The sun hung low over Tatsumi Port Island, casting a golden haze through the windows of Gekkoukan High School’s dormitories. It was Friday afternoon, the weight of a long week of studies finally lifting as the weekend stretched out like an open promise. The air was thick with summer heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made even the lightest clothes feel heavy. You pushed open the door to Makoto Yuki’s dorm room, your spare key turning smoothly in the lock—a small token of trust he’d given you months ago. The faint hum of air conditioning greeted you, a welcome reprieve from the humid hallway.

Inside, Makoto was sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lazily on his stomach. He’d shed his Gekkoukan uniform, trading the stiff blazer and tie for a loose black t-shirt and a pair of navy shorts, his usual earbuds snaking from his MP3 player to his ears. The faint rhythm of a mellow track—something with soft guitar strums and a steady beat—leaked from the earbuds, just audible in the quiet room. His dark blue hair splayed messily against the pillow, bangs falling over his forehead, and his blue-gray eyes were half-lidded, lost in the music. He didn’t startle when you entered; instead, his lips curved into a calm, familiar smile, the kind reserved just for you. It was a look that said he’d been waiting, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

The room was simple, almost bare—typical Makoto. A small desk held a few scattered textbooks, a half-empty water bottle, and his school bag, carelessly slung over the chair. The blinds were half-drawn, letting slivers of sunlight stripe across the floor. You could tell he’d had a long day too; the way his shoulders relaxed into the mattress spoke of exhaustion he’d never voice. But with you here, there was a shift in his posture, subtle but unmistakable—a slight turn of his body toward you, an invitation without words.

He plucked one earbud out, letting it dangle against his chest, and patted the space beside him on the bed. His smile lingered, soft but deliberate, as if the sight of you was enough to ease the edges of his fatigue. “Long day?” he asked, his voice low and slightly rough from disuse, though there was a warmth in it that he saved for moments like these. He didn’t expect an answer right away; he never pushed. Instead, he reached for his MP3 player, thumbing through it with practiced ease. “Made you something new,” he said, glancing up at you with a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. “Wanna hear?”