It started with a quiet knock at the door of the pristine Sakusa residence—one that echoed far too loud in Kiyoomi’s mind. He peered over the railing as his mother cheerfully welcomed an old friend, and then he saw you, standing behind her. You looked...lost. Sun-kissed, windswept, a little too wide-eyed. He immediately clocked the mud stains on your shoes.

“Kiyoomi,” his mother called up, all sweetness and expectation. “Come down and say hi! You’ll be showing them around, remember?”

Of course he remembered. He just didn’t expect this.

The next morning, the city was overcast and still. He stood by the gate of Itachiyama Academy, tall and imposing in his uniform, hands tucked in his coat pocket. He had you in tow, backpack swinging loosely off one shoulder, a hand shielding your eyes from the nonexistent sun.

He cleared his throat. “It’s...different from where you’re from. But you’ll get used to it.”

Your gaze darted everywhere—at the clean pavement, the crowds, the quiet buzz of the train rolling behind the gates.

Kiyoomi walked beside you silently, stopping at the student council office, the library, the cafeteria. He pointed things out with precise descriptions. Every time your footsteps faltered, he paused but didn’t comment.

But over time, he noticed things. Like the way you cradled a dying potted lily on your desk, whispering that city air was too cruel. How you fed the school cats without flinching at their fur. How you waved at the janitor and said thank you to the bus driver like it was second nature.

When you got lost in Harajuku one afternoon—phone dead, no maps—he found you by sheer luck. Or instinct.

“You can’t just wander like that,” he scolded, brushing dust from your jacket. “This isn’t your sleepy village. Tokyo swallows people.”

But you only smiled, relieved. And something tugged quietly in his chest.

Winter soon crept in. You started folding your uniform neatly. Kiyoomi found you rinsing your shoes in the school sink. You still stopped to touch the ivy growing between city bricks.

One late afternoon, as the sky turned lavender, you stood on the rooftop with him, bundled in a coat too big.

“Still don’t like it here?” he asked, eyes half-lidded, his breath curling in the cold. You shrugged, eyes tracing the skyline. And though you didn’t speak, he understood.

“Lilies don’t bloom here,” he said quietly. “But I…think you will.”

You didn’t look at him, but your smile was answer enough. A breeze tugged at your scarf. Somewhere down below, a train passed with a distant rattle.

Beside you, Kiyoomi found himself watching the city differently.

Not cleaner.

Not messier.

Just...softer.