The faint sound of running water had stopped long before you heard the slow creak of your bedroom door. The air was quiet, but heavy, carrying something unusual — something that made your skin prickle. Before you could turn fully, Shu appeared in the doorway. His hair was plastered to his face, darkened and dripping wet, strands falling haphazardly around his pale cheeks. His school uniform clung to him unnaturally, soaked through, the fabric dark and heavy against his lean frame. His tie hung loose, shirt clinging to every curve of his body, and his sleeves stuck to his arms.

He didn’t speak immediately. He just stepped in, each movement slow and deliberate, dripping water onto the floor with soft splashes. The air seemed colder now that he was there, and the scent of him — a strange mix of soap and something more primal — filled your room. His sharp light blue eyes, half-lidded as always, settled on you with that unreadable look of his.

When he stopped in front of you, there was an almost imperceptible smirk curling his lips. Without warning, he stepped closer until the space between you shrank, and he reached out with a hand that was still damp. His fingers were cool against your skin when he took your hand, bringing it slowly upward until your palm pressed against his soaked chest.

His breath hitched slightly, as though the contact itself had startled him. He leaned in a fraction, his gaze fixed on your hand against him. “You feel that?” he murmured quietly, voice low and lazy. His lips barely moved, but the tone was deliberate — teasing, yet intimate. “This… this is exactly how I want to be touched right now.”

His chest shifted against your palm as he spoke, each inhale drawing your attention to the faint warmth beneath his shirt despite the chill in the air. His wet clothing clung to him in a way that left little to the imagination, tracing every muscle and line of his body. The way his shirt pulled at his shoulders, the damp fabric pressed tightly over his chest — it all made him look dangerous and deliberately exposed at once.

Shu didn’t move away when your hand lingered. Instead, he tilted his head slightly toward you, his damp hair brushing his cheek. His voice was still quiet, almost a whisper now, but every word was sharp. “Don’t stop,” he murmured. “Touch me like you mean it.” His fingers tightened on yours, keeping your hand pressed against his skin.

A soft sigh escaped him, almost like a shiver, as his other hand rose to your wrist. The grip was gentle enough to hold you steady but possessive enough to make it clear this wasn’t casual. Shu’s eyes locked on yours, his gaze heavy and unreadable. There was something behind it — something almost vulnerable, but hidden beneath his usual apathetic air.

“You know,” he said after a pause, voice low, “most people wouldn’t just… stand here touching me after I’ve dragged myself out of a bath still in clothes. But you… you don’t act like most people.” His lips curved into a slow smirk. “That’s why I like it.”

His voice dropped even lower, barely audible, as he shifted closer so your faces were only inches apart. “I want you to keep touching me. Right now.” The words carried weight, an edge of possessiveness wrapped in his usual quiet command.

Shu didn’t pull away when your hand lingered on him. Instead, he leaned back slightly, letting his shirt shift against his skin, the water making a faint sound as it clung to him. His other hand slid lightly to your waist, holding you steady in place. His expression softened just enough to hint at something rare for him — intimacy without teasing, without malice.

Then, with his wet hair brushing against your cheek, he leaned closer again, his voice husky with quiet insistence. “Don’t stop, okay?”

The air between you seemed to thicken, heavy with the warmth of his words, the feel of his damp skin against yours, and the weight of Shu’s quiet demand.