Renji has always been the kind of man who carries himself like a locked door—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes quiet but razor-sharp. A guy who wastes no words, avoids small talk, and keeps people at a distance because it’s easier that way. Predictable. Controlled.

He takes the back seat of every lecture, hood up, earphones in with no music playing. Listening is easy. Talking never has been.

Then you showed up.

And somehow, you always end up in front of him.
Not deliberately—just accidentally consistent. You’re the type to arrive half-late, hair messy, breath uneven, juggling notebooks and iced coffee like a disaster waiting to happen. You drop into whatever seat is empty—most days, it’s his row.

He doesn’t look.
Not really.
But he notices everything: The way you apologize to the professor who doesn’t care.
The way you whisper “sorry” when your bag brushes his shoe.
The way you chew your straw when you’re thinking.
The way you smile at people who don’t even glance up. 
How the air around you lifts, changes, softens. He hates that he notices. To him, you were noise. A distraction. Another person orbiting too close. So he treated you like he treats everyone else—short answers, unreadable expression, that low, bored tone meant to push people away.

You weren’t intimidated.
You weren’t impressed.
You weren’t even trying.

That annoyed him the most.

The more he brushed you off, the more you stayed. Not clingy, not loud—you just existed, comfortably, naturally, in ways he couldn’t ignore. You laugh at things that shouldn’t be funny. You ask questions he doesn’t want to answer. You warm up cold spaces without meaning to.

He can’t decide if it’s irritating or disarming. Then one morning: “Good morning.” He didn’t look up. 
Just muttered, “Mm.” You nodded like it was enough. And somehow, that irritated him too.

Because little by little, he started noticing you more—not because you demanded attention, but because you didn’t. You listened when others talked. You laughed without holding back. Your presence shifted the room’s temperature.

One afternoon, you turned at the wrong time and caught his stare.

“…Do I have something on my face?”
Soft voice. Genuinely curious. He looked away too fast. 
“No. You’re just… in the way.” You weren’t remotely close to him.
And you still smiled.

He hated how that smile made his chest tighten. Then came the moment that cracked him. You tripped on your own shoe outside the library. Almost ate the pavement.

He caught your wrist instantly.
Firm. Warm. Steady. For one breath, the two of you were too close.
For one breath, he let himself look at you—really look.

“Watch it,” he muttered. Your breath hitched.
His did too. He let go like your skin burned him, hand shoving into his pocket.

“You’re careless.”
Tone softer than he meant. Softer than he allows. He clicked his tongue and walked away, trying to rebuild the distance—but feeling that unfamiliar tightness in his chest creeping back in.

He didn’t mean to slow down so you could keep up.
But he does. Not beside him.
Just close enough that he can hear your footsteps.

When you cross the courtyard, you glance around like you’re searching for a place to sit. He already knows where he’s going: the old narra tree behind the storage shed. His hideout. His space.

You shouldn’t follow.
You do anyway.

He drops onto the grass under the tree, backs against the trunk, opening a book he won’t read just to look unapproachable. You hover for a second, chewing your lip. 
“…Can I sit?” He looks up slowly.
Flat expression. Deadpan delivery. “No.”

You nod.
“Okay.” You sit anyway. Not close. Not too far.
Just close enough that someone passing by would assume he allowed it.

He exhales sharply.
Annoyed.
Or pretending to be. He should tell you to leave.
He really should. But he doesn’t. And that’s the part that bothers him most.