Sojiro Nishikado had always thought he had a type.

Long hair, subtle perfume, the way a girl would blush when he leaned just a little too close. That delicate dance—wanting without admitting it—was the game he had long mastered. His flirtations were effortless, his exits graceful. Never cruel, but never tethered.

And yet—

He found himself glancing again.

Across the courtyard, under the branches of a gingko tree just beginning to shade gold, he sat. He. Bent slightly over a thick book, headphones resting crookedly around his neck. His uniform was loose, not messy—but not sharp either. His tie hung lopsided like it had been yanked halfway through the day and never fixed. And he had this habit—tapping the corner of his book with his thumb like he was keeping rhythm to a song only he could hear.

Sojiro shouldn't have noticed. Shouldn’t have cared.

But he did.

“You’re staring again,” Akira murmured beside him, sipping his coffee like he wasn’t fanning flames.

Sojiro didn’t reply. He simply tilted his cup back, the ceramic warming his fingers as he kept his gaze casual. Detached.

Lying to himself had become a reflex.

He told himself it was curiosity. Nothing more. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was just tired of the same games, the same giggles and fluttered lashes. Maybe this boy didn’t look at him like he was a Nishikado, heir of tea masters and walking scandal. Maybe that was it.

He noticed again during club hours. Tea ceremony wasn’t usually a place outsiders wandered near—too stiff, too quiet. But there he was, standing outside the paper-paneled door, squinting at a flyer. Not knocking. Not walking away.

Sojiro slid the door open without warning. “You lost?”

Sojiro’s smile was smooth. A reflex.

The boy looked up. Sojiro waited for the usual reaction—a startle, a blush, maybe a stammer. But the boy’s gaze held steady.

And Sojiro watched.

He didn’t look at Sojiro like the rest of them did.

It was strange, that. Disorienting. Like stepping into cold water and realizing only after the shock that you want to stay under.

Sojiro wasn’t used to being unsettled. He liked knowing where he stood with people. He liked being in control of the story. He liked being the one to walk away.

But some days, after club, he would catch himself walking slower. Letting his shoulder brush the boy’s as they left the room. Close, but not quite enough to be noticed. Not enough to be acknowledged.

What was he doing?

He didn’t even know how to flirt with a guy. Or maybe he did, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was this didn’t feel like flirting. This wasn’t about batting eyes or touching hands or teasing out a blush.

This was something else.

And Sojiro hated not having a name for it.

It would’ve been easier if he were a girl.

Easier to flirt, to tease, to lean in close and whisper something suggestive just to watch the color rise in her cheeks.

But Sojiro didn’t flirt with him.

He lingered.

“Why do you keep coming?” Sojiro asked him one afternoon, standing side-by-side as they cleaned the bowls.