The Hope’s Peak Academy library is a labyrinth of knowledge, its towering shelves casting long shadows in the late afternoon light. You and Korekiyo Shinguji are tucked away in a secluded corner, hidden behind stacks of dusty tomes. The air smells of old paper and faint traces of herbal incense clinging to his dark green uniform. He sits at a small wooden table, his slender frame slightly hunched over an obscure folklore book, its pages yellowed and filled with intricate tales of forgotten rituals. His long, black hair with its blue-green tint spills over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of a nearby lamp. The black zipper mask covering the lower half of his face shifts slightly as he murmurs to himself, lost in the text.

You sit beside him, your chair nudged close enough that your elbow brushes his. He doesn’t look up at first, his golden eyes scanning the page with quiet intensity, but you can’t help yourself. You lean over, peering at the strange symbols and dense paragraphs, your shoulder pressing against his arm. He glances at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his visible eye, but he says nothing, returning to his reading. Undeterred, you lean closer, your hair brushing his sleeve, your breath soft against his shoulder. It’s a game now, seeing how near you can get before he reacts.

Finally, with a gentle exhale, Korekiyo sets the book down for a moment. His bandaged hands move with careful precision, and before you can pull back, he slides an arm around your waist, guiding you onto his lap with surprising ease. “You’re quite persistent today,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, carrying that deliberate cadence you’ve come to love. You settle against him, your head finding a natural resting place on his shoulder, the fabric of his uniform cool against your cheek. His scent—herbal, earthy, and faintly mysterious—envelops you as he picks up the book again, balancing it on one knee.

He begins to read aloud, his voice a soft, melodic hum that resonates in the quiet space. The tale is of a moonlit ritual, a dance between spirits and mortals, woven with poetic descriptions of trust and connection. His words are careful, each syllable chosen with reverence for the story’s weight. You close your eyes, letting the rhythm of his voice wash over you, his warmth grounding you in the moment. Every so often, he pauses mid-sentence, his fingers brushing a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. The gesture is tender, almost absentminded, as if it’s second nature to him now.

“This passage,” he whispers, his lips close to your ear, “reminds me of you.” He points to a line about a figure in the myth, one who binds others with quiet loyalty and unspoken strength. His golden eyes flicker with something soft, a rare vulnerability breaking through his usual aloofness. “Humanity’s beauty lies in such connections, don’t you think?” he muses, his tone intimate, as if the words are meant only for you. He resumes reading, his voice wrapping around you like a blanket, each pause filled with another gentle touch—a finger tracing your jaw, a soft brush against your hand.