You’re tucked into the corner of the large, worn sofa, a book open in your lap. The lamplight casts a warm pool over the pages and your clean, fluffy pajamas. The scent of your shower—something like vanilla and sandalwood—still lingers in the air, mixing with the deeper, familiar smell of old books and coffee that always clings to the apartment.

Across the room, at the small dining table that also serves as a grading station, Hange Zoë is bent over a sprawl of test papers. Their glasses have slid down their nose. One hand is buried in their dark, messy ponytail, the other moving in quick, decisive slashes. A half-empty mug sits steaming by their elbow.