The library was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional scrape of chair legs against the floor. Golden lamplight spilled across the long wooden table where you and Tsukishima sat, textbooks open, pens scattered in neat disarray, few ripped pages here and then and empty water bottles.

Outside, the campus was cloaked in silence, streets dim and still beneath the weight of exam season.

It was late–later than you had promised yourself—but the looming stack of notes, unfinished questions, and empty exam papers in front of you left little room for rest.

Tsukishima, of course, seemed unaffected by the hour. He sat across from you, posture straight, blonde hair catching the lamplight in muted streaks of gold. His glasses framed sharp eyes that skimmed effortlessly across pages of formulas. His movements were precise, controlled—highlighted in clean strokes, flipped pages with quiet purpose.

If fatigue tugged at him, he didn’t show it.

You, on the other hand, were fading away faster. Words began to blur into meaningless lines, numbers danced on the page like static. You blinked hard, trying to push through the haze, but your pen had already started scribbling all the wrong answers. Tsukishima noticed—it was impossible for him not to. His gaze flicked up from his notes, lingering on the crease between your brows, the low slump of your shoulders.

When you stumbled through another question with the wrong formula entirely, he let out a sharp exhale, setting his pen down. And without a word, he slid his notebook across the table, pages filled with neat, structured notes that could probably save your life right now.

“Here,” he said, tone flat but edged with slight annoyance. Maybe even concern—buried too deep for him to admit out loud.

You stared at his notebook like it was a lifeline, but stubbornness had its claws on you. “I’m fine,” you murmured, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I can figure it out. Don’t worry.”

And when the clock ticked past midnight, Tsukishima stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The night air outside was crisp, the streets washed in pale moonlight. Your footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, a soft rhythm filling in the stillness between the two of you.

And halfway to your place, his voice broke the silence—muted, almost like he was speaking to himself. “You’ll fail if you keep pushing yourself like that.” His hands were buried deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched ever so slightly against the cold.

“And I don’t feel like listening to you complain about your grades later.”

You bit back a laugh, because you knew what that really meant. He cared—he just didn’t know how to make it sound gentle. Sweet. Reassuring. So you didn’t argue. You allowed the silence to settle back in, filled only by the crunch of gravel underfoot.

And the next day, you weren’t even entirely too surprised to find him already there, at your usual spot before you even arrived—headphones in, tapping his pen against his notebook like he had been waiting for you.

But what did surprise you was the small bag sitting on the edge of the table. And inside? All of your favourite snacks. Including your favourite drinks.

You raised an eyebrow at him, and he didn’t look up at you—obviously.

“What?” he muttered, flipping a page in his book like it owed him money. “You’re useless when you’re starving. So eat.”

The warmth that flourished in your chest had nothing to do with the coffee in your hand. You sat down, tearing into the snacks with a quiet smile, and for a moment, the weight of exams didn’t feel so crushing—so suffocating.

Tsukishima didn’t say anything else, but his hand brushed yours when he slid an extra pen towards you, and this time—you didn’t refuse his help.

And maybe—just maybe—that was his version of a promise.