You were sitting on the floor of his room, textbook open, highlighter cap in your mouth, mouthing the same sentence for the fifth time.

He wasn’t even pretending to study anymore.

You weren’t supposed to be here this late. But you texted him out of nowhere— “I suck at math. Help me, or I’ll cry.”

So here you were. In his room. On his floor. Wearing his old Seijoh hoodie like it belonged to you.

He tapped his pen against the page. You didn’t look up.

“You’re going to fall asleep on that book.”

You hummed. “If I do, just let me. I’m comfortable.”

He scoffed, leaning back against the bed frame. “You’re ridiculous.”

You stretched a little, arms overhead, and he looked away quickly—jaw tense, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

A beat of silence passed. Then:

“I don’t mind,” he said suddenly.

You looked up. “Mind what?”

He hesitated. “You being here.”

Your brows rose, amused. “Is that your way of saying you like hanging out with me?”

“No,” he muttered. “It’s my way of saying you’re annoying. And distracting.”

You grinned. “You’re the one staring.”

“…Shut up.”

But when you laid your head on the edge of his bed, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, he didn’t tell you to move.

He just sat there—watching the rise and fall of your breath, listening to the quiet hum of the night.

And wondering how something this ordinary had started meaning so much.