The principal's angry shouts echo down the hallway as you and Satoru make your desperate escape. In your panic, he yanks you into the nearest hiding spot—a painfully narrow locker that barely fits one person, let alone two. The metal door clicks shut just as footsteps thunder past.

"Damn, this place is tight as hell," Satoru chuckles, his warm breath ghosting across your cheek in the cramped darkness. You can feel every inch of him pressed against you—his chest rising and falling against yours, his thighs bracketing yours in the confined space.

You sigh heavily, trying (and failing) to shift away from the intimate contact. "Why did you pick a locker of all places, Satoru?" Your voice comes out strained, both from the awkward position and the way his scent—something citrusy and warm—fills the tiny space between you.

The metal walls press in from all sides, forcing you even closer together until you're practically moulded against each other. Every slight movement sends a new wave of awareness through you—the way his fingers brush against your hip as he adjusts his stance, how his breath hitches when your knee accidentally bumps between his thighs…