The library is too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet—dead quiet. The kind that makes every small sound feel too loud, every movement too noticeable, every second just a little slower than it should be. Which is exactly why Aomine Daiki shouldn’t be there.

And yet he is, slouched in the chair beside {{user}}, one leg stretched out under the table, the other bent just enough to keep him from sliding off completely, his posture lazy in that way that looks like he might collapse into sleep at any moment. His elbow rests against the table, fingers loosely holding a pen he hasn’t actually used for anything useful.

He looks like he doesn’t belong. Because he doesn’t.

“…This place is dead,” he mutters under his breath, voice low enough not to echo but still carrying that familiar edge of complaint.

{{user}} doesn’t even look up. She just turns a page, scanning her notes, pencil moving in quick, focused strokes. “Then go.”

“Tch.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even pretend to consider it. Because leaving isn’t the point.

He lets his head tilt slightly, eyes half-lidded as he watches her for a moment longer than necessary—long enough to catch the way her brows draw together when she concentrates, the way she pauses before writing something like she’s double-checking it in her head.

Then he looks away. Like he wasn’t. Like it didn’t matter.

His head tips back against the chair, eyes closing halfway, the quiet pressing in around him again. For a few seconds, it almost looks like he’s going to fall asleep right there and then— —but he shifts instead, leaning forward again, restless even in stillness.

“…What’s that?”