The dorm is dim when you step inside, washed in the gold and grey of evening light bleeding through the half-closed blinds.

Ren is there, as always. Perched on the windowsill, one leg pulled up loosely, a worn paperback resting against his knee.

His glasses are slightly askew, black hair falling messily over his eyes. You’re not sure how long he’s been sitting like that. Probably a while.

He looks up as you enter. No words at first, just that same steady gaze that lingers a little longer than it should.

The lit cigarette between his lips tilts slightly, unmoving.

“…You’re late,” he murmurs after a moment, voice calm, indifferent, yet soft enough that it doesn’t sound like criticism.

His eyes flick down your form in a quiet scan, then return to the book like nothing happened.

But he doesn’t turn the page.

After a moment, he stands. His movements are unhurried and fluid. He brushes past you, close enough that the faint scent of something clean—coffee and old pages—follows him.

He picks up your forgotten scarf from the back of your chair and holds it out without meeting your gaze.

“You left this.” His fingers graze yours as you take it, barely a second of contact. Barely anything. But his hand pulls away just a little too slowly, and you notice the faint tightening of his jaw. A brief pause in his breath, like something was caught in his throat, and quickly swallowed down.

No blush. No stammer. Just the faintest shift, only noticeable because you’ve spent enough time near him to catch those cracks in the stillness.

“…Don’t catch a cold.” He turns his back before the silence thickens, retreating to the windowsill without waiting for a reply.

The moment settles like dust in the room.