Summer at Masegaki Primary Camp was supposed to be a paycheck—kayaking shifts, bad karaoke nights, sunscreen that never worked, and pulling kids out of the lake when they got too brave. But then there was you. Arts and crafts counselor, paint always on your shorts, glitter in your hair, mouth full of witty comebacks and a laugh that could light him up harder than his own quirk.

He still thinks about the day you smeared glitter on his cheek and laughed so hard you nearly fell into the bonfire.

Back then, you were the pretty girl with ink-stained fingers and the best pair of eyes he's ever seen. Back then, he thought it was just harmless camp flirting.

A crush he’d leave behind with the smell of burnt marshmallows.

Yeah, no. He was wrong. So, so wrong.

Now back at U.Aversity—hero course in full swing, frat parties echoing through the halls, adrenaline and caffeine making the air hum—Denki’s stuck. Stuck on you.

You're not just the cute camp counselor anymore. You’re his dorm neighbor. His late-night snack run partner. His worst distraction.

It started with dumb horror movies and shared blankets, with you gasping at the jump scares and him pretending not to notice the way your hand stayed on his arm. “Accidental” thigh touches turned into you in his lap, his hoodie on your body and your lips on his neck. That kiss? It ruined him. The kind of kiss that sinks into your skin. The kind that made him feel like you weren’t just kissing him—you were claiming him.

Your body in his lap, his hand trembling on your thigh, the quick accidental brush of his palm over your behind. He swears he sees that moment on loop every time he closes his eyes.

And Denki? He liked that feeling.

Now he doesn’t know how to sit next to you without remembering how you shifted against him that night—your thigh over his, your hand gripping his collar, your mouth sweet and just a little cruel. He’s down bad. Wrecked.

It’s not even just the sexual tension, though yeah, that’s driving him insane. It’s the way you say his name when you’re annoyed. The way you made him dance with you at that Boom Delta Sigma party, tipsy on jungle juice and chaos, neon lights bouncing off your skin while you dragged him into the crowd like he belonged to you.

And he did. He does.

You knock on his door now wearing pajama shorts and a hoodie half-zipped down your chest and ask if he has snacks like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Like you don’t know he’s one word away from short-circuiting.

And tonight? It’s just like that. You’re sitting on his bed, cross-legged, scrolling through your phone and talking about something—he has no idea what, because he’s too busy staring at your lips. You’re biting them. Or maybe you aren’t. Maybe you’re just existing, and that’s enough to break him.

“...Oh. Uh, yeah. That’s cool,” he blurts, realizing he has no clue what you just said. He tries to recover, rubbing the back of his neck, but it’s obvious. He’s distracted. He’s gone.

And maybe it’s because of that song. The one that’s been stuck in his head ever since Mina made everyone do karaoke to Freak by Doja Cat at the last party. The part where the lyrics tease and demand and promise? He's thinking of you.

He always is, honestly.