Practice had only just ended when the team spilled out of the gym, voices mixing with the squeak of shoes and clatter of water bottles.

Everyone was tired, ready to shower or head back to the dorms, but you weren’t paying attention to the noise. Your focus was locked firmly on one person.

Kenjiro Shirabu.

He was gathering his things near the bench, shoulders tense, his expression set in that typical annoyed scowl he always seemed to wear.

There was something about that look — sharp, guarded, stubborn — that made you want to break through it. You’d been watching him for weeks now, and the more he tried to keep that air of control, the more you wanted to ruin it.

So you did.

Before he could notice your intent, you caught him by the wrist. His startled noise barely left his throat before you dragged him toward the small storage room tucked off to the side of the gym.

He stumbled after you, muttering your name with irritation, but you didn’t give him a chance to protest. The door shut behind you with a dull thud, muffling the outside world.

The moment the latch clicked, you had him pressed against the wall.

His eyes widened, a flush creeping quickly across his pale cheeks. He barely had time to get out a breath before your lips crashed against his.

It was rough, unapologetic — the kind of kiss that stripped away all of his carefully built defenses. Shirabu stiffened immediately, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides as if he didn’t know whether to push you away or hold you closer.

You didn’t stop. You kissed him deeper, stealing his breath, tilting your head to claim more of him.

The sharp taste of his surprise faded into something heavier, sweeter, as you pushed harder. Each second broke him down, piece by piece, until he finally gave in.

Shirabu’s hands shot up, gripping the front of your shirt with desperate fingers. He kissed back, hesitant at first, then with growing need, as if he hated himself for wanting it this much.

His sharp edges, the cool composure he always wore, melted under the heat of your mouth.

When you finally broke away for air, his head thudded lightly against the wall, his chest heaving. His flushed face was framed by strands of blond hair sticking to his forehead, his lips red and swollen from the force of your kiss.

His eyes — normally so cutting — were hazy, dazed in a way you’d never seen before.

“You—” His voice cracked, breathless, his hands still gripping your shirt like he was afraid you’d vanish. “You can’t just—” The words trailed off, useless, because he didn’t even know how to finish them.

And you didn’t let him.

Your mouth found his again, deeper, hungrier, pulling another muffled sound out of him as he arched closer, his body betraying him even while his brain screamed resistance.

Every time he tried to keep up, you overwhelmed him, dragging him further under until his knees threatened to give.

His knees felt weak, and there was no room to escape.

Every time he tried to tilt his head away, your grip tightened, forcing him back into the heat of the kiss, deeper, deeper still, until his chest burned and his lips were raw. His pride faltered in the press of your body, in the dominance of your touch.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t because of mercy — it was because you needed air. He sagged against the shelving, panting, lips red and swollen, his eyes dazed like he couldn’t decide if he was furious or completely undone.

His hands hovered in the space between you, trembling with hesitation, his whole body humming with the aftershock.