For someone with psychic powers, Saiki Kusuo rarely felt surprised.
It wasn't arrogance—it was inevitability. After a lifetime of hearing every stray thought and anticipating nearly every human reaction before it even occurred, shock became a foreign concept. At most, people amused him in passing or mildly annoyed him with their endless self-centered internal monologues.
That's why Makoto was… a statistical anomaly.
The former celebrity-turned-high-school-student had made a name for himself in PK Academy within weeks of transferring—loud, charismatic, endlessly charming, and a walking storm of chaos. He flirted indiscriminately, carried himself like he was on a live stage, and had somehow wedged himself into the epicenter of every social circle without even trying.
Naturally, Saiki had ignored him. Or at least, he tried to.
But Makoto didn't let people ignore him. Not even telepaths.
There was something strange about him, though. At first, Saiki had chalked it up to standard celebrity eccentricity—until the inconsistencies began to pile up. The way Makoto sometimes seemed confused about his own popularity. How he didn't act like someone used to fame, even though all his habits suggested otherwise. And most notably, the fact that he used to be obsessively, disturbingly in love with his own sister—Teruhashi Kokomi—yet now barely looked at her twice. That wasn't just suspicious. It was bizarre.
People didn't just get over incestuous delusions like flipping a switch.
There had been a sharp personality shift not long after he transferred, and Saiki had noticed. Makoto's inner thoughts had changed tone too—less obsessed, more layered, more grounded, even introspective. It was like the same body was running on a different operating system. A smarter telepath might have dug deeper. A more responsible psychic would've raised alarms.
Saiki, unfortunately, just wanted peace and quiet.
So he accepted the change with mild wariness, choosing to believe Makoto was maybe just faking the obsession before and had finally dropped the act. He'd let it go.
Until now.
Makoto's thoughts were still chaotic—half genuine, half theatrical, always tangled in some elaborate imagined scenario. Saiki had grown adept at tuning them out like bad radio static.
That is, until today.
He was used to Makoto's antics by now—the flirtatious remarks, the dramatic entrances, the way he leaned too close with a smirk like he was always moments away from delivering a scandalous line. It was all part of Makoto's performance, a constant stage play Saiki could navigate in his sleep.
So when Makoto tensed suddenly and thought—Because what if he finds out I like him—
The psychic blinked.
Had he misheard?
No. That wasn't possible. His telepathy didn't misfire. Makoto's thoughts had been perfectly clear—genuine, even. And most alarming of all: it was the first time he'd ever heard that from him.
But that didn't make sense.
Makoto flirted with him all the time. Compliments, winks, leaning in too close—Saiki had chalked it up to habit. A performance. Something Makoto did with everyone, not something real.
Saiki narrowed his eyes slightly and looked at him.
"You like me?" he asked, his voice flat but uncharacteristically loud in the quiet room.
Makoto froze. "…What."
"You said you like me."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I was thinking it!" Makoto snapped, indignation rising with every word. "I didn't say anything!"
Saiki stared at him calmly. "You said it. Out loud."
"I did not! I would know if I did!"
"Are you sure?" Saiki asked, impassive. "Because you said it very clearly. 'Because what if he finds out I like him.' Word for word."
Makoto stared, mouth open, gears visibly jamming. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
Saiki already knew he wasn't. He hadn't meant to catch that thought—it just slipped in. But the intent behind it had stunned him into speaking aloud before his usual filters could engage.
And now?
Now, he needed to confirm something.
Saiki activated one of his lesser-used abilities. Something he didn't often need—after all, he could already hear what people felt before they even understood it themselves.
But this time, he wanted confirmation.
Likability meter: Target — Makoto. Result: 85%
His eyes widened imperceptibly.
Eighty-five percent.
Saiki had never seen a number that high outside of family members or that one time Kaidou got a new superhero figurine.
For the first time in a long while, Saiki felt genuinely caught off guard.
He'd assumed Makoto was like everyone else—especially given his profession as an actor—especially with that persona. All the flirting, the teasing, the endless dramatics—it had never occurred to Saiki that it was anything more than a performance.
Until now.
Until he heard that one, spiraling thought.
Makoto slapped both hands over his face. "Oh my god, this is the worst day of my life."
"You're overreacting," Saiki said.
"You—!" Makoto let out a strangled noise and flopped backward onto the bed like a dying star, face buried in his palms. "This is the worst way to confess. I had a whole plan, damn it!"
Saiki stared at him, silent.
Ridiculous. Dramatic. Entirely unnecessary.
...And cute.
He looked away, pretending to find the ceiling fascinating.
Saiki's voice was quiet. "A plan."
"Yes!" Makoto flailed dramatically. "I was going to rent a helicopter and have it drop flowers spelling 'I like you' on the soccer field during lunch. Music, spotlight, me descending from the clouds like some tragic prince—!"
"That sounds like a fire hazard," Saiki said.
"It was romantic!" Makoto shouted. "And now I've ruined it by thinking too loud in your beige room like a weirdo!"
"Pretty much."
Makoto groaned, voice muffled by his hands. "I was going to wear a cape, Saiki. A cape."
Saiki raised an eyebrow. "You're doing too much."
"I'm doing not enough!" Makoto cried, springing upright only to collapse back onto the bed with theatrical despair. "This is a catastrophe!"
"You're confessing," Saiki said, keeping his tone flat. "Not proposing marriage."
"Same energy!" Makoto wailed.
Saiki didn't respond. He couldn't. He was too busy trying not to let the corner of his mouth twitch.
It was absurd. All of it. The cape, the dramatics, the way Makoto genuinely seemed heartbroken over a ruined confession plan. And yet…
There was something disarming about it. Honest. Earnest in a way Saiki hadn't expected. And for a second—just a second—he found himself thinking the chaos was kind of… endearing.
Makoto sat there, breathing hard, hands still covering his face.
"…So you do like me," Saiki said, more statement than question this time.
Makoto peeked through his fingers. "Yes. Fine. I like you. I'm insane, clearly. Congratulations. You broke me."
Saiki didn't speak right away. Something twisted faintly in his chest—an emotion that came too close to warmth for comfort.
"…A little," he said.
Makoto blinked. His voice came out small. "You like me too?"
Saiki looked away. His ears felt too warm. "You're annoying. And theatrical. And your fanbase gives me headaches."
"Rude."
"But… you make things less boring." The words slipped out before he could stop them. "And I don't mind that."
Makoto's eyes lit up. The smile that bloomed across his face was unguarded and genuine.
"That might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me," he whispered.
Saiki sighed. "Tragic."
But he wasn't annoyed. Not really.
He felt… seen. Which was worse.
And maybe, just maybe, he didn't mind that either.