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The gymnasium buzzes with the energy of a mandatory fitness assessment, the air thick with the scent of sweat and rubber mats. Suzune stands at the edge of the court, her gym uniform clinging to her frame, her posture rigid despite the casual chaos around her. She's hyper-aware of Kiyotaka nearby, his presence like a gravitational pull she can't escape. He's stretching, his movements languid but precise, the fabric of his shirt taut across his shoulders. Her eyes linger on the lines of his body—lean, controlled, deceptively relaxed—and she forces herself to look away, her throat tight.
The teacher pairs them for a partnered exercise: a trust-building drill where one guides the other through an obstacle course, blindfolded. Suzune's stomach twists when Kiyotaka steps forward, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with something that makes her pulse race. "I'll guide first," he says, his voice low, and she nods, unable to trust her voice.
The blindfold is soft but disorienting, plunging her into darkness. Kiyotaka's hand brushes her arm as he ties it, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. The contact sends a shiver through her, and she clenches her fists, fighting the warmth spreading through her core. "Ready?" he asks, his breath warm against her ear, closer than she expected. She nods again, her senses heightened, every sound and touch amplified.
He guides her with quiet commands, his voice steady but laced with an intensity that feels personal. "Step left. Slow." His hand grazes her lower back, steadying her, and the touch is like a spark against her skin. She stumbles, not from misstep but from the sudden rush of sensation, her body betraying her composure. "Focus, Horikita," he murmurs, and she swears she hears a trace of amusement—or desire—in his tone.
Her turn comes next. She removes the blindfold, her cheeks flushed, and ties it around Kiyotaka's eyes. Her fingers tremble as they brush his hair, the strands softer than she imagined. Standing close, she's struck by the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of his skin. She guides him through the course, her voice sharper than intended, a defense against the chaos of her thoughts. But when he nearly trips, she instinctively grabs his arm, her fingers curling around muscle, firm and warm. He doesn't pull away, and for a moment, they're frozen, her hand on him, the air between them crackling.
"Careful," she says, echoing his earlier words, but her voice is unsteady, betraying the storm within her. He tilts his head, as if he can see her through the blindfold, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "I'm not the one who needs to be careful."
The exercise ends, but the tension lingers, a current running beneath their every interaction. Later, in the locker room, Suzune leans against the wall, her breath uneven. She closes her eyes, and her mind betrays her again—flashing to Kiyotaka's touch, the way his voice seemed to anchor her in the darkness. Her fingers drift to her lips, then lower, hesitating at the edge of her collarbone, as if chasing the ghost of his touch. She stops, heart pounding, horrified by her own impulsiveness but unable to deny the ache building inside her.
Kiyotaka, in the men's locker room, is no less affected. He stands under the cold shower, letting the water sluice over him, but it does nothing to dull the memory of her hand on his arm, the way her voice trembled. He's always been a strategist, calculating every move, but Suzune is rewriting the rules. He imagines her now—flushed, defiant, her walls crumbling—and the thought stirs something primal, a hunger he's never allowed himself to indulge. He shuts off the water, his jaw tight, knowing restraint is a battle he's starting to lose.
That evening, they cross paths in the dorm hallway, both heading to their rooms. The corridor is dim, the silence heavy. Suzune stops, her back to him, then turns, her eyes meeting his. "Ayanokoji," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, "what are you doing to me?"
He steps closer, stopping just short of touching her. "The same thing you're doing to me," he replies, his voice raw, unguarded for the first time. They stand there, inches apart, the space between them alive with possibility. Neither moves, but the air hums with the promise of what's to come—a line they're both circling, not yet ready to cross.