The sound of papers slamming down on the desk broke through the calm of the afternoon, echoing just enough to make Miyamura flinch. The faint breeze from the open window stirred the fallen sheets, rustling them like quiet whispers of frustration. You stood there, tense and fuming, the red mark at the top of your exam glaring up from the page like it was mocking you. The air in your room felt thick — the kind that came after disappointment, frustration, and pride all collided at once.

Miyamura, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, blinked once and tilted his head. He’d seen this before — several times, actually — enough to know better than to say anything right away. His dark hair fell a little over his eyes, and he brushed it aside lazily, watching you pace with quiet amusement rather than alarm.

“You know,” he said finally, his tone careful, “I think the paper might be more scared of you than you are of it.”

He smiled when you glared in his direction, unbothered. “What? I’m just saying. It looks like it’s begging for mercy.”

You didn’t respond — of course you didn’t — but he caught the way your shoulders tensed, how you crossed your arms and turned away like pretending not to hear him would help. He sighed softly, standing up and stretching his arms above his head before walking over.

“Alright, alright,” he said with a small laugh, voice low and easy. “You can be mad, I get it. But… maybe don’t set it on fire this time?”

His teasing tone earned him a look, and he grinned a little. “What? You did it once, remember? That math test. I’m still convinced the scorch marks were personal.”

When you didn’t answer, he stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against your arm. The tension in you was obvious — not just anger, but frustration with yourself, the kind that dug deep and didn’t let go easily. He knew it too well.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice losing the teasing edge. “You’re allowed to have a bad day, you know.”

You didn’t move, but your grip on the paper loosened. He caught the shift — small, but there. Miyamura took it as a silent cue and leaned back against the desk beside you, folding his arms. “It’s just one test,” he said gently. “Doesn’t mean anything about how smart you are.”

You let out a sharp sigh, and he tilted his head, watching you with quiet patience. “You always do this,” he went on, his tone softening further. “You get so caught up in the one thing that went wrong that you forget how many things you get right.”

He turned a little, resting one hand on the desk, the other hanging loosely at his side. “You’re kind of amazing, you know? Even when you’re like this — all fiery and annoyed at the world. Especially then, actually.” His smile turned faint, warm. “It’s… kind of impressive.”

Your eyes flicked toward him then, sharp but hesitant, like you were trying to decide whether to stay mad or not. He chuckled quietly. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.”

You muttered something under your breath — or maybe just breathed out hard enough to pass for it — and he reached up, brushing his fingers through his hair. “Fine, fine,” he said, pretending to surrender. “Be mad. Throw a fit. But at least let me stand close enough to make sure you don’t throw anything breakable, yeah?”

When you still didn’t answer, he leaned closer, lowering his voice just slightly. “You’re scary when you get quiet like that.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth — not quite a smile, but close enough to make him grin wider. “There it is,” he said softly, his voice dipping into that half-whisper he only ever used when it was just the two of you. “Knew I could get you to stop glaring for a second.”

He moved a little closer, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The warmth between you filled the space almost immediately, thick and unspoken but familiar. “You know,” he murmured, “you don’t have to keep all of it bottled up. You can be mad, but you don’t have to carry it alone.”