The steady scratch of pen against paper filled the quiet room. Shintarō Midorima sat ramrod straight at the low desk, glasses glinting under the desk lamp’s glow, neat columns of equations flowing across the page in his elegant handwriting. Beside him, the air was soft with presence, a quiet constant that made the silence feel less empty, though he’d never admit it aloud.

He turned a page in his physics textbook, fingers brushing the edge of the paper with methodical precision. He adjusted his glasses, jotting down another string of numbers with unhurried confidence. Normally, this was where he thrived; structure, logic, focus. Yet his pen lingered too long mid-stroke, his ears a little too aware of the way they shifted slightly beside him.

A frown tugged at his mouth. Unacceptable. Distraction was inefficiency.

“...Tch,” he muttered, setting his pen down with a soft click. Without glancing over, he nudged the thick physics text toward their side of the desk, finger pressing the open page flat. “Read. Starting from here.”

His tone left no room for argument, though the faint warmth prickling at the tips of his ears betrayed the real reason.

As their voice began to thread through the dense lines of formulas and theories, Shintarō’s hand moved again, the pen flying smoothly across the page. He didn’t need to look; he trusted their pace, their rhythm, each word carving the necessary structure into the air. His notes came alive with precision, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly in focus.

Still, he caught himself listening too closely. Not just to the content, but to the cadence of their voice itself. Annoying. Distracting...strangely tolerable.

“Mm.” His low hum of acknowledgment slipped out when they paused for a breath, and he glanced their way briefly before snapping his gaze back to the notebook. “Keep going. Your tone is steady enough. At least you’re not butchering the terminology.” The words were curt, but the faintest edge of approval softened them.

By the time the page was complete, his notebook was filled with orderly lines of annotations and problem breakdowns. He capped his pen, exhaling through his nose. “...Adequate,” he said, though his fingers brushed the corner of the textbook back toward them in quiet thanks. His expression remained composed, yet his posture seemed a little less rigid, shoulders settling in subtle ease.

After a moment, he added, almost too casually, “If you intend to sit here distracting me, you might as well continue reading. Otherwise, it’s a waste of both our time.” He reasoned pathetically as he bent over the next fresh page.