Work Text:
“I already said no, Mikage.”
Your voice cuts through the quiet hum of the study hall like a razor. The scrape of your pen follows, scribbling with intent across the notebook before you. Outside, the sun bleeds into the treetops, casting amber streaks across the tiled floor. The library’s glass walls catch the fading glow and stretch it long and golden. Shadows are creeping in and they remind you of your mistake of staying here too long.
Still, you haven’t looked at him.
Not directly, anyway.
You don’t have to, to know he’s smiling and so damn persistent.
Mikage Reo has the kind of face that wears charm like it was tailored. His grin is probably slanted just enough to be infuriating, eyes glinting with something close to victory. He’s used to getting whatever he wants, used to watching things fall into place with nothing more than a word or an annoyingly confident stare. Daddy’s Money is so damn privileged.
And unfortunately for him, you won’t be bought so easily.
“What’s the big deal? You’re organized and not afraid to bite back. You’d make a perfect manager.”
“For your team,” you correct flatly, not even pausing your writing.
“Our team.”
You pause briefly to put on a show as if you’re entertaining the idea, then shake your head. “I’m not interested. Just find someone else.”
“I don’t want just anyone. I want you as the manager.”
That line was delivered exceptionally smooth. Anyone else would’ve tripped over their tongue trying to sound sincere. Reo says it like it’s fact. Like wanting you is the only logical conclusion. Had you been the type to be easily swayed by a rich boy’s words, your panties would have already fallen to the floor and the rest would have been history.
You aren’t that type of girl, so you settle with the choice to deadpan at him. No, you wouldn’t be persuaded.
“And I blew out my ankle at regionals when I was in the Track Club. Doc said if I ever ran competitively again, I’d risk permanent damage. I hate anything related to sports now, so there’s that.”
You expect a quip, maybe some flirty, dismissive one-liner to redirect the tension but Reo stares at you like he’s not picking you apart for sports, but instead as if he’s found something unexpectedly delicate. You don’t like it. Not from him. Not with those stupidly perceptive eyes that can decode anything and everything.
Thankfully though, the flash of sympathy, or whatever it was, flickers out as quickly as it came. Reo lifts a finger, and that signature smirk starts to resettle on his face like a defense mechanism slipping back into place.
“You wouldn’t have to run,” he reasons. “You’d just have to look pretty, fill out some bottles, and handle paperwork.”
“Excuse me?”
He freezes—just for a heartbeat—then has the audacity to laugh under his breath.
“Okay, that sounded way worse out loud—”
“Than the outdated, misogynistic trash it already was in your head?” That wipes the amusement right off his face. Reo flinches, and good—you hope it stings.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he refutes, hands raised halfway, surrendering but not exactly sorry. It’s a white flag, if anything. “I meant logistics. You know, admin stuff. Scheduling and video capturing. You’d also be terrifying with a clipboard, in the best way.”
You squint at him.
“And you think flattery’s going to get me to forget what you said two minutes ago?”
Reo opens his mouth to speak but you hold a hand up to silence him.
“Regardless, I won’t be changing my mind.”
He’s frowning like he’s poking a vending machine that won’t give him his snack. This is actually really entertaining. The Scion of the Mikage Corporation doesn’t like losing. You bet your family’s entire generational wealth that he doesn’t even know how to lose. The concept alone seems to offend him, which only makes this more fun. You could practically hear the universe whispering, patience is a virtue, Reo.
“YSL handbag?” he offers, leaning forward like he’s making a serious business deal. “You look like a Saint Laurent girl. I can get you the one Jennie wore at Paris Fashion Week. It hasn’t even hit stores yet. What do you say?”
“No.” You don’t even look up.
“Okay, Chanel then. Classic, right? I saw a black tweed jacket and thought of you.”
“Flattering, still no.”
“I’ve got VIP tickets to the Aimer concert next weekend. Third row, but I’ll bump you up to the front and even get you a backstage pass. You like her, don’t you?”
“I like her,” you admit, flipping a page. “But no.”
“Billie Eilish.”
“No.”
“No?” he repeats, blinking like the word is foreign to him and personally stabbing him.
“Mhm.”
For his next attempt, he taps on the corner of your notebook and dips his voice in a lazy, velvet tone that’s made girls melt on contact. “What about that new Hermès fragrance everyone’s been losing their minds over? I could have it couriered to your dorm by tonight. I’d even include a handwritten note. Maybe even a bouquet of roses.”
“I’m allergic to roses.”
“You’re killing me here.”
“You’ll live.”
His eye twitches and it does wonders to your ego.
“How about a private dinner with someone you like? No cameras, no pressure. Just you, your crush, and any city in the world.”
“Mikage.”
“Yes?” He perks up.
“No.”
He groans dramatically and falls back into his chair, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled hair. It takes a lot for you to stifle a laugh. “You’re impossible. Do you know how many people would kill to have me spoiling them like this?”
“I’m not like most people.”
“I’m becoming painfully aware of that,” he actually grumbles. “Do you enjoy making me suffer?”
Your pencil twirls in your fingers when you offer him a shrug of your shoulders. “I enjoy watching you realize not everything comes wrapped in a ribbon with your name on it. You really think you can bribe your way into anything, don’t you?”
“...It’s worked 99% of the time.”
“Well, welcome to your 1%.”
The Soccer Captain studies you for a beat, lips twitching like he’s torn between pouting and smirking. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, crafting his next move, his next offer, his next little temptation.
“Is this what it takes to get your attention?” he mutters. “A full rejection arc?”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You only sigh and go back to reading your notes and you’re halfway through a sentence when Reo’s foot knocks against yours under the table.
“You’ve resorted to footsie. Really?” you look up slowly with narrowed eyes. “Do me a favour and flash your card elsewhere.”
“I flash more than just my card on the team.”
“Oh? That’s your new pitch?”
“I thought it was a strong one.”
There’s a boyish smugness to his grin. He’s always known he was attractive—devastatingly so. That jawline, that perfectly tousled hair, that air of knowing exactly what kind of damage he causes when he walks into a room.
“Didn’t take you for someone with a voyeur streak,” you snort derisively. “Is that why you want me there? Or is this your way of admitting you’ve got a thing for being watched? Is that what this is really about? You like an audience?”
“Would it work if I said yes? Hypothetically, of course.”
Your mouth quirks. The pen drops from your fingers. You shift your chair and turn toward him fully. Your notes may as well be blank pages now.
“Hypothetically,” you say, “you might be able to convince me. But you’re not really the one-idea type, are you? We’ve just established that.”
“I like options,” he intones, too easily. Then, with a mock-innocent tilt of his head: “Speaking of, if you need help with studying, I have my notes with me. You do know I come out on top, right?”
Your eyes glance at his bag and then climb back to his face, to the faint curl of his lips. He catches you looking and predictably, he pounces on it.
“Bold,” he points out. “You’re staring. Does that mean I have your attention?”
“You talk too much.”
You rise slowly, and the loud scrape of your chair draws a few heads from nearby students. Reo doesn’t move and only watches with an eyebrow cocked upwards, like he’s waiting to see how you’ll counter this move of his. You lean down until your face is level with his, close enough to see your reflection in his irises.
“Let me help you with that,” you whisper.
And then you kiss him.
His breath stutters, caught between shock and something far darker. Your hands cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp cut of his cheekbones as you tilt his face up to meet yours.
It’s bold and brash. It’s unapologetically reckless and yet the voyeurism is so electric that it fuels you.
Gasps ripple through the room like a wave crashing too fast to stop. Someone squeaks under their breath. A book drops in the background, but none of it matters, not really.
Because Reo’s blushing. Deep, red, flushed to the ears—and he tastes like sugar and something expensive. His lips part against yours, eager, almost greedy and you feel the tentative flicker of his tongue brush yours, and he lets out a low, involuntary sound from the back of his throat when you curl your own tongue around his—half moan, half stunned breath—that sends a jolt straight in your belly.
You press in closer, deliberately tipping your head to deepen it—just a little, just enough to make the audience lean in. The voyeurism doesn’t bother you. In fact, it emboldens you. He’s always been the one on display, adored and admired. Now you’re the spectacle. You, and the way you’ve got him unraveled in front of everyone.
So persistent. So spoiled. So ridiculously cute.
His hands finally find your forearms and he grips you like he can’t bear for this to end.
So you end it.
You pull away slowly, letting your lips ghost his just long enough to see the disappointment shine in his eyes.
You’ve left him burning. He’s giving you a look that yells you just ripped the sun away mid-sunset: too soon, too cruel.
Perfect, you did that.
The attention in the room hasn’t gone anywhere. You feel the weight of it pressing in around you, eyes wide, whispers swelling behind hands, but you don’t give them the satisfaction of acknowledging it. You hold Reo’s gaze as you reach for your belongings. He’s still recovering, still trying to process whatever just short-circuited his brain. You’re already moving.
Slinging the strap over your shoulder, you let your lips curl into a smirk that could cut glass. Then, without so much as a backward glance:
“Try harder on Monday, Reo.”
You don’t look back after that because you know exactly what you’d see: High and mighty Mikage Reo, flushed and wrecked, still sitting there like you just pulled the ground out from under him—and the rest of the room still holding its collective breath, wondering what the hell just happened.
Maybe he’s rubbing off on you and maybe that should be concerning.
But you can feel it, now—that invisible thread wrapped around your finger, tugging with each step you take. It burns a little, just a little.
And fuck, does it feel good.