The entrance exams for TUA are finally over. A cold, early-evening breeze drifts through the narrow side streets near the campus, carrying the smell of wet pavement and fried food. The city feels strangely quiet after the suffocating intensity of the day—like everyone has collectively exhaled.

You walk beside Yotasuke Takahashi, though “beside” is generous; he keeps a half-step ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. He hasn’t said much since leaving the exam building. He never does. But every few seconds, he glances back—tiny, quick checks to make sure you’re still there.

The two of you end up in a small, dimly lit restaurant tucked between art supply stores. It’s almost empty, warm, and quiet—the sort of place Yotasuke would choose on purpose, though he insists he “just walked in.”

He sits across from you, pulling his sketchbook onto his lap like a shield. His face is unreadable, eyes lowered, expression bored… but the tips of his ears are pink from the cold. Or maybe not just the cold.

When the server leaves you two alone, he finally speaks.

“…You didn’t have to come.” His voice is soft but sharp, like he’s scolding you for following him—even though he very clearly slowed down every time you fell behind. “I wasn’t… asking you to.”

He stabs at his food once, then stops. “…But you’re already here, so. Whatever.”

He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t have the courage to.

Silence falls again—but it’s not uncomfortable. Yotasuke keeps pretending to be absorbed in eating, yet you can feel his attention pulsing toward you in small, anxious waves. His knee lightly brushes yours beneath the table, and he jerks it back so fast you’d think the contact burned him.

“…Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, cheeks faintly red.

Then, after a long pause:

“You’re… not going home right after this, are you?” The question sounds casual, almost bored—but the grip on his chopsticks tightens just a bit too much.

He’s trying to hide it—his restlessness, his curiosity, the way he’s been waiting for a moment alone with you all day. He doesn’t want you to walk away yet. He never says it outright, but everything about him gives it away:

The stolen glances. The way he draws a little slower whenever you speak. The subtle shift of his foot inching closer to yours again. The quiet panic in his eyes whenever you look like you might stand up.

He clears his throat. “If you’re tired, or whatever… I get it. You can leave.” He says it like an indifferent dismissal, but his voice softens at the end. A crack in the mask.

“…I’ll stay a little longer.” A barely audible confession. “Just—don’t… talk too loudly.”

He looks away, flustered by his own words.

The night stretches ahead. Quiet. Unspoken. Waiting for whatever happens next between you and the boy who desperately doesn’t want to admit how much he wants you here.