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The first light of dawn filters through the blinds of Kiyotaka's dorm room, casting soft stripes across the tangled sheets. Suzune lies beside him, her breathing slow and even, her body curled against his. The warmth of her skin, the faint scent of her hair, anchors him in a moment he never thought he'd crave. Her clothes are scattered across the floor, a silent testament to the night they've shared—a night that stripped away their defenses, leaving them raw, exposed, and irrevocably changed.
Kiyotaka's eyes trace her features, softened in sleep: the curve of her lips, the faint flush still lingering on her cheeks. He's never seen her like this—unguarded, vulnerable, and it stirs something in him, a protectiveness he hadn't known he possessed. His fingers brush a strand of hair from her face, and she stirs, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, they simply look at each other, the weight of what they've done settling between them like a fragile, unspoken promise.
"Good morning," he says, his voice low, and there's a tenderness in it that catches her off guard. She shifts, pulling the sheet closer, suddenly aware of her nakedness, of the intimacy of this moment. Her body aches in places she hadn't known could ache, a reminder of his touch, his lips, the way he'd unraveled her with a patience that bordered on reverence.
"Morning," she replies, her voice husky, and she sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest. The air feels different now, charged with a new kind of tension—not just desire, but the weight of what comes next. She's crossed a line she can't uncross, and while her body still hums with the memory of him, her mind races with questions. What does this mean? Who are they now?
He watches her, reading her thoughts as easily as he always has. "You're overthinking," he says, sitting up beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. The contact, even now, sends a shiver through her, and she hates how easily he affects her, how her body betrays her resolve.
"I'm not," she says, but her voice lacks conviction. She turns to face him, her eyes searching his. "This… what we did… it complicates everything."
He doesn't look away, his gaze steady, unflinching. "It was always complicated, Suzune. We just stopped pretending." His hand finds hers, his fingers intertwining with hers, and the gesture is so simple, so intimate, it steals her breath. "Do you regret it?"
The question hangs between them, heavy with implication. She thinks of the night—the way his hands mapped her body, the way his voice whispered her name like a prayer, the way she'd felt whole, alive, in a way she never had.
"No," she says finally, the word a quiet truth. "But I don't know what this makes us."
He leans closer, his lips brushing her temple, and she closes her eyes, savoring the warmth of him. "It makes us whatever we want," he murmurs, and the words are both a comfort and a challenge. He pulls back, his eyes dark with a mix of desire and something deeper, something she's not ready to name. "But we're not going back."
She nods, knowing he's right. The world outside this room waits, with its rules and expectations, but here, in this stolen moment, they're free to be something else—something undefined, but real.
They dress in silence, the act oddly intimate, and when they step outside, the campus feels different, as if it's shifted to accommodate the change in them. The day passes in a blur of classes and routine, but every glance they share is charged, a secret shared in plain sight. Suzune feels his presence like a pulse, constant and undeniable, and it both grounds her and sets her adrift.
That evening, they find themselves alone again, this time in the library, ostensibly to work on their project. But the books remain untouched, the air thick with unspoken need. He's sitting across from her, his fingers tapping idly on the table, and she's hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. When his foot brushes hers under the table, deliberate and slow, her breath catches, and she meets his gaze, finding the same hunger mirrored there.
"Suzune," he says, his voice a low rumble, and it's all the invitation she needs. She stands, rounding the table, and he pulls her onto his lap, his hands settling on her hips. The kiss that follows is slow, deliberate, a contrast to the urgency of the night before, but no less consuming. Her hands slide beneath his shirt, tracing the familiar planes of his chest, and he groans, his grip tightening.
They're careful, mindful of the library's quiet, but the restraint only heightens the intensity. His lips trail down her neck, his teeth grazing her collarbone, and she bites her lip to stifle a moan, her body arching against him. His hands explore, bolder now, slipping beneath her skirt, and the touch is electric, drawing a gasp from her. "Kiyotaka," she whispers, her voice trembling with need, and he responds with a kiss that feels like a vow.
They pull back before they lose themselves completely, breathless, their foreheads resting together. "We need to be careful," she says, but her hands are still on him, reluctant to let go.
"We will," he promises, but his eyes say something else—that caution is a losing battle, that this fire will burn through them both.
That night, Suzune lies in her own bed, her body still tingling from his touch, her mind a tangle of desire and doubt. She's falling, she knows it, but the fall feels like flying, and she's not sure she wants to stop. Kiyotaka, across campus, stares at the ceiling, his thoughts consumed by her—her taste, her touch, the way she's rewriting him from the inside out. He's never wanted anything, anyone, like this, and it's both a strength and a weakness he's still learning to navigate.
The abyss yawns before them, but they're already leaping, hand in hand.