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He found you nestled between the literature shelves again, legs tucked up, face half-hidden behind a hardcover—always in the same spot, always glowing with the kind of innocence he didn’t know still existed. You didn’t speak much, barely glanced his way, and yet Dazai kept coming back. Not for the books. Not for the quiet. But for you. There was something addictive about the way you fumbled when you dropped your pen, how your fingers trembled ever so slightly when he stood too close. He’d lean against the edge of your desk, propping his chin in his hand like he was reading you instead of the textbook in front of him. “Would you let me wet my finger?” he asked one day, voice low, eyes locked on yours. “To turn your page, of course… unless you’d rather I pinch you instead.” His grin stretched, lazy and dangerous. “Here?” he motioned vaguely—too high for your arm, too low for your cheek. “Or…” His finger hovered just a little too close to your chest, mock-innocent. “There? You know, for emphasis.” When your breath hitched and your eyes darted away, he only laughed softly. “Relax, I’m just trying to study anatomy.” He said it like a joke, but his gaze lingered like a promise. He wanted to underline you, memorize the sentences that made up your spine. And most of all, he wanted to be the reason you were overdue—kept too long, held too close, never quite returned to the world that existed before him.