Lights out in the Blue Lock dorms meant silence, darkness, and the slow hum of exhausted breathing echoing between walls.

For most people. For you, it meant war.

A war waged not with fists or words or ego-fueled soccer matches—but with ice-cold hands and one overly affectionate nuisance named Eita Otoya.

You heard him before you saw him. A familiar creak of the door. A too-careful shuffle of socked feet on the wooden floor.

Then the whisper of cloth as your futon dipped under another weight.

You didn’t move. Not yet. You’d learned that reacting gave him power. But you knew what came next.

There was a pause—like always—just long enough for you to almost convince yourself he’d rolled in by mistake, maybe to grab something, maybe to say something dumb and leave.

Then. Two freezing hands slid right under your shirt and pressed flat against your back. You jolted so hard you nearly took the futon with you.

He laughed. Soft. Pleased. Completely unapologetic.

You writhed in silence, trying to shove him away without making a sound. His hands only chased you, slipping up your sides, evil and relentless, like his entire purpose in life was to make you suffer.

He laughed again.

The kind of laugh only a childhood best friend could get away with—the one that meant he knew exactly how annoying he was being and had zero plans to stop.

His hands weren’t just cold. They were weaponized. Eita Otoya had always been a menace.

When you were kids, he used to drop ice cubes down your back in the summer.

He’d sneak up behind you after washing his hands in freezing water and slap them onto your cheeks, just to watch you squirm.

Back then, he’d pretend it was innocent. Now, he didn’t even bother pretending.

He shifted closer under the blanket, legs tangling with yours, one arm slipping around your waist as if you hadn’t just tried to elbow him in the ribs.

His cold fingers stayed pressed against your stomach, splayed wide, leeching heat from your skin.

He hummed. Content. Infuriating. And way too comfortable. You tried to roll away. He followed. A human shadow.

“I’m cold,” he whispered, muffled against the crook of your neck, voice full of fake sorrow. He wasn’t.

You could feel the warmth radiating off him now. He was just using you like a personal heating pad. Again.

You pinched his forearm through the blanket. He didn’t flinch. Just laughed again—soft and boyish and smug—and tightened his hold.

You gave up trying to move. It never worked. He was too tall, too stubborn, and he had no sense of personal space.

None.

Eventually, his breathing evened out. The mischief in his fingers faded. His hands, now warm, stayed still against your skin. That was how it always ended.

With you lying stiff and grumbling in silence, and Eita curled up around you like some overgrown cat who refused to sleep in his own damn bed.