You always run to him like that.

Like he isn’t the grumpiest boy in school. Like he didn’t glare at you for twenty straight minutes just yesterday for stealing his seat at lunch. Like he isn’t the kind of guy who flinches when someone touches his arm too casually. And yet, here you are — again — weaving through the hallway, eyes bright, smile wide, calling out his name like he’s your favorite part of the day.

“Haruki! Wait—! I made this for you!”

You hold the handmade bracelet out to him, the beads still warm from your palm, colors chosen with such care it’s almost embarrassing. He stops mid-step, brows furrowing as he turns to look at you. There’s a pause. You wait, heart high in your throat.

Then he scoffs, grabs it roughly from your hand, and turns away without a word. “Don't be stupid. What are you— five?”

You don’t see the way his fingers tighten around it, or the slight tremble in his breath. You don’t hear the way he mutters something under his breath as he rounds the corner.

Behind the safety of a wall, he presses his back to the cold surface and slides down, one hand over his heart, the other clutching your bracelet like it’s something fragile. His ears are bright red. His voice barely a whisper.

“Why are you so cute…?”

He’ll never tell you.

But you already live in his head, rent-free.