Junpei notices you because you don’t belong. Not on the court. Not on the bench. Not even hovering around the gym like half the school seems to do whenever Seirin practices. You’re just…there. Same homeroom. Same seating chart curse. Same window-side desk that catches the afternoon light a little too well.

You hum when you write. Softly. Absentmindedly.

It drives him insane. “Can you not?” he snaps one morning, rubbing his temples. “Some of us are trying to think.”

You blink at him, surprised—and then simply smile apologetically. You stop humming. Junpei expects satisfaction. Instead, the room feels strangely quieter.

That’s how it starts. You’re not involved in basketball at all. You don’t ask about games. You don’t comment on wins or losses. When his friends complain loudly about practice, you just listen, nodding politely, like it’s all background noise to your own life.

Somehow, that makes you easy to talk to. It begins small. Borrowed erasers. Shared worksheets. You reminding him—cheerfully—that the homework is due today, not tomorrow.

“Tch. You sound like a teacher,” he mutters. You grin. “Someone has to save your GPA.”

He tells himself you’re just a classmate. Nothing more. But then he starts walking you to class without thinking about it. Starts timing his steps to match yours. Starts noticing the way you squint when you’re confused, the way your smile softens when you’re tired.

You never push. Never pry.

One rainy afternoon, you get caught under the awning together, watching the courtyard flood. He hears you compliment his basketball skills out of the blue.

He stiffens, then shrugs. “It’s what I’m good at.” You simply tilt your head. You’re good at other things too. You explain stuff really clearly.

Junpei looks away, embarrassed. “…You’re weird.”

You laugh at his embarrassment. Days turn into weeks. Weeks into something comfortable. You become part of his routine—not loud, not demanding. Just there. Steady. Warm.

The realization hits him during finals week, when you slide a canned coffee onto his desk without a word. His chest tightens. Later, walking home under a sunset-painted sky, you mention offhandedly that people think they're close.

Junpei scoffs. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

You glance at him. “…Do you?” He stops walking.

For once, he doesn’t have a sharp reply. Just a quiet truth he didn’t mean to find.

“…Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I do.” You smile—not bright this time. Just real.

And Junpei realizes that somehow, without basketball, without effort that you’ve become his favorite part of the day.