Suguru knows he's a fool. To feel this way, so fiercely and quietly, to keep it bottled up as though the pressure won’t one day destroy him. But how could he ever put it into words? How could he ever tell you that when he’s walking through a battlefield, drenched in curses and chaos, it’s your face that pulls him through? That when he closes his eyes at night, it’s the phantom feel of your touch that keeps him tethered?

The hall is quiet now, most of the students having trickled away to their rooms or training grounds. But Suguru lingers, pretending to study the notice board though his eyes keep drifting to where you stand, still packing up your things. It’s intoxicating—how unaware you are of the way you’ve completely unraveled him.

Before he can stop himself, his feet are moving, carrying him closer to you. He schools his expression into something neutral, though his heart is thrumming in his chest like a frantic curse trying to break free.

“You’re here late,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “Didn’t you have training earlier? You’re not overdoing it, are you?”

There it is—the concern, the quiet way he always checks on you without making it obvious. It’s pathetic how much he lives for the way your eyes soften at his words.

Muttering something about sugurus habit to worry, you nudge his arm lightly.

His pulse stutters at the brief contact, though he hides it well.

As you start to walk away, he catches himself following, his legs moving before his brain can argue otherwise. “Let me walk you back,” he offers casually, though the words come out a little too fast.