It went on like that for weeks.
Riko and Hoshina didn't talk much—not really. They didn't sit next to each other in class or pass notes or hang around after school like friends might. But somehow, without agreeing to anything, they fell into a rhythm. A quiet routine.
And it always ended the same way.
Hoshina walking beside her on the way home.
He never said he was waiting for her. And when she asked, the answer was always the same—he had club activities. Simple. Boring. Nothing to read into.
She didn't question it.
Not really.
They were neighbors, after all. It wasn't that strange.
Except... it was. A little. Because even on the nights when she stayed so late the sky turned violet and the school was nearly empty, he still just happened to be leaving at the same time.
And over time... she got used to it.
Expected it, even.
So when she finished early one day—no extra duties, no cleanup, just freedom—she blinked at the empty school gate, a small, unfamiliar weight settling in her chest.
He wasn't there.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn't waiting.
Riko stared down the path for a long moment, unsure why her feet refused to move. Then, sighing quietly to herself, she turned and started to walk.
It didn't matter.
It wasn't like they had a deal.
But after a few steps, she stopped again. Her eyes drifted back to the quiet courtyard. She hesitated... then turned around.
If he could wait for her all this time, she could wait for him too... right?
Just for a bit.
She walked slowly, weaving her way across campus. The halls were quiet, most students already gone. She passed the art wing, the music building, even peered into the gym annex. Nothing.
Then she heard it—the clean, rhythmic thwack of wood meeting wood.
Drawn by the sound, she followed it around the corner of the old gym.
That's when she saw him.
Hoshina stood alone on the polished wooden floor, one hand wrapped tightly around a wooden sword. His stance was low, balanced, the movements fluid like water—each swing deliberate, each step etched into muscle memory.
Riko paused at the doorway, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs.
There was a strange stillness in him—not the usual lazy slouch or careless lean she'd gotten used to. This version of him moved with quiet intensity, with purpose. Like he was trying to outpace something inside him.
And then, without warning, the sword cracked.
The sharp sound echoed through the gym as the blade split just above the hilt, splinters catching the light.
Hoshina cursed under his breath and dropped it, flexing his hand where blood had started to bead across his palm. With barely a flinch, he pulled a cloth from his bag and wrapped it hastily, fingers clumsy but stubborn. Then, without hesitation, he picked up a new bokken from the side and started again.
Riko watched, her stomach twisting strangely.
She remembered something—half-whispered gossip, or maybe a detail from years ago. The Hoshina family... long line of swordsmen. There had been stories. Expectations.
He didn't look like someone fulfilling a family duty.
He looked like someone trying to stay afloat.
Before he could see her, Riko quietly turned away.
She walked back toward the gate, heart still unsettled.
Riko stood by the school gate, pretending she hadn't been waiting. The smile on her face was just a touch too bright, her posture too casual to be entirely natural.
Soshiro noticed. Of course he did.
But he didn't say anything. He just ambled up with his usual lazy grin, hands tucked into his pockets like the world was on no schedule he needed to follow.
"Club run long today, Riko?" he asked, voice light.
She nodded. "You too?"
"Sure. Let's go with that."
They walked together like always, not by plan, just... habit now. It didn't feel weird anymore. Not really.
But when she tugged him toward a convenience store, he raised a brow. "What, you finally tired of burning every pot in your kitchen?"
She rolled her eyes. "I'll have you know my miso soup is—"
"—a war crime?" he offered helpfully.
She slapped his arm with the back of her hand. He grinned wider.
No, remember '"I'm not buying your groceries. I'll pay, you pay me back. Easy.'" She said in mocking tone of Hoshina.
"This is just payback thought it was about time is all," she said to him.
Inside, she paid for two bentos and drinks, tossing a box of bandages onto the counter like it was nothing. Soshiro watched, his smirk tilting a little.
The same park bench. The same quiet air.
But this time, before he could open his meal, she grabbed his injured hand.
"You gonna propose or something?" he said, deadpan.
She ignored him, already unraveling the cloth he'd tied sloppily around his palm earlier. He made a slight face at how bad it looked now that it was exposed.
"Seriously?" she muttered. "You train like a demon and patch yourself up like a toddler. And to think you criticized me!"
"Excuse you, toddlers have more tape finesse."
Her lips twitched, but she focused on cleaning the cut and wrapping it properly. He didn't flinch, but he watched her hands, how practiced they were. Gentle. Intentional.
"You didn't have to do this," he said eventually, his tone lighter than the weight behind the words.
"I know," she replied, eyes still on the bandage. "But someone's gotta keep you from bleeding out on a gym floor."
He blinked at her. "So dramatic."
"Right, because gushing wounds are known for their subtlety."
When she was done, she let his hand go and opened her bento like the moment hadn't just shifted something between them.
Soshiro stared at the neat wrap, then glanced at her sideways.
"You know," he said, tapping his chopsticks on the lid of his box, "you're not half-bad at this whole 'not being perfect' thing."
She gave him a dry look. "Is that your way of saying thank you?"
"I could say thank you," he mused, "but then you'd think I owed you, and that's dangerous territory."
"Right," she said, smirking. "Can't have Captain Tease showing vulnerability."
He chuckled, then leaned back on one hand. "Nah, seriously. Thanks, Riko."
Her name in his mouth wasn't rare—but this time it felt different.
She looked away, but she didn't stop smiling.
They ate in the soft hum of twilight, the streetlamps casting long shadows, the air between them lighter than it had been in days.
He didn't say anything more.
And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't wait for her outside the gate tomorrow.
He'd walk her to it instead.