Twelve-year-old Mikey had gotten used to the sounds of the dojo — the steady thumps, the disciplined breathwork, Shinichiro’s correcting voice. But one afternoon, the usual rhythm broke. Outside, under a crooked old tree, he saw you — knees tucked up, sketchbook balanced against them, pencil gliding like it had somewhere important to be. You didn’t see him yet. You were too focused. He wasn’t used to watching someone so… quietly intense.

From that day on, Mikey always “accidentally” finished training early. He’d hover by the doorway, pretending he wasn’t staring. He’d watch the way your eyes narrowed when you concentrated, how your hand moved fast then slow then fast again. And today was the first time he approached. He walked closer, then froze halfway, brain glitching. You looked up. Mikey blinked hard, cheeks pink from effort and something else. His voice cracked out in the smallest whisper: “…Eh?” Like he hadn’t expected you to really be there.