"Heh—"
Mitsuha suddenly stopped in her tracks, letting out a cold, mocking laugh full of venom.
"You've got some nerve, Kasumigaoka Utaha! So, what—you being the prize at Kyousuke's award ceremony is supposed to make it all perfect now?"
In that instant, Mitsuha finally understood why the adorable Eriri always insisted on calling her Kasumigaoka Utaha in full.
This woman really did make people want to shout her full name.
If there were a professional certification for provoking people's deepest fury, Kasumigaoka would have passed with flying colors.
How did someone like her even survive this long?
"Oh, is that what this is about? I mean, Kyousuke does hand his trophies to me first thing every time.
Doesn't that just show I'm the one he wants to share his happiness with the most?"
Even Kasumigaoka paused briefly in her movements—but credit where it's due, her discipline and self-control were impeccable.
She was still fearsome in heels.
As the words left her mouth, her earlier anger curled into a smug smile.
Sure, it had all been orchestrated by her from the start—but so what? Every word she said was the truth.
'Kyousuke!!!'
That iron-clad fact hit Mitsuha like a mountain crashing down on her chest.
She was so furious she could hardly breathe.
Instead of trying to claw at Kasumigaoka's side again, both of her hands gripped Kyousuke's arm tightly.
Then, without warning, she opened her mouth and sank her little white teeth into him—hard.
"Ghh!"
Kyousuke let out a cry.
Not that it actually hurt, of course.
She bit through his shirt, and Mitsuha's baby fangs weren't as sharp as Eriri's—not even close to piercing his thick skin.
Well, not his skin—his arm.
Same difference.
Both had been toughened through years of abuse.
...Wait, was Mitsuha catching Eriri's bad habits?
Why was she biting now too?
First she split his lip, now she wanted to leave her mark on his arm?
This couldn't become a trend.
If others saw these marks, they'd start lining up to take bites out of him.
Imagine—other gangsters ripped off their shirts to reveal colorful tattoos, while his body was covered in teeth marks and scratches.
Even the local gangs would laugh their heads off. Or maybe envy him.
Hell, they might even think it gave him a power boost.
Anyway, the point was, he had to scream.
Just like you breathe heavily when you kiss—to show the other person you're enjoying it too.
If he didn't react, Mitsuha's anger would only grow worse.
Sigh. Even if this whole thing was Utaha-senpai's doing, as a man, he had to take responsibility.
Let them all hate him.
As long as the girls could get along in the end.
So he cried out on cue, even loosening his arm a little where it wrapped around Mitsuha's chest—just in case his muscles were making it hard for her to get a satisfying bite.
As someone who had the second-most experience with his body, Mitsuha knew her bite wouldn't hurt him.
She wouldn't dare go that far.
But still, if she didn't bite him hard, she couldn't forgive herself.
Hearing his pained cry, she mentally called him out for pretending.
But her rage didn't subside—in fact, it surged.
Letting go of her bite, she glanced at the lipstick mark on his sleeve and immediately flared up again.
She thrashed in place, turning to launch a fresh attack on Kasumigaoka.
"Oh? Is that what you mean by 'sharing happiness'? You used those lips of yours—like the sow Aunt Kobayashi raises at home—to root around on Kyousuke's face and smear lipstick all over him?"
Oh, crap!
Kyousuke panicked—not because there was lipstick on him.
That was impossible. He never left such obvious evidence behind.
Utaha-senpai hadn't even worn lipstick today—just a clear lip gloss or balm.
She was nothing if not considerate.
And that was the problem.
Since Utaha hadn't worn any lipstick, there was no way Mitsuha could've seen a mark!
"Lipstick? Don't be ridiculous. Like I'd ever make such a rookie mistake and embarrass Kyousuke. I was wearing a clear gloss today. It wouldn't leave a mark."
Kasumigaoka snorted coldly.
She realized halfway through that she'd given herself away—but so what?
Let Mitsuha stew in her jealousy.
Sure, some girls always wore the same perfume or lipstick to leave a lasting imprint on their boyfriend.
But she'd discovered Kyousuke didn't care about brands or fragrances.
No matter what she wore, he always said she smelled like roses.
That just proved how much he loved her.
Only someone deeply in love would associate such a beautiful flower with her.
And since she was a rose—gorgeous, but covered in thorns—Kasumigaoka didn't bother hiding anymore. Her whole plan had been to make Mitsuha see them kiss.
Now that she'd succeeded, she ducked behind Kyousuke's back, fully expecting Mitsuha to lash out in fury.
Veins bulged slightly at the corner of Mitsuha's eyes.
If she'd learned how to land a sneak attack, her fair hands would've already flown at someone's face.
But her mouth was too busy putting that impudent little tramp in her place.
Meanwhile, Kyousuke definitely wasn't enjoying the "soft fragrance and warm embrace" experience.
No buxom beauty rubbing against his back.
He was just gritting his teeth in pain, trying not to scream.
Mitsuha's white sneakers were grinding into his right foot without mercy, like she was crushing a bug—just like Utaha-senpai had once described.
Sure, he was wearing dress shoes, but those offered comfort, not protection.
He could practically hear his toes crying in agony.
They were threatening to join forces with his long-lost conscience in a protest called "Kyousuke Must Pay."
Well, that wasn't too bad.
His conscience was basically just him anyway.
If the conscience yelled, he'd yell too. Solidarity and all that.
So: when it doesn't hurt, act like it does. When it does hurt, suck it up—because if you yelp, the girl might just decide you deserve worse.
God, this was exhausting.
Mitsuha smirked coldly, her right foot twisting left and right on his poor foot like she was trying to drill through it.
Her words were biting, but deep down, she wasn't feeling triumphant at all.
Before today, she'd thought she was the only girl Kyousuke had ever kissed!
"No wonder you're the pampered princess of the Kasumigaoka family.
You actually took time to plan everything in advance before a kiss.
Unlike me... My first kiss with Kyousuke was back in ninth grade, up on Mount Ryujin, under a comet that only visits Earth once every 1,200 years."
She giggled softly.
"Oh my, Kyousuke was such a nervous wreck back then. He nearly bit my tongue bloody. But don't worry, Utaha, he's gotten much better now~"
The moment those words hit his ears, the pain in Kyousuke's foot vanished.
He lowered his head to stare at Mitsuha like she was some kind of alien.
Who was this girl?
He kind of missed the old Mitsuha—the one who would've just karate-chopped Utaha-senpai without a second thought.
He stared, eyes wide in shock—he never expected Mitsuha to act like this at a time like this.
But come to think of it, all these girls seemed to have two sides to them. Even Eriri.
Normally, Eriri couldn't even last two exchanges before Utaha-senpai verbally steamrolled her to the verge of tears.
She'd turn to him or Shouko with watery eyes, silently begging for rescue.
But at certain moments—like the day they all moved into the dorm…
She unleashed a verbal barrage so intense that even Utaha was left speechless.
It was like she'd been possessed by some kind of war god, becoming a completely different person.
And now? Though Mitsuha wasn't holding a sword—or even raising her hand in a karate chop—this "Swordmaster of Nara" was turning her words into blades, thrusting every syllable like a sharp edge straight into Utaha-senpai's heart.
Honestly, her understanding of swordsmanship could found its own dojo.
After all, the ultimate technique in classical sword schools is said to be "castle-building"—creating such a powerful defense that the opponent can't even approach.
But Mitsuha didn't need walls—she could cut people down with just her tongue.
Screw shouting before a duel.
In modern times, it's all about psychological warfare!
Still, wasn't she the one who nearly bit through his lip back in Itomori because she didn't know how to kiss?
She even got mad at him for being "too good" at it! Good thing that really had been his first kiss, or he wouldn't have survived that interrogation.
Kyousuke's mind was a mess, but he didn't dare say a word.
He even loosened his arms around Mitsuha slightly, as if intimidated.
As for Kasumigaoka Utaha—her elegant eyebrows twitched into a sharp V.
Even though he didn't have eyes in the back of his head, Kyousuke could feel the temperature drop behind him.
The rose behind him was now burning—not with romantic crimson, but with the flames of hell.
Miyamizu Mitsuha said third year of middle school… But that would've made Kyousuke a first-year, right?
Utaha did the mental math quickly.
She'd never been to Itomori and didn't know its time-twisting secrets.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, breath catching in her throat.
The oxygen never made it to her heart—it was incinerated by jealousy.
She was gasping now, like someone suffocating, head spinning with a wave of darkness closing in.
'So while I was still trying to reconnect with Kyousuke… "Sayaka" had already kissed him?'
She felt like a circus bear trying to ride a unicycle—clumsy, wobbly, and hopelessly embarrassing.
Her head spinning, Utaha suddenly realized how familiar this situation felt.
Wait… hadn't Eriri said something like this too?
That's right.
When she asked Kyousuke to help her plot the sequel to Love Metronome, Eriri had made a point of warning her to "make sure he doesn't write a romance novel just for me."
A bitter taste spread in her mouth.
'So this… this is how Eriri felt when she saw Kyousuke carrying me into my room…'
'That kiss I just shared with Kyousuke—that breath-stealing technique that made me dizzy—was something Mitsuha trained him in?'
The girl gasped like she was having an asthma attack.
Not once or twice—but three times in a row.
It wasn't the fact that she wasn't his first kiss that hurt.
It was the realization that to reach that level of skill, Kyousuke and Mitsuha must've kissed countless times.
'His first kiss is gone… what about all the other "firsts"?'
And to think she'd even worn her ultimate cute dress today, hoping to land a decisive blow…
"Hmph! So you're the reason. No wonder it felt so boring! If I had been Kyousuke's first, Mitsuha, you'd probably faint every time he so much as kissed you."
She debated going further—maybe something like: 'You country bumpkin, that's all you've got? Let me give you a taste of what I taught him'. But no.
She and Mitsuha were friends.
If it were Yukinoshita Yukino standing there, she definitely would've said: 'As expected of a girl with no friends. You do know kissing involves using your tongue, right?'
Kyousuke's expression only grew more complex.
'You two… I took both your first kisses, and I'm the one who trained you in how to use your tongues. So why are you acting like experts now?'
'If we're really going to argue about who kisses best, shouldn't I be the one to judge!?'
Mitsuha, meanwhile, looked like she'd already confirmed her victory.
She gently pushed Kyousuke's arm off of her and stood tall.
Turning to face them with a sweet, innocent smile, she asked:
"Kyousuke, tell me—which one of us do you enjoy kissing more?"
Her tone was light, her expression cheerful—like a kindergarten kid asking the teacher who finished lunch first.
The terrifying part?
Though her lips were smiling, her brown eyes were cold. No trace of warmth.
They glittered like moonlight on frost—bright, beautiful, and utterly devoid of heat.
And though she was talking to Kyousuke, her killer gaze was locked directly onto Utaha.
'???'
'Mitsuha, have you unlocked the ancient Miyamizu family technique—mind reading?! I was joking! You don't just casually ask about something that private!'
If you really want to win, use a more honest and direct method!
Like—when we're alone, keep honing your skills until the experience you give me far surpasses any other girl's. That's the true path to victory!
Even though she wasn't the one being stared down, the fear Kyousuke felt was no less intense.
This… this was exactly the kind of disaster he'd tried to avoid by going to Itomori, pretending to be a shrine maiden, and listening to old grannies talk about their grandchildren all day.
"Ara~ So this is a competition, is it~?"
Utaha stepped out from behind him, raising a graceful hand to cover her mouth with the back of it.
Her voice was light and playful, her posture so elegant in that black dress she could've been on a magazine cover.
Her tone was teasing, but the pressure she gave off was overwhelming—like a strict mother watching her over-competitive daughter throw a tantrum.
"Hehe~ Saying stuff like that now… isn't it a bit pathetic?"
Mitsuha scoffed, clearly unimpressed by Utaha's theatrics.
'Big deal—like I'm not a rich girl too.'
In fact, her family had been around since ancient times.
Only a handful of clans in Japan could claim a longer history.
'The Kasumigaoka family? How much land do they even own? What's the point of fancy houses if they're all less than 30 years old?'
Her voice even slipped into a Kansai accent, complete with quirky intonations.
Normally, Kyousuke would find it adorable—but now it just made the back of his neck tingle.
He could already imagine what Utaha-senpai would say in return.
Sure enough, the faint smile on Utaha's lips slowly faded.
She turned her head and looked directly at him.
"So, Kyousuke... tell me. You enjoy kissing me more, don't you?"
The girl's lovely, bewitching face was lit up by a dazzling smile, and her deep wine-red eyes sparkled with affection like shimmering autumn waters.
Terrifying.
Utterly terrifying.
At least Mitsuha looked like she'd kill him if he didn't give the answer she wanted.
But Utaha-senpai? She didn't threaten—she commanded.
She expected him to say exactly what she wanted to hear.
Gulp.
Kyousuke swallowed hard.
"E-Enjoy? But isn't a kiss supposed to be a way to share the happiness in your heart with someone else?" he tried to reason, grasping at philosophical straws.
Mitsuha tilted her head, placing her index finger thoughtfully on her cheek. Her delicate face was full of innocent confusion.
Then she turned her gaze toward him and asked:
"Kyousuke? Kissing me is the happiest thing in the world, right?"
One drop. Two drops. Three drops...
Kyousuke—who could swing a ten-kilogram practice sword for two hours without breaking a sweat—was now sweating buckets.
This… this might be the true battlefield for a man.
Was this the key to breaking through his swordsmanship plateau?
He'd heard that, at the moment of death, people were blessed by the gods—that all the questions life never answered would suddenly become clear.
Was this that moment?
To his left stood Utaha-senpai in a sleek black evening dress, nearly as tall as him with her high heels on.
Her lustrous black hair wasn't tied back by her usual white ribbon but swept up into an elegant bun held by a silver clasp.
Without her signature hairband, which usually marked her visual divide from fellow long-haired beauties like Naoka or Yukino, she seemed even colder—an aura so frigid that just standing near her felt like frostbite.
To his right was Mitsuha, whose hair wasn't braided like it had been back in Itomori, nor tied with her usual red-and-orange cords.
Instead, it was pulled up into a simple high ponytail.
She wore no traditional shrine maiden robes today—just a plain white hoodie and sweatpants, practical and ready for movement.
She looked exactly like she did in those videos he'd seen of her at kendo tournaments.
Same cold presence.
But this time, not like a silent glacier—she was a drawn sword, here for battle.
And if she wasn't going to beat up Kyousuke, then the only other target was the scheming little cat, Kasumigaoka Utaha.
Standing between them, Kyousuke suddenly felt smaller than ever.
The tension crackling in the air—just from the girls' eye contact—could have reduced him to ash.
"Kyousuke?" Utaha asked sweetly.
"Kyousuke?" Mitsuha echoed, just as sweetly.
Gulp.
He swallowed again.
'Please don't make me answer that… I even remember exactly how both your little tongues move when you're drawing patterns in my mouth…'
The dryness of their lips, the fullness, width, softness of their tongues, how they liked to twist above or below during a kiss…
He remembered everything.
He could give a full report, down to scientific measurements.
Perfectly fair and unbiased!
Kyousuke's scalp tingled.
He could say it all—but if he did, he'd never forgive himself.
Because like Mitsuha said… a kiss was supposed to be a way to convey love and happiness.
If it wasn't with someone you truly cared about, if you didn't understand their heart—if you didn't have warm memories to hold onto in that moment—then it was meaningless.
He thought of Mitsuha, how she would always accidentally bite his lip or even her own tongue.
She didn't even realize it—but he did. And that tiny imperfection filled him with indescribable joy, because it meant he knew her better than she knew herself.
He thought of Utaha, and how she always let out the faintest hums through her nose during kisses—like a secret little melody no one else could hear.
When she got emotional, she'd let out tiny, dreamy whimpers like a puppy caught in a nightmare. She never noticed—but he did.
And each time he discovered something new—some subtle difference in lip shape, the way their tongues moved, the reactions they gave—he felt happy.
That's a level of intimacy no shallow lust could ever achieve. Every drop of shared breath and warmth held love. That… was what kissing meant to him.
"Kyousuke!" Utaha's voice sharpened.
"Kyousuke~" Mitsuha said gently.
But there was no way that softness was real.
'Ahhh! I know, I know! Why can't you just read my mind for once, Mitsuha?! My inner monologue is really touching right now, okay?!'
His deep emotional reflection was shattered.
The tingling on his scalp returned full force.
"H-How about… you give me a moment to remember?" he said, looking nervously between the two of them.
'WHAT?! Kyousuke, what are you even saying?! Snap out of it!'
'Don't let those ridiculous thoughts kick your brain out of your head! You'll die!!'
"Oh-hoho~ You know what? You're right," Utaha suddenly said, voice playful. "How can a food critic judge a dish if the plate's already empty?"
Before Mitsuha could react, Utaha grabbed Kyousuke and leaned in, lips poised to claim his right then and there.
WHAT?!
'Kasumigaoka Utaha, are you trying to get yourself killed?!'
Mitsuha, stunned by Kyousuke's shamelessness a second ago, instantly snapped out of it.
Her eyes narrowed sharply with a flicker of murderous intent.
In one motion, she yanked Kyousuke into her arms with her left hand and—using muscle memory alone—raised her right hand in a sharp chop toward Utaha like a kendo master mid-swing.
Utaha, who had been so smug just seconds ago, suddenly saw her life flash before her eyes.
'Not again! Not the hand chop!'
She braced herself as if a ghost from her nightmares had come back for revenge.
But—just like always—Mitsuha's snow-white hand was intercepted by Kyousuke at the last second.
Phew. As long as Kyousuke's here, I'll always be—
'MITSUHA, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!'
Utaha's sense of relief lasted less than a second before her eyes nearly popped out of her skull.
Mitsuha, unfazed by the failed hand chop, immediately grabbed Kyousuke's left arm, pulled him down, tilted her head up, and locked her lips onto his—clean, swift, no hesitation.
As always, her slightly clumsy little teeth were the first to make contact with his lips—but thank goodness, this time they didn't draw blood.
They were both experienced now.
Kyousuke hadn't expected things to escalate this fast.
He hadn't even gotten to pull out his ultimate technique, and suddenly he was already reaping the rewards of victory.
All those passionate memories of kissing Mitsuha had fired up his body—and now, that burning desire was finally being fulfilled.
And just before Mitsuha's vision was entirely blocked by his body, she glanced sideways—smiling sweetly—at the now-stunned Kasumigaoka Utaha.
Hehe~~
'You really haven't figured it out, have you?'
'Kyousuke and I… we're a couple blessed by the gods themselves. I've never been afraid of anyone—not as long as I have that idiot.'
Wait… what is this?!
A public act of... WIFE-LEVEL DOMINANCE?!
Kasumigaoka Utaha had always teased Eriri for drawing nothing but humiliation doujins just because that genre was more marketable.
At the time, she only said it to get under Eriri's skin.
But now—watching the boy she loved, right in front of her, kissing another girl.
And not just any girl—the one she had just been verbally sparring with for half the day—Utaha could only think one thing:
Cuckolds, drop dead!
Gun license. Afternoon. No—call Dad now!
No, that wasn't enough.
Bodyguards.
A full security team.
Twenty men. No—thirty.
Use a tenth of the family estate to form an assassination squad.
Who cared? It'd all be hers eventually.
She could blow it all however she wanted.
She and Kyousuke would earn it back a hundredfold after they got married.
As long as—as long as she erased every last one of these women!
And she'd start… with Miyamizu Mitsuha.
Humiliation, shame, heartbreak, rage—a mess of emotions knotted in her chest, entangling and multiplying, until they gave birth to something altogether different.
It was like that time, as a child, when she sat on the wooden porch of the old Kasumigaoka estate in Saitama, trying to count exactly how many Shirakawa pebbles made up the spiral-shaped rock garden.
Could she really count them all? Of course not.
But was it her fault? Also no. So the anger she felt toward her own stupidity turned into anger toward the sand.
Now, that same absurd swirl of feelings combusted into fire, pumping wild fuel through her veins.
Watching Mitsuha's blissful face as she kissed Kyousuke, Utaha didn't hesitate. She lunged forward in a single powerful step, her hand reaching straight for Mitsuha's hair—
Snap!
A sharp crack rang out in the locker room.
Utaha, blinded by fury at seeing Kyousuke being kissed right in front of her, had completely forgotten one crucial detail:
She was still wearing ten-centimeter heels.
They were designer, sure—expensive, elegant—but never meant for anything other than a glide down a red carpet.
The soles, soft leather, weren't built for traction, and absolutely not for... girl fights over a guy.
Her earlier jumping and stomping had already worn them down, and now, with that bold half-meter lunge—it was the last straw.
A sharp pain shot through her ankle.
Her balance shattered. Her body tipped backward.
Her wine-red eyes, which just moments ago burned with rage, now widened in raw panic.
The hand meant to grab Mitsuha's hair instead flailed toward Kyousuke's shoulder for support.
Kyousuke!
His name barely formed in her mind—her lips hadn't even opened—before she felt something wrap tightly around her waist.
It was his arm. Strong, secure, familiar.
She hadn't even had time to exhale in relief before—bam! That reliable back of his lurched off-balance too.
The support vanished.
And Kyousuke came crashing down on her.
And right behind him—
Miyamizu Mitsuha… what are you doing!?
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