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Summary
“I don’t know,” Mello says. Something strange crawls through him as he looks Near up and down. “It’s, uh…”
A litany of different words come to mind. Tacky is one of them; creepy is another. The longer he looks, though— the longer he drinks in Near’s knee socks and plaid skirt, his blouse and blazer— the more he starts to like it.
Which he kind of hates, honestly. This kind of thing is up Matt’s alley, and that’s who the target audience is, but Mello has always considered himself a little too classy for something as lowbrow and gauche as a schoolgirl fantasy.