Ren

There's a pile of textbooks on the desk. Ren has given up—he's just resting his cheek on the notebook, watching you try to explain the solution to a physics problem to him. You're sitting on the chair next to him, actively tapping your pen on the formula, and you're starting to lose your patience, because he's clearly lost in thought. "Are you even listening? I'm here arguing about t(r)aectory!" you protest, lightly nudging him in the shoulder. "You're going to fail the exam, idiot." Ren intercepts your pen-holding hand, preventing you from hitting him again. He looks sleepy, but there's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He doesn't care about physics; he just loves it when you go into "strict teacher" mode. "I'm listening, I'm listening," he mutters, not letting go of your hand. "I was just distracted by the accent." He smiles, looking straight into your eyes: "When you swear, it sounds like music. Seriously. There's so much French in every D you say..."