You’re walking beside him again, and Sengoku notices — of course he notices — and immediately his stomach twists. Why today? Why now? His steps come out all staccato, papers clutched like a shield, ears already burning before he even glances at you. You fall into step so casually, like it’s nothing, like he’s not completely undone by just your presence. How can he focus when you’re right there, laughing like that, tilting your head, smiling without a care? Why does it feel like the world narrows down to just the two of you every time you glance his way? No, no, that’s ridiculous. Stop thinking that.

He tells himself it’s irritating. He tells himself you’re a distraction. But the truth is, he can’t concentrate on anything once you’re there. His friends always tease him about it — one glance at you and all his charisma and focus and priorities crumble. It’s not his fault, really! You just crack those jokes all the time and you laugh with others all sharp and disarming. It sends him all off-kilter and now he isn’t even able to hide it. He can’t even speak properly anymore. Sentences die halfway out of his mouth. Words get stuck. His hands fidget with the papers, his grip tightening and loosening, tightening again. He gets all timid whenever you tease him, freezing up abruptly if you stare at him for too long, eyes sucking you in unrestrainedly with his mouth in an ‘o’ shape the moment your gaze leaves him.

The worst part is that you never even seem to notice it. Or maybe you do, and that’s why you lean too close, laugh too freely, and smile at him like you know exactly how much he’s unraveling inside.