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The campus is quiet under the weight of a late evening, the sky a deep indigo streaked with stars. Suzune walks toward the dorms, her steps quick, her mind a whirlwind. Since the rooftop, she and Kiyotaka have been caught in a fragile truce—stolen glances, brief touches, moments of silence that speak louder than words. But the tension is a live wire, sparking with every encounter, and she knows it's only a matter of time before it consumes them both.
She's almost at her building when she sees him, leaning against a lamppost, his silhouette sharp against the glow. He's waiting for her, and the realization sends a thrill through her, mingling with a flicker of fear. "Ayanokoji," she says, her voice steadier than she feels. "What are you doing here?"
He straightens, his eyes locking onto hers, intense and unyielding. "I needed to see you," he says, and there's a rawness in bucket list voice that makes her heart skip. He steps closer, and the air between them thickens, charged with the weight of everything unspoken.
"You shouldn't," she says, but her feet don't move, and her eyes betray her, lingering on the way his shirt clings to his frame, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. She's been fighting this pull, but it's like fighting gravity—inevitable, relentless.
"Neither should you," he counters, his voice low, and he's close now, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of his skin. "But here we are."
Her breath catches, and she's torn between retreating and diving headfirst into the abyss. "This is dangerous," she whispers, more to herself than to him, but he hears, and his hand lifts, brushing her cheek, his touch a spark against her skin.
"I know," he says, and then he's kissing her, not tentative like before, but fierce, hungry, as if he's been starving for her. She responds in kind, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, her body pressing against his. The kiss is a storm, all heat and need, and she feels herself unraveling, her control slipping away like sand through her fingers.
His hands roam, one sliding to the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Her lips part, and his tongue explores, drawing a soft moan from her that makes him growl, the sound vibrating through her. She's never felt this—desire so potent it drowns out everything else. Her hands slip beneath his shirt, tracing the hard planes of his abdomen, and his skin is warm, taut, alive under her touch. He shudders, and the power she has over him, even for a moment, is intoxicating.
He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing along her jaw, down her neck, and she gasps, her head tilting back as his teeth graze her pulse point. The sensation is electric, sending a rush of heat to her core, and she clings to him, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Kiyotaka," she breathes, his name a plea, a surrender, and he pauses, his breath hot against her skin.
"Say it again," he murmurs, his voice rough, and she does, her voice trembling but sure. "Kiyotaka." It's the first time she's said his name like this, stripped of pretense, and it's a key turning in a lock, opening something neither can close again.
He pulls back, his eyes dark, almost feral, but there's a tenderness there too, a vulnerability that shakes her. "Come with me," he says, and it's not a question. She nods, her rational mind screaming warnings, but her body, her heart, they're already his.
They end up in his dorm room, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them in a world of their own. The room is sparse, utilitarian, but it feels intimate, charged with their presence. He kisses her again, slower this time, but no less intense, and her hands explore, bolder now, tugging at his shirt. He helps her, pulling it off, and she's struck by the sight of him—lean muscle, scars she hadn't expected, a map of a life she's only beginning to understand.
Her fingers trace his chest, tentative at first, then surer, and he watches her, his gaze heavy with desire. "Suzune," he says, her name a reverent whisper, and it's her turn to unravel. She steps closer, her hands sliding to his waist, and he pulls her against him, his lips finding hers as his hands slip beneath her blouse, brushing the bare skin of her back. The contact is searing, and she arches into him, craving more, her body alive with a need she can't contain.
They move to the bed, a tangle of limbs and heat, and as his hands explore, peeling away layers of clothing, she feels no shame, only want. His touch is deliberate, worshipful, and when his fingers brush the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, she gasps, her body trembling with anticipation. "Tell me what you want," he says, his voice a low growl, and she's never been more vulnerable, more powerful, than in this moment.
"You," she says, the word a confession, a claim, and it's enough. They lose themselves in each other, the world outside fading until it's just them—skin against skin, breath against breath, a dance of desire that pushes them both to the edge.