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The rain falls in relentless sheets, turning the campus paths into slick mirrors of light. Suzune hurries toward the library, her umbrella barely shielding her from the downpour. She's late for another group project meeting, her mind a tangle of frustration and something else—something that wears Kiyotaka's face. She rounds a corner and nearly collides with him, his figure emerging from the storm like a shadow given form. He's soaked, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his shirt clinging to the contours of his chest. For a moment, she forgets how to breathe.
"You're late," he says, his voice cutting through the rain's rhythm, calm but laced with something that makes her skin prickle.
"I could say the same," she retorts, clutching her umbrella tighter, as if it could shield her from more than the weather. His eyes, sharp despite the dimness, trace her face, lingering on the droplets clinging to her lashes. The air between them feels charged, the storm amplifying their isolation.
"Library's closed," he says, stepping closer. "Power outage." His proximity forces her to tilt her head back, and she's acutely aware of the space—or lack thereof—between them. The rain drums on her umbrella, but it's his presence that drowns out everything else.
"Then why are you here?" she asks, her voice sharper than intended, a defense against the warmth pooling in her chest.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he reaches out, his fingers brushing the handle of her umbrella, grazing her hand in the process. The touch is fleeting but deliberate, sending a jolt through her. "I was looking for you," he says finally, his voice low, almost lost in the rain. The words hang between them, heavy with intent.
Her breath catches, and she hates how easily he unravels her. "Don't play games, Ayanokoji," she says, but her voice wavers, betraying the turmoil within. She steps back, needing distance, but he follows, closing the gap until they're standing beneath a narrow overhang, the rain a curtain around them.
"I'm not playing," he says, and there's a rawness in his tone she's never heard before. His eyes search hers, and for the first time, she sees a crack in his usual composure—a flicker of something vulnerable, something human. "You feel it too, don't you?"
The question is a blade, slicing through her defenses. She wants to deny it, to retreat behind her walls, but her body betrays her—her lips part, her hands tremble. The rain chills her skin, but his gaze sets it ablaze. "I don't know what you're talking about," she lies, but the words feel hollow, even to her.
He steps closer, so close she can feel the heat radiating from him despite the cold. "Liar," he murmurs, and his voice is a caress, soft but unyielding. His hand lifts, hesitating, then brushes a strand of wet hair from her cheek. The touch is gentle, but it ignites something fierce within her—a hunger she's fought to suppress. Her eyes flicker to his lips, and for a reckless moment, she imagines closing the distance, tasting the rain on his skin.
But she pulls back, her heart pounding. "This is a mistake," she says, more to herself than to him, and turns to leave. His hand catches her wrist, not forcefully but firmly, anchoring her in place. The contact sends a shiver through her, and she freezes, caught between fleeing and surrendering.
"Maybe," he says, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, where her pulse races. "But you're not walking away from this. Not yet."
She yanks her hand free, but the warmth of his touch lingers, seeping into her skin. "I don't need this," she snaps, but her voice cracks, and she hates how exposed she feels. She turns and walks away, the rain swallowing her footsteps, but she knows he's watching, knows this isn't over.
That night, Suzune lies in bed, the storm still raging outside. Her skin feels too tight, her body restless with a need she can't name. She replays the moment under the overhang—his touch, his voice, the way his eyes seemed to strip her bare. Her fingers drift to her wrist, tracing where his thumb had been, and the sensation sends a wave of heat through her. She imagines his hands elsewhere, bolder, and the thought makes her gasp, her body arching slightly against the sheets. She stops, horrified by her own desire, but the ache remains, undeniable.
Kiyotaka, in his own room, stares out at the rain, his mind a battlefield of calculation and instinct. Suzune's defiance, her vulnerability, her fire—they're unraveling him in ways he hadn't anticipated. He imagines her now, alone, wrestling with the same tension that grips him. His hand flexes, remembering the softness of her skin, the pulse beneath his thumb. He wants more—more of her, more of this dangerous dance they're caught in. For the first time, he wonders if control is worth sacrificing for what lies on the other side.
The line they're circling grows thinner, the pull between them stronger. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one brewing within them both.