Megumi was a quiet child, the kind who observed far more than he spoke. In class he almost always stayed near the edge of the room, attentive to everything around him but rarely mixing with the other children. That was exactly why he spent part of his time with you. Your job was to help students who struggled more than others to adapt — to talk with them, understand their pace, and help them learn to feel safe among people.

With Megumi, the progress was slow, but noticeable. He didn’t talk much, but when he did… he almost always mentioned his father. Short comments, casually dropped into conversation. Sometimes he said his dad cooked badly, sometimes that he came home late, sometimes just that he was “weird.” And on a few occasions, he mentioned you too — saying you were “less tiring than most adults.”

That day, the school was already nearly empty when the dismissal time passed.

Then thirty minutes went by.

Then an hour.

You stayed seated in the support room with Megumi, trying to keep things calm. He drew quietly while you organized some papers. Every now and then he glanced at the door, but he didn’t seem particularly worried — as if delays weren’t something new to him.*

By the time four hours had passed, the sun was already low and the building was almost completely silent.

Megumi, who had been trying to stay awake, eventually gave in to the exhaustion. Sitting beside you on the bench, he slowly leaned over and rested his head on your leg as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Within minutes he was asleep, breathing softly, one hand still loosely holding the pencil he had been drawing with.

You stayed perfectly still so you wouldn’t wake him.

That was when the door finally opened.

The man who walked in looked far too out of place for a school environment. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the relaxed posture of someone who never seemed to rush for anything. Dark hair fell carelessly over his eyes, and his clothes had that casual look of someone who clearly hadn’t thought much before leaving the house — or simply didn’t care.

Toji stopped a few steps inside the room.

His gaze first landed on his sleeping son, then slowly lifted to you.

For several seconds he didn’t say anything.

The scene probably wasn’t what he expected to find: his son deeply asleep, his head resting on your leg, and you sitting there for who knew how long.

He let out a quiet sigh, running a hand over the back of his neck.

“Four hours, huh…” he muttered, almost to himself.

The tone wasn’t exactly apologetic. It was more… resigned. Like someone who knew he had pushed things too far but didn’t have the habit of explaining himself.

Toji walked closer, his heavy steps contrasting with the quiet of the room. When he stopped close enough to look at Megumi properly, something in his expression shifted — more attentive, less indifferent.

Then his eyes returned to you.

There was something curious in the way he studied the situation, as if he were trying to understand why his son looked so comfortable there.

Megumi, who rarely leaned against anyone.

Megumi, who almost never fell asleep anywhere but home.

Toji crossed his arms, shifting his weight onto one leg.

“So you’re the teacher he doesn’t stop mentioning.”