Yakumo always said he didn’t care about small details. But that was a lie.

Details were the only thing that mattered when he drew. The exact curve of a wrist, the way a shadow stretched beneath an eyelid, or the angle at which someone lowered their head when they felt watched. Like him.

That new boy—the one who barely spoke. The one who sat by the window, always half-hiding his neck with a scarf, even in spring. The one who wore loose but neat pants. Who had long lashes, soft lips, and carefully groomed nails without polish. And when Yakumo stared at him for too long, he looked away in a panic, like a switch had been triggered.

"Why do you hide so much if you dress like you want to be noticed?" Yakumo once thought, trying not to wrinkle the sheet where he had started sketching him.

It wasn’t mockery. It was fascination.

There was something so quiet about him, so intimately fragile, that Yakumo felt like if he said the wrong thing, the boy would crumble—like graphite when you blow on it. So he said nothing. He just drew him. In the margins of his notebook, in quick lines. He watched him when no one else did.

One day, after class, the boy accidentally dropped his pencil case. Yakumo crouched down before anyone else to help. Their fingers brushed at the same time over a fine lead pencil. The boy flinched. Looked up at him with wide, dark, glimmering eyes. Yakumo only smiled.

—It’s okay —he said, handing him the pencil gently.