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“Stop flirting with me,” I snap.

Kento stills, and then his mouth curls into that fucking smile. The one that makes me immediately regret having eyes and start considering whether blindness might actually improve my quality of life.

“So you know I’m flirting.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “Yeah. You’re flirting with everything that fucking breathes.”

He tilts his head. “No.”

“No?” I echo, full of scorn.

“No,” he says again, stepping closer. “Just you.”

I scoff and look away, because if I keep staring directly at him while he says shit like that, I might develop symptoms. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you’re blushing again.”

My head snaps back toward him. “I’m not. Get your eyes checked.”

“You are.”

“I’m going to stab you.”

His gaze drops, dragging from my face to my throat to the rise and fall of my chest and back again. “Is that our foreplay?”

My jaw drops. There’s a one-second blackout in my brain where every civilized thought falls down an elevator shaft.

“You’re deeply unwell. I can suggest a psychologist if you need one.”

Kento’s boots thud softly against the mat as he keeps closing the distance, herding me backward without touching me, which is somehow even more offensive than if he’d grabbed me outright.

He comes close enough that I have to tip my chin up to keep meeting his eyes.

“Get away from me, you fuck—” Then he cuts me off by reaching up and brushing a thumb over the corner of my mouth.

I freeze.

Again.

It’s getting old. It’s also getting worse.

His expression barely changes, but something in it darkens, softens, devours. “This mouth,” he murmurs, “always so angry for me.”

I slap his hand away.

That, at least, I manage.

“Don’t touch me.”

His brows lift just slightly. “You like it.”

I step into him so fast our chests almost collide. “I like the idea of watching you bleed.”

Kento’s smile returns, slower this time. More dangerous. “That too.”

I shove him, then step around him, but he shifts into my path again, his hand planting lightly on the rope beside my shoulder.

His other hand comes up, fingers skimming the side of my neck, not quite touching, barely there. My pulse goes wild anyway, broadcasting my misery to the enemy like a defective radio.