Chapter Text
CRASH!
“Megumi Fushiguro!” you hiss.
The raven-haired boy barely flicks his eyes toward you, expression as cold as ever. Glittering shards of glass rain over the floor, crunching under your shoes. All the while, the gaping hole where the class window used to be yawns open to the hallway. Again.
“What?” he snaps—like you’re the problem here.
“You did not have to throw him out the window,” you groan, massaging the space between your brows as the classroom erupts into whispers. “This is the third time this week.”
He merely scoffs, jaw ticking. “Windows are the least they should worry about in a werewolf class."
Then, as if he didn’t just fling someone into school property, he briskly dusts off his palms, patting away debris from tossing the unconscious boy now sprawled like roadkill. Students part from him, phones already raised for gossip and clout.
He steps over the last shimmering sea of shards, drops into his seat beside you, and sighs, grumbling like usual under his breath. “Why’d they even put a human in here anyway…”
“What was that?” you snap, whipping around with a glare. “You—”
“Again?!” your teacher’s voice booms from the front. “Did Meg— I mean, Fushiguro do this again?!”
The entire class points at him in perfect unison. Everyone except you, because you’re too busy locked in a glaring contest with said menace.
“Teens these days…” Satoru sighs, ivory hair fulsome beneath the next-door slice of cerulean.
“Just because you’re the Alpha doesn’t mean you get to cause chaos all year-round, okay?” he chides, clapping his hands for attention. “Now sit down, all of you.”
With a dramatic, long-suffering exhale, you decide not to argue—not when your seat is only four steps away. The plastic chair screeches against the floor as you drag it back, and your seatmate flinches at the noise, shoulders tightening. A smug little grin touches your mouth.
“Gremlin,” he mutters, arms crossed, staring out the nonexistent window.
“Edgelord,” you shoot back, dropping your backpack by the leg of the desk.
That’s right. Your seatmate is Megumi Fushiguro—the grumpiest Alpha to ever exist in the history of werewolves, possibly in the universe. And you? You’re a human. The first one ever shoved into a werewolf class.
If it weren’t for that tiny, important detail, you would have thrown hands at him already.
You slump back into your chair, eyes fixed on the date chalked on the board. Seven days until graduation. Or more precisely… seven days until freedom.
3 SEPTEMBER 2018
If Megumi Fushiguro could describe his first day of school in one word, it wouldn’t be hell. Because hell—even all forty-two synonyms in the dictionary wouldn’t be enough. And normally, that would’ve been dramatic. Except… it was perfectly accurate for any school with werewolves enrolled.
The second floor greeted him like a warzone.
Flickering fluorescent hummed overhead, reeking of sweat within its glow, lined with dented lockers from last year’s disputes, and claw marks scraped like graffiti along the walls. If he’d plucked out his earphones, he would probably hear a distant thud echoing from somewhere, sprinkled with maybe a howl and another teacher’s tired sigh.
Par for the course. Any school with werewolves had the same ritual: the first week was always a free-for-all to sort out the hierarchy.
Meaning? Absolute, government-approved chaos.
Not even ten steps in, and someone skidded across the linoleum beside him—a blur of limbs and momentum, slamming into a row of lockers with a metallic clang.
“What are you staring at?” a greenish-blonde boy swaggered forward, hands shoved cockily into his pockets. “Tryna pick a fight?”
Megumi’s eyes flicked, gaze landing on the girl curled on the floor. She was clutching her stomach, wheezing through the pain. Unconsciously, he felt his jaw clench. He didn’t even flinch when he looked back up at the smirking boy, glaring into his eyes.
“And what did she do to you?" His voice was flat, blunt, slicing through the chaotic hallway like a blade.
The boy in front of him simply barked out a laugh, loud. It bounced off the sad row of dented lockers and rattled far down the corridor. Disbelief? Arrogance? Nobody cared enough to know.
“What—like I need a reason?” he scoffed. “Her face just pisses me off.”
Doors began cracking open. Students peeked out like animals, their fingers curled around doorframes, eyes gleaming with curiosity and the feral hunger for drama. Whispers rolled through the hallway like wind before a storm, an audience gathering for a fight.
But he didn’t move. He just stood there, measuring the simpleton in front of him.
He knew the rule. If nobody stepped in after five seconds, the hierarchy was officially set. And thus, his glare never wavered. The numbers began ticking in his mind like a metronome.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
…One.
Just like a detonating bomb, Megumi didn’t waste a breath. His fist connected with the boy’s cheek so fast, the crack of impact echoed all the way down the hallway.
Because if you’d lived a life like his—sending an injured innocent his way was practically sending a death sentence your way. And he was more than happy to deliver it.
“What the fu—”
Megumi cut him off with another punch, sharper, heavier, and straight into the jaw. The boy’s words instantly scattered like his teeth.
His voice followed after. Low, slicing through every gasp. Every lingering whisper that still trembled in the air. “Are you the Alpha here?”
The blonde staggered backwards, palm pressed to his cheek as a chipped tooth clinked to the floor.
“So what if I am?” he spat, voice shaking in rage. “Don’t you know who I am? Put some respect on the Zenin name.”
Megumi paused only long enough for his brow to furrow. Really, the name did nothing but sour the air.
He rolled his wrist, knuckles cracking like thunder.
“Okay, Zenin,” he glowered. “I challenge you for the Alpha title.”
The boy’s eyes widened—but he didn’t even get the chance to open his mouth. Megumi’s fist got there first, colliding with his jaw in one brutal strike.
Even if he had beaten Naoya into a pulp, thrown him into a heap like discarded trash, and upheld justice no matter what anyone said—it didn’t change the fact that Megumi’s methods were… messy.
Maybe that was why, when blood streaked across the hallway tiles, and Naoya’s teeth glittered somewhere several meters away, he walked into the classroom and headed straight for the back corner. Alone.
Students parted for him like the Red Sea—fitting, considering the crimson dripping lazily from his blackened knuckles.
When he finally slumped into his newfound seat, he raised a hand to his cheek, wincing at the tender, swelling bruise blooming there. Behind him, murmurs, shuffling feet, and the rustle of bags replaced the room quickly as everyone scrambled back to their seats, pretending they hadn’t been watching.
The door slid open again.
A tall, slim young man strode inside, his chalky milk hair causing every girl in the room to dissolve into hushed giggles and titters. Megumi dragged his hand down his face, feeling the migraine stack on top of everything else like some universal joke.
And of course, of course, the teacher’s eyes sparkled with excitement, completely ignoring the half-dead student in the hallway.
“Well, that was quick,” the man murmured, clapping his hands right as the bell chimed overhead. “I’m your homeroom teacher, Satoru Gojo! Nice to meet you—”
He didn’t get to finish. Because the door beside him burst open with an obnoxious bang, and you stumbled in, panting hard enough to choke.
“Ah—s-sorry, I got lost,” you wheezed, bowing your head in mortification.
With a gentle gaze, Satoru simply smirked, waving off the worry across your flushed face. “It happens."
Then he turned toward the classroom, eyes sweeping over each occupied seat. All… but one.
Megumi kept his chin propped lazily in his palm, refusing to meet the teacher’s pointed stare. He angled his face toward the window instead, its “view” nothing but dented lockers and hallway carnage.
Still, better than engaging. Yet, right on cue, the words he dreaded slammed into his ears:
“You can sit there, then!”
You stiffened mid-step, nodded quickly, and shuffled down the aisle under the weight of a dozen stares. Ignoring them, your chair creaked as you pulled it just a tadbit back, backpack huddling softly against the table leg as you set it down.
On the other hand, Megumi’s gaze was locked on the fake scenery beyond the glass. He hated the bitter taste spreading across his tongue.
“Hi,” you whispered, introducing yourself first. “What’s your name?”
He gave you a slow, reluctant glance, pausing for three full seconds. “Megumi Fushiguro.”
“Nice to meet you!” you beamed, smile lines bright in the overhead lights. He nodded subtly in response, still silent before looking away again.
Well, you didn’t seem too bothered. You simply faced forward, watching as Satoru began scribbling on the chalkboard, white dust floating like lazy snowflakes.
Then suddenly, your eyes widened.
Your posture snapped straight, and he heard the softest hitch of a breath. You rifled through your bag, flipping books, double-checking your class list, then triple-checking the room number, face paling. Almost hesitantly, you raised your hand.
“Yes?” Satoru spun around, pointing at you like a talk-show host.
“I think I was assigned to the wrong class,” you muttered, chewing on your lip. “I’m… a human.”
That was enough to rip Megumi’s attention away from the window. His brow furrowed. Whispers cracked across the room like sparks.
Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. A human? Here?
Satoru slid his sunglasses down, peering at you over the rims. He grabbed the attendance sheet, scanned the names and pictures, and frowned—barely, but long enough to make the class hold its breath.
Then he grinned. “Nope, you’re in the right one!”
He immediately went back to chalking the classroom rules.
Megumi exhaled sharply through his nose. Was she just lying? Seeking attention? Pulling some weird prank?
But when he tilted his head, just slightly, while his chin still dug into his palms—the fidgeting, the tremoring, and the sweat trickling down your forehead seemed almost too convincing.
“…Stop bouncing your leg,” he finally uttered, eyes darting away again.
Your breath caught. “Oh—y-yeah. Sorry.”
The rest of homeroom crawled by, almost normal. Until the bell rang. Until Satoru sauntered out with a lazy wave. And just as Megumi dreaded, everyone swarmed your desk.
“Whoa, you’re actually a human?”
“I thought we’d only see them in, like… Math class.”
“No scent at all. Weird.”
Questions stacked around you like walls, caving on you from all sides.
THUD.
Suddenly, a rough hand slammed against Megumi’s table. With an indifferent gaze, he looked up, brows knitting in annoyance to find a grey-haired boy, leaning over him with far too much confidence for someone with so few brain cells.
“Hey,” the guy drawled. “Since you’re the Alpha now… who’s the Omega?”
A slow, greasy smirk crawled across his face. “Need to vent my stress somehow.”
Snickers erupted from the pack behind him, buzzing like flies over rotten meat. Under the table, Megumi’s knuckles were already tightening into a fist.
Time pulled taut between them, air thick. Then, with a bored flick of his eyes away, the shadow-haired boy muttered, “...I’ll be the Omega.”
The second the words left his mouth, the room froze. The whispers. The footsteps. Even your breath. You whipped your head toward him, shock freezing your voice before it formed.
On the other hand, the standing boy just dragged his hand through his hair, laughing incredulously. “What? You think this is a joke?”
His hands immediately fisted Megumi’s collar, yanking him upright until both their noses touched. Two fifteen-year-olds glaring at each other like wolves about to tear into flesh.
From the corner of your eye, you noticed the slightest bit of movement. Both of Megumi’s hands now curled at his sides, bones shifting under his skin.
You opened your mouth to say something—
WHAM!
His fist sank first into the boy’s cheek with a crack.
It rippled through the classroom, and in the blink of an eye, another sound split the air—a high, crystalline shatter—as he seized the boy’s collar and hurled him straight toward his beloved window.
Glass instantly exploded outward like a burst of glazed confetti, fragments raining upon the already bloody hallway. The classroom door slammed open at the same moment.
“What is it now?!” Satoru barked, eyes darting between the two of you, then the unconscious body splayed across the floor.
Everyone scattered instantly—leaving you, frozen in your chair, and him, hovering over the fractured window frame. His head barely moved an inch, his chest heaving with quiet, insouciant breaths.
Finally, with an exhausted groan, Satoru tilted his head back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Both of you. Detention. Now.”
You and Megumi snapped toward him in unison, eyes wide. “I didn’t—!”
“Now.” The word cracked like a whip, and silence fell over the ruined classroom once more.
Flash forward ten minutes, and here you both were. Plopped on the cold linoleum floor, fluorescent lights whirring sickly white amidst its dreary, washed-out flare.
Dust motes drifted lazily in the stale air, and in front, a stack of untouched worksheets sat crookedly on the supervisor’s desk, where the woman herself slumped forward with her chin in her palm. She was half-asleep, eyes glazed over like she’d long given up on the world.
Megumi didn’t say a word. Not even a sideways glance. Not even an apology for dragging you into this mess.
He just sat rigid, fists resting on his knees, knuckles scraped raw and red. Quietly, you sneaked a quick glimpse at him, recalling what he had said. “...I’ll be the Omega.”
What did that even mean? Could someone be both Alpha and Omega? How would that even work?
You swallowed down a gulp, watching the bruise blooming across his skin like a dark, sore flower.
“...Um, are you okay?” you asked softly, leaning forward a little, your fingers fidgeting with your hem. “Your hand…”
He didn’t even blink in your direction. His gaze instead stayed locked dead ahead—the cracked whiteboard, the flickering light, anything but you. His jaw ticked sharply. “Don’t talk to me.”
Slowly, with a sharp inhale, you turned back to face forward, lips pulling into a tiny pout despite yourself.
“...Was just worried,” you mumbled under your breath, shoulders curling inward.
Usually—usually—Megumi let things slide. He ignored people. He tolerated noise.
But right now, something inside him felt wound too tight. Almost like a thread pulled to a snapping point. For once, instead of swallowing his boiling fury down, it slipped out before he could catch it.
“Didn’t ask you to," a quiet, razor-edged whisper—slicing clean through the last string in the air.
And you almost choked. Your head whipped toward him, eyes wide, breath catching halfway up your throat. It seemed like you, too, for unsaid reasons, couldn’t let it go.
Your day just seemed to get worse and worse.
“Do you have a problem with me?” you grilled, trying to keep your expression as your fingers dug into your knees.
Megumi didn’t move at first. Then slowly, he tilted his head just enough to meet your stare, blue-green eyes cold and flat as river stones.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I don’t like noisy people.”
“Noisy? I haven’t said a word to you the whole day!” you hissed, hands flinging out in front of you before dropping uselessly back into your lap.
Megumi’s jaw clenched. “You breathe loudly.”
On the other hand, yours hit the floor. “I breathe—?! Are you insane?”
Across the room, the supervisor started snoring, chin slipping dangerously close to falling off her palm. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest with a clipped, irritable huff.
“You humans think everyone’s supposed to cater to you,” he muttered, low and edged. “I just told you I don’t want to talk.”
“And you think punching someone through a window is a normal reaction?” you shot back.
He turned to you again, eyes narrowing. “He grabbed me first.”
“You could’ve talked it out!”
He scoffed, “You clearly don’t understand how things work here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” your hands mimed a dramatic toss, sarcasm bubbling out of you despite the tight ache in your chest. “Should I start throwing people through walls, too? Will that help me ‘fit in’?”
“You won’t survive throwing anyone,” he shot back, arms crossing again. “You’re too breakable.”
The words hit like a slap. Your breath stuttered, heat crawling up your neck.
“I don’t need a werewolf’s protection,” you snapped, hugging your bag closer now.
“Well, you’re getting it whether you like it or not,” he grumbled under his breath.
Your eyes widened. “…What?”
He froze. His spine went rigid, his shoulders stiffened, and suddenly, his whole expression shuttered like a door slammed shut.
“Nothing,” he tore his gaze away, jaw setting hard. “Forget it.”
“No, say it.” you leaned in, anger trembling through your voice, hands curling into fists in your lap. “Explain what that means.”
Then his gaze iced over.
“It means,” he said slowly, “don’t drag me into any of your stupid trouble. Your existence is already one itself.”
You huffed in disbelief, throat tightening, “I didn’t drag you into anything.”
And this time, your voice cracked, no matter how hard you tried to steady it, “You’re the one who keeps starting fights.”
“And you’re the one who keeps whining about them," his words slipped under your ribs.
The entire day just felt like a long string of wrong turns and wrong assumptions, all piling heavy on the weight of your shoulders. You swallowed hard, blinking quickly as heat prickled your eyes.
“You know what? I don’t know who you think you are,” you whispered sharply, “but I’m not your problem. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Good,” he muttered. “Neither do I.”
You stood up so hastily that your legs nearly buckled. The supervisor instantly jolted awake, sputtering, “Huh—detention’s over?”
You swung your bag over your shoulder with shaking hands, not giving him a single glance. Stomping furiously toward the doorway, each footstep fiercer than the last.
He just watched you go. Watched the rigid set of your shoulders. Watched the slight wobble in your steps you tried so hard to hide. Watched the way your fingers trembled around the strap of your bag.
Your footsteps faded down the empty hallway, swallowed by the hum of distant lights. Only when the silence had fully settled, did he finally let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“Tch," his fist curled, tight and white-knuckled. Almost like he wished he could punch the air itself.
By the time lunch had started, you were convinced the universe had it out for you.
First, someone spilt soup on your uniform. Then, three witches “accidentally” drifted in front of you in the cafeteria line. Then, a group of werewolves started roughhousing, and you got knocked shoulder-first into a locker, bruise blooming already underneath your sleeve.
To make matters worse, every hallway sounded like a war zone.
Spellfire snapped in the distance. A scream somewhere. Claws scraping. Floors juddering under stomping boots. Conversations ricocheting off crazy walls.
You tried to walk like none of it bothered you, yet the noise still crawled under your skin.
You tried not to take it personally. Tried to remember your mother reassuring you that morning: You’ll be fine. It’s just a school day.
But today, it felt like everyone but you got a manual, and it just all pressed against your skull, like a migraine waiting to explode.
Your heart hammered. Your fingers curled in on themselves. As soon as another fight erupted at the end of the hallway—chairs screeching, kids shouting, something heavy slamming into a wall the ground trembled—you instantly stepped back.
You didn’t want to cry. God, you really didn’t.
Your throat tightened. Your eyes stung. Panic simmered in the space just behind your ribs. You spotted the nearest door.
Without a thought, you grabbed the handle and slipped inside before anyone could notice, easing it shut behind you until the click cut off the noise like a severed thread.
You paused for a moment, turning to see old mops leaning in a corner, their shadows tall in the dim light leaking from a singular tiny window. Cardboard boxes slumped against metal shelves, while the air dithered with dust, cleaning fluid, and something faintly wooden—safe, or at least quiet.
Your breath trembled, wobbling. Slowly, you pressed your back against the closet in front, sliding down until you were sitting on the cold, creaking floorboards.
You tried to swallow it down, to get control of the tremor building under your ribs, but the whole day just sat unbearably laden on your chest.
Before you knew it, a cracked sound slipped out of you. You pressed your sleeve over your mouth, forcing yourself to breathe. It was fine. You just needed a minute. Just one quiet—
Thump.
You stiffened. The soft thud came from behind you.
Carefully, with spooked out eyes, you peeked over your shoulder. The closet you’d leaned against was in reality a second door—its bottom slightly ajar, leaking the thinnest sliver of warm yellow light into the dark.
You froze. Something shifted behind it—a soft scrape. A quiet inhale that wasn’t yours. Your heartbeat slowly climbed into your throat.
“…Hello?” your voice barely left you, swallowed almost immediately by the dusty air.
There was a pause. A beat of stillness. Then a low, guttery response. “…Didn’t realise this place was taken.”
A boy. Hidden behind the narrow crack of that second door. His voice was composed, slightly rough, maybe a little annoyed, too—but not at you. More like himself.
“I—I can leave,” you blurted, wiping your cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude—”
“No.” He said it too fast, then you heard the small click of him swallowing back whatever impulse that was. He paused.
“I mean,” his clothes rustled faintly as he adjusted himself, voice steadying, “you don’t have to leave. I’m just… here.”
Silence stretched after his odd words, thick enough to feel as it settled between both of you. Then, you sniffed. It was barely a sound, but he still caught it. “Are you crying?”
You swallowed, face heating, “It’s nothing. Just a stupid day.”
A soft exhale slipped through the gap in the door, thin as thread, “You’re human, aren’t you?”
You froze, fingers curling against your knees, “How did you—”
“You sound like one.”
You stared in shock.
“Too normal,” he muttered immediately, as if the words were dragged out of him.
A weak, shaky laugh escaped you, “That’s… not exactly reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
You tilted your head back against the door, letting the wood cool the heat around your eyes. On the other side, you heard a soft brush of fabric against the floor.
Then, a quiet thump, the weight of someone else settling in. You mirrored him without thinking, sinking until your shoulders rested lightly against the frame.
For a long while, neither of you spoke.
“…Rough day?” he asked, voice subdued, almost reluctant.
A humourless little breath left you, “Understatement of the century.”
A rustle followed, as though he had moved a bit closer too.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Mine too.”
You blinked at the floor, surprised. It felt strangely comforting, knowing someone else was struggling too. “What happened to you?”
Another brief moment of hush fell between the two of you. Then he exhaled, breath brushing through the crack like a taboo. “…Got into a fight. A stupid one. Lost my temper.”
That piqued your curiosity, and you angled your head just a little, listening closer. “Why?”
He hesitated. And after a few seconds, when he finally answered, his voice sank. “…Someone got hurt. And people just… stood there.”
For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.
The chaotic events of the day flashed through your mind. Megumi flashed through your mind. His bruised knuckles, his indifference, his declaration to take both pack roles—and before you knew it, the words spilt out of you. “You sound like a good person.”
“I’m not," the boy’s response came out far too quick, far too certain.
Like he was shutting down even the slightest idea of it. You frowned lightly, confused about why he’d do that. “You helped someone.”
He didn’t answer. But after a few beats of silence, you rubbed your sleeve across your cheek, catching the last trace of trailing wetness. You whispered again, “I’m sorry your day sucked.”
“...Thanks,” he muttered.
Then, there was the faintest rasp, like he’d moved his hand or leaned his head back. “...You too.”
Somewhere in the room, a mop handle clicked faintly as it settled.
“So,” he continued, voice sonorous as ever, “what were you doing before hiding in this stupid room?”
You groaned, tipping forward until your forehead almost touched your knees. “Trying to survive. Turns out that’s harder than I thought.”
A laugh slipped out of him—rough and ragged, like his throat itself wasn’t used to the sound of it. “Well, you made it here. That’s something.”
“…Barely. I’m not exactly built for magical brawls.”
“I can tell.”
In a beat, you sat up abruptly, dust swirling like snow around you. You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Rude.”
“It’s true,” he said, a smirk threading through the words. “Humans have terrible reflexes.”
“Oh yeah? And what are you? A ninja?”
A pause. You could almost picture him rubbing the back of his neck behind the door. “…Werewolf.”
Your lips shot up, “Oh. That explains the super hearing.”
He mumbled, “And the anger issues.”
“I wasn’t going to say it,” you teased, grinning despite yourself, “but yeah. Maybe a little.”
He huffed. “...Whatever.”
You shifted, pulling your knees closer. The lumber floorboard was cold, but somehow, it felt just a bit less unforgiving, warmer with your weight. Somewhere above, astir clouds fluffed up the bright azure sky—a gentle reminder of summer.
“So,” you carried on, nudging the silence gently, “what do you do when your day sucks? Since you clearly have experience.”
A faint scrape echoed. “Read,” he murmured.
Your head tilted up in surprise, brushing lightly against the door. “Same.”
Another pause. This time, warmer. You traced your fingers across the creaking planks, fingers gliding under the sliver of light cutting beneath the door.
“…What do you read?” he asked, actually sounding curious this time around.
You drew an absent little circle. “Mostly fiction. Fantasy. Magical worlds that make more sense than this one.”
He breathed a small laugh. “I read nonfiction.”
“Of course you do,” you snickered. “You sound serious.”
“I’m not,” he loured. “I just… like things that are real.”
You slumped the back of your head against the door, staring up at the dim ceiling. “Even if the world is messy and awful sometimes?”
You could hear the faintest thump of him shifting too, the soft drag of fabric as he leaned back—mirroring you. “…Especially then.”
A small smile tugged at your lips, unbidden throughout the cold, stiff air. “That’s kind of nice.”
“…It’s not,” he scowled too quickly, but the shy singular thread of pride loose in his voice betrayed him.
Silence settled in again, softly blanketing the two of you. After a few minutes of hush, you barely heard him murmur. “…You seem nice.”
To your surprise, a tiny breath of a laugh escaped you, loosening your shoulders. You reached out and rested your palm lightly on the edge of the doorframe between you, fingertips brushing the rough wood.
“You don’t know me.”
“You don’t know me either.”
“…Fair.”
Neither of you moved. Neither of you knew who the other was. But somehow, speaking through a door felt easier than speaking to anyone face-to-face.
“…Talking to you helped.”
Your heartbeat jumped. Almost hard enough you were sure he could hear it. Faintly, you whispered, “Same here.”
A pause followed. A long one. Even the dust in the air felt still.
“…If your day gets bad again,” he muttered, like he was testing each word before letting it go, “you can come here.”
Even when you knew you wouldn’t see anything, you still turned back in surprise.
“But I—I won’t always be here,” he added quickly. “I’m just saying. If you need… quiet.”
You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your uniform, a slow grin breaking through. “Yeah. Same to you.”
On the other side of the wood, something shifted in him—like he wasn’t used to anyone offering him anything gentle. “…Okay.”
Soon enough, the lunch bell rang in the distance, muffled in its insistent call. With a sigh, you pushed yourself up slowly, dust from the floor clinging to your palms. “Guess we should go.”
“Yeah.”
But neither of you moved. For a strange little heartbeat, it felt like leaving would break the spell. The little bubble you’d found.
“…Bye,” you whispered.
“…Bye,” he echoed, voice softer than you’d ever heard it yet.
With a gentle clack, you pushed open the door, your silhouette leaving the tenebrosity, and slipping back into the roaring chaos and clatter of the hallway. Although this time, your heart felt impeccably lighter than it had been all day.
Behind the second door, the boy just leaned back against the wood, eyes wide, pulse loud in his chest. He didn’t know your name. He didn’t know your face.
Yet for the first time that day, he didn’t feel so alone.
15 JULY 2021...
You’d think the principal must’ve been high, founding a school that splurged werewolves, witches, and humans alike. But when you’re here, flinging pens, books—and anything really—at Naoya, at least nobody questions it.
“You—” an eraser flies.
“Damn—” he ducks under the table.
“Jerk—!” your hand clenches against your chair.
“Crazy bitch…” he mutters, trying to shove past the huddled crowd. But nobody budges, not when they’re busy recording on their phones, murmurs filling the room.
Skrrrrrrrr—
Your chair shrieks against the floor, dragging between the row of whispering tables, the pattering of rain. Your chair, pricked with thumbtacks, edges glinting under the flickering lights.
You can feel your blood boiling at the sight of him, heart pounding, stomach tightening. He’s still trying to push past the sea of people, but nobody budges.
In your lungs, the salt of the air doesn’t compare—not to the fury that seeps with each breath. A hiss of chagrin seeps under his teeth, grinding in indignation.
And as if to seal the deal, when his gaze lands across a familiar spike of coal-black hair, leaning on the doorframe—he understands just exactly why everyone’s planted in the ground.
The pressure behind his eyes pulsates. Fuuuuck, his shoulder tenses, rising with the louder screeching. Megumi’s eyes are narrowed at him, lips pressed into a thin, smug smirk.
Naoya glances over his shoulder, holding his breath. And when he sees the chair, held up high like another thunder to the grey storm raging on outside, he utters his final words.
“Crazy fucking Alphas—”
BAM!
Darkness ensues…
“...Wow, did you see the bruise she left on his head?”
“Yeah, no, he totally deserved it,” your red-haired classmate beams, chest puffing. “That’s our female Alpha for you—” he instantly shuts up, eyes accidentally meeting Megumi’s.
“Not any better than me now, are you?” your seatmate huffs, picking at the new bandage under his left eye. On the other hand, you’re wiping the green goo of whatever oozing chloride Naoya’s spilt across your desk.
“Don’t even get me started. He’s been doing this for weeks,” you grumble, cloth pushing another depressingly dipped wave to the bucket below.
He simply leans against his chair, arms crossed. “Was gonna do something about it,” he mumbles, lips twitching at how your brows knitted under the murky glum.
“Were you gonna break something else in the process, too?” you grouch back, eyes narrowed as you squeeze the cloth again. “Damn, this smells— What the hell did Zenin use this time?”
“He made an explosion in Chem class,” he quickly looks away. “Probably whatever that was.”
You just groan, knuckles pale in exhaustion. The air seems to drip with all sullen dour, almost as if it’s grieving the funeral of someone. How befitting, really.
“Gee, wish I was there to see that too.”
“No thanks, I don’t want to see you even more—”
Slap!
“Lucky you, then. You’ll be seeing each other more in detention," two small sheets slap atop both your tables.
“What?” both of you say in unison, head perking up to see Maki, head of Student Council.
“You heard me.”
“But I didn’t—”
“—do anything…” your voice trails off, and somehow you’re already back on the floor beside Megumi in detention.
The classroom, usually bright and orderly, now looks like someone picked it up and shook it until its dying breath.
Crimson, slanting rays of the setting sun outside tinged the entire room in ochre, setting aglow all the chairs and desks that have been shoved to the back wall. It’s nothing more than a crooked tower of metal legs and scratched wood, really, with their shadows stretching long under the buzzing ceiling lamps.
The floorboards creak each time someone breathes a little too hard, and it’s even worse in the awkward quiet of “Reflection Circle,” or whatever the supervisors decided to call this torment.
So while you kneel, unwillingly, on the cold planks, your knees keep brushing Megumi’s from how cramped the space given is—and three others sit in the same laden lopsided circle, the air thick with unease, discomfort, and boredom.
He raises his hand like he’s answering a question, but the lazy smirk he sneaks at you ruins any chance of morality. “She hit Zenin with her chair.”
“You—” you start, but Nobara cuts in before you can defend yourself.
Next to you, she gasps dramatically, her hand flying up to her mouth. Black paint gleams across her nails—the symbolic trademark for witches—and her hair glows golden under the mellow luminosity, eyes glinting a tiny spark with her fluttering lashes. Her grin grows wicked, bright.
“Pfft, isn’t he a jerk, though?” she scoffs, crossing her arms with queen-like confidence. “He probably deserved it.”
She tips her chin at you, sneaking a quick thumbs-up. You snort and quickly flick one back before the supervisor notices. “She gets it—”
“Did you really have to hit him, though?” Yuji asks, head tilting like a confused puppy, his curls bouncing with the motion. She immediately elbows him, pairing the gesture with a glare.
“You don’t know since you just transferred, but he’s the biggest jerk around,” she avers, rolling her eyes so hard her earrings sway. “He beats people until they’re half-dead—and even tried bossing me around once.”
Then, she taps her finger to her lips, smirking almost too lethally. “Well, before I turned him into a Voodoo doll.”
A giggle escapes you before you can stop it. Your shoulders loosen for the first time all day, and out of the corner of your eye, you don’t catch Megumi watching you. His jaws clench lightly, lips pressed into a thin line. Nobara notices instantly.
“So…” she drawls, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Are you guys a thing or something?”
Your heart leaps straight out of your throat.
“What? No way—” you both blurt, the words crashing into each other mid-air.
“Oh wow,” she whispers to Yuji, “they weren’t kidding.”
Megumi shoots her a sharp glare. “About what?”
“That you two act like an old married couple.”
You freeze. Megumi stiffens beside you. Suddenly, he sputters, ears already turning red. “Married—?! Who the hell is spreading that?!”
“We have a list,” Yuji utters, counting on his fingers. “Your class is… very passionate.”
Megumi groans, dragging a hand down his face. “They’re idiots.”
“You’re their Alpha,” you shoot back, crossing your arms.
“You’re their—” he stops mid-sentence, jaw snapping shut as he scowls hard. “Never mind.”
Nobara leans in, eyes sparkling. “So it’s not true, then?”
“Obviously not—”
“Of course not—”
You and Megumi snap in perfect, infuriating unison. You round on him immediately, pointing accusingly. “Stop copying me.”
“I said it first,” he replies, tone flat.
“No, I did.”
“You didn’t.”
Nobara raises both brows and turns to Yuji, murmuring as the two of them lean together like gossiping aunts. “See? This. This is exactly how they sounded in the rumours.”
You whip your head around. “What rumours exactly?!”
Yuji starts ticking them off. “Uh, someone said you two almost got banned from group work because you argued about who got to hold the glue stick—”
“That was his fault,” you snap instantly.
Megumi scoffs, crossing his arms tightly. “You were holding it wrong.”
“It’s a glue stick!”
“You were squeezing it too hard.”
“It’s. A. Glue. Stick,” you scowl back at him, griping in disbelief.
Nobara slaps a hand over her mouth, shoulders trembling as she fights back a laugh. The floor creaks as she leans forward like she’s settling in for a show. “God, this is basically a sitcom.”
“Sitcom?!” Megumi repeats, offended.
“You guys sound scripted,” she says. “Even the pauses are dramatic.”
Megumi looks like he wants to crawl into the floorboards. You roll your eyes, “So what? We just argue sometimes. Big deal.”
“Sometimes?” Yuji asks, blinking slowly in incredulity. “They also said you argued once for twenty minutes about whether cats or dogs are smarter.”
Your jaw drops. “How do they even know that conversation happened?”
Megumi sighs beside you, arms still crossed, leaning back. “Because she yells."
“I wasn’t yelling!”
His shoulder accidentally brushes yours, and in the blink of an eye, he immediately shifts away. “You were definitely yelling.”
You stare at him, scandalised. “You literally raise your voice every time I win an argument.”
“I’ve never lost an argument to you,” he shoots back flatly.
Nobara drags in a dramatic gasp and claps once, “Ohoho. Bold claim.”
“Because it’s true,” he insists.
You bark a laugh. “You’re delusional.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re loud.”
“You’re rude.”
“You started it.”
The supervisor at the front glances over, ready to shush you. All four of you freeze, and finally, silence drapes over the circle for exactly two full seconds.
Then Nobara breathes, awestruck, “You two are incredible.”
“We aren’t—” Megumi starts, shoulders tensing.
She steamrolls right over him, pointing between the two of you like damning evidence. “You sit next to each other in class.”
“She came late,” Megumi deadpans, ignoring how that meant nobody else wanted to sit with him.
“You finish each other’s sentences.”
“We do n—”
“We do n—”
You both turn toward each other instantly, horrified, all while Nobara throws her hands up triumphantly. “THAT.”
“She’s right, that was perfect timing,” Yuji nods, eyes shut, arms crossed like a monk.
“It’s not on purpose!” you hiss, heat flooding your cheeks.
On the other hand, Megumi mutters under his breath, jaw tight, voice strained, “Why does this keep happening…”
In a burst of frustrated instinct, he shoves his knee lightly against yours—a silent shut up before they get ideas. You snap your head toward him, scowling, and he jerks away instantly, a sharp inhale catching in his throat as a faint pink streaks across his ears.
Nobara snickers behind her hand. “Oh my god. They’re touchy, too.”
“WE ARE NOT,” you both snap… again.
Megumi’s eyes dart everywhere—the ceiling, the floor, the windows—anywhere but at you or the smug faces across from him.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “This is stupid. We’re not—anything.”
You groan into your hands while he grumbles heavily through his nose, voice low and suffering, “…I hate it here.”
The room suddenly feels too warm. The buzzing lights grow too loud.
“Same,” you mumble. And somehow, for the first time in your entire detention-ridden existence… you’ve finally agreed on something.
2 OCTOBER 2018
The first few times you passed the room, you were still in your first year. You knocked lightly on the wooden door.
“Anyone alive in there?” you teased. A pause. Then the familiar, quiet voice through the crack.
“...Unfortunately.”
You snickered, sliding down to sit on the floor, leaning against the door the way he always leaned on the other side. “Tough day?”
“Club recruitment,” he muttered.
“Oh no.”
“Yep.”
You could almost picture it: students trying to drag him into the witchcraft orchestra, the potion-brewing society, the fencing club, the haunted-hall committee.
“Did they try the pamphlets again?” you asked, tilting your head backwards.
“Five of them.” he huffed, his breath scraping down to a whisper. “One was scented.”
You burst into laughter. He tried to sound annoyed, really, but you could still hear the faint warmth under his voice.
“And what about you?” he asked after your giggling settled. “How was your day in class?”
You sighed, head pulsating at the memory, “I swear my math teacher hates me.”
“Why?”
“I told him I prefer learning things I can actually apply in life.”
A soft cough on the other side, his attempt to hide a laugh. “Did you really say that?”
“I panicked.”
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, but it sounded weirdly fond.
A shift of paper whispered beneath the crack. Gently, you perked a question. “What book are you reading now? You always have one.”
He paused for a moment, his movement still all of a sudden. “Kafka on the Shore. I reread it when… I don’t know. When I’m too in my head.”
“What part are you at?”
“Near the middle,” he hesitated, another rasp creaking through the door gap. “…I think you’d like it.”
There was something shy about the way he said it, though he tried to hide it behind his usual calm.
“Why?” you probed, smirk tugging at your lips.
“You pay attention. To everything. And you don’t pretend you understand things you don’t. You just ask.” A pause. “…It’s rare. And… nice.”
Your heart did a small, stupid flip, but you coughed it off instantly. “You make me sound smarter than I am.”
“You are,” he replied, so simply that it knocked the breath out of you more than any other praise ever could.
He shifted again, leaning more of his weight against the door. You did the same without thinking, and somehow, the two of you sitting back-to-back had become your little ritual every lunchtime.
Silence draped as usual over the two of you—but a more forbearing one. Like neither of you wanted to get up just yet.
Suddenly, with a shift of the floorboards, he whispered, almost reluctantly. “Even if I don’t always know what to say… I’m glad you show up here.”
You rested your head lightly against the door, thinking about how long you’d been doing this. Meeting the quiet boy with the steady voice whose name you’d never asked—who somehow understood you better than most people you’d actually met face-to-face.
“Me too,” you whispered.
He stayed there. You stayed there. Then, after a few seconds of still silence, you tilted your head. “Can you tell me about it?”
He pondered for a moment, all until you heard the soft rustle of pages turning, slow and careful.
“It talks about how some things feel unavoidable,” he muttered, book resting softly atop his knees. “Like you’re being pulled toward something you don’t understand, but you move anyway.”
You heard him shift again, pages fumbling in his hands.
“He says running away doesn’t fix anything. You still carry the weight with you,” and with a shut of the book—gently, almost quietly—he continued, trying to sound unimpressed. “…It’s kind of dramatic.”
But you could tell it resonated with him, especially from the tremor that betrayed him at the end. Almost immediately, you blinked. “Wow.”
“It’s simple,” he supposed. “But it makes sense.”
“I like when you read,” the words slipped out of you before you could stop yourself, and there echoed a faint creak on his side of the door—like he was sitting up straighter, surprised.
“It’s… not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
A breeze of cold air settled between the two of you. Then, you heard a familiar beat, a tiny metallic tick… tick… tick.
“You…” you leaned closer to the door, brows raised. “Is that a guitar pick?”
The tapping stopped instantly. “…How did you know?”
“You always fidget with it.”
A beat.
“Does it bother you?” His voice was so soft you almost missed it.
“No,” you answered without hesitation. “It’s kind of cute.”
A very quiet cough. You bit back a grin, “Do you play?”
“Not… with people around.”
You heard him shift again, fabric dragging softly against the wood. “I’m in the music club. But I usually practice alone.”
“What kind of music?”
“…Mostly fingerstyle. Sometimes rock. Depends. When I’m here, I just play my spare acoustic guitar since there’s no amp.”
“So you’re telling me you’re a bookworm and a guitar guy?”
“…Is that bad?”
“Are you kidding? That’s like—top tier.”
Another tiny cough. You swore the door warmed where his shoulder rested. And this time, he leaned more fully against it, the thud soft and heedful. Somehow, the heat of his body seeped through the grain of wood, brushing against your side.
“You should play something someday,” you murmured, your voice drifting up like the dancing dust in sunlight.
“That’s… not happening.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t play in front of people.”
“Well,” you chuckled under your breath, “I’m not exactly in front of you.”
He paused at that, almost like the thought never occurred to him. “…Maybe."
You smiled, your shoulders loosening as you absentmindedly traced more circles on the wooden floor.
On the other hand, he cleared his throat softly, trying to reroute the conversation. “What about you? Any clubs you joined?”
You groaned dramatically, eyes rolling, “I tried the cooking club.”
“Oh?”
“I set the stove on fire.”
“…How.”
“I don’t know!”
His laugh slipped out, soft and breathy. The raw gut of it made something tepid bloom in your chest. His presence felt closer than ever, as if the door between you was thinning.
Then, quietly, hesitantly, he asked, “Do you… feel lonely here?”
You blinked, pondering for a tiny while. With a whisper, you stared down at your hands. “...Sometimes.”
He didn’t say anything at first. But after a few seconds, he continued, voice dipping lower, “You can keep sitting here. If you want.”
Your chest warmed, stupidly giddy at the proposal. "Every day?”
“If you want,” he repeated, nearly a whisper.
You leaned your head back against the door. And on the other side, you felt the slightest shift, almost like he was doing the same as well.
Neither of you could see the other. Neither of you knew how close you already were. Neither of you said what you were really thinking, but it floated in the space between you anyway, filling in the gaps you’d never learnt to read.
In the corner of your eye, the afternoon was fading into ember crisps, crimson streaks across the sky.
“Hey,” you said gently.
“Mm?”
“Thanks. For talking to me.”
He shifted a bit, murmuring into the silence. “...Whatever.”
16 JULY 2021...
BANG!
You just groan when the locker next to you slams into oblivion.
Someone’s screaming to your left. Someone’s howling to your right. Yet you keep your stare right ahead—and wish the floor below would suck you away from this hell of a prison school.
“Hey— you think you can get away with what you did yesterday?” Naoya scowls, one hand against the crunched metal, and the other placed on his hip. A large white wrap slings over his head, his nose scrunched in ire.
You open your locker to cover his face, your expression as indifferent as ever.
“You started it first,” you snap, fingers scouring through the pile of books in your backpack.
Chemistry, Biology…
“A miserable being like you just got lucky Fushiguro took a liking to you,” he continues, fingers curling into his palms and rattling the metal under your bag.
Kafka on the Shore…
“I challenge you over the second title of—”
You bang the blue metal door against his face, landing him a bright pink mark on his face.
“T-Tch—” he quickly drags his hands over his nose.
“And I challenge you to shut the fuck up,” you grumble, pulling the books close to your chest.
A bunch of chuckles murmur from behind you. As he’s stunned, groaning under his breath, you slam your locker shut and start briskly walking. Slipping through the tiny gaps of the crowd, the murmurs, you don’t need to look back to see the approaching spawn of Satan himself.
And you’re smarter than to pick a fight with a werewolf. One with anger issues, in particular. If there was anyone worse than Megumi, it would be Naoya himself. Because, unlike your horrific hell of a seatmate, Megumi at least upholds a strong sense of justice.
“No matter how fucked that is…” you whisper under your breath—filthy sweat of the now-entering jocks swirling into the stench of the halls.
Your heart’s pounding hard enough that it drowns out the giggles of a group of witches watching, the feeling of it simmering in your throat. Each corner you turn brims with hope you’ll lose him, but somehow, like he can smell the panic boiling in your blood, his furious stomps don’t seem to ever die down.
His voice booms across the hall, “Don’t run away, you brat—”
You groan under your breath, one hand already fumbling into your pockets as you duck under another poor werewolf also getting punched. Seriously, this whole school’s a mess—and you really didn’t want to resort to this. Your hands clench around the bottle.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
You can’t help but mutter a curse under your breath, hesitating just a bit when you finally reach the last room at the hallway. Fuck it.
The door handle rattles from your hands, and finally, you push it open. The usual waft of timber floats amidst the scent, the same specks of dust dancing under the light. The only difference is that, unlike the usual silence that comes with it, you can hear the furious march of Satan himself approaching.
“Hope Mystery Boy isn’t here yet…” you grit through your teeth, your knuckles pallid as you dive to reach for the bottle tucked in your pocket.
Nobara’s voice echoes through your mind.
“If that Fushiguro boy’s giving you too much of a headache,” she snickered, elbowing you as the two of you left the detention room. “This will give him an even larger one.”
Your eyes widened as she slipped a glassy vial into your pocket, a grin sparkling with mischief.
You planned to save it for its intended use, but when Naoya’s in front of you now—forehead trickling with sweat, body towering over yours—your breath hitches just a bit.
Shaking, your hands raise the spray bottle, your fingers curled, aimed towards him. You shut your eyes, turning away, “Stay away—!”
WHAM!
At the same time your thumb presses against the lid, a heavy slam follows. Your eyes instantly fly wide open.
“What the fuck…” a familiar low grunt coughs through the sudden poof of mist, Naoya’s following right behind.
A black outline peeks amidst the fog, and when it dissipates just a tiny bit, you can feel your entire body freeze. You take a step back without meaning to, your back pressed against the wall.
Megumi’s there, hunched, panting through shallow breaths as Naoya stumbles behind with a hand on his own cheek. His viridescent eyes pierce through the grey murk, meeting yours, while Naoya pulls his hand back, checking for blood.
You swear Yuji also runs past the door behind the two of them, and when the silhouette returns, panickedly running back with a small peek—there’s no doubt.
“Ah— There you are!” he hops over to your side, hands curling around your wrist. “C’mon, let’s go!”
He tugs you gently across the room, but even so, your eyes never leave the two boys. Megumi’s hair, each spike of darkness gleaming foreignly underneath the smogged daylight, yelling at Naoya, who’s grinding his teeth with curled shoulders.
“You—” he wheezes, them both doubling over, one hand braced on their knees as the coughs tear out of them.
“Enough—” he lands one more punch at Naoya, your shoulders flinching when you see just how pale their faces are.
“Is enough!” a tremor echoes with his final words, his voice shredded and breathless between coughs.
Yuji simply drags you out the door, away from the curling mist of smoke that’s unfolding. Nobara leans against the other side of the wall, arms crossed at the chaos.
“Seriously, what a mess…” she sighs, shaking her head.
“What was that?” you quickly ask, eyes darting over to Megumi.
His shoulders jerk with each sharp cough, like his body’s trying to shake something loose.
“It’s just a smokeveil potion,” she huffs, eyes unconcerned. “It creates the illusion of smoke filling the lungs. It’s not dangerous or anything. Just makes them cough violently.”
She sneaks a glance at you. “It’s particularly effective on werewolves.”
Your stomach tightens.
You should be in joy. You should be smiling.
But your mouth tastes dry, even if you just swallowed a gulp.
Your thoughts flicker like lights in a storm, and suddenly, you pry away from Yuji’s grip. Each step through the grey mist smothers something you didn’t know was in your lungs, and your chest twists, knotting like a fist to your sternum.
Finally, your hand curls tight around the wheezing boy’s wrist, both your ribs straining with each cough. He freezes for a moment, staggering to look up at you.
“Shut up and get up,” you mumble, ignoring how stupid you must look, frowning even as you pull him to his feet.
He tries to try to wave you off with one hand, but it trembles. To his dismay, you ignore his efforts. You just pull him up, hands locked on his wrist, stepping past the clattered rolls, mops, and paper. Within a few seconds, you’re both out of the room.
You quickly lock the door shut with Naoya still inside, the two of you now panting for the sweet relief of freedom. The hallway is empty—deserted—seeing that the two mischiefs have disappeared, and silence hangs between the two of you.
All of a sudden, he cuts through it with a word never muttered before. “...Thanks.”
You just mumble something intangible back.
Whatever, you only saved him because he was trying to stand up for you. Your mind chooses to ignore the latter part. His soft gasps still echo throughout the quiet of the halls, far from the eyes of others. But something doesn’t escape his eyes.
You clutch your books close against your chest, eyes flicking away with pursed lips. And the title gleams bright amidst the flickering ceiling lights. Much like the fickle nature of you both:
Kafka on the Shore.
Megumi knows the second your name is called that this assignment is going to be a disaster.
The alchemy room always smells faintly of scorched mint and smoke, never failing to leave a nauseatingly bitter taste on his tongue. It’s like a hospital, only that the patients were dragons, and everyone else was severely underpaid.
As usual, the air is sultry, thick with steam from simmering cauldrons, ablaze beneath the fulgent daylight of tall stained-glass windows. Scattering colours fracture all across the row of worktables, lighting aglow spilt magic. And with the ring of the bell, students shuffle around, robes brushing the stone floor, humming beneath as it pecks with every step.
He slips into his usual seat in the back corner, near the window where the breeze keeps the fumes from giving him a headache.
“For today’s assignment, you’ll be paired up. Work safely. Work slowly. We don’t need a repeat of last month.”
A collective groan ripples through the class. Megumi doesn’t look up—doesn’t need to—when he hears your name paired with his.
Of course. Naturally. The universe enjoys suffering him.
Across the room, your sigh is loud enough to rattle cauldrons. A few humans snicker, nudging each other while you storm toward him, dropping your books on the table with a thud that sends a small cloud of basilisk dust puffing into the air.
“Awesome,” you announce. “My day just hit its peak misery.”
He lifts his eyes lazily. “…Not thrilled either.”
Your glare could peel paint, but contradictingly, your cheeks puff just slightly. “Wow, it’s an honour. Truly.”
“You’re welcome,” he deadpans.
Your mouth drops slightly, while he hides his smirk behind his notebook, eyes drifting back to the instructions on the board.
On the board, a glowing projection flickers into existence—floating text in shimmering ink: Step 1: Combine basilisk powder with moonlit nectar. Slowly. Very slowly.
You squint up at it. “How slow is slowly? Like slow slow? Or just… slow?”
Megumi looks at you with the bone-deep dread of having known you for three years, already seeing exactly how this will go. “You ask that like you’re about to do something reckless.”
You pick up the jar of basilisk powder, cradling it in both hands. “Me? Never.”
“Put that down—”
But you’re already tipping half the jar into the beaker.
The mixture hisses. The table vibrates. A sinister bubbling noise crawls up the sides of the glass. And to seal the deal, a final sizzling crack! snaps through the air.
The liquid inside begins glowing a violent, radioactive sapphire, almost like the eldritch jellyfish in his textbook trying to escape.
“Uh,” your voice trembles. “It’s… shaking?”
But the beaker trembles harder, and he can feel his soul leaving his body already. “Get back.”
“I think it’s fine—”
“GET BACK.”
And then—BOOM.
A shatter of navy blue light bursts upward, storming like a popping set of fireworks, and shimmering particles rain over both of you, scattering all across your hair, your clothes, the ceiling, the floor—everything. A few strands of your hair lift like static-charged antennae.
The class instantly turns to stare at the two of you.
Someone in the back coughs. Another quietly shuts their textbook. Megumi closes his eyes, jaw tightening. “…We didn’t even make it past step one.”
You blink through the settling haze, watching glitter cling to your sleeves like confetti.
“On the bright side,” you whisper, “at least it didn’t explode upward this time.”
He opens his eyes slowly, brushing a hand down his face, and flicking away a waterfall of glitter that catches the daylight like falling stardust. “It did explode upward.”
You squint at the ceiling, which is now glowing a miserable blue, splotched against faded pinks, reds, and greens. “…Oh.”
You stand still for exactly half a heartbeat, stare at him—and then you break, laughter spilling out and about like the second explosion you’ve caused today. “Oh my god—your face, we actually almost died—”
You double over slightly, glitter sliding off your hair and eyelashes like snow shaken from branches. And in the midst of it, you look absurd. Ridiculous. Like someone who hasn’t had a moment of pure joy in weeks.
Megumi wipes a streak of iridescent dust off his jaw, deadpan as a funeral. “Don’t laugh.”
“You look like a depressed disco ball!”
“Stop laughing.”
But your laughter is bubbling, light, and obnoxiously impossible to ignore. He stops for a moment, stunned by the way the light crowns your grin, setting it aglow like it’s its own small sunrise.
Since when has he last seen you like this?
It was only during your first week when your shoulders dropped like this, and your smile’s just as bright. And suddenly, he remembers you from the first day.
He remembers the real you. Without meaning to, the corner of his mouth pulls upward.
Rainbow smoke curls inconsequentially toward the ceiling beams, scorched herbs dancing with old-wood dust specks. You cough once, dramatically fanning glitter from your face. “So… do explosions exfoliate? Because I’m sure I shed at least an entire layer of skin.”
“It’s basilisk powder,” he brushes the ash off his sleeve. “It doesn’t exfoliate anything. Except maybe your lifespan.”
“Oh, great. So I’m dying younger than scheduled?”
“With your choices?” he raises an eyebrow. “I’m impressed you made it to eighteen.”
You gasp. “Excuse me?!”
He looks away, an amused little hook pulling at his lip. The afternoon rays now beam with the window’s colours, greens and ambers setting aglow your wrecked workstation, like divine disaster settling with your smile.
“You poured half a jar of restricted powder into a heating beaker.”
“You didn’t stop me!”
“I tried.”
“Not hard enough!”
He grumbles, crouching down and carefully picking up the scattered ingredients. You huff to grab the classroom broom, sweeping aggressively, and dissipating swirling glitter of little galaxies around the bristles.
He watches you for a moment, then sighs, standing up. “…Give me that.”
“No,” you snap, suddenly hugging the broom. “Get your own!”
“You’re just pushing it around.”
“Yeah, well—” your eyes dart for an insult. “So are you.”
He stares at you. You stare back. Hell, the broom has never felt more dramatic. Slowly, he steps in, reaches over your hands, and gently nudges the broom downward.
“I can’t believe she paired me with you. The universe hates me.”
He deadpans, trying to tug the stick away from you, “Pretty sure the universe hates me more.”
“Oh? Why?” you raise a brow. “Because I’m your partner?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
“Facts.”
You glare, pulling harder out of spite. “…Well, at least the explosion wasn’t that bad.”
“It shook the entire room.”
“Just a little.”
“It knocked over three cauldrons.”
“That means it was effective.”
“It means you created a magical hazard.”
You snort, hands still curled tight around the broomstick. No way in hell are you giving it up to him—why can’t he just get the spare one a few mere steps away?
“Honestly, I think you’re just jealous.”
He pauses, one brow raised. “Of what exactly?”
“My natural talent.”
“Of causing destruction?”
“Better than your talent for being emo.”
He straightens, turning slowly toward you with a frown. “I’m not… emo.”
You raise both brows, huffing in disbelief over his blatant denial. Heck, even everyone else turned around as soon as the words left his mouth. “You are the human form of a grayscale filter. You usually just complain and glare.”
“That’s helping.”
“In what universe?!”
“In mine.”
He stares. You stare back. And then—his lips twitch.
Your eyes fly wide, and suddenly, your hands fly away from the broom. “OH MY GOD—you just smiled!”
He stumbles in surprise, fingers curling against his now-won broomstick, "What the—no, I didn’t.”
“You totally did!”
“It was dust in my eye.”
You lean closer, theatrically inspecting with a tilt of your head. “Mhm. Dust. On your mouth.”
And almost immediately, he stiffens, a faint flush rising to his ears as he starts sweeping. “Would you please stop being so useless?”
You grin and return to the debris, humming under your breath in victory. The glitter drifting around you settles like soft snow, dispersing into smoke as you grab another broom across the room.
He steals a small glance. You’re still dust-covered, hair a wild halo, sleeves slightly singed, but you’re unmistakably beaming—bright under the glow of light. He turns away, murmuring under his breath. “...Just finish sweeping.”
You walk away, eyes glued to the scattering mist. Really, how could he even be in denial when he’s literally the walking embodiment of being moody? “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” he says, sweeping another shard, “I’m the one keeping you alive.”
“Oh, please—” But the words die when you turn over your shoulders, meeting his eyes. He isn’t frowning like usual. He simply stands there in silence, one brow quirked like a question.
“Whatever. I’m switching partners next time,” you scoff, rolling your eyes as you whirl back around.
For a split second, his hands freeze. Then he shrugs, cool as ever. “Sure. If they can handle explosions.”
“HEY!”
He smirks, just barely, in victory, but you quickly kick a little glitter at him. He dodges, and the bell rings before you can throw anything else at him. You grunt in exasperation, furiously stomping away—anywhere—from him.
He watches you, then glances to your side, where his eyes flicker over the date written on the chalkboard in front. The white, bright lines bolded in something he’s grown too lax about.
That’s when he realises something.
Ridiculing you is probably the most fun he’s had in these three years, and definitely one of the two only things saving him from this sad boredom of a prison school.
19 MARCH 2019...
He could hear your footsteps before you even knocked. It was embarrassing how easily he recognised them now.
Light. Too fast. Like you were walking in circles before forcing your feet this way. He pretended to read—eyes on a page he hadn’t actually turned in ten minutes—while his pulse stupidly stuttered in his throat.
Three soft taps against the old wooden door.
“Hey,” you sighed. “Mind if I hide here again?”
He inhaled slowly, forcing the foreign warmth out of his voice. “…Yeah. Sure. Come in.”
You didn’t enter. You just sat right outside, leaning against the door like always. Your back bumped lightly against the wood, and he could feel it through the door—every small shift, every movement. It was ridiculous how attuned he’d grown to them.
After a pause, your voice muffled through the wall, thinner today. “So first week sucked.”
He waited. Because over the entire first few months of both your first years, he’d learned that you only talked when you were ready. And finally, a long breath left you, shaky.
“I got into another argument with that stupid group in Class A,” you muttered, mumbling under your breath. “They said I’m ‘trying too hard.’ Like—what does that even mean? Trying too hard to exist?”
His brow twitched. He knew exactly which group you meant.
Sukuna’s group. They always whispered about everyone, loud enough to be heard, soft enough to pretend innocence. And if anyone dared bring that up with them… Well, you could expect a punch, and maybe a few months' trip to the hospital at best.
“What happened?” he asked, his tone sedulous and faint as usual.
You shifted against the muffled door, the wood creaking softly with your weight.
“They asked me to partner up for the group project,” a humourless laugh escaped you. “And when I said no—because I actually want to pass—they told me I was being ‘dramatic.’ That I’m acting like I’m above everyone.”
He closed his book. He hadn’t turned the page anyway.
You just kept going, the words suddenly spilling faster, as if the barrier of the door itself shut everything from existence. “It’s so stupid. I’m not even doing anything. I just want to do well. Is that a crime now?”
He leaned his head back against the lumber door behind him, staring at the dust dancing in the air. You sounded small, frustrated—exhausted.
Quietly, he whispered, “You’re not wrong for wanting to do your best.”
Sighing, you just tilted your head back against the door with him. You slowly let out a breath—a little like relief, a little like disbelief. “…Thanks.”
Your clothes rustled as you pulled your knees to your chest. On his side, he mirrored you without meaning to. “Sorry, I know I ramble.”
“You don’t,” he replied before his mind could catch up with his mouth. Then, almost too quickly, he cleared his throat, shifting like his weight itself could hide the slip. “It’s fine. I… don’t mind.”
You let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, small enough that it barely reached him through the wood. “I guess acting tough doesn’t really help.”
He set his book down fully now, the soft thud on the floor oddly loud in the cramped, dusty space. He leaned a little more toward the door.
“Sometimes,” you muttered under your breath, “it feels like I’m trying to push my way into a place that doesn’t want me. And the only way to survive is to act like none of it bothers me.”
He exhaled through his nose. “…Acting tough doesn’t suit you."
You go still.
“Wow,” you murmured after a beat. “Thanks for calling me weak.”
His breath caught, and he almost choked. “That’s not—! I didn’t mean—”
You cut him off with a soft laugh, and he instantly stopped. Pressing his palm briefly to his forehead, cheeks warming in a way he hated. “I meant… You don’t have to. Not here.”
On the other end, you indistinctively shifted, your shoulder tapping the door. The little knock of it echoed over into his side, almost like a whisper of yourself.
“…Thanks,” you mumbled.
And for the first time throughout the day, your voice sounded like it wasn’t trembling, forcing itself upright by a collapsing pillar. He breathed out, shoulders dropping by an inch.
You just kept going, even more hushed now. Almost like you were spilling secrets to him like a late-night confession to the crack beneath the door.
“And then during break, I tried to sit with Mei Mei’s crowd. Big mistake,” you huffed, and he could almost picture the pouting face you’re making. “They weren’t mean, exactly, just… lively. Way too lively.”
He snorted, unable to smother it in time. “You’re not good with loud people.”
“Hey! I’m great with loud people.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I— wait,” you paused. “How do you know that?”
He froze. Body stilling, breath catching. “…You just sound like someone who likes quiet,” he managed, eyes dropping to the floor.
Silence wrapped within the tacit taut between the two of you. Another adagio of a softer breath left you, warm through the wood.
“I wish more people were like you,” you murmured again, fingers tapping across the floor. “You’re easy to talk to. You don’t judge.”
He blinked. No one said things like that to him. If anything, people usually moved around him like they were afraid of setting off something that would bite at any moment. But you—you sounded like you meant it.
His fingers brushed the corner of the book again, just to give himself something to hold onto.
“That’s not true,” he muttered. “I judge people all the time.”
“For the right reasons,” you countered immediately. “Which is rare.”
His ears burned, and he quickly looked away from the door, as if that would help. You continued, voice turning fainter. Gentler.
“Talking to you makes school feel less awful,” you shook your head, groaning in disbelief. “Can’t believe that every day, I look forward to this stupid door.”
He immediately stilled—every muscle, every breath. If he’d been holding his guitar, every string would’ve snapped from how tight his chest pulled.
Even when he didn’t know your face—
You looked forward to this. To him.
You waited for him.
You felt less alone because of him.
He peeked over his shoulder. Over at the door, like he could see the outline of your shape through the thin grain of wood. As if he might really see you sitting there: knees tucked up, chin resting on them, head tilted just slightly toward him like you were waiting for his voice to reach you.
Everything but your face was too clear. Everything, too easy to imagine, and something warm cracked open beneath his ribs.
“…Me too,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
“Huh?”
He cleared his throat swiftly, caught off guard. “I mean. It’s… not bad. Talking to you.”
Your laugh slipped through the door, softer than the others he’d heard from you. “So high praise from Mr Grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re literally scowling right now.”
“You can’t see me.”
“I can feel it.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that he had to press his lips thin to stop it. The room settled around the two of you now, thick with silence, dust, and the faint susurration of the whispering leaves outside. The air in these storage rooms always ran staler than the hallways.
Your voice lowered. “…Do you ever feel left out, too?”
This time, he didn’t even think. “Yes.”
On the other side of the door, he could hear the small hitch of your breath. He dug through his next words carefully, like stepping stones across a river he’d never crossed aloud before.
“I’m… not good with people,” he admitted, his fingers brushing the floor, tracing the grain of the old boards. “And I don’t fit with the loud groups either. So… I get it.”
The silence that followed lingered, almost like the room itself was holding its breath. And when you finally spoke, your voice cut through in a way that sank straight through the wood.
Different from when he’d yell in the halls. Different from how chaos followed even at home.
“…Can I ask you something? Only if you’re okay with it.”
He blinked, pulse tipping upward. You always gave him an out. No one else did that.
He didn’t know what to do with the warmth that bubbled in his throat, so he just leaned back, settling until his spine settled against the door. The wood gave a quiet creak beneath his weight.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “Go ahead.”
You hesitated, and he heard the tiny scrape of your nail against the door, like you were steadying yourself.
“You said you don’t fit with people,” you began slowly, “but… do you have anyone you talk to? Like family?”
He stiffened. It wasn't like it was wrong to ask. It was just that no one really ever had.
“…My sister,” he said eventually, voice lower. “She’s older. She’s… good. Really good. But I don’t—”
His breath stalled, words catching on something bare amidst the crack in his voice. “I don’t open up to her much.”
You didn’t interrupt. You waited—quiet, tacit, patient in a way that made everything inside him loosen.
“She works late,” he continued, fingers curling slightly against the floor. “Every day she comes home tired, and I don’t want to add more. And humans…”
His jaw tightened. “They treat her like crap sometimes. Always knocking on our door over… my dad’s debt. Acting like we owe them our peace,” a humourless huff left him. “I hate it. I hate it all.”
On the other side of the door, he could hear you hold your breath. But what laced it wasn’t of pity. No, it was different.
“Hey…” your voice trembled just a little. “That’s… a lot. For you. For her. I’m sorry you’re dealing with all of that.”
His throat tightened. You added even softer, “You’re not wrong for wanting to protect her.”
A few seconds passed. Then you breathed out a shaky laugh. “…I kind of get it. In my own way.”
He lifted his head a little, listening harder without meaning to.
“My mother,” you added gently. “We don’t get along, nor do I talk with her that much, but… I know she’s trying her best, especially with raising me herself.”
You exhaled, the warmth of your breath brushing through the thin wood. “Sometimes… you want to help someone with everything you have, but it’s not that simple, right?”
He swallowed, the sound embarrassingly loud in his own ears.
“…Yeah,” he muttered.
Softly, he repeated the words again—like he himself couldn’t believe it. There was a beat. Then another, a softer shift of your weight.
“You’re doing your best for her,” you murmured. “Even if you think it’s not enough. I think she’d… be really proud of you.”
He froze, completely. No one had ever said anything like that to him. Not ever. Suddenly, the hollow in his chest felt far too bare—far too naked. It didn’t ache him, but his breath just shook, silently.
Then you laughed. Soft. Gentle. Trying to brighten the heaviness you both waded through.
“You know,” you teased lightly, and he could almost hear the small smile in your voice, “your sister would like me.”
He nearly choked. “What—why—”
“Because I’d force you both to eat my cupcakes,” you replied matter-of-factly. “And she probably deserves someone being nice to her for once.”
Despite himself, despite everything, something warm and shaky tugged at the corner of his mouth. His entire chest flared hot. His ears, too.
“…She would,” he whispered. “She… really would.”
Your answering laugh was soft, bright in a way that seemed to slip under the door and settle right into the centre of his chest.
“See?” you teased gently. “Look at you agreeing with me. Progress.”
He huffed, but the weight in his chest had lightened, pulled upward by your voice like a hand catching his sleeve.
“Seriously, though,” you added, tone dipping softer. “You don’t have to carry everything alone. Not with me. You can talk when you want… or not. I’ll still sit here.”
His breath caught—and then, slowly, left him. “...Same goes for you."
On the other side of the door, you leaned back, shoulder brushing the door, the tiniest thump—and he mirrored it without thinking, weight aligning on either side of the thin wooden barrier.
He knew—knew that if he shifted even an inch, just a tiny bit to the right—his shoulder would press against yours through nothing but a single, ageing panel of wood.
And somehow, the thought made his chest ache and settle all at once.
19 JULY 2021...
By the third year, you thought you’d be immune to the nonsense of a supernatural high school.
You really, really aren’t.
Because nothing ever changes when this time of the year comes around, and prom season hits the campus like a full moon dipped in absolute caffeine.
Every hallway turns into a battleground of pheromones (you thankfully can’t smell), bouquets, and hormonal creatures doing things the school handbook explicitly forbids. The witches get competitive. A few humans get theatrical. But the werewolves? They go feral.
And unfortunately, a very ancient, very stupid tradition inscribed that the “Female Alpha”—you—would be the greatest trophy these idiots could ever dream of bringing to the ballroom.
You. The only human girl in the werewolf class. Because apparently, your ability to have survived three years here without dying automatically crowned you some kind of honorary apex predator.
The title comes with one perk and one curse.
Perk? Front-row seats at prom. Curse? Every unmated werewolf on campus wants to ask you. And not in a normal, civilised way.
In a sniffing around corners, leaving meat-based offerings, asking your friends for your blood type, kind of way.
Which is why you’re currently standing on top of a toilet seat, as if it’s a lifeboat and the tiled floor is the open sea, dreading to wash you away into the waves of chaos outside.
The girls’ restroom is dim and humming with the old brass pipes in the walls, mirrors flickering with faulty lighting, cracked into three versions of yourself, frowning at the same problem. You can’t help but grimace at the nauseating scent, air doused with some mix of floral spell-soap and cheap janitor-grade lemon spray.
Outside, claws click on the linoleum floor. “Is she in there?”
“No, her scent stops at this hall—maybe she teleported?”
“She’s human, dumbass. She can’t teleport.”
You exhale slowly. Maybe if you stay completely still…
The stall door suddenly rattles. You slap a hand over your mouth.
“Sorry!” a girl calls from outside. “Didn’t know it was occupied!”
Screw this.
Slowly, you climb down from the toilet, shoulders sagging. You wash your hands, splash your face, and stare at yourself in the mirror.
You look tired. You look done. You look like someone ready to commit a crime. And with one tired sigh, you push open the bathroom door—only to dodge a bouquet shoved aggressively at your face.
“Go to prom with me?” a wolf-boy beams, tail poofing into existence with how excited he is, and wagging so hard that dust is dissipating off the floor.
You yank yourself sideways. “NOPE!”
You sprint down the hallway. Everything’s a blur as your legs work overtime, past lockers decorated with floating hearts, past giggling juniors waiting for their love potions to brew, past Nobara whistling, “Damn, girl, RUN.”
You roll your eyes. So much for having a friend. Another boy calls your name, someone else tries to serenade you with an enchanted banjo,
“No thanks—no thanks—SERIOUSLY NO THANKS—” and another werewolf jumps in front of you, trying to impress you by lifting an entire vending machine. “PUT THAT DOWN—ARE YOU INSANE—”
You barrel past them, and at this point, you’re basically doing parkour: leaping over bags, sidestepping potions, ducking under spell-scrolls.
By the time you shove the door to the back courtyard open, you’re breathless, sweaty, and one sniff away from a full breakdown. The heavy door bangs shut behind you, muffling the chaos.
Everything stills, and thank God, the courtyard is blissfully quiet.
The summer breeze rushes over your overheated skin, cooling the frantic thrum in your chest. Tall hedges sway gently in the heat of the burning sun, whispering as they guard the courtyard from the enchanted pandemonium inside, while fireflies slowly wake from their slumber. They drift lazily beneath the canopy of branches, their soft, gold glow pulsing amidst, like resting heartbeats across the ember sky.
A crow perched on the roof caws loudly. And of course, Megumi is already there.
He sits on a bench beneath the blooming moon-willow tree, silver petals draping around him like quiet snow. The burning sun dips just below the laddering seats, painting his silhouette a fraying crimson, while his textbook is open across his lap, headphones resting around his neck.
Like usual, shadows curl at his feet and along the bench, settling around him like they’re used to respecting his preferred five-foot radius of solitude.
Wow, you can’t believe you just dedicated an entire paragraph to him.
He looks up when you stumble in—eyes scanning your wild hair, the torn strap hanging off your shoulder, the faint smear of lipstick someone got on you when they lunged earlier—and his gaze flicks to the door you practically kicked off its hinges.
He blinks at you. “…What happened to you?”
You double over, hands on your knees, gasping. “Prom. Wolves. Panic. Hunted.”
He huffs through his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”
“You don’t see them chasing you!”
“They know better.”
“Wow,” you roll your eyes, grumbling under your breath. “Must be nice being terrifying.”
Megumi shrugs, eyes returning to his book. “Why’re you even running? Just say no.”
“They don’t take ‘no.’ Last guy who tried to corner me nearly started howling when I refused.”
“That’s because they’re idiots.”
“And you’re any better?” you mutter, cheeks puffing in annoyance. His eyes snap to yours.
“Look,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead, “I’m just trying to survive until graduation. But apparently being the only human in your stupid werewolf class means my life is comedy hour.”
Megumi closes his book, slowly enough to make you pause.
“You could’ve asked for help,” he says quietly.
You stare at him for a long second. Then laugh, frayed at the edges. “Help? From you? You bite my head off every time I breathe near you.”
He stands, shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders tense. “Because you bring trouble everywhere you go.”
“…That isn’t my fault.”
“I don’t care,” he scowls. “Everything about you is loud.”
“Everything is loud to you.”
“Exactly.”
You roll your eyes and turn away, ready to leave, before he suddenly steps in front of you.
“Just stay here,” he mutters. “For a minute. They won’t come near me.”
You blink at him. “Why?”
He doesn’t meet your eyes. He just looks away, jaw tight. “…Because I said so.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Doesn’t matter. It works.”
Your legs ache from sprinting through half the school, and you cross your arms, annoyed at how good sitting down actually sounds. “…Fine. Five minutes.”
Softly, he exhales, finally returning to sit back on the bench. You, on the other hand, sit at the very edge of the row, a dramatic amount of space between you.
Silence.
The field lights beam overhead amidst the sinking crimson sky, catching on your shoulders with soft glows as they flicker to wake. The air smells like early summer—sweet, warm, clean.
It’s almost peaceful. Almost.
“So,” he says suddenly, eyes still fixed on the sky, “who are you actually going with?”
You choke on your own spit. “Going with? Fushiguro, I’m not going with anyone. I’m trying not to die.”
His brows knit. “Not even thinking about it?”
“No.”
You give him a look. “Why are you even asking?”
His jaw tightens, shifting into a tiny, brittle tension you’ve never quite understood. He mutters under his breath, "No reason."
You scoff, having known him all these years. “You definitely had one.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why’re you glaring at the ground like it insulted your mom?”
He stiffens. “Tch. Whatever.”
You lean back on your palms, exhausted. “You’re so weird.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “…I know.”
The whisper drifts with the breeze, barely above a breath. But before you can respond, the cafeteria doors slam open across the courtyard. Three boys spill out, sniffing aggressively.
You jolt upright. But by your side, he simply sighs. With a stand and a roll of his shoulders, he steps in front of you. The werewolves freeze the second they see him.
“Oh—sorry, Fushiguro—didn’t know you were—uh—busy—!”
And almost immediately, they scatter like ants. How pathetic, you huff, anger simmering at how easily they just ran. He cracks his neck, returning to his seat like nothing happened.
“…Okay. I take it back,” you pout, muttering under your breath. “You’re terrifying. In a useful way.”
“Whatever.” he flicks you a sideways glance and reopens his book, the page edges whispering under his fingers. “Stay here until the clubs are over. They’ll probably follow you home too.”
“You’re really not going to ask why everyone suddenly wants me?” you ask, another crow cawing in the distance.
“No,“ he flips a page. “I already know.”
“Know what?”
“You’re the alpha female this year.”
You let out a dramatic groan and flop back against the bench. “I hate it.”
“I know.”
“You don’t even know me.”
He pauses. “…You’d be surprised.”
You blink, caught off guard.
He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t even look at you. He just keeps reading, shoulders loose, ears tinged the faintest pink—though you’re not sure if it’s just the trick of the light playing games.
With a faint exhale, finally, for the first time today, you’re not running for your cursed life. You shift your head away, not wanting to spend any longer looking at him.
The two of you sit through silence until the next bell rings, chaos dissipating throughout the echoes. Neither of you moves.
Even if you still swear you hate each other.
20 JULY 2021...
You’d joined the First-Year Integration Club partly out of guilt, partly out of spite, and partly because you remembered exactly how horrible your first few months here felt.
The confusion. The stares.
The way every single hallway smelled a little too much like wet fur, incense, burning sage, or—on full moons—heartbreak and raw chicken.
If you could make one new kid’s day easier, even by 1%, then fine. You’ll do it.
Which is how, on the biggest recruitment fair of the year, your club ended up with a booth decked out in your questionable artistic skills: a hand-painted “WELCOME FIRST YEARS!!” sign (uneven glitter, one star sticker peeling), colourful banners you bought last minute, glimmering underneath the afternoon sun, perched amid the courtyard, and…
A major problem.
Your werewolf representative was sick. Like, violently-sneezing-hairballs sick. And the club required one representative from every race.
Which is how you found yourself sitting on a folding chair, staring in horror as Nobara Kugisaki—which should already have been your first red flag—pull out a tiny glass vial of glittery orange potion from her purse.
“I’ll just turn you into a temporary werewolf,” she grins, like she’s been planning this for a while now. “Super minor glamour. Easy.”
You blink. “Kugisaki, I’m human.”
“Yeah, and?” she shakes the bottle like it’s a cocktail.
“Is that safe?”
She rolls her eyes. “Do you trust me?”
“No.”
“Good,” she chirps. “Drink up!”
Before you can protest, she’s already uncorked the potion and shoves it straight into your hand. And because the only other alternative is cancelling your booth, you plug your nose, chugging it down like a real champ.
The sensation fizzes through your veins, tingling like sparkling soda. After a few seconds, your reflection shimmers in Nobara’s compact mirror—ears fluffing up, teeth sharpening slightly, and eyes blooming into a warm, honeyed gold.
Your fingertips reach to brush your cheeks. Holy crap.
“Wow,” Nobara smirks, already snapping a picture for blackmail purposes. “You’re… actually kinda cute like this.”
“Please never say that to me again.”
Too late—students are already flooding the courtyard, air buzzing with excitement, chatter, and ten different competing music spells.
You hurry behind the booth, adjusting your temporary wolf ears, and quickly straighten the tray of cupcakes you’ve stayed up all night baking. Much to Nobara’s dismay, you’ve tried making them look friendly—little frosted stars, pastel swirls, and soft colours.
And suddenly, the first years swarm the stall. Safe to say, they love them.
“Thank you!”
“These are free?? Seriously??”
“You’re so nice!”
You can barely push down the smile tugging at your lips, handing out another cupcake to a trembling kid, his tail bristling from fear. Another clutches hers close, cheeks flushed as her eyes sparkle in excitement. Another werewolf kid wags his tail so fast he sends three others scattering like bowling pins.
And there you stand, smiling like an idiot, the edges of your temporary fangs catching on your lip.
Okay. Maybe this isn’t so bad.
“Yeah, really. Don’t worry—everyone’s weird their first year. You’ll be okay,” you assure, smiling at him. The boy beams, and instantly, something warm blooms in your chest. This, this right here, is why you joined.
…Then you hear it. A low whistle echoes from the field, “Yo, check her out.”
“Did the club seriously snag the alpha werewolf girl this year?”
“Dude, I thought she was a human? She’s cute. Look at her eyes.”
Your smile tightens. The third-year wolves have already started circling. They swagger toward the booth as usual, reeking of all tail-wagging confidence and cologne strong enough to reek.
One leans over your table, smirking. “Hey, sweetheart—can I get a cupcake? Or your number?”
You deadpan, “That’ll be one cupcake. The number is still not available.”
They laugh, but you hand one over anyway—because the first years are watching, and you’re supposed to be the picture of… professionalism. Or something.
A second wolf elbows the first. “She’s got a cute smile. You think she’s single?”
“Yeah, bet she is. Look at her being all sweet.”
You inhale through your nose, praying for patience. Behind you, Nobara’s already muttering under her breath, fingers edging to sway at them, “I’m going to hex them.”
“Please don’t,” you whisper, plastering on a smile. “We need the club not to get disbanded this year.”
“Just a tiny hex—”
“NO.” But then, the atmosphere of the bustling courtyard tips just slightly. You can feel it in your bones, the trickle of it all.
The conversations around you blur into meaningless static, and a heavy weight pierces through you. Your head turns automatically.
Megumi stands far, in the corner of your eye. Leaning against one of the campus’s pillars at the field’s corners, arms crossed. The towering school drapes a dark shadow over his eyes, his expression unreadable.
Slowly, his eyes land on you.
You blink.
He watches the wolf-boys crowd your booth. Watches them lean in. Watches them grin at you like you’re prey. And you swear, from the twitch of your ears, that he clicks his tongue.
His jaw flexes, shoulders bunching slightly under his shirt, and suddenly, one of the wolves calls out, oblivious to it all, “Oi, Fushiguro! She’s free, right? Think she’d—”
Without a word, your seatmate instantly turns away, walking away and disappearing into the blur of crowds.
No comment. No glance back. Just… gone. Like he couldn’t stand to be there a second longer.
You stare after him, stunned. A few steps echo from behind you. With a snap out of your daze, Nobara nudges you. “…What the hell was that?”
“I—I don’t know,” you mutter.
Her eyes widen, brows raised. “Oh my god. Was he jealous or something?”
You nearly choke. “What? No! Why would—absolutely not.”
“Then why’d he walk off like that?”
“Because… he’s weird!” you sputter.
Nobara snorts. “He looked like he wanted to maul those boys.”
Your ears—your stupid temporary wolf ears—flatten.
“Well, he didn’t HAVE to glare at me like I kicked his dog,” you snap, heat rising under your skin. “He could’ve just—ugh! Whatever. I don’t care what his deal is.”
You shove another tray of cupcakes toward a crowd of shy first-years, forcing your smile back into place. Amidst the loud cheers, the sweaty afternoon, and the chaos, you murmur underneath your breath. “...Whatever.”
Megumi could glower all he wanted. You weren’t going to think about him.
…But you kept glancing toward where he disappeared anyway.
20 JULY 2021 - 16.37...
The library after school is too quiet. Too peaceful. Too… suffocating for someone forced to sit alone with Megumi for two full hours.
Timber floats through the air as shelves stack across each other in aisles, crimson sunlight pouring through the large overhead window of the library’s wall. With how silent it is, what echoes is just the susurrating of leaves and the buzz of the old air conditioner. The air tangs of old paper and lemon polish, clean enough to sting your nose.
You slap your notebook on the table. Across from you, Megumi doesn’t even look up.
Click. He presses the top of his pen once. A sharp, metallic snap.
Click. Click. Your eye twitches.
“We’re not starting until you stop doing that,” you groan, eyes catching the librarian’s as she circles again through the stacks.
Click. He clicks it a third time out of spite. “…Done now.”
You narrow your eyes. “You did that on purpose.”
He doesn’t deny it and simply sets the pen down, leaning back with an indifferent stare out the window.
He and his darn windows.
“Can we just finish the script?” he mutters, finally flipping open his notebook. “I want to leave.”
“You think I don’t?” you drop into your chair with a sigh. “I’d rather be doing literally anything else.”
He simply snorts, arms crossed as his jaw tightens away from the corner of your eye. “Like baking cupcakes for your fan club?”
You freeze mid-scribble. “…What fan club?”
His shoulders lift in the laziest shrug, eyes glued to the paper. “Nothing.”
But three years of hell with him have taught you better. You know that tone. That I-saw-something-and-I’m-pretending-I-didn’t-care-at-all tone.
“You’re being weird,” you mutter.
“You’re always weird.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“Welcome.”
You rip a sticky note from the pad, scrunch it, and flick it at him. The neon square bounces off his shoulder and drifts to the floor, him blinking and brushing it off like some annoying housefly.
The lamp on your table buzzes softly, chairs scraping in the distance. It’s been almost two hours, and the world’s been spinning, all while you two sit frozen in a stupid loop of bickering.
You exhale through your nose, finally opening your notebook. “Okay. The intro. We have to read it together, right?”
“We could,” Megumi murmurs, spinning his pen once, “or you could read it alone so you can stop complaining about my voice.”
You roll your eyes. “I never said your voice was the problem.”
And almost immediately, he tilts his head, “…So I’m the problem.”
“Yes.”
“Good to know,” he starts writing aggressively, carving deep grooves into the page.
In turn, you lean forward, elbows on the table. “What are you writing?”
“Notes.”
“Why does it look like you’re drafting a death threat?”
He rips the paper slightly harder than necessary. “Because you’re hovering.”
“I’m not hovering, I’m observing.”
“You’re such a know-it-all.”
You huff and sink back into your seat, flipping your pen between your fingers.
The overhead lights drone faintly above you, a soft buzz settling over like static as you wait in boredom. Amidst the silence, the dusk casts halos over the edges of his blue-black hair, each strand sharp. You can barely keep your smirk, watching as they bob while his pen scratches across the paper, ink flowing with the faint furrow that rests between his brows.
The last light of sunset spills across the desk, catching on his lashes, golden at the tips, and softening his stern line. It turns him soft at the edges, warm where he’s usually sharp. For a second, he looks calmer… Gentler.
He finally glances at your fidgeting hand. “Don’t drop it this time.”
“I won’t—”
But the pen slips the moment you flick it, springing from your fingers, and cutting a neat little arc through the air like a gymnast—
Smack.
It hits him square in the middle of the forehead. Both of you freeze.
It bounces off and lands in his lap, him staring at it for a few seconds. Then, he lifts his eyes to yours—painfully, agonisingly, slowly, like he’s giving you one last chance to repent.
But instead, much to his dismay, you just clasp a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes squinting at the tiny red mark blooming between his brows.
His jaw drops, outrage burning in his eyes. “It’s not funny.”
“It is.”
“You’re the worst.”
You wipe your eyes, still giggling despite your best efforts. “Okay, okay—seriously. Script. Let me see your notes.”
He slides the paper over reluctantly. And to your surprise, his handwriting’s admittedly neat, almost pretty, as your eyes trail over the perfect margins, the clean bullet points, and the laid out transitions.
You blink at it. “You’re… really good at this.”
He shudders, looking almost startled. “I just took basic notes…”
“No, like, you don’t sound like you hate everyone..”
Underneath the dim glow of the golden, pillar lamps, a faint flush creeps up the tips of his ears. “...The hell does that mean?”
Silence hangs between the two of you.
“So,” you cough—loud, too loud—“for the final part, we just need to add in how ‘human students have improved our diversified high school years.’”
He nods. “Yeah. But I think it’d be good if our speech had more direct examples.”
“Like?”
He hesitates, eyes flicking down. “Like… what you did.”
You raise an eyebrow, “What I did?”
“You helped that first-year hybrid kid today,” he mutters, still not quite meeting your eyes. “He was shaking so hard his tail wouldn’t stop moving. And you… handled it well.”
You just slowly nod your head, staring at him in question. “That’s… oddly observant of you.”
He scowls immediately, cheeks warming again. “I wasn’t observing. I just… happened to be there.”
“You happened to be halfway across the courtyard?” you tilt your head, brows knitted. “Don’t you hate loud events like those?”
He snaps his notebook shut. “Can we focus on the graduation speech now?”
You scoff back. “Sure. Mister ‘accidental observer.’”
He mutters his regrets of not having transferred schools, and when you hear the tick of his tongue whenever he’s lost an argument, you quickly hide your smile behind your book. “Okay, fine. You take the section on pack and hive, whatever. You actually understand werewolf stuff.”
He gives you a pointed look. “You say that like you don’t have chocolate frosting on your shirt.”
You glance down at a smear of pastel blue glaring back up at you. “Oh, for— that’s not related.”
He leans back in his chair, the faintest hint of a victorious smirk tugging at his mouth. “Very professional of our representative.”
“Say one more thing, and I’m putting glitter glue in your hair,” you glare, eyes shooting daggers at him.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
And as expected, the banter just spirals from there on out, bouncing back and forth like a rhythm the two of you often slip into far too easily.
“You’re holding the marker wrong.”
“Your face is wrong.”
“That’s not an argument.”
“Neither is your existence—give me the paper.”
Yet, by the time the sun’s dipped low through the tall library windows, melting the floor into molten gold, the script’s nearly finished. Clean, concise, and… functional, much to both your perfectionistic surprises.
Finally, he caps his pen, the click echoing softly one last time. “…This is good."
You nod. “Yeah. Somehow.”
“Somehow?”
“I mean, we fought through half of it.”
He shrugs, eyes drifting to you for a heartbeat longer than normal. “I think we work better when we’re arguing.”
Your heart skips just a second, heat blooming in your cheeks. Probably from anger, you think, quickly shoving it down.
“…Why?”
He turns his head slightly, staring out the window again. He hesitates. “Because then, you’re just being yourself.”
A beat passes. Suddenly, he clears his throat. “It’s easier to talk to you when you’re like that.”
You stare at him. “And you’re just saying this… one week before graduation?”
A pang of ache tightens in your stomach, and unlike usual, he doesn’t say anything. It gives far too much space for your words to settle, and when they do, the weight of them feels a lot too heavy.
Silently, you close your notebook. You take a deep breath, the thought of it nauseating now.
Four days. Four days and you’ll never see him again. Him, Nobara, Yuji, your class, and the mysterious boy behind the door.
No matter how chaotic it was, you can’t deny there were some fun times.
Under your breath, you murmur grudgingly. “…You’re not as terrible as I thought, too.”
His mouth twitches. Just a little, even as he sits, faced away from you. “You’re still terrible."
You grin, jaw clenching, stomach tightening. Still, you just pucker it up.
“...Not as bad as you.”
11 JUNE 2021...
“And get this, he didn’t even apologise when he broke the lockers!” you groaned, plopping yourself on the lumber floor. “I couldn’t even get to mine because of the mess he made…”
Specks of dust danced in the slanted light, pouring from the singular window of the secluded storage room.
“Well, at least it wasn’t yours?” a muffled voice perked, humming through the timber door you leaned against.
“It was near mine,” you grouched, hands huddling your knees now. “I swear, being a werewolf is just another excuse for anger issues…”
A quiet laugh reverberated from the boy behind. You simply pouted, feeling your ears warm even amidst the summer breeze that brushed past your cheeks.
“What, so you think… Fushiguro has anger issues now?” he taunted, floor creaking with the weight of him.
“You think?!” a shiver ran down your spine. “He’s been harassing everyone since Day One!”
The room was tucked in the corners of another one of this school’s countless hallways, timber still fresh in the air and stagnant. Sunlight dappled through the crown of branches halfway up the window, while faint cheers of the football team drifted.
It was far from the sweaty halls, far from the locker fights, and most importantly, far from Megumi.
“Why don’t you try talking to him about it?”
You instantly rolled your eyes, cheeks puffing at the thought of it. Your gaze landed on the broken stacks of old desks and chairs. “Hell, if he were half as approachable as you, maybe.”
A pause lingered in the air. “...Do you ever wonder what I look like behind the door?”
You counted each bird flying past, staring out the window. You’d be lying if you said no.
“I mean, I’m fine with us like… this,” you whispered, lids lowering just a little. “You’re the first friend I made here. It doesn't really matter.”
The words sank into the light of the air, but a weight carried with it—a shuffle of the floor.
“Ugh, why are you being such a sap?” the voice huffed, a low gutty groan at the edge.
A small puff of laughter slipped out of you, and you quickly clasped your hand over it, lips twitching at the edges. Your shoulders dropped a little. What did you expect from him, anyway?
“Can we have some soundtrack to it, too, then?” you tilted your head in question, drumming your fingers on the door.
The floor almost crushed with how heavy his sigh is, but you didn't miss the tenderness laced. You swayed your knees amidst the idleness of the room, like you were just another to the collection of cardboard boxes, extension cords, rolled bulletin paper, and projector screens—all tucked in the bare corner of the walls.
The lightbulb flickered from above you, and before you knew it, a gentle strum of a guitar resonated. A tiny smile played at the corner of your lips.
“Tears in Heaven?” you hummed, legs shifting to get more comfortable.
“Eric Clapton’s Autobiography.”
You could almost hear his smile, your fingers tapping softly against the floor to its beat. Each dust seemed to dance to its own melody, swaying under the curtain of light from the trees.
Soon enough, your eyelids lowered slowly, head tilting back as usual. Your lips parted just a little as well, exhaling a quiet sigh. Soft enough that only he heard behind the door.
…Megumi Fushiguro.
20 JULY 2021...
Megumi’s walk home is always the same.
With the dip of the sun, it peeks only slightly behind the towering buildings, washing the street in an ashen grey. Each step of his bobs the bag slung heavy on his shoulder, books digging sharply into his ribs with each clack of the pebble.
The weight doesn’t bother him. If anything, it’s lighter than whatever’s coiling in his stomach right now. Followed by the echo of a crow, the audience of none, and the wallow of his own, the back of his skull rings. It chimes obnoxiously—replaying today like a CD loop without his consent.
About you.
About the way you laughed after accidentally hitting him with a pen. About how your face warmed when you said he wasn’t too bad after all—like you meant it. And about the way your wolf ears drooped when those idiots hovered over your booth.
He exhales sharply, rubbing at his neck. Get it together.
He turns the corner onto his street—a narrow, uneven pathway where half the streetlights flicker or don’t turn on at all. As usual, his apartment building sits at the very end of the road, hunched between two abandoned lots, its paint peeling like old scabs.
Creak…
Inside, the stairwell smells faintly of mildew and overcooked noodles. The walls are cracked, and the railing rattles as his fingers glide over it. He can bet that if he turns the other corner, someone’s already scratched a new image of profanity into the plaster beside the mailbox.
Without a word, he lets himself in. His step-sister, Tsumiki, is passed out as usual on the couch, still in her wrinkled working clothes. She lies curled under a fraying blanket, the TV’s blue light flickering across her pallid face, lit aglow in exhaustion. A half-empty instant ramen cup sits by itself on the coffee table, cooling as she snores away.
He doesn’t wake her. With a single eerie creak of the floorboard, he just plops it into the sink, running the tap over his now gliding fingers. This is their normal. On the few days, when they actually do pass each other, his eyes will flick up once—just long enough to register she’s there—before hurrying to leave anywhere else.
He isn’t sure how to talk to her, only the intangible ache in him. And she’s learnt to let time do its thing. Especially when their brief exchanges of glances say everything they don’t dare to; Another night where they’d pretend they weren’t two children living in the same collapsing room.
Abandoned. Deserted. Megumi’s jaw clenches. He heads straight down the hallway, avoiding the trembling spot in the floorboard that threatens to cave in any second. And with a shove of his shoulder, he quietly nudges open his bedroom door, creaking with each inch it gives way.
The room itself is barely bigger than the school’s storage closet, wallpaper peeling in curling strips, and water stains beneath. He slings his bag across the sagging mattress, blanket blown to the side from the leaking cold air, window cracked open no matter how many times he’s taped it shut.
A squeak echoes as he sits heavily at the edge of his bed, springs groaning under him. He presses his palms to his eyes.
Today’s been… too much. The school. The noise. The wolves. The way Naoya wouldn’t shut up during training. The fight that nearly got him suspended. And then… you.
You, sitting across from him in the library with that stupid determined look in your eyes.
You, who didn’t flinch even when he was at his worst.
You, who dragged him out when Naoya and him were in that coughing fit of a fight—even when you swear you hate him.
Something in his chest tightens. He lets himself slump backwards onto his mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling.
He also remembers the storage room. The girl he’s never seen—just a voice behind a door. Soft, shaking sometimes.
She was honest in a way people rarely were with him, yet somehow, still talked of the same feelings he never knew resided in him. Like she could see through him in every conversation, cornered, pretending to be tougher than she was just to survive.
He didn’t know who she was then, but… he recognised the tone. He recognised the desolation buried in her jokes, and he’s heard that very same crack of edge in her voice, one that only came from being pushed far too many times.
It only took him until the first week of third year to piece the puzzle—to realise that it was you. The girl, laughing at him behind the door after class, was the same girl who scowled at him just that morning. The knowledge of it all snapped something inside of him into place.
Megumi exhales through his nose, long and slow, dropping his palm over his face. I was such an asshole on the first day…
His stomach tightens with the memory of it now—the clipped tone, the cold shoulder, the irritated looks. He’d been having one of the worst days of his year, but you didn’t know that. You just walked into his storm, chin up, refusing to back down.
You’d put him in his place. Twice. And that was what impressed him—the bite you have. The fight.
The way you kept going—even when people talked, even when they pushed, even when the school itself felt like it was trying to shape you into something sharper, meaner… colder. But you never lost that, and he saw that today.
It was clear as day, in the way you comforted the shaking hybrid kid, even when you were stressed out of your mind.
His mind was going to explode with how he couldn't stop thinking about it—how the sunlight perfectly framed your smile around the first-years, almost like you were an angel yourself. How you stood firm, even when the wolves hovered around you, and how you helped him—him of all people—despite how rough and distant he was.
And like the final seal, his mind decided to replay the exact memory of the first day you met, the way your warmth still leaked through the door, even when the entire room felt cold. Like a seeping light, creaking through the under gaps of a singular sliver.
An echo of life, irradiating the tenebrosity of his iniquity.
You have a good heart. Too good for a place like this school.
Sighing, he rolls onto his side, staring at the wall where the plaster had chipped away in the shape of an old footprint.
One week left until graduation.
One more week of early mornings, crowded hallways, chaotic classes. One more week seeing you across the courtyard. One more week of arguing with you, just so you go look for him in the storage room during lunch and after-school hours.
...One more week pretending he doesn’t look for you in every room. He swallows.
He only talks to two people in this damn school. Two. You—and the girl behind the door who just so happened to be you. Yet somehow… he doesn’t regret any of it.
Regret doesn’t exist in his vocabulary. What resides in it is... karma. In his stubborn, hard-headed mind, the only anomaly to this principle is you. Even until this day, he can’t help but think the balance might’ve accidentally creaked you over to his side by mistake.
And if the wheels really had shifted, you were the only deviation from the stale essence of his world. You didn’t belong here. You didn’t belong near his punches—his blows were weak, desperate, in this entire world of inequity. Maybe, what he thinks—what he can—call regret, is how late he was to realise he might’ve wanted more.
More time. More afternoons like today. More arguments. More moments where you looked at him like he wasn’t just the rough, violent, exhausted guy everyone whispered about.
He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. Maybe, just maybe—if he had been a little softer, a little sooner, he could’ve seen the real you.
Not the facade shaped by the school’s violence. The you who hides cupcakes behind your back. The you who laughs so hard your shoulders shake. The you who asks him, behind that same closed storage-room door—“Do you ever feel left out, too?”
Megumi shuts his eyes. He wishes he still has time to answer that properly. But he isn’t too sure he does.
…Not with only three days left.
Your words echo in his mind again, ringing like a bell. “Sometimes… you want to help someone with everything you have, but it’s not that simple, right?”
Tsumiki’s snore creaks through the small hole in his door.
He reaches out to his phone laid across his bedside, already scrolling through the contacts. He takes one slow, deep breath, fingers hovering.
With one final sigh, he dials the first number.
21 JULY 2021...
The next morning, he walks into school with an apology somewhat rehearsed in his head. Not a perfect one, because he doesn’t do apologies, but something real at least. Something that might make yesterday’s strange ache in his chest a bit more tangible. Digestible, suffice to say.
But he just might throw up before he could.
Because before he even turns the corner toward your classroom, he hears it. A group of students at the lockers, sneering.
“She thinks she’s better than everyone just because she helps the first-years.”
“Yeah, she’s fake nice. My friend said she cried behind the gym last week. Pathetic.”
“Bet she was begging Fushiguro again. Girl’s obsessed.”
He freezes. The moment your name rolls off their tongues, laced with nothing but the school’s ever-so sharpness—cruelness—a string in him snaps. He shoves forward, past the bystanding crowd, and grabs the ringleader by the collar.
Someone gasps. Someone else tells him to calm down. He doesn’t.
Fists fly. Bodies hit lockers. It doesn’t take an eye to witness the showdown, because he’s brutal, crueller than ever the last three years—and undeniably, more than he needs to be.
Ringing knells constantly with the boiling flush of his ears, and somewhere between the second punch and the third, he realises the anger isn’t just what he’s been urging it is.
It’s not at them. It never was. The simmering resentment, the bile, the ire, laced with each punch, has always been for one person, and one only—himself.
At yesterday. At the last three years. At his life. At how the school expects him to suck up to their rules. At how they treated you. At how he treated you.
No matter what he does, he just seems to only make things worse, even when his stomach writhes with the nauseating thought of it all, he can’t pull back his punches.
He doesn’t think he’s too far gone—he knows he is. And with each smash, each bang that echoes as he slams them into the lockers, the loathing that writhes within crawls. Deeper, darker.
The crowd splits when you arrive. Eyes blazing. Breath unsteady. Already knowing. Your voice cuts through the tension. “Fushiguro.”
He turns, pulse high, chest heaving. And your face—hurt, furious, disappointed—suddenly grounds him to whatever high his heart’s been racing on the past few minutes. “What the hell are you doing?”
“...They were talking shit,” he says, voice tight. He pauses for a moment, and for the longest stretch of a minute, his head whirls in uproar.
His blood is pulsing, his hands, his body, all entirely shaking. He doesn’t mean for you to hear it, but he whispers, more to himself, “About you.”
You frown. "...I don’t care.”
He grimaces, remembering the way your hurt had settled in the room just last week—quiet, heavy—still clinging to him like smoke. “But—”
“Let them!” The tremor in your voice climbs. “I’m used to it.”
The words land in him harder than any blow ever could. He stops, breath faltering.
“Stop,” you step back, trembling. “Don’t start acting like you care now.”
He opens his mouth—then shuts it again, the silence between you turning sharp.
“Just last week, you barely looked at me,” you whisper, voice pulled tight with ache. “You’ve spent the last three years acting like you hate me.”
“I don’t—”
“But the second you hear someone else say something? Suddenly it’s your job to blow up and fight?”
Murmurs ripple through the hall, swelling like an unwanted tide. He sees it—the way your shoulders curl in, the way your breath stumbles—how much you don’t want an audience for any of this.
“They crossed a line.”
“And so did you.”
His breath shudders a bit, shaky. In an instant, his jaw locks. “I was trying to help.”
“You were trying to feel better about something you did wrong,” you murmur, and your voice cracks on the edges, softening in a way that hurts far more than if you’d screamed.
A prickling crawls under his skin. Because you’re right, dead right, and he hates that truth more than the bruise throbbing in his hand.
“And what?” you demand. “You think punching a bunch of idiots magically fixes everything between us? That it makes you the good guy after all these years?”
His gaze drops to the dent in the locker. Then to his knuckles. Red, swelling, stupid. “…I didn’t think.”
“You never do when it comes to me.”
Something sharp spears quickly through his chest, and he looks up to see your lashes fluttering, too fast, like you’re fighting not to break in front of everyone.
“I don’t want this from you,” you manage. “I don’t want violence.”
And suddenly, every reckless thing he ever said to you—the ones from the very first day—comes back like teeth, sinking in.
“I don’t want you treating me like some problem you need to fix when you decided that for yourself first.” You step back again, and he freezes—because he doesn’t know if he should reach for you, or if touching you now would only make things worse.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. This isn’t how anything was supposed to go. His voice scrapes out, raw, almost pleading, “I’m trying—”
“But you’re doing it all wrong.” The words slice through him, and silence immediately swallows whatever he was about to say.
Whatever excuse, apology, or desperate scrap of hope he had died right there in his throat. Then you murmur—quiet, shaking, only for him, “You don’t get to decide when you care about me.”
He goes still. Blood roaring. Heart sinking like a stone dropped straight through him. You turn away, blinking hard, heat stinging behind your eyes. “Don’t even think about following me.”
And this time… he doesn’t. He can’t. His legs won’t move, not toward you, not anywhere. He just watches you storm off, watches the distance stretch into something terrifying.
Three days left. Three days—and he can already feel the future collapsing in on itself.
He stands there long after you’re gone, surrounded by whispers that sting like salt in open wounds. His hand lifts, almost unconsciously, pressing to the locker beside him. It dents under his palm, softly, uselessly. As if the metal itself is pitying him. Not enough to fix anything. Never enough.
He thinks of your scrunched nose when you’re annoyed. Your voice behind the door—tired, soft, too good for him. Your laugh, the one he never deserved to hear.
Wolves don’t get to choose who they imprint on. And just as he’s dreaded, he’s starting to understand why he can’t stay away. Why you get under his skin. Why even the tiniest simmer of jealousy feels like an explosion of fire and hunger and fear all at once.
He should’ve known how it’d go from the very first day—from when he decided to open up about his problems, and how easily he slipped into place when he’d heard the gentle melody of your voice.
“…Shit.” The word ghosts out him like a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Thin, hopeless.
And he knows he shouldn’t. He knows you don’t want him there. He knows this is the moment he’s supposed to let you go.
It’s what you asked for, it’s what he deserves. But grief does strange things—desperation, too.
So he runs, not out of hope, but because standing still feels like dying. He runs past the murmurs, the stares, the ghosts of what he could’ve been, straight to the door.
To the only place in this whole hellhole where things ever felt real.
Where it was just you, him, and that quiet, fragile world you both built without meaning to.
You’re his world—whether he deserves you or not.
The entire hallway blurs around you—lights streaking, voices muffling, everything tilting as you storm your way through it like you’re trying to outrun your own heartbeat.
Your fists are clenched tight enough to ache, your breath trips over itself, and somewhere beneath, your throat burns like a traitor, like your body wants to collapse before your mind even lets it.
You shove into the bathroom. The door slams behind you loud, the sound ricocheting off cold tiles and flickering lights, and you turn the tap on too hard.
Freezing water splashes your face, dripping down your jaw. You grip the sink like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, and then… you look up.
Red-rimmed eyes. Trembling mouth. Someone brittle enough to crack from a single wrong breath. And suddenly, finally, everything caves in.
Anger, sharp and reckless. Embarrassment, sour in your gut. The sting of his words, the sting of yours… and beneath it all, a hollow ache you refuse—absolutely refuse—to name.
“Three more days,” you whisper to the mirror. “Just three more days and it’s over.”
Your voice sounds nothing like you. Your vision blurs. This sad, small joke of a stall feels way too narrow, too loud, too much—walls caving in like they’re trying to swallow you whole.
You can’t breathe in here. You don’t want to. So you leave, quietly, head down, letting the harsh hallway light spill over you as your feet move on their own. Toward the only place you’ve ever hidden, ever softened, ever let yourself breathe.
Footsteps echo down the corridor, hollow, each one heavier than the last, and each sends a quiver to a taut string. A thread from this morning’s outburst, crawling into the walls, seeping into the lockers, and into the air itself—leaving everything thick and muted, like the aftermath of a scream.
You just slip down the side corners, past the old lockers, past the dusty trophies no one cares about anymore.
Past the old class photos no one stops to look at anymore, and this whole place, this whole tired school, feels entirely abandoned by sound. As if even the shadows are waiting to see what breaks next.
You rest your hand on the storage room door, the wood cool beneath your skin. Slowly, with the shiftest creak, like you’ve done all these years—you can already feel his presence.
Your refuge. Your ruin. Your stupid, quiet sanctuary.
“…Hey,” you whisper, the word barely forming. “It’s me.”
A faint shift of weight behind the door. Your throat tightens all over again.
“Can I—” your voice cracks, thin and small. You swallow. “Can I talk?”
You don’t hear words this time, but somehow, the subtlest shift on his side, the almost-imperceptible hush of movement, eases you in an unsayable way. With a shaky exhale, you let your back slide against the cool wood.
“I messed up today,” you whisper. “And I don’t even know why it hurts so much.”
Silence hangs between you like the glaring sun pasted across the sky, almost too bright and heavy, refusing to budge an inch. You pull your knees to your chest, curling in on yourself as if that’ll help stop the trembling in your limbs.
“I’m so tired of fighting,” you breathe. “Of pretending I don’t care what people say. Of acting strong just to survive this place.”
Your voice trembles, thin as paper. “He punched those guys because of me. And I got mad. But—god—what was he thinking? Why does he only care in the worst possible ways?”
You don’t mean to let your voice break. But it does. Your words catch in your throat—your thoughts, your feelings. Every time it comes to anything about Megumi, you feel stupidly young again. Like you’re still fifteen and angry and confused and hiding behind this same door, fighting with him through a crack in the world only the two of you know exists.
“I hate him,” you whisper. “I hate him for making things so complicated. And I hate myself for letting it matter.”
Something shifts inside the room, closer to the door. It makes your stomach drop, your pulse stutters. You can barely swallow the growing lump in your throat.
Maybe it’s not just him. Maybe it’s all of it—the years piling up, the way everything keeps changing faster than you can adjust. Like graduation might just make you lose pieces of yourself you didn’t even know you were supposed to keep.
And in some strange, painful way, the two of you are stuck in a loop that never truly ends, your own quiet orbit, far from the world that keeps spinning without you.
“Three days left,” you mutter. “Three days until I never see him again. And I should be relieved. I should be counting down. But I’m not. I’m just… confused.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “I should be happy I get to start over. But instead I’m… scared.”
The mere simplicity of the word hangs in the quiet, like a bare confession. You grip your knees.
“Everything’s changing,” you whisper. “And I feel like I’m not keeping up. Like I’m supposed to know who I am by now, or what I want, or who I’m supposed to become—and I don’t.”
You bury your face into your knees, teeth pressing into your lip. Memories spool out behind your eyes—years’ worth of small moments, old arguments, stupid jokes, all of it tangled up in something you don’t have a name for.
Your breath hitches. “And I don’t know why, but thinking about walking away from him after everything… makes it worse. Our fights are the only constants I’ve ever had in this stupid school.”
You bury your face into your knees, teeth sinking into your lip. You don’t want to stop the reel. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You’re scared.
“I don’t want everything to end,” you say, voice small. “Not yet.”
Everything feels unfair. Another shift on his side, and then, softly, he rests against the other side of the door.
“I wish people knew me,” you whisper. “The real me. Not the version I pretend to be, fighting to look… fine.”
A shaky inhale. “I wish someone saw me when I wasn’t trying so hard.”
A tear rolls down your cheeks, and you just blink it away, chest heaving almost too fast now. Instead, your fingers just curl into your palms, nails digging crescents.
“Sometimes I think you’re the only person I can talk to. And I don’t even know your name.”
A long pause, wide as the future you’re afraid of. And quickly, a quiet shift behind the door, like he’s searching for courage in the shadows. Unconsciously, your heart softens at the thought of it.
“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I just… I needed someone today.”
You rub your eyes. “I’m sorry, I always dump everything on you. You probably have your own problems.”
Inside, a quiet thud echoes, his head gently hitting the door. It steals the air from your lungs.
“…Thank you,” you whisper. The words linger between you, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks.
“…You’re not alone.”
Your heart stutters. Your breath catches. And for one still of a moment, you finally close your eyes.
He stands behind the door, breathing hard, palms pressed against it, head bowed as if the weight of the whole day is hanging from his spine.
The room is dim, cluttered with boxes stacked unevenly from years of neglect. Dust floats lazily in the strip of light bleeding from under the door, and it smells faintly like old paper, wood rot—the faintest trace of your scent lingering from yesterday.
He hates how much that comforts him. His stomach twists. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t feel this raw, this hurt, this terrified of losing someone he never had a right to want in the first place. But he stays.
The hallway outside is hushed, walls themselves holding their breath. And then he hears it; your steps, uneven, the soft stutter in the rhythm that only happens when you’re trying not to cry.
His chest tightens painfully. He turns slightly, listening. And like clockwork, what echoes is the gentlest click of a door—and barely after, you slip inside, your breath faltering. He hears you lean your weight against it, tired, trembling, against the opposite side.
He closes his eyes. He doesn’t trust his voice. If he opens his mouth now, he’ll say everything—the apology, the regret, the fear that he messed everything up—so he just shifts his weight, letting the floor creak quietly.
It croaks under his shift of weight. You hear it. He knows you do. Then your first sob breaks. Soft. Broken. Like you’re doing everything you can not to fall apart.
He grips the closest box so hard the cardboard caves, splitting under his fingers. I did this. I hurt you. I always hurt the people I want to protect.
But he stays silent, because if you knew it was him behind the door, you would leave. And he would rather choke on every word he never says than watch you walk away again. He isn’t taking chances. Chances he doesn’t deserve.
So as usual, like this was just any other day, you begin talking, your voice a tired tremor, small and angry and bruised at the edges. He listens like someone drowning, clinging to each syllable you can’t help but spill. “I hate him.”
He flinches.
“…and I hate myself for letting it matter.”
Something inside him cracks, shatters entirely, and he just presses his forehead against the wood, breaths shaking, shame burning up his throat.
He thinks about yesterday. How you knelt beside that trembling first-year, voice soft even at the edges. How he thought maybe, just maybe, he had a chance at talking with you about... everything. Not just through this damn door, but face-to-face. How your eyes looked today—hurt, bright, glassy—because of him.
He remembers all of it far too well.
“Sometimes I think you’re the only person I can talk to.” The words make his breath leave all in one silent, cracked exhale.
He’s clinging, threading, on the tiniest sliver of hope, no matter how much his head says otherwise. Almost painfully, he sits down slowly, back sliding against timber like yesterday. A second later, he hears you lower yourself too, and achingly, through the singular piece of thin wood, your shoulders nearly brush.
The two of you slot against each other almost too completely. Too perfectly—in this narrow, hollow space filled too heavily. He imagines the outline of your knees tucked close, your fingers fidgeting with your sleeves, your eyes red. And even though he shouldn’t, he aches with it.
“I’m sorry, I always dump everything on you…” Your voice is soft. Apologetic. Full of that tired guilt he wishes he could take from you, and his own throat feels like it’s closing.
His head leans back against the door with a dull thud, echoing with the exhaustion he can’t ever say aloud. Silence stretches, heavy like only what the realisation of the looming date can bring—the fear that time is running out.
Three days. Three days until he walks out of this building and loses the one person who ever saw him straight through.
He shouldn't want more. But he does. God, he does. And then his voice slips out. “…You’re not alone.”
The moment he says it, his breath stutters. The confession hangs in the stale air like a flare shot into darkness. He squeezes his eyes shut, regretting, wanting, trembling.
Your breath freezes, and he can feel the shock of it through the wood. Then your sob breaks, louder. It rips something out of him. He presses both palms to the door, like he’s trying to keep you from falling through it.
He can’t bear it. Not your crying. Not the distance. Not the damn door. So before he can think, instinct catches first, and his voice comes out hoarse, unsteady.
“…Can I see you?”
Silence. He waits. For rejection. For a scoff. For a “go away.” But instead, your voice comes out small, ruined, “…Why?”
He swallows, throat burning. He can’t lie, not now, not when you sound like this. “Because it’s almost graduation."
The words tremble out of him. “And because I… don’t want the last thing between us to be this.”
Another long, aching silence. Then what echoes, like a final surrender, is a quiet breath. Soft… collapsing. “…Okay.”
The word is barely more than a breath, but it stops almost everything in him. His heart stutters, then leaps, and before he can think—before he can steady himself, before he can question whether he deserves this moment at all, his hand is already wrapped around the cold doorknob.
No matter how small the room is, it shrinks even more, caving in on the thin space as he slowly pushes the door open. The hinges groan.
Light spills, catching the dust in the air like drifting stars. And there, sitting on the cold floor with your knees drawn up to your chest, your shoulders curled inward, is you. You slowly glance up, red-rimmed eyes shimmering, cheeks streaked with drying tears.
Your face is blotchy, your lashes wet, breathing uneven, yet somehow, you look so heartbreakingly small in the fading light—beautiful in a way that makes his chest ache.
A deep, pulling ache. Because he knows—without delusion, without excuses—that he’s part of the reason you’re here right now, sitting alone with everything breaking loose inside you.
Your breath catches when you recognise him.
“…You?” you whisper, disbelief flickering through your eyes.
They’re quickly swallowed by betrayal, so raw it nearly makes him step back. “It was you behind the door?”
His throat goes tight, but still, he forces himself to meet your eyes. “…Yeah.”
And with that single syllable, something in your expression fractures. The smallest break, but enough to spill everything, the hurt, the hope you almost allowed yourself, the anger twisting with disappointment. You stand so quickly your balance wavers, hands curling at your sides.
“Why didn’t you just say something?” Your voice cracks halfway through. “Why pretend to be someone else?! Why—god, Fushiguro!”
He looks away, jaw clenched, lashes low over eyes he can’t let you read. “You wouldn’t have talked to me,” he mutters, hands fisting at his sides.
“That’s not—” your voice trails, breaking apart like glass slipping from trembling fingers.
Everything is swirling in your head, and no matter how hard you try, you just can’t seem to grasp anything at all. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
You shove at his chest, and it's weak, shaking... desperate. He doesn’t move, shoulders lowering as he takes each blow.
“I trusted whoever was behind that door,” you whisper, tears gathering again despite your efforts to swallow them down. “I thought it was someone who actually cared. Someone who—someone who saw me.”
“It was me,” he snaps, the words too loud, too sharp, but then they collapse, softer and stripped down to the bone. “It was always me.”
The air itself sinks into silence, and you freeze. Eyes wide, lips parting. Shaking, he drags a hand through his hair, fingers trembling, trying desperately to hold himself together when every piece of him wants to spill out. His voice is rough when it comes out again.
“I screwed up today,” he whispers, and even to you, each word sounds honest. “I know I did. And I know I hurt you. But I wasn’t—”
He swallows hard, voice thinning. “I was mad at myself.”
Your eyes flicker, stunned. He keeps going.
“And I was jealous,” he admits, words tremoring with each beat. “I was jealous and stupid and I hate the way people look at you like you’re something to win, or chase, or brag about. And I hate that it gets under my skin. And I hate that I—”
His voice falters, breaks, falls into something barer. “I hate that I might’ve ruined the only thing I—”
He stops. Because if he says it outright, there’s no turning back.
But he lifts his eyes to you again, and for the first time, there’s no anger, no coldness, no door. He swallows a gulp.
“…I don’t want to lose you,” he finishes, barely above a whisper.
Your heart, your entire world collapses. He steps closer, just enough that the dim light catches the tremble of your lashes, the shaking in your shoulders, the exhaustion in your eyes.
“I don’t want the version of me you know to be the last thing you remember before you leave this place,” he can’t keep the words from spilling out now, quieter, almost ashamed of how much the thought scares him.
Your eyes go wet. Again. And you take a step back, just one, small, shaky step. “I can’t do this with you, Fushiguro.”
And that—those seven words hurt far more than any bruise he’s ever taken. He steps forward without thinking, instinct dragging him closer while fear pulls him apart.
“I’ll change,” the words burst out of him too fast. “I swear I’ll change. I’ll—I’ll try. I’ll do better. I’m not lying. I’m not—”
Your breath trembles, a fragile string in the air. He looks like he’s unravelling right in front of you—chest rising too quickly, hands curling and uncurling like he doesn’t know how to hold the panic clawing up his spine.
And in front of you, for the first time, he looks like… any other boy. A boy, trying to keep something precious from slipping through the cracks of his own shaking fingers.
His next breath is unsteady. His next word even more so. “Please.”
You whisper back, voice barely a shape, “…Why now?”
You stand frozen, tears falling, unable to speak, unable to move, the weight of everything crushing both of you into silence.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says quickly, rushing to catch each shattering piece of himself. “I wasn’t trying to trick you. At first I didn’t know it was you—then when I figured it out, I—”
“You what?” Your throat burns. “You kept lying?”
He takes a step closer, breath sharp, standing so close the air between you feels thin. “I didn’t lie about how I felt.”
You go utterly still. His jaw tightens, as if the words fight him all the way out.
“I liked talking to you,” he admits, voice soft, frayed. “More than I expected. More than I should have.”
You hate how your breath catches at that. Hate how easily he slips under your skin.
“I meant everything I said behind that door,” he continues, eyes darting away like the memory of it burns him with too much light. “Every piece of advice. Every quiet thing. Every stupid… thing I admitted.”
Your throat closes around something too heavy to swallow. Because the words land between you, almost too frighteningly loud, and you take a step back.
You have to. Anything else would crush you.
He takes a step forward, “Please—”
“I need a minute,” you choke out, voice shredded.
He stops instantly, words freezing him on the spot. His hands fall uselessly to his sides, fingers trembling, and for a moment, he looks like someone trying not to reach out even though it’s all he wants to do.
You turn away.
Your heart climbs into your throat, your legs nearly giving under you, your vision blurring with fresh tears you can’t blink away fast enough.
You don’t look back. You can’t.
You don’t see the way Megumi’s shoulders fold inward, like every inch of him collapses the moment you turn. You don’t see how his hands lift, hesitate, then drop helplessly at his side.
You don’t even know where you’re going—just away. Away from the door. Away from that hallway. Away from the truth that just cracked open the floor beneath your feet.
Your breath collapses on itself, a choked sob slipping out despite your attempt to swallow it, and you wipe your face with a trembling hand. But the footsteps behind you are fast. Too fast.
“Wait!”
You don’t. You can’t.
You push your legs harder, practically stumbling down the empty corridor as your tears blur the lights overhead into streaks—but just like usual, he catches up. He always does.
His hand closes around your wrist, desperate enough that your whole body goes still. Your breath snags in your chest, and the world narrows to the single burning point where his fingers touch your skin.
You try to yank away, voice cracking, “Fushiguro, let go—”
“I’m not letting you walk away crying.” His voice snaps you out of your panic, because in all three years you’ve known him, you’ve never heard him sound so terrified.
When you turn to face him, something hollow caves in his eyes. His breath stutters, catches, like you've just pulled the rug, maybe the entire world, out from under him, and he's hit rock bottom.
“I’m sorry,” his tone isn’t sharp. It’s not stiff. It’s not grumpy, or annoyed, or begrudging.
“I didn’t mean to,” he’s biting back his own tears, fingers trembling. “I swear I didn’t. I just… I didn’t want you to stop talking to me. You’re the only one who—”
His voice collapses on itself, and he steps closer, close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough to feel the slight tremor in his hands.
Your tears spill harder—hot, humiliating, unstoppable.
“I trusted him,” you choke. “I trusted you, or him, or whatever! Both of you.”
“I know.” His hand rises—hesitates for a moment, then gently cups your cheek, thumb brushing a tear away so carefully it burns.
“I know,” he repeats, and the tremor in his voice is a confession all its own. “I messed up. I should’ve told you. I just… I didn’t know how.”
Your eyes lift to his—wet, aching—and every feeling you’ve shoved down claws its way to the surface. And on the other hand, he looks at you like he’s drowning.
The hallway feels too quiet. Your breathing feels too loud. The air feels too thin. His hand feels too warm. He murmurs softly, “Please don’t hate me.”
Something in you cracks. A small, wounded sound slips out before you can stop it, and you clutch his shirt—fisting it like it’s the only thing anchoring you right now. His breath breaks.
“Hey—hey—” his arms wrap around you instantly, instinctively, like he’s been waiting years to hold you. “It’s fine. It’s okay. I got you. I got you.”
You crumble into him, forehead pressed to his chest, and his heartbeat slams into your skin, fast, panicked.
“Why didn’t you just talk to me in class?” you whisper, voice shaking into him.
His fingers curl into your back. “Because I don’t know how to be around you,” his breath shakes. “You make me—”
A swallow. “You make me feel too much.”
The air leaves your lungs. You pull back—just enough to see his face. His lashes are wet. His cheeks are flushed, and through it all, he looks completely, beautifully, undone. His hand slides to your jaw.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice cracking around the edges.
You don’t.
You don’t breathe. You don’t blink. You don’t move.
And he breaks. He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you, almost devastatingly, years of swallowed emotion slamming into the space where your lips meet.
You gasp; he swallows it, all while your hands cling to his shirt, helpless. When he pulls away, it’s only to rest his forehead against yours, breath in tatters.
You’re both shaking, with the wall pressing deathly cold against your spine. His thumb brushes your jaw, his breath ghosting your lips.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, kissing you again. “I’m so sorry.”
And again, a softer one, “I should’ve told you.”
Your hand rises, brushing your thumb across his cheek as if grounding yourself. Your heart hammers so violently it aches.
“You’re an idiot,” you whisper.
He lets out a shaky laugh, and when your eyes trace over the foreign softness in his smile, you don’t trust yourself. You don’t trust the waver in your voice. You don’t trust the tremble in your heart.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs against your lips.
“Like what?” you breathe.
“Like you want to kiss me again.”
Your lips part—because you do. God, you do. But the air between you is twisted, brittle, caught between everything you both want and everything you’re afraid to want.
He knows it. Because soon after, his gaze quickly drops, and he shakes his head at himself.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t—”
You yank his shirt again, pulling him toward you with shaking hands. “Don’t you dare pretend you didn’t want it,” you hiss, with ache—maybe anger—you’re not too sure.
He goes completely still. Then he lifts his eyes slowly.
“I did,” he says, but a lonely, aching darkness flickers across his gaze.
He bites his lips, brows furrowed as another wave of torment washes over him, another storm to his self-loathe.
Then, his next words cut through you sharp. Because even after everything—the resentment in his fists remains unbudged, unwavering even as he stares straight into you.
For the first time, deep in your heart, you can tell it isn’t directed at you. It never was.
“...I just don’t know what it means.”
Your lungs tighten, something simmering throughout your veins. A beat—a long, dangerous beat—hangs between you.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, voice cracking.
Softly, underneath the quiet, the shadows and his gaze, you let the truth spill. The single thread of truth. Because even under the warmth of his eyes, his touch—the anger simmering in you isn’t hot. It’s cold, bitter, and achingly frigid. “You already did.”
His breath catches. You don’t bother to look at him. You can’t. Not when you know the sight of it will truly crumble you into pieces—the sight of him truly, genuinely devastated.
The bell rings.
You sling your bag over your shoulder. Without looking back, you stomp away, storming in the exact opposite direction of your class, of him, of everything you can’t afford to feel right now.
21 JULY 2021, 11.03....
It’s been exactly 3 hours, 27 minutes since you’ve avoided him.
All morning.
And way harder than anyone should have to avoid a single person.
You took a different stairwell, pretended to tie your shoes for ten minutes, hid behind a vending machine, and detoured through the entire east building even though it smelled like wet dog.
You’ve done everything to not face Megumi Fushiguro—the guy who spent three years being your mutual enemy, the guy who snapped at you in detention, the guy who picked fights like breathing, the guy who’d always bump into you in hallways…
And also the guy who talked you through your worst days like he wasn’t the same person.
Even through it all, the echoes of his voice still ring in your ears, like a shadow lurking behind you even through the halls. It’s done nothing but mess with your head—not your heart, though, since pitifully enough, that’s already shambled in pieces.
Sighing, you turn a corner and slam right into someone’s chest. You don’t even have to look up to see who.
“...Hey,” Megumi says quietly. You stiffen.
“Sorry,” you mutter, stepping sideways immediately.
He steps sideways with you. You quickly move the other way, but so does he.
“…Can you not block the entire hallway?” you grumble, eyes darting to the students passing by, whispering as usual.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “Why are you avoiding me?”
Your throat tightens. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally turned around and walked in the opposite direction when you saw me.”
“That could’ve been anyone.”
“It was me,” he sighs weakly. “You didn’t even show up to class.”
You exhale sharply through your nose. “Can you just—”
“Talk to me.” The quiet firmness in his voice makes you look up.
You nearly step back in surprise when you see his expression. Frustrated. Confused. Concerned, yet ever-so stiff in that stupid way he tries so hard to hide.
“I know you’re upset,” he whispers. “So. Just—say it.”
You swallow. “You lied.”
His eyes soften just a fraction, all before he exhales slowly, shoulders sinking.
“…Yeah,” he bites his lower lip, lashes lowering with his gaze. “I did.”
You wait for an excuse. But he doesn’t give it to you. Not yet, at least.
“I didn’t know it was you,” he whispers. “Not at first. But when I realized…”
He keeps his stare at the floor, jaw tensing, “It didn’t feel like something I should ruin.”
You blink at him, mouth agape. He just shifts again, rubbing the back of his neck—clearly uncomfortable, clearly horrible at this.
“You were just… being yourself,” he murmurs, and you can tell he’s struggling to pick out the right words. “And you sounded like you needed someone. And I—”
“You what?” you press.
He clenches his jaw, annoyed with himself. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”
You stare at him. And for the first time since you’ve met him, Megumi looks… nervous. Somehow, the sight of it hits harder than any punch he’s thrown in the corridors the past few years.
“You should’ve told me,” you grumble quietly. “I opened up to you.”
“Yeah.” He swallows once. “I know. And I’m trying to make up for that.”
You frown. “By doing what, exactly?”
He stills for a moment.
He doesn’t flinch, but you see the way his fingers tense at his sides, the way his breath stutters for half a second like even he knows how insane his next words are. “…Let me take you to prom.”
Your brain blue-screens. “…what.”
“Just as a date,” he clarifies quickly. “A fake one. To get the other idiots off your back.”
You just stare at him. Him, whose ears are blatantly pink under the glaring bright of light.
“I’m not— I don’t care about prom,” he mutters even more, looking anywhere but at you. “But they’re making you miserable. And if they see you’re already going with someone, they’ll stop.”
You keep staring.
He fumbles.
“I’m not, like, asking, asking,” he says, somehow getting even more flustered at the silence. “It’s not romantic or whatever. I just… want to help. I owe you.”
“Fushiguro—”
“And you don’t have to say yes,” he rushes, palms pushing his hair back, brows knitting like he’s mad. “It’s fine, really. I just… didn’t want you to think I didn’t give a damn.”
Your chest tightens. He looks… small. Hidden behind his own pride and guilt and sincerity or whatever’s going on in that stupid, stubborn head of his.
You thought he hated you. You thought you hated him. But this... this Megumi, biting the inside of his cheek, waiting for the rejection he already believed was coming, doesn’t look like hate.
This Megumi, who kissed you just a few hours ago, yet is still trying to push you, maybe even himself, away from everything. And for obvious reasons, that pisses you off even more.
“I— are you, what? No. No,” you shake your head rapidly. “We’re not, this isn’t— you can’t just?”
“I can,” he says stubbornly.
“You can’t,” you snap, stepping away like you need space to think, to breathe—to not throw your shoe at him.
He follows that tiny step with a shift forward, jaw tightening. His brows knit, and his posture straightens, irritated and familiar in the worst way. From how much taller he is, you don’t catch the faintest tinge of pink burning bright on his ears.
You swallow, throat tight. “You think taking me to prom fixes this?”
“No,” he answers immediately.
The answer comes out soft, immediate, like he’d rehearsed it. Like he needs you to know that part first. Then, he shifts awkwardly, fingers curling into a fist. “It won’t fix anything. It won’t make you trust me again. I know that.”
“I just…” a quiet exhale, he looks away for half a second—cheeks faintly flushed, lashes lowered, mouth drawn tight. “I want to spend time with you without lies.”
He breathes out slowly, shoulders lifting with the inhale, shaking with the exhale.
You blink at him, heart thudding painfully. Your fingers twist into your sleeve, knuckles whitening. He’s staring at the floor still, scuffing the toe of his shoe against a tile, as if the courage he had a moment ago is thinning with each second.
“…Why do you care so much?” you whisper.
He freezes. A fragile thread of quiet settles between the two of you, and softly, so quietly you barely hear it, he whispers under his breath.
“Because that version of you behind the door,” his eyes finally meet yours. “I don’t want her running from everyone.”
Your breath stutters. But he holds your stare a second longer, the hallway’s noise fading into background static. Finally, he clears his throat awkwardly and steps back.
“…So,” he grunts, trying to sound bored, yet failing miserably, “think about it, I guess.”
You don’t trust your voice. So you just nod, even as he starts to walk past you—then he halts, turning just slightly.
“And…” he hesitates. “Stop avoiding me. It’s annoying.”
Your lips twitch. “That’s how you ask nicely?”
He glares. “It was nice.”
And before you can fire something back, he stomps away—shoulders tense, ears red, pretending like he didn’t almost combust from saying three vulnerable sentences in a row.
You exhale shakily.
Great.
Perfect.
Now you’re definitely not going to survive prom night.
21 JULY 2021, 22.22...
Your phone buzzes while you’re half-heartedly folding the dress you might wear for prom. You don’t even check the sender at first—until the second buzz comes through.
Fushiguro: I need your address.
You blink.
You: why
Fushiguro: So I can pick you up.
You: pick me up for what
Fushiguro: …Prom?
You: oh.
A moment passes.
Fushiguro: You did agree.
You: yeah but like i thought u were jk
Fushiguro: I don’t joke.
You: clearly
Your stomach rolls with a weird cocktail of… irritation? Nerves? Something that feels too close to you floating high up, and that pisses you off.
With a sigh, your fingers hover just for a brief moment. You send your address. He replies instantly.
Fushiguro: Got it. I’ll be there at 6 tomorrow.
Don’t avoid me.
You toss your phone face down like it bit you. Truthfully, you wish it did.
22 JULY 2021, 00.50...
You just finished brushing your teeth, half-asleep, the cool sting of mint still blooming across your tongue.
Tap. You freeze.
Tap. Tap.
You whip around toward your bedroom window, heart knocking against your ribs.
A shadow stands outside. Tall, still, and shoulders broad beneath the dim spill of moonlight. The silhouette whispers of winter, black hair swaying amidst the breeze.
Oh hell no.
You pad forward, pulse thundering, and shove the curtain aside. “Fushiguro—?”
He’s standing on the little ledge outside your window, hands shoved in his pockets, cheeks tinged a faint, tender pink from the cold—or embarrassment. It’s hard to tell with him.
He tries for casual, but it falls apart on his tongue. “...Hi.”
“Hi? Hi?! What are you doing outside my window at one in the morning—?!”
“Can you open it first?”
“What if I don’t??”
He lets out a slow exhale, little puffs of white misting as he turns his head just slightly.
“Then I’ll have to climb through the roof vent,” he stares, dead serious. “And that’s more suspicious.”
You gape at him, barely remembering to keep your voice down. “WHAT?!”
He only shrugs, as though this is the normal part of the night. “Just open it.”
You groan, unlatching the window because you already know he’ll find a way in either way, and he slips through with a soft thud, boots sinking into the fibers of your carpet.
“…So,” you say, arms crossed. “This better be good.”
He gazes past you, eyes fixed on everything except your face. “It is.”
“Fushiguro, I swear, if this is about the graduation speech—”
“It’s not.”
“You got scared of a bug?”
“No.”
“…Did you sleepwalk here?”
“Can you stop guessing?” His ears are pink now. You narrow your eyes, leaning in.
“…What’s going on?”
He clears his throat, jaw tight, and suddenly, in a whisper, he speaks so softly it nearly dissolves into the quiet of your room. “The stars are… good tonight.”
You stare at him. Hard. He continues, painfully awkward, “You said once, behind the door, that you wanted to go stargazing. So. I thought. Maybe. You’d want to.”
Your chest betrays you, ache blooming warm, bright, humiliating. You seriously want nothing more than to yank his stupid hair right now.
“…Now?” you hiss, trying and failing to shove the feeling down.
He shrugs without really shrugging, shoulders barely tilting. “They won’t look the same tomorrow.”
“That’s—That’s not how stars… Forget it,” you scrub a hand over your face, the other checking your phone. “Fushiguro, it’s 1 AM.”
“You don’t have to come,” he mutters immediately, stiffer now. “Knew this was a stupid idea.”
Ugh. There it is. The quiet drop in his voice when he’s disappointed.
You hate how it nags on you, and for a few seconds, you let the quiet still between the two of you. As if it’ll cool down everything that’s just happened.
“…I didn’t say no,” you say softly.
Suddenly, with a flick of an eye, he sneaks a glimpse at you, then turns away fast.
“Grab a jacket,” he says, voice rough. “It’s cold.”
“You didn’t even check if my mom was awake.”
“I did.”
“...What?” you turn, flabbergasted at him.
“I have good hearing.”
“YOU CAN HEAR HER SLEEPING?!”
His entire face goes hot as he turns toward the window again. “Just hurry up.”
You yank on a hoodie, grumbling the whole time.
All the while, he pretends, very poorly, not to enjoy it.
So now, with a soft creak, you climb out onto the small ledge, hands shaking as he guides you up the side drainpipe.
As if on cue, the night brushes past your cheeks with a sharp, silvered breeze, and he moves almost too easily, like he’s done this a hundred times. You climb the last stretch with him bracing your elbow, and together, you pull yourselves onto the roof.
The city breathes quietly below, muted by distance, all while the sky stretches endlessly above—an ocean of deep, midnight blue stitched with scattered constellations. Stars glitter above like salt thrown across velvet.
In one careful motion, you lower yourself just beside him, deliberately leaving a thin strip of space between your shoulders. The tiles are cold beneath your fingers, rough with age. He lies back beside you, hands behind his head, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the world.
“…So,” you murmur, “is breaking into rooms your new hobby?”
“No,” he replies instantly. “Only for you.”
Your heart flings itself against your ribs so hard, truthfully, it’s embarrassing.
“That sounded—” you choke, strangled, “that sounded way too romantic.”
He groans into the night. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“God, you can’t just—”
“I meant— you’re the only one whose room I’d climb into. That’s not… romantic.”
“That’s VERY romantic!”
“It’s not!”
“It is!”
“It isn’t,” he grumbles, ears burning bright as he turns away. “You’re just dramatic.”
You want to shove him off the roof. You want to kiss him. You want to do both, honestly. But instead, you just lie back beside him.
You remember the words he whispered behind the door, and slowly, your anger softens, dissolving like your curling mist of breath into the night. The way he always gets under your skin is stupid, really.
Crickets hum in the background, roof tiles warm under your weight. He smells faintly of pine and cold wind, both achingly like him.
Then softly, he whispers, “…I didn’t want to wait until prom to see you.”
Everything stills. The wind, the night, even the world beneath you. Your heart stumbles into silence.
“You can ignore it,” he adds quickly, voice tightening. “I just wanted to tell you.”
You frown at him. “I’m not ignoring it.”
He sneaks a glance at you, and when both your eyes meet, he hastily turns the other away. “…Good.”
You ignore how the word trembles amidst the cold, and you simply gaze up at the stars, pretending the vast sky above can somehow steady you. “These aren’t even that bright.”
“Look,” he murmurs.
He lifts a hand, hesitating for a second before gently tilting your chin with two fingers, guiding your gaze toward the far edge of the sky.
And there, just above the quiet horizon, you see them.
A cluster of stars lingering cosmically above, bright enough to look alive. They pulse softly, as if drifting lanterns caught in a celestial river, light melting into the darkness like shimmering, silver ribbons.
Your skin burns where he touched you.
“…They do look better,” you whisper.
With a slight tilt of your head, your gaze briefly meets his again for a bit.
For the first time that night, he smiles.
Just a little. But enough to shake your whole world.
22 JULY 2021...
Your house is quiet at 5:55 PM. Too quiet.
You’ve been pacing your room for the past ten minutes, staring at your mirror, messing with your hair, changing your earrings five times, then switching them back.
You hate that you care. You hate that your stomach keeps swooping like you swallowed fireworks. And you really hate how your phone screen lights up every thirty seconds because you keep checking the time.
Suddenly, a sharp, polite knock echoes from downstairs. Your heart stops. Your mother calls up, “Oh! Someone’s here for you!”
Your hands go weak. He’s early. Of course, he’s early.
Megumi is the kind of guy who’d arrive ten minutes ahead of time, and then pretend he hadn’t been waiting outside your door rehearsing. You can already picture him on your porch, miserable and perfect and overthinking everything.
You inhale once. Twice. A third time, because the first two didn’t do shit. Then you grab your phone, your bag, what’s left of your sanity, and head downstairs. But the moment you open the door, your heart drops straight to your knees.
Because Megumi in a suit should be illegal, and locked up far, far away. He’s leaning on one foot, rubbing the back of his neck, tailored in a black fabric that fits him too well—sharp and tight around his shoulders. His collar is slightly undone, hair a bit messier than usual.
When he sees you at the top of the stairs, he goes completely, utterly still. You reach the last step.
“…Hi,” you say, voice embarrassingly soft. He just stares.
“Fushiguro?”
He swallows hard. “You look…”
The word catches in his throat like it burns. He looks away. “…Fine.”
“‘Fine’?” you echo, offended and strangely nervous.
“Good,” he corrects quickly.
Then, quieter, because he can’t stop himself, “…You look really good.”
Your cheeks warm. “You could’ve just said that,” you mumble, scowling to hide the way your heart is misbehaving.
“I did,” he mutters, tugging at his collar again.
Your mother appears again behind you, practically glowing. “Ohhh, Fushiguro, right? She talks about you—”
“NO SHE DOESN’T,” you snap, voice cracking with panic. Megumi’s ears turn bright red.
You can’t bear to listen as she continues embarrassing you, asking him questions, taking photos. All while he just stands there suffering quietly, shoulders stiff, expression politely dying inside. When you finally drag him out the door, he lets out a deep breath.
“Your mother is… energetic,” he mutters.
“She’s insane,” you huff, ignoring how warm your cheeks feel as you follow him. “Let’s go.”
And you don’t even make it past a few steps before you pause, staring at the black car parked by the curb—way too expensive for a boy who used to complain about instant ramen prices.
He notices your stare.
“What?” he tilts his head. He looks at you, then at the car again, before finally realising.
With a sigh, he opens the passenger door for you, “Gojo’s my guardian now.”
Your jaw drops. “Gojo Satoru? Like—our homeroom teacher??” you deadpan. “Hello?! Did I miss a whole book—”
He cuts you off before your head explodes. “Just get in.”
You narrow your eyes. “So you can behave like a civilized citizen.”
“Don’t start,” he mutters, but you can see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You grin in victory and slip into the car.
The leather sighs under you, soft and cool. Everything smells clean and expensive, like Gojo might’ve vacuumed with holy energy or something, and he gets in soon after, closing the door with a gentle click. The engine rumbles shortly after.
“Gojo’s offered for years,” he says, one hand settling on the wheel. “Tsumiki was always hesitant.”
He glances at you. “I talked to her about it.”
Silence gathers, warm around its edges. You don’t understand why he’s looking at you, but with a fumble, you glance in front instead, cheeks warm.
“That’s good,” you mumble. “Now eyes on the road before you crash us.”
He chokes on a laugh, turning forward again. Suddenly, his playlist resumes—the soft track of an acoustic guitar. It feels… thoughtful.
“…Is the dress comfortable?” he asks awkwardly.
You blink. “Yeah?”
“Okay.” A beat. Then he adds, almost too fast, “It looks nice. On you.”
You squeeze your clutch tighter. “You already said that.”
“I’m saying it again.”
Your heart absolutely betrays you, and you look away toward the window, flustered. “Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?”
“…We don’t even like each other.”
He stiffens. Then, in the corner of your eye, his fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “…I never said I didn’t like you.”
You whip your head toward him. “You literally bully me in the hallways.”
“That wasn’t bullying.”
“Fushiguro, you bump into my shoulder even when there’s five feet of space.”
“That’s different.”
“How?!”
He clenches his jaw. “…It’s a werewolf thing.”
“That doesn’t explain anything!”
“Never mind.”
You groan, throwing your head back against the seat, “You’re impossible.”
“And you talk too much.”
You glare at him. He glares back. For a moment, everything stills. And then—you break first.
“...You seriously look like a sea urchin,” you snort. “Should’ve asked me to bring down some hair gel.”
He flushes, grumbling at the windshield. On the other hand, you just rest your chin in your palm, staring out the window, as a grin makes its way despite your efforts. “It’s cute, though.”
You don’t see it, but a tinge of pink creeps into his ears, dark under the dim of light. The rest of the ride threads with the same air; mostly because you’ve both grown used to it already.
The school shimmers bright tonight.
Every window spills gold, fairy lights coil around railings. And in the corner of your eye, cheap LED stars flicker overhead, pulsating beneath the dark sky. The gym-turned-ballroom throbs with pounding bass, and even when you’re only a few steps away, you can feel it in your ribs.
Students pour in like a flood, some already roughhousing near the trophy case. Your eyes land on all sorts of crooked ties, fangs out in the wild drunken excitement. Others twirl for photos, dresses catching the light like spilled glitter.
And a few, too many, lift their heads to sniff the air the moment you step inside.
Megumi’s gaze darkens instantly. Without thinking, he presses a hand to the small of your back, steering you away from the pack of staring wolves. They still look, though, tracking you with pricked ears and hungry eyes.
Suddenly, a group of them spot you, heads tipping in unison. Your breath shudders a bit, but he rolls his shoulders slowly, muscles tightening beneath the dark fabric of his suit.
His eyes narrow into a silent warning. “Stay close.”
And you do. Too close, maybe.
Inside, the dance is already in full swing. Twenty whole minutes of slow songs, of swaying couples, of soft lights spinning over heads bowed together. Twenty minutes of you and him pretending, very poorly, that you absolutely, definitely, categorically know any of them.
You stand stubbornly at the refreshment table, staring so intently at the punch bowl you could probably divine your future through it—while he’s leaning against the pillar, hands in his pockets, jaw tight, stiff.
Your eyes meet for a split second. Then you both look away at the exact same time.
Classic.
But the music keeps swelling, and the room keeps getting hotter, louder, brighter. People push past you, brushing your shoulders, brushing his. You tug at your collar. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
And suddenly, you meet his eyes again. This time, neither of you look away quite fast enough. Finally, at the exact same moment,
“Wanna go?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
A smirk tugs at your lips, and he tilts his head toward the hallway, relief flickering through him. “Storage room?”
“Like old times,” you shrug, already setting down your red paper cup.
His eyes narrow in amusement at you, the one that sits perfectly between I can’t believe I tolerate you and thank god you’re here, and in a minute, you both slip out through the side doors.
No one notices, or maybe they do, but they don’t bother to stop you. With a gentle creak, the hallway, usually loud and bright in the mornings, douses you like a held breath. A thin, quiet pocket of air hushed between the chaos of the dance and the silence of everything else.
A cool draft slips past your cheeks, carrying the faint scent of waxed floors and night air, while everything lies still, washed in pale fluorescent glow. Behind you, the pounding bass dissolves into nothing but a heartbeat-thick echo of both your footsteps.
The storage room door gives its old, familiar creak—the same one it’s had since your first year—like it’s been keeping vigil for you, waiting for you to find your way back to it.
Even if it’ll be cleaned tomorrow, the sight inside hasn’t changed at all. Streamers from last year slouch in a corner, and it’s dusty, cramped, air tinging with cardboard and neglected mops.
He reaches up, flicking on the small hanging bulb.
In the blink of an eye, it flares to life, spilling a soft golden glow that pools right over him, over the navy trim of his suit, the shadowed angles of his face, the gentle slope of his jaw.
For a second, he looks unreal, and it hits you all at once. He looks… incredibly, stupidly good.
You ignore that thought immediately.
Sighing, you flop onto a stack of unopened paper towel boxes. “This is so much better.”
He nudges the door shut with his heel, arms crossed. “Obviously. I told you proms are overrated. If I didn’t have to—”
“—pick me up because you texted ‘get out before I climb in your window’ like a serial killer?”
His ears redden instantly. “That’s not how serial killers text.”
“Uh-huh,” you bite back your smile.
He opens his mouth like he wants to litigate your point, but decides your nonsense isn’t worth the calories instead. Settling to a sigh, he crouches beside a slim black case propped against the wall. When he pops it open, your breath catches.
A guitar. His guitar.
“You still haven’t brought that home?” you ask, blinking.
He shrugs, lowering himself beside you until your shoulders brush.
“You said once you wanted to learn,” he mutters. “And you looked like you were gonna combust if you stayed in that room any longer.”
Then he gently sets the guitar on your lap.
“C’mon,” he says, voice dropping in the tiny room, soft enough to skim against your ear. “Hands here.”
His fingers gently guide yours, pulling them along as they drape over the strings. You can smell the faint trace of his cologne, swirling with the rest of the room’s dust and old cardboard. Somehow, the oddness of it all tugs on something in your chest.
His instructions ghost warm across your cheek.
“Press a little harder,” he murmurs.
You try. But the first chord buzzes like a dying insect, and you wince. “That sounded like a dying mosquito.”
He huffs a laugh, fingers still insistent on yours. “Your fault.”
“You’re supposed to encourage me,” you roll your eyes, lips quirking up just enough to annoy him.
“I’m encouraging you to stop embarrassing yourself.”
You elbow him. He elbows you back, softer. Sighing, you try again. The chord is better. Still a bit tragic, but… listenable.
And slowly, in the middle of everything, your eyes flick up to his, but he’s already watching you—eyes softer than they’ve been all night, brows unknitted, the tiniest smile tugging like it’s shy.
“See?” he says quietly. “Told you you’d get it.”
Heat crawls up your neck. “You’re not a bad teacher.”
When the words slip out of your mouth, he quickly looks away, flustered. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”
You tilt your head with a slow, knowing grin, and the bulb above you flickers gently, ripples of gold falling across his face. Somewhere deep in the school, the heavy bass thumps behind walls—distant, muffled, like it belongs to another world entirely.
But here, in this tiny closet filled with nothing but dust and dim light—it’s just you and him, breathing the same small pocket of warm air as always.
He reaches over to you, plucking a string lightly, shifting your hand. His fingers brush yours far longer than necessary.
“We can stay here as long as you want,” he says, almost offhand but not really. Your fingers rest on the strings again.
“Yeah,” you murmur, unconsciously leaning closer to him. “I know.”
And for the first time all night, everything fits. Everything feels exactly right.
You’re still messing around with the guitar, stringing morally questionable cracks of chords, when he suddenly nudges your fingers.
“Here,” he says, brushing across your knuckles as he lifts the guitar from your lap. “Let me…”
“Show off?” you tease.
“No,” he replies immediately.
Then, as his eyes turn down, lashes shadowing his cheeks— “…Maybe.”
He shifts on the cardboard boxes until he’s across from you, one knee propped up, the other dangling off the stack. His tie hangs a little crooked, the dim bulb above casting a halo around him—and it catches in his eyes, somehow cushioning them.
Finally, his fingers settle on the strings gently, all before he draws a soft chord from the guitar.
It strikes clean amidst the soft, hushed silence, almost golden in the cramped space. The echo blooms through the storage room, filling every dusty corner, slipping beneath your ribs like light finding a crack.
Your breath stutters before you even realize it.
He doesn’t look at you as he plays. The quiet melody he slips into rises higher, unfolding, and with each string, it resonates. It reverberates, with the words, the care, the restraint, and the ache he never speaks out loud. The notes fall gently, steady. You don’t even realise you’re staring until he glances at you, cheeks faintly pink.
“What?” he mutters, like he already regrets looking.
“Nothing,” you blurt, way too fast. “Just… you’re good.”
His ears go red. “Thanks.”
A pause. Slowly, he clears his throat. “I wrote this one.”
“You wrote it?”
“For…” his voice drops with his gaze, eyelashes fluttering, “…someone.”
Everything inside you stills.
He keeps playing, fingers steady even as the air shifts, dust dancing under the singular golden light with the melody. It’s like the guitar is speaking for him—quietly, softly, in ways you’ve never seen before.
He peeks up in quick glances now and then, eyes flicking to your hands, then to your lips, then snapping away.
“I didn’t think I’d ever… play it for them,” he murmurs, barely audible.
You swallow immediately, heat climbing your spine, “Them?”
He pauses. But before anything else, he just rolls his eyes at you, annoyed at himself, “You.”
Your heart stutters, pounding against your ribs now. From somewhere beneath, the heat crawls up into your cheeks, all before settling low in your stomach.
He instantly stiffens, frowning as his fingers slip slightly on the strings. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” you whisper.
“Not really.”
“Fushiguro.”
“…Okay, maybe a little.”
You shift closer without thinking. Just a small scoot, but your knees are nearly touching, the air warming between you.
“Play it again?” you ask softly.
He hesitates.
“...Fine,” he says, voice low. “If you want.”
He starts the song over, and the notes rise again like a tide, gentle and slow—curling through the dim room like threads of warm smoke.
Above you both, the singular lightbulb flickers, soft amber draping across his cheekbones, catching on his lashes. Dust drifts in the air, shimmering in the golden light like the room itself is holding its breath, and this time, you both don’t shy away from each other’s eyes.
He doesn’t hide it anymore. His glances, after every few beats, are brief, like he’s checking if the world is still intact… if you are.
The room feels smaller. The shadows feel softer. The way his hums, even though faint, fold perfectly into the hush of the room. You don’t catch how his hands tremble on the strings just a little, because slowly, you feel your eyelids lowering already, your head tilting back in laxation.
When the final chord fades, neither of you moves, still stuck. Still in the melody that lingers in the air, settling on your skin, humming in your ribs.
You exhale. “Hey?”
He tenses. “What?”
“That was… beautiful.”
He looks away, ears instantly red, voice barely audible.
“…It’s yours,” he murmurs, almost grudgingly. “The song.”
Even with how bashful he is, a faint grin tugs at your lips. You don’t know what to say, so your body just speaks in turn for you. With a gentle thud, you softly lean forward and press your forehead to his shoulder, quiet as your breath brushes against his shirt.
He goes absolutely still. Like even breathing might scare you off.
Then, very slowly, he lowers his chin onto your head. The warmth of him bleeds into you, enough to loosen the wound tight in your chest for days.
“…We should leave before someone comes looking,” he murmurs.
“Five more minutes.”
A beat. His exhale brushes your hair. “…Fine.”
He stays as exactly as he is, guitar still in his lap. One hand rests on the strings, the other hovers near yours, close enough that warmth gathers between your fingers, an unfinished sentence.
Suddenly, the quiet in the storage room breaks with a soft tap.
Then another. Then soon enough, the entire roof turns into a gentle, glimmering cascade of percussion.
You lift your head, blinking upward. “Oh my god… it’s raining.”
He doesn’t even bother looking. “Yeah. And? Stay inside.”
But something sparks inside of you—reckless, warm, stupid, and blooming in the sweetest possible way. Without warning, you hop down from the stacked boxes, thud echoing with the burbling of the drains.
“Come on.”
His eyes narrow, shoulders curling in already. “…No.”
“Fushiguro.”
“No.”
You grab his hand.
“No— hey, wait—!”
You pull him anyway, dragging him between the narrow shelves with old tarps, slipping past the blackout curtains, shoving the sliding door open and dragging him past the hallway.
Down the stairs you go, his protests echoing behind you, and straight into the courtyard.
You step past him without warning, and into the cold rain which hits you instantly, misting your small breaths to smoke and soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your hair sticks to your cheeks, shirt clinging to your skin, and all around you, the world blurs into soft streaks of grey beyond the sheets.
He stops dead under the awning, horrified. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” you grin, already stepping backward into the downpour, arms lifting slightly as the raindrops kiss your eyelashes. “But it’s fine! It’s just water.”
“That is exactly what people say before getting sick.”
“Then get sick with me!”
His jaw drops. “That is the stupidest sentence I’ve ever—HEY!”
You’ve already grabbed his wrist again, yanking him forward.
In the blink of an eye, he stumbles out into the storm, rain swallowing him whole. His hair collapses instantly, dark and heavy, dripping into his eyes, while his suit soaks through, slate grey darkening to absolute ink in mere seconds.
He stands there drenched and betrayed, shoulders hunched, bangs plastered to his forehead.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters.
“And you’re dramatic,” you shoot back, spinning once in the rain.
With a little twirl, glimmering dewdrops fly like scattered gemstones, shining beneath the falling field lights. They catch your dress like a delicate crass, appearing, for all the world, like a spinning chandelier, and with each second, filling the entire world with its laden beat.
He can’t look away, mesmerised on how your dress glitters, a star plucked out from the skies above, your face brighter than even the moon itself.
The lamps above buzz faintly, halos of warm gold bleeding into the curtain of rain. It fogs the courtyard into something dreamlike, mist curling at your feet, soft from the grass, and everything glowing.
He shivers, just once, but he tries to hide it by crossing his arms, chin dipping. “It’s cold."
But to his dismay, you just give him a grin, stepping closer so he can feel your warmth through the wintry night. “Then warm up.”
He opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to scold you—but then, something else happens.
Music from the gym spills faintly outside, muffled beneath the downpour. A soft, aching melody like a melancholic hum threads its way through the rain, through his frown, and settles just between you both.
You lift your hand toward him. It’s ridiculous, dripping, trembling, fragile in the stormlight. And he just raises an eyebrow at you, like you stumbled out of a romance movie he’d insist was way too cheesy, yet would secretly rewind every time.
That was exactly how you made him feel.
He stares at your hand. Then at you. Then at the rain falling between you like a veil. “…No,” he says weakly.
“Scared?”
His eyes narrow. “Of dancing in the rain? No!”
“Then prove it.”
You can see the exact moment something in him gives, the slight drop of his shoulder when you finally break a tiny crack in his composure. He sighs, stepping closer. His fingers brush yours first before finally threading between them, warm even under the cold rain.
“Just once,” he mutters.
“Sure.”
With a soft sway, you take his other hand and guide it gently to your waist, all while his fingers twitch, almost like he has no idea what to do with the softness of you.
The grass is slick. The air is sharp and sweet. And the rain falls heavy, shimmering all around you. And after a few still seconds of silence, you start moving, clumsy, slipping slightly sometimes.
He scoffs. “You’re terrible at this.”
“Shut up and follow.”
And he does. Stiff at first, like a cat stepping into water, shoulders tense, eyes everywhere except your face. Then, slowly, he grows to find your silly rhythm. Or maybe you fall into his, because suddenly, you’re not slipping anymore.
His hand steadies at your waist, guiding you through the wet grass with a gentleness he pretends he doesn’t have, and rain trails down his jaw, glistening under the warm glow of lights above. His soaked hair clings to his forehead, all while his lashes are heavy and wet, and his eyes—
God.
His eyes are soft in ways sunlight hasn’t earned.
You spin him.
He sputters. “Stop— I don’t spin—!”
So you do it again, laughing so brightly the courtyard swallows it whole. He tries not to, but he ends up chuckling too, short and startled like he didn’t expect joy to find him here.
In the rain, with you, hands held like a promise.
He shuts his eyes as each raindrop strikes him on the cheeks, the eyelids, chest, side—the stinging pain like a religious initiation. And along with the tremor, buds a blossom of closeness, like for once in his life the world’s treating him fairly.
He faces the sky, hands in yours, and twirls you in turn.
Warmth blooms in your chest, mixing with the cold until you can’t tell what’s what. When you settle back in front of him, his breath catches.
The music is faint. The rain is loud. And the world narrows to the space between your palms.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, voice nearly lost to the storm.
“And you’re still dancing,” you whisper back, your eyes crinkling at the corners.
His fingers tighten around yours, a small squeeze that betrays everything he won’t say.
“…Yeah,” he breathes. “I guess I am.”
And so, like two idiots—two shivering, drenched idiots—you keep dancing.
Under the rain, under the stars, under everything you swore you didn’t feel for each other.
Because in the serenade of the velvet sky, the stars are a choir. They are lights that sing... and sometimes, eyes need music.
He walks you up the path to your house, his jacket still damp, hair floppy from the rain, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying really hard to look normal. And really, he fails miserably.
The porch light flickers softly, painting the rain-slick sidewalk gold, all while mist hangs in the air, clinging to his lashes. His shoulders are hunched like he’s been holding his breath the whole way.
You stop at your front door, shivering, breath clouding faintly in the cooler night air.
“Well…” you breathe, exhaling. “Thanks for the ride.”
He nods stiffly. “Yeah. Um. Goodnight.”
You stare blatantly at him, leaning just a bit towards him. “That’s it?”
“What? What else—”
“You literally climbed through my window last night,” you deadpan, arms crossed.
His ears turn red. “You opened it.”
“Still counts.”
He scowls softly, like he always does whenever you win an argument. All while in front, you just unlock your door slowly, then glance back at him over your shoulder. “You wanna come in? Dry off?”
He freezes, and in the dead of night, the rain-soaked boy on your porch looks like you just short-circuited him. “I— your mom— people— you shouldn’t—”
“It’s fine,” you whisper, eyes narrowing. “She’s asleep. And you’re dripping on my porch.”
“I can drip at my own house.”
You raise your eyebrow.
He sighs in defeat. “…Okay. Fine. Just for a second.”
Slowly, he follows you up the stairs, quiet as you softly creak open the door.
The house is dark, quiet to the point where even breathing feels too loud. And with a grin you throw back at him, the two of you tiptoe upstairs, him following behind you like a damp, miserable ghost.
His socks squish faintly with each creak of the stairs, hair dripping onto the back of his neck. Finally, when you reach your room, gently closing the door behind you, he stands there awkwardly, hands hovering like he’s scared to touch anything.
“You’re acting like I’m gonna bite,” you whisper, head tilting in confusion.
“You have bitten people.”
“It was one time.”
“It was Naoya.”
“Exactly,” you stare at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be the werewolf here?”
He lets out a tiny laugh he tries to hold back—and ironically enough, it cracks the tension.
You walk past him and toss him a towel. Quickly, he catches it and starts drying his hair, eyes wandering around your room—over the string lights and the books unevenly stacked like little towers. The room glows mellow amber underneath your lamp, like a small pocket of warmth inside the weathering storm.
“It looks like you,” he murmurs.
You blink. “…Is that an insult?”
“No,” he says quickly. “It’s nice. Warm.”
You stare at him. He stares at the floor. Heat pools quietly in the space between you.
“…You should probably change,” he eventually whispers. “You’re still wet.”
You fold your arms. “Turn around.”
He obeys instantly, so fast he nearly steps into your laundry basket, and you just roll your eyes, grabbing a hoodie. The fabric brushes warm against your skin. When you say, “Okay,” he turns—
And completely forgets what blinking is.
You’re not in a prom dress anymore. Instead, you’re just in a soft hoodie, bare legs, warm light catching the curve of your cheek. He swallows. Hard.
You take a step toward him, and as if to distract himself, he tugs the towel around his neck, trying so hard to look normal that he seems even more flustered.
His voice drops lower, rough around the edges. “You should… um. Dry your hair.”
You laugh quietly. “Why? You wanna help?”
His whole face goes pink. “No, I— that’s not—”
You grin, stepping even closer. “Fushiguro.”
He looks up. Everything stills. Rain whispers against your window, your lamp casts a soft golden halo around both of you, and amidst it all, his breathing falters.
You brush your fingers against his wrist, a whisper of a touch. He looks down at where your skin meets his, biting on his own lips with knitted brows.
“…We shouldn’t,” he whispers.
“Then leave.”
He doesn’t move. You tilt your head, eyes still on him. After a moment, you tug gently on his sleeve.
He takes a slow step forward. Until his chest almost brushes yours, and he’s breathing like he sprinted here, head dropping to the crook of your neck.
“You drive me crazy,” he whispers.
“You already know what you do to me.” You inhale sharply, but he closes the distance first.
The kiss is soft at first. Warm, trembling at the edges like he’s scared you’ll fade. Then, deeper, a confession without words that pours out everything he’s been holding back for years. Your fingers slide into his damp hair, and he inhales sharply against your lips, shivering as the touch completely unravels him.
Slowly, he pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead settling against yours.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers, voice cracked open.
“You are here.”
A heartbeat. Then he kisses you again, firmer, needier, hands finding your waist like he’s finally stopped fighting himself. You stumble back, your legs hitting the bed.
And with a gentle push, you both fall onto it together, half-laughing, half-kissing, breathless. The sheets rustle beneath you. His damp clothes smell faintly of rain.
“Shh, my mom—” you whisper, giggling breathlessly.
“You’re the loud one,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth.
“No, you—” He cuts you off with another kiss. Messy, warm, dizzying. And when you finally pull apart, foreheads touching, his cheeks are flushed, breaths trembling.
“…This is a bad idea,” he murmurs.
“Probably.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No,” you say instantly.
His breath catches. And before you can blink, he kisses you again—slower, sweeter—almost like he’s trying to learn your mouth again for the first time.
Rain keeps pattering against the window, all while your bedside lamp glows soft gold. For the first time ever, in the whisper of the night, he doesn’t hide a single thing he feels for you.
“Fush—” he cuts you off with another soft kiss, one hand gently cupping you, the other fumbling with your clothes.
“Megumi,” he corrects, his breath heaving.
A soft exhale escapes your lips, all while his dark lashes flutter, eyes shutting briefly before he meets yours. Slowly, he pulls down your clothes, pausing for a moment. His gaze lands upon you, and his breath hitches, heart stuttering over himself.
You glance up at him, tilting your head in confusion. Suddenly, he drops his head to your neck, exhaling a deep sigh. “Megumi…?”
His name feels almost too cute to say, and you giggle when his breath tickles your skin.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, chest pounding as loud as yours. “Just… give me a moment.”
The two of you stay like that for a moment—him atop you, your hands reaching up to pat his back. He feels like an overgrown teddy bear, and you can’t help but push down your smirk, remembering just how grumpy he usually is.
“Gumi…” you barely catch your breath, even when you’re not doing anything yet.
With a gentle trail, you lower your hands, carefully until you feel the hard bulge of his pants beneath your fingertips. You gulp, heart pounding at the way it twitches beneath your touch.
Quietly, you can feel your own eyes widening, the shudder of his breath catching your heart. Nervous as you are at the feeling, his mouth falls open when your fingers curl around his growing erection—his head nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck, fingers digging into your sheets.
“Are you okay?” you whisper into his ears, your warm words only making him twitch more within your hand.
“Shit—” he grits out low, hips unconsciously grinding down against you. “I should be—asking you that, idiot.”
The soft growl of his voice makes you perk your head just slightly, and your eyes widen, seeing how he’s trembling every time you hold just a bit tighter. His Adam’s apple bobs against your shoulder with each gasp, his chest heaving hastily, pressed against yours.
“Are you sure about this?” he huffs, gripping onto the last shred of self control left in him.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous. But still, you swallow your own bundle of them, legs struggling to squeeze against each other as he knees them open.
With a soft breath, you give him a little nod, your other hand trembling as you thread through his hair. The sight of it almost snaps something in him, and he grunts warmly, muttering intangible curses, praises—whatever—as he reaches for his pants.
You fumble to help him tug them down. Every second seems to stretch, thinning into the dead of night as his boxers peek out, a dark damp patch already splotched in the fabric where his tip is.
You bite your lips, your own hands shaking.
Was that really because of you?
Before you can ponder your own questions, he’s already reaching to tug his girth out. He’s panting, dark eyes pouring down into yours, face flushed, lips parted softly. Hell, he almost looks like he’s in rut.
A soft echo of a zipper cuts through both your breaths, way too loud in his ears when he sees you staring.
It finally peeks open with an upward curve, a cute flushed pink tip with precum dripping from the slit of his head, veins rigged across his shaft.
It’s your first time seeing… that, but even you can tell from how it lands atop your stomach—probing somewhere that chokes the air already out your lungs—that it’s long.
“Megumi,” you breathe out, shyly prying your eyes away just to look up at him. And when he looks back down at you, elbowing himself atop, he gulps.
His own heart falters from how beautiful the light simmers in the nervousness of your eyes, the gentle purse of your lips. He swears his own chest is about to drop dead as well—but he keeps himself steady against his will, not wanting to scare you.
He clears his throat, voice already husky and cracking. “What?”
With a bite of your lips, you gently push against him, turning both of you over so now he’s below you. Something sparks in the back of your mind, remembering his swallowed whimpers.
Your trembling hands settle atop his thighs, “Can I…?”
His ears instantly flush underneath the dim light. And when he looks at you, your eyes beady, almost glistening in a gorgeous glow, he’s already forgotten long ago how to even say no.
“Yeah,” he doesn’t even know the cogwires ticking in your hazy mind.
With a lopsided smirk, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning forward. He almost loses his entire mind when he meets your eyes, your lips near his hard tip.
Because holy, are you gorgeous—divine—in the mellow glow. You steal the air out of his lungs without even trying.
“Yeah?” you whisper, breath warm against his shivering ache.
The last thing you get from him is a nod before you’re parting your lips. And with a deep breath, you swear he’s already driven you insane long ago.
He’s elbowed up against your headboard, one hand over his mouth as you plant your plush lips against his drooling tip, the slight pecks edging him.
You’re not too sure if you can even fit him entirely, so your tongue just swirls around the head of his cock first, kittenly lapping up the slim layer of precum sitting so prettily. Somehow, it drives him off the rails even more—his breath shuddering each time you drag upwards.
“Oh f-fuuck,” he groans huskily, breath heavy as he struggles to keep himself quiet.
A tight sensation pools from behind you as you instinctively squeeze your legs, hole clenching on nothing but cold air. Slowly, you pull away from him just to take in his expression.
Shit—you can barely keep yourself together when you see how pathetically he’s tossed his head back, eyes shut as his veiny hand clasps over his pretty mouth, the other fisting your sheets.
When he slowly pries open his eyes, rolling gorgeously down to meet yours looking up at him, something snaps. He’s just way too fucking cute with how sensitive he is. Shivering, trembling from each touch.
You gulp. You want to drive him further.
Like he’s accidentally pushed a button, you start wrapping your lips around his cock, struggling, desperate.
And even though you’re barely past his tip, his shivers hum around your tongue, shaking with each inch you swallow, sinking down on him. Your eyes roll up to watch his jaw slacken, brows twisting as his clasps even harder on his mouth. He bites down on his lips, grunting.
“W—Wait—” Even as he tries to hold it in, some of his soft moans spill out now and then, trembling as you reach halfway.
The drool that spills out of your mouth wets the rest of his shaft, and instinctively, you raise your hand, making up for what your mouth hasn’t reached by stroking him lightly.
The rough sensation of it does nothing but haze your mind, adding to the fog of it from the lack of air you’re gasping in between breaths.
Still, that stubborn head of yours refuses to back down, struggling to take the rest of his girth in. You bob your head with each roll of your tongue, like doing so will somehow force your way deeper.
When your lungs finally do surrender, you pull yourself off, a trail of drool lingering between the two of you.
With a heavy sigh, he watches as you kiss his blushing tip, peppering it almost like you’re thanking it. And through it all, his heart hammers so loudly, that when he sees the sight, how adorable you are—mewling, struggling to take all of him in—it stops functioning altogether.
The way you look up at him, desperate, greedy, as his cock plops right in between your lips—slick with spit, eyes rolling back the deeper you take him, and tongue sticking out every time you pull your mouth off—it drives him insane.
And to top it all off, for some reason, he can’t get enough of your scent. It floats into the warm hush of the air, lingering… arousing.
You smell sweet.
Insatiably sweet.
His expression breaks completely.
“Shit—” he grunts into his hand, his hips instinctively bucking up into your mouth as you slide him deeper into your mouth.
He doesn’t even mean to, but his hand lifts from the sheets, gently pushing your head further down, subtly rutting his own hips up.
“Ngh—” you choke, startled at the sudden nudge on your head. “Gu—”
He’s babbling all sorts of curses underneath his breath, eyes shut as his brows pinch, while you gasp below him, tears brimming as you struggle to lift your head up despite his constant pushing.
A messy trail of drool drips down from your mouth, now pooling underneath the nasty splatter. On the other hand, he’s panting heavily, eyes rolling to the back of his skull before he’s throwing his head back.
“You feel so good,” he groans softly, your moans muffled by his girth.
He accidentally keeps you occupied while he’s at it, too, giving your mouth mindless little thrusts. “Don’t s-—agh—stop.”
His praises have you squirming again, warmth blooming into your chest as you flutter your lashes up at him, fingertips digging into his thighs a little.
“Shit—sorry,” he eases his hips back slowly, lowering his hand as he gently caresses your face with his thumb. “Just, too good—”
You blink away the tears beading at your eyes, while he wipes them, his expression both a frown and a smile all at once.
His touch is almost too gentle, almost too sacred. Like he’s scared of hurting you. Yet slowly, you reach out to grab his hand, eyes completely glossed over as your lashes flutter up to gaze at him. Your moan hums against his shivers as you meet his gaze, and for a still moment, a tacit silence hangs in the room.
A thread of string snaps. You feel his hips pick up.
Even though he’s never been much of a talker, the grunts, the praises, the whimpers—they all babble out of him softly now, weak unlike his usual.
It only takes a few more bobs until his tip finally probs open the back of your throat. You gag a bit, but with shut, teary eyes, you sink all the way down, your lips grazing his pelvis.
Your eyes quickly roll to the back of your head at the bobbing force, lungs choking, and each time he feels the subtle clench of your throat, it knocks the breath out of his lungs.
He grunts through each little thrust, eyes locking down onto you as he threads gently through your hair. Soon enough, he’s huffing out words before he realizes.
“Eyes up here, gorgeous, hah… c’mon,” he twirls one strand with his fingers, “look at me.”
You try, tearing up as your vision hazes, struggling to keep focus on him.
Beautiful. He can’t help but get drunk at how angelic you look, him twitching inside your sloppy mouth, dripping into the depths of your throat.
“That’s right,” he purrs, fingers massaging circles at your puffy cheeks, “you’re—ngh—doing so well.”
Hell, does that spark something in you. Suddenly, his eyes peek at how your legs squeeze behind you, and your whines humming around his girth in pleasure.
A chill runs down his spine.
“Shit—” he’s cut off with another moan he swallows, huffing in heavy gasp. “Do you like that?”
You can’t do anything but give him a little nod. And suddenly, your fingers feel his thighs tense up, he’s babbling incoherently. As if his girth isn’t enough, it doesn’t take a few more pumps until he chokes you even more with a sudden gush of white.
He quickly tugs your mouth off with a pull of your head, panicking as he hiccups a cry, apologising. You just throw your head back up, coughing.
The salty taste still lingers on your tongue, and as if he’s saying sorry, he quickly leans to you, mouth crashing into yours.
“Gumi—” you gasp, fingers curling against his chest now, “wait, wait—”
He doesn’t really listen, though. In the craze, his tongue desperately tangles with yours no matter the briny aftermath—almost like he’s trying to lick it off you.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, repeating it every time his lips leave yours, “I’m sorry—”
God, he’s so lost in it you can’t help but giggle at his frantic distress, both of you having tear-stained cheeks now. It’s almost like he’s a completely different person in bed, a total flip of a switch.
He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, both your chests panting heavy. You both stay like that for a moment, the weight of everything blanketing over you. A few beats pass.
“Are we…” he pulls himself slightly, just enough to look at you, “Are we gonna?”
You gulp. And suddenly, it feels like you’ve forgotten how to speak at all.
When your gaze meets his; so intense, so starved, none of the words you wanted to say—to embarrass him, perhaps—fail to leave your mouth. Hell, even your brain’s all jumbled up now, especially as his hand gently glides over to your waist, each touch sending flying sparks.
When you give him a final little nod, his entire world stills for a moment. Slowly, gently, with terrifyingly shaking hands, he flips you now. Suddenly, you’re in his position just a few minutes ago.
And with a deep breath, he lowers himself. You simply rustle your hands through his hair, him nuzzling up to it as clingy as he is. Under your fingers, you feel him trembling, shaking—like he can’t keep it any longer.
POOF!
In the blink of an eye, your heart drops.
Because right then and there, a pair of fluffy black ears pop from his head—fur, soft underneath your touch.
You’ve never seen them before, and without thinking, your fingers curl around them. When he looks up at you, just as surprised, his face somehow flushes even redder than before.
“Um. Wait, sorry,” he whispers nervously, hands flying up to his head like he’s cursing them to stay down, “we get like this when we’re excited—”
A tiny quirk tugs at your lips, yet you simply pull him up, peppering soft trails on the soft fur of them as they twitch.
“What are you?!” he fumbles with his words, brain short-circuiting at each small peck you give. “Stop—”
His tail softly grazes the floor of your room in excited, little swishes, brushing left and right. With a tilt of your head, you just grin to yourself, planting one more tender kiss on his ears—
…Yeah, this silly idiot really has driven you insane.
24 JULY 2021...
You’re fumbling nervously in the tiny room, mop falling somewhere in the corner like your heaving chest. In your hands, the white sheet of paper is crumpled and wrinkled already from your fiddling. “Breathe, breathe—”
Lost as you are in your murmurings, the door creaks behind you. Two knocks suddenly cut through your thoughts.
“You need to calm down,” Megumi scoffs, leaning against the wooden doorframe.
The black silhouette of his guitar case peeks slightly from his back, gleaming under the soft daylight of the azure sky.
Your heart stutters a bit when the glint of his viridescent eyes meets yours, but still, nothing beats the bubbling nervousness in your throat.
“I can’t, Megumi,” you throw your head back, hands flinging to yank your hair. “Our speech is in an hour, and—”
Suddenly, his palm rests atop your hair, ruffling it into a buffoon of mess. You blink up at him, sparks of dust floating all around the two of you like snow.
“You’ll be fine,” he assures, eyes not leaving yours. “We worked on it together, didn’t we?”
And with that, you finally let go of your breath. Your heart still hammers loudly against your ribs, though, but even when you’re practically floating on cloud nine, ten—whatever—his touch grounds you.
“Okay,” you whisper, biting your lips. “Thanks.”
He quickly leans down, leaving a peck on them.
“Stop doing that, too,” he mutters, hands moving to grab your wrist now. “It’ll bleed.”
With a frown, you simply pout and follow, stepping out of the storage room. But before you close it behind, you take one last glance over your shoulder, eyes settling over the still scenery of it all.
If you look long enough, you can still see yourself huddled on the floor right there—spilling your words to the wooden door behind. The boy on the other side peeks one last time as well.
Inside, the light still spills through the window in the same triangular degree it always has. A small tang of ache pangs in your chest.
You suddenly feel him rest his chin atop your head, hands wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him.
“Why are you still looking back when he’s in front of you now?” he sulks, you lifting up your head in a chuckle.
“You know it’s not like that,” you shoot back, hands flying to push him away.
But before you can do anything, a soft gasp cuts through the hall. The two of you freeze immediately.
Slowly, you both turn to face your right. Megumi’s hands instantly drop, and you can hear his breath and heart stop simultaneously.
“Hi…” he mumbles, eyes wide in shock, “Tsumiki.”
Your gaze lands on a hazel-haired girl, standing in the middle of the hallway as surprised as the two of you are.
Tsumiki… Tsu—
Your brain instantly short circuits, recalling just exactly where you’ve heard her name. And quickly, almost too hastily, you pull away from Megumi as well, ears warming in embarrassment.
“Hi,” you squeak, and suddenly, you wish you could just crawl into a hole more than ever. “Nice to meet you.”
With your horrible attempt at an introduction, she awkwardly greets you as well, eyes darting between the two of you. Behind his back, you elbow him to say something, all while she watches, her white blouse ivory under the early daylight.
“I’ve… heard about you,” she finally mutters.
It catches you off-guard—but when her lips curl into a gentle smile, the golden kisses her like dew upon the glistening grass outside, your heart stutters.
You give a slight bow instinctively, eyes darting nervously to the floor. “Thank you for raising this... troublemaker.”
She pauses for a moment, and you almost want to chew your own tongue. But she bursts into laughter before anything else, brows raised in amusement at him.
“No,” she says gently, voice drifting into the air. “Thank you for being by his side.”
He throws both of you disgusted glares, all until you nudge him with a glower. Sighing, he lifts his hand to rub the back of his neck, lashes fluttering as his gaze stays glued to the floor.
“Thanks for coming,” he mutters, voice lower than usual.
She simply smiles, tilting her head gently in blissful ignorance. With a soft gesture to her watch, your eyes widen in realisation. Your hands instantly fly to his wrist, subtly nodding again to Tsumiki before you hiss at him, soft enough that only he hears, “We’re gonna be late, you idiot.”
And when his gaze lands on you, the day of light catching your frown, yet the gentleness of your eyes, he can’t help but smirk—letting himself get tugged along by you.
Behind the two of you, in the midst of silence, Tsumiki sighs, sitting between disbelief and relief all at once. “What a bunch of lovebirds.”
You swear your gown is trying to kill you.
The sleeves keep catching on every chair you pass, the hat slides down to your eyebrows every five seconds, and Megumi’s already fixed your tassel twice with the exhausted patience of a man who regrets even offering to help.
“Stop touching it,” he mutters, swatting your hand.
“I’m nervous!”
“Now you’re making me nervous.”
Yuji, of course, just grins at your side. “You look great! Like a really fancy blueberry.”
“...Thanks.”
The ceremony blurs past—marching, sitting, standing, sitting again—until suddenly, you’re backstage, clutching the copy of your speech that’s now very definitely damp from your palms.
Someone nudges you lightly.
“Hey,” Nobara whispers, “you’re gonna do awesome. I’ll cheer so loud they’ll kick me out.”
You snort, anxiety loosening a little. “Please don’t get banned from graduation—”
“No promises,” both Nobara and Yuji snicker.
Finally, through it all, your name is called. The valedictorian.
Your stomach drops with the sound of it. Each step echoes, and finally, you reach the podium. The microphone crackles. You inhale, and slowly, the world steadies.
“Hi,” you begin, voice trembling only a little. “I… didn’t really think I’d make it here.”
A murmur. A shifting. The stillness of an audience listening. “I wasn’t the bravest. I wasn’t the strongest. I wasn’t even confident most days.”
You laugh breathlessly. “But I had people who kept pulling me forward. Friends who reminded me that I wasn’t alone. That even when I failed, even when I got scared… I could still stand up again.”
Megumi’s jaw tightens—just a flicker of pride he’d never admit to.
“And I learned something important,” you continue, voice growing stronger. “That being yourself… even when you’re scared… is worth it. Because the people meant to stay in your life will stay. They’ll see you. They’ll understand you. They’ll choose you.”
You look straight at Megumi as you say it. The entire hall is quiet. Reverently, breathlessly quiet.
And with a final deep breath, you finish softly, your eyes still meeting his. “Thank you. For giving me a place to belong.”
A heartbeat. Another.
He just stares at you like you’ve given him the entire world.
And suddenly, the auditorium erupts—cheers, applause, whistles—all before your nerves instantly betray you again. Your breathing spikes, your heart’s thundering, and before you know it…
POP.
Your werewolf ears shoot out of your head, and the applause dies instantly.
A wave of confused whispers sweeps through the hall, and Yuji freezes mid-cheer, mouth hanging open, while Nobara is by his side, bursting into laughter.
Somewhere behind, your absolute failure of a detention supervisor faints. A werewolf drops a tambourine. Satoru’s jaw drops to the floor.
Megumi blinks.
Once. Twice.
Then, for the first time in all his eighteen years, his face completely melts.
He walks straight up to the stage, ignoring the teachers' yelling for students to stay seated, the announcer wondering if it was already the salutatorian’s turn.
You panic. “I-It’s not what it looks like! I don’t know why—”
But Megumi’s already cupping your cheeks, eyes soft.
“You,” he mutters, voice low, wrecked, and helpless, “are too cute for your own good.”
And before you can even process it, he kisses you. The audience collectively screams, your mother is absolutely losing it, and Tsumiki barely keeps back her laughter.
Yuji jumps out of his seat, and Nobara smacks his arm.
Satoru is somewhere in the back, hollering, “WOOOO I CALLED IT—”
Megumi pulls back only when he realises your knees are about to give. His forehead leans against yours, voice soft yet low.
“Next time you’re nervous,” he whispers, “come to me before the ears pop out.”
You trip over your words, failing to make sense of it all, eyes flicking over to your mother in the front row, just grinning amidst it all. “I—I didn’t know this would happen—”
“I don’t care,” his thumb brushes your cheek. “I like all of you.”
Your ears twitch—and he kisses you again for that.
Satoru leans towards your mother, whispering with a smirk, “Why didn’t you tell her?”
Your mother doesn’t look embarrassed. She just smiles softly at you on stage, hands folded,
“I wanted her to grow up believing she was loved for who she chose to be,” she murmurs, hinting at just another secret unrevealed yet. “Not for what she was born as.”
Satoru actually shuts up for a second. And Megumi kisses you a third time, your ears twitching even harder.
Graduation welcomes you both.
Not into heroes, warriors, or legends… but into people. People who decide to be gentle even when it’s hard.
If that’s not the heart of being human, it’s close enough.