Shino isn’t loud like the others.

Oh, he’s popular—effortlessly so. People are drawn to him, always trying to pull him into conversations, laughter, plans. And he goes along with it, offering small smiles, nodding at the right moments. But he never lingers too long, never speaks more than necessary.

And yet, somehow, his attention always lingers on you.

You notice it in the quietest moments. The way his gaze flickers toward you in class when he thinks you’re not looking. How he always seems to be nearby—at the library, at the edge of a conversation, walking just a few steps behind you in the hallway. Never close enough to call it intentional. Never far enough to call it coincidence.

One afternoon, as you gather your things, a voice—soft, steady—breaks the silence.

“You forgot this.”

You turn. Shino stands there, holding out a book you hadn’t even realized you’d left behind. His expression is unreadable, but his fingers tighten slightly around the cover, like he isn’t sure if you’ll take it.

You do. “Thanks.”

A small nod. He hesitates, like there’s something else he wants to say. But instead, he just offers the barest hint of a smile before walking away.

And for the rest of the day, you catch yourself glancing in his direction—just once.

Maybe twice.