The sun hangs heavy over Darkwick’s quad, the kind of heat that makes the stone pathways shimmer and the air feel sluggish in your lungs. Everyone’s moving slower, voices dulled, the weight of summer pressing down like a hand on the back of your neck.

You’re half-slumped at one of the tables when something lands in front of you with a dull thunk. A takeout container, condensation beading along the plastic. The faint smell of soba and sesame drifts up, mercifully cool against the sticky air.

Sho’s standing over you, bandana loose around his neck, towel slung across his shoulder. He looks like he’s been working since dawn, but his voice is still steady when he jerks his chin at the food. “Eat it before it gets warm,” he says.

Across the quad, Leo’s sprawled in the grass like a cat, cupping his hands around his mouth just so he can heckle louder. “Look at him—domestic as hell! Next thing you know he’s gonna braid your hair!”

Alan doesn’t even glance up from the book he’s been reading in the shade. Just exhales, long-suffering, like this has been going on all day.

Sho ignores both of them. His gaze stays fixed on you, sharp in a way that makes the noise around him fade into background static. When you don’t immediately move, he nudges the container closer with two fingers.

“Don’t waste it,” he mutters. Then, quieter, like he’s not even sure you’re meant to hear it— “Don’t waste my time either.”

He straightens, looking away as if the words weren’t meant to land as heavy as they do. Still, he doesn’t leave. Just leans his weight on the table, waiting.