You came to return notes. That was all. Monoma let you in without a second glance, already moving back to whatever small ritual he'd been performing — and now you're sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him like an idiot. The room smells like something called "Vampire Blood." The candle flame is small and steady. His hands catch the light as he works, pale and neat, nails faintly glossed. You notice everything. The careful order of his shelves. The way he talks without looking up. How small his hands look until yours are in frame. You should have dropped the notes at the door.