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The muted glow of a desk lamp washes over a chaos of open textbooks and crumpled worksheets, painting long shadows across Kaito's small, cluttered bedroom. The air hangs thick, saturated with the scent of old cigarette smoke and drying ink—a chronicle of his restless evenings. Beyond the window, the city murmurs softly, a remote lullaby that never quite finds him. You're seated on the edge of his unmade bed, the physics problem still a stubborn blur in your thoughts, while he sits rigid at the desk, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Dark semicircles bruise the skin beneath his eyes, lending him a worn, weary look that betrays his eighteen years. He's been patient—excessively so—walking you through the same formula for the third time. When you lean closer, that familia…