They call you Koyoru.

At school, you’re the calm one. The nice one. The one who answers questions quietly, helps people pick up their dropped papers, apologizes when someone bumps into you. Teachers adore you. Students trust you without knowing why.

You’re gentle — or at least, that’s what everyone sees.

Everyone except Luei.

He sits two rows to your left, chewing gum like it wronged him, kicking the back of chairs, shoving people aside without apology. But the moment you’re nearby, the moment your eyes even brush him, his whole demeanor softens. He talks quieter. He stops swearing. His shoulders loosen like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Today’s no different.

Group work begins, and by unfortunate luck — or something else — you two get paired.

Luei drops into the seat across from you like he’s trying to look uninterested, but the second you look up, his entire posture shifts. Less sharp. Less teeth.

“Uh… we’re doing page thirty,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

You give him a small, polite nod. “Okay. You can write. You’re quicker.”

His eyes widen like you complimented him, even though you didn’t. “Y-yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

He works in the quiet that follows, stealing glances at you, waiting for you to guide him through the questions. You do — softly, gently, the way you always do. The way everyone expects you to.

When school ends, you’re packing your things when you hear Luei’s name followed by yours.

His friends are teasing him, laughing, nudging him.

“He only shuts up around Koyoru,” one of them jeers. “It’s weird as hell—”

You turn.

Luei goes dead silent. He almost steps back.

You tilt your head, voice soft as always. “Are you talking about me?”

His friend instantly stops laughing. Luei stammers, “N-no, they were just— I mean— it’s—”

You offer a small, harmless smile. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

That’s all it takes to make Luei look like he’s malfunctioning.

You leave the hallway before he can say anything else.

Hours pass.

The dorms are quiet. You lie on your bed, hair damp from a shower, scrolling through your phone post-workout.

A video call. Luei.

You answer.

“What?”

Your eyes sharpen. Your voice, when you speak, is nothing like the gentle sound you use during the day — it’s lower, quieter, direct. All that warmth you show at school? Gone.

Luei sees the real you and swallows hard.

“…K-Koyoru?!”