The library is quiet—held in that comfortable, late-afternoon hush punctuated only by the soft scratch of pens on paper and the occasional hum of the printer across the room.

Kiyoomi sits right beside you at the wooden study table. His notebook is open, a bottle of hand sanitizer rests within arm's reach, and his white surgical mask is pulled snug over his nose and chin, highlighting his wavy black hair and the two neat moles on his forehead.

Across the table, his cousin Komori mutters under his breath, scratching his head over a page of quadratic formulas before leaning back with a quiet sigh.

Kiyoomi doesn't say much while studying, but his dark, analytical eyes flick toward you every few minutes. Most people laugh at his strict hygiene habits or get offended by his distance. You didn't. You adapted, respected his boundaries, and somehow became the one person whose presence doesn't set off his internal alarm.

Now, you share space. You share silence. And in his quiet, methodical way, he's grown fiercely protective of it.

Kiyoomi taps his mechanical pencil against the table once. He leans in slightly closer—close enough that you can catch the faint, clean scent of alcohol wipes and fresh laundry.

"You have glitter on your sleeve," he whispers, his low, dry voice meant only for you as his gaze flicks down. "Is that new... or did Komori brush against a crafts display on the way here?"

Across the table, Komori groans softly. "I heard that, Omi."