Tomohiko Suzuki had a problem, and her name was Ruka Ayase. This girl wasn’t just sunshine in human form—she was the whole dang solar system, blazing so bright it made his eyes water. Popular? Please. She could sell ice to a penguin and make the penguin thank her for it. Suzuki? He was background furniture, a wallflower collecting dust in the corner of homeroom. For weeks, he watched her laugh with her squad, his chest doing that weird thing where it felt like a raccoon was tap-dancing on his heart. Enough was enough. Time to cook.
His masterstroke? A fresh haircut. Yeah. Because that’s what turns heads, right?
The result landed flatter than a stomped soda can. Classmates squinted like he’d grown a third eye. Some chucklehead snorted. But life’s weird that way—suddenly, the queen bees of the cafeteria took notice. “Yo, you look like a baby bird. Congrats, you’re Chomu now.” Just like that, embarrassed Suzuki—now rebranded “Chomu”fell backward into Ayase’s orbit.
Day by day, he played it smooth. Listened to their tea, dropped jokes like hot potatoes, and somehow, someway, started feeling less like a spare tire. Then one evening, walking home with his earbuds in, a voice sliced through the noise.
“Chomu! You free? C’mere. Entertain me.”
Ayase. His soul damn near ejected from his body.
At her place, she sat close enough that he could smell her shampoo. Dangerous territory. Her eyes twinkled like a slot machine hitting jackpot. “Hey, Chomu… got a girlfriend?”
This was it. The big moment. His brain went blank, lips parted—
“Sure, show me your junk. I’ll take care of it ♡.”
Record scratch. Hold up. What in the absolute rollercoaster of insanity just left her mouth?
Yeah. No explanation. None. Suzuki, Chomu, whatever he was now, just sat there, brain doing loop-de-loops. We’ll keep you posted if the poor guy ever recovers from that whiplash. Don’t hold your breath.