Chapter 6: Lab Work and Lingered Looks

The clock ticked louder after the final bell. Most students had already filtered out of the school, their laughter and footsteps echoing down the corridors. But the biology prep room on the second floor remained occupied.

Yasu stood just inside the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, unsure of where to even step. The room smelled faintly of chemicals and chalk dust. Cabinets full of glass beakers and labeled jars lined the walls. At the far desk stood Hoshiko-sensei, sleeves rolled to her elbows, holding a tray of preserved frog specimens.

“Glad you showed up,” she said without looking at him. “I was starting to think I’d have to bribe you with melon bread.”

He remained quiet as he approached, eyeing the tray with faint suspicion. “You said nothing about frogs.”

“I said ‘help in the lab,’” she corrected, setting the tray down and turning to him. “And this is biology. The guts eventually show up.”

Yasu grimaced slightly. “I didn’t come here to play surgeon.”

“Too bad,” she said brightly. “You already agreed. And besides—” She picked up a scalpel and twirled it between her fingers like a pen. “You might learn something useful. Like how to cut open a mystery.”

He raised a brow. “That’s not how dissection works.”

“Oh, but it is,” she replied, handing him a pair of gloves. “Life is full of sealed things. Bodies, hearts, intentions. You never know what’s inside until you slice a little.”

Yasu pulled the gloves on slowly. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re supposed to be a teacher.”

She chuckled, soft but with a slight edge. “Yasu-kun, being a teacher doesn’t mean I’m not still human. Or curious. Or inappropriate, sometimes.”

He gave her a long look, then focused on the frog. “You really are strange.”

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You keep calling me strange, but you still show up. Makes me wonder what that says about you.”

“I was bored.”

“Liar.”

He didn’t reply.

The lesson — if it could be called that — was casual. Hoshiko explained how to make the incisions, which parts to avoid tearing, and what each organ meant in terms of function. But her tone was far from clinical. Every now and then, she threw in odd comments.

“See this? The liver. Big and slimy. Like the lies people tell themselves when they think they’re over someone.”

Yasu paused mid-cut. “Is this going to be a weird metaphor again?”

She grinned. “Everything is a metaphor if you try hard enough.”

After thirty minutes, the frogs were neatly laid open, the tools cleaned, and silence stretched again.

“Not bad,” she said, nodding at his work. “You have a steady hand. Could’ve been a surgeon.”

Yasu removed his gloves carefully. “Too much pressure.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You seem like the type who likes pressure… once you stop pretending to hate it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do you say this kind of thing to all your students?”

“Only the interesting ones,” she replied, tossing her gloves into the bin. “Most of them can’t keep up.”

He looked at her — really looked at her this time. Not just the way she moved or joked, but the confidence she wore like perfume. She wasn’t careless. She was deliberate. Every smirk, every casual remark, every flick of her hair — intentional. Like a scientist poking at a new specimen, waiting to see if it reacts.

And unfortunately, Yasu was reacting.

Not with blushes or stutters. But with curiosity. A pull in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

Hoshiko leaned back against the desk, arms crossed under her chest. “Tell me something, Yasu-kun.”

“…What?”

“Why do you always sit near the window?”

He blinked. The question felt too light, too casual — and somehow far too pointed.

“I like the view.”

“Of the trees?” she asked.

He nodded.

She smirked. “Not the girls in the track club?”

His face didn’t change. “They run too fast to focus on.”

That made her laugh — a full, bright laugh that echoed off the tiled walls. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’ve got timing. I like that.”

“You’re making it weird again.”

“Am I?” She tilted her head. “Or are you just not used to being seen?”

That shut him up for a moment.

Then: “Most people don’t care to look.”

She walked past him toward the door, picking up her coat. “Their loss.”

He watched her, trying — and failing — to understand what kind of person she really was. A teacher, yes. But more than that, she was a puzzle wrapped in humor and metaphors, and she didn’t seem interested in being solved.

She opened the door, then paused. “By the way. You don’t have to help every day.”

“I know.”

“But if you show up tomorrow,” she said with a small, mischievous grin, “I might let you dissect something fun. Like a cow’s eyeball.”

“…That’s disgusting.”

“Life is disgusting,” she said, stepping out. “But sometimes, it blinks back.”

And with that, she was gone.

Yasu stood alone in the lab, staring at the empty tray, wondering just how many layers she planned to peel back.