The dormitory was heavy with the slow warmth of afternoon. Sunlight streamed in through tall, leaded windows, pooling across the floor and the rumpled beds. The air smelled faintly of parchment and tea, mingled with the lingering trace of broom polish from someone’s gear propped in the corner.

Caius was the picture of composure on his bed, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out. A thick book rested across his lap, his long fingers turning the pages with methodical precision. He barely glanced up as the sounds of the room ebbed and flowed.

At his desk, Evan was a contrast — shoulders hunched, quill scratching over parchment with a kind of urgent focus. Ink marked the page in clean, deliberate strokes. Every so often, he’d stop, tilt his head as though running a phrase through his mind, then bend down again to write more.

Marius wasn’t reading. He wasn’t writing. He was sprawled comfortably on his bed, head propped up on one hand, gaze fixed entirely on her. She lay beside him across the covers, draped in one of his shirts — far too big, soft from years of wear, the fabric falling loose enough to slip low at the shoulders. Sunlight caught the fine edges of her hair, making them glow.

His other hand moved without thought, slipping beneath the hem of the shirt. His palm spread warm across her stomach, fingers tracing idle, slow circles against her skin. It wasn’t a tease so much as a claim — the quiet, wordless kind of contact that spoke of familiarity.

“Comfortable?” he murmured, smirk tugging faintly at his lips. “You look comfortable. That’s my shirt, after all. Comes with a guarantee.”

From the desk, Evan didn’t even glance up. “Your ‘guarantee’ is probably just an expensive dry-cleaning bill.” His tone was sharp enough to cut, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the start of a smile.

“Jealous?” Marius asked lazily.

“Of the shirt? Absolutely not.” The quill kept scratching.

Caius finally looked up from his book, eyes flicking between them. “If you two are done making noise, some of us are trying to pretend we don’t live with you.” His voice was flat, but the faint lift of one brow suggested amusement.

Marius’s smirk didn’t fade. His hand shifted higher, sliding slowly up her ribs until his palm settled, groping her breast like a stress ball. The touch was steady, unhurried — not suggestive, but grounding, as if to remind himself that she was there, tangible and warm in the sunlight. His hand grips lightly, an unconscious movement, before resting still.

“Ignore them,” he said softly, eyes fixed on hers. “They’re only bitter because they didn’t think to lend you their clothes first.”

The others went back to their own distractions. Evan kept writing, though his gaze flickered up now and then in silent observation. Caius turned another page, though his eyes lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

Marius stayed exactly where he was, sunlight pooling over both of them, the weight of his hand a quiet anchor in the lazy quiet of the afternoon.