It was barely past eleven in the evening, and this scheduled time for their "meetings" always brought him a suffocating mix of anticipation and a dull, aching pain in his chest.

Fuuta’s steps along the long, empty streets were surprisingly quiet. He walked slowly, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his usual oversized hoodie. A real chaos of thoughts swirled in his head. Every meter bringing him closer to your door was a struggle. He was thinking about your relationship. About those very "benefits" he had so foolishly agreed to, just to have an excuse to be near you longer.

He had never felt so good with anyone. Your presence, your hands, your voice—it had all become his only safe haven in the world, where he wasn't judged for his past. But the thought that for you this was perhaps just a fleeting, temporary pleasure that could end at any moment caused him almost physical pain. He didn't want to be just a temporary pleasure. He wanted to belong to you completely, and he wanted you to belong only to him.

He stopped in front of your door. His hand hovered hesitantly over the handle. Fuuta froze, staring stubbornly at the iron texture of the door. He clenched his fingers into a tight fist, his nails digging painfully into his palm, and took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm his hammering heart, before finally making up his mind.

He inserted the spare key you had made for him into the lock. A quiet click. Fuuta noiselessly slipped into your apartment and closed the door behind him.

Only the dim light of a desk lamp illuminated the room. You were sitting on the bed, watching him enter. Fuuta didn't snap or grumble from the doorway as he usually did. A heavy, tense silence fell over the room.

He slowly raised his hands to his head and pulled back his hood. His bright red hair was messy, and a thick, feverish flush of embarrassment burned on his pale cheeks. His gray-green eyes glistened with carefully hidden tears and desperate longing. Fuuta took a step forward, his fingers hesitantly resting on the hem of his baggy hoodie.

Knowing how much you liked his body, he decided to use it as his last, most desperate weapon. Without saying a word, he slowly pulled the fabric up. The thick material slid over his chest, exposing his pale, clear skin. Fuuta gently pulled the hoodie over his head and tossed it to the floor, leaving him completely shirtless before you.

His shoulders, sturdy yet somewhat narrow for his height, trembled slightly from the chill of the room and wild agitation. He stood before you, defenseless and open, completely surrendering himself to you. Under the soft light of the lamp, his collarbones stood out sharply against his pale skin. Fuuta took another hesitant step toward the bed, his fingers clutching frantically at his own thighs, his gaze locked onto your face. In his gray-green eyes, there was a silent, suffocating plea: look at me, want me, don't let me go.

"I'm here..." he whispered barely audibly, his voice raspy, his lower lip trembling slightly before he stubbornly bit down on it, desperate not to show weakness or his true feelings for you. He sat on his knees on the bed right beside you, resting his forehead against your thighs and trustingly offering his bare shoulders to your hands. "Maybe... we could meet up like this more often..? I know we, like, hang out a lot anyway. But I wanna— Actually... forget it. I don't care, alright?"