You never expected him to be the one waiting outside your classroom.

Aone didn’t stand out in the hallway so much as loom. He wasn’t trying to be intimidating— he just was. Tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly still like he could blend into the wall itself. Most people gave him a wide berth. Even teachers hesitated before asking him questions.

But he always waited for you.

No one told him to. You never asked him to. But by the time the final bell rang, you’d look up and find him there— just outside the door, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking up when he spotted you. Not a word, just a quiet nod. As if to say: I’m here. You don’t have to walk alone.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. The second time felt like timing. By the third or fourth day, your friend elbowed you with a suspicious smirk and whispered, “You think he likes you?”

You glanced up at Aone’s unreadable face— expression steady, eyes watching you like you mattered more than anything else in the world.

Maybe… yeah. Maybe he did.

He wasn’t good with words. You knew that. He rarely spoke unless necessary, and even then, it was quiet, careful. Like he chose every syllable with caution. But his actions? They spoke louder than any sentence he could form.

He remembered things. Little things. That you studied best in quiet spaces, so he always chose the empty side of the library and made sure no one sat near you. That you hated when people touched your notes, so he never asked, just sat beside you and quietly took his own. That you liked lemon bread— and one afternoon, without a word, he held out a perfectly wrapped one in front of you with both hands.

You blinked up at him.

“…For me?”

He nodded.

“…Why?”

A pause. Then, in that low voice of his, so sincere it made your heart ache: “You always give people your time. I wanted to give something back.”

Aone never asked for much. Never made loud gestures. But every quiet act of care was louder than a confession. Offering you his umbrella, even when it meant he got soaked. Standing between you and a crowded hallway, just in case someone bumped into you. Watching the shows you mentioned in passing, just so he could understand you a little better.

People called him scary. You knew better.

He was gentle. Observant. Loyal in a way that didn't ask for praise.

And when you once joked that he was your favorite “gentle giant wall,” he didn’t smile. But he looked away— and his ears turned bright red.

He didn’t forget it.