There's no way Sendai-san is sweet!

 Episode 3

I don’t particularly like or dislike school.

Either way, it’s something I have to attend, so whether I enjoy it or not is irrelevant. Even today, I’m at school—not thrilled, just going through the motions, feeling low over trivial things.

In front of the bathroom mirror, I sigh. My bangs are too short.

My hair falls just past my shoulders—too short to justify a haircut, but the bangs were bothering me. So I trimmed them myself. They ended up shorter than intended. No matter how much I tug at them, the cut strands won’t grow back. Regret serves no purpose; I had no choice but to accept my mistake.

Still, every time I catch sight of my uneven fringe, a wave of dismay washes over me. When that happens, there’s only one thing I can do. I return to the classroom.

“Come to my place today.”

I send the same message from my phone. The words never change.

Sometimes I send it after second period, sometimes during lunch, or after school. Regardless of the timing, it’s always addressed to Sendai-san.

That’s been the case since last July. It’s now been over half a year.

Her replies vary—sometimes immediate, sometimes delayed—but she’s never turned me down. Occasionally, she’ll mention she has prior plans and might arrive late. Today was one of those days. Her message read, “I’ve got something else first, so I’ll be a bit late. Is that okay?”

“I’ll be waiting at home.”

I reply with my usual response and drift through the remainder of my classes.

Her “prior engagement” is almost certainly with Ibaraki-san. From my window-side seat, I glance at her where she sits in the hallway.

She’s loud, flashy, and always surrounded by people. Constantly gossiping about boys and complimenting other girls—things I have no interest in. She feels like someone from an entirely different world. She also has a tendency to get angry for reasons no one understands, so most of us avoid her.

I wonder if Sendai-san ever gets tired of hanging around someone like that. I tune out the teacher’s voice and shift my gaze to the front of the classroom. Her hair, styled in a half-up braid, looks carefully done.

It catches my eye—neat, polished, and beautiful.

At my place, she’s a mess. But at school, she’s different—composed, kind, intelligent. Always smiling, never showing irritation. Maybe that’s why, despite being part of the popular crowd, no one seems to dislike her.

Still, some call her a people-pleaser behind her back. I don’t know if she’s aware of that, though she certainly takes school seriously.

I tug again at my slightly-too-short bangs.

Each fifty-minute class feels endless. The teacher’s voice drones like a sutra, lulling me toward sleep. In a daze, I somehow get through two more classes and head home.

When I open the front door and call, “I’m home,” there’s no answer.

Of course not—no one’s here.

I go to my room without changing out of my uniform and collapse onto my bed. I didn’t rush home, but still, the intercom doesn’t ring for a long while.

Dozing off…

Sleep begins to creep in until a phone notification jolts me awake. I rub my eyes and check the screen.

“On my way now.”

Half an hour later, she finally arrives.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sendai-san says, taking off her coat and school blazer. As always, she hands over five thousand yen before sitting down at the table.

“It’s fine. It just means you’ll be getting home late.”

I already know what she’ll say. I place a bottle of cider in front of her, sit opposite her, and lean back against the bed.

“It’s okay,” she replies.

“My family’s pretty hands-off.”

She’s mentioned it before. Her parents seem unconcerned about when she comes home—maybe because they trust her.

“Hey, Miyagi. Do you know what today is?” she asks suddenly, unzipping her bag.

“Niboshi Day.”

February 14th—2-1-4. Ni-bo-shi.

Two and four work, sure, but reading one as “bo” is a stretch. Still, that’s how mnemonics work. Even if forced, people accept February 14th as Niboshi Day because the National Niboshi Association says so, and that’s that.

[T/N: "Niboshi" means dried sardines. The pun became a bit of a joke among singles back in the 2000s or 2010s— (in japan ofcourse) referring to themselves as dried fish, i.e., not fresh or desirable.]

But Sendai-san isn’t the type to let things slide like that.

She scowls, visibly annoyed. “I don’t want some lame excuse from a guy who can’t get a date. Be serious.”

“Valentine’s Day, right?”

The world’s buzzing with excitement, but to me, it’s just another day. Nothing special.

“Correct. I was giving out friend chocolates with Umina and the others—that’s why I was late. I brought one for you too, Miyagi.”

“Huh?”

“I made some for them yesterday, so I figured I’d make yours at the same time.”

She says it casually, placing a neatly wrapped box on the table. The floral wrapping paper and pink ribbon are almost too cute. Inside are handmade chocolates. The whole thing is so feminine it makes my skin crawl.

“Don’t want it?” she asks, confused as I stare at the box without touching it.

“I don’t have anything to give you in return.”

“You don’t exchange with your friends?”

“I don’t do that.”

Some people trade chocolates for Valentine’s, or exchange birthday gifts. But I don’t have those kinds of friends—ones who celebrate every holiday with presents. To me, the idea of giving “friend chocolates” feels distant, foreign.

“I see. Well, I didn’t bring this expecting anything in return. Just take it. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back.”

Sendai-san smiles. “So? What’ll it be?”

“…I’ll eat it.”

“Go ahead.”

I pick up the overly cute box, undo the ribbon, and peel away the wrapping paper. Inside are six small truffles—white, brown, and pink—neatly arranged. Each one smaller than the store-bought kind.

“You really made these?”

“Told you I did. Just the right size, right?”

There’s a rare note of pride in her voice. And sure enough, the truffles are perfectly bite-sized. For someone like me—who’s hopeless at cooking—it’s hard to believe they’re handmade. It’s unfair. Sendai-san is beautiful, smart, and now apparently good at baking too. We’re both human, but she has everything I don’t. I glare at the chocolates.

“I think they turned out delicious,” she says.

That’s all it takes to make me reach for one—but I pause and pull my hand back.

“Feed it to me, Sendai-san.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes. An order.”

Lately, she’s gotten too accustomed to following my commands, and her teasing has crossed the line. I’ve ordered her to lick my feet a few times, but she always adds extra touches—biting, kissing. That’s not what I asked for.

She’s supposed to obey. She’s the one who should feel strange. Awkward. So today, I’ll return the favor.

“Come here.”

I motion her over while leaning against the bed. She obediently sits beside me.

“Which one do you want to eat first?”

“The white one.”

I point at the powdered sugar-covered truffle.

“Got it.”

She picks it up between her thumb and index finger.

The little snowball of chocolate approaches my lips. I open my mouth wide, thinking I might bite her elegant fingers as well—but the sugary sweetness distracts me the moment it touches my tongue. Forgetting my plan, I bite the truffle and grab her wrist.

“Not eating it?” she asks, lightly, as though reading from a script. She pushes the truffle fully into my mouth. I let go of her wrist as the powdered sugar melts on my tongue.

Five chocolates remain. I save my mischief for later and chew.

It’s delicious. Sweet, but not overly so. The smooth truffle melts across my tongue. I could eat ten more.

“Your lips are white,” she laughs, reaching out. Her slender fingers brush my mouth. I swat her hand away.

“Too sweet?”

She doesn’t complain about the slap. Instead, she asks about the flavor—her composure irritates me. This is the version of Sendai-san I see at school.

Always smiling, never upset. Even here, outside the classroom, she acts like she belongs to a different world. It makes me want to pull her down into mine.

“This isn’t school.”

I turn the heater up a degree and sip my cider.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re acting like a goody-two-shoes.”

“I’m not acting. I am a good person.”

She says it with no shame, flashing a flawless smile.

“Here, you’re not a good person. A good person would be as sweet as this chocolate.”

“Then I am a good person. Sweet and kind. I even brought you chocolates, didn’t I?”

“Friend chocolates? We’re not exactly—”

The word friends gets stuck in my throat.

Maybe it’s not something that needs to be said out loud. Whether we’re friends or not doesn’t really matter. Chocolates aren’t proof of anything.

It’s pointless.

“What? Say it.”

“Give me another one.”

“This one okay?”

“Fine.”

I dodge her question, and she doesn’t push. She picks up a pink truffle.

I look at her fingers.

Her nails are coated with clear polish—neither too short nor too long. Well-groomed. Beautiful. But my attention isn’t really on her hands.

I’m more interested in her feet.

The first time I ordered her to lick mine, she bit my toes. Hard enough to leave marks. She didn’t stop until I firmly told her to.

Then she licked the bite marks. It hurt. It sent shivers down my spine.

It felt wrong—but not as bad as I expected. It happened again later, and I felt the same.

I want her to feel the same uncomfortable emotions she gave me. But I absolutely don’t want to lick her feet. That would be 

crossing my own line. Her hands will have to do.

Instead of commanding her directly, I’ll use the chocolate as my excuse. That’s more fun.

Unwanted emotions should arrive like a surprise.

“Here you go.”

Drawn in by the softness of her voice, I open my mouth wide and bite down on the truffle—along with Sendai-san’s finger. I sink my teeth in with more force than chocolate requires, a thrill surging through me, like slicing a thick steak with a sharp knife.

It’s been a long time since I had steak with Dad.

“Miyagi, that hurts,” Sendai-san protests.

But I don’t let go. I clamp down harder, feeling the bone beneath my teeth.

“Hey, Miyagi. That hurts.”

Her voice drops lower—firmer than the one I’m used to hearing at school. It reverberates through my eardrums.

The room, which hadn't felt warm before, suddenly turns stifling. The sugary taste of the chocolate, the hard texture of her bone, and a voice in my head whispering more swirl together inside me.

I add just a little more pressure with my teeth.

Her finger trembles as I grind down.

“Miyagi!”

Her sharp cry snaps me out of it, and I release her finger. I take a moment to savor the lingering chocolate in my mouth.

“…Revenge?” Sendai-san murmurs, inspecting her hand.

She doesn’t look angry—but it clearly hurt.

“Who knows? Give me your hand.”

After swallowing the truffle, I extend the request. Sendai-san makes a slightly annoyed face, but she doesn’t resist. Wordlessly, her hand drifts to my lips.

I trace the bite marks with the tip of my tongue, slow and deliberate. She brushes back my slightly overgrown bangs.

“Did you cut your hair?”

Just a little too short.

I didn’t cut it so drastically that someone like Sendai-san—who barely speaks to me at school—should notice.

There’s a gulf between us as wide as the Ganges River.

—I don’t remember how big the Ganges is, but I know it’s vast. That’s how far apart we’re supposed to be. Still, something inside me shifts when she notices even a minor detail like my hair.

Instead of answering, I try to bite her again. But before I can, she slides her finger deeper into my mouth—up to the second knuckle. Her fingertip brushes against the inside of my cheek, and the sensation sends a shiver down my spine.

Something wells up inside me, unsettling and unfamiliar. I don’t want it to stop. I softly bite the finger moving in my mouth. I press my tongue against it, licking slowly. But then, abruptly, she pulls it out.

“Was it good?” Sendai-san asks casually, as if nothing happened.

I wonder if she felt the same pain and shudder I did when she bit my foot. I can’t be sure.

Her face is all smiles—expressionless beneath the surface.

[T/N – Well! That was a kinky play.]

Annoyed that I didn’t get the reaction I was hoping for, I reply flatly, “The chocolate was better.”

“Thought so. Want another?”

She offers it with that same unwavering smile.

I hate how she brushes it all off like it meant nothing.

She yelped when I bit her. I know she felt something. I have to tear down that fake calm she wears like armor.

“That one. Give me that.”

“Open up.”

I point to a truffle dusted in cocoa powder. Sendai-san picks it up and brings it to my lips. As if we’re both following a script, the chocolate touches my mouth, and once again, I bite down—along with her finger.

“Miyagi, that hurts.”

She says it like she’s reciting a line. No real emotion.

Of course.

I haven’t bitten hard yet.

So I press harder, letting my canine teeth dig into her fingertip.

As the chocolate melts, her finger begins to taste sweet, like part of the truffle itself. I want to devour it all. My canines sink deeper—but then she pushes my forehead back, firmly.

“It hurts,” she says again, this time with real force. Her hand is no longer gentle—it’s trying to push me away.

“Let go.”

She doesn’t get to tell me what to do.

So I bite down harder.

It must hurt a lot now, because she repeats herself, voice sharp, and yanks her finger away. Only the chocolate remains in my mouth. I let it melt before swallowing.

Even if we aren’t friends, the “friend chocolate” she made tastes amazing. It’s probably not being used the way she intended, but it serves my purpose. It was just extra chocolate anyway—what happens to it shouldn’t matter.

But when I glance at her, her smile is gone.

“Get me a tissue,” she says in a voice lower than usual.

The tissue box with the alligator cover is closer to me than it is to her.

Looking down, I see cocoa powder and melted chocolate smeared across her finger.

Even her clear-polished nails are dirty.

But a tissue isn’t the only way to clean it.

Ignoring her request, I guide her finger back to my lips. It’s a bit absurd, but since I’m the one who dirtied Sendai-san, I should be the one to clean her.

“Miyagi.”

I pretend not to hear.

I press my lips to her fingertip and slowly lick the bite marks I left. My tongue trails down to the base of her finger, and I suck lightly. A faint smack escapes, and Sendai-san flinches.

“That’s kind of gross,” she mutters.

But I’m certain she feels it too—that same twisted something I felt earlier.

It’s gross, sure. But it’s not just gross.

I think I hear it in her voice, just a little, and I press my tongue against her skin once more.

But the chocolate’s sweetness is long gone.

Human skin doesn’t taste like anything—neither hot nor cold. It’s not delicious.

Still, this is the most fun I’ve had all day.

I move to her thumb.

I lick it the same way, slowly, like melting chocolate. Sendai-san exhales softly.

“Miyagi, you’re getting carried away.”

Her voice is followed by a firm push to my shoulder. I finally release her finger and toss her the tissue box.

“Is this fun for you?” she asks, wiping her hand, eyes fixed on me.

“Of course,” I say, smiling.

She throws the alligator box back at me.

“What kind of hobby is this? You into cannibalism or something?”

“No such thing.”

“Then stop biting. That seriously hurt. Isn’t this, like, breaking our contract?”

She sighs, taking a sip of cider.

“It’s not violence. You bit me first, so deal with a little pain.”

“Bit you where?”

“My foot. Don’t act like you forgot.”

“Not that hard. You made it feel like you were about to bite my finger off.”

“It just happened while I was eating.”

“You planning to eat more?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“…Do whatever you want,” she mutters, like she’s tossing something useless aside.

I don’t want to be her friend.

We’re connected by money, and that’s all there needs to be.

So it shouldn’t matter what Sendai-san thinks—I should have every right to treat her how I want.

That’s how it’s supposed to be.

But the words that escape my mouth aren’t what I expected.

“Wanna stay for dinner?”

“Sure,” Sendai-san replies immediately.

Two’s better than one.

The food might taste the same, but eating with someone makes it feel more like an actual meal.

I get up and head to the kitchen. Without a word, she follows.

I turn on the light, switch on the air conditioner, and have her sit at the living room side of the counter. I pull frozen fries from the freezer and toss the bag into the microwave. I set two plates, grab two retort-pack hamburgers from the fridge, and replace the fries with them once the microwave beeps.

That’s about all it takes to make dinner. Still longer than cup ramen, though. I place the plates—hamburgers, fries, and some rice—on the counter in front of her. She lets out a satisfied sound.

“There’s enough for two,” she says, like I had her in mind when I bought them.

“It’s Dad’s portion.”

It just happened to be there.

Not like I made it for her.

“What’ll your dad say if I eat this?”

She asks about my dad, not my mom.

“There’s more.”

A lie. The fridge is practically empty. But Dad rarely eats at home, so it doesn’t matter.

“So eat.”

I say it curtly and sit beside her. I murmur, “Thanks for the meal,” and she echoes the words almost at the same time. It’s not that we’re in sync.

We eat in silence.

It doesn’t bother me. Silence is easier than shallow conversation. I chew the hamburger—softer than her finger.

The only sounds are our chopsticks and plates.

As we finish the meal, Sendai-san speaks.

“Want me to make dinner next time?”

“Where did that come from?”

“Don’t want me to?”

Her truffles were good. Her cooking probably is too. But she shouldn’t be doing things I didn’t order.

We’re supposed to be bound by instructions. Nothing more.

“You don’t need to.”

“Got it,” she says simply, not sounding disappointed. She pops another piece of hamburger into her mouth.

If we don’t talk, the meal ends fast. It’s no different from eating instant ramen alone on a freezing December day. I leave the dishes for later, and we return to my room.

“Anything else you want to order?”

“Nope.”

“Then I’m heading out.”

Sendai-san puts on her blazer and coat and walks to the door.

“I’ll walk you out.”

We step out the front door together and enter the elevator.

“The truffles were delicious. Thanks.”

As the numbers descend from five to four, I comment on the gift and offer my thanks. I have at least enough sense to do that much.

“You’re welcome,” Sendai-san replies just as the elevator comes to a halt. We walk toward the entrance. She waves and says, “See you.” As usual, I call out, “Bye-bye,” to her retreating back—but this time, she turns around. She’s never turned back before, not even once. Yet today, she does. “Bye-bye,” she says, waving again.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and the last of the chocolates disappeared a while ago. I wouldn’t say I want to eat them again, but having two or three more wouldn’t have been a bad thing.

I like sweets. No matter how many I have, they never feel like a burden.

But they don’t need to be made by Sendai-san. As long as they taste good, I don’t care who made them. And even if they’re not especially tasty, I wouldn't mind as long as they’re not outright awful. It’s the same with that dinner Sendai-san mentioned making—whether it turns out good or not isn’t the point. Once I’ve eaten it, it all ends up in the same place anyway.

…Well, her mention of “making dinner” seemed more like an offhand comment. I’m not even sure she meant it seriously.

I place a hand on my stomach, the teacher’s voice echoing faintly in the background.

Glancing at the clock mounted above the blackboard, I realize only a short time has passed since class began. Lunch break is still a good thirty-five minutes away. The teacher calls out, “Next, Miyagi,” in a voice that sounds like a drowsy incantation from a video game. I wasn’t fully paying attention, but I know I’m supposed to read from the textbook.

Reluctantly, I stand and pick up my English textbook.

I have no plans to pursue a job that requires English. I don’t intend to leave Japan, so it doesn’t matter to me whether I understand it or not. Still, English class arrives without fail, and the teacher always calls on me.

So I begin reading, albeit unwillingly.

Among the familiar words, there are a few I don’t recognize, and my voice wavers. The teacher fills in the blanks, but I have little confidence in my pronunciation.

“That’s enough. Sit down, Miyagi. Pay more attention in class,” the teacher says with a tinge of exasperation. But I doubt I’d understand English any better even if I took it seriously. “Alright, Sendai. Continue from there.”

“Yes,” Sendai-san replies, rising smoothly from her seat.

Back straight, she reads aloud with a clear, flowing voice—fluent, effortless, unhesitating. The text turns to sound as if she’s done it a thousand times. If I had to describe it, Sendai-san’s voice is like elegant cursive writing, while mine resembles the shaky block letters of a child.

She makes everything seem easy.

I sigh and look down at my textbook.

It’s frustrating.

Her light brown hair, the makeup she wears, her skirt—shorter than school rules allow. She breaks rules openly, yet the teachers never seem to reprimand her. She insists she’s the “pure” type, but is wearing makeup pure? Is biting someone’s leg pure? I have my doubts.

But thinking about it won’t change anything.

I’ll never be able to handle things as smoothly as Sendai-san does.

I flip a page in the textbook.

Eventually, her voice stops, and the sound of chalk scratching against the blackboard takes over. My notebook fills with half-heartedly copied notes, and the long, dragging class continues. The teacher even steals five minutes from our lunch break to finish the lesson.

As soon as we’re dismissed, I pull out my phone.

Before my friend Maika comes over from the back of the room, I send a message.

It’s addressed to Sendai-san, and it always says the same thing:

> “Come over to my place today.”

Her reply comes quickly. My after-school plans are set.

I eat lunch in the cafeteria, sit through the remaining classes, and finish my school day. When Maika invites me to hang out, I say goodbye and head straight home. Later, while lazing around on my bed, I get a message from Sendai-san: “I’ll be there soon.” Not long after, the intercom buzzes, and she arrives.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she says, slipping off her coat and blazer before settling down in front of my bookshelf, browsing for something to read. I place a five-thousand-yen bill in her hand and leave the room. My slippers shuffle softly as I head for the kitchen.

I line up two glasses and pour some soda from the fridge. When I return, Sendai-san is sprawled across my bed like she owns it.

Three manga volumes lie scattered beside her. It’s our usual routine. I place the glasses on the table, pull a few more manga from the shelf, and sit on the floor with my back against the bed, flipping through pages I’ve read more times than I can count. Even when I give her orders, there’s not much variety. In this room, Sendai-san is like my servant—but only within certain limits, unspoken yet clearly understood. I don’t always feel like making her do weird or harsh things anyway.

Time passes in silence.

I finish one manga, then another.

The only sounds are the turning of pages and the quiet hum of the heater.

Just as I pick up a third volume, Sendai-san speaks.

“Miyagi, do you play games?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Like those games where hot guys flirt with you?”

I keep my eyes on the manga as she talks.

“I don’t play those.”

“Huh. You read so many romance manga, I figured you’d be into that.”

I do like romance manga—but that doesn’t mean I want to simulate it in a game. I mostly play RPGs. Rather than simulating a relationship, I’d rather follow someone else’s story.

“You probably think I only play nerdy games, don’t you?”

“Not true?”

Sendai-san lifts her face from the manga and flashes a mischievous grin.

I don’t respond. I get up.

She might not mean it that way, but she always seems to act like she’s above me. Maybe that’s true at school—but not here. So her attitude rubs me the wrong way.

“Do my English homework,” I say, laying out my textbook and worksheets on the table. But she stays sprawled on the bed.

“After I finish reading this.”

“Now.”

“Stingy Miyagi.”

With a sigh of resignation, she sits across from me. She pulls out her own worksheets and begins solving them.

“You could just write directly on mine,” I suggest.

“I’ve told you before—they’d recognize my handwriting. No way.”

“Then copy mine.”

“If we get caught, we’ll both be in trouble. And giving orders that could expose us breaks our deal.”

We meet after school.

We do things together.

And we agreed: no orders that would reveal that arrangement. She’s right, of course—but I still think she could copy my handwriting easily if she really wanted to.

She just doesn’t want to.

That’s probably the truth.

I poke her cheek with the end of my mechanical pencil.

“What?”

“Lick it.”

Watching her quietly solve problems gets boring. This is just a way to pass the time.

Across the table, she lifts her face, and I press the pencil’s knock button to her lips. I slowly trace the edge of her mouth, and without hesitation, Sendai-san licks it—then bites it.

“I didn’t ask you to bite it,” I say, pulling the pencil away.

“What do you mean?”

“I told you to lick it. Just that.”

That was all I wanted.

“Do you actually enjoy being ordered around, Sendai-san? You seem like you’re into it.”

“Do I look like I’m enjoying this?”

Not exactly gleeful—but she doesn’t look disgusted either. She’s never refused an order.

My wishes are supposed to be fulfilled. So why does it feel unsatisfying?

“Then make it look like you’re not enjoying it.”

I shove the pencil into her mouth more forcefully, poking her tongue with the knock button and scraping her upper palate. When I pull it out, she grimaces, her brow knitting in discomfort.

“Keep that face.”

I’ve never had these thoughts about a friend.

But Sendai-san isn’t a friend. So it’s fine.

“You really are a pervert, Miyagi.”

She says it in a voice I’ve never heard at school, reaching for the pencil. I dodge her hand and smile.

“Maybe I am.”

At school, she never shows displeasure—but here, she does. The perfect Sendai-san vanishes, replaced by one only I know.

And I think I love that moment.

At school, she shines—always in the center, always smiling. She takes all the best parts of school life for herself. But that version of Sendai-san doesn’t exist in this room.

I press the pencil to the back of her hand.

“That’s kind of dangerous,” she mutters irritably.

I press harder until the lead snaps, and she lets out a quiet “Ow.” I pull the pencil back, grab a tissue from the box shaped like an alligator, and wipe the wet knock button.

“Hey… are you actually going to make dinner?”

I want to know if the words she tossed out that day meant anything.

“You don’t even want to eat it, do you?” she replies coldly, letting out a small sigh. She closes her eyes briefly, as if calming herself, then meets my gaze.

“But if it’s an order, I’ll make it.”

She says it quietly and resumes writing on her worksheet.

I pay Sendai-san five thousand yen to take orders.

But I won’t order her to make dinner.

My orders are for something else entirely.

I trace the worksheet, mimicking her tidy handwriting, my pencil gliding across the page.