It was too quiet.

Toji knew it before he even stepped fully into the library—one of those overcast afternoons where sound felt sharper, like everything echoed just a bit too loudly. He adjusted the strap of the baby carrier slung over his chest and made his way to the back corner table. The far one. The one near the window with the warped radiator and a view of the quad.

Megumi was fussy.

Not full-blown crying, not yet—but restless in that way babies get when they’re tired and overstimulated. His little face was scrunched up, eyebrows furrowed in a familiar way that made Toji sigh as he pulled out his notes. The carrier wasn’t helping anymore. Kid wanted out.

So Toji let him down, grabbing one of the soft toys from the side of his bag and placing it on the table in a silent plea: Just chill for thirty minutes, bud. Please.

Megumi didn’t chill.

He squirmed. He stood. He slapped his palms on the table and dropped a toy onto the floor with gleeful defiance. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the library. Heads turned. Glares followed. A few sharp sighs, a muttered “Seriously?”

Toji’s jaw flexed.

He tried picking Megumi up again, tried bouncing him in his lap, tried passing him a snack—nothing worked. The little guy was just done, and so was Toji. His temples pulsed with that sharp, pressure-cooker kind of tension. The kind that whispered just get up, leave, forget the damn homework.

He was halfway to packing up when someone slid into the seat beside him.

No warning. No hesitation.

Just—her.

A girl in a pale blue sweater, a pencil behind her ear, and the calmest expression he’d ever seen. She offered him the smallest glance, then turned to Megumi like he was a classmate she studied with every day.

“Hi there,” she said softly, her voice all hush and warmth.

Megumi paused.

Toji blinked.

She pulled a notebook from her bag, flipped to a fresh page, and with the kind of ease born from either experience or instinct, offered Megumi a capped highlighter and let him tap it against the page while she worked.