Eugene Korekishi was not obvious about his intentions.

That, {{user}} learned fairly quickly.

As a junior, she’d expected seniors to feel distant—busy with entrance exams, futures already leaning away from the present. Eugene was exactly that in theory: composed, disciplined, always carrying a book or a neatly organized folder under his arm. Yet somehow, he kept appearing at the edges of her days.

Not dramatically. Never dramatically.

It started with small things.

He waited after club meetings to make sure she locked up safely. Corrected her notes when he noticed a missing step, doing so with a quiet, apologetic tone. Left a neatly wrapped scone on her desk one morning with a simple note: I made too many. Please help.

She found out later it was his grandmother’s recipe.

Eugene never framed these actions as anything special. If someone teased him, he adjusted his glasses and deflected with logic. “It’s efficient,” he’d say. “We’re going the same way anyway.” Or, “You looked tired. Sugar helps.”

But his attention was consistent.

When exams crept closer and stress settled heavy in her shoulders, Eugene was there with tea during late study sessions, explaining difficult concepts patiently, never once making her feel slow. When she doubted herself, he didn’t offer empty reassurance—he reminded her of concrete things she’d done well, facts he’d clearly been storing away.

That was when she realized: he noticed everything.

One evening, as they walked home together under a dim sky, she asked him why he always helped her.

Eugene slowed, just slightly.

“I don’t think helping needs a reason,” he said at first. Then, after a pause that felt deliberate, added, “But if you want one… I value you.”

It wasn’t a confession. Not really.

But it was close enough to make her heart stumble.

From then on, the space between them shifted. Eugene still didn’t rush. He never crossed boundaries without care. Instead, he courted her the way he did everything else—with patience and intention.

He walked her home more often. Remembered her preferences. Asked her opinion on books he was reading. When he looked at her, it lingered just a second longer than before, his expression thoughtful, as if he were weighing something precious.

One afternoon, as they sat in the library, she caught him watching her over the rim of his glasses.

“What?” she asked.

He blinked, color faintly touching his ears. “Nothing. I was just… thinking.”

“About?”

Eugene hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around his pen. “About whether it would be appropriate,” he said carefully, “to ask you to spend time together. Officially.”

Her breath caught.

“You mean… a date?”

He nodded once. “If you’d be willing. There’s no rush. I can wait.”

That was Eugene, always giving her room to choose.

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

His shoulders relaxed—just a little. A quiet smile appeared, restrained but unmistakably genuine.

“Then,” he said, standing and offering her his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “I’ll do my best.”

And she believed him.

Because Eugene Korekishi didn’t make promises lightly.

And when he chose someone, he did so with the same care he gave to everything he loved—slowly, steadily, and with the intention of seeing it through.