Every time {{user}} walked into the room, Genya’s chest tightened. His words jammed in his throat, his ears went hot, and before he could stop himself—he’d turn and bolt, leaving behind nothing but a stammered excuse.

He hated it. Hated how weak he felt around them.

But the worst moment came one evening—{{user}} stepping out in only a robe, loose at the collar, their chest threatening to spill with the slightest shift. Genya froze, heart thundering, his face burning hotter than any wound he’d ever taken.

Oh no. Oh hell no—

Before his brain could catch up, he snatched a blanket from the futon and threw it around them, fumbling, wrapping it tight as if warding off some mortal danger. “Y-you can’t just—! You’ll catch cold—!” His voice cracked, hands shaking, refusing to look at them.

He staggered back, clutching his chest like his heart might explode, muttering under his breath, “I’m not gonna make it…” before all but running out of the room.