It started with a sandwich.
Not a heroic moment. Not a rooftop rescue or a dramatic punch. Just a neatly wrapped sandwich, a little crushed around the edges, resting awkwardly on the corner of a lunch tray two tables away.
Ren hadn't planned to leave it there.
He'd carried it all the way to the courtyard, hidden inside his bento box, carefully wrapped in cling wrap and tucked between rice and pickled vegetables. It wasn't even anything fancy. Just egg salad—his grandmother's recipe. Too soft, too plain. Not the kind of food you offered to someone who'd body-slammed a bully on your behalf.
But he left it anyway.
On the second bench past the courtyard hydrangeas, where Aika always sat when she wasn't in detention or wandering the field with scraped knuckles and narrowed eyes.
He waited behind a tree, watching. Not proud of it, but too anxious to do anything else.
Aika walked up to the bench ten minutes later, tossed her bag down, and sat with a sigh. She didn't even blink at the sandwich. She stared at it for a beat, then unwrapped it, took a bite, and muttered:
"Could use more pepper."
And that was it.
Ren's heart nearly exploded out of his chest.
The next day, she sat beside him.
No invitation. No conversation. She just plopped down beside his usual tree, cracked open her rice ball like it was nothing, and leaned her back against the trunk they now shared.
He stared at her for a full five seconds.
She glanced over. "You didn't bring the sandwich today."
"I—wasn't sure you liked it."
She tilted her head. "You think I eat things I don't like?"
He blinked. "I guess… not?"
"Exactly." She tossed him a boiled quail egg from her bento. "Trade."
He caught it—barely—and nodded, unsure what he'd just agreed to.
They ate in silence after that. The wind ruffled the cherry blossoms overhead. A leaf landed between them. Aika nudged it off the bench with the toe of her sneaker.
Nothing else was said.
And somehow, Ren felt more seen than he ever had in his life.
By the end of the week, it was a routine.
He brought her a snack. She brought him a fruit or half a rice ball. Sometimes they traded. Sometimes they didn't. Sometimes they just sat and watched the clouds roll past, letting the sounds of playground games and lunch chatter fade into background noise.
She asked him what he liked drawing. He showed her a half-finished sketch of a dragon wrapped around a pencil.
She said it was "cool," and her voice didn't sound like she was just being polite.
He asked her if fighting always made her happy.
She paused before answering.
"No," she said, mouth full of onigiri. "But it makes me feel real."
"Even when it hurts?"
"Especially then."
Ren didn't understand at the time.
But years later, he would.
One afternoon, they shared a bench in the hallway after gym. Aika had a scrape on her elbow and a stubborn smudge of dirt across her cheek.
She didn't bother wiping it off.
Ren held out a wet tissue. She raised a brow but took it.
He watched her clean the dirt with slow, practiced motions. She wasn't delicate. She wasn't trying to look cute.
She was just… herself.
"You're not like other girls," he said before he could stop himself.
"Good," she replied without missing a beat. "I'd rather be like me."
She flicked the dirty tissue into the trash, looked at him sideways.
"You're not like the other boys either."
He tensed.
"You're not stupid," she clarified. "You think before you talk. Most of them don't."
He blinked, unsure if that was a compliment or a jab.
"Also," she added, "you don't try to act tough. I like that."
Ren said nothing.
But that night, he sketched her again.
This time, she was holding an umbrella over both their heads—one of her fists bruised, the other holding the handle like a sword. He was sitting beside her, notebook open, just… being there.
The umbrella didn't protect her.
It protected him.
And even in the drawing, he couldn't decide if he was embarrassed by that…
or grateful.
One lunch break, she asked about his family.
He froze.
"It's okay," she said quickly. "You don't have to answer. I just figured we should know more than our lunch orders."
"My parents work a lot," he finally said. "I live with my grandmother most of the time."
"She teaches you how to make those sandwiches?"
He nodded.
"Tell her they're good," she said. "Especially the egg one. And the one with tofu and mustard? Weird, but I'd fight for it."
He smiled before he could stop it.
She nudged his elbow. "See? You do have expressions."
He ducked his head, ears warm.
She didn't tease him. Not really. Her voice didn't carry mockery—just casual acceptance. Like every version of him was fine with her. Quiet. Nervous. Awkward. It didn't matter.
She was still here.
And it wasn't just during lunch anymore.
She started walking him to the gate after school. Not every day. Just the ones where the clouds looked heavy, or the hallway rumours felt meaner than usual. He didn't ask for it. She just appeared, bag slung over one shoulder, daring anyone with her eyes to even think about causing trouble.
Ren watched her one day as she shoved a locker closed with one knee, bandaged fingers gripping her bento strap.
"You get in fights a lot?" he asked.
Aika shrugged. "Only when it matters."
"And how do you know when it matters?"
She looked at him and said:
"When someone like you flinches."
That night, Ren stayed up past his bedtime.
He couldn't stop thinking about that sentence.
"Someone like you."
He'd never thought of himself as someone worth defending. Someone anyone would fight for.
He was quiet. Weak. Fragile. An easy target.
But not to her.
To her, he was someone worth sitting beside.
Someone worth trading lunches with.
Someone worth guarding—not because he asked, but because she chose to.
He tore a fresh page from his sketchpad.
And for the first time, he drew not just her… but both of them.
Side by side. Silent. Comfortable. Entirely themselves.
The fighter.
The quiet boy.
Lunchbox allies.
And maybe, just maybe…
Friends.
She never promised to protect him.
She just sat beside him—day after day—until no one else dared to push him down again.