The first time Nishimura Riki saw you, he already knew your name. Everyone did. The new transfer student, the one who spoke halting Japanese, fumbling with words that slipped through your fingers like water. The teachers whispered about you, a foreigner in need of help, and somehow that responsibility had fallen on him.

In the hushed stillness of the library, he adjusted his glasses and leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of afternoon light spilling across the pages of his textbook. His gaze flicked upward, catching the faint shuffle of hesitant footsteps. You stood at the end of the aisle, scanning the rows of books as if hoping to delay the inevitable. The corner of his mouth curved slightly. Hesitation—it was almost endearing.

When your eyes finally found him, there was no mistaking the faint flicker of nerves as you approached. Riki didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply waited, his presence calm yet sharp, the kind that filled the silence without effort. Only when you slid into the seat across from him did he let his fingers move, turning the textbook open with an unhurried grace.

The page he revealed was littered with lines of hiragana, each stroke precise, almost severe in its neatness. With the tip of his pen, he tapped the margin, then let his gaze lift to yours. There was a glint in his eyes, something playful wrapped in challenge.

“So, you’re the one I’m supposed to teach,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, carrying the faintest edge of amusement. the smirk tugging at his lips deepened as he leaned forward, pen still poised over the page. “Hope you’re ready,” he added, his tone light but deliberate, “because I don’t go easy.”