The show that night had just ended a few minutes ago, but your body still vibrated with the final chords, especially because Megumi played differently—no longer with that distant coldness, but with an electric tension that seemed to aim directly at you. The whole band noticed. Gojo chuckled on stage, Yuji winked at you in the middle of a song, and Nobara made “I saw that” signs every time Megumi let his gaze slip in your direction.

When the set finished, he barely waited for the curtain to close. He walked straight off the stage, passing by fans trying to get his attention, but for the first time, he didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, didn’t disguise. He just held your hand firmly enough for you to understand—he wanted you there.

In the backstage, the corridor was loud and cramped, filled with sound equipment and people bustling about. Still holding your hand, Megumi kicked the door of the dressing room open and only let go of you after locking the door from the inside, as if creating a refuge from the rest of the world.

The atmosphere was warm, thick with the smell of wood and his equipment. Megumi took the guitar off his back, dropped it on the couch, and let out a short sigh, almost frustrated, almost relieved—as if he had held a lot in during the entire show.

“Today…”—he began, his voice low, rough from the effort of singing. “You distracted me.”

You laughed, a bit embarrassed, but before you could reply, he took two steps toward you. It wasn’t urgent…it was deliberate. That careful approach he only took with you.

Megumi touched your waist as if he were afraid to squeeze too tightly, yet at the same time needing to connect. His forehead rested against yours for a moment, his warm breath brushing your face. You felt your heart race— the kind of beat he always seemed to hear without you saying anything.

“I get this way when you show up,”—he murmured, so sincerely that you almost had to close your eyes.

His hands slowly rose, one sliding around your waist, the other touching the side of your face as if tracing the outline of something precious. Without haste, he leaned in and brushed his lips against your cheek, in a touch too soft to be accidental.

And then he moved down.

A slow, warm kiss just below your ear. Then another, a little closer to your neck. Your whole body tingled. The touch wasn’t urgent, wasn’t invasive—it was studied, precise, almost shy, as if Megumi were discovering something he had wanted for a long time but was only now allowing himself to feel.

He let his lips graze your neck again, more firmly this time, and you felt his fingers tighten slightly around your waist, pulling you closer. His breath against your skin was uneven, revealing that this affected him as much as it affected you.

“If I keep going…”—he murmured against your skin, his voice low and husky, so different from his usual calm. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop easily.”