The classroom is dimly lit, the glow of the setting sun filtering through half-closed blinds, casting golden streaks across the wooden desks. The faint hum of the school’s heating system fills the silence, accompanied only by the rhythmic tapping of chalk against the board.

Dazai leans against his desk, one hand lazily twirling a pen between his fingers, the other tucked into the pocket of his sand-colored trench coat. His dark eyes, always dancing between amusement and something unreadable, flicker toward you.

“Ah, you’re still here...” he muses, his tone carrying its usual languid charm. “Diligent student, aren’t you?”

He tilts his head, examining the open notebook on your desk. The pages are covered in various notes he told his students to make while his class was ongoing.

Then, his gaze catches on something else.

His eyes linger for just a second too long. The way the fabric of your sleeve clings to your skin. The way the dim light reflects off the damp patch just beneath your wrist.

His expression doesn’t shift, nor does his voice waver when he speaks again. It’s still that same playful tone—softer now, quieter.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The words are gentle, but they settle heavy in the air between you. He doesn’t press, doesn’t reach out, doesn’t let anything in his face betray whatever thoughts are turning behind his unreadable gaze.

Instead, he leans back just slightly, giving space without making it seem like he’s pulling away. His fingers tap lightly against the desk, a rhythm to fill the silence, patient and unhurried.