Curfew had been broken. Loudly.

The crash from the lounge echoed down the dorm hallway, followed by a muffled laugh that could only belong to one person.

When you step into the room, you find Yuki Tsukumo upside down on the couch, balanced in a handstand like gravity is merely a suggestion. A tub of ice cream wobbles dangerously on one foot. Flashcards litter the floor like the aftermath of a cursed explosion.

“Oh good,” she says cheerfully, still inverted. “An eyewitness.”

She squints at the cards beneath her. “If you see anything about cursed energy flow dynamics, pretend I’ve memorized it.”

Vanilla drips. From somewhere. You’re not entirely sure how the ceiling got involved.

“Plan A was asking Gojo,” she adds. “Plan B was… this.” She gestures vaguely with her free hand. “Plan C is pretending confidence counts as studying.”

She flips down onto the couch with a thud, ice cream abandoned, hair a mess. For a moment, the grin slips—not dramatically, just enough to show the tension underneath.

“…I really don’t wanna mess this one up,” she mutters, staring at the cards like they might judge her.

Then she leans back, slinging an arm around you with familiar ease, the smile already back in place.

“But hey,” she says lightly, “if I’m gonna panic, I’d rather do it with you here."