Kita had always been a man of habits — structured, clean, efficient. He didn’t waste words. He didn’t make reckless decisions. And he certainly didn’t go out of his way for people unless it mattered.

But lately… she had been changing that.

It started small. It always does.

He noticed her locker door was squeaky — not broken, just stiff — and the next morning, it was freshly oiled. She didn’t notice. That was fine. He didn’t do it to be thanked.

Then, one afternoon, he passed the drying room and saw her jersey hanging improperly — one sleeve half inside out, still damp. He adjusted it without thinking, smoothing out the fabric with practiced hands. Her name printed across the back sent a strange little thud through his chest.

Next came the water bottle.

She always left it behind after practice, too distracted by her conversations or rushing off to study. He started picking it up and placing it by her bag. Once, she noticed.

“Did you bring it over?” she asked, blinking.

He only nodded. “You forgot it.”

That was all he said. No warmth, no explanation. But when she smiled and said thank you, his ears burned a little, and he had to turn away before she saw.

It kept happening.

He found himself packing extra fruit in his bento — not because he was hungrier, but because she always forgot to bring anything fresh. He left it casually on the bench beside her with no note, no fanfare.

She caught him once. “Kita… this is the third time. Are you trying to feed me?”

He glanced at her, calm as ever, but his voice was softer than usual.

“You need something better than convenience store bread.”

The way she blinked at him — not surprised, but touched — made something tighten in his chest.

He started cleaning up her training cones during drills without saying anything. Re-folded her jacket when she left it balled up on the bench. Once, he even noticed her shoe lace was wearing thin and quietly left a spare set in her locker. She never mentioned it. He never admitted it.

But she wore them the next day.

The truth was, he hadn’t planned any of it. But somehow, his routine bent around her. Quietly. Completely. Not in ways anyone else would really see. But he noticed. And he couldn’t stop.

Not because she asked.

Not because she needed him.

But because he wanted to.

He liked her.

And for Kita Shinsuke, liking someone didn’t mean loud declarations or impulsive gestures. It meant doing the things no one else thought to do — the quiet, steady kind of love that showed up again and again in the smallest ways.

Because to him, those weren’t small at all.