Misaki Takahashi slumped over his desk, the dim light of a single desk lamp casting harsh shadows across the crumpled report card in his hands. The grades stared back at him like a death sentence—each red mark a nail in the coffin of his college dreams. “Damn it,” he muttered, raking a hand through his dark, messy hair. “How the hell am I supposed to fix this? I’m screwed. Utterly, completely screwed.”
With a groan, he pushed himself up, deciding that if he couldn’t solve his academic woes, he could at least drown them in junk food. Trudging downstairs, his sneakers scuffing against the worn wooden steps, he rounded the corner into the living room—and froze. His jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack.
There, sprawled on the couch like some kind of Renaissance painting gone wrong, was his older brother Takahiro, tangled up with a silver-haired stranger in a pose that screamed anything but “casual.” Takahiro’s arm was slung over the man’s shoulder, their faces inches apart, laughing over something Misaki couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears.
“What. The. Hell,” Misaki growled under his breath, his fingers curling into fists.
Takahiro finally noticed him, his face lighting up with that infuriatingly oblivious grin of his. “Oh, Misaki! Perfect timing. Come meet my friend!” He disentangled himself from the stranger with all the urgency of a sloth, gesturing toward the man who was now lounging against the couch cushions like he owned the damn place. “This is Akihiko Usami. He’s gonna be your new tutor for the college entrance exams!”
Misaki’s jaw didn’t just drop—it practically hit the floor. His brain short-circuited as he sized up this Akihiko guy. Tall, lean, with sharp features and violet eyes that glinted with something dangerous. His silver hair fell in a careless, almost deliberate mess, and the smug curve of his lips made Misaki’s skin prickle with irritation.
“Tutor?” Misaki sputtered, his voice cracking in disbelief. “This guy? Are you serious, Takahiro?”
Akihiko tilted his head, his smirk widening into something predatory as he drawled, “Oh, don’t worry, Misaki-kun. I’m very good at... whipping people into shape.” His voice was low, smooth, and dripping with innuendo, sending an involuntary shiver down Misaki’s spine—one he immediately hated himself for.
Takahiro, clueless as ever, clapped Misaki on the back with enough force to make him stumble. “Akihiko’s a genius, Misaki! He’s written bestsellers, aced every exam under the sun, and he’s got time to help you out. You’re in good hands!”
Misaki inwardly screamed at the absurdity of it all. Good hands? This guy looked like he’d rather eat him alive than teach him algebra. But before he could protest, Takahiro was already ushering him back upstairs with promises of “great results,” leaving Misaki to stew in his dread.
---
A few days later, Misaki stood outside Akihiko’s upscale apartment building, his stomach churning with a mix of nerves and resentment. The place screamed money—glass doors, marble floors, and a doorman who’d eyed him like he was a stray dog. He adjusted the strap of his worn-out backpack and muttered, “This better not be a waste of my time.”
Stepping into Akihiko’s apartment after a curt buzz-in, Misaki couldn’t help but gawk. The space was sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls, a minimalist black couch, and a faint, intoxicating scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air. “Okay,” he grumbled under his breath, “I’ll admit it. This place is... kind of impressive.”
Akihiko was nowhere in sight, so Misaki dropped his bag by the door and wandered over to the coffee table, where a book sat innocently enough. Bored, he flipped it open, expecting some pretentious literary novel. Instead, his eyes widened as the words on the page burned into his brain—explicit, graphic scenes featuring characters that were unmistakably modeled after Takahiro and Akihiko himself. The details were... vivid. Too vivid.
“What the actual—” Misaki’s face burned crimson as he slammed the book shut, his hands trembling with a mix of rage and mortification. “This creep is writing smut about my brother? My brother?!”
Fury propelled him forward, storming down the hallway toward what he assumed was Akihiko’s room. He didn’t bother knocking—just threw the door open with a bang, ready to unleash hell. But the sight before him stopped him cold. Akihiko was sprawled across a massive bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of toned chest. His silver hair fell messily over his eyes, and even in sleep, the bastard looked annoyingly gorgeous.
Misaki’s mouth opened, then closed, his prepared rant dying in his throat as Akihiko stirred. Those violet eyes blinked open slowly, locking onto Misaki with a lazy, knowing grin. “Well, well,” Akihiko purred, his voice thick with sleep and amusement. “Breaking and entering already? I didn’t think you’d be so eager to see me.”
“You—!” Misaki stammered, pointing an accusing finger while trying—and failing—not to stare at the way Akihiko’s hair framed his face. “What the hell is wrong with you? Writing that... that garbage about my brother! Are you insane?”
Akihiko sat up, stretching languidly, his shirt slipping further open as he did. Instead of apologizing, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Oh, Misaki-kun. Don’t tell me you’re not a little curious. You did read it, after all.” His smirk was infuriating, his gaze pinning Misaki in place as an unwelcome shiver raced down his spine.
“Curious?!” Misaki snapped, stepping back, his face flaming. “I’m not curious, I’m disgusted! You’re a pervert, and I’m not letting some creep like you anywhere near me or my grades!”
Akihiko chuckled, low and dangerous, standing to close the distance between them. “Oh, come now. Don’t be so dramatic. I’m a writer—I draw inspiration from life. And trust me, I’m very good at... tutoring.” His eyes glinted with mischief as he added, “In all sorts of subjects.”
Misaki’s fists clenched, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and something he refused to name. “Keep your creepy innuendos to yourself, Usami. I’m here to study, not to be your next sick fantasy.”
“Call me Akihiko,” the man corrected, his tone teasing as he stepped even closer, forcing Misaki to back up until his shoulders hit the wall. “And don’t worry, Misaki-kun. I’ll make sure you pass those exams... even if I have to drag every last bit of potential out of you myself.”
Misaki glared, his breath hitching despite himself. This was going to be a disaster. He could feel it.
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