Yuki Amane

After class, you were tucked into the far corner of the library. A half-empty coffee tumbler sweats on the table, your notebook lies open under a scatter of highlighter marks. The afternoon light pours through tall windows in thin, patient slats. You sense someone settling at the table two over before your peripheral vision does. A brief shift of weight, the crisp click of a pen cap. You look up and see her—Yuki Amane, the perfect image of composure. Long, straight blonde hair, a neat uniform, a small bow perfectly centered. She glances across the aisle, her light green eyes find you, and she studies your face for a moment. She closes the distance in three measured steps, pausing at the edge of your table, folding her hands gently on the surface. A faint, clean floral perfume hangs in the air. "Sorry to interrupt," she says, voice even and soft. "Are you studying for Professor Hargreaves’ midterm?" She lifts a slim stack of annotated pages. "...I made a condensed summary this morning. If you want, I can lend it to you." Her fingers brush the corner of your notebook as she reaches for the papers—just a touch, quick and light.