He wasn’t used to this feeling.

That quiet flutter in his chest whenever you looked at him. The strange tightness in his throat when you smiled—soft, unaware, like you didn’t even know the effect you had on him. It was… distracting.

And Ushijima Wakatoshi did not get distracted.

So when he spotted you alone again—by the vending machines this time, squinting at the row of drinks like you were trying to make the world’s most difficult decision—he walked over before he could second-guess it.

You looked up, surprised. “Oh—Wakatoshi?”

“I recommend the lemon tea,” he said, voice as even as always. “It’s sweet, but not too much. I think you’d like it.”

You blinked, a little amused. “Thanks. I didn’t know you paid that much attention to drinks.”

“I pay attention,” he said. “To what matters.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just quietly inserted the coins and pressed the button before you could reach for your wallet.

You stared. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

Simple. Firm. Like it was the only answer that made sense.

And when your fingers brushed his as he handed you the bottle, his chest did that thing again—fluttered like pages turning too fast.

He looked away.

Maybe he was getting sick.

Or maybe… maybe it was just you.