Ten minutes later, Kitahara Sota's dorm room.
Kitahara stared at the obedient little Oguri Cap sitting before him, the lingering sweetness still clinging between his lips and teeth, his face full of melancholy.
What the hell was that supposed to be.
On the other side, Eclipse sat quietly, expression calm. Only when her gaze swept past the two of them and the leftover pocky on the table did a flicker of curiosity show in her eyes.
Ten minutes earlier—in Kitahara's despairing gaze, Eclipse had opened the door. And behind her, no one else.
The moment he saw her, Kitahara's mood flipped from hell to heaven, a breath of relief rushing out of him.
But he quickly realized—he had exhaled far too soon.
Because even though someone had entered, Oguri didn't stop. Not at all. Instead her assault grew fiercer, as if determined to search his whole body until she dug out every last crumb of pocky.
And Eclipse, after taking in the scene?
She made no comment.
Calmly walked inside, shut the door behind her, sat down beside them. Looked at the entangled pair on the sofa with mild curiosity, as though his pleading eyes didn't even exist.
Two minutes passed like that.
At last, Oguri lifted her head, gulped several times, then looked at Kitahara, uncertainty in her voice.
"Then… I guess this means I won, right?"
Kitahara: "..."
Win my ass, you idiot! Do you even know what you just did?
He'd always known that Oguri's head held little besides "food," but even he hadn't imagined she could be this airheaded.
So, once Oguri released him, he sat up quickly and began a serious lecture—especially emphasizing how inappropriate her behavior just now had been.
As always, in the face of Kitahara's lectures, Oguri behaved utterly obedient, listening quietly.
But that very obedience only made Kitahara more helpless.
How to put it…
This kid, Oguri, she was good in almost every way. She listened. In training, in life—whatever he told her, she carried out to the letter.
Not ninety percent. One hundred.
So much that sometimes Kitahara suspected—if he told her to wash herself up and wait for him in bed, she might not even hesitate.
But only in the matter of food… she never changed.
Never caused major trouble, but little habits like licking his fingers—constant, unshakable, nothing he said got through.
And Kitahara wasn't the type to demand perfection from others.
He himself spent his days wanting to slack. How could he double-standard others into flawlessness?
In the past, since Oguri behaved so well otherwise, he only lectured her occasionally on this point.
When even that didn't work, he gave up.
It wasn't a big problem. No need to overreact. And since she was otherwise so good, indulging her a little in this one harmless quirk… fine.
But today's incident—this was beyond what he could accept.
Not because he felt "taken advantage of," but because Oguri couldn't go on like this.
Despite her name, Oguri Cap wasn't actually young.
Her full maturation had come late. Though older than Tokai Teio, she had still debuted a year later.
And now—she was nearly grown. Yet still so guileless. Still so careless. To the point she could pin him down for deep artificial respiration over a pocky game.
How was he supposed to feel at ease about her?
So, for Oguri's own good, Kitahara lectured her continuously for fifteen minutes straight.
But the longer he spoke, the more he looked at her—so obedient, so well-behaved—thinking of how, apart from food, she always did exactly as he said.
Almost never spoiled, never asked for rewards. Always the sensible one.
His voice softened, dwindled, until at last it dissolved into a sigh.
"There better not be a next time. Understand?"
"Mm."
Oguri nodded obediently.
She wasn't faking, wasn't lying. In truth, every past time Kitahara had shown real rejection, she had never repeated the act.
Like that first time in the cafeteria, licking cream. Afterwards, though she had chances, she suppressed the urge every time.
She could sense he didn't accept it. So she never did it again.
As for food-sharing or licking his fingers—he was only mildly exasperated, not truly upset. So in those, she allowed herself to be willful.
And this time—yes, the sensation had been wonderful, the flavor still lingering sweet between her teeth, filling that strange hunger inside her.
But even so—if Kitahara didn't want it, she wouldn't act that way again.
She loved food. Loved eating. Yes.
But she loved Kitahara more. Even more. She never wanted to hurt him.
Oguri's mind was simple. Before Kitahara, her life had three things: eating, running, and friends.
Then Kitahara came.
He fed her, let her run faster, became her closest friend.
And now, after disappearing then returning, he still fed her delicious things, became her trainer, gave her even more friends through him.
He had become the fourth pillar of her world. The most important one.
Not mere appetite—something much larger.
She just wasn't good at expressing it. Her natural airheadedness made her clumsy.
So all she could do was show it in ways like this.
As for how she viewed others...
Truthfully, though she was airheaded, her interactions with Kitahara and the team were normal.
Which meant, when the others snuck around, they never avoided her. She often saw more than anyone.
But she didn't mind. Not one bit.
Because, as said—Oguri only cared about four things. And one was "friends."
Her teammates treated her kindly. She had no instinct for monopoly or possessiveness. So she didn't even notice.
In her eyes—sharing food was normal between friends.
She ate others' soup when they gave it. She shared her meat when she had it. Normal.
So she didn't mind their "sneaky moves." In fact, she almost looked forward to them acting faster.
Like a dinner table. Someone had to pick up chopsticks first, eat the first bite, so the meal could begin.
She knew well—she was not the one who could move first.
So she only hoped the others would hurry, so she could join, and eat her fill.
After Kitahara's lecture, Oguri clung to him once more. The strange hunger inside her filled to bursting, even to the point of satiety.
Then she said goodbye and left.
Kitahara sighed. Turned, intending to scold Eclipse for standing by and doing nothing earlier.
And saw her quietly draw out a stick of pocky. Look at him. Blink.
You too, seriously…
Kitahara's eye twitched.
But looking at Eclipse's serious face, he hesitated. Then sighed again, pulled her into his lap, bit down on the pocky.
Game, round two.
This time, Eclipse didn't imitate Oguri by swallowing the pocky whole and pinning him into deep mouth-to-mouth.
She had seen films before, knew the rules. She played properly. Like a hamster, nibbling bit by bit, drawing steadily closer.
Until…
She pinned him too.
I damn well knew it!
Kitahara clutched the little black rice-ball in his arms, felt her actions, and after a moment's silence—set his jaw, hugged her back, and launched a fierce counterattack.
Oguri had forced him that far not because she was strong, but because she was a child—her mistakes forgivable. He, as an adult, couldn't afford to mess around.
(…Not that he was much older, really.)
But Eclipse—she had attacked once before, and been "killed in return." Yet she dared to do it again. If he didn't punish her, she'd only push further next time.
And so—the situation replayed that earlier episode in the shade of the trees.
At last, lips parted.
Kitahara looked at the black rice-ball before him, her expression not the usual.
He thought of her actions just now.
Then reached out, pinched her cheeks, and kneaded hard.
And—what do you know—the feel was great.
Eclipse might be overwhelming on the track, but her skin was soft. Her cheeks especially—springy, pliant. He had often squeezed them idly when holding her before.
Now, with warmth from the kiss lingering, her face was softer than ever. Warmer.
He couldn't let go.
Eclipse, under this "punishment," offered no resistance.
After a while, she sat up, burrowed into his arms to make it easier for him to knead.
Halfway through, she heard a sigh behind her.
"So… if it's already come to this, why do you still reject me?"
"Seriously… I'll never understand what you're thinking."
She knew it was just his habitual grumbling. He didn't expect an answer.
But this time, with sweetness still lingering on her lips, she fell silent.
Back to him, she opened her mouth lightly. Whispered words he would never hear.
I'm sorry.
A voiceless answer. Hidden.
So once again—
Eclipse gave no reply. Maintained the persona he could never read.
It might look like a tiny breakthrough. At least she was willing to respond this way.
But no one knew—how many times in countless nights before had she given such unseen answers.
Since the day they met, much had changed. And much had never changed.
Like how he could never understand her thoughts.
And how she still wished only for him to be happy.
After sending Oguri off and settling Eclipse, Kitahara thought—finally, finally, he could slack.
But only one night of peace passed.
The very next morning, someone knocked on his door again.
This time, not a safe horse girl like Oguri—but someone who, even with his density, and even after all the time spent together, Kitahara still firmly believed to be dangerous.
Agnes Tachyon.
She had come too when Nice Nature was absent. Only Kitahara and Eclipse were inside.
Normally, after Eclipse's "do nothing" yesterday, Kitahara would never have welcomed Tachyon in.
At the very least, he'd stall, put up defenses, maybe even shut the door right in her face until she promised nothing shady.
But today he couldn't.
Because peeking around from behind Tachyon—were two familiar heads.
Daiwa Scarlet. And Vodka.
Seeing him not shut the door, Tachyon blinked. Her smile widened.
Then, before he could even react further, she spoke, tone dripping amusement:
"Long time no see, darling."
"I brought the kids to visit you."