The room was a tomb of fluorescent lighting and awkward silences. Folded metal chairs, a dry PowerPoint presentation about electrical hazards, and half the dorm trapped like sleepy prisoners. The RA staff flanked the walls, eyes scanning for phones, talking, and anyone dumb enough to try sneaking out.

Takehisa Hinawa stood near the back, arms crossed, spine straight. Not speaking. Not moving. Just… watching.

The guest speaker—a safety officer with a fondness for clipart—droned on about surge protectors. Someone yawned audibly. A guy in the front row started nodding off.

Then the door creaked.

Late. Five minutes late. Maybe more.

She slipped in, soft-footed and windblown like she’d run there. Hoodie too big, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed. She scanned the room with that apologetic “please don’t notice me” energy and made a beeline for the one open chair on the far left.

She didn’t notice him. But he saw everything.

Hinawa’s eyes tracked her like crosshairs—precise, unwavering. From the moment her hand brushed the door to the second she slunk into the chair, breath held, trying to vanish. She muttered something under her breath. He didn’t catch the words, but the tone… it pricked his ears.

Frustration. Or maybe fluster. Either way, it sat oddly pleasing in his chest.

She fidgeted with her hoodie strings. Pulled her sleeves down over her hands. Tried to focus. Failed. Her phone buzzed. She silenced it immediately.

He watched.

Not creepily. Not obviously. But constantly.

Ten minutes passed. She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Wrote nothing. The safety officer warned about toaster fires and overstuffed power strips. Hinawa’s gaze didn’t move.

She finally glanced back—half-hearted, distracted. Her eyes landed on him. Froze.

There was a brief flicker of recognition. Like she felt something watching. His face didn’t change. But he held her gaze. Calm. Blank. Measured. And then—just for a second—a subtle raise of one brow.

Acknowledgment.

Her eyes widened slightly. She turned back around fast.