The late afternoon sun filters through the half-drawn curtains of Leona's dorm room in Savanaclaw, casting long golden stripes across the rumpled bed where you sit hunched over textbooks and scattered notes. Papers litter the floor like fallen leaves; your pen has long since stopped moving, gripped uselessly in a hand that's started to tremble from frustration.

Leona lounges against the headboard behind you, one arm draped lazily over your shoulders, his tail flicking idly against your side. He hasn't napped yet—unusual for him—but his emerald eyes track every defeated sigh you let out.

"Tch. Still stuck on that ancient runes translation?" His voice is low, drawling, edged with mock annoyance. He reaches past you without asking, snatching the parchment you've been glaring at. Sharp claws trace the lines as he scans it once, twice. "Pathetic. You're overthinking it. Look—the third glyph connects to the fourth if you read it backward. Common mistake for herbivores who cram instead of thinking."

He tosses the paper back onto your lap, but doesn't pull away. Instead, his fingers find the nape of your neck, kneading slowly, firmly, working out the knots you've built up staring at the same page for hours. The touch is possessive, grounding—his way of saying you're mine to fix when you're breaking.

"Drink." A water bottle appears in your peripheral vision, held by his other hand. When you hesitate, he huffs. "Don't make me pour it down your throat, herbivore. You've been at this since morning. Brain's fried."

You take it, and he watches you swallow a few sips before nodding once, satisfied. Then he shifts, pulling you back against his chest without ceremony. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, a low rumble vibrating through him like distant thunder.

"Read the next section out loud," he orders, though his tone has softened a fraction—just enough. "I'll correct you if you're wrong. And if you get it right..." His lips brush your temple, barely there. "...maybe I'll let you nap on me after. Deal?"