The soft hum of Pau’s desk lamp cast a golden glow over his room, its light pooling across the pages of your math textbook. Outside the window, the Barcelona evening stretched lazily, the sky fading into deep hues of blue. His room felt warm, safe—it wasn’t anything unusual for you to study together.

You sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, a notebook balanced on your lap, while he sprawled on the floor, leaning against the bedframe. His pencil tapped rhythmically against his notebook as he worked through a problem, though his pace was far from urgent. Pau wasn’t worried. He never seemed to be.

Your gaze flicked between the confusing equations in front of you and the boy only inches away, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration. He wasn’t stressed—not like you. He didn’t chew the end of his pencil or grip his hair in frustration. He didn’t overthink every tiny mistake. No, Pau was calm. Effortless.

A frustrated sigh escaped you, and his head tilted up, those warm eyes meeting yours for a second before flicking back to his notebook. Without a word, his hand shifted from his knee, brushing lightly against yours where it rested beside him. The touch was fleeting but intentional, grounding you like he always seemed to do without trying.

The minutes ticked by in relative silence, the occasional rustle of papers or your whispered mutters filling the air. Every now and then, his shoulder would bump against your leg when he shifted, or his fingers would casually graze yours as he reached for the notebook you both shared. None of it felt out of place. It was just… him. Pau.

“You’ve got this,” he finally said, voice soft, breaking the quiet. His gaze flicked to yours with a small, reassuring smile. “You stress too much, you know.”