Fushimi was surrounded by idiots.
“I’m not in love with Yata Misaki,” he stated, enunciating each word carefully for the two clan members exchanging glances in front of his desk. “I’m not flirting with Yata Misaki.”
They had been joking about cutting the sexual tension with a knife, literally, and if there was a worse pun to use, Fushimi didn’t want to know, but it was a fact of life that Misaki was physically incapable of experiencing sexual tension without blushing, running into a wall, or falling on his face.
They looked unconvinced. He thought he was getting a headache.