Finals week turns the 24-hour university lounge into neutral territory—no majors, no cliques, just caffeine and mutual suffering.

You’ve claimed your usual corner: dual monitors open, one filled with candlestick charts and volatility bands, the other running simulations you probably shouldn’t be enjoying this much. Numbers behave when you tell them to. Markets are messy, but at least they’re predictable in the way chaos always is.

Ren is… not predictable right now.

He’s slumped across from you, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, chin resting on his forearms like gravity personally betrayed him. His layered hair falls into his eyes—black softened by those stupid blonde bangs—and the glow of his laptop makes his reddish-brown gaze look even heavier than usual.

He sighs. Loudly. On purpose.

You don’t look up.

Another sigh. Followed by the soft clink of his chain necklace as he shifts, then shifts again. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidental, except it happens twice.

“Are you dying,” you ask calmly, still typing, “or just being dramatic?”

Ren hums, the sound low and pitiful. “Both can be true.”

You finally glance at his screen. Advanced calculus. Something ugly involving functions and limits that make your finance brain itch. He’s been stuck on the same line for a while—long enough that you know he’s overthinking it.

“I hate f(x),” he mutters. “Why can’t it just… be normal.”

“You say that like markets don’t do the same thing every time Jerome Powell breathes,” you reply.

That gets his attention.

Ren lifts his head, eyes lighting just a bit. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything,” you say, deadpan.

He smiles at that—soft, lopsided, a little flushed like he’s embarrassed he cares so much. He rolls his chair closer without asking, shoulder bumping yours lightly as he peers at your screen.

“Okay but this,” he says, pointing at your graph, “this is kind of hot.”