You’ve been trying to study for the past twenty minutes, but Gojo’s presence in your room is impossible to ignore. He’s sprawled out on your bed like he owns it — long legs crossed at the ankle, head tilted back against your pillows, his sunglasses pushed up into his snow-white hair. Every few seconds, another crumpled paper ball sails across the room and lands somewhere near your desk.

“You’re no fun when you’re focused,” he drawls, his voice dripping with exaggerated disappointment.

Another paper ball bounces off your shoulder. You shoot him a glare over the top of your textbook, but it only makes his grin stretch wider — lazy, smug, infuriating.

He props himself up on one elbow, chin resting in his hand as he watches you. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “You don’t wanna play with your stepbrother?”

The way he says it — slow, teasing, like it’s a joke — makes your skin prickle. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Always does. There’s a certain heat behind his tone, a tension that’s been building with every look that lingers too long, every comment that toes the line, every casual touch that stays just a second too long.

Lately, it’s getting harder to tell where the teasing ends and something else begins. And every time he walks into your room, that line between harmless fun and dangerous attraction gets thinner.

Too thin.