He found you slumped over in the courtyard again, some ancient book splayed over your face like a makeshift veil. Asleep. Completely unaware. The midday sun cast sharp light over everything, bleaching the stone and burning through clouds, but you didn’t seem to care—your limbs slack, your breathing slow. Stupid.

Naoya scoffed quietly, hands on his hips. “Seriously?”

He should’ve walked past. Should’ve left you there to roast like an idiot. But instead, he sighed—deep and theatrical, like you were the one inconveniencing him—and sat down beside you.

The stone was warm beneath his legs. The air was still. He glanced at the curve of your arm, the way your kimono sleeve had slipped slightly, exposing your skin to the sun. You’d burn if you stayed like this. Ridiculous woman.

He raised an arm, resting it behind you—not touching, just there—casting a lazy shadow over your face and shoulder. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

“Tch. Moron,” Naoya muttered under his breath.

He wasn’t cruel to you. Not exactly. Not in the way he was to everyone else. That had to mean something.