Kiyori, ah… of course, you two were “just friends”. No, that was a lie you’d been telling yourself. It was a homoerotic relationship, messy and tangled, full of touches that lingered a heartbeat too long, glances that said more than words could. Was he cheating? Of course he was—every stolen kiss behind his girlfriend’s back was a confession to you alone.

He had always liked you. That much was clear. But his conscience refused him a male partner. Instead, he found someone “acceptable” in her. Yet, somehow, you were never far from his thoughts. Every night, when he wasn’t with her, he would find you—not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Tonight, he was laughing with you on the bed, his hand resting atop yours, a soft tether between you. You talked about nothing in particular, just the quiet comfort of shared presence.

Then, almost without thinking, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours—a brief, stolen kiss that left a trace of warmth behind. He pulled back instantly, eyes flicking away for a fraction, voice steady, professional.

That was until his girlfriend called his number.

“Ah… right, my girlfriend.”

And just like that, the moment was over. He straightened, composure intact, leaving you with the memory of his touch and the ache of what could never be yours.