Kenma Kozume was the kind of person who could ruin your entire day without even lifting a finger.
He didn’t have to do much—didn’t have to talk much either.
The way he sat there in class like he owned the air around him, leaning back in his chair like school was optional. The way he stared at his phone under the desk like he wasn’t one wrong move away from getting it taken.
The way he acted like you were the problem.
Like your breathing was too loud. Like your voice was too much. Like your presence was a personal inconvenience.
It made you want to grab his stupid hoodie strings and—
“Are you going to keep staring at me,” Kenma murmured without looking up, “or do you need something?”
You froze, pencil paused mid-note.
Your head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”
Kenma’s eyes flicked up lazily, golden-brown and half-lidded. Like he was bored already.
“You’ve been looking at me for like… ten seconds.”
“I was literally looking past you.”
Kenma blinked slowly. “Sure.”
That single word, so flat and unimpressed, made something inside you flare.
You leaned toward him, voice dropping. “You always do this. You always act like you’re better than everyone.”
Kenma shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
“Oh my god, you are insufferable.”
Kenma’s lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile.
“I’m not the one getting mad.”
“That’s because you have no emotions.”
Kenma’s eyes narrowed. “I have emotions.”
Kenma stared at you for a long second, and then his gaze dipped—briefly—to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
Your face heated for reasons you refused to acknowledge.
You scoffed loudly. “Congrats, you’ve evolved.”
Kenma finally set his pencil down, turning his body slightly toward you in his seat.
“Why am I like this?” you repeated incredulously. “Why are you like this? You act like the world owes you silence.”
Kenma’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened. “You act like the world owes you attention.”
You hated that he was good at this.
You hated that he could say things so casually, so quietly, and still hit you right in the chest.
You leaned closer, voice rising just a little. “At least I’m not a rude little—”
Your teacher’s voice sliced through the air like a knife.
The whole class went silent.
Kenma didn’t even flinch. He just blinked, looking mildly inconvenienced, like the teacher had interrupted something unimportant.
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “Do you two have something you’d like to share with the class?”
You opened your mouth, ready to defend yourself, but Kenma beat you to it.
Your teacher’s gaze shifted between you both.
“Then stop talking. I’ve been hearing the whispering all period.”
Kenma turned back to his desk like it was over.
You stared at him in disbelief.
He was the reason you were even in trouble.
You leaned forward again, whispering harshly, “You’re unbelievable.”
Kenma didn’t look at you. “Stop talking to me.”
Kenma finally looked at you again, eyes narrowed with something darker than annoyance now.
“I didn’t start it. You just can’t leave me alone.”
“You think I want to talk to you?” you hissed. “Trust me, Kenma, you are not that special.”
Kenma leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear.
“Then why do you always look at me like you want to hit me?”
But sometimes, the feeling was something else entirely.
Something you didn’t want to admit.
You glared at him. “Because you’re irritating.”
Kenma’s gaze flicked down to your lips again.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Sure.”
Your teacher slammed a book down on the desk at the front of the room.
“Alright. That’s it. Both of you.”
The teacher pointed toward the clock. “Detention. After school. You clearly have too much to say.”
You stared, horrified. “What? But—”
Kenma sighed, like this was just another Tuesday.
The teacher’s voice hardened. “No arguing. One hour. Both of you.”
You clenched your fists under your desk.
Kenma didn’t even look bothered.
Which somehow made you want to strangle him more.
Detention felt like punishment designed specifically for you.
The classroom was quieter, emptier, the sunlight outside slowly shifting toward orange as the day ended. The air smelled like dry erase markers and old textbooks.
The teacher supervising detention sat at the front, grading papers with dead eyes.
Kenma sat three desks away from you, slouched in his chair, hoodie up, phone in his hand like he belonged there.
Like detention was a vacation.
You sat with your arms crossed, tapping your foot, trying not to look at him.
Trying not to think about how unfair it was that he looked good even while being infuriating.
And the silence got worse.
Because you could feel him.
You could feel the calmness of him, the ease, like he didn’t care that you were sitting there boiling alive.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
“You’re seriously on your phone?” you whispered.
Kenma didn’t look up. “We’re in detention. There’s nothing else to do.”
“You could reflect on your actions.”
Kenma finally looked at you, expression blank.
You leaned forward. “You’re the reason we’re here.”
Kenma’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who can’t stop talking.”
You scoffed. “You literally provoke me on purpose.”
Your eyes widened. “Oh my god, you do.”
Kenma leaned back in his chair, arms folding over his chest.
You stared at him, speechless.
“What is your problem with me?” you demanded.
Kenma’s gaze held yours, calm but intense.
“I don’t have a problem with you.”
Kenma’s voice stayed quiet. “It’s not.”
You leaned closer, frustration twisting your stomach.
“Then why do you always act like you hate me?”
For the first time, something in his expression shifted.
Something more complicated.
You blinked. “You sure act like it.”
Kenma’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “You act like you hate me too.”
“I do,” you snapped instantly.
The words came out too fast.
And Kenma’s eyebrows lifted slightly, like he didn’t believe you.
Like he thought you were lying.
You hated the way he made you feel.
The way he got under your skin like no one else.
The way your heart sped up whenever he looked at you too long.
The way you couldn’t stop thinking about him even when you swore you didn’t care.
Kenma tilted his head, studying you like you were something he didn’t understand.
Kenma leaned forward slightly in his chair, elbows resting on his knees now.
His voice dropped lower, softer, more dangerous.
“Kenma,” you hissed, “stop.”
His eyes stayed on your face, sharp and quiet.
“What do you want from me?” you snapped, voice trembling with irritation you couldn’t control.
Kenma’s lips parted slightly, like he was going to answer.
Instead, he said something else.
Something that made your stomach twist.
“I want you to stop looking at me like that.”
Kenma’s eyes dipped to your mouth again.
And your heart slammed into your ribs.
“Like you want to do something,” he murmured.
Your fingers curled around the edge of your desk.
Your voice came out shaky. “You’re delusional.”
Kenma’s gaze didn’t move.
“You’re the one who keeps starting fights with me,” he said quietly. “And then you get closer. And closer.”
Your pulse pounded so loud you were sure the teacher could hear it.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” you whispered.
Kenma’s eyes softened—barely.
Then he leaned back again, like he’d said too much.
Something inside you snapped.
Because you were tired of him acting like he didn’t care.
Tired of him saying things that made your chest tight.
Tired of feeling like you were losing a game you didn’t even know you were playing.
You shoved your chair back and stood up.
Kenma’s eyes lifted to you slowly.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
You walked toward him, your footsteps quiet but determined.
The teacher didn’t even look up.
Kenma watched you approach like he wasn’t sure if you were about to slap him or scream at him.
You stopped in front of his desk.
He was sitting there, still, looking up at you.
And you realized, suddenly, how close you were.
How his eyes weren’t bored anymore.
How his cheeks were faintly flushed.
How his lips were slightly parted, like he was holding his breath.
You placed both hands on his desk.
Your palms flattened against the wood, one on either side of him, trapping him there.
Kenma’s gaze flicked down to your hands.
Then back up to your face.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“…You’re going to get us in more trouble.”
You leaned down closer, your face inches from his.
“Then stop talking,” you whispered.
Kenma’s eyes widened slightly.
You didn’t let him finish.
You leaned down and kissed him.
The kind of kiss that came from weeks of tension and arguments and frustration and too many feelings that had nowhere to go.
Then his hand shot up, gripping your wrist gently, like he needed to anchor himself.
His other hand moved to the edge of the desk, fingers curling.
Slow at first, like he was testing it.
But the moment he realized it was real, the moment he realized you weren’t pulling away—
Kenma’s lips moved against yours with a quiet desperation that made your stomach flip.
You leaned in deeper, your grip tightening on the desk.
Kenma tilted his head slightly, kissing you like he’d been holding back for too long.
Your heart pounded wildly, your cheeks burning as you forgot where you were.
Forgot there was a teacher in the room.
Forgot you were supposed to hate him.
Because his hands slid up your arms slowly, gentle but possessive, like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch you.
You broke the kiss just barely, breath shaking.
Kenma stared up at you, eyes wide and flushed.
“…Are you done fighting with me?”
You swallowed, your lips tingling.
And then he grabbed the front of your shirt lightly and pulled you back down.
Like he couldn’t help it anymore.
Like all the bickering had been a cover for this exact moment.
You kissed him until your head spun.
Until you heard the scrape of a chair in the front of the room and the teacher clearing their throat.
You froze instantly, pulling back like you’d been burned.
Kenma didn’t look away from you.
He just stared up at you, lips slightly swollen, eyes half-lidded.
The teacher’s voice was flat.
“…If you two are finished, sit down.”
You turned around quickly, cheeks blazing, stumbling back to your seat.
Your heart was racing so hard you thought it might explode.
You sat down, staring straight ahead, hands trembling slightly in your lap.
Silence filled the room again.
But this time it wasn’t empty.
And when you risked a glance sideways—
Kenma was still staring at you.
His expression unreadable.
And his lips were curved into the smallest, most satisfied smirk.
Because you weren’t enemies anymore.
Not after the way he kissed you back like he’d been dying to.
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