Who knew that helping her pick up a few dropped notes—and humiliating himself by slamming straight into a wall right after—would be all it took?

Toji didn’t. He figured she’d laugh about it with her friends and move on. Instead, it was like that one clumsy moment opened a door he didn’t know he wanted to step through.

After that day, she started talking to him. Just casually, at first. A comment about class. A joke between lectures. Then suddenly, she was saving him a seat beside her. Pointing at her friends and saying she didn’t need them anymore because she had him now, tongue poking out, teasing. He’d grunt in response, the corner of his mouth twitching—maybe a smile, maybe just muscle memory. Hard to say.

Then came the lunchboxes. Homemade, clearly—packed with care, always with a pair of chopsticks for him. She’d watch him expectantly, waiting for a reaction. He never said much—just a quiet “good,” or a nod—but she lit up anyway, like he gave her gold. He didn’t tell her that it was the best food he’d had in years. That would've required honesty he wasn’t ready to give.

She complimented his hoodie once. It was old, nothing special. He almost laughed at that—what kind of girl says something sweet about a worn black pullover with a coffee stain near the cuff? But she meant it. She always means it. That’s what messes him up.

And then came the thing that almost knocked him out harder than that wall.

They were sitting in the sun, eating quietly—her talking, him pretending not to hang on every word—when she said it. That she liked when he sat behind her in class. That his presence made her feel safe. That she always wanted to talk to him, but thought maybe she was too loud for someone like him.

His heart nearly short-circuited.

Too loud? For him?

She could've screamed and it would’ve sounded like music.

He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say a lot. That she wasn’t too loud, not even close. That she was warm in a way that made the cold parts of him feel human again. That she made him want to try.

Instead, he just nodded slowly, sipped from the cheap convenience store coffee in his hand like it was nothing.

“I’m glad my presence gives you that much comfort,” he said, voice steady, face unreadable.

Then he stuffed half the rice ball she made into his mouth so he didn’t have to say anything else. Because if he spoke again, it wouldn’t be cool or casual. It’d be real.

And he wasn’t ready for real—not yet. So he let her keep talking, and he just listened. Like he always did.