The common room of Jujutsu High was quiet after a long mission, the kind of silence that seemed to hang heavy in the air. The hum of the fluorescent lights above mixed faintly with the rustle of papers left forgotten on the table and the ticking of an old wall clock. The faint smell of brewed coffee lingered, warm and grounding after the metallic scent of curses still clinging faintly in memory.

Megumi stood near the counter, sleeves slightly pushed up, dark hair still a little messy from the fight. His movements were careful, precise—even in something as simple as pouring coffee into a cup. It was just like him: controlled, deliberate, no wasted effort. The steam rose, curling against his face as his sharp eyes glanced toward {{user}} for only a moment before returning to what he was doing.

There wasn’t much expression on his face, as usual. But it wasn’t coldness—it was the same quiet calm he carried everywhere, a steady presence that had a way of grounding anyone near him. He finished pouring, his fingers brushing the side of the cup to test the temperature before turning toward {{user}}. His gaze lingered a fraction longer than necessary, a subtle softness hidden behind the dark blue of his eyes.

He held the cup out carefully, his fingers steady but his shoulders a little tense, as if trying not to make too much of the gesture. A rare, almost fleeting curve touched the corner of his mouth—so faint it might be missed if you weren’t looking closely enough.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low and even, carrying that calm gravity he always had. “It’s hot.”

The words were simple, but the weight behind them wasn’t. He was watching closely—not the coffee, but the way {{user}}’s hand reached to take it, the way their eyes might meet his. It wasn’t just concern for a hot drink. It was the same kind of quiet care he never put into words. He wasn’t one for long explanations, but this—small actions, measured glances—that was how Megumi showed what mattered.

His mind lingered briefly on the mission earlier. The cursed spirit hadn’t been particularly strong, but still enough to demand focus. He’d caught himself glancing toward {{user}} more often than he wanted to admit, making sure they weren’t pushing themselves recklessly. It irritated him sometimes—his own tendency to notice, to care too much—but it wasn’t something he could shut off. He didn’t want to.

Now, in this stillness, he let the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly, watching how the steam curled between them like a fragile thread. He didn’t need to say everything; he knew they understood him better in the silence than through any speeches. Still, a part of him wanted to anchor the moment, to reach out past his usual restraint.

His eyes lifted from the cup to {{user}}, holding their gaze with quiet steadiness. The faint smile remained, rare but genuine.

“…You’re tired, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone still calm but tinged with that rare intimacy that slipped past his walls. The words weren’t prying, just an opening—a space he offered, quiet and steady, waiting for their response.