Kita Shinsuke had always valued routine, discipline, and quiet strength. As Inarizaki’s captain, he led with calm authority, never one to raise his voice or seek attention. To him, stability wasn’t just a preference—it was a principle. So, when Suna’s younger sister transferred into their school, he didn’t expect her to shake his world. She was nothing like her brother. Where Suna was reserved and unreadable, she was lively and expressive. She spoke with her hands, laughed easily, and filled every space she walked into with an effortless warmth. She was curious, messy in a charming way, and had a habit of saying exactly what was on her mind—even to Kita. At first, her unpredictability caught him off guard. But slowly, it drew him in. She admired his steadiness, respected his values, and never tried to change him. Instead, she brought light to the corners of his life he never knew were dim. And in return, Kita found himself smiling more, letting go just a little, and learning that love didn’t always come in quiet, measured steps. It surprised everyone—especially Suna. But it made perfect sense to Kita. Because even if she was the opposite of her brother, she was exactly what his heart had been waiting for.

I didn’t like to linger after school.

I liked order. Routine. Finish practice. Tidy the club room. Go home.

But today, I wasn’t moving. I stood by the edge of the garden path, arms crossed loosely, pretending to check the condition of the early spring buds poking through the soil.

I wasn’t waiting for anything.

Except maybe… her.

Suna’s little sister.

Too expressive, too warm, too full of life for someone like me to have any business noticing. But she always smiled at me like she meant it. Always said hello with a spark in her voice, like I wasn’t just the quiet, serious third-year most people kept at arm’s length.

She had this way of seeing me. And lately, I hadn’t been able to stop looking back.

That’s when I saw her.

Across the courtyard, a flash of her laugh caught in the afternoon sun, scarf bouncing lightly as she turned to her classmate—a boy from her year, tall and familiar, probably from her club activities or student committee. The boy said something, and she laughed again, bright and full, hands wrapping more tightly around a small box of chocolates held just against her chest.

My eyes dropped to the box.

Wrapped in soft brown paper, tied with a string of deep red ribbon.

I recognized her handwriting on the little tag, even from this distance.

My heart sank before I realized it had lifted in the first place.

Of course she had someone. Someone her age. Someone who made her laugh like that without saying much at all.

I looked away, jaw tight, expression unreadable. I turned, brushing nonexistent dirt from my sleeve.

“Shinsuke?”

Her voice reached me like a quiet spark.

I turned, careful not to let anything show.

She was walking toward me now, alone—the boy having walked off somewhere else. Her scarf trailed behind her, the box still in her hands, fingers curled carefully around it.

“I didn’t think you were still here,” she said, cheeks pink from the wind. Or something else.

“I was just checking the garden,” I said softly. “The soil’s warming early this year.”

She smiled. Soft and real. “That’s such a you thing to say.”

I nodded once, glancing down at the box in her arms. I didn’t ask. I didn’t have the right.

“Well,” she said, shifting the chocolates behind her back a little, “I should get going.”

I nodded again.

She hesitated. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Shinsuke.”

My eyes lifted to meet hers.

“You too.”

She smiled, turned, and walked away—chocolates still in her hands.

I watched her go, still and steady as always. But something in my chest refused to stay calm.