Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

McGill University has a way of making everything feel like it mattered more than it should.

Even the rain.

It comes down in a thin, determined sheet that morning — too polite to be a storm, too persistent to be ignored. The stone paths gleam under the rain, slick and faintly treacherous. Students move fast, heads down, as if the weather is a minor inconvenience in a life already overbooked.

Yuna Hase walks like she has nowhere to be late. Which, unfortunately, is not true. She doesn’t like being late — but if she is, like today, she’d rather die than let anyone catch it.

Her umbrella is angled just right against the rain, steady in her grip despite the occasional gust slipping between buildings. A cream coat falls to her knees, the sleeves already damp where the umbrella doesn’t quite cover. When the wind shifts, it brushes the fabric closer to her legs, catching briefly against her jeans before settling again. A scarf sits snug at her neck, keeping out most of the cold, though not all of it.

The damp still creeps in, settling lightly against her skin. She ignored it for a few steps, then finally tugs her sweater sleeves down over her hand, just enough to cover her knuckles without loosening her grip.

Her sneakers darken slightly against the wet pavement, socks just thick enough to hold the warmth. Her hair — straight, black, cut to her shoulders — stayed mostly in place beneath the umbrella, only the ends beginning to curl faintly from the rain. 

She crosses campus, her steps quick but measured, weaving cleanly through clusters of students moving in different directions. Her bag sits heavy on her shoulder, textbooks pressed against her side. A required course, one of those she has to take just to meet credit limits, nothing she had chosen to care about. Still, she read ahead last night anyway. Not because she needs to, but because starting unprepared feels worse than showing up late.

She reaches the building a few minutes later, slowing just enough to step out of the wind. The overhang catches most of the rain, turning the steady patter above her into something softer, more distant. Yuna closes her umbrella with a practiced flick, giving it a small tilt so the last of the rain runs off the fabric before she folds it tight.

Only then does she check the time.

Her left wrist turns inward, the motion small and familiar, revealing the thin silver watch tucked against her skin. A gift from her grandmother she left behind in Japan, for getting into McGill. Yuna doesn’t think about it often, but she doesn't like to forget where it came from either. 

9:12. Still fine. Not late enough to matter, just enough to make her highly aware of it.

She adjusts her grip on the umbrella handle, shifting it into her other hand as she takes a big breath in, and steps forward under the overhang.

Then someone walks straight into her.

No one falls. But the impact still comes through her shoulder sharper than she expects, enough to knock her slightly off rhythm. Not enough to send her stumbling, but enough that her body registers it before her mind could decide what it meant.

She feels the umbrella slip before she even sees it fall and hit the ground.

There is that dull, wet sound of fabric meeting concrete, a little heavier than it should’ve been because of the rain soaking into it. It rolls once after that, slow and slightly stubborn, like it doesn’t quite want to stop where it ended up, before coming to rest just out of easy reach.

Yuna exhales through her nose. “Seriously?” Yuna snaps, the words out before she even looks up.

“Sorry—” the voice starts, then pauses. “Actually, no. You walked into me.”

That makes her look at him. He is already looking at her when she lifts her gaze.

It doesn't feel staged, he isn't being mean intetionally. Just there, as if the collision had ended with both of them arriving at the same conclusion at the same time and he hadn’t yet decided to look away.

His eyes are blue, sharply so, the kind of color that feels almost out of place against the dull grey of a rainy afternoon, clear and direct in a way that makes it obvious he’s actually looking at her, not just through her.

Dark brown hair that looks like it's damp slightly unevenly from the rain, a few strands still clinging together at the ends, the rest falling the way it wants to rather than the way it has been told. Not messy in a careless sense, just uncorrected, like he hasn’t thought once about fixing it since stepping outside.

His face has that clean, defined structure some people seem to carry without trying. Straight nose, sharp jawline, the kind that makes expressions easy to read even when he isn’t saying much. Right now he looks mostly composed. Slightly amused, maybe. But not sorry.

Rainwater is still moving off him in uneven patterns. His raincoat — dark, heavier than it looked at first glance — is soaked in places where the rain had clearly stopped mattering to him at some point. It hangs with that slight weight fabric gets when it stops resisting water and just starts accepting it. Drops keep falling from the hem onto the ground in slow, inconsistent intervals, like the rain is still finishing its argument with him.

In his hand is a coffee cup that has clearly survived the initial impact better than expected, though not cleanly. The lid has come undone, just slightly off-centre, and coffee has already found its way out during the collision. It hit her coat first — cream fabric that had been dry seconds ago — now there was a spreading stain along her sleeve, dark and uneven, soaking in faster than she wanted to acknowledge. Yuna looks at it for a moment longer than she meant to.

Then back at him. The boy doesn’t look defensive, and he isn’t smiling either — in that careless way people do when they’ve already decided the whole thing is a joke. There’s also something about the way he holds himself, easy, unhurried, like the rain and the collision are both minor inconveniences at best.

And that, for some reason, makes the whole thing more annoying. For a second Yuna just stares at him.

“I walked into you?” she repeats.

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

A drop of rain slides down the back of her collar and she shifts faintly, already irritated enough without adding cold water to the list.

“You were cutting across the path,” she says, gesturing faintly toward the corner he had come from. The line of pavement there cuts diagonally through the courtyard — an obvious shortcut people take when they’re in a hurry.

He doesn’t even glance at it. “I always cut across the path.”

Yuna stares at him for a second longer than necessary, trying to decide whether he’s being deliberately difficult or if this is genuinely the logic he intends to stand by.

He studies her for another second, as if reconsidering the scene in his head.

“You were standing there a second ago,” he says finally, nodding faintly toward the spot just behind her shoulder. “Then you suddenly stepped straight into my path.”

Yuna lets out a short breath through her nose.

“That’s not what happened.”

“It is from where I was walking.”

“From where you were walking,” she repeats, the phrasing sounding increasingly ridiculous the longer she holds onto it. “You mean the part where you cut across the middle of the walkway like you’re the only person using it?”

“I told you,” he says, still maddeningly calm, “I always cut across the path.”

“That’s not the defense you think it is.”

The quiet confidence in the answer irritates her more than the accusation itself. She lowers her arm then, glancing briefly at the sleeve of her coat where the coffee stain has spread further into the cream fabric, the warmth of it fading now.

“This,” she says, lifting her arm just enough for him to see it properly, “was dry about thirty seconds ago.”

His gaze follows the motion without any sign of surprise, settling on the stain before drifting back up to her face.

“That’s unfortunate,” he says.

Yuna lets out a small breath through her nose. “Unfortunate,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

There’s a brief pause after that, the sound of rain against the overhang filling the space between them while students pass further down the path without paying much attention.

“You’re not even a little apologetic,” she says finally.

“I did start with sorry.”

“And then you took it back.”

“I wouldn’t have,” the answer arriving with the same calm certainty he’s used for everything else so far. “If you’d been a little nicer about it, I probably would’ve just apologised and kept walking.” he says a moment later, “I am glad you weren't.”

Yuna blinks once, genuinely taken aback by the logic of that statement. “Why,” she asks slowly, hearing the incredulity creeping into her own voice, “would I be nice about you bumping into me?”

The guy doesn’t look particularly troubled by the question. If anything, there’s a steadiness in his expression, as though he finds the discussion more interesting than inconvenient. “You bumped into me too,” he says. 

For a moment Yuna is just trying to decide whether he actually believes that or whether he’s simply decided this is the version of events he intends to defend.

She exhales slowly through her nose, forcing some of the irritation out of her chest before it has the chance to take root. This is pointless. The argument stopped moving forward several minutes ago and now they’re just circling the same claim from opposite directions, neither of them prepared to concede the ground.

Meanwhile the rain hasn’t stopped, and she’s still standing here wasting time.

More annoyingly, she realises she’s becoming too aware of things she would much rather ignore. His eyes, for instance, the way he watches her when she speaks, steady and attentive. The slight shape of his mouth when he pauses between words, as though he’s constantly holding back a smile he hasn’t quite decided to show.

Yuna lets out another breath, quieter this time, the decision settling into place as she does. This is clearly not going anywhere.

“You know what,” she says, her voice calmer now, the irritation smoothing into something cooler and more controlled, “We’re clearly not going to agree on what just happened. But my coat is the one with coffee on it, so I’m comfortable with my version.”

David’s expression changes slightly, not quite surprised but clearly not expecting that answer.

She holds his gaze for another moment before continuing. “So you’re not going to apologise,” she says finally. “Got it.”

Satisfied, Yuna gives a small, final nod, as though the matter has been settled to her complete satisfaction. Then she turns and steps away from the overhang, moving toward the hallways without another glance in his direction.

The warmth of the building greets her the moment she pushes through the doors, the faint scent of wet coats and old wood settling over the entryway as students filter in from the rain. Yuna moves quickly through the corridors, slipping past clusters of conversation and the occasional backpack left too far out in the walkway. By the time she reaches the lecture hall and pulls the door open, the room is already mostly full.

She makes it to her seat just seconds before the professor enters. Eden is already there.

Eden looks exactly the way she always does — composed, immaculate, as though the weather outside had politely decided not to involve her at all. Not a strand of her hair is out of place, the dark waves pinned back just enough to frame her face without ever threatening to fall loose. Today she’s wearing one of her usual jewel tones, a deep emerald blouse that catches the light whenever she moves, the color deliberate and rich in a way that always makes the rest of the room look slightly dull by comparison.

There’s an easy elegance to the way she sits, too, one arm resting lightly against the desk, posture straight without ever appearing rigid. Eden has the kind of confidence that doesn’t announce itself outright. It simply exists, smooth and unhurried, like water finding its level.

She glances over the moment Yuna drops into the seat beside her.

“You’re late,” Eden murmurs, her voice pitched low enough not to carry.

Yuna exhales quietly, still shrugging her bag off her shoulder, then her coat. “Some asshole bumped into me outside the building.”

Eden’s eyebrow lifts with mild interest, as though she’s just been handed a small piece of entertainment for the afternoon.

Before she can respond, someone clears their throat beside them.

The sound is low, but something about it lands with immediate, unpleasant familiarity. Yuna feels the recognition before she even turns, a small tightening in her chest as the memory of the voice clicks into place. Slowly, she shifts her gaze toward the aisle.

Of course. It’s him.

He’s standing there in the narrow space beside their row, his raincoat now slung loosely over one arm. Without it, the rest of him comes into clearer view: a worn McGill sweatshirt layered over a white T-shirt that peeks slightly at the collar, the hem just visible beneath it, and a pair of jeans that look equally indifferent to the weather outside. In one hand he’s holding something that takes her a second too long to recognise. Her umbrella.

“You forgot this,” he says, holding it out toward her.

Before she can decide what to say, the professor’s voice cuts cleanly across the room. “Is there a reason you’re standing in the aisle?”

Several heads turn.

The boy glances briefly toward the front of the room, then back down at their row, as if the question requires only the smallest amount of consideration.

His gaze moves from Yuna to Eden. “Could you just scoot over?”

He says it with such calm certainty, like it’s the most reasonable request in the world, that both of them moves to make space for him without thinking. Eden shifts slightly to the side, and Yuna follows the movement a second later, adjusting her bag as she makes room.

It isn’t until the space opens and he steps neatly into the seat beside Yuna that the realisation hits. Why did she just do that? She hadn’t even argued.

The thought lingers just long enough for her to feel faintly annoyed with herself.

He settles into the seat, then he leans slightly forward, extending his hand past Yuna toward Eden, completely bypassing her. “Hi,” he says. “I’m the asshole who bumped into her in front of the building.”

Eden blinks once before the corner of her mouth lifts in amusement. She takes his hand without hesitation. “Eden,” she says.

He dips his head once at Eden, the acknowledgment brief but polite. Then his gaze returns to Yuna, calm and direct in a way that suggests he’s entirely comfortable sitting down beside someone he’d been arguing with only minutes ago. This time he offers his hand to her. “David Hollander.”

Yuna meets his eyes. Up close, the blue is even more noticeable, clear and steady in a way that suggests he’s perfectly comfortable holding her gaze for as long as it takes. His hand remains outstretched, unhurried, and after a moment she accepts it, the handshake brief before she lets go again. “Yuna Hase.”

The first thing David noticed about Yuna Hase — aside from the fact that she is very clearly still annoyed with him — was that she is, objectively speaking, one of the prettiest people he has ever seen in his entire life.

To be fair, it isn’t the kind of prettiness that you notice right away. If anything, it takes a second to settle in. The sort of face you notice once and then keep noticing again, every time from a slightly different angle. The dark hair, the sharp, composed lines of her expression, the way her eyes narrow just a fraction whenever she thought someone had said something particularly dumb.

Which, in his experience so far, seems to happen most often when he is the one speaking.

Oddly enough, the expression suits her.

In fact, the more annoyed she becomes, the more interesting she looks — like irritation sharpening something already precise about the way she carries herself. Most people become less attractive when they are angry. Yuna Hase appears to be doing the opposite.

What David still can’t quite figure out was how he managed not to notice her before.

McGill isn’t that big. Certainly not big enough for someone like her to move through it unnoticed for an entire semester. And yet until that collision outside the building — the rain, the coffee, the argument about whose fault it had actually been — he is fairly certain he had never seen her.

Now, however, she seems to be everywhere.

He caught glimpses of her crossing the quad between lectures. Another time outside the library steps, her braid swinging lightly behind her as she disappeared into the building before he could quite catch up. Once again near the student center, moving quickly through the doorway with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested she always had somewhere specific to be.

Each time he noticed her a fraction too late to actually catch up. Which is unfortunate, because there was still the matter of the coat. The coat is different now. Green plaid instead of cream, which he suspects is not a coincidence.

Technically speaking, she had walked into him too. He maintains that position with complete confidence. But the coffee had landed on her sleeve. And David had a strong sense of responsibility about things like that.

Which was how he eventually found himself walking a little faster across the lower campus one afternoon after spotting the now-familiar green plaid coat ahead of him, weaving steadily through the midday crowd.

“Yuna,” he calls, not loudly, but she clearly hears him.

She slows. Just enough to turn her head slightly over her shoulder, the look she gives him carries the immediate, unmistakable recognition of someone who had been hoping very much not to run into him again so soon.

And yet, to David, she looks unfairly better than she did the last time.

It strikes him all at once, a quiet, involuntary thing, like a breath he didn’t mean to take. There’s something about her today that settles deeper under his skin. Maybe it’s the way the coat hangs open just enough to reveal the navy knit beneath, soft and close-fitting, paired with jeans the same shade, cinched at the waist with a brown belt that echoes the weight of the bag at her side. The bag looks full, and he finds himself wondering what she’s carrying, as if the answer might explain the faint tension in her posture.

Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s her face.

There’s no obvious makeup, at least none he can name. If she is wearing any, it disappears into her skin so completely it feels like a trick of the light rather than intention. Her lips, though, are such a betrayal — flushed, almost bitten red, as if she’s been worrying them between her teeth. And her eyelashes, he notices those too, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, dark and fanned, framing eyes he is suddenly trying very hard not to look at for too long.

He tells himself it’s just observation. Just coincidence. Just the way people look different on different days. But the truth finds its place anyway. She seems more beautiful to him now than she did before. More than yesterday. More than the last time he tried to forget her.

It tightens something in his chest, quick and with a jolt, a small, private ache he doesn’t have time to examine.

David catches up a moment later, falling into step beside her as though this had been the plan all along.

“You were right,” he tells her calmly.

She looks at him the way one might look at a person who has just begun speaking in the middle of an entirely different conversation. “You have to be a little more specific.”

“The coat,” he says. “I should get it cleaned.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes move over him instead, slow and deliberate, measuring rather than curious, as though she’s testing the edges of him for weakness, looking for a tell, a crack, anything that might betray what he’s not saying. 

The look lingers, and though it should unsettle him, it does something else entirely, settles warm and quiet beneath his ribs. He becomes aware of himself all at once — his posture, his voice — and almost, stupidly, straightens into it, like the attention is something to be earned, before stopping himself, keeping the shift small enough to go unnoticed.

Whatever she’s looking for, she doesn’t comment on it. “It’s fine,” she says at last.

“I don’t think it is,” he replies, too quick to let it go. “There’s — something on the sleeve. You didn’t notice?”

“I noticed.” Her tone flattens as she starts walking again, like that settles it. “It’s fine.”

She doesn’t look back to see if he follows. He does. “I can take it,” he says, falling into step beside her, matching her pace a half-second too late. “There’s a place nearby. It won’t take long.”

“No.” The answer comes clean, immediate. She adjusts the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder without breaking stride.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“David.” There’s a warning in it this time — not sharp or raised, just the quiet patience of someone who already knows exactly where this conversation is going and doesn’t particularly want to walk through it again.

“I’ll bring it back,” he goes on anyway, words starting to crowd each other as he keeps pace with her, the words starting to overlap themselves. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

A couple passes them going the other way; she shifts slightly to avoid them, forcing him to step closer than he means to. He notices it only because he’s close — her perfume so faint it almost isn’t there, something clean with the slightest hint of sweetness, like it was never meant to be noticed at all. Which, somehow, makes it worse that he does.

“I’m not giving you my coat.”

He exhales, but doesn’t stop. “If it sets.”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Her pace doesn’t change, but there’s a subtle tightening in it now, each step landing a little more decisively, like she’s trying to walk out of the conversation entirely. He stays with her anyway.

That, finally, makes her stop. “You’re not going to drop this,” she says.

He doesn’t answer. Her shoulders dip the smallest amount, like the fight has already bored her. “Fine.”

He doesn’t let it show. If anything, he smooths it out — his expression settling into something deliberately neutral, almost indifferent, as though her “fine” hasn’t changed anything at all in him. He keeps his gaze steady on her, not too eager, not too relieved, careful with every small detail of himself like they might give him away. Inside, though, there’s a quick, warm lift he has to immediately press down, holding it in place before it can reach his face, before it can turn into anything she might notice.

“Stop smiling,” Yuna says, rolling her eyes as she changes direction, as if he has already taken up more space than necessary.

David doesn’t talk much after that. He falls into step beside her, then slightly behind her when the path narrows, letting her set the pace without argument. The campus around them stays active — people drifting between buildings, talking in small clusters, the loose rhythm of daytime life continuing as if nothing important is happening at all. He keeps his attention on that instead of her, because looking at her too directly feels like a risk he doesn’t want to take. Like she might decide, mid-step, that she’s changed her mind.

The dorm comes into view gradually as the path curves toward it, a broad brick building set slightly back from the walkway, its tall windows glowing softly against the gray afternoon. Students drift in and out through the front doors in the loose rhythm of campus life — some heading inside with backpacks slung over their shoulders, others lingering on the wide concrete steps. A couple sits there shoulders touching. Nearby, someone bursts into laughter a little too loudly, the sound carrying across the courtyard before dissolving into the general hum of voices and movement.

Inside, the air is different immediately — warmer, quieter, carrying the low, constant hum of people living close together. The hallway stretches out ahead of them, narrow and softly lit, doors lining both sides in an even row. Some are scuffed from years of use; others have small personal touches taped or pinned to them — notes, photos, scraps of decoration — details that blur together as they pass. David follows a step behind her without speaking, watching the easy certainty with which she moves through the space.

Her room is halfway down the corridor on one of the middle floors. She stops in front of the door, unlocks it with a quick, practiced motion, and steps inside without turning to see if he’s still behind her.

David hesitates only a moment before following.

The room opens up around a wide window set into the far wall, the glass dark now with the early evening outside. Two narrow halves spread out on either side of it, the space arranged with the quiet symmetry typical of dorm rooms — two beds, two desks, two wardrobes, each claiming its own stretch of wall as if the room has been divided down the middle.

The window sits between the two desks like neutral territory, it's still crowded with small things that have accumulated over time — a couple of plants, a mug, scattered odds and ends that catch the soft light from the lamps inside. Beneath it, the desks face outward toward the glass, chairs tucked close, notebooks and cables resting where they’ve been left.

The beds run along opposite walls, one side a little more orderly than the other, blankets folded with a kind of casual precision that suggests habit rather than effort. The rest of the room carries the signs of two people living in close proximity — jackets draped over chair backs, books stacked in uneven piles, maps and posters pinned to the walls in overlapping corners.

It doesn’t feel cluttered so much as settled, like the room has slowly adjusted to the rhythm of its occupants. David doesn’t have to think long about which half belongs to Yuna.

Yuna walks further into the room without ceremony, heading straight for the built-in wardrobe set into the wall. She pulls it open with a practiced motion and starts searching inside, as if she already knows exactly where the coat has ended up.

With her attention elsewhere, David finally lets his own drift.

Yuna’s side pulls his attention in a different way. It’s the clarity of it. There are smaller things, too. A narrow bookmark tucked into one of the books, patterned with delicate waves and characters he can’t quite read. A small porcelain dish near the window holding a pair of earrings and a thin silver watch. A couple of paper charms pinned neatly beside a map on the wall, their writing unfamiliar but arranged carefully, like they belong exactly where they are.

His gaze moves across the desk almost absently. That’s when he notices the framed photograph on her desk.

He doesn’t mean to pick it up. His hand reaches for it before the thought has quite finished forming, lifting the frame just enough to bring it closer. It’s a simple, practical black frame, very much in keeping with the rest of her space. Inside it, a family stands close together, posed in the careful stillness of people who know the camera is watching.

Inside the frame, a family sits gathered together on the wooden step of a house. A man sits slightly behind the others, one arm resting loosely on the back of the chair beside him, watching the camera with the calm patience of someone used to standing just outside the center of the moment. In front of him, a woman sits with a child balanced comfortably on her knee, her smile open and easy, the kind that looks like it arrived before they were posing for the camera.

Beside them, another child leans into the frame from the side, head tilted at an angle that feels more playful than posed, like they had only just been coaxed into holding still.

David studies it a second longer than he probably should. Yuna returns from the wardrobe at the same time, coat now in her hand. She pauses when she sees what he’s holding, but doesn’t comment immediately.

“Is this your family?” he asks, turning the frame slightly so she can see what he means.

“Yes,” she says simply, stepping closer. She doesn’t stop at a polite distance; she moves into his space to look at the photo with him. He can smell that faint scent again, and it’s enough to make his hands feel clumsy. “My parents and my brother.”

His gaze flicks back to the photo, voice is quieter here, softened by the proximity. “Your brother looks almost the same age as you.”

“Yeah,” she says, her shoulder nearly brushing his arm as she reaches out to trace the edge of the frame. “He’s my twin.”

That makes him look again, more carefully this time, as if the picture might rearrange itself under closer inspection. There’s a tiny, nearly invisible beauty spot just near the corner of her mouth that he hadn't seen before. “Twin?”

“We’re not identical,” she adds before he can say anything else.

“Right,” he says, almost to himself. “Clearly not.” He looks back at the picture again, like it’s become slightly more complicated than it was a minute ago. “Are you from here?” he asks.

Yuna shifts the coat in her hands. “No. We moved when I was eleven.”

“Where from?”

“Japan,” she says after a small pause, like she’s choosing the simplest possible version of the answer, not elaborating. “You?” she asks instead.

“I am from Ottawa.” He hesitates, then pushes a little further, quieter this time. “What do your parents do?”

There’s a short pause as she adjusts her grip on the coat. “Dad’s a civil engineer,” she says. “He works for the government. Mom’s a nurse at the Montreal General.”

He nods, absorbing it. “And your brother?”

Before she can answer, a boy steps in, already mid-sentence, the words dying on his tongue as he takes in the scene in one sweeping glance — Yuna holding the coat, David holding the frame like he’s been caught in a trespass.

If Yuna is all sharp lines and composed stillness, her brother is the volume turned up. He’s tall, intimidatingly so, with a relaxed, broad-shouldered frame that seems to claim every inch of the doorway.

He looks like he’s just come from the city, wearing a heavy, oversized denim jacket over a simple white henley and baggy camouflage trousers that pool slightly over his white trainers. A backwards baseball cap keeps his dark hair off a face that is almost unfairly handsome — sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and an expression that suggests he finds the entire world slightly amusing.

​His eyebrows lift, his gaze darting from the photograph in David’s hand to David’s face. “Why’s there a white boy in your room?”

Yuna doesn’t react much. Just a small pause, then a few words in Japanese that come out quick and even, too natural for David to follow. Yuta answers just as easily, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe like he owns the space in the same way she does, only louder about it. 

David tries not to stare. As an only child, sibling dynamics have always fascinated him. His eyes flick back to the framed photo on the desk, then up to the boy's face again. The structure of the features is the same — the doe shape of the eyes and that precise, slightly guarded look — but where Yuna is a quiet, steady burn, her brother is a flash of light. So that’s him.

He sets the frame down carefully, a little more gently than he needs to.

“Hi,” David says, shifting to face him fully. He extends a hand. “David Hollander.”

The boy looks at the hand for half a second, then takes it — fast, firm grip, no hesitation. “Yuta.”

His gaze doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens slightly as he adds, “What’s the hockey captain doing here?”

David blinks once, then lets out a small, surprised huff. “Oh, you follow the games?”

​“He plays football,” Yuna cuts in from the side. Her tone is easy, like correcting an error in David’s assumption. She isn't being unkind.

Yuta doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay locked on David, waiting with a heavy, expectant silence.It takes David a beat to realise the original question is still hanging in the air, unanswered.

​“Right,” David says, recovering his footing. “I accidentally spilled coffee on Yuna’s coat a couple of days ago. I finally convinced her to let me get it fixed. It’s only right.”

It isn’t identical to Yuna’s, and doesn't have the same effect on David either. Yuta inspects him, his head tilting a fraction of a degree as his eyes travel from the height of David’s shoulders down to his feet. ​It’s the kind of silence that makes you acutely aware of your own heartbeat, or the way your weight is shifted slightly too far onto one leg. David finds himself almost straightening his spine, a reflexive urge to meet that polished intensity with something equally solid.

​Yuta lets the moment stretch a second too long, just to see if David will break the silence first. When David doesn't, Yuta finally lets a tiny, knowing smirk tug at the corner of his mouth — not entirely a friendly one.

​David holds the gaze without flinching, meeting that scrutiny with the steady, quiet grit of someone used to standing his ground on the ice.

“That’s nice of you,” Yuta finally says, as if granting approval. Then, immediately after, like it’s the most natural thing in the world: “I will walk you out.”

It’s a brief, matter-of-fact motion. David feels the surprising weight of the wool as it leaves her hands and settles into his, the fabric still holding a faint, lingering warmth from being tucked away in her wardrobe. It feels oddly intimate, standing in her space, holding her things, while her brother watches them like a hawk.

​As her fingers brush against his during the hand-off, she doesn't pull away immediately. She just gives a small, decisive nod, as if the transaction is complete and his presence in the room has officially expired.

​David hesitates, the words for a proper goodbye catching in his throat. He wants to say something that justifies lingering — something that might leave the door open just a fraction wider — but Yuta is already turning on his heel, his oversized denim jacket swaying with the movement.

​“Right,” David says, his voice a little lower than he intended. “Thanks.”

David follows Yuta out, the coat heavy in his arms. Their footsteps fall into a rhythm that feels strangely familiar — Yuta’s stride is a mirrored, broader version of Yuna’s, and it makes it impossible for David to think about anything else.

​They clear the dorm entrance, the heavy door thudding shut behind them. The outside air is colder, catching in David's lungs as the muffled hum of the building fades into the distance.

​Yuta stops dead, turning just enough to catch David in his periphery. He keeps his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his gaze is direct.

“You weren’t there just for the coat, were you?” he asks, not looking at David when he says it.

​​David stops a pace behind him, the folded wool between his hands. He considers lying for a split second, but under Yuta’s level stare, it feels pointless. “No,” he admits. “I was there for the coat.” Then, more honestly, “But only because I’m trying to get to know your sister better.”

Yuta nods like that fits neatly into a box he already had prepared for. As if the answer is neither surprising nor particularly interesting.

He is fully turning to face David now. The afternoon sun catches the sharp edge of his jaw, and for a moment, the family resemblance is so striking it’s disorienting.

​“Okay,” Yuta says, his voice dropping into something lower. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen up.”

​David’s posture tightens a fraction, but he doesn’t interrupt. “Do not embarrass my sister.” It's not a threat, not exactly. 

​“That’s not —” David starts, the denial automatic, before he catches himself. He takes a breath, choosing his words with more care. “That’s not what this is.”

​Yuta watches him, his gaze heavy and unblinking, as if he’s peeling back the layers of David’s expression to see what’s underneath. He lets the silence drag, long enough to be uncomfortable, before he finally shrugs.

​“Yuna is boring,” he says plainly, the lie coming out so smooth it almost sounds like the truth. “The amount of effort it would take, it’s just not worth it. Forget about me; she’ll completely ruin you if you even try to pull something like that.”

​He pauses, his hand already reaching for the door handle, then adds as if it’s a casual afterthought, “Though you shouldn’t take me out of the equation either.”

​David lets out a sharp, quiet huff of air — half-disbelief, half-amusement. “Duly noted,” he says, his voice steadying. “But like I said. That’s not what this is.”

​“Right.” Yuta gives a small, dismissive wave over his shoulder, already disengaged, his mind already moving on to whatever is back inside that room. “But I warned you, alright? See you around.”

​He disappears back into the building without a second look, leaving David alone in the sudden, sharp quiet of the quad.

David watches him go for a moment longer than necessary. He exhales, slower this time, the kind of breath that carries off more than just the conversation. For a second, he just stands there, the space Yuta left behind feeling oddly abrupt, like something ended a little earlier than it was supposed to.

He starts walking in the opposite direction. He doesn’t think Yuta disliked him or anything, he didn't even ask David to stay away. But he feels unsettled. His grip changes slightly on the coat in his hands as he walks, the folded fabric reminding him he hasn’t actually lost any opportunity, if anything, he still has a reason to go back. A practical, legitimate one.

The thought settles in slowly. It’s not much, but it’s enough to change the shape of the moment in his head. A small, quiet lift comes with it before he can stop it. He looks down at the coat once, adjusts it slightly in his hands, and keeps walking. 

Alright. He’ll see her again.

The arena always feels the same to Yuna, no matter who is playing.

The arena always carries the same sterile, biting chill — the kind that settles into your marrow and stays there long after you’ve left the building. To Yuna, it isn’t a place of excitement so much as a collection of familiar physics: the unapologetic glare of the overhead lights reflecting off the fresh sheet of ice, and the steady, low-frequency churn of the crowd that rises and falls with a predictability she could map in her sleep.

​She sits between Eden and Yuta, all three of them bundled against the stands, her chin tucked into the collar of her coat. Below, the players move in a blur of primary colours, their skates carving pale, rhythmic arcs across the surface. The sound is a constant — the sharp clack of sticks against the ice and the hollow, percussive thud of bodies hitting the boards.

​Hockey has always been like this for her — not a passion she discovered, but a language she was forced to learn. Montreal Metros games with her father, her breath blooming in the cold air. Yuta complaining about the price of chips until the puck got close enough to matter. The late-night drone of the broadcast from the living room, half-watched, half-lived.

​Even now, here, it feels like an inescapable continuation of that.

Eden leans slightly toward her, breaking the rhythm of Yuna’s thoughts. “So,” she says, her tone light but pointed, “have you told Hollander that you’ve known exactly who he is the entire time?”

​Yuna doesn’t look away from the ice. A player takes a slow loop near the boards, testing his edge control. “No.”

​A pause stretches between them, thick with Eden’s skepticism.

​It isn’t entirely untrue. You don’t go to enough McGill games — home and away — without learning the names that matter. Captains. Top-line forwards. The names the commentators lean on when the play gets desperate. David Hollander had been one of those names, gradually, over time, without any real effort on her part. A byproduct of showing up too often to ignore it.

But in Yuna’s mind, knowing of someone is a world away from actually knowing them.

​“That’s not true,” she adds after a beat, her gaze anchored to the red line. “I don’t know him.”

​From the corner of her eye, she sees Eden tilt her head. ​“Uh-huh,” Eden says. She stretches the sound out, letting it hang in the cold air between them just long enough to make it clear she isn't buying it.

Yuna doesn’t respond. She simply pulls her coat tighter, focusing on the ice, refusing to acknowledge the way the name Hollander now feels a little too heavy in her head. Beside her, Yuta lets out a piercing whistle.

​On the ice, David looks up. His eyes scan the stands, searching for the source of the noise, and then they lock onto her. Immediately.

Yuna barely has time to register it before he’s moving — skating toward the boards with a directness that doesn’t match the flow of warm up, ignoring something a coach seems to call after him. David stops right below them, the spray of ice shavings hitting the boards with a hiss. He looks up, and the distance between the ice and the stands seems to vanish entirely.

“Yuna,” he says. He pushes his helmet up slightly, breath still uneven from the ice. “Are you guys here for me?” The question lands so openly, so stripped of the usual ego people carries around, that it catches Yuna off guard.

Yuna doesn’t answer right away. ​“Sorry to burst your bubble,” Eden interjects, leaning forward with a smile that’s a little too knowing. “But we’re here every home game. Yuna’s a regular.”

David doesn't even blink. He doesn't look at Eden, doesn't acknowledge the crowd, doesn't even notice the coach blowing a whistle somewhere behind him. He stays anchored to Yuna. “Is that so?” he asks, and the word carries a weight that makes Yuna feel like the floor is shifting.

Yuna feels it then — that immediate, inconvenient awareness of him. He’s looking at her with a focus that doesn't give her anywhere to hide. He’s half inside the game, half out of it, and the sheer physicality of him is a disruption to everything she’s decided her life should be.

Her life is mapped out. It’s a series of clear, intentional lines that don't allow for unpredictable threads — especially not threads that look like a boy in a hockey jersey waiting for her to speak.

Eden glances between them, sensing it too, and exhales quietly through her nose like she’s already decided this is going to be entertaining whether Yuna wants it to be or not.

Yuna, for her part, doesn’t know what to do with the shape of this chemistry.

​“There’s a party tonight,” David says, his voice cutting through the noise. “You should come. All of you.”

He’s looking at her as if they’re the only two people in the arena. Yuna finds her voice, her lips curving into a thin, challenging smile, but she makes sure it has an edge.

​“Only if you win,” she says, her tone cool and collected. “I don’t go to losers’ parties.”

​David’s expression breaks into a wide, genuine grin — one that crinkles the corners of his blue eyes and makes Yuna’s heart do something unmanageable against her ribs.

​“In that case,” he says, snapping his helmet back into place with a decisive click. “I will make sure to win.”

​He taps the glass once with his glove — a light, playful thud that vibrates through the boards and into Yuna’s fingertips — and then he’s gone, pushing off and disappearing back into the blur of the team.

Yuna's eyes follows him without meaning to.

“A party sounds fun,” Yuta says, breaking the silence. Eden nods in agreement.

​“Well, we can just go to a different one,” Yuna says, her voice coming out a little sharper than she intends. “There are plenty of other places to go. Just not his.”

​Yuta stops mid-stretch and rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall out of his seat. He looks at her for a long, flat second, weighing the sheer absurdity of her stubbornness. He wants to argue, she can feel the retort forming behind his teeth, but then he lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh and concedes.

​He doesn't have a choice. She has exactly two minutes of seniority on him, a technicality she has wielded like a shield since they were children.

​“Fine,” Yuta grumbles, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “We’ll go find a party where no one knows how to play hockey. Happy?”

​Yuna doesn’t answer. She knows she’s being difficult, she can feel the jagged edges of her own personality catching on everything around her, but she doesn’t know how to not be. Being difficult is the only thing keeping her safe from the way David Hollander just looked at her.

The rink feels different once the puck drops. She watches David on the wing, hating the way her pulse hitches whenever he touches the puck. She wants him to lose, purely so she can walk away with her stupidly placed ego intact. And yet, every time he breaks into a sprint, there’s a traitorous, frantic part of her that wants to see exactly how far he can go.

​David, white '24' on the back of his jersey as he takes a pass across the neutral zone with a magnetic sort of grace.

​“He’s good,” Yuta mutters. He leans forward, his chin resting on his gloved hand, looking genuinely annoyed. “He is kinda boring off the ice. But something like a beast out there”

​Eden hums, but she isn’t looking at the play. She’s watching the white-knuckle grip Yuna has on the strap of her bag. “It’s the competence,” Eden says, her voice low and teasing. “Hard to ignore a man who actually knows what he’s doing with his stick.”

​“Shut up, Eden,” Yuna says, her eyes glued to the red line.

​On the ice, a Concordia defenseman steps up at the blue line. It’s a collision that should have ended the play, but David absorbs it. He turns his shoulder just enough to keep the play alive, his skates carving a jagged, desperate line through the slush.

​Everything compresses — sticks cutting through space, players converging in a blur of primary colours. Then, David finds the gap. It’s a pass threaded through traffic so tight it shouldn't exist, followed by a snap of the wrist that Yuna feels in her own bones.

​The net snaps. The arena stays silent for a heartbeat of pure disbelief before it erupts.

​The roar rolls upward in a wave, vibrating through the glass and straight into Yuna’s chest. In the corner, players swarm David, gloves slapping his helmet in a chaotic celebration. Instinctively, he turns toward the stands, and looks at her.

Yuna finds herself half-standing before she can stop herself, her breath caught in the back of her throat.

​“Well,” Eden says, leaning back with a victorious little exhale. “That’s inconvenient for you. Looks like you’re going to a party, Yun.”

​“It’s one goal,” Yuna snaps, finally blinking and forcing herself to sit back down. “The game is long. Anything can happen.”

​“He’s literally looking at you right now,” Yuta says, gesturing vaguely at the ice. “He’s going to manifest a win just to spite you. It’s embarrassing for all of us.”

The rest of the game is a slow, agonizing slide into the inevitable. Concordia ties it, and for a moment, Yuna feels a sharp, shameful relief. If he loses, the thread is cut. She can go back to her life without this infuriating man. But then she sees him — sweaty, flushed a deep, frantic red, his chest heaving as he passes the glass. He looks exhausted, but his focus never wavers.

​He’s playing like he has something to prove, and the terrifying truth is that she’s the only one who knows what it is.

​By the third period, Yuna’s obsession has moved past observation into something much more visceral. She’s tracking his every shift, counting his minutes on the ice, noticing the way his hair mats under his helmet. It’s messy. It’s unpredictable. It’s everything she’s spent years avoiding.

​When Concordia pulls their goalie for a desperate six-man press, the tension in the stands is suffocating.

​“If they score now, we can go get ramen and forget this happened,” Yuta suggests, though even he looks tense.

​“He won’t let them,” Yuna says. The words are out before she can filter them.

​Eden and Yuta both turn to look at her. Yuna stares straight ahead, her face a mask of stone.

​On the ice, David intercepts a stray pass at the blue line. He doesn't rush. He protects the puck with his body, his skates biting deep into the slush as he sends it the length of the ice. It slides into the empty net with a quiet, final grace.

​5–2.

The final horn cuts through the air, a long, mechanical release of tension. David doesn't celebrate with the usual theatrics. He just stands there, hunched over his knees, letting the game release him.

​He looks up at her. He doesn't smile, and he doesn't wave. He just waits, as if he’s waiting for her to acknowledge that the losers' party rule has officially been struck from the record.

​“Alright,” Yuta sighs, standing up and brushing the popcorns off his corduroy pants. “I guess we’re going to a hockey party. I hope there’s decent booze.”

​Eden stands too, bumping her shoulder against Yuna’s. “Coming, Yun? Or are you going to sit here until they turn the lights off?”

​Yuna looks down at the ice, at the boy who just broke her ego with a puck and a bit of grit. “I’m coming,” she says, her voice steadying.

​She has no idea what she’s doing. 

The locker room is loud in the way only winning rooms are — uncontained, and already shaking with the energy of what comes next. David sits on the bench for a beat longer than necessary, his gear half-off, gloves still clutching one hand. Sweat cools fast under his pads, a clammy reminder of the ice that makes the sudden silence in his own head feel too real.

​Someone shoves his shoulder. “Two goals and an empty-netter, Hollander. You trying to get scouted, or are you just showing off for someone?”

​David shrugs him off, yanking a skate free. “Just played the game,” he says.

The lie is automatic. He knows it, and from the look on his teammate’s face, the room knows it too. In the middle of the second period, he’d stopped thinking about systems and began thinking about a specific coordinate above the glass.

​By the time he leaves the arena, the night air is biting — sharp enough to reset his lungs, but not his head. He knows exactly where he’s going.

​The party is an off-campus house, the kind that feels too full before the music even starts. Inside, the lights are dimmed to a murky amber, the floor already tacky with spilled drinks, and the bass from the speakers thumping in the hollow of his chest. David steps in and tries to shed the winning captain skin, but it’s stuck to him.

​“Yo, Hollander!” A cup is pressed into his hand. He doesn't drink. Instead, he scans the room.

​He tells himself it’s just habit. The same way he tracks a trailing winger without looking back. But as he moves through the humid crush of bodies, his reading of the room keeps snagging on a single point of gravity.

​He sees her almost immediately.

​Yuna isn’t doing anything to stand out. Without the oversized coat, he can see the delicate strength of her shoulders in that tight, short-sleeved knit. The deep burgundy fabric is a provocateur, drawing his gaze to the sliver of skin at her midriff, disappearing into the low-slung waist of her mini skirt. Even the heavy knit of her tights feels intimate to him, a barrier he suddenly wants to touch. She’s just there, leaning against a doorframe with a drink she hasn't touched.

​David keeps moving. He floats through the surface-level version of himself, laughing at jokes he doesn't hear and accepting back-slaps that feel like they’re landing on someone else. But his internal compass is fixed. He notices every time she shifts. He knows she’s still there by the way the air in the room seems to settle around her.

At the center of the room, a drinking game erupts. David participates out of a dull sense of obligation, winning a round he doesn't care about. Then, he sees Eden lean in to whisper something to Yuna.

​Yuna’s expression changes to a tiny, microscopic flicker of a smile that shouldn't matter. It does something irritatingly simple to David's pulse. He actually takes a swallow of his drink this time, the cheap, stinging liquid grounding him.

He tells himself he isn't looking for her. But the excuse dies somewhere between the second cup and the third time he finds himself lingering in a doorway just to keep her in his periphery.

​He doesn't go to her. He doesn’t want to freak her out for starters. He knows how to wait for the right opening. He just… adjusts his position. A conversation in the kitchen, a laugh in the hallway, a casual lean against a wall that happens to be three feet closer to her than he was ten minutes ago.

​Winning night, a normal party. Except the room feels like a tilted floor, and he’s sliding toward her whether he likes it or not.

​Until, finally, the crowd thins in a doorway, the noise drops a fraction, and the space between them vanishes.

It’s late enough that the house has shifted. It was much louder earlier, now uneven. People in clusters instead of crowds. Music still playing but not commanding anything anymore.

David ends up on a couch in the side room. He sits back, forearms resting on the arm rests, half-listening to someone talk about a missed call on a penalty earlier like it still matters. He laughs at the right moment, like he’s present.

Then the room changes, the people leave him alone.

David feels her before he sees her, it's like a sudden, magnetic pressure against his skin. He looks up, and for half a second, his brain refuses to process the reality of her standing there.

As her gaze finds his, David moves. It’s a bit instinctive, a little territorial. He slides over, his hand dropping to the armrest beside him in a silent, heavy invitation. Come here.

Yuna ignores the space he made, choosing the armrest instead — a move that puts her inches from his shoulder and miles ahead of his expectations. She slides directly between his parted knees, settling her full weight onto the armrest. As she settles, she swings her legs over his lap, the heavy, espresso-coloured wool of her tights dragging across the rough denim of his jeans. The movement is fluid, efficient, and devastatingly intimate. There is no cushion, no polite distance; she’s just there, a sudden, blinding collision of heat pressing against him.

​David goes still, his breath hooking sharp in his throat. His blood is screaming. He doesn't move his legs. He doesn't pull back. Instead, he just tilts his head back against the couch, looking up at her with a raw, dark gaze that accepts the challenge.

​David doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but now it’s just inches from the curve of her waist, a dangerous proximity he can’t ignore.

Then, David commits. He looks into her dark, mirrored lenses, and in a single, fluid motion that feels like an off-speed pass, one hand slides under her arm, his palm flat and hot against her back as he hooks his fingers around the curve of her waist. At the same instant, without breaking the eye contact his other hand finds her knee. His fingers splaying over the espresso-toned tights as he draws her legs more firmly across his lap.

​"Hi," David says. His voice is a low, rough shadow of itself. ​“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he admits. 

Yuna glances at him sideways, her dark lenses reflecting nothing but the dim room. “You invited me.”

​“I invite a lot of people.” It’s a weak lie still he folds just as quick. It’s a dangerous play, but the proximity is stripping him of his usual filters. “No, I don’t.”

​Her shoulder brushing his bicep in a brief, electric contact that makes his jaw tighten. “You looked like you meant it.”

​David looks up at her properly, his gaze dropping to her mouth before snapping back to her eyes. “Yeah?”

​“I came because you won,” she says finally, her voice cool, factual.

​David huffs a quiet laugh. “So I only get you on good nights?”

​Yuna turns her head fully, her face inches from his. She smells of the rain outside and a sharp hit of something fresh, but underneath that, there’s something deeper — a sweetness that is mouth-watering but entirely clean, like sun-warmed fruit rather than anything cloying. It’s an intoxicating, heavy scent that makes his head spin more than the drinks ever could. “You think this is about you?”

​“Kind of feels like it right now,” he murmurs. He lets his arm drop, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. He doesn't pull her in, he will drop his hands if she asks her to. He can feel the heat of her skin through the layers, a steady, intoxicating burn.

​“You’re always like this after games?” she asks, her gaze sharpening.

​“Like what?”

​“Confident,” she says. “Or bored. I can’t tell which one you’re pretending to be.”

​David’s smile is slow, real, and heavy with the want he’s no longer trying to hide. “I’m not pretending, Yuna.”

She studies him, her eyes tracing the exhaustion in the lines of his face. “You played well,” she says. It’s the first time she’s offered him anything close to a compliment, and it hits him like a blow.

​“Careful,” he says, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle against her spine. “That almost sounds like you were impressed.”

​“I am not,” she whispers, though she doesn't pull away from his touch. “I am saying it as it is.”

​“As it is,” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave. The noise of the party — the shouting in the kitchen, the crashing bass — feels miles away. There is only the pressure of her leg against his and the heat of his hand on her back. “You always talk like you’re trying to keep distance from everything?”

​Yuna doesn't answer immediately. She leans into him, just a fraction, the movement so subtle he almost misses it. “You always talk like you’re trying to close it?”

​The air between them is thick, charged, and utterly ruined. David’s hand tightens slightly on her waist.

​“Your place is quieter?” she asks.

​The question is a match tossed into a room full of gasoline. David nods once, his eyes dark. “Yeah. Much quieter.”

​Yuna stands first, a fluid, decisive movement. David follows a beat later, the sudden absence of her heat making the room feel cold. They don't look at the crowd, nobody glances at them twice. They just move through the crush of bodies toward the door, two points of light finally collapsing into the same dark gravity.

Outside, the Montreal air is biting, sharper than it has any right to be after the humid crush of the house. They walk in a loaded silence, a long-held breath they’re both waiting to exhale.

The key clicks in his dorm lock with a heavy, finality. David steps in first and holds the door. The room is small, smelling of old wood, laundry detergent, and the slight tang of hockey tape. It’s a shared space, messy with the evidence of his real life: unmade sheets, a desk cluttered with textbooks, and his gear bag slumped in the corner.

Yuna steps inside, and as the door shuts, the world outside — the party, the standings, the noise — simply ceases to exist.

David drops his keys on the desk. The clack of metal on wood is the only sound in the room. He turns, leaning back against the edge of the desk, his arms loose but his body wired.

“You okay?” he asks. His voice is a low rasp, sounding more like the ice than the party.

“Yes,” Yuna says. She doesn't hesitate. She’s watching him with that same unnerving focus from the stands. “Are you?”

David exhales a jagged breath. “I just won a game,” he says, his eyes dark. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The accuracy of it hits him harder than a check. David pushes off the desk, closing the gap until he’s close enough to see the way the dim hallway light catches the fine plum weave of her sweater.

“You can leave, Yuna,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. It’s the last exit he’s going to offer her. “The door isn't locked.”

Yuna doesn't move toward the door. Instead, she steps into him, her hands coming up to rest against his chest. Her palms flat against the heavy cotton of his sweatshirt.

“Lock it,” she says.

That’s the end of the game. David’s hand finds her waist, his fingers curling into the fabric, pulling her flush against him. He’s spent the night in a world of collisions, but the feel of her — soft, scented with rain and that mouth-watering, sun-warmed sweetness — is the most violent thing he’s felt all day.

When his mouth finally finds hers, it’s a blunt, heavy pressure that tastes of the cold air and the adrenaline still humming in his veins. It's been driving him mad all night. There’s no tentativeness to it. He kisses her with a raw intensity, with a jagged edge of hunger that he’s clearly been holding back. Yuna’s hands slide from his chest to the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling in the damp, curling hair there, pulling him to her as if she’s trying to swallow the distance between them.

David groans, a low, unadulterated sound of relief. The friction of his stubble against her jaw and the slide of his tongue against hers and a sudden, overwhelming rush of heat that erases the quiet of the room. He backs her up until she hits the edge of the desk. The keys he dropped earlier rattle and slide, but neither of them notices. He lifts her, his hands sliding from her waist to her thighs, pulling her legs around his waist. The friction of the knit against his palms is a spark, a fever they’ve both been catching since the second period.

Everything about him is solid. The breadth of his shoulders, the furnace-heat of his skin, and Yuna meets it with a fierce, quiet intensity. The transition to the bed is a blur of tangled limbs and urgent, uneven breaths. The sheets are cool. Every touch is an answer to a question they’ve been asking since they collided.

In the dark of the dorm, the only thing that’s real is the heat of her skin and the quiet, fierce way she claims him back, turning the carefully mapped lines of his life into something unrecognisable.