Kaito couldn't look at Ren.
Not really. Not the way he used to.
He tried—he really did—to act normal. To sit the same way, speak the same way, glance only when it made sense. But everything felt off now. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every accidental brush of elbows when they reached for their textbooks at the same time.
Because now, every moment with Ren came with the weight of knowing.
Knowing that his stomach fluttered for a reason. That the quick glances meant something. That his silence wasn't about indifference—it was protection. From what he was feeling. From what Ren might not.
But Ren wasn't stupid.
By third period, he was already watching Kaito with that sharp, quiet look of his—the one that saw more than it should.
"You're weird today," Ren said flatly during break.
Kaito flinched. "I'm always weird."
"No. You're… dodging."
"I'm not."
"You haven't looked at me once since this morning."
Kaito's ears burned. He glanced sideways, instinctive—and met Ren's gaze head-on.
It was steady. Calm. Curious.
Not accusing. Just… waiting.
Kaito looked away again, throat dry. "Sorry. Just tired."
Ren raised an eyebrow but didn't push. "If you say so."
But he didn't look away either. Not for a while.
By lunch, Kaito's nerves were a tangled mess. He didn't want to say the wrong thing—but saying nothing felt worse. Every time Ren looked at him, it felt like a test he didn't know how to take.
He needed air.
He slipped away from the classroom, bento unopened, and made his way to the rooftop. Technically off-limits. Realistically? Unlocked.
The breeze up there was clean. Soft. He leaned against the railing, staring down at the courtyard. He could hear faint laughter. A whistle from gym class. A piano scale from the music room.
But mostly, he heard his own thoughts. And his heartbeat.
You like him. So what are you going to do?
It wasn't like he could just say it. "Hey, Ren, by the way—I've been thinking about your wrists and your voice and the way you look at cherry blossoms like they're trying to tell you something."
Nope. Not happening.
But hiding from it wasn't working either. Every time Ren so much as breathed next to him, Kaito felt like he was unraveling one thread at a time.
The rooftop door creaked behind him.
He turned—and there was Ren, closing it softly behind him, the usual plastic bag from the konbini in his hand.
"You didn't eat."
Kaito blinked. "You followed me?"
"More like… guessed. You said you liked quiet."
Kaito didn't move as Ren walked over, pulled out a triangle rice ball, and held it out.
"You skipped yours," Ren said. "Figured you'd still be hungry."
Kaito took it slowly. His fingers brushed Ren's just slightly—and the contact sparked through him like static.
"Thanks."
They stood side by side at the railing. Ren didn't ask what was wrong. He just unwrapped his own food, chewing slowly.
After a minute, Ren spoke—softly, without looking over.
"Is it me?"
Kaito froze. "What?"
Ren's voice stayed low. Calm. "Whatever you're struggling with. Is it me?"
Kaito hesitated. The wind pulled at his shirt, lifted the edges of Ren's hoodie.
And then he whispered, "Kind of."
Ren didn't say anything for a long time.
Then: "Okay."
Not angry. Not distant. Just… there.
Kaito turned his head, heart thudding. "You're not going to ask what I mean?"
Ren gave him a small smile—tired, but warm.
"You'll tell me when you're ready."
Kaito looked at him for a long moment.
And for the first time all day, he exhaled without tension.