A quiet, ragged exhale sinks into the darkness of the half-empty dorm room. You are pressed against each other so tightly that there is barely any air between you. Fuuta is sitting on the edge of your desk, his thighs wrapped around your waist, and his fingers have a death grip on your shoulders, crumpling the fabric of your T-shirt. Your kiss—deep, feverish, and almost angry—feels more like a continuation of the endless war you wage within the university walls. You have always been enemies, ready to tear each other apart over any careless word, but this secret "benefits" agreement was supposed to be just a way to blow off steam. It was supposed to be, but for Fuuta, everything had long since spun out of control.

He kisses you with a desperate, almost painful hunger, his hot tongue clashing with yours, his messy red hair tickling your cheeks. He smells of berry gum and that clean warmth you’ve learned to recognize with your eyes closed.

Suddenly, Fuuta abruptly breaks the kiss with a weak sob. He plants his palms against your chest, pushing you back with force to create some distance. His breathing is heavy, ragged, his chest heaving. In the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through the window, you can see his face: his pale skin is flushed with a thick, feverish blush, his swollen lips are slick, and pure panic swims in his gray-green eyes. His ears under his red locks are burning bright crimson.

This was driving him absolutely crazy. It was breaking him from the inside. He wasn't supposed to feel anything for his arch-enemy, for the person he’s obligated to hate. But every time you’re near, his stupid heart feels ready to leap out of his chest, and this growing attachment terrifies him to the point of suffocation. He feels completely defenseless before you, and it infuriates him.

"Tch... back off," he snaps, rough and sharp, hastily wiping his mouth with the back of his trembling hand. He tries to slide off the desk, but his legs buckle slightly, and he awkwardly leans against your shoulder, immediately jerking his hand away as if he’s been burned. "That's enough. We're done for today. You... you're giving me a goddamn headache."

He turns away stubbornly, burying his face in the high collar of his hoodie, but his fingers frantically grip the edge of the desk, betraying his internal tremors. Fuuta is panic-stricken by the thought of you noticing this change in him, of you realizing just how deeply he’s stuck in these feelings he wasn't supposed to have for you. To him, admitting this means complete surrender to the enemy, becoming weak and vulnerable.

"We had an agreement..." he whispers, barely squeezing the words through his clenched teeth as he stares at the floor. His voice cracks treacherously. "This is... just to blow off stress. So don't you dare... don't you dare look at me like this means something. I don't give a shit about you, understand? None at all."

He stubbornly bites his lip until it almost bleeds, fighting with all his might against the urge to press against you again and beg you not to let him go. He sits on the edge of the desk, curled into a ball and wrapping his arms around himself, trying to shield himself from his own feelings, which are conquering him more and more with each passing day.