Akari, having finished flipping through her latest doujin, suddenly tossed the book onto the table with a thud and stretched her arms above her head, letting out a satisfied sigh. "Alright, enough of this dream ritual bullshit. We've got the whole afternoon left before we have to go home, and I refuse to spend it talking about weird cult patterns or whatever. Let's just chill."
"Sounds good to me," Ren said, grabbing the small TV remote and flicking it on. The screen lit up, filling the clubroom with the familiar opening sequence of the anime they'd been binge-watching. "You in, Oliver?"
Oliver glanced at the screen, then smirked. "Like you even have to ask."
The five of them settled into their usual club routine. They had already torn through a fresh stack of manga, debating which ones deserved a spot on their coveted must-read list—an argument that had nearly ended in violence when Akari and Ren butted heads over a particular series.
Now that the dust had settled, Oliver leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, the glow of the TV casting flickering light across the dim room. The others seemed engrossed in the anime, but his attention drifted elsewhere.
Akari sat across from him, sprawled out in that completely unladylike way she always did, her legs apart like she couldn't care less. Her tanned skin stood out against the crisp black of her uniform skirt, the top buttons of her blouse undone just enough to reveal the lacy edge of a bra that peeked out every time she shifted. Her long, dyed-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she absently twirled a strand around her finger while sipping from a juice box, the straw between her lips in a way Oliver couldn't help but notice.
Damn. She really has the gyaru thing down to an art form. The sun-kissed skin, the bold attitude, the complete disregard for proper posture—or modesty, for that matter.
His gaze lingered a little too long on the smooth curve of her thighs, toned from years of casually doing sports but never sticking to one club. The way her skirt barely covered anything when she leaned forward, completely unconcerned about the view.
She caught him looking.
"The hell are you staring at, creep?" she teased, smirking around her straw.
Oliver didn't flinch. He knew Akari well enough to tell when she was actually annoyed—and this wasn't one of those times. If anything, she liked the attention.
"Just wondering how the hell you manage to sit like that without flashing the whole room," he shot back, matching her smirk.
Akari grinned. "Skill issue."
Ren chuckled beside them, clearly overhearing. "Nah, Oliver's just finally embracing his inner degenerate."
"Finally?" Akari scoffed, stretching her arms above her head—an act that only emphasized her chest. "Dude was always one. He just recurrently began to suck at hiding it."
Oliver rolled his eyes, but didn't deny it.
Just then, Yuki, the club's newest member, emerged from the back of the room where she'd been rearranging books. If Akari was all bold colors and sharp edges, Yuki was her opposite—pale, slender, with sleek black hair framing her delicate features. Her uniform was immaculate, every button fastened, her skirt at the exact regulation length.
And yet, even dressed so conservatively, there was something about her. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was nervous. The way her lips parted slightly when she was concentrating, as if on the verge of speaking but always holding back.
Oliver's gaze drifted lower, tracing the subtle curves hidden beneath her uniform. Yuki wasn't as in-your-face as Akari, but that just made her appeal hit differently—the quiet kind of charm that snuck up on you.
She turned and caught him looking.
Unlike Akari, she didn't call him out. Instead, a faint blush dusted her cheeks before she quickly looked away, pretending not to notice.
Oliver smirked to himself.
The club meeting carried on as usual—anime, manga debates, Ren rambling about the latest wuxia web novel he was obsessed with.