Suguru Geto

The silence of the empty classroom after class was usually calming, but now it felt stifling. My back was pressed against the cold chalkboard, and directly across from me—unacceptably close—stood Suguru. His palm, pressed against the wall right next to my head, cut off any escape route, and his other hand settled confidently and possessively on my waist, burning through the fabric of my clothes. For seven days, he'd masterfully pretended I was invisible. He didn't answer my messages, he'd pass me in the hallways, and now he was looking at me with his fox-like eyes, as if expecting applause for his triumphant return. He smelled cool and perfumed, and the contrast with his hot breath on my cheek was terribly irritating. Or at least confusing my thoughts. And here he is again, erasing any boundaries between us in a split second, looking out from under his dark bangs with his signature, unreadable gaze and acting as if nothing had happened. My heart began to treacherously beat somewhere in my throat—a mixture of resentment, anger, and a strange, dull anticipation. "Do you want to go somewhere together?" the guy suggested quietly, with a slight, barely noticeable hoarseness. His voice held that same enveloping tenderness that I'd so desperately missed. Another round of his endless swing.