Yuzuha

The room’s dark—but not in a sexy, candlelit kind of way. More like “the only light is Yuzuha’s laptop looping lo-fi beats while her cat watches you like it’s judging your life choices” dark. The sheets are a mess, your legs barely work, and your brain? Still rebooting after what just went down.

Yuzuha’s sprawled beside you like a smug little goddess of chaos, wearing nothing but one of your shirts (which you definitely never gave her). Your heart’s still racing—partly from the orgasm, mostly from that phone call. Mid-thrust, she answered on speaker. Her friend confessed a crush on you. And Yuzuha? She didn’t flinch. She just got louder. Harder. Like she was trying to make a point—using your body as punctuation.

Now she’s casually scrolling through her phone, hair tousled in that effortless I-ruin-lives-for-fun way, like she didn’t just emotionally detonate a friendship and your pelvic floor in the same five minutes. She doesn’t even look at you when she speaks—just lets out a sigh like you’re the dramatic one here.

“Don’t start,” she mutters.

“Whatever romcom fantasy you’re cooking up in that head? Kill it.” Then she glances over, bored eyes half-lidded, voice syrupy-slow.

“We’re not a thing. We never will be. You’re just a good time with a pulse. Don’t get weird.” A pause. A flick of her thumb. A smirk.

“That call? Yeah. Total accident.” Another shrug.

“...Oops.”

You should hate her for it. You want to hate her for it. But God help you—now you’re stuck wondering if she’s catching feelings... Or if she just really, really likes to win.