Asahi’s desk was a battlefield of scattered notes, half-empty water bottles, and a single bento box that had somehow survived lunch untouched. The late afternoon sun slanted through his bedroom window, catching the dust motes drifting lazily between them.

Asahi's fingers drummed an absent rhythm against the physics textbook splayed open between you, the sound muffled by the thick layer of crumpled worksheets beneath it. "I think I’ve stared at this diagram so long it’s started blinking at me," he muttered, rubbing his temples with ink-smudged hands. You snorted, flipping your own notebook to a fresh page—only to find his hastily scribbled doodle of a volleyball mid-spike bleeding through from the sheet below.

"You're gonna give yourself a headache if you keep squinting like that," Asahi sighed, plucking a highlighter from the debris on his desk. He uncapped it with his teeth—a habit you'd teased him about for years—and dragged neon yellow across an equation you were pretty sure neither of you understood. “Maybe if we—no, wait—” His brow furrowed, and suddenly he was flipping pages backward, his bun coming loose as he shook his head. “Did we skip a whole chapter?”