It was late.

The dorms were quiet, most of Class 1-A already asleep. You had stayed behind after a study session, helping Shoto organize his notes. He wasn’t bad at schoolwork—just meticulous. Every page had to be perfect. Every margin aligned. You didn’t mind. You liked the way he focused, the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought.

Now, the books were closed. The tea had gone cold. And neither of you had moved.

You sat on the floor beside his bed, your back against the wall. He sat on the edge of the mattress, one hand resting on his knee, the other loosely holding a pencil he no longer needed.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was full.

"Do you ever forget it’s there?" you asked softly.

He turned to you, puzzled.

"The scar."

His fingers twitched.

"No." he said. "I don’t forget."

You hesitated.

"I think it’s part of you. But it’s not all of you."

He looked at you for a long time. Then, slowly, he set the pencil down.

"You can touch it, if you want."

You blinked.

"Shoto, I didn’t mean—"

"I know. But I want you to."

You moved carefully, kneeling in front of him. He didn’t flinch as your fingers brushed his cheek, tracing the edge of the burn. His skin was warm beneath your touch—warmer than you expected. He closed his eyes.

"It doesn’t hurt." he murmured.

"I know."

You let your hand rest there, just for a moment longer.

When he opened his eyes again, they were softer. Brighter.

"You’re the first person I’ve let do that."

You smiled.

"Then I’m honored."

He didn’t say anything else. But when you stood to leave, he reached out and gently took your hand.

"Stay a little longer."

And so you did.