To anyone else, you were just the classmate who sat next to Tsukishima Kei in literature. A little too talkative, always doodling in the margins, and forever asking him if he “got what the metaphor meant this time.”

To Tsukishima? You were a daily test of patience… and something else he wasn’t ready to admit.

He rolled his eyes when you poked his arm with your pen—again—during a dull part of the lecture. “Hey, don’t ignore me. What does ‘a garden of ash’ even mean?”

He didn’t answer right away, pushing up his glasses with a soft sigh. “Maybe it means stop talking and listen.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. He smirked. And promptly looked away before you could see the way the corner of his mouth refused to fall.

It was like that every day. Snarky comments. Long glances when he thought you weren’t looking. Quiet moments where your laughter made his ears turn pink.

He said you were annoying. But he always remembered your coffee order. Always saved the notes for you when you zoned out. Always walked slower when class ended—just in case you were walking the same way.

And even if he hadn’t admitted it out loud…

He was hopelessly, silently yours.