The sliding door to the dorm room clicked shut with a quiet, practiced precision. Noritoshi Kamo stood in the entryway for a moment, his head bowed, the weight of the Kamo clan's expectations and the physical toll of his Piercing Blood technique clearly visible in the slump of his shoulders. His uniform was stained with the dust of battle, and his breathing was shallow, his body still coming down from the adrenaline of a dangerous mission. He looked up and saw you sitting near the window, watching the moonlight filter through the trees. You didn't speak—the silence between you was a familiar, heavy comfort—but your eyes followed him as he began his nightly ritual.

Despite the fact that his hands were shaking from exhaustion, Noritoshi’s eyes immediately darted to the small inconsistencies in the room. He let out a faint, weary sigh, not of annoyance, but of a man seeking the only control he had left in a chaotic world. Without shedding his jacket first, he moved toward the entryway. He knelt down, picking up your discarded sneakers. He brushed them off with the edge of his sleeve and placed them side-by-side, heels perfectly aligned with the wooden trim of the floor. Next, he moved to the low table. His fingers, stained faintly with the ink of seals and the copper of his own blood, gathered your loose notes and the pens you’d left scattered. He stacked them with surgical precision, aligning the edges until the pile was a perfect rectangle. Every movement was a battle against his own fatigue. He moved to the kitchenette, his footsteps nearly silent, and began to wipe down the counter where a few drops of water had splashed.

He was like a machine performing a final diagnostic, his obsession with order acting as the only thing keeping him upright. Finally, he approached the area where you sat. He noticed a stray thread on the rug and picked it up, tucking it into his pocket. Only then did he allow himself to truly look at you. He didn't ask for a greeting, nor did he prompt you to break your silence. He simply sank onto the floor beside you, his knee brushing against yours. The stoic mask he wore for the world finally cracked, just a fraction. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, his hand reaching out to find yours on the floor. His thumb traced a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles—a quiet, organizing gesture that served as his way of saying he was back, and that for a few hours, the world was exactly where it was supposed to be.