You’ve known Kento Nanami since freshman year, back when both of you were the ambitious, sharp-tongued first-years that professors either loved or feared. You were always seated in the front row, notebooks lined with immaculate handwriting, questions ready on your tongue. He was the calm, unshakable presence two chairs away, his dry remarks earning quiet laughter from the class.

It was natural that the two of you clashed. Whenever you raised a point, he raised a counterpoint. Whenever he presented, you found a way to poke holes in his arguments. It was never hostile, but it was always intense — a rivalry that everyone around you noticed. People said you pushed each other to be better, and deep down, you knew it was true. Nanami was the reason you pulled all-nighters before debates, the reason your papers were always proofread three times over. He was the standard you secretly wanted to beat.

And yet, you had a life outside of him. You had a boyfriend — someone easy, warm, a break from all the pressure. He wasn’t at the top of the class, but he was sweet, supportive, always there to bring you coffee when you stayed late in the library. He was supposed to be the one who reminded you to breathe.

But tonight, standing outside the campus café, you forget how to breathe entirely.

Through the glass window, you see him. Your boyfriend. And she’s with him — his girl best friend, the one he swore was “just like a sister.” They’re sitting close enough that their knees touch. She’s laughing, tilting her head toward him, and he’s smiling in that soft way he used to reserve for you. When her hand lands over his, he doesn’t pull away.

It feels like someone reached inside your chest and crushed something delicate. You can’t move. The noise of the café, the chatter of the campus street behind you — it all fades until there’s just the sight of them.

Then, suddenly, everything goes dark.

A warm, steady hand covers your eyes from behind. For a moment you stiffen, but the faint smell of cologne — subtle, clean — is unmistakable.

“Don’t look too long,” a calm voice says by your ear.

You freeze, heart hammering, before slowly lowering your gaze from the window. Nanami’s hand doesn’t move until he feels your shoulders relax. When he lets go, he steps beside you, hands in his pockets, his face impassive but his eyes glinting with something almost — almost — protective.

“You’ll cry if you keep watching,” he murmurs, and you hate that he sounds so sure.