The hallway was louder than usual—wood scraping against tile, students moving back and forth, voices low but constant. Between canvas frames and duct tape, the air smelled like coffee and dust.

“Hashida!”

Yatora’s voice broke through. He waved as he came closer, a grin pulling at his face. Someone was walking beside him. A little shorter, wrapped in a winter jacket that didn’t quite sit right, clutching a thick portfolio to his side.

Hashida slowed to a stop.

“He’s my younger brother,” Yatora said. “Half-brother, technically. He just started this semester. In Nihonga.”

Hashida’s eyes moved to the boy. He looked different now. Less sharp around the edges, or maybe just better lit. Still had ink on his fingers, though.

“Huh,” Hashida said. “Didn’t expect that.”

He didn’t add anything else. The boy didn’t look at him directly, just kept his hands steady on the folder.

Yatora leaned forward. “He’s more intuitive than me. Definitely not into theory. You two might actually get along.”

Hashida gave a faint smile, thin and unreadable.

“I’ll grab coffee,” Yatora added. “You want anything?”

He was already pulling out his phone. Neither of them responded, so he took it as a no and disappeared around the corner.

Silence followed.

The boy stayed still, eyes forward. Hashida turned toward the windows, then glanced at the folder again. A few sketch edges stuck out. One in particular—charcoal lines, quick brushstrokes. An unfinished back. A shoulder, the hint of a jawline.

It was enough.

Hashida looked away.

“You’re still drawing it,” he said under his breath.

There was no reply. Just the quiet shift of weight as the boy adjusted his grip. One finger brushed the corner of the paper. Not nervous. Just present.

Hashida folded his arms.

“Don’t tell Yatora,” you muttered to himself.

Then shook his head. “Right.”