Yokohama High had its share of loudmouths, but none louder than Yamada Ichiro. Always smiling, always standing up for someone, always acting like the world couldn’t touch him. That attitude drove Aohitsugi Samatoki crazy.

Samatoki was a third-year, the kind of guy everyone moved out of the way for. Sharp-tongued, quick-tempered, and always with that bored look that made teachers nervous. To him, Ichiro was just another first-year who needed to learn his place.

“Watch where you’re going, freshman,” Samatoki said one morning, slamming his locker shut right beside Ichiro’s. The sound made the younger boy flinch.

Ichiro straightened, meeting his glare. “I said excuse me.”

Samatoki smirked. “Didn’t sound like you meant it.”

Most people would’ve backed down, but Ichiro didn’t. He never did. That was what infuriated Samatoki most. No matter how many times he shoved him in the hallway, threw sharp words his way, or mocked his fearless grin, Ichiro kept looking at him like he wasn’t afraid. Like he saw something worth understanding.

One afternoon, rain trapped them both in the empty gym. Ichiro was picking up stray basketballs when the door creaked open and Samatoki walked in, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Samatoki said.