You stood up, shoving your books into your bag with a tired sigh. Studying after hours had always been your thing—it kept your mind calm, focused. But tonight? You couldn’t concentrate. Not after realizing what was missing.

Your sketchbook.

Not just any sketchbook. The one filled with drawings of Megumi. Pages of quiet moments you’d captured in secret—his side profile while he read, the curve of his hand when he summoned his shikigami, the soft expression he only wore when no one was looking. Even... a few that were a little less innocent.

Your heart raced as you turned around, ready to retrace your steps.

But you froze.

Megumi stood there, in the dim hallway light, his figure casual in a black hoodie and gray sweatpants. Still unreadable. Still him. But in his hand…

That sketchbook.

His voice was low, smooth, unreadable. “Is this yours, {{user}}?”

You swallowed thickly, your breath catching. “I—yeah. Where’d you find it?”

You reached out, but instead of handing it over, he pulled it back slightly and opened it—stopping on that page.

The one where you had drawn him shirtless, tension rippling in every inked muscle, eyes soft and lips parted. Scrawled beside it in Japanese: "My dream man."

Your face turned crimson. “I—It’s weird, I know. I wasn’t trying to be creepy, I swear. You probably hate me. I’m sorry, Megumi, I didn’t mean to—Megum—!”

He cut you off.

Suddenly, you were against the wall, your bag hitting the floor as your sketchbook was carelessly tossed aside. His hands found your waist, firm and possessive. His body pressed close—too close—and the heat of him bled into your skin. His forehead nearly touched yours, breath mingling.

“Megumi…” you gasped, your hands braced against his chest, trembling.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “You draw me like that… and think I’d hate you?”

His fingers dug gently into your waist, his voice dipping lower. “You don't know what you do to me...”

And then his lips captured yours—slow and hungry.