"I've already gotten used to playing with you."
"Ugh." I stir in my bed, rolling over to check my phone. Saturday 01:36
I've only been asleep for just over half an hour, and this feels impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I can hear him. His words loop around my head and slip into my dreams as if they'd been carved there, replaying in the dark, hitting the same nerve each time.
On the way home from the soccer trials, I had tried to pretend that none of it mattered, that his words weren't sitting in my chest like a live wire. But when your brain rewinds the same sentence again, you lose the privilege of pretending.
My pulse won't settle. My mind won't either. The glow of my phone and the minutes fleeting by like it's mocking me. I shove it away before I let myself reach a boiling point.
I drag a hand over my face and stare up at the ceiling, just a blank, unmoving surface. There's nothing there to distract me, nowhere for my thoughts to run except straight back to him.
"Kai..."
His name slips out before I can stop it, barely a breath, like I'm testing how it feels in the air when no one else is around to hear me screw up.
Pathetic.
The sound hangs there in the room, heavier than it should be. I hate how it makes me nervous just to say his name. It feels like admitting something I'm not ready to admit. Like he's here, sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning in with that look he gets when he's too close, when I can't think properly.
"Fuck it,"
I sit up slowly, rubbing the heel of my palm over my eyes. The room is dark except for the faint glow of the city bleeding through the blinds.
I reach under my bed, fingers brushing the metal lockbox tucked against the wall. The latch clicks open with a soft, familiar click. Inside are items that I don't look at often, things I don't want people to know I keep. My hand slides past old letters, a few folded photos, and a couple of items I don't let myself think about too long.
I pull out a fresh box of Pianissimo Peach Mint cigarettes; the pastel kind people like to joke are "too cute to actually smoke." Figures. Even my vices look soft.
I'm not a heavy smoker. Not yet anyway. But nights like this, where my efforts to sleep are futile, and Kai's voice keeps twisting in my head...yeah. Tonight calls for one.
My apartment is small. Technically a 1LDK, but if you breathe too hard, the walls remind you not to get cocky. The kitchen is basically a hallway; the walls are thin enough to hear my neighbour's alarm at 5 AM. My bedroom doubles as a "living" room, but at least it leads to a balcony.
The floorboards creak as I tiptoe towards the sliding door.
I'd grown accustomed to living alone, and I was experienced enough before I moved in here. After my parents died, I had nowhere lined up. Yuujin's parents stepped in before I even had the chance to fall through the cracks. They own the building, and when they offered me this place, they knocked off half the rent "as long as Yuyu checks on you once in a while." Which means: He barges in constantly. Which means I'm lucky. Luckier than I ever admit out loud.
I slide the balcony door open, the night air spilling in like it's been waiting. Outside is even smaller, barely big enough for a chair and a dying plant. Tokyo hums beneath me like a restless animal. Reflections paint the railing as I lean my hip against it and put a cigarette between my lips, already tasting the menthol.
The lighter clicks and the flame flares long enough for the cigarette tip to glow. The first inhale burns sweet peach mint over smoke, like it's trying to pretend it's something gentle. It isn't. The smoke fills my lungs anyway, hot and steady, and I let it sit there longer than I should before pushing it out into the open air. It threads upward in thin, grey ribbons, turning red against the neon that twists and then disappears.
Watching the smoke vanish has me thinking: must be nice. To just dissolve. To drift off the edge of a balcony and become nothing but a faint smell on someone's clothes.
Another inhale. Another exhale. A quiet metronome in my head, marking time in the kind of night where everything feels too loud. The ember glows with every breath I take, like a heartbeat that refuses to calm down.
Out here, the city is restless, the smoke is restless, I'm restless, and all of it feels connected, like every drag is me trying to control something, anything, even if it's just how fast the cigarette burns. Yeah, control—that's exactly what all of this is about.
But the truth is simpler, and stupid:
If I can keep my hands busy... maybe my mind will stop circling his name.
"...Kai."
It leaves me too quietly, like I'm confessing something to the skyline.
Sleep didn't come gracefully. It wasn't even sleep, really, more like my body shutting down out of spite.
My alarm wasn't what woke me. A shadow was. Something loomed above me, way too close, way too still. I flinched so hard I nearly rolled off the bed.
"Morning," a voice whispered like a horror movie jump scare with zero remorse.
"Yuujin—?!" My heart tried to exit through my throat. "How the fuck—"
He blinked down at me with his sleepless, over-caffeinated eyes. "Door was unlocked...You really gotta stop leaving it off the latch."
"It was not unlocked."
"It was," he said, completely unfazed. "You're just defensive because you sleep like you're being hunted."
"Because you stand over me like that!"
He shrugged, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Anyway, get up. Results are posted today."
"It's Saturday," I groaned, dragging the blanket back over my head. "Normal people sleep on Saturdays."
"Normal people don't spend the night brooding."
I curse into my pillow.
He wasn't entirely wrong.
My body still felt thick with leftover thoughts of Kai, his voice echoing at the edge of my dreams, the heat of his breath, the way he'd said he'd gotten used to playing with me. Every muscle felt wired, even though exhaustion tugged at every limb.
Yuujin slapped my ankle. "Come on. If you don't get up, someone else is going to see the results first and text me spoilers."
"Why is that my problem?"
"Because if you don't come, I'll carry your short ass there myself."
I peeked out from under the blanket.
He looked dead serious.
I sighed and sat up, rubbing my face. "You're unhinged."
"Thank you," he said. "Now move."
He tossed a hoodie at my head and marched toward the kitchen like he owned the place. Honestly, he basically did; his parents were my landlords, even if they pretended they weren't doing me a favour. I didn't always know how to feel about that. Grateful? Guilty? Both? But Yuujin never treated me like a charity case. Just a pain in his ass he'd voluntarily adopted.
"Seriously," he called from the hall, "if I had to be awake all night, then you're suffering too."
"...You didn't sleep at all?"
"Nope."
"Why?"
He appeared in the doorway holding two cans of coffee. "Why not? It was a Friday night!"
I took one and cracked it open. "You're insane."
"And you have bedhead. Let's go."
I dragged myself out of bed, hoodie half on, heart still pounding from the Kai-infested dream I refused to think about any further.
Results day.
"Fine," I muttered, grabbing my shoes. "Let's just get this over with."
The University of Tokyo on a Saturday morning feels like a university holding its breath. The paths are half-empty, the usual weekday chaos stripped down to quiet echoes; just a few club kids jogging laps around the field, a couple of students with backpacks too big for a weekend and the soft hum of vending machines waking up before anyone else.
Yuujin and I slip through the gate like we're trespassing. The air's cool, the kind that still clings to the last bit of night. I shove my hands into my hoodie pockets, trying to look awake. Yuujin doesn't even bother; he's vibrating, bright-eyed, running on zero sleep and pure chaos.
Then something interrupts the calm.
A sleek black car is parked near the athletics building, so out of place against the quiet campus that it's almost theatrical. The kind of car that looks expensive even before you know its brand.
I slow down. "...Who the hell drives something like that to morning results?"
Yuujin whistles low. "Bro... That's a BMW 3 Series. 2021. Look at the trim—holy shit, someone's loaded."
I only catch the badge; BMW's logo gleaming like it knows it's better than us. But the rest? It's all shiny and sharp lines and intimidation on wheels. Definitely not a normal student car. Definitely not something I should care about.
But my jaw clenches anyway, because there's only one person who'd pull up to a Saturday morning soccer posting like he's arriving at a movie premiere.
Kai. It must be. Of course, he's here early. Of course, he has a car that looks like it could outrun God. Of course, it stands out so much that it practically hijacks the whole peaceful campus vibe. I click my tongue and keep walking, pretending it doesn't affect me.
Yuujin nudges me with a grin. "Think he's already inside?"
I don't answer. But the truth sits heavy and obvious: Yeah. He's here. And I'm not ready to see him again, especially after last night.
"Dude, I gotta take a leak so bad—" Yuujin dances in place, idiot drinks so much coffee and Monster; I'm hardly surprised that he's got to piss every five minutes.
There's already a small crowd when we reach the bulletin board: the coach from the trial, potential teammates and of course, Kai. Yuujin shuffles away to find toilets. This was his idea, and he's just going to leave me here with these strangers and... Kai. I try to look anywhere but in his direction, but I can literally feel his gaze locked onto me as I approach.
I move to walk past him, but his voice zones me in, cutting clean against the murmurs of the crowd.
"Took you long enough."
I freeze mid-step. It's too early for this. "...Wow. Must have been tough for you...standing here thinking about me." A little too rich coming from me, but he doesn't know shit.
I catch a twitch in Kai's lip like he's trying not to smile.
I move to step past him, because I'm tired, stressed, and absolutely not in the mood. I just want to see the results at this point, but he shifts his body to stand in my way.
I step forward anyway, expecting him to shift an inch, half an inch—anything. But he stays exactly where he is, tall and immovable, and suddenly I'm pressed full front against him.
There's a faint trace of his cologne: clean, sharp, something expensive, and it hits me harder than it should.
My breath catches.
It's stupid how warm he is. Stupid how the blood rushes to my cheeks like my body has been waiting for this without telling me. For a split second, I freeze, then consider trying to lean away, pretend it didn't happen.
But his hand lifts.
Not touching me. Just hovering on the side of my waist; hovering like he's deciding whether he wants to.
The chatter of the crowd behind us fades into a dull hum, like the world's been shoved underwater and only he's still in focus.
And I swear, even without a single movement, he radiates something possessive. Something quiet but sharp. Like my body against his is a small, secret victory he's claiming for himself.
"I just want to see the board," I mutter, low and breathy, forcing words out even though my voice won't behave.
Kai's mouth curves, slow and deliberate. "Didn't hear you ask nicely."
Fuck. My stomach flips. The worst part? I think he knows.
I try to move past again, pressing slightly forward, but he stiffens, shoulders bracing, subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough that I can feel it through my chest. Every line of him, every edge of muscle. The way his arm hovers at my side. The brush of him, light, teasing, against me. My face flushes, heartbeat thudding in my ears.
If there weren't people around... If this were a hallway, a locker room, anything else...
No. No, I'm not thinking that.
I tilt my chin up, scrapping together any pride I can still muster.
"So, you get in or what?" I murmur, pretending my voice isn't shaking.
His gaze drops slowly to my lips. Then drags back up, locking mine. "Dunno," he says softly. "Was waiting for..." His eyes hold mine like he's got me pinned. "...everyone to show up."
My throat tightens. "Why do you even care?"
"I don't," He smiles, lazy, dangerous. "Just thought you'd want to see your name next to mine."
"God, you're such a fucking asshole." I bite through my teeth.
"Say it again."
My throat closes. "What?"
He leans his head down, far enough for his breath to tickle my ear. "Say it again," he repeats, quiet, almost intimate. "I like how it sounds coming from you."
To anyone walking by, this probably looks normal; two guys talking too close, maybe whispering trash talk under their breath. Nothing worth a second glance. But inside me? It's a whole different storm. Kai has this ridiculous ability to flip every switch in my body at once, even here, in public, where the world should feel too bright and too open for anything like this to happen. His breath, his closeness, the way he stands his ground like he knows exactly what he's doing to me, it's all too much. I can feel myself reacting in ways I shouldn't, in a place where I definitely shouldn't, and the worst part? He looks calm. Casual. Like he's barely doing anything at all. Like he can unravel me without anyone noticing.
My heart twists in my chest, heat rising from my abdomen, irritation, something filthier. The way he stands there blocking my path, confident and unyielding, owning the space, owning me, makes it worse.
Then I feel the pulsating shift of fabric between my legs, suddenly my pants feel too tight, and electricity shocks my spine. Almost makes me want to press into him more. Almost.
And even in my stubborn, ridiculous denial, I feel that feather-light brush again, ghosting along my side, deliberate enough that my legs threaten to betray me. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I have to step back, just a fraction, pretending it's nothing.
What the fuck?
He watches, expression perfectly neutral, but there's a fiery glimmer in his eyes; satisfied and teasing. And just like that, I realise I've been holding my breath.
"Go on," I mutter, forcing the words down my throat, trying to ground myself. "Check the list."
Kai's smirk doesn't fade. He tilts his head just so, letting me pass, my palms still clammy after I'm finally free.
We turn towards the list pinned on the bulletin at almost the exact same time. He doesn't try to beat me to it. He doesn't step back either. We just...end up standing shoulder-to-shoulder, reading down the sheet, breaths brushing the same air.
University of Tokyo – Squad Sheet
Starting XI (4-3-3)
Goalkeeper: Shinji. Mori (1)
Right-Back: Daichi. Sato (22)
R-Centre-Back: Riku. Maeda (5/Captain)
L-Centre Back: Tora. Kurogane (2)
Left-Back: Kento. Ishida (6)
Centre-Midfield: Haruto. Nishimura (17)
Centre-Midfield: Masaki. Arai (11)
Attacking-Midfield: Ren. Tachibana (18)
Right Winger: Yuujin. Haruko (8)
Left Winger: Ace. Harukawa (7)
Striker/CF: Kai. Takato (9)
Subs/Rotation
GK2: Kohei. Ueda (24)
DF: Shoma. Kanzaki (3)
DF: Yuto. Hasegawa (4)
MF: Sora. Minami (29)
MF: Keisuke. Inoue (12)
FW: Taiga. Watanabe (13)
FW: Ryohei. Sugimoto (21)
I scoff when I reach the end of the list. Pfft. Of course. This asshole just knows everything, doesn't he?
Still, Yuujin made it onto the team too, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't happy about that. As much as I'd hate to admit, the three of us upfront during those trials were a force to be reckoned with.
"Ace—Did you get in?" I feel two hands against my shoulders as Yuyu violently shakes me.
"Cut it out, Yuyu—" I dart my eyes in Kai's direction, signalling Yuujin to calm down. I know he's looking, and I can hardly pretend to have any sense of composure after how close he was. "But look—" I tap my knuckle against the team sheet.
"Holy shit, see? What did I tell you, hmm? We've still got some moves—" Yuujin was kinda cute; the way he was bouncing on his heels like a puppy. The way he seemed genuinely happy, not just for himself but for me.
"Alright, listen up!" Kai, Yuujin and I turn.
The man walking toward us is tall, broad-shouldered, the posture of someone who's been doing this for decades. Coach Nakamura.
And stood beside him…
"This is Maeda," the coach announces. "Team Captain. Second year. Defender. If your name is on the sheet, you'll be learning from him."
Short hair, buzzed at the sides. Sharp jaw. Heavy-lidded eyes that look like they've stared down a few too many fights. His team jacket was half zipped despite the morning chill, and his hands were shoved in his pockets like he was bored by the concept of rules in general. He looks like every bit the guy you'd cross the street to avoid at night.
His eyes flick over me. Assessing.
Then flick to Kai. Something flashes, like he's being clocked. Recognition? Kai doesn't look away or falter.
The Coach claps once. "Right, I'm going to leave you to introduce yourselves and get acquainted. Don't be late to practice, we update the schedule to account for your main studies, so no excuses."
The captain shifts his weight, eyes dragging back to me like he's reading a stat sheet under my skin.
Yuujin brightens immediately, "I'm Haruko! First year, right winger—"
"Pfft—c'mon, we use first names in the squad. I'm Riku." The captain's chin lifting once in a curt nod. His voice is lower than I expected, rough like gravel that's been stepped on too many times. He slides his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone. "Here." He holds the screen toward us. "Team LINE chat. Scan the QR."
A blocky square fills his display, innocent. But my throat turns dry. I pull out my phone, tapping my camera to read it. A beat later, the chat pings to life:
Utokyo Soccer — 2025/2026 Squad (18 members)
Kai's phone vibrates beside mine. Riku's already turning away, giving us a lazy wave like he's done babysitting. "Welcome to the team," he calls over his shoulder. "Don't ghost the chat. Coach hates that."
That's it. I'm in the same space as him now; digitally, inescapably. His name sits right there in the members list: Kai Takato. Seeing it typed out shouldn't feel intimate.
Yuujin's already chatting with other newbies like they've been teammates for years. Kai pockets his phone without a word. And me? My nerves are still trying to recover from... all of that. I mutter something to Yuujin about heading home early, thanking him for actually getting me here. He gives me a thumbs-up. Kai doesn't look at me, but I feel him noticing. Like static brushing the back of my neck.
The walk back to my apartment is a blur; cold air, too-bright sunlight, my mind replaying the moment I pressed into him like a broken record stuck on the dirtiest line. His breath against mine. The heat. The tension. The way my body just reacted like it had been waiting for him all this time. I hate that it makes my stomach flutter in a way I don't dare to name.
I kick my shoes off by the door and face-plant onto my bed. My head is still spinning from Kai, from that dumb almost-touch, from the way my entire body refuses to calm down.
Instead, I pull out my phone.
The LINE group chat is already pinging with memes, player stats, and rookie jokes. Normal stuff.
I feel like I should type something, but this stuff was way out of my comfort zone. The only person I text with is Yuujin, and that's usually just so he can summon me to play Tekken or Dead by Daylight with him at some stupid hour.
A new message pops up:
Riku:
Drop your insta handles rookies... don't let me catch any of you slacking!
I stare at the screen. Right. A normal request, I suppose.
Yuujin drops his immediately.
Kai is typing…
Kai:
Fine. takato.kai-
Clean. Simple. Annoyingly confident. Riku reacts with a thumbs-up emoji. Yuujin sends a heart. Weirdo. I still haven't responded.
Kai:
Your turn, Ace.
The typing bubble appears again. Disappears. Reappears.
Kai:
Unless you're shy.
My entire face catches on fire. My fingers fumble against my phone. I'm put on the spot, and it's not like I have a choice. I hit send before I can think about talking myself out of it.
Ace:
ace-txt
Then the notification pops up: Seen by Kai, and I swear only a few seconds have passed when I get the notification that he's followed me already. Fast. Too fast. Like he already had the app open. I don't even have the chance to delete any embarrassing pictures without looking like I care about him seeing. Selfies where my hair looks dumb. A story highlight from a year ago where Yuujin forced me into a cat-ear filter. A mirror photo I took at 2 AM, thinking I looked cool, but absolutely didn't.
My stomach jumps in this embarrassing, traitorous way as my body has completely forgotten that this guy literally pressed me against him in public and then smirked like he owned my nervous system.
I don't follow back right away. Not because I'm trying to be coy, but because if I tap that button—fuck. Why is this happening all at once? I was literally thinking about quitting soccer for good, but now I feel like a fly attracted to the pheromones and sweet allure of the trap, helpless when it sinks its teeth into me.
I hit follow back. I feel sick.
Now the door is open. Wide. Like Kai just stood aside and said, 'Come on, then... look.'
His profile loads slower than it should. Or maybe that's just the jitter in my pulse as my thumbs tremble above the screen.
takato.kai-
Grid of nine.
God—of course it looks like that.
Clean shots from the gym. Sun glaring off his skin like it's obsessed with him. A few candid campus pics. One where he's in a sweater, sleeves shoved up, hand in his hair, he's almost smiling. Glamorous food shots. Expensive sushi at Sukiyabashi Jiro, wagyu beef from Aragawa.
Holy fucking shit.
My thumb hovers. Then taps.
Scroll.
My chest tightens. He looks different in some photos, a little softer in older ones, with messier hair and fewer muscles.
I scroll faster.
Then slower.
My stomach sinks because I know this feeling all too well. I'm trying to be casual, sane, and failing.
I tap one picture to zoom in a little—just to see something in the background. What fucking background? It's a bedroom mirror selfie.
Dim lighting. His collarbone is exposed where his shirt dips low. His fingers, long and rough, curled around his phone.
My fingers hesitate over the screen, blood drumming tight and stupid in my neck. I shouldn't be doing this. I should close the app. I should breathe.
But instead, I scroll again. And I swear it feels more like a free-fall.
Because every picture is worse. Better. Worse.
The kind that makes heat crawl up my neck, the kind that makes my legs feel weirdly light, the kind that makes me swallow hard because this is public, this is normal, this is just his feed.
So why does it feel like something I shouldn't be looking at?
Why does it feel like something he shouldn't let me see?
I drag to the next row.
And suddenly I'm way too aware that he followed me instantly. That he's already seen my profile.
My screen dims. I lock my phone and shove it away like it's on fire.
Just stop and go take a shower or something.
I bolt toward the bathroom, stripping my shirt off halfway there, but I can still see my phone from the hall. Lying on my bed. Waiting. It knows exactly what it's doing to me.
I'm trying to ignore it, I really am. Bullshit. I turn on the shower, steam starting to fog the mirror, but my eyes keep dragging back toward my bedroom door. Like there's a string hooked through my ribs, tugging.
One glance won't hurt, right? Just to check if anyone replied to his recent gym shot.
I take one step back toward the bedroom. Then another. Then I'm basically speed-walking, grabbing the phone like I'm about to get caught.
Just one more look. Just one.
My thumb unlocks the screen before I can pretend I had any self-control to begin with.
His profile is still on that mirror selfie. I flick down to the next photo, my breath hitches. Kai is leaning against his car, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin. I dig my teeth into my bottom lip.
I hate him so bad.
I hate the way I imagine his hands—those fucking hands, wrapped around my wrists, pinning me down.
I thumbed the hem of my sweatpants, breath ragged.
"Fuck you," I whisper to the pixelated version of him, smirking and untouchable.
But my hips stuttered.
The shower is still running behind me, steam curling under the bathroom door like a taunt. I know I should stop. I know this is pathetic.
But my fingers hover over the screen anyway, zoom in.
The jut of his hipbone, the faint trail of dark hair leading lower. My throat goes dry.
I hate him.
Hate how my body reacts, traitorous and hungry. Hate how I imagine his voice if he could see me like this.
My sweatpants are tight. Too tight. I bite back a groan, thumb swiping to the next photo; Kai mid-laugh at some bar, head thrown back, throat bared. Fuck.
I could stop now. I could.
Instead, I lean back against the wall, phone in one hand, the other sliding under fabric—I need more.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and the notification pops up.
SATURDAY 12:14
takato.kai- sent you a message:
So you do use social media. Interesting.
The word "interesting" feels like fingers curling under my chin. The phone slips out of my hand, clattering onto the floor. I don't care.
My free hand slowly drags up my chest. I don't even realise I've pinched my own nipple between my fingers until the sharp bite of pleasure-pain shoots straight down my spine. A gasp punches out of me. My skin burns everywhere, oversensitive and aching.
Kai's hands would be rougher.
The thought burns through me, my stomach coiling tight.
My head thuds back against the wall, eyes screwed shut, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.
My other hand grasps onto my cock, stroking slowly, torturously, just how I imagined he would do it.
"F-Fuck—"
Precum beads at my tip already, slicking my strokes. Shame coils hot in my gut, but my hips jerk forward anyway. More.
The shower's still running. Steam licks at my bare thighs as I shuffle toward it, but my reflection catches me in the fogged-up mirror. Flushed. Ruined.
"Pathetic," I can hear Kai murmur against my ear, his voice thick with amusement. "Look at you—falling apart just from imagining me."
My hips move on their own, chasing the high, the friction—faster just to feel the throb of my own desperation. One trembling hand braces against the wall, the other wrapped tight around my length, strokes uneven, desperate.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper.
I'm shaking with desperate pleasure, thighs trembling. My skin burns everywhere, but it's not enough. The heat makes me needier, my skin almost raw from my touch.
"Please," I gasp, a pathetic, ragged plea as I arch my neck, my fingers digging hard into the wall. "P-please—"
I don't even know what I'm begging for anymore. Him.
Another stroke, a thumb brushing the tip, too sensitive.
"Mph—"
My knees buckle. My legs feel weaker than water. Just a touch more and I'm gone. I'm close—so close, I can taste it.
"Kai," I moan—a broken, desperate prayer. "Please. I—"
I fall forward, biting back a cry as my free hand comes up to cover my mouth, muffling my voice. My body twists, my thighs clenching, my spine arching. One hand helplessly stroking my cock, the other clawing at the tile, my teeth digging into my lip with the force of it.
The orgasm hits like a sucker punch—all the air leaves my lungs in one choked gasp. My knees hit the bathroom floor hard, but I barely feel it, too lost in the white-hot aftershocks still sparking up my spine. My phone screen has gone dark from where it fell earlier, but Kai's face burns brighter behind my eyelids.
Panting, trembling, I press my forehead against the cold tile. Shame curls thick in my throat, but my spent body sings with relief.
I should get up. Wash this sick craving off my skin.
Instead, I stay there a moment longer; pulse still rabbiting in my throat, my own mess cooling on my stomach, chasing the ghost of Kai's touch in the empty air.
I stagger to my feet on shaky legs; my knees are bruised from the floor. My body protests at the movement, raw and sensitive.
Shame burns hotter than the water as I step under the spray and wash away the evidence. I don't dare meet my reflection's gaze again. I don't want to face the reality of what I've done.
Shit. What the hell is wrong with me?
The image of Kai's photos is still burned behind my eyelids; those stupidly casual ones, the ones where he isn't even trying, where his shirt rides up a little, or his jaw looks sharp enough to cut air. The kind of pictures that no normal person should lose their sanity over. The kind of pictures I absolutely should not be—
Heat floods my face all over again, humiliation curling low and tight, sharper than anything else. It hits worse because it felt good. Too good. Like I'd been starving for it without realising.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
He has no idea. He has no idea that I'm standing here, shaking under hot water, breath stuttering, because of him. Because I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me this morning. Because the moment we pressed together, my body reacted like he'd flipped some switch I didn't know I had.
I scrub my hands over my face, trying to erase the memory. It doesn't work. If anything, it sticks harder: his smirk, the warmth of him, the damn hovering hand as he'd almost touched me.
And now this. Getting off to his pictures like some unhinged creep.
A sick, guilty twist churns in my stomach. I shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't even have been looking. If Kai knew, if anyone knew, I'd never live it down. I'd have to drop out of university and move to Hokkaido to become a fisherman or something.
Another wave of shame hits, heavier than the last. This isn't normal. This isn't healthy.
...Except, in the back of my head, under the guilt, under the panic, there's something else too.
A tiny spark of want.
And that's what scares me the most.
I rest my forehead against the tile. The water scalds the back of my neck. "Get it together," I whisper. "Just—get it together."
But I know I won't. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not with Kai Takato in my orbit.
And definitely not with his profile sitting open on my phone like a loaded gun on the bathroom floor.
Steam curls out past the shower door as I shove it open. The air hits my skin cooler than I expect, and the sudden temperature shift makes goosebumps rush across my arms. I brace my palms against the sink, breathing hard. My hair drips on the counter. I don't look at my reflection. I can't.
I grab the towel and scrub at my hair, muttering curses into the cotton, anything to drown out the memory of my own breathing, the way my hands moved without hesitation, the way I couldn't stop.
I freeze when I see my phone on the floor. Screen down. But it feels like it's staring at me. Like it knows exactly what I did. Like it's calling me back for another pathetic hit.
"No. No, no." I pick the phone up, but I lob it into my room, through the hallway and onto the bed.
But halfway to the kitchen, my feet stop moving. Just one more look... Just to check if there's a notification... Just to clear the screen...
"Fuck this."
I whirl around and march straight back into my room, snatching the phone off the mattress like I'm punishing it. Like it's the problem, not me.
I lock it. Unlock it. Lock it again. Put it face down.
It stays face down for five whole seconds before the urge hooks me by the ribs again.
This is going to be a long weekend.
I cave.
Of course I do.
I flip the phone over like it's burning my fingers. My thumb unlocks it before I can think, and the first thing I see is the notification banner sitting there like a loaded trap.
takato.kai-:
So you do use social media. Interesting.
I can feel my heart rise to my throat.
He messaged me. He messaged me while I was—
I drag in a breath too sharp, too fast. My skin prickles with leftover heat and sudden shame, like he somehow knows. Like he timed it. Like he sensed the exact moment I started falling apart over him.
I open the chat.
His icon, clean and annoyingly perfect, stares back at me. The message is short and simple, but it feels like he's leaning over my shoulder, whispering it into my ear.
I hover my thumb over the reply box.
Type:
What do you want? Delete.
Type:
Don't get used to it. Delete.
Type:
Why are you messaging me? Delete, delete, delete.
The typing cursor mocks me, blinking like it's tapping its foot.
I exhale shakily. Why am I even thinking this hard about it? It's just a message. From a guy who shouldn't matter. From someone who shouldn't be able to twist me up like this.
My thumb twitches, accidentally swiping the screen just enough that it probably shows I'm "active" in the chat.
Shit.
Before I can even put the phone down, another bubble appears instantly.
takato.kai-:
...You're typing.
Another bubble pops right after, like he's been waiting, watching the chat like a hawk.
takato.kai-:
Changed your mind?
My breath stops.
He's staring at his phone. He's watching me open his message. He's waiting for a reply.
And somehow that makes the shame worse. Somehow, it makes the heat rush back under my skin. Somehow, it makes the weekend stretch ahead of me feel like a cliff with no railing.
I throw myself back onto the bed, phone held above me like I'm trying to get oxygen.
"What the hell is wrong with me..." I mutter into the ceiling.
Why is he doing this? And why is my body reacting to him again?
Why does he know exactly how to corner me without even touching me?
I force myself to sit up, the towel slipping from my shoulders.
My thumb shakes as I type:
ace-txt:
I was in the shower. Calm down.
I hit send before I can think. No deleting this time.
Three dots appear immediately.
takato.kai-:
If you take this long to answer me again, I'll decide what you were doing.
I choke on my own breath.
What I was...doing? I'm gonna bite through my own tongue. I lock my phone before I embarrass myself further and throw it beside me on the bed. It lands face down again, like it's mocking me.
And then I pick the phone right back up.
Because I can't not.
I tell myself I just want to think of a reply:
ace-txt:
You're imagining things. I'm allowed to take a few minutes.
My chest isn't steady. My pulse isn't sensible. I can still feel the heat of the shower on my skin, like my body hasn't figured out it's over. Of course he picks up on it. Of course he does.
The typing bubble pops up instantly.
He didn't even hesitate.
And that means he was watching the chat. Waiting. Counting the minutes like he owns them.
My throat goes tight.
He sends:
takato.kai-:
37 mins in the shower? You weren't washing your hair that whole time.
The next bubble drops a second later, like he wanted to make sure I saw it.
takato.kai-:
Well?
takato.kai-:
Whatever you were doing... You didn't finish it properly. You still seem pretty worked up.
I tell myself I'm being cautious. Smart. Controlled.
takato.kai-:
Your silence tells me everything I need to know.
I told you not to keep me waiting…
But I know the truth:
I'm hooked. On the messages. On the tension. On him. On the way every *ping* on my phone feels like another hit.
21:47
My phone screen burns in the dark.
Deleted. Redownloaded.
Kai's gym story replays and glows between my fingers; his sweat-slick collarbone, the flex of his arm as he adjusts his sleeve. I told myself never again. But here I am, thumb circling his wrist in the video like I can feel his skin under mine. The shame curdles low in my gut.
I hate him so much it aches.
Fuck me for zooming in harder than CSI enhancing evidence…
Fuck me for noticing how long his lashes are when they cast shadows like that…
Fuck me for getting off, standing up against my bedroom door after saying "this is pathetic" out loud three times first…
00:18
I tell myself it'll just be once more before bed when I open his profile again—except suddenly it's midnight, and there are three discarded tissues on the nightstand and an ache between my legs that borders on painful now.
I fell asleep somewhere close to 3 AM. The afternoon bled into the evening and then finally died into the night. My sense of time had betrayed me. Every struggle just turned into another relapse, another release, another cigarette, another shower. Rinse, repeat.
I told myself once again that it was just me trying to find a sense of control, just like when I have one of those days where I need to smoke.
Yeah, control—that's exactly what all of this is about.
Sunday hits like a weight on my chest. I wake to sunlight stabbing through the blinds, warm on my skin but cold in my stomach. My phone vibrates beside me. I know it's him before I even look.
takato.kai-:
Good morning.
I pretend not to notice, but my hand twitches. I pick it up anyway, thumb hovering. One tap. One second. That's all I can allow.
takato.kai-:
You're slow.
I roll my eyes at the ceiling. I lock the phone. Then unlock it. Then lock it again. I don't trust myself to wait more than thirty seconds.
Coffee doesn't help. Unsatisfying ramen burns in my mouth. I pace. Every buzz from the chat, every typing bubble, twists my obsession into pathetic desperation.
takato.kai-:
You're staring at the chat, aren't you?
I freeze. No. I'm not. My thumb hovers over the screen. But I am.
I type:
ace-txt:
Shut up.
takato.kai-:
I know.
The apartment feels smaller. The air is too thick. I try to read, listen to music, watch K-Dramas, anything to pull my mind off him, but my thoughts keep snapping back. The way he pressed against me. His hand hovering at my side. The way he smiled like he knew exactly what I was feeling.
takato.kai-:
Miss me yet?
I bite my lip. Yes. Fuck yes. But no. Calm down.
I type:
ace-txt:
Don't start.
takato.kai-:
Or what?
Or what indeed. My curiosity spikes. My anticipation twists. Every nerve is on fire. I pace. I check the phone again. Another look at his feed. Another ping from the chat. My body reacts before my brain even registers it.
I throw myself onto the bed, curling around the phone. I try to eat again. I fail. Every noise, every light flicker makes me flinch like he's there, watching, waiting.
The day drags. Coffee turns cold. The sky outside shifts from gold to dark. I scroll again. One glance. One message. Typing bubble. Heart thudding. Breath uneven.
takato.kai-:
I'll see you tomorrow, Ace.
The words are simple. Casual. Innocuous. And somehow, my guts flip like I've been dropped from a rooftop. I clutch the phone like it's a lifeline. My chest tightens, my pulse races. My weekend of obsession, of waiting, of spiralling, finally condenses into one thought:
I have to actually look him in the eye tomorrow.