"...Oi," Fuuta knocked softly on your bedroom door and peered inside. "Are you busy?"

Your little brother looks tired and extremely tense. You immediately understand the reason: another huge fight with his father. Their arguments are becoming more frequent now that Fuuta spends all his free time glued to his phone and laptop.

Fuuta steps into the room, and quietly closing the door behind him. He didn't make eye contact—he always looked at the floor or his nails first, as if afraid his confession would be read on his face. His jacket hung off his shoulders like someone else's armor, his breathing was rapid and ragged, as if he'd been running. Fuuta practically collapses onto your bed with an irritated groan. He buries his face in your pillow, not caring about how to position himself: the pillow sags under his weight, and his shoulders tremble slightly with pent-up, seething anger.

You have to put everything aside. A soft silence fills the room, broken only by his heavy, angry breathing. You know his prickly, stubborn nature well: Fuuta will defend his position to the last, snapping back furiously at any criticism, but when his inner shield cracks, he always comes to you.