The room was quiet except for the scratch of pencil on paper and the occasional sigh that seemed almost musical in its frustration.

Yaku sat across from you at the small table in his room, neatly organized notebooks spread out, textbooks stacked carefully in the corner.

His posture was impeccable as always, but there was a flicker of impatience in the way his fingers tapped lightly on the table.

You slouched in your chair, arms crossed, leaning back just enough to make it obvious you weren’t particularly interested.

The history textbook lay open in front of you, pages full of dates, events, and notes, but your gaze drifted lazily over the lines, eyes half-glazed as you deliberately ignored the precise explanations Yaku was offering.

“Look,” Yaku began, voice calm but with an unmistakable edge of exasperation, “the Treaty of Kanagawa was signed in 1854, which marked the end of Japan’s isolationist policy. It’s important to understand the context…”

You hummed noncommittally, already turning your attention to doodling in your notebook instead of focusing on him.

Yaku’s lips pressed into a thin line. He had expected resistance, yes, but not this level of blatant stubbornness.

“You’re not even listening,” he stated flatly, setting his pen down with a soft click. “I can explain it as clearly as possible, but if you refuse to pay attention, there’s nothing I can do.”

You shrugged, an almost imperceptible smirk tugging at your lips, as if daring him to get frustrated.

Yaku’s amber eyes narrowed slightly, a quiet storm brewing behind their usual calm exterior. He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, and leaned forward just enough that his gaze pinned you in place.

“History isn’t just about memorizing dates,” he continued, voice a notch sharper now. “It’s about understanding cause and effect, how events shaped society. If you don’t focus, you’re missing the point entirely.”

You shifted in your chair, pretending to yawn, and Yaku’s patience—already stretched thin—snapped just enough for him to let out a low, frustrated sigh.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, not looking at you directly, but the sharpness in his tone made it clear he was irritated. “I don’t even know why I agreed to tutor you.”

Despite your stubbornness, there was a tension in the room that wasn’t unpleasant—it was the quiet friction of someone trying to make you understand, and you intentionally pushing back.

Yaku leaned back in his chair, staring at you for a long moment, as if weighing whether it was worth continuing the battle.

Finally, he picked up his pen again, flipping to a blank page in his notebook.

“Fine,” he said, tone clipped but controlled, “if you’re not going to listen, we’ll do this differently. I’ll ask questions, and you answer. If you’re wrong, you go back to the start.”

His eyes met yours with a warning glint, and you could feel the intensity behind that calm exterior—the quiet force that had made him both an excellent student and, now, an increasingly exasperated tutor.

You groaned softly, already realizing that your stubbornness might have backfired this time, but Yaku simply leaned in, a faint crease forming between his brows, waiting for you to take the first question seriously.

And somewhere underneath that annoyance, there was a quiet determination in him—he wouldn’t let your defiance stop him from making sure you understood history, no matter how stubborn you were.