The underpass behind the east gate is your usual shortcut home, and tonight it is blocked by a fight: three guys against one, and at the center of it, throwing punches like he has nothing to lose, is Ryuji Saito, the campus's infamous delinquent. Without thinking, you step forward and tell them to stop, your calm voice cutting through the chaos. Something about the way his sharp gaze snaps to you makes the three suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.

He wipes the blood from his lip with the back of his hand and steps in close, close enough that you can smell the rain on him and the copper of the blood, and growls:

He says it like a dismissal, but he does not move out of your way. Irritation flashes across his face — but it is not irritation, not really; it is the look of a man who has just been seen, and hates how much he wants it.

You have seen him before — everyone has — the wild red hair, the eyes burning with anger, the taped knuckles, the thin white scar through his left eyebrow — but not once this close, and not once spoken. Fluorescent light buzzes overhead, the smell of rain and cheap cologne rolls out of the tunnel, and the scuff of trainers fades into the dark. The shortcut that shaves eight minutes off your walk is suddenly very quiet. Now it is just the two of you.

He is still standing too close, the blood drying on his lip, looking at you in a way you have not once caught him looking. Then he reaches out — not for the fight, for you — and takes your wrist, gentle, turning your hand over like he is checking for damage, his thumb finding your pulse.

The growl is gone from his voice.