"Qin An, care to explain why you were running shirtless across campus this morning, then allegedly harassing a female student in the infirmary until she cried? The nurse filed a formal complaint—she says you turned her office into a hormone playground!"

Perched on a swivel chair with legs crossed, Qin An’s homeroom teacher Chiyabana Ayame barely cleared five feet. A faux loli with golden twin-tails, a butterfly tattoo peeking above her collar, and a face sweet enough to match current idol trends—though rumors claimed she was pushing forty. Or maybe just thirty-nine. Her fingers drummed impatiently on the desk, each tap eroding her dwindling patience.

"It was about a girl named Hirano this morning—"

Qin An kept his explanation brief. Certain details—like how the girl woke before he could perform CPR—stayed unmentioned.

"Ah, Hirano Yuko!" Ayame’s lips curled into a devilish grin. She spun her chair away from him with a flourish, waving dismissively. "I’ve got the full picture now. Your methods were... unconventional, but your intentions were pure. I’ll report this to the principal."

Qin An trudged back to class, ignoring the whispers and pointed fingers lining the hallway. His soaked trousers had forced him into gym clothes—a choice that only amplified the stares. He pushed past the prickling gazes and hushed gossip in the classroom, sliding into his seat at the window-side desk in the second-to-last row of the front column. The so-called "harem throne."

The compact classroom held just thirty-six students across four rows of nine desks each. As Qin An pulled out his Japanese textbook, a strikingly handsome boy approached. While most classmates barely remembered Qin An’s name after introductions, he’d memorized every face and name on day one.

This was Yamashita Ryo—golden tousled hair, sharp jawline, the kind of model who could strut onto a runway fully clothed... or better yet, unclothed to ignite screams. His hand brushed Qin An’s chest. "I saw your torso earlier. Impressive muscles, Qin An."

Qin An slapped his hand away and edged closer to the wall. He wasn’t into guys.

"Look how close Yamashita-kun and Qin An are!"

"Are they... together?"

"Totally! Yamashita’s obviously the top—so passionate. Qin An’s the cold, reserved bottom."

"No way! Qin An’s the aggressive one beneath that quiet exterior, while Yamashita’s actually—"

Qin An heard every word. Yamashita, unfazed, slid a card across his desk and winked. "I believe in you. You’ll be our star host."

*What the hell?* Qin An flipped the card. "Host Club Paradise" glared back, complete with address and contact details. He knew exactly what a host club was—undercover gigs had taught him how to lure marks in bars, even in drag. He had no idea this flimsy card would change everything.

Qin An spent the morning staring blankly at girls in the courtyard. Lunchtime meant the rooftop—a quiet spot, though dusty from neglect. Most students preferred cherry blossom picnics.

Today, he wasn’t alone.

A girl sat perched on the rooftop ledge, back to the sky, pale legs swinging over the five-story drop. Her thick lashes framed wide, watery eyes. Hirano Yuko. She’d spotted him—the only person who seemed to see her.

"Eh?"

Her grip on the railing slipped. She tipped backward. Qin An darted forward, catching her wrist just in time.

In his pupils, she saw her own reflection. His gaze was gentle. His palm felt rough—*Was he in kendo club?*—but it was the first time she’d touched a boy’s hand. A blush warmed her cheeks; her heart hammered against her ribs.

*Clang!*

Qin An’s bento box hit the ground.

"Don’t scare me like that, idiot."

"Sorry... I was just so hungry, I—"

"Take it." He handed her the bento, then leaned against the railing, breathing deep. Dongling High School overlooked all of Divine River City from this mountainside perch. The view was beautiful. But the people were more so.

"But you—"

"I’ll grab bread."

He brushed past her, already descending the stairs.

"Wait—your name?"

"Qin An."

His voice echoed in her chest long after he vanished. Her clothes were dry now, courtesy of the infirmary’s dryer—but she still wore his wool sweater. His scent wrapped around her like a promise. Safe. Unwilling to let go.

She cradled the heart-shaped bento. *I owe him so much,* she thought. *Maybe more than I can ever repay.*