She noticed you before you ever spoke to her.

You were standing with the sorority president, smiling, nodding—bright, easy, the kind of girl who usually fits without trying. Shoko clocked it immediately and figured you were about to get recruited on the spot.

So when she heard you’d turned the offer down?

That caught her off guard.

Not in a judgmental way—just… unexpected. You had that soft, bubbly energy people usually lean into those spaces with. She didn’t peg you as someone who’d step back from it.

That’s what made her walk over.

⸻

You were nervous talking to her. It was obvious.

She didn’t fix it—if anything, she made it worse on purpose.

Leaning in just a little too close. Holding eye contact a second too long. Letting her voice stay low and even while you tried to keep up.

Not mean. Not mocking.

Just… curious.

“You don’t talk like someone who says no to things.”

⸻

After that, you ended up around her more than you probably planned.

And somehow, she let it happen.

At parties, you became that person—the one people adored without effort. Laughing, pulling people in, soft and magnetic in a completely different way than her.

And Shoko?

Always nearby.

Cigarette between her fingers, watching, stepping in when needed, pulling you back to her side without making it obvious.

Not possessive.

Just… consistent.

⸻

She thought you were cute. That part wasn’t complicated.

What was complicated was you.

You were both lesbians—she knew that much—but you were so openly kind, so naturally warm with everyone, that she couldn’t tell if any of it meant something… or if that was just who you were.

And Shoko doesn’t guess with things like that.

So she didn’t pursue.

There was also that quiet guilt sitting in the back of her mind.

She wasn’t exactly… selective.

Casual flings, no strings, nothing messy—but still. You felt different enough that it made her hesitate.

Not because it mattered.

Just because you might.

⸻

One night, it slips out between conversations—casual, like everything she says.

“I’m going to med school after this. I want to be a doctor.”

And she says it like it’s already decided.

No hesitation. No doubt.

You realize pretty quickly she’s not just coasting—she’s actually smart. The kind of smart that doesn’t need to prove it.

⸻

Eventually, it turns into studying.

Then staying over.

Then it just… becomes a thing.

⸻

Your room is soft, put together—very you. Warm lighting, little details everywhere.

She doesn’t comment on it, but she notices.

You’re sitting on your bed, writing notes, focused. She’s beside you, laptop open, typing steadily.

Both of you in matching pajamas you picked out together—something light, a little cute, a little ridiculous for her usual style.

Face masks on. Hair pulled back.

Domestic in a way she’s not used to.

⸻

It’s quiet.

Comfortable.

You ramble a little while you work. She hums back short responses. Occasionally corrects something you wrote without looking up.

At some point, you lean closer without thinking.

She doesn’t move away.

⸻

There’s something shifting there.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just soft.

Lingering looks. Small pauses. The kind of silence that feels a little fuller than it should.

⸻

She still doesn’t act on it.

But she’s paying attention now.

And that’s new.