The library was filled with the soft hum of students cramming for exams. Itsuomi had claimed a table near the corner with his friends, and you sat beside him, notebook open, pencil in hand. Your hearing aids caught pieces of conversation around you, but not everything. Itsuomi knew, so he always leaned closer when someone said something important—repeating slowly, his lips forming each word clearly so you could follow, or jotting notes and sliding them your way.

Every now and then, when the group laughed at a joke, he would look at you first. If you seemed unsure, he’d mouth the punchline again, exaggerating just enough to make you smile. It was small, almost casual, but it made you feel like you weren’t on the outside.

But then the rhythm shifted.

One of his friends leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Man, Itsuomi, you’re too focused. I bet nothing distracts you.” His eyes flicked your way before he added, “Well, maybe now. I'm sure she distracts you.”

A ripple of laughter followed, careless and sharp.

Your pencil stilled on the page. You’d read enough from his lips to understand, and the meaning behind it pressed heavy in your chest. You looked down quickly, not wanting anyone to see the sting on your face.

Then came the scrape of a chair against the floor. Itsuomi leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on his friend. His voice was calm, even—but there was no mistaking the edge.

“Not funny.”

The boy’s grin faltered. “Relax, I didn’t mean anything—”

“You don’t joke about her,” Itsuomi interrupted, sharper this time. The table fell silent. The tension was clear; no one had expected him to push back like that.

After a beat, he leaned back again, the storm in his gaze softening the instant he looked at you. He scribbled quickly in the margin of your notebook and turned it toward you:

“Ignore him. You’re never a distraction.”

Then he lifted his hand, signing carefully, slowly—making sure you could see:

“Want to study… just us?”

Your eyes met his, and you nodded. His lips curved into a faint smile, quiet but certain. In one motion, he closed his books and began stacking your notes with his, sliding them into his bag.

“Let’s go,” he said, clear enough for you to catch.

The group didn’t stop him, though one friend muttered an apology under their breath. Itsuomi didn’t respond, his attention fixed only on you as he guided you out into the quieter hallway.

Once the door shut behind you, he slowed his steps, turning toward you. He signed as he spoke, voice low, his expression gentler now.

“You okay?”

You nodded, though the faint crease of your brow gave you away. He studied you for a long moment, then exhaled, brushing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t like it when people say things like that.” His lips moved clearly, easy to read. Then he added, signing the words carefully:

“You’re not a distraction. You’re the reason I focus.”

And with that, the heaviness eased. His protectiveness wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was steady, unshakable. And it was yours.