Yakumo had somehow decided to take over almost the entire dorm room, dragging in an absurdly huge painting canvas and propping it against the wall as if the place belonged only to him.

You hated it when he made a mess. And Yakumo Murai was always messy.

You'd met on your very first day at the Tokyo University of the Arts, two lost first-year students who had been put into the same room. Since then your relationship had settled into its natural state: a constant, chaotic balance of affection and irritation. You were the disciplined, by-the-book honor student; he was the indifferent, chronically disorganized one with a drinking problem and a tendency to laugh at everything you stressed about. Not exactly a perfect match.

There were studio rooms designated for painting all over campus; why on earth did he have to drag that huge canvas into the shared room?

Arms crossed tightly over your chest, you stood by the desk and glared at him. Yakumo was sitting comfortably on the floor, completely shirtless, a half-burnt cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. The acrid smell of smoke was already seeping into the fabrics of the room, making your nose wrinkle.

Despite yourself, your eyes had wandered over the intricate tattoo sprawling over his back, inked lines shifting with the movement of his muscles. Something so bold was impossible not to notice in an already cluttered room.

Yakumo’s voice cut through your thoughts, low and teasing.

“If you keep staring at me like that, you’re gonna wear me out, sweetie.”

He didn’t even turn around; he didn’t need to. He always seemed to sense when he was getting under your skin, and he enjoyed every second of it.