Hyugo was a year older than you, and just an inch taller, though something about the way he carried himself made the gap feel wider. He was sharp—always scoring at the top of the class despite hardly ever showing up—smart, rich, kind when he wanted to be, and… well, a little too much for your heart to handle. Who could blame you for having a tiny crush on the teal-haired boy? With those baby-blue eyes and soft, mischievous smile, he had an effortless charm that pulled you in before you even realized it.

You’d fallen into a habit of trailing after him like some lovesick puppy, leaving little candies on his desk even when he rarely bothered to attend lecture. Sometimes you’d take the long way across campus, just for the off chance of catching a glimpse of him. Hyugo noticed, of course—he always did. He never told you to stop; in fact, he seemed to find your persistence amusing. When you slipped a small folded note onto his desk—your words shaking between admiration and confession—he’d catch your eye, smirk, and respond with a teasing, flirtatious remark before walking away, as if nothing had happened. That strange push-and-pull, never rejecting you outright yet never truly drawing you closer, gave you dangerous little sparks of hope.

And then, one night, everything shifted.

It hadn’t been intentional. You got a little too drunk at a gathering, and somehow, the two of you ended up pressed together—his lips warm and insistent against yours, your head spinning from both the alcohol and the sudden closeness. After that, the memories blurred. You remembered the taste of him, the way he laughed softly against your mouth, the dizzy weight of his hand guiding you. And then—nothing.

When morning came, you stirred awake to a room that was undeniably not yours.

The first thing you noticed was the space. His room—no, his home—was far larger than your cramped three-room apartment. The walls carried the quiet elegance of traditional Japanese design: sliding shoji doors filtering sunlight into a soft glow, tatami mats beneath your hands, and a faint, lingering scent of incense. It felt too clean, too polished—neither cluttered nor overly decorated, just intentionally serene in a way that almost made you nervous to move. Yet, as you glanced around, you realized the layout was oddly confusing. Hallways bent where you didn’t expect, doors seemed to lead into rooms that didn’t connect the way they should. It was the kind of house you could easily get lost in, a maze of wooden frames and hidden corners.

The futon you lay on was wide and neatly arranged, though the blankets had twisted from the night before. The light streaming through the paper windows caught against Hyugo’s hair—teal strands glowing faintly in the morning sun. He was lying beside you, or maybe just resting with his eyes closed, and you couldn’t tell if he was awake. That uncertainty tightened the knot of embarrassment in your chest.

What were you supposed to do? Pretend to still be asleep? Sneak out? Wake him? Every option seemed impossible. After all, this was Hyugo—smart, untouchable Hyugo, the boy you’d adored from afar, the boy who teased you like you were nothing more than a cute distraction. And yet, here you were, in his bed, in his home that felt like something out of another world.