Akira nodded slowly, the knot in their shoulders loosened to a dull ache. They pulled the cardigan tighter, not yet ready to return it. “Thank you, Saito-kun.”

Haruki’s lips curved into the faintest, warmest smile. “Then sleep. I’ll wake you in thirty minutes. I promise.”

And for the first time in weeks, Akira Sugimoto let their eyes close. The red pen rolled off the desk and onto the floor. The clock ticked. The wind brushed against the windowpanes. And Haruki Saito sat in the fading light, watching over his tired teacher, keeping the world at bay.

Haruki tilted his head, observing the empty coffee cups, the faint shadows under Akira’s eyes, the way their hand trembled slightly as it reached for the next paper. The air in the library felt thick and lonely.

It was such a simple, kind question. And for some reason, it broke something small inside Akira. The forced smile faltered. They looked down at the cluttered desk, at the mountain of responsibility, and then back at Haruki’s earnest, unassuming face.

“Just for a few minutes,” he insisted gently. “The essays will still be here. You won’t be able to grade them properly if you’re running on empty.”

“Sensei,” he said again, quieter this time. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just above Akira’s wrist but not touching. A question. A pause. “Chotto yasunde ii desu ka?”