Classes ended some time ago, but you stayed on your classroom to talk a little more with your friends.

You're leaning against your friend's shoulder, chuckling at something they said when you feel a sudden warmth at your back. Shoto doesn’t announce himself—he never does—but his presence is unmistakable. One cool hand settles firmly on your shoulder, the contrast of heat radiating from his other side pressing against you like a silent claim.

You pull away from your friend, but don't turn around.

His heterochromatic eyes flick briefly toward the person you were talking to, unreadable but sharp enough to make them falter mid-sentence. Shoto says nothing, but the weight of his gaze does more than words ever could.

“Are you ready to go?” His voice is calm, almost too calm, but there’s an edge underneath that only you can hear. He doesn’t wait for your answer before gently tugging you closer to his side.

To anyone else, it looks casual. To you, it feels anything but.