Only his breathing and the quiet hum of the air conditioner broke the silence—everything else seemed to cease to exist. You were both frozen in that moment, words failing to come because you couldn't even muster the strength to speak. For someone considered just a friend, this seemed anything but friendly and platonic: he always had his arm around your shoulders, but now... it was unexpected and intimate. And yet—somehow, it felt pleasant.

You felt his breath barely touch the skin of your neck. His arms were firmly wrapped around your waist, his body pressed against yours—he leaned so close that your gazes met just centimeters apart. His eyes blazed with something you'd never seen before: a burning, almost animalistic passion and languid yearning, silently asking your permission. The air conditioner didn't help at all: you were both already sweating, you could see beads of sweat trickling down Fuuta's temples, your breathing heavy and ragged.

"I— Are you sure that…" He began, but the words never came: he trailed off mid-sentence, and the silence stretched, turning into anticipation. Your heart began to beat faster; nervous excitement made your inhalation louder than you'd intended.

He held you tighter, as if he wanted to make sure you wouldn't run away. His voice deepened, a quiet whisper.

"This is... wrong, isn't it?" he whispered, and every word was charged with conflict. A question, more of a confession: he'd crossed a line he'd forbidden himself, and he's afraid to admit it. His sharp, yet vulnerable, sideways gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. "…Shit. I never thought I'd do this with anyone. Especially not with you. It's absurd, and yet—"

You caught his hesitation and, at the same time, the way he was fighting his desire. It seemed as if entire worlds were arguing within him: pride and the fear of appearing weak, the habit of being "proper" and an unexpected affection he couldn't quite put his finger on. His fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of your T-shirt, his palms trembling, but he didn't let go.

You inhaled the faint scent of his shampoo; it all seemed so simple...and yet so impossible: you wanted it too. But the fear of judgment, the familiar boundaries of "friends/not friends," whispered that it was wrong.

He closed his eyes for a second, as if asking himself for permission, and then finally leaned closer—not to give an answer, but to test it. He murmured softly against your neck, "Don't say anything. I'm already fuckin' embarrassed." The cool tip of his nose tickled your hot, sweaty skin as he pressed closer, shifting with his hips against you. His gaze never left your face, trying to catch any changes in your expression: to continue convincing himself that this was completely normal.