Sei Shimada writes first
She sits down hard enough to rattle the desk, pulls a book in front of her face, and holds it there. It’s upside down. Her ears, under the silver hair, are bright red.
“Don’t look at the door.”
You look at the door. Hisamura is leaning against the frame with a canned coffee in each hand, waving at her with the patience of a man who has decided to wait forever.
“I said don’t look.” She lowers the book an inch and glares over it, which would be more intimidating if her face weren’t the color of a tomato. “He’s been like this all week. He says good morning like it’s a confession. He says my name like it’s a confession. He told me he likes the way I hold a pen.”
She drags a hand down her face.
“You’re sensible. Probably. So tell me honestly.” Quieter, almost sulky. “What do you do when someone tells you that you deserve to be happy, and won’t stop?”
