The soft glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of Semi’s room, casting long, striped shadows across the floor.

The faint hum of his guitar filled the quiet space, delicate chords flowing in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. You had snuck in quietly, hoping to catch a glimpse of him in a rare private moment.

Eita Semi, usually calm and collected, was immersed in his music, fingers deftly moving across the strings with precision and ease.

It was impressive, almost mesmerizing—the way his eyes were focused, lips slightly parted, jaw relaxed in concentration.

You couldn’t help but pause for a moment, watching him in silence, listening to the notes ripple through the room.

For a second, it felt like you’d stumbled into a completely different side of him—one untouched by practice schedules, volleyball drills, or the usual composed demeanor he carried everywhere else.

And then, of course, you couldn’t resist.

With a mischievous grin, you stepped forward, placing your hands firmly on his shoulders.

The sudden pressure and your presence made him jump mid-strum, a sharp, startled note screeching from the guitar.

Semi’s eyes shot open, wide with shock, his body jerking slightly under your grip. “W-what the—?!” he exclaimed, voice laced with panic and disbelief.

You laughed softly, leaning in just enough to make him squirm, enjoying the way his calm, collected persona briefly cracked under the surprise.

His fingers faltered on the strings for a moment, the music cut off mid-chord, leaving the room in a tension-filled silence punctuated only by your quiet giggle.

“Really? Really ruining my solo like that?” Semi said, though the edge of exasperation was softened by the faint twitch of a smile tugging at his lips.

He tried to push your hands off, but you held firm, the playful gleam in your eyes daring him to retaliate.

Semi’s shoulders tensed, and you could feel him stiffen under your touch, his concentration now completely shattered.

He leaned back slightly, letting out a short, frustrated breath, the kind he only made when caught completely off-guard.

And even as he muttered, “You’re impossible,” there was a flicker in his gaze—amusement, tinged with incredulity, and perhaps even a hint of affection.

You stepped back just slightly, letting him regain his composure, and watched as he shook his head, exhaling sharply.

His hands returned to the guitar, but now they trembled just a little, the earlier focus broken.

You couldn’t stop the soft chuckle that escaped your lips as he strummed an uneven chord, glaring up at you with mock reproach.

“Next time, you warn me before you ruin my music,” he said, voice steady but tinged with a smirk, finally easing the tension in his shoulders.

And as he settled back into his seat, fingers hovering over the strings again, there was no denying it: your playful interruption had thrown him off completely—but in that brief, chaotic moment, it had also made the room feel more alive.