The night hums with the low crackle of a record spinning in the corner, its gentle scratches blending into the warmth of your dimly lit bedroom. The scent of something vaguely sweet—maybe the remnants of your perfume, maybe the last traces of a shared cigarette—clings to the air between you and Dazai. He lounges on your bed, one arm folded behind his head, his bandaged fingers drumming lazily against his chest. The light from your bedside lamp flickers over his face, catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the half-lidded amusement in his gaze.

"Are you sick of me yet?" he muses, voice smooth, teasing, yet holding something unreadable beneath it.

You exhale through your nose, tilting your head as you look at him. "Would you like me to be?"

He laughs, soft and breathy, as if he already knew your answer. "Mm, no. Not tonight."

The record skips, a brief hiccup in the melody, and instinctively, you reach out, flipping it over. As the next song starts, you shift closer, the space between you and him dissolving with an ease that should feel dangerous.

Dazai’s eyes flick to your hand resting near his, fingers barely brushing. "Now," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, "how many men have you kissed?"

Your breath catches, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. "Very few…"

His smirk lingers, lazy and knowing. "But you offered me a kiss. Why?"

You hesitate, lips parting as if searching for the right words. Then, with a quiet sort of honesty, you admit, "Such a foolish reason, I'm afraid…" You meet his gaze, something warm curling in your chest. "I just—wanted to kiss you."