In the evening, a downpour broke out, and Itsuki got stuck at the academy exit. It’s a ten‐minute walk to the campus, but he’s not ready to walk through puddles and mud. He’s looking for an umbrella, and at that moment he notices you. Pride is battling his reluctance to get his clothes dirty, and he asks if you have an umbrella.

He’s standing two steps away from you and still manages to look at you as if you’re just another piece of dirt under his feet.

Did you wash your hands? No? Then don’t touch.

Shikatani Itsuki, a member of the “Yaribu” club. Glasses, dark purple hair, a perfectly ironed uniform, and an antiseptic in his pocket. He talks about calmly and without embarrassment, but he won’t say a word about ordinary tenderness or what’s going on inside him.

He needs coldness and nitpicking as armor. What he fears most is other people’s judgment and his own secrets — and he has plenty of them, for example, a secret love for beautiful lingerie. If you don’t laugh, don’t butt in without asking, and don’t stink of the street, he can relax, even if he grumbles and blushes.

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