The Prince Appears Again (in My Classroom)

The door slides open.

Sunlight spills in—and he ducks inside.

Tall frame. Light-brown hair catching gold at the tips.

Then he lifts his head.

Ice-blue eyes. Calm, distant, unfairly bright.

Half the class starts selling their Ishida stock and buying whatever this new guy is.
Meanwhile, I’m busy freaking out.

No way. My cold, emotionally unavailable manga prince cannot just be our new transfer student.

Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out.
“The Prince of Trash.”

Silence.

He pauses—head tilting, eyes flicking my way.

Great. I just broke immersion. The fandom’s going to cancel me for corrupting the Ice Prince’s brand.
Didn’t even save before this cutscene.

“Everyone, this is our new transfer student,” the teacher says, mercifully breaking the moment.

He smiles—polite, effortless.
“Good morning. I’m Louis Devereux. I just moved here from France. Please take care of me.”

Louis Devereux. Omg, so fancy—and he’s from France. Total paid-DLC character vibes.

But since when does my mysterious Ice Prince smile?
He’s supposed to appear silently and radiate despair.

The room ripples with whispers. Foreign. From France. Good-looking.

Half the girls start twirling their hair.
Even the boys look like they’ve accepted defeat.

I pretend none of this concerns me, but my brain’s already short-circuiting.

Then—
“Devereux, take the empty seat in the back,” the teacher says. “Next to Tanaka.”

Next to… me.
Oh. So this is what happens when the god of otaku actually listens.

Louis walks down the aisle. For a second, I swear he glances my way—just briefly.
My pulse jumps.

He sets his bag down with precision that makes sitting look choreographed.

Still, something’s off.

At the shop he was quiet, unreadable—like a limited-edition figurine.
Now he’s… smiling? Talking? Breathing?

Someone patch-rolled the wrong version of the Dark Prince.

It shouldn’t bother me, but it does—like watching your favorite villain suddenly apologize for character growth.

“Hi,” he says, still smiling. “Nice to meet you.”

My Ice Prince doesn’t greet people.
He stares out windows and radiates tragic energy.
Someone nerfed his aura stats.

I just sit there, mentally buffering like a lagging NPC.

“Uh… are you okay?” he asks.

That breaks the spell. “H-Hi!” Two beats too late.

Perfect. Responded to the wrong dialogue line.

I stare straight ahead, trying to reboot my dignity while background panic runs at 300 %.

When class begins, he leans closer. “Could I share your textbook? I don’t have mine yet.”

“Sure,” I mumble, sliding it between us. Our shoulders almost touch.

That same citrus scent—just like the shop.
Coincidence, maybe. Or same perfume as his hotter, colder twin.

The teacher drones about schedules.

He doesn’t recognize me.
Either I’m in the wrong route, or the dev-gods are trolling me again.

Still, part of me wishes he’d look twice—just once—to prove I’m not imagining this.

The lunch chime cuts through my thoughts—bright and mocking.

“Tanaka,” the teacher calls. “You’re showing Devereux around at lunch.”

Right. That.

I glance over. Louis is already standing, lunch bag in hand.
“Shall we?”

“Y-Yeah. Sure.”

We step into the hallway. He walks beside me—not too close, not too far.
Perfect social-distance calibration.

Half the hallway’s running silent commentary like it’s a livestream. Who’s she? Why her? Did she win a raffle?

Great. Public escort mission unlocked.

“So,” I start, filling the silence, “this is the first-year wing—loud, chaotic, occasionally lethal.”

He chuckles. “That sounds… intense.”

We pass students already waving at him. Three hours in, and he’s got fan recognition.
Must be nice, living with protagonist aura.

At the end of the hall, sunlight pours through a window over the courtyard.
Students scatter on benches, laughing, alive.

“It’s beautiful here,” Louis says, leaning toward the glass.

I clear my throat. “Yeah—come on, there’s more.”

We loop through the gym, science building, library—then reach the old cherry tree behind the main hall.
The petals haven’t fallen yet, but the air feels cinematic—like something’s queued to happen.

Louis slows, glancing up.
“It’s beautiful,” he says softly. “Can we sit here for a bit?”

Panic mode.
Under the cherry tree? That’s where confessions happen.
Background characters don’t survive cherry-tree events.

“S-Sit? Sure! Totally casual, definitely-not-romance-event sitting!”

He blinks, amused. “Right.”

He opens his lunch.
Perfect omelette rolls, glossy rice, vegetables arranged like art.

“You made that yourself?” I ask.

He nods. “Cooking helps me relax. Want to try?”

Relax? I nearly burned my house down trying that once.

“N-No! I mean—I don’t want to steal your lunch!”

He laughs softly. “Don’t worry, I made plenty. Or would you prefer I feed you?”

“Feed—what?!” My face ignites. “No! I can feed myself!”

I grab an omelette. Bite. Heaven.
Fluffy, warm, criminally good.

He watches me eat, smiling.

So weird. I’m usually the NPC eating a convenience-store bento alone.
No one’s ever sat this close. Or looked right at me.
It’s… kind of nice.

Even if I miss my midnight manga prince, this vanilla daytime version is just as dangerous.

“So, Shizuka—what do you think of my cooking?” he asks.

Wait—Shizuka? No honorifics? Straight first name like we’re anime childhood friends?

Calm down. He’s French. They do that. Totally normal. Relax.

Internal temperature: approaching Sakurajima eruption.

“Oh, sorry,” he adds. “Should I say Tanaka-kun? No? Maybe Tanaka-chan?”

Abort mission.
He actually said Tanaka-chan.
No one’s ever called me that.

“N-No! Shizuka’s fine!” I blurt. “Totally fine! Very… efficient!”

Congratulations, I’m exploiting cultural differences in real time.

He laughs—actual sound.
My Ice Prince is laughing.
Smiling.

Dear otaku god, please let him have an evil twin.

“So, Shizuka—what do you like to do around here?”

Error 404. All hobbies involve manga, games, or snacks.

“I… crepes. Going to eat crepes,” I say. “And shopping downtown. Sometimes.”

He looks intrigued. “Then maybe we can try some crepes after school. What do you say?”

There it is—the unmistakable event-flag chime.

Is the world ending? How is this my route?

“You mean… like a tour?”

He nods, smiling. “Sure—a tour.”

That’s a date. That’s literally a date.

“Uh—sure,” I squeak.

He laughs again—quiet, warm, like he already solved me.

The chime rings. Lunch ends. My heart doesn’t.

Oh no. I have a date with the mysterious manga guy.

Someone please unplug me before I short-circuit.

I used to dream about getting swept into a grand romantic adventure.
Turns out, it’s easier when you’re safely behind the counter shipping it.

The gods of otaku answered my prayers—
just not in the patch notes I expected.

Next episode: Operation: Survive the “Not-a-Date” Date.