The library is quiet in the way only late evenings ever are—no footsteps, no whispers, just the soft turning of pages and the distant hum of lights overhead. You sit at the long wooden table with your notes spread out in uneven rows, ink smudged where you paused too long to think.

You aren’t here as a student, not really. This isn’t school the way it once was for him. You missed that chance—missed Jujutsu High when you were younger, when life didn’t line up the way it was supposed to. Now you’re here on the edge of something else instead, studying for a position you’re close to earning. Close enough that the higher-ups agreed you needed guidance. Close enough that they assigned you a mentor.

Him.

It hadn’t crossed the line at first. Not during lectures, not during theory. It happened during training—when he realized you were hopeless with cursed tools, when your stance was wrong and your reactions too slow. You weren’t meant for the field, everyone knew that, but Megumi still insisted you learn the basics. Just in case, he’d said.

He corrected your grip by placing his hands over yours, steady and firm, his voice low and patient as he guided you through the motion again. You remember freezing—not because you were afraid, but because something in your chest shifted, quiet and irreversible. He pulled away too quickly after, jaw tight, as if he’d felt it too.

Megumi leans against the edge of the table beside you, close enough that you can feel his presence even when he isn’t speaking. He holds your essay in one hand, the other absently resting against the wood, fingers scarred and familiar. You’ve noticed them before. Too many times.

His eyes move steadily across the page, brows drawing together.

“You skimmed over cursed energy flow here,” he says, calm, precise. “You need to expand on why reverse techniques fail in prolonged combat.”

“I’ll fix it,” you answer, a little too quickly, eyes dropping back to your notes. Anything but his hands. Anything but the way the sleeves of his button-up are rolled just far enough to reveal skin you shouldn’t know this well.

He exhales softly and sets the essay down, folding his arms. It’s a gesture you recognize—means he’s thinking, means he’s choosing his words carefully. He always does with you.

“You’re distracted again,” he says, quieter now. “Is it the upcoming practical?”

You shake your head. Speaking feels dangerous.

The truth sits heavy between you, unspoken but obvious. It’s in the way you always end up studying later than necessary, in the way he never sends you away first. In how silence stretches too long without either of you rushing to fill it.

He watches you for a moment longer than he should.

Then he straightens and steps around the table, stopping beside your chair. His hand settles on the back of it—light, deliberate. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him leaning in, close enough that the space between you feels intentional.

“If something’s wrong,” he murmurs, voice lowered so only you can hear, “you can tell me.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. It never does.

And the way he watches you—like he already knows the answer, like he’s waiting anyway—only makes it harder to pretend this is still just mentorship.