You had always dreamed of getting into Tokyo University of the Arts: Geidai. Day after day, you went to the prep school with the same persistence and stubborn determination that had brought you this far.

But that afternoon, something was different.

You sat in front of your easel, the blank canvas facing you. Your fingers kept twisting the brush around them, but your mind was as empty and hollow, as if all the ideas had been squeezed out, leaving you behind.

You let out a deep, frustrated sigh. The sound echoed through the quiet classroom, mixing with the faint scratching of charcoal and the light tapping of brushes against jars. Anyone looking at you in that moment could have felt the dark aura practically seeping from you.

You didn’t even hear footsteps approaching.

Suddenly, a hand rested on your shoulder, firm but soft, and then an arm slid around you from behind. A body pressed lightly against your back, warm and steady. Before you could react, their other hand covered yours, guiding your fingers around the brush.

“You should start like this…”

Haruka’s voice was a soft whisper against your ear, his tone was calm, his breath warm enough to send a shiver down your spine.

The presence of Haruka wrapped around you like a second skin, his movements careful, almost reverent, as he guided your hand toward the canvas that had lain empty far too long.

You felt the brush touch the surface, finally leaving the first stroke of color.

Haruka's chest rose and fell against your back with each breath, his posture close, closer than necessary. Other students were scattered in the room, fully absorbed in their own work, either completely unaware or pretending to be so of how intimately the two of you were standing.

His words were kind, but there was a quiet intensity in them, something unspoken hanging between you. Maybe it was the closeness.

Your breath hitched as Haruka leaned in just a bit more, his hair brushing against your cheek.

“See?”.

he whispered.

“It’s already better.”