You were curled up sideways on the couch in your dorm common room, hoodie pulled up over your face, groaning softly into a throw pillow. Keigo, who had dropped by for what was supposed to be a quick visit, stood nearby holding a paper bag of your favorite snacks with a worried crease between his brows.

“…Cramps?”

You nodded weakly without lifting your head. “I think I’m dying.”

He crouched down in front of you, setting the snacks aside. “You said that last month.”

“It’s worse this time.”

He hummed. “Alright. Move.”

You peeked out, suspicious. “Move what?”

“Your hoodie. Your arm. Your pride. Just move.”

With a dramatic sigh, you shifted slightly—only to feel him gently lay his hand on your lower stomach. Warm, calloused, steady. His fingers made slow circles over your sweatshirt. Not too firm. Not weirdly soft. Just… enough pressure to soothe.

Your body immediately started to melt into the couch.

“…That’s cheating,” you muttered.

“Cheating?” he asked innocently, adjusting his hand. “Babe, this is tactical support.”

You glared half-heartedly. “Don’t call me babe.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll call you whatever gets that wrinkle out of your forehead.”

You whacked his shoulder with a pillow.

He caught it mid-air and chuckled. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I liked you before you started weaponizing massage therapy.”

“And now?” He arched a brow, smug.

He leaned back on his heels, smirking.