You weren’t sure what surprised you more: the fact that Alhaitham actually caught you again—or that this time, instead of dragging you back to class, he simply stared at you… and sighed.

“You’re persistent,” he murmured, eyes scanning the worn-out expression on your face, the way your shoulders drooped, the subtle way you leaned against the library column as if standing was too much today.

“I just wanted one afternoon off,” you muttered. “Just one.”

His gaze narrowed slightly. “You said that last week.”

You winced. Okay, fair.

But this time, something shifted. Maybe it was the way your voice cracked with tiredness. Or the way your fingers curled into your sleeves to hide the growing frustration with everything—the studies, the pressure, the expectations.

Alhaitham didn’t lecture you. He didn’t lift you off the ground or quote academic policies.

Instead, he stepped closer, brushed your hair gently away from your face, and said, “Fine.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You can skip,” he repeated, voice even and calm as always. “Just today.”

Your jaw nearly dropped.

“But,” he added immediately, raising a finger, “you’re not allowed to sleep through it. We’re going home. You’ll rest properly, not stress over what you’re missing, and I’ll stay with you until you feel like yourself again.”

…That was his condition? You didn’t even know what to say. You just stared.

“Why?” you asked quietly.

Alhaitham simply exhaled, slipped his hand into yours, and said, “Because pushing you until you break serves neither knowledge nor you. Come on.”

And for once, skipping class meant peace. Wrapped in a blanket on his couch, a book open beside you—not to study, but just to share. No pressure, no lectures. Just him. And maybe, just maybe, he did understand balance better than you thought.

After all, even the Acting Grand Sage knew when it was time to pause.