You are kneeling on the cold floor, searching for your shoes, when a warm voice startles you.

"Kenya! Could you stop by the faculty room?"

You turn, only to see your teacher smiling at you with a wide, bright smile. 

"Ah! Yashiro-Sensei!" You smile slightly at him. You have the best manners in your group of friends (and of the whole class probably), so no matter if his stare makes you want to flinch, you smile. (You always do.)

He just looks at you amused, with his grin crooked and eyebrows arched. "Are you going to stand there, Kenya?"

You feel your face heat up in embarrassment: you were getting ready to leave! So with some reluctance that you hope Yashiro-Sensei doesn't notice ( he does ) you return your red shoes to their place on the large piece of furniture. 

"Sorry, Yashiro-Sensei" You apologize, bowing. You almost jump when a warm hand lands on the back of your neck. 

"No need to apologize, Kenya" He laughs again, the voice rich and dark as the velvet of the cakes Satorou hates so much. Or used to hate, now he seems to love it. Like so many other things, Satoru is so... weird, strange, changed... s̶o̶ ̶o̶b̶s̶e̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶H̶i̶n̶a̶z̶u̶k̶i̶ ̶K̶a̶y̶o̶  so not the Satoru you grew to love so much. 

Your thoughts stop spinning above your head like passengers on a faulty ferris wheel: falling into the void and ceasing to exist, because Yashiro-Sensei's very warm hand keeps rubbing— no, fussing… neither… petting your head. His big, long fingers weave through your hair, carefully breaking the occasional knot caused by the deadly cold winter wind. 

(You don't wear a hat, you never liked it. The wool itches and makes you want to sneeze. Instead, earmuffs are warm and fuzzy, like a pet.)

"...Yashiro-Sensei?" you ask, no louder than a whisper. You don't dare put a name to what he's doing, because it makes you feel so many things. Confusion is one, embarrassment is another. But something that would make you more embarrassed is to put a name to it and have it not be, and have Yashiro-Sensei never look at you again, never smile at you again .

(And that would be the worst thing that could happen to you: Yashiro-Sensei is so kind, so warm, so... heroic . He reminds you of Satoru, who even if he's no longer the same he used to be, is still all those things. You want to be all those things. But you're very quiet, shy and unpleasant, you don't like confrontation and you're always afraid, even if you hide it under a stony mask of indifference.)

"Yes, Kenya?" Yashiro-Sensei whispers in your ear, his breath, though as warm as his smile, makes you shiver. 

"I'm sorry, where was I supposed to follow you?" That breaks the spell, and Yashiro-Sensei lets go of your hair (which now itches where Yashiro-Sensei's warm hand is but a passing sensation.)

Yashiro-Sensei lets out another laugh, only this one is so loud that he clutches his stomach lightly. "Oh, Kenya." He says to him, his eyes crinkling with laughter. "You've been so absent-minded lately." 

Your face heats up and Yashiro-Sensei, noticing this, brushes away a tear of laughter with his index finger. 

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Kenya. But that's what I wanted to talk about so if you want to come to my office... You know, like I told you five minutes ago..."

"Oh." That's right, between the embarrassment twisting in your stomach and the nerves twisting it even more, you forgot. 

"Hahaha, don't worry, Kenya." He smiles at you, kind and comforting, as he holds out his hand. You grab it, and why wouldn't you? Yashiro-Sensei is the best teacher you've ever had.

You two walk together, Yashiro-Sensei never letting go of your hand. His hand is like a cave: big and warm like a shelter. Your hand is cold and sweaty from nerves, but he doesn't care, just smiles knowingly at you as he grips you tighter, to the point that it hurts a little...

The hallway is long and narrow, getting darker the closer to the faculty room you are. You're not as fearful as Osamu or Hiromi, but still anxiety claws at your stomach. 

Yashiro-Sensei's shadow is cast on the walls, wrapping around yours like a wolf around its prey. Except Yashiro-Sensei is anything but a wolf, so maybe it's like a momma bear protecting her children, yeah, that seems more right. Because Yashiro-Sensei is an adult who would do anything and everything to protect them. 

Having Yashiro-Sensei by your side doesn't make the fear go away, so you hold on a little tighter than necessary, but Yashiro just looks at you sideways, smiling. 

For some reason, instead of the bright smile calming your childish fears, it only turns your stomach even more. They look like wolf teeth. You avert your gaze, focusing your eyes on the shadows. Yashiro-sensei doesn't say anything, but he doesn't laugh either, just drags you a little harder. You think you might have bruises. You don't look, still nervous about the shadows, the wolf and the fangs.

You reach the faculty door, and Yashiro-Sensei lets go of your wrist to grab the key and open the door. You look at your sore hand. There are the beginnings of bruises on your wrist, reddish fingerprints on your pale skin, bruising from the cold. You don't say anything or complain, and he doesn't say anything or apologize either.

You avert your gaze from your wrist to Yashiro-Sensei, who clears his throat to get your attention.

"Kenya, we're here." And he smiles at you, leaving behind sharp wolf teeth for blunt human teeth. The trembling in your legs subsides and your stomach is no longer in knots. You give him a small smile in return. You don't even stretch your cheeks from how small it is, but Yashiro-Sensei looks at you as if it is. Your stomach heats up, but not in a bad way. You want to make him proud, you want him to smile at you like that again.

"Sit down," he indicates, pointing vaguely to one of the many office swivel chairs in the room. You do so without complaint, because if there's one thing you're known for, it's being obedient. And Yashiro-Sensei knows it, because he rests his big, warm hand on your shoulder. It's so warm you feel it, even with layers and layers of coats made so that the snow doesn't drift and you don't freeze to death. Although with Yashiro-Sensei's hand on your shoulder you think you might die of heat.

Your hands sweat, your gloves long ago stored in your pocket. 

Yashiro-Sensei laughs softly. "Oh, Kenya. It's hot, don't you think? Let me take off that coat."

Suddenly you feel self-conscious, and cross your arms over your stomach. You don't want to take off your coat. Yashiro-Sensei's smile falls and your stomach knots.

"You're red and sweating, Kenya. And there's a perfectly good heater." He talks to you as if you're irrational. And you are, aren't you?

So you mumble an apology under your breath, and he just laughs, slowly lowering the white jacket off your body. The process is slow, and Yashiro-Sensei explores your body with his warm hands. He unbuttons your jacket with firm hands, gripping your hip so that the chair doesn't turn. And he begins; right arm first; his hand runs from your shoulder to your fingertips. One sleeve out. Repeat the same with your left arm. 

You feel naked. Even if your shirt is long sleeved and your pants are still on.

"Aren't you more comfortable, Kenya?" 

No, I'm not.

"Yes, I am, Yashiro-Sensei."

He laughs again and you just want to melt into the chair. You don't want to be here, even if Yashiro-Sensei looks at you like that, like you're the most important thing to him. 

Crack.

And the once affable, warm air becomes tense, ominous, and you can't help the discomfort rising in your chest. 

"Oh, Kenya," Yashiro-Sensei clicks his tongue, disappointed. "You broke the chair."

What? No, you didn't. Your dad's a lawyer, and he has a lot of these chairs in the house, and you know it's not broken it's... loose. And the big, loose, wobbly screw is proof of that.

"Sorry, Yashiro-Sensei," you say instead. He looks at you thoughtfully, putting his index finger on his chin. "Hmmm. I know!" His eyes light up with something unknown to you.

"Come here," he pats his lap.

Your cheeks catch fire. You used to sit on your mom's lap, and sometimes, your dad's lap. But that was when you were much younger. You're ten years old, and the only times you do it now is when panic clings to your rib cage like a cat to the curtains and won't let you breathe.

But you are Kenya Kobayashi, and you are nothing if not obedient and compliant.

You drop from your chair gently and stand nervously in front of Yashiro-Sensei.

Yashiro-Sensei smiles kindly at the doubt gnawing at your brain. 

(Because it's not mom or dad. But it is Yashiro-Sensei, the most heroic person, after Satoru, there is.)

You pluck up your courage and take a determined step forward. Your bare hands rest on his knees, and his big hands grab your elbows to help you. Once in his lap, his hands turn you over, so that you are facing forward. Those same hands cling to your hips to " not let you fall, Kenya."

"C'mon Kenya, relax, I'm not going to eat you."

This makes you let out a giggle; how silly of you to be so tense, it's just Yashiro-Sensei. Not the big bad wolf hiding between layers and layers of sheepskin and wool.

You try to relax your muscles, leaning your back against Yashiro-Sensei's chest.

"Like this?" you whisper, letting out a puff of air.

"Like this," Yashiro-Sensei confirms, gripping your hip tighter.

You feel the rise and fall of Yashiro-Sensei's chest pounding against your back. You don't speak, just sit in cozy silence. Until you tense so much that your muscles tremble. Yashiro-Sensei's big, warm hands flutter at the hem of your winter pants.

Your mending gets stuck in your throat, clawing with desperation. But you dare not let it go, nor move, because those rounded nails are now claws, and if you move they will rip your belly until your guts spill out onto the floor and red blood stains the wooden floor and—

You close your eyes, and try to ignore the hands that trace your body like an unknown, unexplored map. The warm breath of Ya—the fierce wolf, stirs your hair and you just want to scratch your scalp to drive that feeling away. His sharp teeth (they have to be sharp, even if they feel blunt, because he's a big bad wolf. It has to be because Yashiro-Sensei is a hero and heroes aren't like this—) scratch your soft skin leaving marks on your jaw, your neck, your collarbones and his claws keep touching and touching and touching and touching and—

You take a deep breath and in the rational space left in your brain you find the truth. You feel so foolish.

So when the big bad wolf tears at your insides, you let it. When the big bad wolf drinks your tears, you let it. And when the big bad wolf defiles you, you let it.

Because the big bad wolf is Yashiro-Sensei and Yashiro-Sensei loves you. So even if heroes don't do this because they aren't like this, maybe those who love you as deeply as Yashiro-Sensei does, they do this. Because love hurts. And this can't be anything but love, because it's Yashiro-Sensei and he loves you.

He loves you even if you're very quiet, shy and unpleasant and you don't like confrontation and you're always afraid, even if you hide it under a stony mask of indifference.

He loves you because you are Kenya and for Yashiro-Sensei that is enough.

So this is also enough for you.

You don't know when it ended, or when it began, time whirling around in your brain until it makes you dizzy. Crisscrossing numbers and sums melting into nothingness.

You don't ask what time it is and Yashiro-Sensei doesn't tell you.

You want to be sheared like a sheep, only instead of layers of wool they strip away layers of skin and muscle and bone until there's nothing left because you're contaminated and dirty and maybe when you get out you'll roll around in the snow and—

"Kenya? Are you okay?" It's Hiromi, who decided to wait for you, even with the freezing snow falling. He's huddled on the stairs outside, backpack in his lap.

The same way Yashiro-Sensei had you while they were in that dark, silent room, and their shadows, looming on the wall, intertwined in a shadowy, humiliating spectacle because you were naked and he wasn't even when he unbuttoned his pants and—

"I'm fine, Hiromi." You blink to hold back tears. Some must escape, or maybe it's your chin shaking almost as much as your legs, or maybe it's the hastily put on coat, but Hiromi looks even more worried, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, as if he's putting together a puzzle.

Hiromi was always good at puzzles. You'll die of embarrassment if anyone finds out about this. You don't know why, because it's just Yashiro-Sensei loving you. But nausea churns your stomach and rises in your throat, swelling your cheeks with bile and other things. You gulp it down, tasting vomit and Yashiro-Sensei's—

Yashiro-Sensei's voice startles you and Hiromi, who jumps up. Yashiro-Sensei is there, leaning against the door as he smiles at us, smiles at you.

"I'm sorry to keep Kenya, Hiromi. You can go now...I don't remember asking you to wait here, though..." Hiromi lets out a series of stammers and hurries off, throwing one last look over his shoulder filled with concern.

You ignore the knot in your stomach at your friend's pure concern. At some point you put on your red shoes (you don't know when you did it, but you don't care) and set out to follow him. Until Yashiro-Sensei's voice stops you. You turn to face him, and he just smiles at you.

"Ah, Kenya, I forgot. It's Hinazuki Kayo's birthday." Yashiro-Sensei winks at you.

Hinazuki Kayo.

It's always Kayo, now, isn't it? 

A small part of you wishes Kayo would just die.

But then you think of those empty eyes and so, so sad and heavy with a burden you don't quite understand. And at the purple, painful bruises on her neck.

And at how her eyes light up, as do her cheeks, just having Satoru by her side. Because Satoru is a hero.

(And you know, no matter how much you want to be, you can never be a hero.)

Because Kayo deserves more than what she has in her life, she deserves Satoru's love and Yashiro-Sensei's concern.

But you hate her.

You hate her because even when Satoru spills his feelings like a bucket of cold water and Yashiro-Sensei loves you in such a painful way that you just want to cry, you put up with it. 

(Because you love them. Why can't they love you back?)

And yet, you're just a second thought in their minds.