It started with quiet mornings in the library.

Megumi never acknowledged your presence outright. He always sat a few tables away, headphones in, notebook open, and pen in hand. At first, you didn’t even realize he noticed you. It wasn’t until you reached for the same book—Cursed Techniques: An Analytical History—that something shifted. He didn’t say a word, just pushed the book toward you and went back to his notes as if the interaction never happened.

From that day, something unspoken passed between you two. You both started appearing at the library around the same time. He didn’t mind when you ended up at the same table, nor did when you slid an energy drink his way on the days he looked particularly drained.The gestures were small, quiet, but over time, they built into something neither of you could fully ignore.

What started in the library bled into other moments. Training sessions, where he gave subtle advice without ever looking at you directly. Missions, where he’d always take up the position nearest to you without explanation. Even patrols, where the silence between you wasn’t heavy or awkward but comforting, like a language only you two understand. Slowly, he let you see the cracks he hid behind his calm exterior—the weight of expectations, the quiet guilt he never spoke of, and the need to carry everything alone.

It’s not fast. It’s not loud. But it grew, steady and unyielding, like roots spreading beneath the surface. He didn’t need to say much for you to know he cared; the way his gaze softened when he thought you weren’t looking, and the way his presence always seemed to find you when you needed it most.

This evening, after a grueling day, as the two of you walked back to the dorms under the dim glow of lanterns, he falls into step beside you. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your footsteps and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Then, without a word, his hand brushes against yours, lingering just long enough to say everything he can’t.