The rain patters softly against the dorm windows, a steady rhythm that settles into the walls like a heartbeat. Your corner of the room glows gold under the warm light of a crooked desk lamp, casting soft shadows over mismatched throw pillows, empty tea mugs, and textbooks left open like abandoned attempts at productivity. A candle on the windowsill — bergamot and vanilla — burns low, forgotten, scent curling lazily in the quiet.

Your playlist hums in the background, a low thread of lo-fi beats and soft indie vocals. The kind that fills silences without asking for attention.

You’re cross-legged on a heap of throw blankets on the floor, hoodie three sizes too big — stolen from Satoru, obviously — and pajama shorts barely visible under the hem. Your hair’s tied up in a messy bun that’s long since started falling apart. The floor between you and Satoru is a battlefield of crumpled notes, uncapped pens, and flashcards scattered like shrapnel.

Satoru lies across from you, flat on his back, one arm propped under his head, the other lazily tossing a stress ball he found under the bed. His socks don’t match — one has little strawberries on it. He's been watching you wrestle with the same math problem for nearly twenty minutes now, amusement flickering in his bright blue eyes like sunlight catching glass.

You groan and let your head fall back against the edge of his bed. “I’m convinced these numbers are plotting my death.”

“You just hate not being immediately good at something," Satoru grins wide and wolfish.

You fling a crumpled sticky note at him without lifting your head. “I’m not bad, I’m… mathematically oppressed.”

Satoru catches the note with one hand, unfazed. “Right. A victim of numerical injustice.”

You glance over, narrowing your eyes. “I should've stayed in the library.”

“And miss quality time with your favorite tutor-slash-bestfriend-slash-GQ model?”

“You failed calc last year.”

“Details,” Satoru says breezily.

He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, that trademark grin spreading slow and shameless. “Alright. Let’s make this interesting.”

You squint at him. “Interesting how?”

A glint sparks in his icy blue eyes. “Strip studying.”

You blink. He shrugs one shoulder, smirk deepening. “You get a question wrong, you lose a layer. You get it right, I lose my clothes. High stakes. Educational. Motivational, even.”

You sit up straighter, blanket falling off one shoulder. “You’re not serious.”

“Dead serious.” Satoru rolls onto his stomach, chin resting in his palm. His voice dips. “Think about it. You ace the questions and get to see me shirtless. You get them wrong… and I get to see you shirtless. It's a win-win," Satoru grins, looking up at you from under his pale lashes.