The riverbank still hummed with the faint echoes of cicadas when Miyu stumbled upon the scene. She hadn't meant to follow Haruto and Ayame—at least, not consciously. She told herself she was only walking to clear her mind after another long day at school, her books clutched tightly against her chest.
But when she spotted the two of them by the water, her heart stopped.
She froze behind a tree, her breath shallow, her pulse hammering so violently it made her light-headed. Ayame's body pressed shamelessly close to Haruto's, her lips locked to his, her hand moving with a rhythm that left little room for doubt. Haruto's muffled groans floated through the humid night air, and Miyu felt her entire body quake.
Her lips trembled. She couldn't tear her eyes away.
He's… letting her… like that?
She squeezed her thighs together unconsciously, as if her body responded on its own. The sight of Haruto's face—strained, red, helpless under Ayame's boldness—ignited the memories she had been fighting for days. Memories of her own trembling hands in her bedroom, the shameful wetness that had betrayed her, the stifled moans she had bitten back into her pillow.
And now… to see Ayame living out openly what Miyu had only dared in her imagination… it broke something inside her.
Her nails dug into her arm.
I'm such an idiot… Why do I feel like this? Why does it hurt so much?
Ayame's laughter reached her ears, low and triumphant. Haruto's voice followed, choked, surrendering to her with words Miyu could only dream of hearing: "I'm yours."
The words gutted her.
Miyu staggered back, pressing a hand over her mouth to keep herself from crying out. Her body was trembling, not just from jealousy but from a craving that gnawed at her so fiercely it left her dizzy. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. She hated the burn of tears in her eyes. She hated the way her body throbbed with heat at the same time her heart fractured.
Quietly, desperately, she fled into the night.
The next morning at school, Miyu's hands shook as she sorted her books into her desk. Every time she glanced toward Haruto's seat, a wave of heat and guilt clashed inside her chest. She avoided his eyes, burying herself in her notes, praying he wouldn't notice the redness around her eyes or the stiffness in her voice.
But every time she blinked, she saw it again—Ayame's hand wrapped tightly around him, Haruto's flushed face, his surrender.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her thighs pressing together again. The shame of her body's reaction tore her apart.
I should hate him for letting her do that. I should hate her for taking him so easily. So why… why do I just want to be in her place?
Her pen trembled over her notebook, blotting the page with ink. She whispered to herself, barely audible:
"…I'm so weak."
The bell rang, jolting her back. Haruto's voice carried over, warm and casual as he greeted someone, and Miyu's entire body seized. She didn't dare look at him—because if she did, she knew she'd see those same lips that Ayame had claimed by the river.
And worse, she knew she'd only want them more.
The night after the riverside, Miyu lay in her futon, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as moonlight cut pale lines across her room. No matter how she tried, her body would not rest. Every time she closed her eyes, the images came rushing back—Ayame's daring hands, Haruto's flushed face, the tremble of his lips as he groaned under her touch.
Miyu squeezed the blanket over her chest, holding it tight, as if she could suffocate those memories. But the warmth between her thighs betrayed her, pulsing, demanding.
She rolled onto her side, curling up, whispering into her pillow.
Why can't I stop thinking about him… like that?
Her breath hitched. She bit her lip, hard. It wasn't enough. The fire wouldn't die.
Her trembling hand slid down beneath her pajama skirt, brushing against the thin fabric of her panties. They were already damp—shamefully, hopelessly damp. The touch made her gasp, her back arching slightly, her body reacting before her mind could resist.
"No… I shouldn't…" she whispered, tears prickling at her eyes. But her hand wouldn't stop. Her body was betraying her completely, driven by the memory of his voice.
She pressed her fingers tighter, rubbing in slow circles, the wetness spreading until the fabric clung desperately to her skin. Her breath quickened, shallow and uneven, her thighs squeezing her hand tighter.
And in her mind, she saw it clearly—Haruto, kneeling between Ayame's legs, his lips trailing lower, his tongue spreading her open. Ayame's cries echoed in Miyu's head, but she twisted it, replaced Ayame with herself.
What if… it was me? What if it was me he was licking there…
Her whole body jolted. The thought was too much.
She bit her fist to stifle her moan, hips rocking helplessly against her fingers. The more she imagined Haruto's mouth, his warmth and hunger, the more her guilt twisted into unbearable heat. She wanted to feel his breath against her, his tongue tracing every fold until she couldn't stand it.
"M-Mnh… Haruto…" she whimpered into the pillow, her body convulsing with need. Her panties were soaked now, her fingers sliding slickly against herself.
She couldn't stop. She didn't want to stop.
Every shameful sound she made was muffled into her bedding, but her body spoke for her—arching, trembling, desperate. She rubbed harder, chasing the release she knew would only end in more guilt. But she didn't care anymore.
Finally, the wave broke. Her body tensed, her back bowing off the futon as the climax hit her like a shock. Her muffled cry was sharp, raw, soaked in longing. Her thighs clamped around her hand, trapping her fingers against her pulsing heat as the pleasure tore through her.
When it faded, Miyu collapsed back onto the futon, panting, tears streaking her cheeks. Her hand was sticky, her panties uncomfortably wet. She pulled her trembling fingers away, staring at them in the moonlight, horrified by how much she wanted more.
"…I'm disgusting," she whispered, choking back a sob.
But even as she turned away and buried her face in her pillow, the fantasy lingered—Haruto's mouth between her thighs, his tongue knowing her better than she knew herself. The thought made her shudder, and deep down, she knew this was only the beginning of her collapse.
The classroom was filled with the usual soft murmur of voices, pencils scratching against paper, and the gentle hum of the ceiling fans. To anyone else, it was just another slow afternoon.
But for Miyu, every second was agony.
Her body still remembered last night—her trembling hand, her whispered moans, the wetness that had soaked her panties as she imagined Haruto's mouth between her thighs. She had woken up with her sheets clinging to her skin, her body still throbbing with the ghost of that guilty release.
And now he was sitting right next to her.
Haruto leaned over slightly, his shoulder brushing against hers as he reached to point at the notes she had scattered across the desk. "You missed a step here," he said casually, his voice low, his breath brushing close to her ear.
Miyu's heart slammed against her ribs. The warmth of his shoulder burned through her sleeve, searing her skin. She couldn't look at him. If she did, she knew her eyes would betray everything.
"O-oh… right…" she stammered, clutching her pen tighter.
Haruto frowned slightly, his usual kindness flashing in his eyes. "Are you okay? You've been spacing out a lot today."
Before she could answer, his hand moved. It wasn't intentional—he was just shifting the notebook closer—but his fingers grazed over hers. Just the barest touch.
But to Miyu, it was like lightning.
Her thighs squeezed together under the desk, a sharp tremor running through her. Her breath caught in her throat, the faintest gasp escaping her lips before she bit it back.
And then—her mind betrayed her again.
Suddenly, that innocent brush of his fingers wasn't on paper. It was on her skin. His hand wasn't guiding her pen; it was sliding down, down, between her thighs, parting her shame-soaked panties. His breath against her ear wasn't about notes—it was hot, hungry, right above her trembling folds as his tongue drew closer.
If he leaned just a little more… if he touched me like that… oh God—
Her pen slipped from her grip, clattering softly onto the desk. She snatched it up quickly, hoping he hadn't noticed how badly her hand was shaking.
Haruto tilted his head, leaning even closer now to peer at her messy scrawl. His cheek nearly brushed against her hair. His arm pressed lightly against hers. And in that moment, Miyu could smell him—clean soap, faint sweat, and the boyish scent that had been haunting her ever since Ayame dragged him down by the river.
It was too much.
Her thighs rubbed together under the desk, desperate for friction, her body betraying her utterly. Heat surged through her core, soaking her panties, the shameful wetness spreading again just from his closeness.
"…Miyu?" Haruto's voice was soft now, uncertain. "You're trembling…"
Her breath came out ragged. She didn't even realize she had been gripping the edge of the desk so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
"I—I'm fine!" she blurted, too fast, too high-pitched. She forced a shaky laugh, looking anywhere but at him.
But she wasn't fine. Not even close.
Every little touch, every accidental brush of skin, every time his breath ghosted against her ear—it all fed into the fire she couldn't put out. The fantasy replayed in her head with brutal clarity: Haruto pushing her down, his tongue spreading her open, licking her until she cried his name.
And here she was, in the middle of class, dripping wet because of a boy who didn't even realize what he was doing to her.
Miyu swallowed hard, her face burning as she squeezed her legs tighter together, praying the bell would ring before she snapped in front of everyone.