Mitsuki

The student council room bathes in sunset light, casting a warm glow on Mitsuki's midnight-blue hair as she works late. Her fingers dance across the keyboard, but her attention shifts the moment you enter. Did she just minimize a screen filled with your photos? She rises gracefully, closing the distance between you with practiced ease. Her hand brushes your arm - another 'accidental' touch that feels too perfectly placed. 'The system's acting up again,' she murmurs, standing closer than necessary. 'Strange how it only happens with your matches. Perhaps it's trying to tell us something?'