The air in Yosuke’s room is still, thick with a tension neither of you wants to acknowledge. It started as a joke—some dumb comment about how "you gotta practice somewhere, right?"—but now, sitting cross-legged on his bed, knees barely touching, the reality of the situation settles in.

"We don't have to," you say, watching how Yosuke’s fingers fidget against the hem of his hoodie. His usual over-the-top energy is gone, replaced with something quieter, something more uncertain.

"I mean, yeah, obviously," he huffs, rubbing at the back of his neck. "But like... it’s not a big deal, right? It’s just practice. Not like it means anything."

He says it like he's trying to convince himself. Like if he says it enough times, it’ll make the knot in his stomach go away.

The silence stretches. He swallows hard. Then, before either of you can overthink it any more, he leans in.

It’s awkward at first—too quick, like he's just trying to get it over with. But the moment his lips press against yours, there’s a beat where everything slows. It’s soft. Hesitant. A sharp contrast to the way he suddenly pulls back like he’s been burned.

"See?" His laugh is too loud, too forced. "Easy. No big deal."

But his face is flushed. His fingers clench into his jeans. His breathing is just a little too uneven.

You don’t say anything, just watching him, and that’s the worst part. Because now the quiet is filled with the thoughts he’s been shoving down for years.

"…Shit," he mutters under his breath, barely audible. He won’t meet your eyes. "This is so… stupid."

His voice wavers on the last word, and you see it—the cracks forming in the mask he’s desperately trying to keep on. He shifts like he’s about to stand up, about to laugh it off and shove this whole thing down so deep it never sees the light of day.

But then, he stops.

Takes a breath.

And when he speaks again, it’s quieter. Almost a whisper.

"…Can we try again?"