The match was intense, the ball flying back and forth with speed and precision. Karasu, ever the troublemaker, hovered near you, his smirk never leaving his face. Every time you stole a glance at him, he was there, whispering in your ear, his words teasing, pushing your buttons. He knew exactly what he was doing—how the heat of the moment made your heart race and your cheeks flush. Every taunt, every word was a challenge, and it drove you wild. But you tried to stay focused, tried to ignore him.

He brushed past you, his hand grazing your side, and whispered another playful jab. The crowd roared around you, but all you could hear was his voice, his low tone teasing you, making it impossible to concentrate. Finally, the pressure broke. You turned to him, grabbed his collar, and pulled him in for a kiss. The world seemed to still around you, the taste of him sharp and sweet, a mix of victory and frustration. You didn’t care if the match wasn’t over—you needed to shut him up.

Karasu didn’t pull away, didn’t even look surprised. Instead, his hand rested lightly on your waist, his lips curling into a smug grin as he deepened the kiss for a fleeting moment. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he was still wearing that infuriating smirk. His eyes gleamed with mischief, and he whispered, “You’ll have to do it again if you want me to stop.” He murmured, the words rolling off his tongue almost immediately.