh. I’m not a child anymore. I know exactly what a mark like this means when someone else gives it to you. They show up all the time in the manga Miyagi reads. It implies that kind of relationship.

I rub the spot with my palm, as if trying to scrub away a stain. I don’t want Miyagi leaving a mark that implies ownership. She probably doesn’t mean it that way. Maybe I’m overthinking. But still, I don’t want a mark that’ll remind me of her every time I see it.

It has to disappear. Quickly.

Warming the spot with my palm, I glance at Miyagi and ask, “So, do you actually have a lemon?”

“You’ve seen my fridge, haven’t you?”

I remember it from when we made fried chicken together. It was practically empty. So yeah, I knew. I knew there wouldn’t be one. I press hard on the mark she left.

“It’s covered by your uniform, so what’s the issue? Try warming it or icing it—whatever you said,” Miyagi replies, completely indifferent. It annoys me.

More than a little.

I tug my blouse sleeve down and start buttoning it.

“Then you too, Miyagi. Roll up your sleeve. Take off your blazer. Lend me your arm.”

“What, is that an order?”

“It’s a request.”

Since she’s paying me five thousand yen, I don’t have the authority to issue commands.

So, I make my point through a request.

“That’s your idea of asking nicely?”

“Yup.”

“If you asked properly, I might consider it.”

Why do I have to grovel?

Miyagi has no intention of being the test subject. She’s perfectly fine leaving a mark on me and calling it an experiment. I don’t see why I should stoop to her level.

Still, I do what she wants.

“…Please lend me your arm.”

If I have to humble myself a little to drag her down with me, it’s a small price to pay.

“Go ahead. Leave a hickey,” Miyagi says nonchalantly, removing her blazer. She rolls up her sleeve and offers her arm.

No hesitation. That’s the problem.

I didn’t want her to fight me on it exactly, but I also didn’t want her to agree so easily. I wanted to drag her down, but instead, she came down willingly—and that feels wrong.

Now it feels like I’m chasing her. That pisses me off. Miyagi should be flustered too. She should be annoyed. She shouldn’t be the one casually inviting a hickey.

“Forget it.” I roll her sleeve back down. Leaving a hickey… that’s not what this relationship needs. It doesn’t matter anymore. I decide that, and inhale slowly to settle myself. But before I can exhale, Miyagi speaks.

“You’re the one who asked me to offer my arm.”

“But this isn’t something friends do, right?”

Regardless of the reason, we hang out at her place after school. So Miyagi is a friend. Maybe not a typical one, but still—she fits the definition. But she shakes her head.

“—We’re not friends, Sendai-san.”

And just like that, I get it.

Her weird reaction to Valentine’s Day chocolates. Her refusal to let me make dinner. The odd, arbitrary orders.

It’s because we’re not friends.

If that’s true…

Then what are we?

I think of Miyagi as a friend. We don’t talk outside school. We don’t hang out on weekends. But we spend time together, 

talk about nothing, waste afternoons together. That’s enough, right?

Apparently not for her.

“If we’re not friends… then what are we?”

I asked plainly.

“What are we? How should I know?” Miyagi replies, sounding irritated as she rolls up her sleeve once more.

“Here.”

She offers me her arm, her voice light and dry.

To be honest, it stings—being told by someone I thought of as a friend that we’re not. But when I really think about it, maybe we don’t have the kind of relationship where words like “friend” apply in the first place.

We just ended up like this—by accident.

At first, I was curious. Curious about what kind of orders Miyagi would give, curious about who she was. If anything ever went wrong, I figured I could return the five thousand yen and walk away. That was the deal when I first started coming here.

Without that money, our connection would be paper-thin—easy to tear.

Even so, unlike the day she drenched me in cider, she isn’t trying to push me away today. That alone makes me weigh my words more carefully as I try to define whatever it is we are.

“I’m not your lover, Miyagi. So put your sleeve down.”

“Oh? So if we’re not lovers, I’m not allowed to leave a hickey?”

“Isn’t that how it usually works?”

“Acting all pure now, are you? You seem like you’d be the wild type.”

“I’m not ‘seeming’—I am pure. And I’ve told you already, I’m not wild.”

I know she’s just provoking me, but still—I feel the need to correct her, firmly.

“If you say so, I’ll believe it,” she says with a shrug. “But even if we’re not lovers or friends, some people still do this kind of thing, don’t they?”

“Maybe some people do. But I’m not one of them.”

“Well, too late. You’ve already got a mark on you from someone who isn’t your lover.”

I sigh. She’s not entirely wrong—but that doesn’t mean I suddenly fall into the category of people who make a habit of this. And now that she’s telling me to mark her, I’ve lost all interest in doing it. It was one thing when the thought was mine—but Miyagi forcing it makes me want to back away.

“Then it’s an order,” she says when I hesitate. “Do it the same way I did.”

Her voice sounds like she’s demanding proof that we aren’t friends.

Maybe this is some kind of loyalty test. A way for her to make our ambiguous connection feel more defined—on her terms.

“I get it,” I reply.

I understand what she’s trying to do, even if I don’t agree with it. Still, I take her arm. I part my lips and press them to the same place she marked me, sucking gently. A soft chu sound echoes faintly in my mind.

There’s no taste, no particular feeling. It’s like sipping juice through a straw—just suction and breath.

Her skin is soft and slightly cool beneath my lips. It doesn’t feel unpleasant. I suck firmly once more. When I lightly press my teeth into her skin, she grabs my shoulder. I look up.

“It’s redder than I expected,” she murmurs.

I glance down and see a vivid red mark blooming on her skin—like a small flower petal.

“What do we do about this?”

I poke the mark with my fingertip.

“Nothing. Just leave it. It’ll fade. You can say your boyfriend did it, Sendai-san.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend. And I’m not going to say that—it’d cause misunderstandings.”

There’s no gym class tomorrow, so there’s no reason for anyone to see the hickey she left. We’ve got gym in a few days, but hopefully the mark will fade by then.

“You’re acting a little strange today, Miyagi.”

I press the mark through my sleeve. She’s been chatty. Playful, even. Giving orders she’s never given before—ones that leave marks.

“I feel the same as always.”

“No, you’re definitely off today.”

“If you’re saying that, then you’re the weird one, Sendai-san. You’ve never made a request that sounded so much like an order before.”

“That’s true, but—”

“More importantly, can I undo this?”

Without warning, Miyagi touches my blouse, fingers tugging at the third button—just below the two already undone. The gesture triggers a memory: the day she poured cider over me. I frown instinctively.

“Absolutely not. What are you planning?”

“To put one here,” she says simply, tapping a spot low on my chest, below the collarbone.

“I told you—if you leave a mark there, I’ll slap you.”

“But you didn’t seem that bothered by the first one. And you only undo one button at school, right? No one would see it.”

She’s observant, I’ll give her that. At school, I always keep it modest—one button undone, tie slightly loose, just enough to avoid getting scolded. The place she tapped wouldn’t be visible unless I was changing.

Still—that’s not the point.

“That’s not the point,” I repeat.

“Whatever.”

Without bothering to call it an “order,” Miyagi removes my tie and undoes the third button.

She opens my blouse as if she has every right to and leans in. Her breath brushes my skin—warm, not mine.

Her hair tickles my neck, strangely real and immediate.

My whole awareness pools at the surface of my skin, and I push her shoulder.

“Stop it.”

“Boring,” she says flatly, pulling away without resistance. Then, suddenly, she pinches the spot she was about to kiss.

Hard.

“Ow!”

I grab her arm, but she doesn’t let go.

“You can leave a mark this way too, right?” she says, tightening her grip.

It hurts—so much it feels like she’s trying to rip out my flesh. I yank her hand off with force.

“That hurts!”

“Just kidding.”

“Are you an idiot? That’s not a joke.”

“It’s not like that’ll even leave a mark.”

That’s not the issue.

It just hurts.

And no one in their right mind would think to leave a mark by pinching. Sometimes I wonder if Miyagi is missing the bolt that holds basic common sense together. But pointing that out won’t help. She’s already operating on a wavelength detached from normalcy.

I exhale, a quiet sigh escaping me.

Then she asks, in a flat, practical voice like a teacher assigning homework, “Wanna eat dinner here?”

“Sure.”

Better than eating alone at home.

I button my blouse back up, covering the skin she exposed. Miyagi stands and leaves the room, as if everything that just happened was completely normal.

I slip into my blazer and glance at my arm. The mark she made is, of course, hidden.

“I should’ve said no,” I mutter, then follow her out.

Miyagi probably needs me.

And I probably need her—this room, this place that lets me breathe without playing the roles I wear everywhere else. For now, we need each other. But if things keep going like this, it’s going to become a problem. This relationship has an expiration date. It should end when high school does.

In the grand scheme of a long life, this is just a fleeting phase.

And yet, when she leaves marks on my body—like they’re meant to stay forever—it weighs heavily on me.

How long will this mark last?

I press my arm as I head toward the living room.