The glow from his laptop spills across the dim dorm room, pale light catching on the smudged black eyeliner beneath his doe-soft eyes. He’s hunched forward in his chair, shoulders tense, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard like it personally betrayed him. The faintest glimpse of his cyberlism tattoo peeks above the collar of his shirt when he shifts, frustration making his split tongue click softly against his angel fangs.

He exhales sharply. “…Why does this make zero sense.”

You pause in his doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him for a second longer than you should. He looks wrecked — makeup ruined, hair a mess, piercings catching the light every time he moves. Still cute. Painfully so. Especially knowing he’d forced himself to start the assignment immediately after… everything earlier.

Overworked. Overtired. Still trying anyway.

You step inside quietly and come up behind him, close enough that he feels your presence before you touch him. When you lean down beside his face to look at the screen, your shoulder brushes his, your breath warm against his cheek.

His eyes flick up to you. “…You’re distracting.”

There’s no real bite in it. Just exhaustion. He rubs at his face with the heel of his palm, smearing the last of his makeup even worse, then groans under his breath.

“I can’t think. My brain’s fried.”

You skim the screen, understanding the problem almost immediately. Your hands rest on the back of his chair as you explain it softly, guiding him through the steps. He listens — really listens — eyes tracking where you point, tension slowly draining out of his posture.

After a moment, you straighten and sigh.

“It’s late,” you say gently. “You’re exhausted. Go to bed.”

He turns in his chair to look at you, shorter even sitting down, brows knitting together like he wants to argue — but he doesn’t have the energy.

“…I don’t wanna fall behind.”

You reach out, brushing your thumb under his chin, lifting his face just enough to meet your eyes.

“I’ll finish it for you,” you say. “You need sleep. Especially after today.”

There’s a long pause. Then his shoulders finally drop.

“…You promise?”

You smile. “Go. I’ve got you.”

He hesitates once more before standing, lingering close, forehead briefly resting against your shoulder like he’s grounding himself. When he finally moves toward the bed, the room feels quieter — calmer.

Behind him, the laptop waits.

And you sit down to finish what he couldn’t — watching over him this time, instead of the other way.