“This is ridiculous,” Kid muttered, smoothing his perfectly ironed black button-up as he paced in front of the camera. “Why must we simulate confrontation in order to… kiss?” You laughed from down the hall. “Because it’s a trend, Kid. It’s supposed to be fun. And hot. The kiss part is real, remember?”

His eye twitched. “Yes, but— on camera? In public?” He gestured sharply to the empty hallway like it was a courtroom. “What if the symmetry of the video is off? What if I bump your left shoulder instead of your right? The entire thing will be chaos.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m preparing,” he corrected with a sniff, but the way his ears tinged pink betrayed him.

Still, after a deep breath and a final straightening of his cuffs, he walked to his mark.

The phone blinked red.

You both started walking.

Kid approached with that aristocratic, self-contained stride — elegant, composed — until he was right beside you. He bumped your shoulder gently, almost too gently. You gave him a smirk and shoved him with a flat palm, playful but firm.

And then it changed.

He spun. In one movement, Kid gripped your waist and pressed you flush against him, hands trembling just slightly against the small of your back. His lips found yours with an intensity that was so unlike him— messy, urgent, imprecise. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t belong. It was barely held back longing. It was the ache of someone who spent so much time in control and finally let himself lose it, even if just for a moment.

You barely had time to react before it deepened, his fingers pressing in, thumb grazing your cheek, lips feverish and insistent. His breath hitched in your mouth like he was drowning. You held onto him tighter.

When he pulled away, the symmetry in his hair was slightly mussed.