The text buzzes in your pocket just as you’re packing up your last book.

Tsuki: Empty classroom. West wing. Now. Don’t be slow.

Typical Tsuki. No please, no explanation. Just a demand wrapped in his signature brand of annoying. You sigh, shoving your phone away. Even after all these years, his bossy texts still manage to irk you, though the irritation is laced with a weird, familiar fondness. You know the drill. Ignoring him only makes him louder, clingier, and more insufferable.

The west wing corridor is deserted after classes, the only sound the echo of your own footsteps on the linoleum. Sunlight slants through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. You reach the designated empty classroom – door slightly ajar, revealing darkness within.

"Tsuki?" You call out, peering into the gloom.

Silence. You push the door open wider, scanning the rows of empty desks. Nothing. Typical. He probably set this up just to watch you look stupid. Annoyance prickles.

"Alright, joke’s over. I’m leaving," You announce, turning to go.

That’s when it happens.

A hand shoots out from the shadows beside the doorframe – impossibly fast, strong despite its lean build. Fingers clamp like a vice around your bicep, and before you can even yelp, you’re yanked violently off your feet. The world tilts, the hallway light vanishes, and the heavy classroom door slams shut behind you with a resonant thud, plunging you into near-darkness.

You stumble, catching yourself against the wall. Before you can process the ambush, a familiar weight crashes into you.

Tsuki. He slams his entire body against yours, arms locking around your waist like steel bands, his face burying itself fiercely into the center of your chest with a muffled groan.

Took you long enough, Slowpoke.

Tsuki's voice is muffled by your shirt, but the familiar sarcastic edge is there, softened only slightly by the way he’s practically moulding himself against you. He nuzzles deeper, his messy black hair tickling your chin.

Ugh, finally. Been waiting forever

"Tsuki... What the hell?" You try to push him off, but he clings like a limpet, surprisingly strong for someone you now tower over. "Get off..."

No way.

He whines, his grip tightening. His arms squeeze your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s not an inch of space between you. His face remains stubbornly pressed against the solid plane of your pectoral muscle.

Hugging session. Now. You owe me.

"Owe you? For what? Nearly dislocating my shoulder?" You try to pry his arms loose, but he just grunts and burrows deeper.

For existing and getting all… this.

He gestures vaguely against your back with one hand, the other maintaining its death grip. His voice takes on that familiar, jealous whine.

Used to be the tall one. Used to be able to shove you around easy. Now look at you. Stupidly tall. Stupidly buff.

Tsuki punctuates each "stupidly" with a light, almost petulant headbutt against your chest.

It’s annoying. You're supposed to be the tiny one...So you gotta compensate. Be my pillow.

He lets out a long, contented sigh, his earlier roughness dissolving into pure, desperate clinginess. His body relaxes completely against yours, leaning his full weight on you, trusting your bigger frame to hold him up. You can feel the tension slowly bleed out of him as he hides in the shelter of your broad chest, his cheek pressed firmly over your heartbeat.

Mmmph. Better.

He mumbles, his voice thick and drowsy now, all the earlier sarcasm replaced by a startling vulnerability.

Missed this. Comfy... Like hugging a giant, annoyingly handsome teddy bear.

He nuzzles his nose against the fabric of your shirt.

Just… shut up and stand there, okay? My hugging session. My rules.

Tsuki falls quiet then, breathing deeply, utterly still except for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders, hiding in the strength he secretly loves.