"Is... is this okay?"
The girl's voice trembled slightly with hesitation.
Now that the barrier of the internet was gone, even the legendary Eromanga-sensei couldn't maintain her usual bravado. Her voice, once disguised by electronic filters, now ca through softly—like a whisper brushing against the edge of a sumr breeze.
Fortunately, Izumi Sagiri had cleverly set up her live-streaming gear: headphones on, the mic routed to the room's speaker system. Yukima Azuma could just barely hear her voice.
But because the audio output didn't allow for a voice changer, she was forced to speak in her real, gentle tone.
As she spoke, Sagiri timidly raised her drawing board toward Yukima Azuma, her small fingers gripping the edge like she was offering sothing sacred.
Azuma leaned in, scanning the artwork carefully.
The major concerns the director had pointed out were now resolved. The facial expressions—the emotional subtleties—were vastly improved. This wasn't just a draft anymore. It was a polished, emotive work of art.
However...
"There's just one thing."
Yukima Azuma tilted his head. "Why are all the girls you draw... flat-chested?"
He tried to sound genuinely curious rather than critical.
Take Kurokawa Akane's character, for example—canonically designed with a B-cup. But the figure Sagiri drew? Almost entirely flat.
It wasn't a huge issue, but in a work that was otherwise so ticulous, this kind of inconsistency stood out.
Sagiri flinched.
She could feel his gaze lingering, evaluating her work—judging her creative choices.
And perhaps, judging her.
Clenching her small fists and closing her eyes tightly, Sagiri suddenly shouted:
"Because I've never seen that kind of thing in real life, I can't draw it!!"
Azuma blinked.
Then his eyes slowly shifted to Sagiri herself—her petite fra, her flat chest, the oversized hoodie draped over her like a protective cocoon.
Ah.
That explained it.
In retrospect, Eromanga-sensei had always favored similar body types in her illustrations.
So she used herself as the model.
Seeing him nod thoughtfully, Sagiri imdiately beca suspicious. She took a step back, arms crossed tightly in front of her chest like she was fending off a pervert.
The giant cartoon mask she wore still hid her face, but her body language scread defensive.
Then sothing unexpected happened.
As she took another step back, her knees buckled.
Her balance gave out.
She staggered—and before she realized it, her vision tilted sideways. The world spun, and the floor raced up to et her.
Sagiri reflexively shut her eyes, bracing for impact.
But instead of hard tatami...
She fell into sothing warm. And soft.
Cautiously cracking one eye open, Sagiri saw Yukima Azuma right in front of her—his arms securely wrapped around her small body.
Her cheeks flushed violently.
This was—this was—!
Her brain short-circuited. She had never touched a boy before. Never held hands. Never been this close to anyone.
Let alone soone of the opposite sex.
She began to squirm in panic, trying to break free from his grasp.
But after just a few movents, another wave of dizziness hit her.
Her raised hand went limp.
Her eyes rolled back.
And then she fainted.
Azuma nearly panicked.
"Wait—what? Sagiri?! Hey!"
He quickly removed the oversized cartoon mask, revealing her pale face, drenched in sweat.
The air conditioner was on, but clearly it hadn't been enough.
Sagiri was wrapped up like a stead dumpling in her thick sportswear, probably having worked for hours without realizing her condition.
He moved fast.
Peeling off her outer layers, he left her in her inner shirt and shorts—still drenched, but it was better than before. He made sure not to be indecent. No funny business. He didn't want her to wake up to so misunderstanding straight out of an ani trope.
He laid her out gently on the tatami mat, arms and legs spread to help her body cool down.
Then he dashed downstairs to grab ice and a wet towel.
He placed an ice pack on her forehead, and began gently wiping down her arms, legs, and neck with the cool towel.
Sagiri stirred, the heat in her chest slowly easing under his careful ministrations.
She didn't know how long had passed, but eventually she opened her eyes.
A soft breeze brushed her cheeks.
She turned her head and saw Azuma sitting beside her, fanning her with a paper fan, his expression calm and focused.
She blinked slowly, then tried to move—only to groan in discomfort.
Her body felt heavy.
Her limbs were sluggish.
She glanced around and imdiately noticed her mask was gone.
Panic surged up.
But just as she tried to sit up, Azuma placed a hand gently on her forehead, pressing her back down.
"Don't move," he said calmly. "You've got heatstroke. Pretty bad, too. You need to rest."
Sagiri normally would've protested—maybe even kicked him out.
But she didn't have the strength.
She just lay there like a collapsed marshmallow.
And...
It wasn't so bad, hearing his voice like this.
His concern didn't feel fake.
The fan continued to blow across her face and hair, its gentle breeze lulling her into a daze.
Azuma continued speaking, softly but firmly:
"I handled the first aid, but if you're still feeling bad tomorrow, we're going to the hospital. No argunts."
Sagiri's lips parted.
A whisper so faint it was nearly inaudible escaped her mouth.
"Th-thank you..."
Azuma smiled. He didn't make fun of her or ask her to repeat it.
After about half an hour, Sagiri slowly sat up, still weak but sowhat stable.
She expected the awkward tension to co crashing in.
But instead, there was a peaceful quiet between them.
She glanced sideways at him.
Azuma didn't stare. He didn't tease.
He simply sat, watching her like a friend might—ready to help, but not hovering.
For a shut-in like Sagiri, that was... comforting.
"My... my na is Izumi Sagiri," she murmured, so softly that it almost didn't reach him.
Azuma lifted his fan and pretended to write his na in the air with it.
"Yukima Azuma. Pleased to et you—officially."
Sagiri tried to commit his na to mory.
Just as she was about to say sothing else—
Grrrrrrruuuuuu~~~
Her stomach let out a loud, prolonged growl.
Silence.
Her cheeks turned bright pink in an instant. She clutched her belly and looked down in pure mortification.
If he laughed at her now... she would die.
But Azuma didn't laugh.
He simply asked: "How do you usually eat? You never leave the room, right?"
Sagiri hesitated, then pointed to a basket tied to a long nylon rope by the window.
Azuma followed her gaze, and imdiately understood.
She ordered takeout. Then lowered the basket down for the delivery person to put the food in. Clever.
Still, that ant she probably wasn't getting proper nutrition.
"I'll check what's in the fridge," he offered.
"No... you don't have to go that far," she mumbled.
"It's fine. We're friends now, aren't we?"
Sagiri blinked.
"Fr... friends..." she whispered.
The word sounded so unfamiliar to her own ears.
But sohow, it didn't feel wrong.
Azuma went downstairs. The kitchen clearly hadn't been used much, but there were so ingredients in the fridge—probably left by whoever stocked the house.
He quickly whipped up sothing simple but nourishing: grilled mackerel, miso soup, and rice.
When he returned with the tray, the aroma filled the entire room.
Sagiri's eyes widened.
She hadn't realized just how hungry she was.
Azuma set the food on the small table between them and smiled.
"Enjoy~."
Sagiri stared, her face pink, her stomach growling louder.
And for the first ti in a long while—
She reached out for the chopsticks.
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