What kind of building is the Home Economics room?
Different students probably have different opinions.
For the culinary enthusiasts, it’s a sacred space of creation.
For the delinquents, it’s a goldmine of potential weapons.
But for Hikigaya…
It’s probably that, right?
Students who are on good terms group together, and in a classroom like an iron maiden, they conduct a torture activity called “cooking practice”!
Especially since there are a large number of gas stoves, open flames, kitchen knives, and other dangerous items inside.
Why hasn’t the Department of Education canceled this garbage course yet?
Hurry up and bow and apologize!
To all the students who were forced to participate in group cooking activities despite having no interest in food or social interaction—we’re sorry.
…I’ll be waiting for that apology.
“Are you going there to bake cookies?” Hikigaya asked, his voice flat.
“Is this Yumi-chan’s request?”
“It’s Yuigahama!” The tea-haired girl puffed out her cheeks.
“Not Oil Cake!”
Oil Cake.
Yumi-chan.
Same difference, Hikigaya thought.
Normie names all blur together after a while.
As if to dispel Hachiman Hikigaya’s doubts—or perhaps just to prevent him from making another terrible nickname—Yukinoshita explained: “Because Yuihama-san wants to bake cookies for someone. She lacks confidence in her cooking skills, so she wants to ask us for help.”
Explode!
Hachiman Hikigaya’s expression twisted into pure disgust.
A high school student—a beautiful girl dressed like a gyaru, no less—wanting to learn how to bake cookies for some boy?
He could imagine a sickeningly sweet romantic comedy just by using his toes.
The blushing confession.
The nervous gift-giving.
The triumphant smile of the recipient—definitely some popular, handsome guy with perfect hair and a volleyball scholarship.
Damn it.
Handsome guys really deserve to die.
“Hikigaya-kun.” Yukino’s voice cut through his internal rant like a blade.
“A man’s jealous appearance is very ugly.”
“Jealousy?” Hikigaya’s eye twitched.
“I don’t think I have that emotion. If anything, I just find it boring.”
Boring, he repeated in his head.
Romance is boring.
Love is boring.
Watching normies engage in their elaborate mating rituals is boring.
…Why does everyone keep assuming I’m jealous?
For high school students—especially the popular groups—paying attention to other people’s relationships, gossiping about friends’ progress, and helping classmates with ambiguous relationships play matchmaker could all arouse their great interest.
It was practically a extracurricular activity.
But Hachiman Hikigaya had no such interest.
In his view, there was nothing more boring than caring about other people’s relationships.
Instead of worrying about who those lovebirds liked, he would rather memorize a couple of English words.
At least vocabulary doesn’t text you back with “lol” and then ignore you for three days.
As for helping?
Hachiman Hikigaya probably only had two words to reply—Get lost!
“At the end of the day,” he said instead, crossing his arms, “shouldn’t you discuss this with friends? Why has it turned into asking the club for help?”
This kid called Oil Cake—Yui Yuihama—shouldn’t have few friends in his impression, right?
She played quite well with that group of popular kids in class.
Wouldn’t it be more convenient to ask them about these things?
They probably had experience.
They probably enjoyed this kind of thing.
“Ah, this…” Yui’s guilty gaze wandered around the room, landing anywhere except on Hikigaya.
“It’s not really suitable to tell them about this kind of thing… I’ll definitely be laughed at… anyway, it’s just not appropriate!”
This woman called Oil Cake was really strange.
For some reason, she seemed desperate to avoid meeting Hikigaya’s eyes.
Her cheeks were slightly flushed.
Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her skirt.
Boring stuff, Hikigaya thought.
He had originally expected something very troublesome—something that would justify the dramatic tension, something worthy of him leaving the Service Club thoughtfully only to be attacked by an inexplicable rejection maniac.
As it turned out, it was just to discuss a romance topic?
I could be at home right now.
Drinking coffee.
Petting Komachi.
Not doing this.
“Hachiman!” Yuzuru grabbed his hand—warm, soft, earnest.
“Let’s help her! Extending a helping hand without hesitation is what is called justice, desu!”
Yuzuru looked at Hachiman Hikigaya with a smile—pure, radiant, completely without guile.
Honestly, this overly innocent gaze moved Hachiman a little.
A faint, imperceptible blush crept onto Hikigaya’s face.
Damn it.
The angel is using her powers.
“I’m just fulfilling my club duties,” he muttered, looking away.
“After all, I am a member of the Service Club.”
No one could refuse an angel, Hachiman admitted.
Even Hachiman was no exception.
After borrowing the key from the teacher in charge, the group surged into the place filled with kitchenware—a mismatched parade of supernatural beings, normies, and reluctant vampires.
The home economics classroom was filled with the sweet scent of vanilla extract, mixed with the smell of flour and sugar and other foods that Hikigaya normally associated with convenience store packaging.
It had to be said that the home economics classroom at Sobu High School was managed quite well.
The classroom was quite clean, and basic ingredients were stored relatively well.
No mysterious mold colonies.
No suspicious smells.
No evidence of previous cooking disasters.
Surprising, Hikigaya thought.
For a room designed to facilitate student cooking, I expected more fire damage.
Yukinoshita skillfully opened the refrigerator, took out milk and eggs, and then found a digital scale and a bunch of miscellaneous kitchen utensils.
Her movements were efficient, precise, practiced.
Even though she was a young lady, Hikigaya observed, she seemed to be very good at cooking?
Not only was she knowledgeable—textbook smart, encyclopedia smart—but she also seemed to be good at housework.
Where did this perfect superman come from?
But what was she doing with a digital scale?
Was this a tool used for cooking?
He had always assumed cooking was about vibes and intuition—a little of this, a little of that, pray to the kitchen gods.
After thinking about it, Hikigaya didn’t ask.
Since it was a tool brought out by Yukinoshita, it was highly likely to be useful.
Hikigaya was certain of this.
If Yukinoshita brought it, it has a purpose.
The woman doesn’t do anything without purpose.
“Is there anything I can help with?” Kaguya asked, already tidying up the stove area with quiet efficiency.
Hikigaya thought about it and realized there didn’t seem to be anything he could do.
I don’t cook.
I don’t bake.
I barely heat up instant noodles without setting off the smoke alarm.
“You just need to be responsible for tasting,” Yukino Yukinoshita said, her words brimming with a kind of quiet femininity that felt almost out of place coming from someone so sharp.
“If it’s just teaching how to make cookies, I think I am enough as a teacher.”
Such a sharp aura, Hikigaya noted.
But exceptionally convincing coming from this woman.
Some people were born with an aura that made people believe in them.
As long as they spoke, there was a sense of trustworthiness—like the words had already been fact-checked before they left their mouth.
“Don’t mess around, Yui-chan,” Yuzuru said, gently correcting something.
“Sorry, sorry.”
Compared to the composure of this group—Yukino’s precision, Kaguya’s quiet efficiency, even Hikigaya’s pointed reluctance—the combination of Yuzuru and Oil Cake seemed a bit flustered.
That bitch Oil Cake, Hikigaya observed with malicious satisfaction, couldn’t even tie her own apron.
She actually needed the great angel Yuzuru to help her tie it.
Pathetic, he thought.
Absolutely pathetic.
…But also kind of endearing, in a “lost puppy” sort of way.
Not that I would ever admit that out loud.
“You are too sloppy in your work, Yuihama-san.” Yukino’s voice was crisp, authoritative, utterly devoid of mercy.
“You wouldn’t want to end up as hopeless as that man over there, would you?”
That man, Yukino said.
Not Hikigaya-kun.
Not even “him.” Just…
“that man.”
Like I’m a cautionary exhibit in a museum of social failures.
“Don’t use unfounded things as examples to lecture others!” Hikigaya called out from his seat.
“Do you think I’m a Namahage?”
Namahage, he thought.
The traditional demon figure who scares children into behaving.
Yes, compare me to a folkloric monster.
That’s exactly the right energy for this situation.
Hikigaya moved a stool to the corner and sat down—positioning himself as far from the cooking action as possible without leaving the room entirely.
Although he felt offended—deeply, personally offended—not having to work and just waiting to eat seemed like a nice life.
It should be said, he admitted, that this was something Hikigaya longed for.
A life of leisure.
Of observation.
Of consuming without contributing.
The househusband dream, he thought.
Slowly becoming reality.
“Senpai.” A soft voice came from beside him.
“I’m ready.”
“Huh?”
Before he knew it, Himeragi Yukina had already placed the guitar case—the one containing the Sekkarou, the demon-slaying lance capable of breaking all laws—in the corner.
She turned around.
Wearing an apron.
How should he put it—
It was awesome.
No.
Stop.
Rethink.
It was…
From an artistic standpoint.
Purely objective.
The apron was standardissue—the same pale blue cotton that everyone else was wearing.
But on Himeragi Yukina, it looked…
different.
Wrong.
Right.
Dangerous in a completely different way than her weapon.
Although this kind of thought was criminal—literally, probably, in some countries—Hikigaya still couldn’t suppress the throbbing in his heart.
Throb, he reprimanded himself.
Stop throbbing.
You’re a virgin.
You’re supposed to be pure of heart and mind.
…Why is this so hard?
He tried to analyze—to intellectualize his way out of the feeling.
Yukinoshita and Yuigahama’s aprons also looked good.
They were even very fitting—tailored to their figures, complementary to their aesthetics.
But it was precisely because they were so fitting that there wasn’t a sense of abrupt beauty.
Yukinoshita was like a sharp and capable wife—the kind who would manage the household finances with an iron fist and never let you forget a single mistake.
Yuigahama was like a gyaru who had turned over a new leaf—a homebody type, someone who had traded nightclubs for knitting circles.
Perhaps it was because of their age that this outfit felt completely natural.
It wouldn’t make one think of other strange things.
But Himeragi was different.
Compared to the other two, Himeragi was younger.
Her face was more youthful—still carrying the softness of someone who hadn’t fully grown into her features.
Wearing an apron, there was an inexplicable sense of abrupt beauty.
A dissonance.
A wrongness that somehow made it more compelling.
How to put it?
Using the term “young wife” wasn’t very appropriate, because Himeragi wasn’t a loli-type beautiful girl.
She wasn’t trying to be cute.
She didn’t have that manufactured, market-tested appeal.
Nor did she have a sense of criminality that was punishable and arrestable.
…Maybe a little arrestable, he reconsidered.
In some jurisdictions.
If he had to describe it—and he was already in too deep, so why stop now—Hikigaya would prefer to call her a girl-like wife.
There was a raw and alluring charm, as if Himeragi was currently only wearing an apron.
In short—
The lethality was huge.
Critical hit.
Direct hit.
He was going to die.
“Don’t keep staring, Senpai.” Yukina’s cheeks flushed pink, but her voice was steady—professional, even.
As if she was used to being stared at and had developed countermeasures.
Then Yukino’s voice came from the cooking station, cold and precise as a surgical scalpel.
“A certain pervert staring at his distant middle school cousin can come back to his senses now.”
She didn’t even look up from the mixing bowl.
“Your obsession with younger girls,” Yukino continued, “has been exposed clearly.”
Exposed, Hikigaya thought.
As if I was hiding it.
As if this is a thing I have.
“I’m not obsessed with anything,” he said, his voice strangled.
“I was just… observing. Objectively. From a sociological perspective.”
“Sociological,” Yukino repeated.
“Yes.”
“While staring at a middle schooler in an apron.”
“It’s called field research.”
“Field research,” Yukino said, “into what, exactly? The aerodynamic properties of apron strings?”
Damn it, Hikigaya thought.
She’s too sharp.
“Senpai…” Himeragi tugged at his sleeve—gently, hesitantly.
“Please don’t make things harder for me. I’m supposed to be observing you, not the other way around.”
The observer became the observed, Hikigaya thought.
A tragic reversal.
Somewhere, a documentary narrator is shaking his head.
“…Sorry,” he said finally, turning his gaze to the ceiling.
The ceiling, he told himself.
Look at the ceiling.
It’s white.
It’s boring.
It’s not wearing an apron.
You can do this.
You are the Fourth Progenitor.
You command twelve natural disaster-level Familiar Beasts.
…None of whom you can actually summon.
…And right now, you’re losing a staring contest to a ceiling.
What has your life become?