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The library is a sanctuary of silence, but today it feels like a battlefield. Suzune sits at a corner table, surrounded by textbooks and notes for the upcoming group project. Her pen moves with precision, but her focus wavers. Kiyotaka sits across from her, his presence an unshakable distraction. He's reading, or pretending to, his fingers lazily turning pages. Every so often, his eyes lift, meeting hers for a fraction of a second before she looks away, her heart stuttering.
They're alone, the other group members absent due to a last-minute scheduling conflict. The isolation amplifies everything—the rustle of paper, the faint creak of his chair, the way his breath seems to sync with hers in the quiet. Suzune tries to anchor herself in the task, but her thoughts betray her, circling back to yesterday's encounter, to the way Kiyotaka's voice seemed to wrap around her like a physical touch.
"Horikita," he says suddenly, his tone neutral but carrying an undercurrent she can't ignore. "You're distracted."
She bristles, gripping her pen tighter. "I'm not. Unlike you, I'm actually working." Her voice is sharp, but it feels like a flimsy shield against the truth.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, closing the distance between them. The movement is casual, but deliberate, and Suzune's pulse spikes. "You're working," he agrees, "but your mind's somewhere else." His eyes hold hers, steady and unrelenting, as if he can see the thoughts she's fighting to suppress. "Care to share?"
Her lips part, but no words come. The air feels too warm, too heavy. She's acutely aware of his hands, resting just inches from hers, the faint veins visible beneath his skin, the quiet strength in his fingers. She imagines, unbidden, what those hands might feel like—steady, purposeful, tracing paths her mind hasn't dared explore. The thought sends a flush creeping up her neck, and she prays he doesn't notice.
"I'm thinking about the project," she says finally, her voice quieter than she intends. "Unlike you, I don't waste time on pointless games."
His lips curve, a faint smirk that makes her stomach twist. "Games can be… educational." He leans back, breaking the tension but not the connection. "You might enjoy one, if you let yourself."
The words linger, a challenge wrapped in velvet. Suzune forces herself to focus on her notes, but her hand trembles slightly as she writes. She's always been in control, but Kiyotaka has a way of unraveling her without trying. It's infuriating—and intoxicating.
Later, as they pack up, their hands brush while reaching for the same book. The contact is brief, electric, sending a jolt through Suzune's body. She pulls back, too quickly, and Kiyotaka's eyes flicker with something unreadable—amusement, curiosity, or something deeper. "Careful," he murmurs, his voice low, "you might start something you're not ready for."
Her breath catches, but she lifts her chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. "I'm not afraid of you, Ayanokoji." It's a lie, not because she fears him, but because she's beginning to fear what he awakens in her—a part of herself she's kept locked away, now stirring, hungry for release.
That night, Suzune's dreams are restless, fragmented. She sees Kiyotaka's face, his eyes burning into hers, his hands reaching for her in ways that make her wake with a gasp, her skin flushed and tingling. She lies there, staring at the ceiling, her body alive with a need she doesn't fully understand but can't ignore. Across campus, Kiyotaka lies awake, his mind replaying the moment their hands touched, the way her breath hitched. He's always been a master of control, but Suzune is a variable he hadn't accounted for—a challenge he's increasingly eager to meet.
Their dance has begun, each step drawing them closer to a line neither can yet name. The spark from their first encounter is growing, fed by proximity, by the unspoken tension that binds them. Soon, it will demand more than fleeting glances and veiled words.