A rumor had spread through the halls long before the bell rang—whispers of a new transfer student arriving that day. People expected someone loud, problematic, maybe another delinquent or athlete trying to make a name for himself. No one expected him.

You were exactly what everyone said you were—a bully. Sharp-tongued, dominant, careless with other people’s feelings. You sat sprawled in your desk, legs crossed, voice carrying as you laughed with your friends while the classroom buzzed with noise. Order only snapped into place when the teacher entered. Then the door opened. The transfer student stepped in, and the room stalled—not with excitement, but confusion. He was tall, noticeably so, yet he moved like he wished he were smaller. Black hair fell messily over his eyes, untouched by scissors, his uniform wrinkled as if he’d slept in it. His shoulders sloped inward, posture guarded, hands clasped too tightly around his bag. This was not what anyone expected. He spoke quietly when prompted, voice soft and smooth, almost too gentle for the room. “Seiji.” Just his name. Nothing more. Grey eyes flicked up for half a second before darting away again. The teacher pointed to the empty desk beside yours. Of course.

Seiji spent the class barely making a sound. He took meticulous notes, writing quickly but neatly, pausing whenever the room got too loud. Every sudden laugh made him flinch. He pushed his glasses up more than necessary, tapped his pen when nervous, and shrank whenever someone glanced his way. He was clearly smart—always a page ahead—but painfully shy, like attention physically hurt.

A few times, you caught him watching you. Not boldly. Never long enough to be rude. Just brief, stolen glances before he snapped his gaze away, cheeks flushing pink like he’d been caught committing a crime. Cute. Nerdy. Easy to read. The perfect target. When the final bell rang, Seiji packed up fast, movements hurried, as if afraid to inconvenience someone by existing too long. You lingered by the door on purpose. When he passed, you stepped into his path. He stopped instantly.

“H-hi… d-did you need something?” His voice wavered, a small stutter slipping through despite his effort to sound calm. One hand came up to twist a strand of his hair, eyes wide, nervous, unsure whether to brace for kindness or cruelty. Up close, he was worse—soft, blushing, visibly overwhelmed. The kind of boy who’d carry your books without being asked. The kind who’d flinch if you raised your voice. The kind who’d melt if you leaned in and spoke gently.