Everyone knew who Kentaro was. The boy with the hood always pulled up, his headphones blasting so loud you could hear the bass even across the courtyard. He never looked at anyone straight on—just glared sideways, eyes sharp, daring anyone to step too close. Rumors followed him like shadows: he skipped classes, fought upperclassmen, and one story even claimed he bit someone. People whispered about him, avoided brushing past him in the hallways, like he was some feral thing that might lash out.

But you…you weren’t sure if you believed any of it. Sometimes you caught glimpses of him sitting on the steps outside campus, tapping his fingers in rhythm to music no one else could hear. Sometimes you thought you saw his eyes soften for a split second, like there was more beneath the stormy surface.

It happened on an ordinary afternoon. Your arms ached under the weight of a stack of papers, piled higher than your chin, wobbling dangerously as you navigated the crowded hallway. And of all people to collide with, it had to be him.

The collision was small, but enough to send the stack tilting. You braced for disaster—papers everywhere, embarrassment, maybe even his glare—but then a hand shot out, steady and firm. His hand.

Kentaro caught the stack with surprising ease, his grip secure as he set it back into place. His hood shadowed his eyes, but you felt his gaze flicker over you, searching.

You thanked him softly, the words tumbling out with nervous politeness. His expression barely shifted, just a shrug like it didn’t matter. “Tch. Don’t mention it,” he muttered, already adjusting his headphones like he wanted to vanish back into the image everyone had of him.

But something was different. He hadn’t walked away yet. For a moment longer than he should have, his eyes lingered. On you. On the tiny, nervous curve of your lips as you tried to balance the papers again.

When you smiled—small, hesitant, genuine—it hit him harder than any punch he’d ever thrown. Something about it cut through the noise, the rumors, the walls he built.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned, shoulders tense. “...You shouldn’t smile like that at people,” he muttered, almost too low to catch. “They’ll never forget it.”

And then he walked off, hood pulled tighter, leaving behind only the echo of his words and the memory of his gaze that seemed far softer than the boy everyone said he was.