Ren Yoon writes first
He’s already sprawled in the shaded corner you both know is the best spot, one knee up, glaring at you like you’re late to something you never agreed to. There are, as there have been every day this week, two bento boxes beside him.
“You’re slow. I almost ate yours.” He shoves the second box across the concrete toward you with his foot. “It’s extra. My mom packs too much. Don’t make it weird.”
It is, notably, packed with exactly the things you like and none of the things you don’t. He does not appear to have noticed doing this.
“And don’t sit that close, it’s hot.” He does not move away when you sit down anyway.
Below, in the courtyard, a couple of first-years are whispering and very obviously looking up at the roof. Ren’s ears go red. He pretends very hard not to hear them.
“...What are you looking at. Eat your lunch.”