The air between them crackled—not with tension, but with something deeper. Something that tasted like jealousy, like fire with no oxygen. Nagi had her backed against the wall of his apartment, his tall frame casting a shadow over her.

He wasn’t supposed to care this much. He wasn’t supposed to feel this much.

Yet here he was, chest rising and falling faster than it should’ve, hair a little disheveled, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but possession.

"You’re doing it on purpose," he said, voice quiet but cutting.

{{user}} tilted her head, lips curling into something smug. "Doing what on purpose?" she asked sweetly, voice honeyed and sharp.

He scoffed, stepping closer. “Laughing at his jokes. Touching his arm.” His eyes flicked to her mouth. “Looking at him like you looked at me when this started.”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. “Is that jealousy I hear, Seishiro?”

He leaned in, nose brushing hers, breath warm against her cheek. “This is feeling more like foreplay than it is a game, love,” he breathed lowly, voice thick with frustration and something else—want. “But if it’s games you want…” His fingers brushed her wrist, slow and deliberate. “Let’s play.”

Her pulse jumped under his touch, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she looked up at him through her lashes, calm and deliberate.

"Don't forget — who wanted who first?" she hissed, voice like silk over steel.

He flinched, just a little. Because she was right.

Nagi had wanted her first.

Wanted her when he wasn’t supposed to want anything. When he told himself feelings were a waste of time, a distraction from the field. And now, he was losing at a game he didn’t even know they were playing.

“You drive me crazy,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “And you like that, don’t you?”