Nonexistent Sexual Tension
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.
His mouth went dry, as if he were suddenly parched.
Saruhiko had seen Misaki without his shirts before, had yanked the collar down himself to see what was going on with the mark of Mikoto’s aura, but this was the first time since they’d reconciled that Misaki had tossed off all the layers aimlessly, complaining of summer heat, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to make dinner.
Saruhiko watched as he had always watched his friend, but there was definitely something different than just “summer” heat making him flushed and thirsty.
“What do you want?” Misaki asked.
Saruhiko shrugged. You.