The scent of citrus and something warm lingered in the air of Riko's house. Saito wasn't sure if it was from the tea her mother brewed earlier or the fabric softener used in the curtains, but it was oddly calming.
He stood in the genkan, shoes precisely aligned, umbrella folded neatly at his side. His thoughts weren't as organized.
He had confessed. She had said she felt the same.
And now, here he was—stepping into the house of the girl who had, somehow, become the most important person in his world.
"Come on in," Riko said, glancing over her shoulder. "My mom had to run a few errands, so it's just us."
He followed her in, absorbing the little details that made the house feel lived-in—photos lining the hallway, mismatched slippers near the shoe rack, the faint humming of a washing machine from another room.
Her room was warm, a soft blend of colors and character. A bed with a fluffy comforter. Shelves filled with manga and CDs. A desk cluttered with stationery and small charms. It was unmistakably hers.
She flopped onto her bed, then sat up and motioned to the rug near her. "You can sit. Unless you're afraid my floor will attack you."
"I don't believe inanimate surfaces are capable of hostility."
"Still so literal," Riko laughed.
Saito lowered himself onto the rug with care, folding his hands in his lap. It was oddly quiet between them—but not in a bad way. Just quiet, like something delicate was floating in the space between them.
"So…" she said.
"So."
"You like me."
"Yes."
"And I like you."
"Confirmed."
She chuckled, then tilted her head, studying his expression.
"Still so serious."
"I'm thinking," he said simply.
"About?"
"When, precisely, I started liking you."
Riko perked up. "Oh? Have you reached a conclusion?"
"I believe it began to form the moment you asked me—without hesitation—to lend you an eraser on the third day of class."
"…Really?" she said, blinking. "That's it?"
"No. But it was the first time someone acted familiar with me without a trace of awkwardness. It registered as a statistical anomaly."
She let out a soft laugh. "You analyzed me?"
"I analyze everything."
"Wasn't it weird? You know, suddenly having someone talk to you like we were already friends?"
"Unfamiliar," Saito admitted. "But not unpleasant."
There was a pause.
"Well," Riko said, "I think I started liking you the day you helped me pick up my flash cards in the hallway. You didn't say anything dramatic or cool. You just handed them to me and said, 'Repetitive memory exercises improve retention.'"
"I was being practical."
"You were being you," she smiled. "And I liked that."
They both sat there for a moment. It felt like the rain outside had vanished—the entire world had paused for just this room.
"I'm happy you feel the same," Riko said, softer now. "I didn't think someone like you would ever fall for someone like me."
Saito tilted his head. "Why not?"
"You're… smart. Focused. I'm kind of chaotic. Loud. I get distracted by shiny things."
"That is… accurate," he replied.
Riko gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.
"But," he continued, "none of that negates the value you bring to the group. Or to me."
She looked down, smiling.
"You're too sweet when you're not trying to be."
"I'm not attempting to be anything."
"That's what I mean."
The silence this time wasn't empty—it was full. Brimming with the weight of shared memories, slow affection, the quiet knowledge that something had shifted.
"So," she said, stretching her legs out in front of her, "you're officially my boyfriend now."
Saito nodded. "By conventional standards, yes."
Riko smirked. "You gonna be good at it?"
"Unknown," he admitted.
"Well, if you ever need help…"
"I'll conduct research."
She laughed. "Just don't make a spreadsheet about it."
"No promises."
They talked for a while longer. About summer, school, the next seating shuffle. They even debated the best flavor of shaved ice for a full five minutes. It wasn't exciting or dramatic—but it was theirs. Saito didn't feel the need to analyze anything. For once, he just enjoyed existing with her.
Eventually, her mom returned, and Saito politely excused himself.
Later that evening, after drying off and changing clothes, Saito sat at his desk. He pulled open the drawer and retrieved a familiar notebook—the one he had started at the beginning of the school year.
The title read: "Understanding Love: An Objective Study."
He stared at it.
Then opened to the first page.
He began tearing them out. One by one. Notes, charts, diagrams—all of it.
Each page was careful, structured, logical.
And completely outdated.
Once it was empty, he uncapped a pen.
On the fresh first page, he wrote slowly, deliberately:
"How to Be a Good Boyfriend."
He closed the book, exhaled lightly, and leaned back.
There were no formulas. No rules. No absolutes.
But he was ready to figure it out—step by uncertain step.