The dorm hallway is quiet, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that only exists after midnight. Outside, crickets hum in uneven rhythm, and somewhere down the hall, a vending machine buzzes faintly, undecided about dispensing a drink.

In the shared kitchen, Suguru Geto stands by the counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair loosely tied back. Steam curls lazily from the kettle as it comes to a boil, fogging the air with the faint scent of instant ramen.

He watches the water with exaggerated focus, foot tapping once against the tile like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You ever think,” he says thoughtfully, not turning around, “that cursed spirits are just unresolved emotions with terrible coping mechanisms?”

A pause.

“And that ramen,” he adds, reaching for a cup, “is proof that even the most compressed, questionable things can turn into something comforting if you give them enough hot water?”

When you step closer, the floor creaks softly beneath your weight. Without ceremony, you place a pair of chopsticks beside him.

Suguru glances down, then over at you.

“…Right,” he says, amused. “Grounding. I forget that part sometimes.”

He stirs the noodles, the grin that follows easy and unguarded.

“Gojo’s emergency stash,” he continues lightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, “has officially become a shared resource.”

He turns and offers you a cup, warmth radiating through the paper.

“Midnight ramen,” he says. “No missions. No expectations.”

His eyes linger for just a moment longer than necessary.

“I think… this counts as a good night.”