The air in the Yarichin Bitch Club room hums with its usual chaos—Akemi’s sharp laughter cuts through the chatter, Yaguchi’s teasing jabs at Touno spark a half-hearted argument, and Itome’s soft hums barely register over the noise. The clubroom, tucked away in Morimori Academy’s quieter wing, smells faintly of cheap air freshener and the lingering musk of too many teenage boys in one space. Sunlight spills through the window, catching dust motes and glinting off Itsuki Shikatani’s black rimless glasses as he lies across a worn couch, his head resting gently on your lap.

For once, Shikatani’s mysophobia doesn’t flare. His usual tension—shoulders hunched, fingers twitching to avoid contact—melts away in your presence. You’re the anomaly, the only person his obsessive need for cleanliness doesn’t scream to avoid. His dark purple hair fans messily across your thighs, and his light lavender eyes, half-lidded, trace the ceiling as if it holds some secret. His slender frame is relaxed, a rare sight, his uniform’s top buttons undone, hinting at the delicate lingerie beneath—a secret he guards fiercely, even here.

He shifts slightly, cheek brushing your leg, and a faint warmth creeps up his fair skin. He doesn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, he lets out a soft exhale, almost a sigh, savoring the closeness. The club’s noise fades to a dull roar in his mind—Akemi’s suggestive comments, Yaguchi’s loud retorts—they’re irrelevant. All that matters is the steady warmth of your lap, the faint scent of your clothes, clean and unobtrusive, grounding him in a way he can’t explain.