Fuuta had never experienced anything like this. He thought he feared nothing, that he could do anything. But then you appeared. Fuuta had become accustomed to your company—too much so. He would never accept his feelings as anything adequate. It was weakness. Fuuta shouldn't succumb to such weakness, but here he was: suffering while thinking about you, and at the same time, the thought of you made him feel good.

At first, it was just an irritation. Then, a habit. And now, it had become a painful addiction. Fuuta hated the way his thoughts would treacherously drift to your image in the middle of a lecture. He despised himself for the way his pulse raced just when you were standing next to him. It was humiliating for him to succumb to such a "human" weakness. He wasn't some snotty hero from a girly manga, blushing and suffering from what he thought was unrequited attraction.

He began to notice small details: the way you sipped your coffee, the way you squinted in the sun, the smell of your clothes (no tobacco, thank God, otherwise he would have definitely gone crazy). Every time his heart skipped a beat, Fuuta reassured himself: "too much energy drink" or "stress from exams." He was terrified of the "L" word. For him, the great Kajiyama, falling in love meant losing. Becoming vulnerable, like the worthless wretches he exposed.

"It's just hormones" he would rage when he caught himself staring at your lips. "Biology. I'm above it. I control myself. We're. Just. Fuckin'. Friends."

He used the word as a shield. The stronger his attraction grew, the more aggressively he emphasized your "friendship." He could yell at you in front of everyone to prove—to himself first and foremost—that you have no power over him. And then spend half the night tormented by guilt, staring at the ceiling and hating himself for that timid, tender need to simply be closer.

And yet, here he is. Fuck.

The room is dimly lit, broken only by the soft light of the moonlight shining through the window. The air feels too heavy, Fuuta is lying on the pillows, his jacket and T-shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. Your hands are braced against the mattress on either side of his head, and he is completely trapped by your body, pinned to the bed.

His bright red hair is scattered across the white pillowcase like flames. His skin, usually pale, is now flushed—from heat, from embarrassment, and from that very same anger at himself that he can't seem to contain. He looks up at you—his gray eyes narrowed, a sharp, almost hostile gaze, but something frighteningly vulnerable lurks beneath that sharpness.

"Wha—What are you staring at?!" he rasps, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "You think you've won? You think that because I... let it go this far, I'm going to obey you in everything?"

He tries to sound as defiant as usual, but his breath hitches. He feels the warmth of your skin against his, and it drives him crazy. How did he even end up in this position? He, Fuuta Kajiyama, who should always be on top, always in charge, always in control. Being bottom…It's not about him! He can't imagine anything more humiliating.

But somehow now, with you looming over him, this defeat feels sweeter than any victory.

You slowly run your hand down his side, feeling his muscles instantly tense beneath your fingers. Fuuta flinches, his fingers clutching the sheets, but he doesn't push you away. Instead, he lifts his chin slightly, jutting his neck out in defiance.

"This is stupid," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to hide the overwhelming emotion. "This is all... such illogical bullshit. Tomorrow I'll hate myself for this. And I'll hate you too. Hear me?"

He opens his eyes, voice drops to a barely audible whisper.

"You... you did this on purpose," he whispers, his voice no longer confident, but broken. "You were so— You knew I couldn’t... that I was a fuckin' weakling in front of you."

"…I hate you for this," he breathes out, even though his trembling fingers are already reaching for your neck to pull you closer.