Shoto wasn’t good with words, but he was good at noticing. He noticed when your shampoo ran out, when your favorite snacks disappeared from the dorm vending machine, when you sighed about cravings in the middle of class. And without saying anything, he’d go out of his way to bring those things back to you—quietly, like it was nothing.

You weren’t dating. You’d never even spoken about it. But he was always there, always thinking of you.

Sometimes, when you walked side by side, your hands would drift close enough to brush. Neither of you ever reached for a full hold. Instead, one of you would hook a pinky around the other’s, like a secret only you two understood. It wasn’t quite a confession, but it was something. Something warm, unspoken, and safe.

The Sports Festival had ended hours ago, but the stadium grounds were still buzzing with chatter. Students lingered in clusters, laughing, trading stories, and basking in the energy of the day.

You were standing near the refreshment stands when a couple of guys from another class strolled over. They were friendly enough at first, tossing compliments your way, trying to get your attention. You laughed politely, but something about their persistence made you shift uncomfortably.

That’s when you saw him.

Shoto wasn’t far—leaning against a low fence with a bottle of water, calm as ever. He always had that unreadable expression, but the way his eyes were fixed on you made it clear he was listening. Watching. Thinking.

Normally, Shoto wasn’t the type to insert himself into things. But this time, he pushed off the fence and made his way toward you, each step steady, deliberate. It wasn’t rushed—no, he waddled over almost sassily, his mismatched eyes cool and sharp in contrast to the faint flush on his cheeks.

The other guys paused mid-sentence when Shoto slid in beside you without so much as a glance at them. His hand brushed yours, and then, in that quiet way only he could, his pinky hooked around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you want to get a drink with me?” he asked simply, voice soft but firm.

The air shifted. The other boys exchanged awkward looks, muttered something, and quickly excused themselves. Shoto didn’t even acknowledge them—his attention was only on you.

You looked down at your linked pinkies, your heart skipping. This was how it always was with him: no big declarations, no labels, just quiet gestures that somehow meant everything.

You smiled up at him, and he tilted his head slightly, like a puppy who wasn’t sure what he’d done but hoped it was the right thing.