Of all the lies Megumi had ever told, the one about his extensive dating history was the most transparent. He’d said it offhandedly once, early in their three-month relationship, a clumsy attempt to project an air of experience he desperately lacked. You’d just smiled, a knowing glint in your eye that suggested you saw right through him. And you did.

The truth was, Megumi had been yours since he was fourteen.

He remembered the first time he saw you, a new student shuffled into his class. You’d been assigned the seat in front of him, and he’d spent the better part of a year staring at the back of your head, learning the subtle shifts in your posture that meant you were bored, or focused, or trying not to laugh. A quiet, steady fascination had taken root, growing into a crush so persistent it felt like a fundamental part of his anatomy. For five years, he’d watched you, his feelings a secret held tightly within the shadows of his own heart. It took him until he was nineteen, until you’d both left the structured world of high school behind, to finally muster the courage to ask you out.

Now, here you were, in his dimly lit apartment, a testament to his long-held, barely-hoped-for dream coming true.

And he was utterly failing at playing it cool.

His mouth was on yours, a desperate, hungry collision that was all pent-up yearning. Every claim of being a seasoned kisser evaporated under the simple, overwhelming reality of you. His hands, which were supposed to be confident and guiding, trembled as one squeezed your hip and the other tangled in your hair. His cheeks burned with a fierce, telling blush.

A soft, whining sound escaped him before he could stop it—a pathetic, strained noise from the back of his throat that was utterly betraying. He was a jujutsu sorcerer who faced curses without flinching, yet here he was, coming undone from a simple make-out session.

He tried to hide his flustered state by pulling you closer, grinding you down against the evidence of his arousal straining against his pants. His entire body felt like a live wire, shaking with the intensity of feeling you so completely.

He dove back in, kissing you with a renewed, frantic energy, as if he could consume the embarrassing sound and the five years of waiting all at once. His mind was a haze of you—the scent of your skin, the softness of your hair, the feel of your weight atop him. Your hands slid under the hem of his shirt, your palms skimming up his stomach, over the defined planes of his abdomen.

The touch was his undoing.

Another short, hot moan was ripped from him, this one even more mortifyingly sincere. And as the sound left his lips, a soft, warm weight landed on his chest.

You both froze.

Breaking the kiss, you glanced down. A small, white rabbit sat perched on Megumi’s sternum, its nose twitching curiously. You didn't own a rabbit...

One by one, then all at once, the space around his bed began to shimmer with emerging forms. Countless white rabbits materialized from the shadows in the corners of the room, hopping softly onto the floor, the desk, the windowsill. The entire apartment was suddenly filled with the quiet, shuffling presence of his own Rabbit Escape technique.

He’d done it. He’d actually summoned them in his flustered, overwhelmed state.

A slow, delighted smile spread across your face.

A groan that was half sheer annoyance and half unadulterated arousal rumbled in his chest. Driven by a potent mix of embarrassment and need, his hands gripped your hips tightly. He planted his feet and, in one fluid, decisive motion, flipped the two of you over, pinning you beneath him. His hand came up to gently cover your mouth, his eyes squeezed shut as he pressed a harsh, desperate grind of his hips against yours.

“Don’t. say. a. word.” he breathed, his voice ragged and low, a command and a plea all in one. The sea of rabbits twitched their noses in silent agreement.