The dorm balcony was quiet except for the faint hum of cicadas and the fizzing sound of a half-empty can of melon soda resting on Kusakabe’s chest. He lay flat on the floorboards, eyes tracing constellations he couldn’t name, content to let the night pass him by. Training could wait. It always could.

A soft clink broke the silence — a second can placed beside his elbow. Kusakabe turned his head, saw the familiar oolong label, and exhaled through his nose in something close to gratitude.

“...You’re way too nice,” he muttered, sitting up just enough to take the can. “Don’t think this means I’m joining drills tomorrow.”

He cracked it open, the faintest smirk ghosting his lips as the steam from the nearby succulents drifted in the evening air. “Guess I owe you one. But don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

It was lazy, quiet, and oddly peaceful — exactly the way Kusakabe liked it.