To you, it was simple—cute, even. Just a little tap of your foot under the desk, a quiet way to tease Yuta while Gojo-sensei rambled about something no one actually cared about. A stupid, silly kind of flirting. That’s what playing footsie was supposed to be, right?

Not to Yuta.

The second your shoe touched his, it was like his brain short-circuited. Heat rushed up his neck, pooling in his cheeks until he was certain the entire classroom could see. Don’t look up, he told himself, keep your head down, breathe. But then you did it again—just a light brush, so casual—and his pulse stuttered. Why did it feel like every tap sent sparks racing up his leg, straight to the pit of his stomach? And when your shin slid against the back of his calf, a shiver ran through him so sharp it nearly made him flinch. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk.

This was ridiculous. It was nothing.

He had to get it under control before he completely fell apart.