The moment he realized it, Kafka didn't feel disgusted, repulsed, or even awkward.
He just...wanted to laugh.
To laugh at himself, at the absurdity of everything.
For months, he had been the one rejecting her advances, scolding her whenever she got too close, telling her to behave properly.
He'd acted like a teacher lecturing a student, the responsible one, the rational one.
He had told himself that she was the one who had crossed the line—that he was just trying to correct her, to bring her back to reason.
But who would've thought that, after all that, he would end up falling too?
The irony of it made him want to throw his head back and laugh until his voice broke.
The greatest hypocrite in existence—that was what he was.
All that righteous indignation, all those lectures and sighs and boundaries—what a joke.
He had fallen right into the same forbidden emotions he'd condemned her for.
