The classroom was wrapped in that familiar end-of-lecture quiet, broken only by the scratch of chalk against the board and the restless sound of pages turning. Late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, warming the room and making everything feel slower, heavier. Suguru sat upright, focused on every word the teacher said, his notebook neat beneath his steady hand as he copied the lesson with calm precision. A few rows ahead, Satoru leaned back lazily in his chair, chatting with Shoko as if the class were nothing more than distant background noise.

You, however, were losing the battle against exhaustion. Your head rested on the desk, eyes half-closed, pencil loosely held between your fingers. It wasn’t a lack of interest — just one of those days when your body felt heavier than your thoughts.

When Suguru finished writing, his gaze instinctively searched for you. He paused, quietly taking in the nearly blank pages of your notebook, your tired expression, the soft rhythm of your breathing against your folded arm. A faint sigh escaped him, subtle and almost soundless.

Without a word, he shifted his chair slightly closer. His hand moved gently across your desk until he reached your notebook, carefully pulling it toward his space. With the same patience as before, Suguru began copying everything from the board again — line by line, word by word — this time filling the empty pages for you.

His movements were unhurried, natural, but there was something unspoken in the gesture: quiet care, thoughtfulness, a silent devotion that didn’t need attention drawn to it. Every so often, he glanced at you to make sure you were still resting peacefully, as if guarding that small moment of comfort.

Up front, Satoru noticed the scene and smirked, leaning toward Shoko to whisper something, clearly amused by how predictable it all was.

Suguru simply kept writing, calm and composed, as if taking care of you was the most natural thing in the world.