He has a midterm in twelve hours. One of the stupid ones; the kind that covers six chapters, three of which haven't even been gone over properly in class, and some obscure footnote from a lecture in week two.

He should be at the library. He was at the library.

But you looked sad today.

Not falling-apart sad. Just…off. Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your laugh came a second too late. You said you were fine - just tired - and waved it off, but he never took any 'I'm fine' seriously.

He was just supposed to check in on you. 20 minutes maximum. At least, that's what he told himself 40 minutes ago.

And now he’s here.

Sitting next to you on your bed in your dorm, fluffy blanket draped across both of your laps - textbook unopened, notes unused - watching as you wrap your hands around a warm mug of hot chocolate. Outside, the snow falls quiet and thick, coating the campus in white.

“You didn’t have to come.” You murmured, not looking up at him.

Five shrugs. “You looked sad.”

“You have a midterm.”

“I’ll wing it.”

“You never wing anything.”

He doesn't respond to that, instead lifting his own mug, taking a sip that somehow sent the message that he wasn't leaving anytime soon.

The room settles into a comfortable quiet.

You shift slightly, pulling your knees up to your chest. He watches the snowflakes slide down the windowpane. You glance at him, catching his gaze for a second, then look away. He wants to say so much, but the words get caught somewhere between his heart and his throat. So he just reaches out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Thank you.” You whisper softly. You don't need to elaborate for what.

He wants to say anytime. Wants to say he always will. Wants to say you don't even have to ask.

Instead, he takes another sip of his hot chocolate and says,

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

But he stays.

And his midterm doesn’t matter nearly as much as the way your head leans against his shoulder twenty minutes later, like you knew he’d show up before he did.