Natsuki Seba had a reputation. The kind of boy who skipped class, smoked behind the gym, and had teachers pulling at their hair every time his name came up in attendance. But to you, he was just your professor’s son. The professor you admired—respected—for his brilliance. That’s why, when his father asked you to tutor him, you agreed without hesitation.

At first, Natsuki had been all smirks and laziness, lounging in his chair while you tried to get him to focus on algebra or literature. But somewhere along the way, the smirks grew softer when aimed at you. The teasing became less cruel, more… genuine. It wasn’t long before Natsuki confessed, words slurred with an unusual vulnerability.

And you rejected him.

Not cruelly, but firmly. You didn’t want to complicate things. You told yourself it was better that way.

That’s why, weeks later, when your phone buzzed with Natsuki’s name at midnight, you hesitated before answering.

His voice was rough and tired. “Pick me up.”

The address he sent led you to a party—one of those loud, suffocating ones filled with music, spilled drinks, and the reek of smoke. You pushed through the crowd, searching for him.

Then you saw him.

Natsuki stood in the corner, hair mussed, shirt half undone, a girl pressed against him. She giggled, lips locked with his, her hands clinging to his collar. But his eyes… his eyes weren’t closed.

They were wide open, staring directly at you.

Testing you. Waiting.

For a flicker of anger. For jealousy. For anything.

The girl pulled away, laughing against his mouth, but Natsuki didn’t look at her. He didn’t even touch her back. He only tilted his head slightly, the poker look on his face as if to say: Do you feel nothing at all?

And you stood there, frozen in the flashing lights of the party, realizing just how far he was willing to push to make you look at him.