New semester, new roster. Scanning my homeroom list for Css 2-1, I mentally fist-pumped.

  No boys.

  They’re usually sprinkled across csses for bance, so zero’s a rarity. Boys, frankly, are trouble magnets.

  Typical ratio? One or two guys to nearly thirty girls. Friendships crack over fleeting crushes—unrequited 99% of the time—spiraling into catfights and shattered bonds. I’ve seen it too often. Teacher meddling? Useless. It just gets messier.

  Side with the boy, and I’m a cougar throwing myself at young meat. Back the girls, and it’s misandry, discrimination—wsuit threats have loomed. Py neutral? Higher-ups grill my “problem-solving skills.” Honestly, I’d rather not see a boy’s face.

  So, I thought this year’s gig would be a breeze.

  Then—a transfer. A boy. Right as April kicked off. Talk about a buzzkill.

  Back in school, we’d flex over how many guys our css had—bragging rights with friends. Now, as a teacher, those giddy little bitches drooling over it just piss me off. My old karate club senpai—still in touch—teases me: “Sharing space with young studs? Eye candy every day—jealous!” Not even close.

  Teen boys are votile—mishandle them, and they blow up. Fun to ogle from afar, maybe, but as homeroom teacher? The stress outweighs any perks.

  Every morning HR, I’d eye the transfer kid, praying he’d keep the peace—only to catch myself staring. He’s no ordinary boy—absurdly pretty.

  Cut me some sck! Two years of “big sister” gigs—cash, time, effort—zero payoff. Then this beauty nds in arm’s reach, untouchable by every rule. Proof there’s no god.

  This kid—Miyagi Kyo—doesn’t even stir shit. He coasts through, calm as hell. Worse, he fits in. Natsuki, his deskmate, chats with him during HR—quiet little exchanges. Unthinkable.

  Guys talking to girls first? Either urgent business or barking orders—nothing else. But here? Miyagi’s all smiles, chatting her up, while Natsuki answers with a sour face. Natsuki, you’re getting male attention—my fist’s itching, and you’ve got no room to compin.

  His social game’s unreal—close with everyone. Boys usually hate cameras—why? Girls turn them into jerk-off material. Sure, some just want a cute keepsake, pure and simple. Doesn’t matter—no girl with a pic resists using it.

  Unauthorized snaps are a powder keg. Even a phone aimed their way sparks theft accusations. So, the brats get crafty: holes in textbooks for mid-css shots, video mode angled casually then cropped ter, or ballsy full-on filming, consequences be damned. I walked that path once—know every trick, every itch. Unless it’s egregious, I look the other way.

  Then I saw it—impossible.

  Miyagi, posing with the girls. Not once or twice—daily. Smiling, obliging every request. I suspected cash trades—nothing. He even does solo shots, striking goofy poses like a damn showman.

  A cssmate who returns morning and dismissal greetings? That’s gratitude-worthy. Miyagi? A god to these girls. Css 2-1’s a fucking utopia—other csses must seethe.

  Weirdest part: no one’s sneaking around. The pack of boy-starved she-wolves rallied, sharing this prime cut in orderly fashion. No need for stealth pics—he’s chatty, smiling, gorgeous. No one dares ruin it with a selfish stunt. They watch each other, self-regute.

  Thanks to that, our css has zero boy-girl drama.

  This year—maybe my whole teaching career—might just be the most peaceful yet.