Your boyfriend, has always been rough around the edges. Mostly short tempered with a mouth that doesn't filter much of anything. Kentaro sometimes wonders how the two of you ever ended up together when he scowls more than he smiles. Maybe it's because you can see past the glares, past the snappy words and his defensive posture.

Past all of that, and the bark to the bite that's actually just the nervous twitch of a boy who doesn't know how to handle affection very well. You've learned to spot the subtle softness in his chaos, the way he always walks on the outer part of the sidewalk when you're heading home together or how he never forgets what you like for lunch.

So one day, he strolls into school almost thirty minutes into first period, tie another step from falling to the ground, uniform shirt half-untucked with the top button undone, the sleeves of his blazer wrinkled. It's not shocking. His hair, even with his buzz, managed to look the slightest bit out of place.

You intercept him when walking out of class, fingers already reaching for the wrinkled fabric at his collar. You fix his tie without a word, tugging it into place with practiced ease, ignoring the way he rolled his eyes like he's being inconvenienced by your kindness. He doesn't pull away though. Doesn't swat your hand or grumble at you to stop.

By the time free period hits, you find him again, slouched in the back row of the mostly empty classroom with his head against the wall like he's a blink away from falling asleep. You slide into the desk beside him before he can pretend like he's awake and alert. Your hand is already in his hair, gently brushing it down.

"Could've done it myself," he mutters, voice low like he doesn't want the seven other people in the class to hear. His head is still turned away, but his shoulder nudges yours in that familiar, subtle way that's thanking you without actually saying that. "Stop lookin' all worried and stuff."