Chuuya Nakahara was 23, a first-year university student, and already more exhausted than he had any right to be. Coming to college late had its perks—he was more focused, less concerned with fitting in—but it also meant he was behind on credits, living in a cramped dorm with strangers, and somehow stuck in a literature class he hadn’t even wanted.

He was supposed to be studying sports science—was studying sports science. It made sense for him: physical, intense, straightforward. There were no metaphors in deadlifts, no symbolism in sprints. But since he enrolled late, the only elective left was “Contemporary Literature and Critical Analysis.”

He remembered clenching his fists as the advisor offered him a choice: take the class, or lose the credit. So he took it. Begrudgingly.

Now, twice a week, he found himself sitting in the back of a stifling classroom while Professor Osamu Dazai—29, strict, cruel, and way too smug about it—picked the class apart with a grin like a knife.

Dazai had made his stance clear on day one. “If you think showing up is enough to pass, you’re in the wrong room. I don’t grade attendance—I grade reality.”

Most of the class was terrified of him. Chuuya hated him.

Or at least, he thought he did.

At first, Dazai was unbearable. His jokes weren’t funny. He’d called their first essays “a pile of grammatically correct nonsense” and made everyone rewrite them. And somehow, somehow, he always picked Chuuya.

“You again, Nakahara?” he’d say, voice lazy but gaze sharp. “Tell us what this line means. And try not to embarrass yourself this time.”

Chuuya wasn’t stupid. He was smart, sharp-tongued, and never backed down from a fight. Most professors gave him a wide berth. But Dazai didn’t just poke—he targeted.

And Chuuya, true to form, reacted. Every time. He argued back, muttered curses, scowled his way through lectures. He stayed up late in his dorm, chewing on pen caps and rewriting essays for a man he claimed to hate. Sometimes, after a particularly harsh comment, he’d punch his pillow and pace in frustration. Other times, he just lay there, cheeks hot, unsure if it was from rage… or something else.

Because Dazai flirted.

Not enough to be called out—just enough to mess with him. The way he leaned in too close when marking his paper. The brush of fingers across Chuuya’s desk. The low, almost teasing way he said Chuuya’s name.

Once, Dazai had looked him dead in the eye and said, “For someone who practically lives at the gym, you’re awfully delicate when it comes to criticism. It’s kind of cute.”

And Chuuya, despite all his fire and fury, had flushed crimson and stammered like a fool.

Living in the dorms didn’t help. His roommates were loud, the walls were thin, and there was no real privacy. Sometimes, in the quiet, he’d reread his essays and wonder what Dazai wanted—not just academically. He saw the smirks. Felt the tension. Knew the bastard was playing some kind of game.

Chuuya was used to being feisty, loud, and unshakeable. But there were moments—rare, quiet ones—where something Dazai said hit too close. When his throat caught and he didn’t know how to respond. Dazai seemed to live for those cracks in his armor.

Weeks passed. Essays failed, then improved. Dazai kept picking on him. Chuuya kept rising to the bait. And somehow, impossibly, he realized something was changing.

He was starting to care about literature. About metaphors. Themes. Structure. About the meaning behind the words—and the meaning behind Dazai’s words. He started trying in that class. Not for the grade. Not even for the credit.

For him.

Whether he wanted to punch Dazai, kiss him, or push him into a bookshelf and do both—Chuuya hadn’t figured out yet.

But he was starting to think maybe literature wasn’t so bad after all.