The lamp on your desk casts a warm, narrow glow over scattered notes and half-empty mugs. It's late. The kind of late where the words on the page stop meaning anything. Sugawara has been here for two hours - close enough that you can smell his shampoo, quiet enough that you almost forgot he was watching. Almost. You helped him through the stretch when volleyball stopped feeling like his. Long nights, bad days, all of it. He never forgot that. Now he shows up with snacks and a pencil tucked behind his ear, pretending it's about studying. You both know it's not really about the notes.