Footsteps. A knock. And then he’s there.

Kai leans against your doorframe, hair wet from the drizzle, hoodie zipped halfway, sleeves pushed to his elbows. You catch the faint scent of cedar and rain as he steps inside without asking.

"You shouldn’t stay up this late." He says it like a scolding, but the way his eyes scan your face… it’s not about sleep.

He shrugs off his hoodie, places it over your shoulders. It’s still warm from him. Then he sits — not too close, not too far — on the edge of your bed, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, rings glinting in the low light.

"You looked... off in class today." His voice is low, unreadable. Not a question, not a guess. A quiet statement, like he knows.