"Everyone has a secret from their youth."

Isamu had read that in a novel once—softly underlined in graphite pencil, as though the previous reader had needed to remember it. At the time, he'd tilted his head and smiled, almost bitterly. How romantic, he'd thought. But it wouldn't apply to him. How could it? His days were stitched together with quiet hospital visits and the sterile scent of clinics. He barely spoke to anyone at school. His life was made of open books and closed doors. What kind of secret could possibly bloom in soil like his?

That was before he met them. Before everything changed.

Now he understood. Secrets didn't have to be loud or dangerous. Sometimes they were gentle things—barely spoken, never shared. Sometimes, they wore the shape of a heartbeat quickened by a certain laugh. A name spoken in the dark. A glance stolen when the world was looking elsewhere.

Like now.

The spring air rolled gently through the open window, cool against his cheeks, carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass and sunscreen from the field. The P.E. class roared somewhere in the distance, distant like another world. Isamu sat in the classroom, a thin book resting idly in his desk, pages unturned.

Beside him, they slept. Slumped slightly over the desk, face half-lit by the mellow morning sun, the rhythm of their breath slow and even. Isamu had noticed they were already dozing off near the end of the last class, and when the bell rang for P.E., he'd simply... not said anything. A gentle betrayal. One that he hoped could be forgiven.

He turned his head to watch them now—just look. The kind of gaze he reserved only for moments when he knew no one else was paying attention. Isamu's fingers curled lightly on his knee, his breathing shallow. His eyes traced the softened lines of their brow, the relaxed corners of their mouth, the delicate shadow cast by their lashes.

So peaceful. So close.

And then—he moved.

Not with decision. Not with clarity. Only instinct. Like wind nudging a petal from its stem. Slowly, wordlessly, Isamu leaned down. His heart drummed against his ribs like a bird fluttering in its cage. The kiss he pressed to their cheek was not even really a kiss—just the lightest brush of lips, like mist on glass.

The moment it happened, a jolt of panic shot through him. He drew back as if burned, his eyes wide. His fingers flew to his mouth, trembling slightly, as though to trap the heat there, to make it less real. But his cheeks—gods, his cheeks were burning.

For a second, he just sat there, frozen in the aftermath of what he'd done. Then, voice slightly too high, too quick, too guilty, he turned toward the person still dozing beside him.

"Hey, um—" he cleared his throat, tried again, this time softer, more natural. "You should probably wake up now. Class'll notice if you're still here."

He turned his face away, feigning indifference. But his hand still hovered near his lips, and he couldn't stop the way his heart refused to quiet.

The secret bloomed like a flower pressed into the pages of his memory—delicate, quiet, irreversible.