The dining table had been surrendered to textbooks and rolled-up tracing sheets, the wood surface hidden under graphite smudges and eraser dust while your cat napped under the table. A lamp cast a warm, concentrated glow across the clutter, and in that circle of light sat Xinlong, sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows. He always carried himself with that quiet composure, like the mess around him didn’t touch him at all. His pen moved with a surety that made your shaky lines look like a child’s doodles. With every correction he drew, his wrist angled just so, his strokes precise enough to feel rehearsed. You found yourself following not only the marks he left behind, but the rhythm of his movements—the pause before he underlined a point, the faint press of his tongue against his cheek when he was deep in thought.

It was impossible not to notice his little habits when he was this close. The way he absentmindedly tapped his pen twice against the edge of the ruler before using it. The slight tilt of his head when he studied your draft, dark hair slipping into his eyes until he finally pushed it back with a practiced sweep of his hand. Even his sighs carried familiarity; not heavy with irritation, but soft, restrained—as though he knew he’d explained the concept before and still didn’t mind saying it again. Growing up next door had made you fluent in these details. You remembered how he used to stretch the same way during study sessions years ago, leaning back in his chair and rolling his shoulders before he dove into another problem set. You remembered evenings on the rooftop when he’d sketch the skyline faster than you could trace it, teasing you for always taking too long. The boy who used to laugh at your lopsided houses on paper now sat across from you, calmly dismantling the flaws in your designs, and somehow the familiarity was both grounding and quietly disarming.

“You’re still forcing symmetry where it doesn’t need to be,” Xinlong’s voice broke through your thoughts, calm and clipped in the way he explained things. He pointed at a corner of your plan, the pad of his finger pressing lightly against the page. “Real structures adapt. They’re not perfect—they’re balanced. Look at how this load path fails because you insisted on equal spacing.” He glanced up at you then, his gaze steady, expectant. When you didn’t respond immediately, his mouth curved into the faintest hint of a smirk, the kind you’d seen before when he caught you zoning out. “Are you even listening, or are you just memorizing my handwriting at this point?” His tone wasn’t sharp, but edged with teasing, and his eyes flicked knowingly toward the way your pencil had stilled in your hand.

You flushed, fumbling to realign your ruler. “I’m listening,” you muttered, though your voice lacked conviction. He only leaned back in his chair, stretching one arm over the backrest, his pen spinning once between his fingers before he caught it again effortlessly. That habit, too—you remembered it. He’d done it in classrooms, in libraries, anywhere he studied. It was a simple motion, but one that drew your eyes more often than you cared to admit. “Good,” he said finally, tone lighter now, though his gaze lingered on you just a beat longer before dropping back to your sketch. “Because I’m not redrawing it for you this time. Try again. Slowly. Visualize the frame, then commit.” His words were firm, but under the authority, there was something quieter—an unspoken trust that you’d rise to meet his standard.