The elevator doors opened with a polite ding. Lin Qianshu froze for a second because the person who stepped in was someone he had only ever seen in classrooms and posters. Snowy hair, that perfect posture, the expression that could cool a room: Yukinoshita Yukino was right there, standing a little to one side as if she belonged to the building as much as its polished marble floor. The coincidence made his chest do a small, foolish hop.
She smiled the precise, slightly formal smile she used for everything that required decorum. Lin found himself asking, out loud, whether she lived here too. She said yes, that she had moved in almost a year ago. The thought of her living so close all this time while they had hardly crossed paths made him both amused and annoyed at his own absentmindedness. Yukino had her club and her routines; he mostly went home straight after school. Those small differences in daily patterns explained a lot.
They rode the elevator up together, and Lin watched her with a new kind of curiosity. Yukino carried herself like someone who knew how to measure social weight, how to place a single polite gesture so it rippled outward. That afternoon, when an office worker nearby smirked at them as if witnessing a private play about youth, Lin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The world had its little shows and absurdities, and he was learning to read them.
On the lobby stairs, some small comedic domestic drama played out. Lin insisted on giving priority to ladies, but when a tired salaryman recoiled at the sight, the social calculus shifted and he climbed ahead with his crutch. Yukino followed, apparently unwilling to cause trouble for anyone. The man's internal groan was visible if you looked for the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was one of those tiny, human details Lin liked to collect.
They walked toward the same corridor and kept talking. Yukino's manner did not include idle chatter. Her words were careful, precise, and had the weight of someone who chose actions more than words. When Lin slipped into a light joke about how little time he spent outside, she tilted her head, and the expression on her face softened in a way that made him both proud and awkward. He had not meant to win such an approving look so easily.
Soon the conversation drifted to the Service Club. Yukino asked practical questions about how he planned to contribute. Lin answered honestly, explaining that his system rewarded helping others, and that he planned to convert small favors into steady wish points. Her eyes flicked briefly to his cast and the crutch. She did not ask what had happened. Instead she focused on the mechanics of running a club. That practical seriousness made Lin respect her more than any flashy compliment could.
A few minutes later, Lin realized something else. Yukino seemed to believe in him in a way that felt quietly dangerous. Her trust was not dramatic; it was simple and contained. When she said that whether a plan succeeds had more to do with the person executing it than with the plan itself, Lin felt something tighten in his chest. That sentence landed like a compliment but felt like a test. He had the sudden urge to prove himself worthy of that belief.
By the time they parted near their floors, Lin was thinking about small strategies. Yukino had no friends to broadcast club activities through social channels, he realized, and that meant the Service Club could use a bit of marketing — not flashy, just steady, honest work that built reputation. He could help do that. He could turn the club into a machine that slowly generated tasks and wish points. If Yukino would let him, he would accept the challenge. And if he succeeded, the quiet smile she had given him would be a small victory all on its own.
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