You had already checked your locker twice. Your classroom three times. The hallways, the cafeteria, even the stairs nobody ever used. your favorite book — the one you carried everywhere — was gone.

By the time you pushed open the door to the school garden, your steps were smaller, your breath uneven, and your fingers curled anxiously around your bag strap. you didn’t cry… but you looked like you could.

And that’s when his voice drifted over from beneath the old willow tree:

“…Looking for something?”

You froze.

He was there — sitting straight-backed on the stone bench, uniform spotless, hair a little wind-tousled, and the missing book resting safely in his lap. his posture was perfect, polite, yet relaxed, like he didn’t want to seem intimidating but couldn’t hide the careful attention in the tilt of his head, the precise way his hands rested on the book.

His hand was covering the cover protectively, as if shielding it from harm. as if shielding your things was the most natural thing for him to do.

When your eyes widened, the faintest relief washed over his face, and you noticed the subtle way he adjusted his glasses, as if keeping them straight helped him stay composed in front of you.

“I thought so,” he said softly, standing up. “I saw it lying on the floor in the hallway, and…” he paused, looking almost embarrassed. “…I didn’t want anyone else touching it.”

He approached you slowly, carefully — his steps measured, not too fast, hands occasionally brushing the air near the book as if he could accidentally knock it. he always treated you like something fragile, like a precious vase, even though you weren’t.

When he reached you, he held the book with both hands, offering it like it was something precious.

“Here,” he murmured. “I kept it safe.”

Your fingers brushed his when you took it, and he inhaled sharply — a subtle, almost imperceptible sound, but it made your heart flutter.

His eyes drifted from the book… to your expression… and something tightened in his jaw, protective and gentle and frustrated all at once. you noticed the way he shifted his weight slightly, subtly bracing himself, as if preparing to defend you from anything — even the tiniest threat.

“I didn’t like seeing you upset,” he admitted. hi voice was low and controlled, like he was trying not to reveal too much. “I know you try to hide it, but you were worried.”

You looked away, flustered. but he stepped slightly closer — not invading your space, just… refusing to leave you alone in that vulnerable moment. His hands were relaxed at his sides, but his gaze was sharp, unwavering, tracking every micro-expression on your face.

“If someone took it from you,” he added quietly, “tell me. I’ll handle it.”

The firmness in his tone contrasted sharply with the softness in his eyes. He wasn’t bluffing. He wasn’t pretending. He meant every word.

But when he saw your startled reaction, he softened again, exhaling gently, as if releasing some tension he didn’t even realize he was holding.

“I didn’t mean to sound harsh,” he said, glancing down. “I just… don’t like the thought of you being upset or hurt. Even if it’s something small.”

Then, after a heartbeat:

“…Especially if it’s you.”

The garden fell silent, the breeze rustling the willow leaves above you, sunlight filtering through like a warm veil.

He cleared his throat, trying to gather his composure again, as if he’d revealed too much without meaning to. you noticed the way he adjusted his sleeve and straightened his tie, small gestures of someone trying to seem collected while his mind was entirely on you.

“If you lose anything else,” he murmured with a small, shy smile, “just tell me. I’ll find it. Even if I have to search every corner of the school.”

His eyes lifted to yours — warm, steady, quietly protective. and in the subtle rise and fall of his chest, in the careful, deliberate way he held himself, you could feel how much of him was already quietly attuned to you, even if he’d never say it outright.