The first time Aika saw Ren counting steps, he didn't know she was watching.
It was after school, early evening, the hallways mostly emptied except for the occasional echo of a teacher's footsteps or the metallic clatter of a mop bucket. Ren moved with quiet precision, one hand lightly grazing the wall, the other holding a folded sheet of paper—some kind of hand-drawn map.
He paused at the corner between the science lab and the nurse's office, touched the seam between tiles, then turned.
Aika leaned against a locker, arms folded. "That's a new kind of dance."
Ren startled so hard he nearly dropped the paper. "I—I didn't see you."
"I noticed." She stepped forward, glancing at the map. "What's this?"
Ren hesitated. "It's… a path. Between my classes. Easiest to navigate. Less people. Fewer stairs. I marked the lights too. Some of them flicker."
Aika looked again, and suddenly the dots and arrows and scribbled notes made perfect sense. "You made this?"
He nodded.
"Smart," she said, surprising him.
"You're not going to laugh?"
"Why would I laugh at something that works?" She looked at him. "I've seen people walk into doors trying to look confident. You? You've got a strategy."
Ren flushed. It was the longest compliment he'd ever received.
The next week, she started showing up during lunch.
No announcement. No invitation. She'd just arrive with her bruised knuckles and a carton of milk, plop down beside him on the far bench under the courtyard awning, and unwrap her rice ball like they'd planned it.
They hadn't.
But somehow, it felt like they had.
Ren never asked why. He never had to.
She wasn't there to talk. She was there to be. And somehow, that made all the difference.
It was during a particularly brutal math class that their unspoken alliance solidified.
Aika sat three rows behind Ren, slouched in her chair, arms crossed like she was in detention. She stared at the board like it personally offended her.
Ren, meanwhile, took notes. Not because he loved the subject—but because it was easier than trying to pretend he didn't understand it. Numbers were quiet. Predictable. They didn't shove you or steal your glasses or ask you why you walked funny.
They made sense.
Aika, however, did not look like she and numbers were on speaking terms.
After class, Ren hesitated, then doubled back.
"Um," he began, shifting his bag nervously, "you—you looked like you were going to throw your pencil at the board."
"I was," Aika replied, not looking up from her half-completed homework.
"…Want help?"
She stared at him. "You offering tutoring, library boy?"
"…Yes?"
She shrugged. "Sure."
That was it. No formality. No shame. Just acceptance.
They met three times a week.
Ren brought worksheets and sticky notes and explained quadratic equations like he was uncovering secret spells. Aika listened, frowning deeply, then eventually nodding, her fingers tapping her pen like she was memorizing rhythms instead of formulas.
"You're good at this," she admitted one afternoon.
Ren blinked. "At math?"
"At making it make sense."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he simply smiled. She smirked back, like the idea of them both being good at something wasn't a surprise anymore.
After tutoring, they walked together—mostly in silence, occasionally broken by passing students or the rustle of wind in the trees.
One day, as they passed the gym, shouting erupted from inside. The sound of a body hitting the mat. Aika paused, glanced through the glass, and scoffed.
"What?" Ren asked.
"They're doing it wrong," she muttered.
"Doing what?"
"Shoulder throws." She tapped the glass. "See? He's leading with his elbow. His centre of gravity's off. He's going to fall on his own face before he touches his opponent."
Ren watched, then looked at her, stunned. "How do you know that?"
"My grandfather runs a dojo," she said simply. "I've been training since I was six. Kind of hard not to notice when people are trying to fight like action heroes."
"…So you could probably beat everyone in that gym."
"Easily," she said with a wink.
That weekend, Ren followed her to the dojo for the first time.
It was quiet, all polished wood and soft thuds of feet against mats. Aika bowed at the entrance, shoes tucked beside the door, and walked onto the floor like it was sacred ground.
Ren sat by the wall, sketchbook in hand, watching her move.
She was different here. Sharper. Calmer. The storm distilled into precision.
She sparred with an upperclassman twice her size—and took him down in under ten seconds.
Ren didn't cheer. He didn't need to.
He just drew.
Page after page, capturing the curve of her stance, the focus in her eyes, the quiet discipline that made her unstoppable.
It wasn't just strength.
It was control.
Later, as they walked home in the twilight, Ren ventured a question.
"Do you ever… want to fight for fun?"
Aika glanced sideways. "You think fighting's fun?"
"No. I mean—like—just… for yourself. Not to protect someone. Not to prove anything."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Sometimes. But it's better when I know it matters."
Ren nodded.
She paused. "Why'd you ask?"
"…Because I think you fight with your heart. Not just your fists."
Her expression shifted—something between amusement and surprise.
"You're weird," she said. "But I like weird."
He smiled, nervous and quiet.
She smiled too.
That night, Ren returned to his room and opened his notebook.
He turned past the drawings of hallways, past the fountain scene, and stopped at a blank page.
There, he began a new sketch: Aika mid-air, one leg outstretched, the ghost of a smile on her lips—not just fierce, but free.
He didn't know it yet, but this drawing would become the centrepiece of his childhood.
Not because it captured her form.
But because it captured something rarer:
The girl who protected him… and still let him walk beside her.
Even if he walked slower.
Even if the world tried to pull him down.
Next time, they won't be walking side by side. A rooftop. A scholarship. A storm about to break.