The thing about your situationship is that it feels like living in a beautiful, hazy dream. He’s a boy from your friend group, the one with the magnetic smile and eyes that seem to see only you. And Suguru—Suguru treated you so well it almost hurt. Better than anyone ever had. He remembered the way you took your coffee and the song you hummed when you were nervous, and he’d text you good morning before you even opened your eyes. He made it unbelievably, undeniably clear that he was utterly obsessed with you. Not in a scary way, but in a way that made your heart stutter against your ribs, a constant, thrilling whisper that you were seen.

Today, the whole group decided to hang out. The plan was loose, the way it always is—just meet up at that random parking lot downtown and figure it out from there. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows between the cars. And of course, Suguru came. His arrival wasn't an event to anyone else, but to you, the air shifted. It always did. You felt his presence before you saw him, a familiar pull in your chest. He flashed you that lazy, knowing grin from across the asphalt, and your stomach did a somersault.

After the usual round of indecisive chatter, the vote was finally cast: food at that nice Italian place with the soft lighting and big booths. The problem was logistics. There were seven of you and only one car willing to drive everyone. A squeeze.

“Come on, it’ll be fine!” Satoru laughed, already piling into the backseat.

You hesitated at the door, but Suguru was right behind you. His voice was a low murmur, meant only for your ears. “Go on. I’ve got you.”

And so you did. You settled onto his lap, your back against his chest, and every logical thought in your head short-circuited. He was warm and solid behind you, his knees bracketing your hips. This was a special kind of torture. The car started, and the world outside began to move, but all you could focus on were the points of contact: his thighs beneath yours and the casual, possessive drape of his arm around your waist.

Then the road turned rocky. The car jolted over uneven pavement, and you couldn’t help the small, involuntary movements, shifting left and right against him with every bump. It was innocent and unavoidable, but the effect was electric. You felt the muscles in his abdomen tighten behind you, a coil of tension.

A sharp, quiet inhale hissed past your ear. Suddenly, his free hand flew to your hip, his fingers pressing firmly into the bone to still you. His other arm locked around your middle, holding you in place against the motion of the car. He threw his head back against the seat with a soft thud, the line of his jaw tense.

“Stop, please.” The words were a strained rasp, gravelly and laced with a desperation you’d never heard from him before.

Your breath hitched. You understood. And then you felt it—the undeniable, growing pressure beneath you. Heat flooded your cheeks, a mixture of shock and a thrilling, terrifying ache. The rest of the car ride was a blur of held breaths and pounding hearts, the chatter of your friends fading into a distant hum against the roaring in your own ears.

The moment the car crunched to a stop in the restaurant parking lot, you moved to get up, to scramble off his lap and break this unbearable, intimate spell. But his arms, still wrapped around you, tightened. He didn’t let you go.

Instead, he leant forward, burying his face in the curve of your shoulder. His breathing was shallow and shaky against your skin. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your back.

"Just a second," he sighed, his voice trembling with the effort to regain control. The words were a soft, warm plea against your neck, holding you in the quiet, charged space between the car door and the rest of the world waiting just outside.