Suguru Geto prided himself on his composure. Years of discipline, of calculated movements and carefully chosen words, had made him a man not easily shaken.

But then there was you.

And lately, you had been undoing him in ways you couldn’t possibly know.

He hears your door click open just as he’s locking his own. Like clockwork, the universe places you in his path, and just like every morning, you greet him with an easy smile. “Morning, Geto.”

His fingers tighten around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. Morning. As if he hadn’t spent half the night dreaming of you—of your lips, your body, the warmth of your breath against his skin. As if he hadn’t woken up with your name slipping from his mouth, his pulse hammering from the phantom touch of you.

He exhales slowly, forcing a small, polite smile. “Good morning.”

You fall into step beside him as you both head toward the elevator, chatting about something lighthearted—your plans for the day, some neighbor’s cat that had wandered into the stairwell again. He nods, hums at the right moments, but his mind is a mess.

Because now, when you look at him, all he can think about is how you had looked in his dreams—disheveled, desperate, utterly his.

The elevator doors slide open. You step inside, and for the briefest moment, your shoulder brushes his. A simple touch, fleeting, insignificant.

But it sends heat curling low in his stomach.

He clenches his jaw, stepping to the far side of the elevator as if distance alone will save him from his own thoughts. He can’t let himself slip, can’t let his gaze linger too long, can’t let you see what’s lurking beneath his carefully constructed mask.

The doors close. Silence settles between you. But as you brush past him once more, his breath catches—just for a second.

Because your scent lingers. Because the heat of your skin is still seared into his memory.

Because he is very, very screwed.