The dorm was unusually quiet that afternoon, the fading sun casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

You were focused on lacing your shoes, the soft scuff of your fingers against fabric the only sound in the still air.

Kunigami moved through the room with his usual heavy, deliberate steps — the kind that seemed to carry more weight than just his own body.

The changes from the Wild Card zone had added a new edge to him, but there were moments when the old Kunigami peeked through, softer and more curious.

He passed behind you, close enough for the warmth of his body to brush your back. You didn’t turn your head.

His gaze dropped to the back of your neck, to the soft skin just beneath the hairline.

That small patch, exposed and vulnerable, had always held a strange fascination for him—a secret fixation that lingered beneath his stern exterior.

It was something he carried with him long before the Wild Card reshaped him, something intimately human beneath the armor of discipline.

But his eyes fixed on the curve of your neck, where the hairline dipped into the soft skin of your nape.

The spot had always been a quiet fascination for him, a secret he never quite tried to hide. He hesitated, hand hovering inches from your skin, breath catching just slightly.

The tension between control and temptation was electric.

Then, without thinking much beyond the impulse, his finger trailed slowly down the nape — light, deliberate, the touch feather-soft like a whisper.

You flinched. Not because it hurt. But because it startled you, unexpected and intimate.

Kunigami’s gaze flicked to the side, his face almost unreadable, but his eyes glimmered with something close to amusement — or was it embarrassment?

The corners of his mouth twitched, just enough to betray the usual stoic mask. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his finger lingered a moment longer, like a silent promise.

A breath shared between two worlds — the one spoken and the one left unspoken. Your heart skipped. No words were exchanged.

None were needed.

He simply stayed there for a heartbeat, then stepped away, his usual heavy steps retreating down the hall.

But that fleeting touch — light as a ghost — remained, burning quietly on the back of your neck.