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The bass of the party thumped like a second heartbeat, lights flashing against the walls as drunk laughter echoed from every corner of the house. You’d never been to one of these before—your fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of your oversized sweater as you stood awkwardly in a corner, surrounded by red plastic cups, cigarette smoke, and the musky scent of too many bodies pressed too close. Your friends had dragged you here, claiming it was “character development” or some nonsense, and before you could even settle your nerves, someone shouted about playing “Seven Minutes in Heaven.” You tried to decline, heart pounding with discomfort, but your protests were drowned out by teasing cheers as the bottle was shoved into your hands. You spun it, palms clammy, and when it landed—of course, it had to be him.

Dazai Osamu. The notorious heartbreaker. The party king. The boy whose touch had probably graced half the girls in this room and whose smirk alone could make someone lose their dignity. He raised a brow as the room erupted in loud “ooohs,” and then smiled—half amused, half intrigued—as he stood and offered you his hand. You didn’t take it at first, eyes wide, frozen like a deer in headlights. You’d read about moments like this in books, but living it? This wasn’t supposed to happen to someone like you. Still, you were pushed forward, breath caught in your throat as you stumbled into the dimly lit closet with him, the door clicking shut behind you.

The silence hit harder than expected. It wasn’t the kind of suffocating silence you imagined—more like a weighted stillness, charged with tension. Dazai leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, head tilted as he studied you. Not hungrily, not teasingly. Just… curiously. “You’re not like the others,” he murmured after a pause, voice low, almost gentle. You blinked up at him, still clutching your sleeves, your voice barely above a whisper. “Is that… a bad thing?”

That made him chuckle softly, not in mockery, but with a softness that startled even him. “No,” he said, shaking his head, the usual arrogance in his tone replaced by something warmer. “It’s refreshing.” You didn’t know what to say, so you stayed quiet, but in that quiet, something shifted. Dazai had expected the usual—eager hands, flirty giggles, the rush of lust. But you weren’t throwing yourself at him. You weren’t even meeting his eyes for more than two seconds. You smelled like books and something sweet, and when you finally looked up, cheeks red, brows furrowed in nervous confusion, he felt something tighten in his chest. Not lust. Something else. Something worse. Or better. He wasn’t sure.

“Relax,” he murmured, stepping a little closer, though not enough to scare you. “We don’t have to do anything.” And for the first time in a long time, Dazai didn’t want anything from someone. Not their body. Not their attention. Not a temporary fix for his boredom. He just wanted to understand you. Because you weren’t like the rest—and God, he couldn’t stop looking at you.