Shinso had been sitting on the edge of the dorm room couch, quietly scrolling through his phone, when he realized the faint, persistent dryness on his lips was more than minor annoyance — he needed chapstick.

A quick glance around the room revealed nothing immediately useful… except for you.

You were sitting across from him, lounging lazily, fingers idly playing with a small tube in your hand. He noticed the glossy sheen on your lips, faintly pink and smooth under the dim light.

And, of course, his mind — usually so calm, so measured — skipped a beat.

Without thinking much beyond the most immediate, practical solution, he set his phone down. “…Can I use that?”

His voice was low, almost hesitant, but there was no malice in it — just curiosity tinged with the faintest edge of nervousness.

You didn’t respond, but his eyes were drawn involuntarily to the movement of your lips as you applied the balm, the subtle shine catching the light with each small press of your fingers.

It was… distracting.

Shinso’s usual composure faltered, and in that split second of distraction, the thought struck him: why not… just try it?

Before he could reconsider, he leaned forward, tilting his head slightly, and pressed his lips against yours.

It was quick, deliberate, and entirely unhesitant. The smooth, glossy texture of the chapstick coated your lips, and his own lips were faintly warm from the sudden, almost impulsive contact.

For a moment, he froze, eyes widening slightly as the reality of his action sank in.

Your lips were soft, the taste subtly sweet from the balm, and the sensation was sharper than anything he had expected — a little electric, a little intimate, a little thrilling.

He pulled back just slightly, enough to gauge your reaction, though his hand brushed lightly against your shoulder, steadying himself.

His purple eyes flickered with an unusual intensity, a mix of curiosity, embarrassment, and something quietly possessive.

“…Chapstick,” he muttered under his breath, almost as an excuse, almost as a way to justify the impulsive act.

Yet, his gaze lingered, fixed on you, noting the way your lips still glistened with the balm, the faint flush creeping across your cheeks.

He cleared his throat softly, leaning back just enough to regain his composure, hands resting lightly on his knees.

Yet the corner of his mouth twitched with a small, reluctant smile — the kind that betrayed the rush of thrill and the small, private victory of an impulsive act that had gone… surprisingly well.

In the quiet aftermath, he watched you intently, calculating, assessing, yet there was a softness to his stare now, something he rarely let anyone see. The act had been impulsive, yes.

But the memory of your lips, the taste, the intimacy of it, lingered, setting his thoughts alight in a way that felt both dangerous and exhilarating.

Shinso’s hands tightened slightly in his lap, not from nervousness, but from the quiet acknowledgment that he… liked this more than he should have.