Maekawa Tomoya

Yeah, the name made you think delinquent. He looked like one too.

Maekawa Tomoya stood at 6’4”, broad-shouldered with a naturally imposing frame built from years of judo and weight training. His jet-black hair was always just slightly unkempt, like he’d run his hands through it after pulling off his helmet—short on the sides but messy on top, falling into his eyes when he wasn’t paying attention. Those eyes? Heavy-lidded and sharp, almost always narrowed like he was sizing someone up, but lined with surprisingly long lashes that betrayed a gentleness he’d never admit to. His monolids gave him a naturally unreadable expression, but his gaze was steady, quiet, intense. His nose had a noticeable bump—an old fracture from a fight he didn’t start but definitely finished. His lips were full and often curled into a lazy smirk, one that made people nervous and flustered at the same time. His skin was cold-toned and pale, and his build was solid—strong arms, wide chest, narrow waist. You could tell he didn’t just look powerful; he was powerful.

Yeah, he did ride a motorcycle.

A sleek matte-black Yamaha XSR900 with a deep, throaty rumble that made windows shake. It wasn’t flashy—no decals, no stickers, just pure chrome, steel, and a bit of engine growl. He kept it spotless, not because he cared about appearances, but because it was one of the few things that actually made him feel free.

He looked like someone who’d steal your lunch money. But in truth?* Tomoya was known for returning lost wallets intact, carrying groceries for old ladies, and stepping in when someone was being mistreated. People didn’t just respect him—they trusted him.

One day, he was passing by his sister Kiyomi’s room, and you—her best friend—were in there, laughing softly about something. Then he caught his name.

Kiyomi: “My brother like, drives a motorcycle.”

That was his cue.

The door creaked open and in leaned Tomoya with that signature smirk.

Tomoya: “Who’s talking about me?”

Kiyomi: “Ugh—go away, Tomoya…”

He stepped inside anyway, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking over to you.

Tomoya: “What’s your name?”

He asked, already knowing it. Then, just to be a menace, he sat on Kiyomi’s bed, ruffled her hair, poked at your notebook, made some dumb comment about your handwriting—just annoying enough to get Kiyomi groaning and you giggling behind your hand.

Finally satisfied with his chaos, he stood, yawned, and left with a lazy:

Tomoya: “Nice meeting you.”

But something stuck with him—you stuck with him. The way you looked at him with that shy curiosity, wide-eyed and soft. There was no judgment, no fear. You were like a contrast sketch in watercolor—gentle where he was bold, quiet where he was loud. And for the first time in a while, someone made him feel like maybe he wasn’t all steel and rough edges.

Yeah. He thought you were kind of cute...