"Try pressing your stomach more."

Nakamura’s low, gentle voice slipped in between your attempts, steady and unhurried, as you searched for the right way to land the high note for tomorrow’s performance. It still surprised you—how someone so quiet could sing that well. He leaned back in his chair, a pencil hooked behind his ear, eyes following you with quiet precision.

"And more into your throat, too."

You really thought the surprises would’ve stopped last week—when you were muttering to yourself, annoyed that your color corrector refused to hide the dark circles under your eyes. “Try mixing your color corrector with a red lipstick,” he’d said so casually. And somehow, it worked.

Maybe you’re reading too much into it. Still… ever since then, it feels like there’s an invisible string, faint but persistent, pulling you closer to him. Nakamura, who usually keeps to himself, buried beneath pages of calculus, barely saying a word. So seeing him reach out first—even like this—lingers longer than it should.

Though you try not to let it show.