There's an old saying in the otaku world: "Beautiful girls don't use the bathroom."
But Shimizu Akira knew better—even the most stunning individuals were still human. Occasional stomachaches and bathroom trips were perfectly normal.
Take Horikita Suzune and Sakura Airi, for example. They too would occasionally head to the restroom during breaks, returning with the faint scent of hand soap—proof that even "goddesses" weren't exempt from basic bodily functions.
That said, Shimizu currently faced a more pressing dilemma:
How to warn Horikita that her homemade lunch would cause diarrhea without sounding like a creep?
He didn't fancy receiving five icy glares for no reason.
"You've been skipping the cafeteria lately. Still using free ingredients?" he asked casually.
Horikita glanced at him, her tone flat. "I have debts to repay next month."
Five simple words that explained everything.
Shimizu suddenly remembered—next month, all of Class D would owe him a hefty sum of points.
(Does she even know I'm the one behind that?)
"I saw some expired free ingredients at the convenience store yesterday. If your lunch uses those, you might want to skip it."
Horikita turned fully now, one eyebrow arched in skepticism. "You? Seeing expired food and just leaving it there? I'd expect you to report it immediately."
"..." Shimizu's eye twitched.
(She knows me too well.)
Horikita sighed, as if deciphering some hidden meaning. "...Fine. I'll share my lunch with you today. No charge."
"That's not what I—!"
"Still in denial?"
"You're misunderstanding!"
"Hmph." A soft exhale laced with "I see right through you" finality. She returned to her book, ending the discussion.
"Suit yourself. Don't blame me when your stomach rebels."
(Why does trying to help get misinterpreted as "begging for food"?! She's as stubborn as her brother!)
Lunchtime
Shimizu had just settled with his tomato-egg rice bowl when Horikita approached—placing her bento on the table with deliberate precision.
Against his better judgment, he peeked.
Her lunch was meticulously arranged:
Left side: Fluffy white rice.
Right side: Sliced sausage, stir-fried cabbage, fried chicken.
Corner: Plump cherry tomatoes, glistening red.
"Move your bowl closer." Her chopsticks were already poised.
Shimizu took a bite of his own meal. "I'm good."
(But the bento looks fine... The intel's never been wrong before, though.)
"Since when are you so hesitant?" Horikita frowned. "It's not like I'm denying you."
In her experience, Shimizu was never this indirect.
(Last time at the BBQ place, he ate most of my meat without hesitation.)
Shimizu met her gaze—and relented.
(Free food is free food. My stomach's ironclad anyway.)
"Fine." He nudged his tray forward. "But fair warning: My constitution's robust. You? Maybe not so much."
Horikita's chopsticks paused mid-air. "So you do want more."
Despite her words, she transferred a third of her meal to his rice—generous portions of chicken, tomatoes, and cabbage.
The aroma of fried chicken mingled with steam. The tomatoes looked pristine, stems still fresh and green.
"All these ingredients are from the free pantry?" he probed between bites.
"Obviously." She speared a cabbage slice. "Cheaper than your cafeteria splurges."
"Even the sausage? From yesterday's haul?"
Horikita responded by shoveling rice into her mouth.
Shimizu ate quietly, mentally noting that if stomach sounds erupted later, he'd have confirmation.
Aftermath
As lunch ended, Horikita packed her leftovers—her posture unnaturally stiff as she stood.
Shimizu caught up swiftly. "Stomach bothering you?"
"You're imagining things." Her voice was steady, but her pace subtly quickened.
"Sure. But the restroom's that way if you—"
"My cooking is flawless! I don't need the bathroom!"
The declaration was loud—more for herself than him—as she practically power-walked away.