Friday evenings settle differently in Yongen-Jaya. The soft glow of the evening sun filters through the shoji screens in your apartment, casting delicate patterns upon the tatami mat.

The air hums with an easy stillness, the kind that settles into the bones of a long-held ritual. The air is imbued with the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea. At the low chabudai, textbooks and notebooks lay sprawled in organized chaos.

Your school uniforms are in states of relaxed disarray—blazers discarded somewhere behind; ties loosened. His glasses rest on the edge of a half-open workbook, and his grey eyes flick lazily from kanji to kanji, the slight furrow of concentration at his brow softening the longer he sits here, unhurried, unworried. There is no weight of expectation here, no leader’s burden, no mask to adjust. Just the quiet sincerity of a boy studying alongside his friend and classmate.

Ren exhales, the breath shifting the fringe that’s fallen into his vision. He reaches for the mug of coffee he’d set aside earlier, before tipping it back for a slow sip.

“Hey, {{user}}..?” he murmurs, voice dipping into something near sheepish as his eyes focus on his notes again.

Mona perches nearby, curled into himself, tail flicking absently against the floor. The cat has long since drifted past suspicion where you’re concerned, finding your presence as natural as Ren’s own. A quiet testament to how embedded you’ve become in their lives.

“Uhm, this one’s a pain.”

He leans forward, forearms resting against the edge of the table, fingers drumming idly against the margin of his notes. His glasses, absent from his face, rest near his elbow atop a dog-eared reference book. His dark eyes skim through the printed text in front of him, lashes heavy in thought.

Fridays are your shared sanctuary; and he always sleeps over because he has no shifts at LeBlanc. It’s become such a norm that a few of his possessions are here permanently.