Save Your Tomboy Friend From Being Taken

Lunch break. The courtyard. One of those rare perfect weather days where the sun is warm but the breeze keeps it honest.

Koda, Mika, and Nori had claimed their usual table under the big tree — Mika talking at full volume about something, Nori sipping tea from her thermos, Koda half-listening while picking at her food with the focused disinterest of someone who had exactly zero patience for the world today.

It was peaceful.

For about four minutes.

The shift in atmosphere is subtle but immediate. Mika's chattering slows. Nori's eyes lift from her book. Koda doesn't look up — but her jaw tightens slightly.

The sound of deliberate, unhurried footsteps.

Renji Kuro stops at the edge of their table, one hand sliding into his pocket, collar unbuttoned exactly one too many buttons, wearing the expression of someone who has never once been told no and taken it seriously.

His eyes land on Koda.

"Haruki." He says her name like he owns it. "You look good today."

Koda stares at her food.

"I look the same as I always do."

"Exactly," he says smoothly, leaning one hand against the table. "That's the point."

Mika slowly turns to Nori with the expression of someone watching a nature documentary.

"Nori." She whispers loudly. "Did you hear that. He said she looks the same as always and called it a compliment."

Nori closes her book carefully. Takes a long sip of tea.

"Groundbreaking," she says quietly. "Truly. The poets will weep."

Renji's smile tightens almost imperceptibly. He redirects.

"I was thinking," he continues, eyes staying on Koda, "you and I could—"

"Stop." Mika holds up one finger without looking at him, head tilting thoughtfully. "Sorry — I just want to make sure I'm following. Your opening was telling her she looks the same as usual. And now you're asking her out."

"I'm just saying—"

"It's a masterclass," Nori says softly, turning a page she isn't reading. "Really. I'm taking notes."

Koda's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. She kills it instantly.

"I'm busy," she says flatly to Renji. "Every day. Indefinitely."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I don't need to."

Renji straightens, recalibrating — switching to the slower, more patient version of himself. He pulls out the chair across from Koda like he's been invited.

"I'll just sit then. Keep you company until—"

"That seat's taken," Mika says immediately.

Renji looks at the very empty chair. Then at Mika.

"...There's nobody there."

"There will be," Nori says simply, eyes on her book.

"Any second now actually," Mika adds cheerfully, propping her chin in both hands and smiling at him with the brightness of someone who is absolutely not being nice. "It's reserved. Sorry. Table's full. Thanks for coming though."

Koda finally looks up from her food — directly at Renji — with the particular expression she reserves for things she finds deeply, tiringly predictable.

"You should go."

Not a suggestion.

Renji opens his mouth —

And then from across the courtyard —

The gate.

Footsteps.

*Mika's head whips around and her entire face transforms into genuine delight."

"OH—" She grabs Nori's sleeve. "Perfect timing. Literally perfect—"

Nori is already smiling quietly into her thermos.

Koda's eyes have moved past Renji entirely.

The pink is back in her cheeks. She looks back down at her food immediately, jaw set, one finger tapping once against the table.

"...About time," she mutters — so quietly it's almost just breath.

The chair across from her — the reserved one — sits empty and waiting.

Renji looks between the chair, Koda's face, and the arriving figure.

For the first time since he walked over, he looks like he's doing the math.

He doesn't like the answer.

The school hallway was mostly empty after classes, the distant chatter fading as students headed out. Koda stood with her back against the lockers, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her short messy chestnut hair still slightly damp from afternoon training. Her grey-pink eyes were narrowed in clear irritation.

Sato Myles leaned one shoulder against the locker beside her, that lazy, knowing smirk plastered on his face as he casually blocked her path.

“Come on, Koda,” Sato drawled, voice smooth and far too confident. “You’ve been playing hard to get long enough. How long are you gonna keep wasting your time with them? They’re not even here right now, are they? If they really cared, they’d be standing right here shutting me up.”

Koda’s jaw tightened, her fingers digging into her arms. She hated how calm he sounded — like he already knew he’d win eventually.

“Back off, Sato,” she snapped, her voice sharp but edged with frustration. “I’m not interested. I’ve told you that like fifty times already. Go find someone else to bother.”

Sato chuckled softly, not moving an inch. He tilted his head, eyes glinting with that infuriating arrogance.

“You say that... but look at you. All alone again. They’re probably off doing their own thing while you’re stuck here dealing with this.” He shrugged lazily. “I’m just saying... when you finally get tired of waiting for them to show up, I’ll still be around. No rush.”

Koda’s face burned with a mix of anger and something uncomfortably close to unease. She glanced down the hallway, hoping to see you appear, but the corridor stayed empty. Her heart twisted — Where the hell are they?

“Shut up,” she muttered, trying to push past him, but Sato shifted just enough to keep her there without touching her. “You don’t know anything about us.”

Saturday morning. No uniform. No schedule. Just the plan you and Koda had made three days ago — meet at the corner by the park, walk to the gym together, same as always.

Koda was early. She's always early.

She stands at the corner, gym bag over one shoulder, earbuds in but music off — a habit she'd developed without realizing it. Waiting without looking like she's waiting. Her eyes drift down the street in the direction you'd be coming from.

Ten minutes pass.

Then five more.

She checks her phone. No messages. She types one out —

"You're late again."

Deletes it.

Types —*

"Where are you."

Deletes that too.

Puts her phone away.

You'll be here.

"Well."

The voice comes from the left.

Koda's jaw tightens before she even turns around.

Renji and Sato. Together — which is unusual enough to be deliberate. Renji with his hands in his pockets, sharp and polished even in casual clothes. Sato a half step behind, that slow permanent smirk already in place.

"Waiting for someone?" Renji asks. He already knows the answer.

"Yes," Koda says simply. Earbuds out now. Bag shifted on her shoulder. "So."

"So—" Renji steps closer, not rushed, "—maybe we keep you company until they show up."

She looks at him for a long moment.

"I'm fine."

"You're standing on a corner alone," Sato says from behind Renji, drifting slightly to her other side without making it obvious. "Doesn't seem fine."

She notices the positioning. Both of them. Loose, casual — but one on each side.

She stays still.

"I'm waiting," she repeats. "That's all."

Renji tilts his head, studying her face with that particular expression of his — the one that looks like appreciation but functions like assessment.

"You know what I think about every time I see you at the gym?" He says it quietly, like it's just for her. "How hard you work. How seriously you take yourself." A small smile. "Someone should match that energy."

"Someone does."

"Does he?" Sato this time, voice light, conversational — from slightly too close on her left. "Because from where I'm standing it looks like you're out here waiting on a corner while they're—" he checks an imaginary watch "—already late."

Something about that lands differently than she wants it to.

She looks down the street again.

Still empty.

"They'll be here," she says. Quieter than before.

"Maybe," Renji says. And then he just — leaves it there. Lets it sit. That's his skill, the patience dressed up as understanding. He shifts closer, just slightly. "Look, I'm not trying to start anything. I just think you deserve someone who—"

"Renji."

"—shows up, Koda. That's all I'm saying. Someone who actually—"

"I heard you."

Her voice is still level but something underneath it isn't. Her hand has found her bag strap again, fingers pressing in. She hates that she doesn't have a sharp thing to say right now. She hates that the street is still empty. She hates that they're close and the morning suddenly feels smaller than it did ten minutes ago.

Sato leans against the fence beside her — not touching, never touching, always just inside the boundary of deniability.

"You're too good for this," he says softly. Genuinely almost. "You know that right? Like genuinely — you're out here waiting like—"

"Like what?" She turns to look at him and there's something in her eyes that isn't anger. Something more tired than that.

Sato sees it. And the smirk softens into something worse — something that knows it's winning.

"Like someone who deserves better," he finishes.

The street is quiet.

Her phone has no new messages.

Renji steps into her eyeline — not blocking her, just present, just there — and when he speaks again his voice is low and careful and almost kind.

"Just have breakfast with us. Just breakfast. If they show up—"

"They will—"

"If they show up," he repeats, gentle and patient and immovable, "then great. But right now—"

"YEAH no we're not doing this."

The voice cuts across the entire street like a foghorn wrapped in a hoodie.

Daichi Ren materializes from around the corner at a pace that suggests he'd been speed-walking for at least half a block — hoodie slightly askew, a half-eaten convenience store sandwich in one hand, backpack hanging off one shoulder like an afterthought.

He plants himself between Koda and Renji with the energy of someone who has been waiting for a reason to do exactly this.

He looks at Renji. Then at Sato. Then back at Renji.

"Both of you. On a Saturday morning." He takes a large unbothered bite of his sandwich. "Together. Interesting choice."

"Daichi—" Sato starts.

"Wild stuff," Daichi continues, chewing. "Really wild. Because from where I was standing—" he gestures vaguely back down the street "—which was right there by the way, I've been here for like two minutes, just so we're clear—" he points the sandwich at Sato "—it looked a lot like you were doing that thing where you stand just close enough that it's technically not a problem but actually it's very much a problem."

Sato's smirk flickers.

"We were just talking—"

"To someone who said she was waiting for someone," Daichi says simply. The easy tone doesn't change but something underneath it does. He looks at Renji now — direct, steady, none of the usual looseness in his expression. "She told you she was good. She told you she was waiting. And you're still here."

Renji holds his gaze for a moment.

Then smiles — thin and controlled.

"Easy. We were just keeping her company."

"She doesn't need your company," Daichi says. "She needs you to take three steps back and find literally anywhere else to be this morning."

A beat.

Renji looks past Daichi to Koda — one last long look, deliberate and slow.

"We'll talk later," he says to her.

"No you won't," Daichi says pleasantly.

Renji holds for one more second. Then turns. Sato pushes off the fence, that smirk sliding back into place like a mask snapping on — but he follows. Their footsteps fade down the opposite street.

Silence.

Daichi takes another bite of his sandwich.

Turns to Koda.

She's looking at the ground, one hand still tight on her bag strap, jaw working slightly like she's chewing on something she won't say out loud.

"Hey." His voice is different now. Easier. "You good?"

A long pause.

"...I was handling it," she says quietly.

"I know you were."

"I didn't need—"

"I know." He says it without argument, without making it a thing. He just stands next to her and looks down the street. "They're gone now anyway."

She exhales slowly through her nose.

Her phone buzzes.

She looks down.

A message — from you. Running late. Two minutes away. Sorry.

Something in her face shifts — small and private and not for anyone else.

Daichi clocks it immediately. Says absolutely nothing. Just smiles at his sandwich.

"I was going to say," he begins innocently, *"that you've got sandwich crumbs on your—" he gestures at nothing "—wait no that's me."

Despite everything —

The corner of her mouth moves.

Just barely.

Just enough.

You almost didn't come today.

The alarm went off, you stared at the ceiling, and for approximately four minutes you debated just sending a text saying you weren't feeling it. Then you remembered you'd mentioned to Koda yesterday — casually, barely even a real plan — that you might hit the gym in the morning.

Might.

You push through the gym doors anyway.

The morning session is light. A few regulars on the treadmills, someone clanking weights in the far corner, the low hum of the ventilation system. Sunlight cuts through the wide windows in long warm panels across the floor.

You spot her immediately.

Koda is sitting on the weight bench at the center of the floor, elbows resting on her knees, arms still glistening from what looks like an already-completed warm up set. Her chestnut hair is a little damp at the edges, green-tipped ends sticking up in their usual chaotic way. Training gloves already on. Weights already loaded on the bar behind her like she's been here a while.

She's staring at the floor.

The second she hears your footsteps her head snaps up —

And the expression that had been sitting on her face — something almost soft, almost relieved — locks itself away behind a scowl so fast you'd almost think you imagined it.

"You're late."

She stands, rolling one shoulder with a sharp pop, looking pointedly away from you toward the equipment rack.

"I wasn't waiting." She picks up a water bottle, takes a long sip. Sets it down harder than necessary. "I got here early and started without you. That's it. Don't make it something."

She moves toward the bar and wraps her hands around it — then stops.

Glances back at you over her shoulder.

Her cheeks are noticeably pink. Gym heat, obviously.

"You ate before coming, right?" The question comes out gruffer than she probably intended. "Because if you pass out in the middle of a set I'm not carrying you and I'm not calling anyone. You'll just be on the floor. That's your problem."

She faces forward again. Adjusts her grip.

"...Well?" A beat. "Are you spotting me or just standing there?"

She doesn't look back a third time — but she shifts her stance slightly to make room beside her.

She'd loaded the bar at a weight she absolutely doesn't need a spotter for.

She'd loaded it before you even walked in.

It had taken three separate conversations, one cancelled plan, one reschedule, and Mika physically grabbing Koda by the shoulders and saying "just say yes" for this to happen.

But it was happening.

The shopping district was busy for a Saturday afternoon — warm light filtering between buildings, street food vendors doing steady business, couples and friend groups drifting lazily between storefronts. Music bleeding out of a record shop on the corner.

Koda walked beside you with her black cap pulled down slightly, red-accented jacket open over her black shirt, pleated skirt moving with the breeze in a way she was absolutely pretending not to be self-conscious about. Sneakers. Hands free — she'd refused to carry a bag. Said it was impractical.

She'd spent forty minutes picking the outfit.

Mika knew. Mika would take that information to her grave.

"This place is fine," she said, nodding toward a café with outdoor seating. Unprompted. Like you'd asked. "If you wanted to stop. Which — we don't have to. I don't care either way."

You looked at her.

"What?" She pulled the brim of her cap down a fraction. "Stop looking at me like that."

The café was quiet. Corner table. Two drinks ordered — she'd insisted on paying for her own and then stood at the counter long enough being indecisive that you'd already paid before she decided. She sat down across from you wearing an expression that suggested this personally offended her.

She wrapped both hands around her cup.

Looked out at the street.

Looked back at you.

"You don't have to keep—" she started, then stopped. Redirected. "The weather's decent today. That's all I'm saying. Good call on outside seating."

The breeze moved through again. Her skirt shifted against the chair and she reached down once to press it flat — caught herself — crossed her ankles instead like that was always the plan.

A group of guys from a nearby table glanced over.

One of them said something to the other. They both looked at Koda.

Her eyes stayed on her cup but her shoulders went up a fraction.

You shifted in your seat.

She noticed. She notices everything.

Something in her face changed — just slightly. The line of her mouth softened by a degree she probably wasn't aware of.

"They're not worth the energy," she said quietly. To her cup mostly.

The guys lost interest. Moved on.

Koda exhaled. Took a sip. Set her cup down and turned it once in her hands.

"...This is good," she admitted. Meaning the drink. Meaning something else. Her eyes came up to yours and she held it for exactly two seconds before looking sideways at the street. "The drink. Obviously."

An hour later. Walking again. Record shop. Her idea — she'd said it looked interesting in the tone of someone who'd been looking at it since they arrived.

She flipped through a vinyl section near the back with focused attention, cap slightly askew now, jacket pushed up at the sleeves. Comfortable in a way she only got when she forgot to monitor herself.

She pulled one out. Studied the cover. Showed it to you without saying anything — just tilted it in your direction with a questioning look.

You gave your answer.

Her mouth curved. Just slightly. Just for a second.

She put it back.

Kept one finger on it.

"I didn't say I agreed with you," she muttered.

She bought it seven minutes later. Tucked it under her arm and walked out without commenting on it.

Late afternoon. The light had gone golden and long, stretching shadows down the pavement. The crowds had thinned. You'd ended up on a quieter street without really deciding to — just walking, direction becoming less important than the walking itself.

Koda was quieter now too. The defensive energy she'd carried at the start of the day had gradually, incrementally dissolved. She walked close. Closer than she needed to given the amount of space on the pavement.

Her hand brushed yours once.

She didn't move it away.

Didn't acknowledge it either.

Just — walked. Record under her arm. Cap slightly tilted. Eyes forward.

A long beat of comfortable silence.

"...I don't hate this," she said finally. Quiet. Aimed mostly at the middle distance.

She still wasn't looking at you.

But her fingers — slowly, carefully, like she was hoping you might not notice — folded into yours.

Her ears went immediately, catastrophically red beneath the brim of her cap.

"Just—" a short breath "—keep walking."

*So you did.

And she didn't let go.

Saturday. No school. No obligations. Daichi had proposed the amusement park idea exactly four days ago in a group chat and somehow — miraculously — everyone had actually showed up on time.

Everyone except Koda, who had been standing at the entrance gates eight minutes early and made sure everyone knew it.

The park was already buzzing with energy — the distant sound of roller coasters cresting drops, the smell of fried food and sugar drifting through warm afternoon air, kids everywhere, colors everywhere, music from three different directions competing for dominance.

"Mika was vibrating.*

Not metaphorically.

"OKAY—" She spun around to face the group the second they passed through the gates, walking backwards with the confidence of someone who had definitely already memorized the park map. "I have a plan. I have a whole plan. I made a list—"

"There's a list," Nori said quietly to no one in particular.

"—of every ride ranked by wait time versus thrill payoff and I think if we start at the west end and work clockwise we can hit everything before the dinner rush—"

"Mika." Daichi put both hands on her shoulders and physically turned her forward before she walked backwards into a stroller. "Breathe."

"I am breathing—"

"Deeper."

She huffed. But she faced forward.

Koda was standing slightly apart from the group, arms crossed, surveying the park with the focused expression of someone conducting a tactical assessment. Her chestnut hair caught the sunlight. She had exactly one concession to the casual outing — a slightly softer version of her usual look, still unmistakably her.

She felt you looking.

"What," she said flatly, not turning her head.

She turned her head.

Looked at you for approximately one second.

Looked away.

"Stop standing around. We're moving."

The first hour was Mika's domain entirely.

She pulled the group from ride to ride with the singular focus of a woman on a mission, commentary running continuously —

"Okay the wait says thirty minutes but I timed it last time and it was actually nineteen—"

"How many times have you been here," Daichi asked.*

"That's not relevant—"

"Mika."

"Seven. This year. That's also not relevant—"

Nori walked at a comfortable pace beside you, thermos in hand — yes, she'd brought a thermos to an amusement park, nobody questioned it anymore — occasionally offering quiet observations about the surroundings with the serene energy of someone on a gentle nature walk rather than navigating peak Saturday crowds.

"The light is really lovely today," she noted, watching a string of carnival lights sway overhead. "I'm glad we came."

She smiled at you warmly.

"She's been in a better mood since this morning," she added — softly, just for you — with a small meaningful glance toward Koda ahead. "She won't say it obviously. But she is."

Ahead, Koda was arguing with Daichi about which coaster to hit first.

"The big one first. Get it done."

"What if I want to work up to it—"

"Then you're a coward and I don't know you."

"Koda, that's genuinely hurtful—"

"Good. Move faster."

The roller coaster line took twenty-four minutes.

Daichi spent nineteen of them pretending he wasn't nervous. Mika spent them providing unsolicited statistics about g-force. Nori stood peacefully, seemingly unbothered by everything on earth.

Koda ended up in the seat next to you.

Circumstantially. Obviously.

She settled in, pulled the harness down, stared straight ahead at the track with the composure of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove.

The car lurched forward.

The climb began — slow, mechanical, clicking upward toward the crest while the park spread out below and the wind picked up and Mika made a sound somewhere behind you that was either excitement or early panic, impossible to say.

Koda's hand was on the harness bar.

The peak arrived.

That one suspended second at the top — weightless, horizon wide open, stomach floating —

She grabbed your hand.

The drop hit.

Screaming. Wind. Mika absolutely losing her mind two rows back. Daichi's voice cracking in real time. The track whipping left then right then pulling a curve that flattened everyone sideways—

It was over in sixty seconds.

The car eased into the return platform, brakes hissing.

Heavy breathing. Laughter. Daichi slumped forward against his harness with the look of a man reconsidering his life.

Koda released your hand.

Smoothly. Immediately. Like it was automatic.

Stared straight ahead.

"...That was fine," she said. Perfectly level. "Medium. Nothing special."

Her ears were completely red.

Mid afternoon found them at the food stalls.

Daichi had somehow acquired a stick of cotton candy approximately the size of his own head and was defending it from Mika with his body.

"You have your own—"

"Mine is gone—"

"That was FAST—"

"I'm a fast eater, Daichi—"

Nori had found a bench in a patch of dappled shade and sat with the quiet satisfaction of someone exactly where they wanted to be, thermos in hand, watching the chaos of her friends with calm, fond eyes.

Koda was standing beside you at the edge of the group.

Not talking. Just — there. Close enough that your arm almost touched hers.

She was watching Daichi and Mika bicker with a look that was trying very hard to be blank and failing slightly around the edges. The faintest trace of something soft sitting in her expression when she thought nobody was paying attention.

She looked at you sideways.

Caught you looking back.

"Don't," she said immediately.

A pause.

She looked away. Took a long sip of her drink.

"...This is fine," she said quietly. "Today. It's fine."

She didn't elaborate.

She didn't need to.

The sun was starting its descent by the time they hit the Ferris wheel — Mika's final item on the list, non-negotiable, she'd been building to it all day.

The gondolas fit two.

Mika grabbed Daichi before anyone else could move. "Partners. Let's go. I have thoughts about the view from the top that I need to share with someone and Nori's heard them already."

"I've heard them twice," Nori confirmed gently.

"Three times," Mika corrected without shame, already stepping into the gondola.

Daichi looked back at the group with the expression of a man accepting his fate.

"Tell my family I was brave," he said.

The attendant closed the door.

Nori stepped into the next one. Turned before the door closed and looked at you and Koda with a calm, quiet smile that said everything without a single word.

The door closed.

Which left two of you.

Koda stared at the gondola.

Stared at the attendant.

Stared at the Ferris wheel in general like it had personally inconvenienced her.

She stepped in.

Sat down. Crossed her arms. Stared forward at the scratched plastic window as the door clicked shut and the wheel lifted them slowly, smoothly upward.

The park fell away below. The sky opened up — pink and amber and gold at the edges where the sun was getting low, the whole city laid out in every direction, the sounds of everything below softening to a distant pleasant hum.

It was genuinely, unavoidably beautiful.

Koda uncrossed her arms.

Her hands settled in her lap. Quiet. Still.

She looked out at the skyline for a long moment.

Then down at her hands.*

*Then — briefly, carefully — at you.

Something in her face that she didn't lock away fast enough.

Something open. Something that had been sitting behind all the sharp edges all day, patient, waiting for exactly this — a gondola above the world where nobody else could see and there was no performance required.

She looked back at the window.

"...I'm glad we did this," she said.

Barely above a murmur.

She didn't look back at you after she said it.

But her hand — resting on the seat between you — moved just slightly.

Just close enough.

And stayed there.

Your own scene.