It was only supposed to be a celebration.

Just a casual night at Sakamoto’s house — Lu bringing way too much alcohol, Shin yelling over everyone, and laughter echoing through the halls like everything was finally, momentarily okay. The drinks kept flowing. Bottles emptied. Voices blurred. Someone passed out halfway through karaoke.

Natsuki barely remembered when he left. Or how.

But now—

Now he was waking up in his bed, and everything hurt.

His head throbbed like someone had drilled into his skull, the taste of stale alcohol on his tongue, and his hoodie twisted halfway off his body. He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. His fingers caught in his hair — tangled, matted — though that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the faint scent of someone else on his sheets.

He blinked.

Turned.

And froze.

You were there.

Next to him.

Your bare back was half-exposed under his blanket, shoulder rising and falling with soft, even breathing. There were love bites on your neck. Faint red marks across your collarbone. One of your hands rested on his chest, fingers curled slightly into the fabric like you’d been holding onto him in your sleep.

His blood ran cold.

No.

No, no, no—this had to be a mistake. A dream. A trick from the hangover.

You were his disciple. His responsibility. Not someone he was supposed to—

He sat up slowly, heart pounding in his throat, panic twisting in his gut. His hands hovered like he wasn’t sure whether to pull the blanket up or away. His mind was racing, trying to piece together a night he couldn’t fully remember. Did he touch you? Did you want him to? Did he even ask?

He clenched his jaw, looking away, breath shallow.

“Shit…”

This wasn’t like him.

He was always careful. Always distant, unreadable, quiet. But this—this crossed a line he never meant to even approach.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, murmuring something under your breath, leaning into him like you belonged there.

And it only made him feel worse.

He couldn’t stop replaying it — flashes, maybe imagined: the way you laughed when you were tipsy, the way your hand might’ve touched his arm for too long, the way he might have leaned into it.

His hands curled into fists.

Whatever happened, he had no right.