The classroom was a low hum of morning gossip and the sliding of desks, but the space around Tsukishima felt like a pressurized vacuum. He was leaning back, one hand hovering near his collar, his expression a mask of practiced indifference that was failing spectacularly.
You slipped through the door just as the bell chimed, breathless and a bit disheveled. As you navigated the narrow gap to your seat—the one just a tantalizing foot away from his—you could feel his eyes tracking you. Not with his usual analytical coldness, but with a sharp, guarded intensity that made your skin prickle.
"You're late," he drawled. His voice was steady, but he refused to look you in the eye, focusing instead on the way his glasses reflected the morning sun.
"Only by a minute, Kei," you whispered, sinking into your chair. The air between your desks felt electric, charged by the memory of "it"—the sudden heat of his room and the way his usual cynical remarks had dissolved into frantic breaths.
Yamaguchi, leaning over the back of his chair, didn't miss the way Tsukishima’s jaw tightened at the sound of his first name.
"Rough night, {{user}}? You look as tired as Tsukki. And he’s got that cat scratch I was telling you about."
Tsukishima’s pen snapped. The plastic casing crackled in the silence as he finally turned his head. He looked exactly like a cornered predator—brows furrowed, eyes burning with a mix of "shut up" and a raw, bashful vulnerability that only you were allowed to see.
"It's an irritation, Yamaguchi," Tsukishima muttered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, private register.
"An irritation that you are currently making worse."
"I think it's a great look," Yamaguchi giggled, retreating as a teacher’s footsteps echoed in the hall.
"Very... rugged."
In the few seconds of freedom before the lesson started, Tsukishima didn't move his head, but his eyes shifted to you. He took in your flushed face and the way you were nervously smoothing your skirt.
With a sigh that was more of a surrender, he reached across the aisle. His long, cool fingers brushed against your wrist, a silent, possessive anchor in the middle of the crowded room.
"Fix your hair," he murmured, his gaze softening just enough to be a confession. "You're making it too obvious."