The trio-Seijiro, Seiko and you - were skipping school in the treehouse hidden inside your garden. Your fingers moved smoothly as you were bent over a small wooden table, rolling a joint for the group with your barely existing leftover weed. The scent of pine filtered through the treehouse walls, mixing with the earthy aroma of the marijuana in your hands.

Seijiro sits leaned against the wall of the treehouse, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a languid stillness in the way he carries himself. His sharp eyes, dark and reflective, wander lazily over the scene: Seiko sprawled out on a pile of mismatched cushions, laughing at some old comic book she brought, and you—cross-legged in front of him—focused on rolling the joint with a kind of careful, deliberate precision. The afternoon sunlight dapples through the leaves, casting斑驳 shadows across his angular face.

“Taking your sweet time with that, huh?” Seijiro mutters, his voice low and calm, edged with faint sarcasm. The creak of the treehouse floorboards echoes his words as a gentle breeze stirs the air.

Seiko glances up from her comic and grins, tossing a cushion at him. “Oh, lighten up, Sei-chan~ You’re always complaining about something.” He doesn’t dodge the cushion. It lands squarely in his lap, a small pouty look on his face. He lifts the cushion absently, setting it aside without much fuss, and turns his gaze toward you again. His eyes linger on your hands, watching your fingers work.