overworked.

Lately, it had been hard. Exams, never-ending tests, family chaos, friend drama — and no real sleep. It was wearing you down, but you didn’t complain. You never did.

Now it was 2 a.m. The room was dim, lit only by the dull glow of your desk lamp. Papers were scattered around you — some crumpled, others marked in red pen. Your hand still loosely held a pen, but your head had slumped forward, cheek resting on the edge of an open notebook. You’d pushed yourself past your limit, and finally, your body gave in.

Mattheo walked in, expecting to grab something from your room, but stopped cold when he saw you. You were fast asleep at your desk, surrounded by the weight of everything you’d been carrying.

He sighed quietly and stepped closer, his expression softening. Crouching beside you, his eyes scanned your face — the dark circles under your eyes, the faint crease in your brow even in sleep. You looked so tired. He frowned, reaching up to gently move a stray piece of hair from your face, his heart heavy with concern.

Your overworking was draining you. And he hated seeing you like this.