If there was one thing she liked, above any and everything else, it was perfection. In her eyes, and in at least dozens of others – she was sure – he was perfection. From the first time she met him, almost five years ago, she had decided that there could never been anyone more perfect than Tezuka Kunimitsu. And there was nothing he could do to her or to others that could knock that honor away from him.

He cleared his throat and she shuddered, realizing that she had spent the last few minutes staring at him. "Do you need anything?" he asked. Keiko shook her head. She focused back on the psychology textbook; it didn't take her long before she was lost in the words, highlighting and jotting every phrase she found thought provoking, profound, or factually important.

Two hours had passed before she refocused her attention at the brown-haired boy across from her. The two stacks of books that enclosed him had switched sides. His done stack now towering over his to do stack triumphantly. She chuckled softly, earning a curious glare from the boy. Always the hard worker, Tezuka. She wrote her final thoughts on the last two chapters of the psychology reading in her notebook before packing everything neatly in her bag. She leaned forward on the table, careful not to cast any shadows on Tezuka's side of the desk. She rested her head on her right hand as she soaked in his concentration-ridden face. She patiently waited for him to finish so they'll walk home together. Or have dinner, she thought, I'm starving.

"I'm done, sorry to keep you waiting," he said in an almost robotic manner. She shook her head.

"It's fine," she replied, zipping up her leather tote. "Let's go?"

"Hn."

They walked in silent synchronization, always maintaining a healthy amount of space between the two of them, for the first three blocks. The dark streets prompted Keiko to recall the book she had recently finished reading. Monsters are created because of societal fears, the book argued, and Keiko couldn't help but agree. She was so deep in her thoughts that she didn't notice the boy to her left make a sharp right turn, bumping into her.

"Sorry." It was her turn to apologize. She looked at him, and cocked her head slightly. "Aren't we cutting through the park?"

He shook his head. "There have been a series of robberies lately, so it is best if we don't." She nodded. Knowledgeable as always. The route they were currently taken, although safer, was longer and less scenic. It added ten minutes to their journey, not that Keiko minded, but she wasn't sure about him.

Tezuka looked at the sky, cautious that the overwhelming humidity meant that there was a high chance of rain. He had, unfortunately, forgotten his umbrella and he doubted that Keiko had brought hers. He was right. There was a crack, a thud, and then rain. Keiko let out a gasp, turning to look at Tezuka – half-filled with expectation and the other half surprise. "Did you bring an umbrella?" she asked, a pout on her lips. He glanced down at her, and almost wish he didn't.

It wasn't just raining, it poured. In just a minute and a half, she was completely soaked, her casual white t-shirt and jeans ensemble was now much more scandalous. "Oh no," she whispered, eyebrows furrowing and lips frowning. Tezuka shook his head, and led her to a phone booth he knew was nearby. It wasn't a tight fit, but it was every bit as awkward. Tezuka found a lamp post outside, behind Keiko, and focused on that. Keiko found it hard for her to look at anything other than the way Tezuka's polo clung to his sculpted figure. "So hot…" she breathed, regretting it immediately.

"Excuse me?" Hot? Is this girl crazy? "You're hot." That didn't sound right.

He sighed and pulled his tennis jacket from his backpack and tossed it at her. "Cover up," he managed to cough out.

Keiko gladly accepted his offer and zipped up the blue jacket, fiddling with something underneath it, until she slipped something white off. Tezuka tried not to widen his eyes. He was never, ever going home with Hotaru Keiko ever again.

"Why'd you do that…?"

She said matter-of-factly, "I don't like wearing wet shirts." Tezuka shook his head. There was nothing separating his tennis jacket and his classmate's bare skin. Except for maybe her brassiere. Bad thoughts.