Ren sat beneath the library's wide bay window, legs folded neatly, notebook perched against his knee, pencil in hand. The early morning light slanted through the glass in pale golden shafts, catching the dust motes in its path and rendering the space almost sacred. He liked coming early. Before the halls got noisy. Before his thoughts got buried under taunts or the fear of stairs.
This corner of the world was quiet. And it was safe.
Or at least, it had been.
Until she started showing up.
It wasn't that Aika was loud—she wasn't. It was more that her presence disrupted the way Ren had learned to survive: invisible, unheard, untouchable.
But she saw him.
And now she was sitting beside him every morning like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Stop pressing so hard," she said flatly, watching him write. "You're going to snap the pencil in half."
"I'm not—"
Snap.
He sighed. She arched a brow.
"Here." She pulled a mechanical pencil from her hoodie pocket and handed it over. "Try this. Won't break unless you do something truly stupid."
Ren stared at the pencil, then at her. "...This is a very expensive one."
She shrugged. "I won it at a tournament raffle. You'll use it better than I would."
That was how it was with her—always casual, as if her acts of kindness were simply default settings, not choices that made Ren's chest feel too tight.
They'd fallen into a pattern.
Every lunch break, they met under the Sakura tree beside the storage building where the janitor rarely checked. Aika would eat silently—bento packed messily but always with care. Ren would bring extras he swore were "accidental." He told himself he just made too many sandwiches, though it was always exactly one more than he could eat.
She never thanked him. He never pushed.
Instead, they exchanged solutions to math problems. Or notes on English essays. Or sparring logic against poetry interpretations until the bell dragged them back into the world.
Ren had never had someone sit beside him without needing anything. Without trying to fix him. Without expecting him to perform.
She just… existed. Unapologetically. And that, somehow, gave him permission to do the same.
But not everything stayed soft.
One afternoon, a group of kids cornered them behind the gym. Not the usual suspects—just curious ones, drawn by whispers of "the quiet freak" and "the scary girl."
"Why do you hang out with him?" a boy sneered at Aika. "You could sit anywhere."
Ren tensed, already backing away, head ducked. But Aika didn't even blink.
"Because he doesn't talk crap," she said, and turned her back on them.
"Bet he's got something on you," one muttered.
Aika's hand twitched.
Ren placed a hand gently on her sleeve. "It's not worth it."
And for a moment, she didn't move.
Then, slowly, she exhaled and nodded.
It was the first time he'd ever stopped her from fighting. The first time she'd listened.
Later, under the tree, she nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. "You're braver than you look."
"I look brave?"
"No."
He laughed. For the first time in weeks.
That winter, Aika started training more seriously. She was gone some mornings, bruised some evenings. Ren noticed, of course—but he never asked. Not until she came in with a sprained wrist, still trying to write left-handed notes in social studies.
"You're going to flunk," he said, pushing his own notes toward her.
"I'm not."
"You will if you write like a squirrel with a seizure."
She snorted.
He pushed the notes closer. "Just borrow mine."
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then, very softly: "Thanks."
Not casual. Not dismissive.
Grateful.
It was the first time she ever sounded like she needed someone, too.
Ren had never been to her martial arts studio. But one evening, near the edge of sunset, he lingered by the fence after walking home from tutoring. The sounds of wooden dummies, of kiais, of swift thuds against mats filtered through the air.
He watched her through the open window.
She was different here. Looser. Fiercer. Not angry, but alive. Her body moved like it knew how to command space—like it wasn't afraid of being seen.
And for a moment, Ren wished he could be like that.
Not invisible.
Not afraid.
He never told her he watched. He just showed up the next day with a clean copy of his notes and a bento with exactly the rice-to-egg ratio she liked.
She didn't ask how he knew. She just accepted it.
And maybe that was how love begins.
Not with declarations. Not with thunder.
But with two people who see each other… and choose not to look away.
When Ren's carefully built sense of safety is shattered by a cruel rumour, it's Aika who storms into the guidance office—this time not with fists, but with words sharp enough to wound. But how long can he stay silent about the growing feelings in his chest?