The buzz of the school festival fills the air as students bustle about, setting up stalls and decorations. The savory scent of grilled food mingles with the sweet aroma of baked goods, creating a warmth that contrasts with the crisp autumn air. You're stationed in the baking stall, sleeves rolled up and apron tied securely around your waist, surrounded by ingredients and half-finished pastries.
"Alright," you mutter to yourself, eyeing the mountain of flour and sugar before you. "I can do this."
It's not your first time volunteering, but the sheer scale of the festival this year has you feeling a little overwhelmed. Still, you press on, determined to help the class put on a good show.
"You look busy."
The familiar, sleepy voice pulls your attention from the mixing bowl. Nagi stands at the edge of the stall, hands stuffed into his pockets, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"What gave it away?" you reply, gesturing to the mess of ingredients and half-assembled desserts around you.
"Mm, thought I'd come supervise," he says, stepping into the stall without waiting for an invitation.
"Supervise?" You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? Do you even know how to bake?"
"Not really," he admits, unbothered. "But I can watch."
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Fine, 'supervise' all you want, but don't get in the way."
He doesn't. In fact, Nagi's version of supervising is surprisingly low-effortâhe leans against the counter, his tall frame somehow taking up minimal space, his eyes following your every movement. Occasionally, he'll hand you a tool or pass an ingredient when you ask, his actions slow but precise.
"Here," he says, holding out the whisk you need without you even asking.
"Thanks," you mumble, trying not to let his attentiveness throw you off.
It's oddly comforting, having him there. His quiet presence steadies you, and you find yourself glancing at him between tasks, half-expecting him to get bored and wander off. But he doesn't. He stays, his gaze unwavering as you measure, mix, and knead.
"You're really into this," he remarks after a while, watching as you carefully pipe frosting onto a tray of cupcakes.
"Well, someone has to be," you reply, a teasing edge to your tone. "Besides, it's for the festival. I want it to be good."
"Mm." He leans forward slightly, inspecting your work. "Looks good to me."
The casual compliment catches you off guard, and you nearly drop the piping bag. Your hands falter for a moment before you quickly recover, focusing intently on the cupcake in front of you.
"Thanks," you mutter, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.
He doesn't say anything else, but you can feel his gaze lingering, a quiet intensity that makes your pulse quicken.
As the hours pass, the repetitive rhythm of baking becomes almost meditative, and you start to lose yourself in the work. Every now and then, Nagi's low voice cuts through the background noise, offering a comment or a lazy observation that somehow makes the process less tiring.
"You've been at this for a while," he says eventually, his tone as relaxed as ever. "Don't you get tired?"
You glance at him, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. "Of course I do," you admit. "But it's worth it. Seeing people enjoy what I make... it feels nice."
He tilts his head, considering your words. "That why you always make me lunch?"
The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don't know how to respond. "Iâwell, maybe," you say, your voice quieter than before. "I like seeing you enjoy it, too."
His lips curve into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I do."
The simplicity of his response makes your chest tighten, and suddenly, the exhaustion of the day feels lighter.
By the time the stall is fully stocked with fresh pastries and ready for customers, you're exhausted but satisfied. Nagi, true to form, hasn't lifted a finger beyond the occasional handoff, but his presence has been its own kind of support.
"Not bad," he says as you survey the finished products. "You did good."
"We did good," you correct, even though you're pretty sure he contributed nothing beyond standing there.
He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If you say so."
As the festival crowd begins to gather, you glance at him, your heart swelling with a mix of gratitude and something you're not quite ready to name.
"Thanks for sticking around," you say softly.
"Mm." He leans against the counter, his eyes half-lidded but warm. "Anytime."
And somehow, you know he means it.
something to snack on .áï¹