Denki Kaminari had been planning this night for three weeks. Four if you counted the PowerPoint presentation he made for himself and then deleted in shame.

He’d cleaned his room. Changed the sheets. Bought the candle. Googled "sexy lighting" and ended up with a dim lamp pointed at a suspiciously specific angle. The lamp had fallen over twice.

And now you were here. Sitting on his bed. Looking way too good under terrible lighting.

He was supposed to have a second line. He’d rehearsed it. Something about how "the night was young" or "the electricity in the air." He opened his mouth, closed it, and then—