The evening sun was burning long orange stripes onto the scratched linoleum of the empty lecture hall. Outside the windows, the university campus hummed with life, but in here, in the silence of the half-empty building, it was quiet. You were sitting in the third row, intently trying to make sense of a difficult calculus assignment, when the door creaked open silently.

Fuuta walked in, tossed his gym bag onto the chair next to you, and settled in right behind you.

To everyone else, you were just a weird duo. You were the quiet, lowkey loner who barely spoke to anyone and tried to avoid eye contact. Fuuta was the loud, sharp, perpetually grumbling guy with bright red hair who kept everyone at arm's length. But only the two of you knew the truth: on this massive campus, you were absolutely dependent on him for everything. He helped you with your studies, drove away unwanted people, solved your small daily problems, and was your only window to the outside world.

And Fuuta was reveling in this power.

Deep down, lay a painful, corrosive insecurity. Online validation, likes, or random acquaintances on the internet weren't enough for him. He needed absolute, undiluted confirmation of his own worth. He needed to know that without him, you would literally fall apart.

He silently slid closer, peering into your notebook over your shoulder. His pale fingers laid unceremoniously on the edge of your paper, pushing your pen aside.

"You're doing it all wrong again, idiot," he grumbled, though there was no real anger in his voice—only that familiar, authoritative tone. "I explained this formula to you yesterday. Were you even listening, or were you just nodding so I'd leave you alone?"

You shrank back slightly under his pressure, feeling the familiar mix of guilt and confusion.

To Fuuta, this vulnerability of yours was the sweetest drug. Seeing how you faltered, how you sought support in him, and how your eyes looked at him with silent devotion—it all dragged him deeper into a dangerous trap of possessiveness. He wanted to be the only one with access to you. He wanted you to have neither the strength nor the desire to talk to anyone else.

"I always have to deal with you," he huffed irritably, yet his hand didn't move from your shoulder. On the contrary, his fingers squeezed your clothing a little tighter, possessively pulling you closer to him. "If it weren't for me, you would've been expelled a long time ago. Do you even understand that?"

A dark, unhealthy glint flashed in his gray-green eyes. He leaned closer to your ear, his breath brushing against your skin. It was a mix of genuine attachment and a sticky, frightening dependency that he no longer wanted to let you go from.

"Sit still and look here," he commanded, now softer but without room for argument, taking the hand holding your pen into his own. "And don't even think about asking anyone else for help. Only I will teach you. Got it?"