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The dorm lounge glows with the low, uneven light of the TV screen, each flicker running over the spines of battered sofa cushions and the mess of limbs belonging to three students, all nestled together with no care for boundaries or personal space. It’s summer, the windows flung wide open to let in warm air tangled with the scent of cut grass and distant grilling smoke. The hum of cicadas rises and falls between bursts of action on the screen.
Byleth is in the middle of the couch, pressed between Eijiro Kirishima and Mina Ashido. Their expression is composed, but there’s a subtle alertness in the way they hold themself—as if they're tuned to every breath and shift beside them. Byleth is the anchor in this stack: on their left, Kiri, whose thigh is pressed against theirs with the gentle, unthinking certainty of a person built for contact; on their right, Mina, halfway collapsed into their lap, her pink curls trailing over Byleth’s arm like spun sugar.
“Okay, but he could totally dodge that,” Mina says, throwing popcorn at the TV, legs kicking in the air. “That’s, like, the least realistic thing in this whole movie.”
Kiri’s laugh is low, almost a growl. “Realism’s not the point, Mina. It’s about heart!” He stretches, arms up and back behind the couch—an accidental invitation for Byleth’s eyes to linger on the line of his bicep. He catches their glance and grins, the kind of grin that’s all teeth and mischief and something cheekier behind the bravado. “Right, Byleth?”
They meet his gaze. Deadpan, just this side of daring: “If heart meant bad choreography, you'd be a pro by now.”
Mina snorts. “Ooh, burn!” She props herself up on her elbows, her cheek now nearly against Byleth’s shoulder, golden eyes wide and shining with challenge. “You’re all talk tonight. But bet you can’t handle a real dare.”
Byleth’s heartbeat answers first, a single skip that they hope doesn’t show. They raise a brow. “Try me.”
Kiri leans in, eyebrow arched, his voice dropping just enough for the tease to land. “You sure talk big for someone who’s been blushing every time Mina so much as breathes on you.”
Mina giggles, shifting even closer. “Can you blame them? Kiri, you’re basically radiating heat. I’m surprised they’re not melting.”
Byleth keeps their composure—barely. “Maybe I just like the view.” Their gaze flickers between Mina’s glossy lips and the way Kiri's shirt pulls tight over his chest, making no secret of the inspection.
Mina grins, sharp and delighted. “Wow... What's gotten into you tonight, huh? Should I give you a better look?”
Kiri nudges Byleth’s knee with his own, a teasing glint in his eye. “Careful, Mina. They might actually take you up on that.”
Byleth’s reply is steady, but their pulse betrays them. “Maybe I will.”
Mina’s eyes light up, and she throws a leg over Byleth’s lap, draping herself with theatrical abandon. “That’s more like it. C’mon, Kiri, don’t let me have all the fun.”
Kiri grins, his hand settling warmly on Byleth’s knee. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”
Kiri’s hand—warm, callused—slides further up their thigh. He doesn’t squeeze, but it’s a weight, a question. “So... about that dare. Dare you not to get flustered. No matter what we do.”
Mina’s fingers slip into Byleth’s hair, twirling a strand absently. She leans in so close that Byleth can see the glint of light catching in the depths of her irises, vivid and alive. “Or is our fearless little tease actually a big, shy baby?”
It’s a setup, and Byleth knows it. They swallow hard, but school a smirk onto their face.
“I don’t get flustered.”
“Uh huh.” Mina’s lips brush their ear—barely there, but enough. “So if I do this—” her hand trails down, tracing the line of Byleth’s jaw, thumb catching on her lower lip “—nothing?”
The room shrinks. Sound narrows to the three of them: the whisper of shifting legs, the faint sticky squeak of skin against leather, Kiri’s breath next to their cheek. Mina’s touch is light and playful, but laced with intent; Byleth’s pulse skitters under their skin. They hold their ground, but their jaw is set too tight, and there’s a betraying flush climbing up their neck.
Kirishima notices. He always does. His hand shifts, sliding up even further. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles, never quite daring where Byleth wants it most. “Red suits you, y’know,” he murmurs, voice gone low. “Almost as much as it suits me.”
Byleth opens their mouth to answer—something clever, sharp like usual—but the words scatter as Mina’s lips find theirs, sweet and quick, tasting like salt and sugar and the soft pink of summer. Mina grins against their mouth, not pulling back.
“Called it,” Mina whispers, breath warm.
Kiri’s face is right there, close enough that Byleth can see every edge and shadow. He’s half grinning, half earnest, and before they can recover, his lips are brushing theirs too—a different kind of kiss, slower, surer, his hand sliding up their side as if he can mould them into the shape of his own certainty.
Byleth is losing this game, and they know it. Their breath stutters; their hands, so confident a minute ago, are fists in Mina’s shirt, gripping for purchase as the world shrinks to every place they touch—Mina’s giggles, Kiri’s low, satisfied hum, the scrape of teeth that says, gently: we've got you.
The movie keeps playing, forgotten. Light from the screen flickers over bare arms and tangled knees. The world is small, and the air is thick with heat, electricity, and the deep, animal comfort of being known and wanted.
Mina’s head tucks into Byleth’s neck, giggling, pink hair everywhere. Kiri’s thumb strokes a slow arc over their thigh. Byleth’s voice is small, unsteady, caught in the middle of them: “You're not being fair.”
Kiri presses a kiss to their cheek, grinning. “Sorry, Byleth. You never stood a chance.”
Mina hums. “But you do look so cute like this.”
They tangle closer, the room warm and sticky-sweet, the rest of the world dissolving to nothing. Hands roam, lips find skin, laughter softens to sighs. And as the summer night hums outside, blue light spills across the room, painting shadows over all three of them—Byleth caught in the perfect, breathless middle, right before the night tips into something deeper.