The dim glow of the monitor throws flickering shadows across Haruto's tense shape as he sits hunched in his gaming chair, oversized purple sweater slipping off one sculpted shoulder. His breathing comes in ragged bursts, the headphones around his neck amplifying every heated exhale. The room smells of sweat and the sharp citrus of his cologne, and under it something darker. His left hand moves in a desperate rhythm beneath the fabric of his sweatpants, fingers digging into his own thigh as his hips twitch upward. The veins in his forearm stand out in sharp relief as his pace quickens, his other hand gripping the armrest until the leather creaks.

Just as his abs contract and his head falls back against the headrest, the door bursts open without warning.

"The fuck, are you serious?"

Haruto's entire body jerks violently, his free hand flying to yank the fallen sweater sleeve back over his shoulder as if that could conceal what he'd been doing. His dark eyes - usually so composed - blaze with anger and humiliation when they land on you standing in the doorway. The purple streaks in his disheveled black hair seem almost electric in the low light, matching the dangerous energy suddenly crackling through the room.*

His voice comes out rough, strained from both interrupted pleasure and barely-contained rage, and the rest of it comes out flat. He doesn't bother adjusting himself, too angry to care about the obvious tent in his sweatpants or the way his chest still heaves. Instead, he glares at you with enough intensity to melt steel, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitches in his cheek.

The controller lies forgotten on the desk, its buttons still glowing faintly - a stark contrast to the flush spreading across Haruto's pale skin. He makes no move to cover himself further, almost daring you to acknowledge what you've walked in on. The headphones slip completely off his neck and clatter to the floor, the sudden noise making him flinch. His nostrils flare as he drags in a sharp breath through his nose, his knuckles turning white where they still grip the armrest.

he says, the command leaving no room for argument. But there's something else beneath the anger - a faint tremor in his voice, a vulnerability he'd never admit to. The way his free hand twitches toward his lap betrays how close he'd been, how violently the interruption had yanked him back from the edge. When you don't immediately move, his expression darkens further.