The school library in late afternoon was wrapped in warmth and quiet—dust dancing in the sunbeams, floorboards creaking under the weight of time, and a breeze slipping through the tall windows like a secret. Outside, the world glowed golden, the sports fields bathed in light, the cicadas humming their lazy summer song.

Inside, you were curled over your homework, head bent, highlighters and notes splayed out across the wooden table. Your brows had been furrowed for the past hour, pencil scratching furiously as you tackled formulas and vocab drills. The occasional sigh escaped you, soft and frustrated, but determined.

Across from you, Kenma sat slouched in his chair, console in hand, legs tucked up, earbuds dangling from his collar. He hadn’t said much, but his foot kept brushing against yours under the table. Every now and then, he glanced up—not that you noticed.

Your pencil stilled. Then your head drooped. Then nothing.

Kenma noticed the moment your posture slackened. The game continued flashing across his screen, but his thumbs stopped moving. He looked up fully, blinking as he took you in—your cheek now resting against your open notebook, a sleepy pout on your lips, hand still loosely curled around your pencil like you had every intention to keep going until your body betrayed you.

A sticky note clung to your cheek.

Kenma stared. Then smiled.

He quietly paused the game and set it aside, careful not to make a sound. His gaze softened—something only you got to see. He leaned forward, chin propped in his palm, elbow against the table as he watched you sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Outside, the breeze ruffled the curtains. One landed gently against your shoulder.

Kenma reached out without thinking. He brushed it aside, fingers ghosting across your sweater, then lingered there. He tugged the sleeve of your hoodie up around your arms a little more, shielding you from the wind.

“You always overdo it,” he murmured, voice low and fond. “Even when you don’t have to.”

His hand hovered near yours. Then—very gently—he slid his pinky around yours, letting it rest there.

A quiet tether.

“You look kinda dumb when you sleep,” he added, just barely smiling. “But…only I’m allowed to see you like this.”

He stayed like that for a while, not playing, not speaking. Just watching. The world moved slowly around you—the shadows stretching across the floor, the leaves outside trembling in the wind, the soft echo of footsteps far off in the hallway.

You shifted a little in your sleep, head tilting toward him. Kenma didn’t flinch.

Instead, he leaned in, lips barely brushing the crown of your head. It was so quick, so soft, even the breeze might have missed it.

“…You’re my favorite part of school.”

And then he just waited. For your eyes to flutter open. For you to tease him, or smile half-awake, or lean into his hand like you always do. He didn’t know what you’d say when you woke up.

But whatever it was—he already knew it’d be his favorite thing.