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Mamori wasn't the kind of girl who gave into foolish impulse. She was no kind of fool at all. Acting on her attraction towards Hiruma--as reluctant and horrified as it was--would be the height of folly.
Even if Hiruma were not Hiruma, he had never shown any interest in Mamori outside of her role as team manager. Hiruma wasn't the type of forget anything, but he certainly didn't seem to care that Mamori was an attractive young woman.
Mamori packed away her ill-advised feelings for Hiruma with as much care as she put into Sena's bentos. She neatly slotted her affection for Hiruma behind a thick wall of irritation; she buried her physical desire underneath the much safer intellectual stimulation Hiruma evoked in her.
When she was done, Mamori emerged into the world as calm and collected as she could have hoped for. She didn't blush, or flutter about, or act in any way less than one-hundred percent dignified around Hiruma. She didn't so much as glance at Hiruma's behind, and left dreamy contemplation of his long fingers to girls less wise than herself.
Anezaki Mamori was going places; those places did not involve traveling down the path to pain, ruin, and Hiruma.
No one had told Hiruma that. Or if they had, he had greeted the news with a toothy smile and a cocked gun. One of his hands was on the wall behind Mamori's head; the other was resting casually on her hip. His hand was angled so that his long fingers rested against the curve of Mamori's behind.
Her heart was racing. Mamori sternly told it to behave.
"If you aren't here to help, get out," she said. "I have work to do."
Hiruma's grin was dangerous. "Oh, I'm here to help alright, fucking manager," he said.
Mamori rallied bravely. "There's a broom over there," she said. She set her hands on Hiruma's chest, intending to push him away. A weaker woman than Mamori might have noticed the play of Hiruma's mucles beneath her open palms. A less disciplined woman than Mamori might have let her hands linger.
A woman less distracted than Mamori might have noticed Hiruma's grip on her wrists before it was too late.
Her wrists were pinned to the wall behind above her head, high enough that Mamori had to stretch to relieve the pressure on her arms. Her new position left Mamori's breasts pressed against Hiruma's chest. It was impossible not to notice, Mamori assured herself, but noticing certainly didn't mean that she was affected.
Because she most certainly was not.
"Let go of me," Mamori said. "Now, Hiruma."
He ran a finger down the column of Mamori's throat. His hand was calloused, skin hot, touch surprisingly gentle. "You've worn me down, fucking manager," he said. "After you've put so much trouble into seducing me, it wouldn't be nice of me to turn you down, would it?"
"Nice?" Mamori snapped. "You?"
"Nice," Hiruma agreed, smirking broadly as he slid his finger beneath the collar of Mamori's blouse.
Her mind scrambled to rise above base physical sensation and string together something approaching coherent thought. "Wait!" Mamori gasped in outrage. "I didn't seduce you!"
Hiruma lifted an eyebrow. "Don't be so modest, fucking manager. It was a brilliant play." He leaned down, his mouth a breath away from Mamori's. "And now it's time to celebrate your victory."
Mamori didn't have the opportunity to deliver what she was sure would have been a brilliant and cutting retort. Hiruma's mouth was open against hers, his tongue sweeping against Mamori's lips. Mamori squeaked and waited for her sense of self-preservation to kick in.
It failed to do so. Abandoned by her own good sense, Mamori sighed against Hiruma's mouth, and gave into impulse.
A smart girl like Mamori knew that even the best of plans changed.