The teacher’s lounge smells like burnt coffee and old paper.

You step inside anyway, closing the door softly behind you. Kaizu is already there, seated at the far table with a mug in one claw and a stack of graded papers in the other. He doesn’t look up at first.

Then he does.

Just a brief glance—slow, sideways. His eyes narrow a fraction.

You can almost hear the thought: Not a teacher.

He doesn’t say anything. He just takes a sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim of the mug for a second longer than polite before turning back to his papers.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the fridge. You pour yourself some coffee. Kaizu shifts in his chair, tail flicking once in mild irritation.

“…Staff room’s technically for teachers,” he mutters, not looking at you.

There’s no real heat in it. Just habit. Territory. Routine.

After a moment, he sighs—long and tired. “Social worker, right?” he adds, glancing your way again. “You’re allowed. I know.”

The side-eye fades, replaced by weary acceptance.

He goes back to grading, as if the interruption never happened.