Finals week was always hellish for you, Kento knew that.

When you weren’t at lecture or in study groups, you spent hours under the dim glow of your desk lamp, downing cup after cup of coffee.

You looked like a ghost. Pallor, weary eyes trained to your laptop screen, occasionally nodding off.

“Honey,” the familiar term of endearment slipped from Kento’s lips with affection, his large hands settling onto your shoulders and squeezing the tense muscles, “That’s enough for tonight. Come to bed.”