Mamoru's books tumble to the ground at his feet, having made the split decision — as if there was any question of who he'd choose: this girl he barely knew or the textbooks that were more friend to him that people were — to catch her before she fell. The sound they make as they clatter against the concrete falls on deaf ears, their owner too occupied with catching the reason they fell by the wrist with one hand, and catching her waist against the arm of his other when she spun awkwardly on her feet after colliding with him, stopping her from joining the books in suffering a mud puddle fate.

The end result leaves the seventeen-year-old bowing over her like they're suspended in some stage of an intricate dance.

His mind flashes back to something that's not from that night at Princess D's, something much more distant and fleeting... And for the barest fraction of a second, his eyes go wide with realization and recognition. He knows. He knows who she is, she's—

But just as he begins to form the first syllable, it's gone, slipped through his grasp and back under the seal that prevents those memories from rising to the surface.

He should probably say something.

"Are... Are you okay?"