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The classroom is stifling, the late spring humidity seeping through the windows despite the air conditioning. Suzune sits at her desk, her notes untouched, her mind a storm of conflicting impulses. Since the rain-soaked encounter with Kiyotaka, she's been on edge, her carefully constructed walls crumbling under the weight of her own desires. Every glance in his direction feels like a betrayal of her self-control, yet she can't stop. He's there, at the back of the room, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes—those damn eyes—catch hers with an intensity that makes her chest tighten.
The teacher dismisses the class early, and the room empties quickly, students eager to escape the oppressive heat. Suzune lingers, gathering her things with deliberate slowness, as if delaying the inevitable. Kiyotaka, predictably, stays behind. He rises, his movements silent, and approaches her desk. The air shifts, heavy with the weight of their unspoken tension.
"You've been avoiding me," he says, his voice low, cutting through the hum of the air conditioner. He's close, too close, leaning against the desk beside hers, his presence filling the space.
"I've been busy," she replies, her tone clipped, but her hands betray her, fumbling with her notebook. She hates how his proximity unravels her, how the faintest brush of his sleeve against her arm sends a spark through her nerves.
"Busy," he repeats, and there's a trace of mockery in his voice, softened by something else—something raw. "Or running?"
Her eyes snap to his, defiance flaring. "I don't run from anything, Ayanokoji." But the words feel like a lie, and his gaze calls her bluff, steady and unrelenting. He shifts, his hand resting on the desk, inches from hers, and the space between them crackles with possibility.
"Then stop," he says, his voice quieter now, almost a plea. "Stop pretending you don't feel this."
The words hit like a physical blow, stripping away her defenses. Her breath catches, and for a moment, she's paralyzed, caught between denial and surrender. The classroom feels too small, the air too thick, and all she can see is him—his sharp features, the faint tension in his jaw, the way his eyes seem to devour her. Her body reacts before her mind can catch up, a flush creeping up her neck, her fingers twitching toward him.
"I don't know what you mean," she says, but her voice is barely a whisper, and the lie tastes bitter. She stands, intending to leave, but he steps into her path, not touching her but close enough that she feels the heat of him, the pull of his presence.
"You do," he says, and there's no trace of his usual detachment now. His voice is raw, unguarded, and it shakes her to her core. "You feel it every time we're in the same room. Every time I look at you. Every time we touch." His hand lifts, hovering near her cheek, and she freezes, her heart pounding so loudly she's sure he can hear it. "Tell me I'm wrong."
She should push him away, should retreat to the safety of her control, but she can't. Her body leans toward him, drawn by a force she's powerless to resist. "You're wrong," she says, but the words are weak, and her eyes betray her, lingering on his lips, imagining their warmth, their taste.
He closes the distance, his hand finally making contact, his fingers brushing her jaw, tilting her face up. The touch is electric, searing, and a soft gasp escapes her. "Liar," he murmurs, and then his lips are on hers, tentative at first, testing, but firm, unyielding. The kiss is a spark, igniting the tension that's been building for weeks. Her hands grip his shirt, pulling him closer, and the world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way he tastes like rain and something uniquely him.
The kiss deepens, hungry, desperate, as if they're both starving for something they've denied too long. His hands slide to her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she feels the hard planes of his body, the strength beneath his restraint. Her fingers tangle in his hair, her nails grazing his scalp, and he groans softly, the sound sending a rush of heat through her. She's never felt this alive, this undone, her body humming with a need that both terrifies and exhilarates her.
They break apart, breathless, foreheads resting together. Her lips are swollen, tingling, and her hands tremble as they slide down his chest. "This doesn't change anything," she says, but her voice is shaky, and they both know it's a lie.
"Everything's already changed," he replies, his thumb brushing her lower lip, sending another shiver through her. His eyes are dark, intense, promising more—more than she's ready for, but more than she can resist.
They part ways, the classroom empty but charged with the echo of their kiss. That night, Suzune lies awake, her body still burning from his touch, her mind replaying every moment—the taste of him, the way his hands felt, the sound of his voice. She touches her lips, then lets her hand drift lower, hesitating at the edge of her shirt, her breath hitching as she imagines his hands in place of hers. The thought is overwhelming, and she stops, but the desire lingers, a fire that won't be quenched.
Kiyotaka, in his room, is no less consumed. The memory of her lips, her body pressed against his, is seared into him. He's crossed a line he swore he wouldn't, but there's no going back. He wants her—her fire, her defiance, her vulnerability—and the thought of her, alone, thinking of him, drives him to the edge of his control. He clenches his fists, knowing the next step will test them both.
The line has been crossed, and the fire between them is no longer a spark—it's a blaze, demanding to be fed.