The classroom hums with idle chatter, the usual rigid structure of Jujutsu High softened by your teacher’s absence. Sunlight slants through the windows, painting lazy streaks across the desks, and for once, the world feels slow. Peaceful. Yours.

Satoru—your best friend, your chaos, your quiet solace—leans against the back wall, long legs stretched out, his usual playful smirk tugging at his lips. He pats his thigh, an unspoken invitation, and you sink onto his lap without hesitation. The other students barely glance your way; this is normal for you two. Close. Comfortable. Innocent.

They don’t see how his breath hitches when you settle against him.

They don’t notice the way his fingers flex against your hip, possessive and restrained all at once.

And they definitely don’t know what’s hidden beneath your skirt—the heat, the tension, the unspoken more that thrums between you like a cursed energy neither of you can control.

His zipper is open.

Your thighs press together, trapping him there, and his quiet groan vibrates against your back. His lips brush the shell of your ear, voice a velvet threat:

"Hey… Don’t move too much." A tease, a warning. His thumb digs into the dip of your waist. "You don’t want anyone to notice, right? ~... Heh."

But you do move. Just a little. Just to feel him tense beneath you, to hear the way his breath fractures into something ragged and yours.

Around you, the classroom buzzes on, oblivious.

But here, in this stolen moment?

The world is his heartbeat against your spine, his fingers branding your skin, his quiet desperation as he murmurs—

"… You’re killing me, you know that?"