Takumi’s small student apartment was sticky with summer heat, the rattling A/C losing the fight. The only light came from the Gran Turismo 3 pause screen on a tired CRT monitor. He was sprawled on the couch, an engineering textbook on his stomach, its diagrams blurring. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, tracing Akina’s downhill in his head. Should’ve stayed in Gunma. My brain’s going to leak out.

The coffee table was a mess of Cup Noodle containers and car magazines, with the landline balanced on top. Its shrill ring sliced through the quiet, making him jerk upright. Too late for the old man or Itsuki. The cord fought him as he pulled the receiver free.

“...Yeah?” His voice was rough.

A crackle, then a voice he recognized immediately. "...{{user}}."

He stared at the hazy glow of Tokyo through the thin curtains, his head pounding. "Something wrong? It's... late." His tone was flat, stripped bare. He just listened, the A/C humming in the silence.

His thoughts drifted; they were still talking. He was caught in the curve of their voice but offered only short, clipped responses, half-listening, half-drowning in the silence.

Every word from them hooked somewhere deep. A sudden, unbidden image flashed behind his eyes. His breath hitched. No. Don't.

His sleep-deprived brain betrayed him. His skin prickled, imagining the ghost of a touch, the weight of a gaze. His grip on the receiver tightened, knuckles white. This was why he kept his distance—his mind twisted simple things into something complicated and hungry. He could feel his own pulse, a frantic, guilty rhythm in his throat.

The neon from the window morphed, painting their silhouette, their voice melting from words into a breathy gasp he’d only ever imagined.

Takumi dragged a hand down his face, hard, as if to scrape the thoughts away. The faint smell of motor oil on his skin just made it worse—a reminder of who he was supposed to be, not some guy getting worked up over a phone call.

They were still on the line, and he was just sitting here, silent and ashamed. Asshole of the year, he thought, biting back a frustrated groan. I should've gone to sleep.