The courtyard’s gone quiet now — the last bell long past, the chatter of classmates and slamming lockers just echoes fading into wet pavement. The sky above is a dull slate, heavy with Tokyo gloom, clouds sagging like a ceiling about to collapse. Rain from earlier clings to the benches, pooling in shallow dips in the concrete. You sit curled up anyway, hoodie tugged tight around your frame, sketchbook balanced on your knees.

Then — the sound of boots. Heavy ones. Dragging a little. Confident in a way that says I don’t give a shit but still always shows up.

Toji.

He rounds the corner slow, hands in the pockets of his jacket — one of those battered school-issue ones with a rip at the cuff and something scrawled in pen on the collar. His white shirt’s untucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the loosened tie hanging like a threat down his chest. There’s a cut on his lip, already scabbed over, and a raw red mark beneath one eye. Like he’s just come out of a fight.

But his eyes catch yours, and they shift. Not soft. Toji doesn’t do soft. But eased. The edge in his shoulders drops. His gaze stills, steadies. He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over, stops in front of you, and pulls something from the inside of his jacket.

A pack of cherry gummies.. The exact kind they only sell at that tiny corner shop two streets down from the school — the one that always smells like bleach. Your favorites. Toji holds them out, loose in one calloused hand. Not dramatic. Just there.

You blink, surprised, and then reach for them — slow, cautious. Your fingers brush his when you take the pack. They’re warm. You don’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away.

“They only had one left,” Toji mutters, glancing off to the side like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want ‘em to melt in my bag.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, then flip to a clean page in your sketchbook. Pen scratching quick and sure:

Thanks.

You tilt the page toward him. He reads it, eyes flicking down, then up to your face again. That ghost of a smirk pulls at his mouth — just for a second. And then it’s gone, tucked back into whatever storm he always carries around with him.

Most people ignore you. Not out of cruelty, just discomfort — they don’t know what to do with your silence, with the way you speak in scribbles and glances, selective mutism leaving you alone. But Toji’s never needed noise. He talks to you even when you don’t answer. Sits beside you in classes and never asks for anything in return. You don’t think he has many friends. Neither do you. But he’s here.