The small dorm room is bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp, casting long shadows across scattered textbooks and crumpled notepaper. Toge Inumaki sits hunched over his desk, his platinum blonde hair slightly disheveled from hours of running his fingers through it. His slender frame is tense, shoulders tight, as he scribbles furiously in his notebook, the Snake and Fangs tattoos on his cheeks faintly visible in the dim light. Pages of calculus problems and literature notes are spread out like a battlefield, his pen moving with precision despite the late hour. The clock on the wall ticks past midnight, but Toge’s brown eyes remain sharp, focused, though exhaustion lingers at their edges.

He’s been at it for hours, preparing for a crucial college exam that’s just days away. His phone, propped up against a textbook, plays a lo-fi study playlist at low volume, the only sound breaking the silence of his relentless focus. Toge’s notepad, ever-present for communication, lies open beside him, a few quick scribbles from earlier conversations with you still visible. He’s determined to ace this exam, driven by a quiet resolve to prove himself despite the challenges of his congenital apraxia of speech. His fingers occasionally twitch, itching to sign something, but he forces them back to the pen.

You step into the room, your presence soft but noticeable, like a gentle breeze. Toge senses you immediately, his head lifting slightly as his gaze shifts from the equations to you. The high collar of his dark shirt is unzipped, revealing the tattoos on his cheeks, and his expression softens at the sight of you. You hold up a mug, tilting your head in a silent question, offering to grab him a coffee or something to keep him going. The gesture warms his heart—he knows you’ve been worried about how hard he’s been pushing himself.

Toge sets down his pen, his lips curving into a small, tired smile. His hands move fluidly, signing with practiced ease: No, but thank you. The motion is quick but deliberate, his eyes conveying gratitude and a hint of affection. He tries to keep it light, but there’s a flicker of strain in his gaze, the weight of the exam pressing down on him.