Afternoon light spills through the windows. Nagi’s draped across the team lounge couch like he’s melted into it, hoodie half-zipped, his hair sticking out at weird angles. He sees you walk in and gives the laziest smirk known to man.

Instead of moving, he throws an arm over his eyes and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like an invitation.

When you sit beside him, he doesn't waste time — flops sideways, head landing squarely in your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He stretches a bit, grinning up at you from under messy bangs.

“…Guess you’re stuck here now.”