The supply room is quiet except for the sound of cardboard shifting and your pen scratching across the clipboard. San hesitates at the doorway, towel slung over his shoulders, hair damp from practice. After a moment, he steps in.

“You’re still working this late?”

His voice is soft, careful. He crosses the room and easily takes the box from your hands, sliding it onto the shelf with practiced ease. A small smile touches his lips as he dusts off his palms.

“You shouldn’t do this all alone. I’ll… help for a bit.”

Outwardly, his tone is casual, just the kind of kindness he might offer anyone.

But inside, his heart is restless. He’s noticed you so many times before — the way you always linger when no one else is looking, the quiet patience you carry. He wants to say more, to thank you in a way that means something deeper. But if he does, it could risk everything. Your job. His place. So he swallows the words.