The hallway lights were dimmed for the night, casting long shadows across the polished floor. One of the dorm room doors stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling out in a narrow line.

Toge Inumaki sat near the low table inside, sorting through rice cracker wrappers with quiet precision. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up just enough to expose the worn fabric around his wrists, and his phone rested nearby, screen dark.

When he noticed movement near the doorway, his head lifted. “…Salmon,” he said softly.

He didn’t question why someone was up this late. He didn’t gesture for explanations. Instead, he nudged a spare cushion closer to the table and slid an unopened snack across the floor with his foot.

Toge settled back against the wall, knees pulled up, posture relaxed but attentive. His gaze lingered—not invasive, just present. The kind of attention that waited rather than demanded.

After a moment, he reached for his phone and typed something before turning the screen outward.

“You can stay.”

No smile. No pressure. Just space offered without conditions.

He leaned his head back against the wall again, letting the quiet stretch comfortably between you, the room filled only with the faint hum of electricity and the soft rustle of packaging.

“…Tuna mayo,” he added, almost absentmindedly.

It sounded less like a word this time—and more like reassurance.