𝓜ᴇʀᴀᴋi̠

The penthouse smelled like expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and the faint metallic tang of fresh blood.

Toji moved like smoke through the darkened suite. He was always silent and economical, every step placed exactly where it needed to be. No wasted motion. No unnecessary sound. The security system had been disabled with a bypassed keycard and a quiet slice through the right wires. The two guards in the hallway were already unconscious in a maintenance closet, zip-tied with their own belts. He’d even taken the time to prop them up so they wouldn’t wake up with neck cramps. Professional courtesy.

He reached the master bedroom door, paused for half a second to listen. On the other side, nothing but the low hum of the city forty floors below, and eased it open.

The politician was already dead.

Sprawled across the silk sheets in his designer pajamas, throat opened in a dramatic, theatrical slash that definitely hadn’t been necessary. A single playing card, the Queen of Hearts, rested neatly on the man’s forehead like a goddamn party favor.

Toji’s grip on the hilt of his knife tightened until the leather creaked.

A soft, amused voice drifted from the living area behind him.

“You took too long.”

He turned slowly.

There you were. Just lounging sideways on the absurdly expensive couch like it was a throne, legs kicked up over the armrest, wearing a sleek black tactical suit that still somehow looked like couture. A half-eaten bunch of champagne grapes dangled from your fingers. One of the penthouse’s crystal bowls sat empty on the coffee table beside you, stripped of its overpriced fruit.

You popped another grape into your mouth and grinned around it.

“Hi, Fushiguro. Nice night for a murder, right?”

Toji stared at you for a long beat, green eyes flat with pure, unfiltered irritation. The scar at the corner of his lips twitched.

“You’re eating his fucking grapes,” he said, voice low and rough.

“Stress eating,” you replied cheerfully, tossing the stem aside. “I get peckish after a good kill. And you were so slow tonight. I was worried you’d hit traffic or something. Decided to help a fellow out.”

Toji crossed the room in three strides and loomed over you. You didn’t flinch. If anything, you tilted your head back further against the cushions, looking up at him with sparkling, mischievous eyes. The kind of eyes that said I know exactly how much this is pissing you off and I’m thriving.

“That was my contract,” he growled.

“Was it?” You feigned surprise, tapping a finger against your chin. “Funny. The handler told me the same thing. Must’ve been a double booking. Tragic.”

Toji’s gaze flicked to the Queen of Hearts card visible through the open bedroom door, then back to you. “You left a calling card.”

“I thought it was classy.”

“You thought it was funny.”

“Same thing.”

He exhaled through his nose, the sound dangerously close to a laugh if he weren’t so fucking annoyed. You were always like this. Always impossible and unpredictable, turning precision work into a goddamn circus. Half the underworld whispered your name like an urban legend. The other half placed bets on when Toji would finally snap and put a bullet in you.

He was starting to understand the temptation.

You swung your legs off the couch and stood up in one fluid motion, suddenly much closer than professional distance allowed. The scent of gun oil, something sweet like vanilla, and the faint copper of blood clung to you. Your eyes flicked over his broad frame, taking in the way his black compression shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders.

“Relax, big guy. I left the payment details intact. You can still collect. Consider it a favor.”

“I don’t need your favors.”

“No?” You stepped around him, brushing past deliberately so your shoulder grazed his arm. “Then maybe next time don’t take twenty-seven minutes to clear a penthouse that only had six guards. Sloppy.”

Toji’s hand shot out before he could stop himself, fingers wrapping around your wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop you from sauntering away. You froze, pulse jumping under his thumb.

For a second, the air thickened. The city lights glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind you both, painting the dark suite in neon and shadow. Your playful smirk didn’t waver, but something sharper flickered in your gaze. Interest, maybe even a challenge.

“You’re a walking complication,” he muttered, voice dropping lower.

“And you’re boring,” you shot back, leaning in just enough that your next words brushed warm against his jaw. “But I keep hoping you’ll surprise me one day.”

He released your wrist like it burned him.

You gave him one last bright, infuriating smile, then turned toward the balcony door you’d clearly used as an exit route. Halfway there, you paused and glanced back.

“Oh, and Toji?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Next time, try to be faster. I hate waiting around.” You winked. “A girl’s got other contracts, you know.”

Then you slipped out into the night like you’d never been there, leaving behind one dead politician, one very expensive empty fruit bowl, and one extremely pissed-off assassin who was already mentally calculating how much it would cost to ruin your next job.

Toji stared at the Queen of Hearts card for another long moment.

“Fucking theatrical,” he muttered to the empty suite.

Yet as he cleaned up the minor traces you’d left behind. Because unlike you, he was a professional and he couldn’t quite shake the ghost of your grin or the way his blood had jumped when you’d leaned in close.

This was going to become a problem.

He could already tell.

The warehouse district smelled like rust, saltwater, and gunpowder. Toji crouched on a catwalk high above the floor, eyes narrowed as he watched the target. Tonight, it was a mid-level arms dealer who’d gotten too greedy with the wrong cartel. He was now arguing with his bodyguards below.

This one was supposed to be clean. In, two shots, out. Maybe snap a neck if he felt dramatic. No witnesses, no mess, no calling cards.

He reached for the suppressed pistol at his hip.

It wasn’t there.

Toji’s hand closed on empty air. His jaw tightened.

He checked the other holster. Also gone. The combat knife he kept strapped to his thigh? Missing. Even the garrote wire he usually tucked into his belt for emergencies had vanished.

A low, familiar chuckle floated down from the shadows above him.

“Looking for these?”

You were perched on a steel beam like some kind of chaotic gargoyle, legs swinging lazily. In one hand you dangled his favorite pistol by the trigger guard. In the other, his knife spun lazily between your fingers. His garrote wire was wrapped around your wrist like a bracelet.

Toji’s glare could have frozen hell.

“You.”

“Me,” you confirmed brightly, popping a piece of gum. “You really should invest in better locks, Fushiguro. Or at least stop leaving your gear unattended in those shady motel rooms. Rookie mistake.”

He moved before you could blink. Before you know it, he was launching himself across the gap with terrifying power. You laughed and dropped down to the next level, landing silently. The chase was on.

The two of you darted through the rafters like rival predators, metal groaning softly under your combined weight. Below, the arms dealer kept ranting, oblivious.

“You’re fucking insane,” Toji growled as he swung around a support pillar, trying to cut you off.

“And you’re predictable,” you sang back, leaping to another beam. “Same motel every time you’re in the eastern district. Same routine. Same boring plan. I’m doing you a favor, really. Adding spice to your life.”

You tossed his pistol back to him, handle first. He caught it effortlessly.

“See? I’m generous.”

Toji fired. Not at you, but at the chain holding up a stack of heavy crates near the target. The chain snapped with a metallic crack. The crates came crashing down, creating the exact distraction he needed.

You clicked your tongue. “Show-off.”

While the bodyguards rushed toward the noise, you moved. You dropped down behind two guards Toji had deliberately left alone because they were out of the line of fire and unnecessary, and you took them out with two precise, theatrical blows. Leaving bright pink lipstick marks on their foreheads like a signature.

Toji landed beside you seconds later, knife now back in his hand.

“I wasn’t going to kill them,” he snarled.

“I know. That’s why I did.” You wiped your hands on one of the guard’s jackets. “You’re welcome. Less witnesses for you to worry about later.”

The arms dealer finally noticed something was wrong and bolted.

Toji moved efficiently and brutally like death itself. One shot to the leg to drop him, one to the head to finish. Clean.

You, however, had already sauntered over to the dead man’s briefcase, popped it open, and started rifling through documents like you were shopping.

“These contracts have some juicy details,” you mused. “Want them? Or should I leave them for the cops to find? Make your kill a little louder?”

Toji grabbed your wrist again, yanking you away from the briefcase. The contact lingered half a second longer than necessary. Your pulse was steady under his fingers. Amused.

“Stop. Fucking. Touching. My jobs.”

You leaned in until your faces were inches apart. The warehouse lights cast harsh shadows across both of you, highlighting the scar on his lip and the wicked gleam in your eyes.

“Make me.”

The air crackled. For a moment it felt less like rivalry and more like foreplay with knives.

Then you slipped free with a twist that was far too graceful, blowing him a kiss as you backed toward an emergency exit.

“By the way, I changed your getaway route. The southeast alley now has three extra patrols. You’re welcome to thank me later. Or… you could just admit I’m better at this than you.”

Toji watched you vanish into the night, already mentally planning revenge.

Two nights later, you paid the price.

Your intel drop at the encrypted hotel had been wiped. Every single file. The handler you usually worked with suddenly “went on vacation.” Your favorite rooftop vantage point? Floodlit and crawling with spotters who clearly knew you were coming.

You found Toji at a dead-drop bar downtown, nursing a whiskey in the corner like he owned the place. He didn’t even look surprised when you slid into the booth across from him, still in your tactical gear, smelling faintly of smoke and irritation.

“You deleted my entire network access,” you accused, stealing his glass and draining it in one go.

Toji shrugged, stealing the cigarette from behind your ear in return. He lit it with your own lighter.

“Turnabout’s fair play, sweetheart.”

You narrowed your eyes. The nickname sent an unexpected spark down your spine.

“I left you pink lipstick marks. You erased three months of carefully cultivated sources. That’s not proportional.”

“You knocked out guards I didn’t need dead and ruined my exit plan. We’re even.”

You leaned forward on your elbows, studying him. God, he was annoyingly handsome when he was smug. Broad shoulders, lazy posture that somehow still screamed danger, that scar pulling at his mouth when he smirked.

The bar was dimly lit, filled with other shady characters who were all very deliberately not looking in your direction. Word was already spreading.

The two #1 ranked independents were at war.

Toji exhaled smoke slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “You keep interfering and one of us is gonna end up killing the other.”

“Or,” you countered, reaching across the table to pluck the cigarette back from his lips and taking a drag, “we could keep playing. I’m having fun. Aren’t you?”

He watched your mouth around his cigarette with an intensity that felt dangerously close to hunger.

“You’re a menace.”

“You like it.”

Toji didn’t answer. He simply stood up, dropped a few bills on the table, and leaned down so his voice brushed low against your ear.

“Next time you steal my weapons, I’m tying you up and leaving you on a rooftop for the cops to find.”

You shivered. Not from fear.

“Promise?” you whispered back.

He straightened, gave you one last flat, unreadable look, and walked out.

You stayed in the booth a moment longer, heart beating faster than it had any right to after a simple threat.

This was no longer just about ruining each other’s jobs.

You were starting to crave the way he looked at you when he was pissed off.

And somewhere deep down, you had the terrifying suspicion that Toji was starting to feel the exact same way.

The underworld was already taking bets.

How long until one of them snapped?

How long until the irritation turned into something neither of them could walk away from?

3: The Casino Incident

The Grand Eclipse Casino glittered like a jewel box built for sin. Crystal chandeliers dripped from ceilings painted with Renaissance-style gods engaged in rather ungodly acts. Marble floors reflected thousands of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos. The air smelled of aged champagne, expensive perfume, and the faint metallic edge of desperation from the high-rollers losing fortunes at the tables.

Toji hated places like this.

Too many variables. Too many eyes. Too much noise. He preferred dark alleys and quiet penthouses where one well-placed bullet ended things cleanly. But the contract was worth it: a corrupt hedge fund manager who’d embezzled from the wrong underground syndicate. The payout was massive, and the client wanted it done publicly enough to send a message, but not too publicly.

Toji adjusted the cuff of his black tuxedo. The fit was annoyingly perfect, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders and chest. A stolen waiter’s earpiece sat discreetly in his right ear. He scanned the crowd with half-lidded eyes, already mapping exits, blind spots, and guard rotations.

Then he saw you.

Across the main gambling floor, leaning against a roulette table in a backless, floor-length crimson gown that clung to every curve like it had been poured onto you. A slit ran high up one thigh, revealing the faint outline of a knife sheath strapped elegantly to your leg. Your hair was styled up, a few loose strands deliberately framing your face. You looked like sin wrapped in silk.

You were laughing at something a wealthy older man was saying, one gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. But your sharp eyes locked onto Toji the second he stepped into view.

Your smile widened.

Toji’s jaw clenched. Of course.

He made his way through the crowd, moving with that lazy, predatory grace that made people instinctively step aside. When he reached you, he slid an arm around your waist without asking, pulling you flush against his side as if you were his date for the evening.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he muttered, voice low enough that only you could hear. His fingers pressed into the bare skin of your back, warm and calloused.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into him, letting your lips brush his ear as you pretended to adjust his bowtie.

“Mr. Takahashi,” you purred, using one of his favorite fake names. “You clean up nicely. Almost didn’t recognize you without blood on your shirt.”

Toji’s grip tightened. “Same target?”

“Mhm.” You smiled sweetly up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Looks like the client double-booked again. How fun.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Stay out of my way.”

You patted his chest. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The target, Kenzo Harada, was currently holding court near the private baccarat tables, surrounded by bodyguards and simpering socialites. Mid-forties, slicked-back hair, wearing a watch that cost more than most people’s houses. He laughed too loudly, already drunk on victory and vintage Dom Pérignon.

Toji’s plan was simple: lure him toward the private terrace, quick chokehold or silenced shot, stage it as a heart attack or robbery gone wrong. In and out in under eight minutes.

Your plan, apparently, involved chaos.

You slipped from Toji’s grasp with a wink and drifted toward the tables. Within minutes, you’d inserted yourself into Harada’s circle, charming them effortlessly. Toji watched from the bar as you “accidentally” spilled a drink on one of the bodyguards, then apologized profusely while planting a tiny tracking device in the man’s pocket.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

This woman is going to be the death of me.

Ten minutes later, you appeared at Toji’s side again, plucking the whiskey from his hand and taking a sip.

“He’s heading to the terrace in fifteen for a smoke,” you reported. “Two guards with him. The tall one on the left has a bad knee.”

“I know,” Toji growled, taking his glass back. “I’ve been watching for twenty minutes.”

You hummed. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“You’re never helpful.”

You grinned. “True.”

When Harada finally moved toward the terrace, both of you followed at a distance. Toji had just slipped through the side door when the lights in the main casino flickered dramatically. A second later, the fire alarm began to blare.

Guests started panicking.

Toji spun on you. You were standing there looking far too innocent, a small remote discreetly disappearing into the slit of your dress.

“You triggered the fucking fire alarm?”

“You move too slow when you’re being ‘professional,’” you said with a shrug. “Now we have cover. You’re welcome.”

Chaos erupted beautifully. Guards scrambled. Harada tried to push through the crowd toward his private elevator. Toji cursed under his breath and moved.

What followed was less an assassination and more a twisted, deadly dance.

You and Toji ended up on the crowded dance floor as guests fled toward exits, the orchestra still playing a frantic waltz like the musicians hadn’t gotten the memo. Toji pulled you into a tight hold with one hand on your waist, the other gripping your wrist near the hidden blade you were reaching for.

“Stop making this messy,” he hissed, spinning you sharply. Your bodies pressed together, chest to chest, the heat between you cutting through the panic around you.

You laughed breathlessly, letting him lead for once while your free hand trailed down his back. “But you look so good when you’re irritated. All tense and murderous. It does things to me.”

Toji dipped you suddenly, his face inches from yours. For a split second, the rest of the world disappeared. There was only the heat of his body, the scar at the corner of his mouth, and the way his green eyes darkened when they dropped to your lips.

“Do you enjoy being a problem?” he growled, voice rough.

You smiled up at him, slow and wicked, as he pulled you back up.

“You noticed.”

He released you with a spin that sent your dress flaring dramatically. While guests stampeded, you both closed in on Harada, who was now shouting into his phone near the terrace railing.

Toji moved in for the clean kill.

You, naturally, had other ideas.

You “tripped” into one of the remaining bodyguards, driving a stiletto heel into his foot while simultaneously jabbing a sedative needle into his neck. The man dropped like a sack of bricks. Harada turned right into Toji’s grip.

Toji had the man in a chokehold in seconds, efficient and brutal. But you were already there, pressing your knife lightly against Harada’s side, whispering something that made the man’s eyes widen in terror before Toji finished it.

The body hit the ground.

Toji stared at you, breathing hard. “I had him.”

“You were taking too long again,” you replied, wiping your blade on a discarded napkin. “Besides, I wanted to see the look on his face when I told him the Queen of Hearts sent her regards.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Security was converging.

Toji grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward the service stairs. You stumbled after him, laughing the entire way, your heels clicking rapidly on the marble.

Halfway down the stairwell, he shoved you against the wall, one thick forearm braced beside your head. The proximity was suffocating in the best way. His tux was slightly rumpled now, a smear of blood on his collar that definitely wasn’t his. Your gown had a tear along the slit, revealing more thigh than strictly necessary.

“You’re going to get us both killed one day,” he said, voice dangerously low.

Your hand came up, fingers tracing the edge of his scar. “But what a way to go.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The tension coiled tighter with years of irritation, sabotage, and this maddening pull that neither wanted to name. His gaze dropped to your mouth again.

Then you heard footsteps above.

Toji cursed, grabbed your hand, and the two of you sprinted down the remaining stairs like rebellious teenagers fleeing the scene of a crime. When you burst out into the alley behind the casino, rain had started pouring. Your expensive gown was instantly soaked, clinging transparently to your skin. Toji’s white shirt did the same, outlining every ridge of muscle.

You both stood there for a moment, breathing hard, staring at each other under the downpour.

Then you started laughing.

Toji watched you, something unreadable flickering across his face. Annoyance. Reluctance. And underneath it all, the first dangerous thread of genuine fascination.

“You’re fucking insane,” he muttered, but there was no real heat left in it.

You stepped closer, rain dripping from your lashes. “And yet you’re still here.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he shrugged out of his ruined tuxedo jacket and dropped it over your shoulders without a word. The gesture was so unexpectedly domestic that it startled you both into silence.

Toji cleared his throat. “Don’t read into it.”

“Too late,” you whispered, pulling the jacket tighter around you. It smelled like him.

You disappeared into the rainy night together, already arguing about whose getaway car to take, whose safehouse was closer, and whether or not you owed him a new set of weapons after tonight’s “minor complications.”

The underworld would hear about the Casino Incident by morning.

Two legends. One blood-soaked gala. And a partnership that neither of them was ready to admit was slowly becoming inevitable.

The mission had gone to absolute shit.

What was supposed to be a simple elimination of a mid-tier informant in the old industrial district had turned into a running firefight after one of the target’s paranoid guards spotted your reflection in a puddle. One thing led to another. With a bunch of bullets, explosions, and you dramatically vaulting over a moving truck while laughing like a maniac.

Now both of you were soaked to the bone, bleeding from minor grazes, and sprinting through pouring rain toward the nearest safe location.

Toji kicked open the door of a rundown encrypted hotel on the edge of the red-light district. It was one of those assassin-only establishments: cash only, no questions, thick walls, and emergency exits everywhere. The clerk didn’t even look up when Toji slapped a wad of bills on the counter and growled for the most isolated room.

You slipped in behind him, dripping rainwater and blood onto the threadbare carpet.

“Cozy,” you remarked, eyeing the single queen-sized bed that dominated the tiny room. “Did you specifically request the honeymoon suite?”

“Shut up,” Toji muttered, locking the door and sliding the deadbolt. He peeled off his ruined jacket, revealing a black compression shirt clinging to every ridge of muscle. A shallow bullet graze along his left bicep was still oozing.

You whistled. “Nice. Very rugged.”

He shot you a withering look. “Strip.”

“Wow, Fushiguro. Buy a girl dinner first.”

Toji exhaled sharply through his nose and tossed you a towel from the bathroom. “Change before you drip blood everywhere. I’m not explaining a crime scene to the cleaners.”

You caught the towel and shrugged. Without hesitation, you turned your back and peeled off the torn tactical top, revealing smooth skin interrupted only by a few fresh scrapes and older scars. Toji pointedly looked away, mostly. His eyes still caught the way your muscles shifted, the elegant line of your spine, the small tattoo hidden just below your shoulder blade.

He stripped his own shirt in one rough motion, wiping down his torso. The room suddenly felt much smaller.

Outside, the rain hammered against the window like it was trying to break in. Thunder rolled in the distance. It didn’t look like it would let up anytime soon.

You flopped onto the bed in a loose tank top and black shorts you’d pulled from your emergency pack, stretching like a cat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck here together, roomie.”

Toji leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable stare. “Try anything and I’ll throw you out the window.”

“Into the rain? How cruel.” You patted the space beside you. “Come on. One bed. We’re both adults. Mostly.”

He hesitated for a beat before sitting on the very edge of the mattress, as far from you as possible. The bed dipped under his weight. You rolled onto your side to face him, propping your head on your hand.

For a while, only the rain and distant thunder filled the silence.

Then you broke it.

“You know… this is the longest we’ve been in the same room without trying to kill each other or sabotage something.”

Toji grunted. He reached over and stole the half-crushed pack of cigarettes from your discarded pants on the floor. He lit one without asking, the flame briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face.

You didn’t protest. Instead, you watched the smoke curl from his lips.

“Why do you do it?” he asked suddenly, voice rough. “All the theatrics. The calling cards. Turning every job into a goddamn circus.”

You blinked, surprised by the genuine question. You reached over and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, taking a slow drag before answering.

“Because the alternative is boring.” You exhaled. “Everyone else in this world is so fucking predictable. Same moves. Same motives. Same sad little routines. I started this life thinking it’d be exciting with the constant danger, high stakes, cat and mouse. Turns out most assassins are just… corporate drones with better weapons.”

You handed the cigarette back. Your fingers brushed his.

“So I make my own fun. Keep things interesting. Keeps the boredom from eating me alive.” Your voice softened, almost vulnerable. “Boredom’s worse than dying, Toji. At least dying is something new.”

He stared at you for a long moment, green eyes searching your face like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You’re not as reckless as you pretend,” he said quietly. “You never actually fail. You notice shit nobody else does. The way you moved in that casino… you had three exit strategies planned before I even picked a direction.”

A surprised laugh escaped you. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Toji didn’t smile, but the corner of his scarred mouth twitched. He took another drag, then passed the cigarette back to you like a shared truce.

“I don’t talk much about myself,” he said after another stretch of rain-filled silence. “Because nobody gives a shit. Most people in this line of work only care what you can do for them. Or how fast they can put a bullet in your back.”

You turned fully toward him now, knees brushing his thigh. Neither of you moved away.

“I care,” you said simply.

Toji’s eyes flicked to yours. Something heavy passed between you. The many years of irritation finally cracking open.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he muttered, but there was no bite. His voice had dropped lower.

“Yeah?” You shifted closer, the damp heat of his body radiating against yours. “Then why do you always look for me now?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. His calloused thumb lingered against your cheekbone. “Because missions feel too quiet without you fucking them up,” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “Too easy. Too… empty.”

Your heart stuttered.

The tension thickened. The single bed suddenly felt much smaller. Rain lashed the window. Thunder growled closer. You were close enough to count the droplets still clinging to his lashes, to smell the gun oil and rain and faint cigarette smoke on his skin.

You swallowed. “Toji…”

He leaned in half an inch then stopped. His jaw clenched like he was physically restraining himself.

“You’re still annoying,” he said, voice gravel-rough.

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “And you’re still boring.”

But neither of you pulled away. Your legs tangled together slightly under the thin blanket. His hand stayed near your waist, not quite touching but close enough that the heat of his palm burned through the fabric.

For the first time, the rivalry felt less like war and more like foreplay stretched across months.

You eventually fell into a tense, charged half-sleep. With your backs touching, both hyper-aware of every shift and breath. Toji’s presence behind you was solid, warm, and strangely comforting despite everything.

When the rain finally began to ease near dawn, you felt him shift. His arm draped loosely over your waist in what could have been an accident.

Neither of you called it what it was.

But the obsession had officially taken root.

And for once, neither of you wanted to fight it.

The abandoned amusement park on the outskirts of the city was the perfect setting for a trap. Rusted Ferris wheel creaking in the wind, overgrown weeds choking the pathways, and the faint smell of mildew and gunpowder in the air. A rival syndicate had lured a high-value target here for an “exchange.” Both you and Toji had taken the contract separately, of course. But this time neither of you had bothered pretending it wasn’t going to collide.

You arrived first, naturally.

Perched on the roof of the derelict haunted house attraction, you watched through binoculars as armed men swarmed the carousel area. Your usual playful energy was dialed up to eleven; you’d already swapped out three guards’ ammo for blanks and left a Queen of Hearts card pinned to one man’s back like a “kick me” sign.

Toji appeared ten minutes later, melting out of the shadows like he belonged to them. He spotted you immediately.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he muttered when he climbed up beside you, voice low.

You grinned, offering him a stolen energy drink you’d taken from one of the guards. “Live a little. I made it easier for you. Half of them are basically unarmed now.”

Toji took the drink, downed half of it in one go, then crushed the can in his fist. “I don’t need easy. I need clean.”

“Same thing,” you said cheerfully, bumping his shoulder. “Admit it. You were bored waiting for me to show up.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary said enough.

The plan, if it could even be called that, was simple chaos meets precision. You would create distractions with your usual theatrical flair while Toji moved in for the kill. It had worked surprisingly well in the casino. You figured it would work here.

It didn’t.

The target, a slippery bastard named Ryuji Kato, had brought more men than intel suggested. And they were better trained. The moment the first shot rang out. Courtesy of you dramatically swinging down from the Ferris wheel on a rope like some kind of action movie idiot, the entire park lit up with gunfire.

You were having the time of your life.

“Toji, left flank!” you shouted, laughing as you slid across the hood of a rusted bumper car, firing two suppressed rounds. “Bet I drop more than you tonight!”

“Focus,” he growled back, taking out three men with ruthless efficiency. A headshot, throat slit, and a neck snap. No wasted bullets. No flair.

But you were unstoppable tonight. Adrenaline sang in your veins. Every time Toji glanced your way, you made sure to do something ridiculous by waving at him mid-fight, blowing a kiss after stabbing a guy, using a carousel horse as improvised cover while shooting from between its legs.

Then everything went wrong.

A sniper you hadn’t accounted for opened fire from the top of the roller coaster. The first bullet grazed your side. The second one slammed into your left thigh like a sledgehammer.

White-hot pain exploded through your leg.

“Fuck—!” you hissed, dropping hard behind a concession stand. Blood immediately soaked through your tactical pants. You pressed a hand to the wound and felt it pulsing hot and wet against your palm.

Toji was on you in seconds.

He slid in beside you, back against the wooden stand as bullets chewed up the ground nearby. His eyes dropped to your leg and something in his expression shifted cold, terrifying fury settling over his face like a mask.

“You’re bleeding,” he said flatly. No panic. No softness. Just pure, glacial rage.

“It’s fine,” you gritted out, trying to push yourself up. Your vision swam. “Just a scratch. Go finish the job, Mr. Clean.”

Toji didn’t move. He tore a strip of fabric from his own shirt with his teeth and wrapped it viciously tight around your thigh as a makeshift tourniquet. His hands were steady, but his jaw was clenched so hard you thought it might crack.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

Then he stood up.

The next few minutes would become underground legend.

Toji Fushiguro stopped holding back.

He became a force of nature. His movements were now raw, brutal, and absolutely merciless. The amusement park turned into a slaughterhouse. You caught glimpses between bursts of pain: Toji ripping a man’s arm out of its socket and using the limb as a weapon, throwing a thug so hard into the Ferris wheel that the metal groaned, putting down the sniper with a single perfectly placed shot from an impossible distance.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t taunt. He simply erased anyone who had dared put a bullet in you.

You had seen Toji kill before. Clean and efficient.

This was different.

This was personal.

By the time he dragged Kato out from his hiding spot behind the funhouse, the man was already sobbing and begging. Toji didn’t bother with questions. One brutal punch to the face silenced him forever.

Then he came back for you.

You were pale, sweating, still trying to crack jokes through the pain. “Told you… I’d make it interesting…”

“Shut up,” Toji said, but his voice had lost its usual edge. He scooped you up like you weighed nothing, one thick arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, face pressed against his shoulder. He smelled like blood, gun smoke, and that familiar dark warmth that was unmistakably him.

The getaway van he’d stashed nearby was reached in record time. He laid you across the back seats with surprising care, then tore out of the amusement park like the devil himself was chasing him.

The safehouse he took you to wasn’t one of the usual encrypted hotels. It was his. A sparse, heavily fortified apartment in a nondescript building that you doubted even existed on any official records. He carried you inside, kicked the door shut, and laid you on the large bed in the corner.

You were fading in and out now, the blood loss hitting hard.

“Toji… you didn’t have to go full murder monster…” you mumbled, trying to smile. “Kinda hot though.”

He ignored the joke. Instead, he worked in terrifyingly efficient silence by cutting away your pants leg, cleaning the wound, stitching it with steady hands that had clearly done this dozens of times before. You winced and hissed through the pain. Every time you did, his grip tightened, but never enough to hurt you.

When the wound was closed and bandaged, he finally sat back. His hands were covered in your blood. His chest rose and fell heavily, eyes dark and unreadable as he stared at you.

“You never get hurt,” he said, voice rough. It wasn’t a question.

“First time for everything,” you whispered, trying to sit up. He immediately pushed you back down with one hand on your shoulder.

“Stay down.”

You caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Hey. I’m okay. Really. You didn’t have to… do all that.”

Toji’s eyes met yours. For the first time since you’d met him, the mask slipped completely. Not softness. Not tenderness. Just raw, violent possession.

“They shot you,” he said simply, like that explained everything. Like the entire syndicate he’d just dismantled was a reasonable response to one bullet in your leg.

Your heart did something dangerous in your chest.

You realized with startling clarity that Toji Fushiguro, the man who never lost control, who hated complications, who thought you were the most irritating person alive, only ever lost his composure when it came to you.

He stood up abruptly, like he couldn’t handle whatever was happening on your face. “I’ll get rid of the rest tonight. No loose ends.”

“Toji.”

He paused at the door.

You swallowed, throat tight. “Thank you.”

He didn’t turn around. But his shoulders tensed, then relaxed.

“Don’t get shot again,” he muttered. “I hate cleaning up after you.”

Then he was gone, disappearing into the night to finish what he’d started. Erasing every last person who had been part of the ambush.

You lay there in his bed, surrounded by the sparse evidence of his life. There was a few weapons on the wall, a half-empty pack of your favorite cigarettes on the nightstand that he’d clearly stolen during a previous job, and felt the slow, terrifying shift inside your chest.

Messing with Toji Fushiguro had stopped being a hobby.

It was something much more dangerous now.

And from the way he’d torn through an entire crew without hesitation the moment you bled, he felt it too.

The underground forums were buzzing.

Encrypted message boards, dead-drop bars, and even the private auction houses were lit up with whispers about the new rising star: “Queen of Spades.” Some flashy new assassin who’d appeared six weeks ago and was rapidly climbing the ranks by doing the one thing no one had dared before.

Copying you.

At first, you thought it was hilarious.

You were sitting on the kitchen counter of one of Toji’s safehouses. You’d claimed it as neutral territory after the amusement park incident, legs swinging as you scrolled through leaked security footage on your encrypted tablet. A grainy video showed a figure in a dramatic black-and-red outfit dramatically flipping over a moving car, leaving a playing card on the corpse, and blowing a kiss to a security camera.

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on the stolen beer in your hand.

“Toji, look at this!” You turned the tablet toward him. “They even stole my flip. But the landing? Tragic. Knees bent like a baby deer.”

Toji was cleaning his weapons at the table, broad shoulders tense under a tight black shirt. He barely glanced up at first. Then he saw the card on the screen. It wasn’t Hearts, but Spades and his expression darkened at the sight of it.

“Cute,” he said flatly, going back to sharpening his knife with slow, deliberate strokes. “Kid’s got a death wish.”

You grinned, hopping off the counter and sauntering over to him. You leaned down, resting your chin on his shoulder from behind, your chest brushing his back.

“Come on, it’s funny. Someone finally wants to be me. I’m flattered.”

Toji’s hand paused mid-stroke. “You’re an idiot.”

“An icon,” you corrected, reaching around to steal the cigarette from his lips. You took a drag and placed it back, your fingers lingering near his mouth. “Besides, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

Toji turned his head slightly. His green eyes met yours at dangerously close range. “Flattery’s gonna get them killed.”

You shivered at the low growl in his voice but laughed it off, spinning away to raid his fridge for snacks.

The real problem started two nights later.

You and Toji had taken separate contracts again. A double booking on a corrupt corporate executive staying at a luxury high-rise. You arrived early, planning to leave your usual Queen of Hearts calling card and maybe rig the elevator for some extra drama.

Instead, you found the executive already dead in his suite.

A Queen of Spades card sat neatly on his forehead.

The copycat had struck first and left a note scrawled on the mirror in red lipstick:

Trying to keep up? ♠️

You stared at it for three full seconds, then started laughing so hard you had to sit on the executive’s expensive desk.

“Oh my god. She’s sassing me. This is incredible.”

Toji arrived thirty seconds later through the balcony. One look at the scene and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

He read the mirror note. His scar twitched.

You were still giggling. “She’s got style. Not as good as mine, but points for effort. Think I should send her a fruit basket?”

Toji crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the lipstick tube the copycat had left behind, and crushed it in his fist. Red smeared across his fingers like blood.

“This isn’t funny anymore,” he said, voice dangerously quiet.

You raised an eyebrow, still perched on the desk swinging your legs. “Jealous I have a fanclub, Fushiguro?”

He stepped between your knees, towering over you, one hand braced on the desk beside your hip. The proximity hit like a live wire.

“I don’t give a shit about some rookie playing dress-up,” he growled. “But they’re using your tricks. Talking about you. Touching your targets. Acting like they’re the next you.”

His face was inches from yours. You could see the tight set of his jaw, the way his pupils had dilated.

Your breath caught.

“Toji…” you said slowly, a mischievous smile spreading. “Are you possessive right now?”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he leaned in closer, his free hand coming up to grip your chin, thumb pressing lightly against your lower lip.

“You’re mine to deal with,” he said, low and rough. “Mine to fight. Mine to chase. Not some pathetic copycat’s. They don’t get to wear your act like it belongs to them.”

The air thickened. Sexual tension crackled between you like static before a storm. Your heart hammered against your ribs. This wasn’t just irritation anymore. This was raw, ugly, hungry jealousy and it looked devastatingly good on him.

You licked your lip, deliberately brushing his thumb.

“Say it again,” you whispered, voice teasing but breathy. “The ‘mine’ part.”

Toji’s eyes darkened. For a second you thought he might finally snap and kiss you hard and claiming, against the dead man’s desk like the unprofessional idiots you both were becoming.

Then the door to the suite clicked.

Both of you moved instantly. Toji yanked you off the desk and behind him, weapons drawn. You peeked over his broad shoulder, still buzzing from the almost-moment.

The copycat stood in the doorway. A mid-twenties, wearing a cheap knockoff version of your tactical suit with red accents, mask pulled down to reveal a cocky grin.

“Well, well,” she said, voice distorted by a cheap modulator. “If it isn’t the legends themselves. Came to see the new Queen?”

You stepped out from behind Toji, clapping slowly. “Love the outfit. Bold choice. Ten out of ten for confidence, three out of ten for execution.”

Toji didn’t speak. He just stared at the girl like she was already a corpse.

The copycat’s eyes flicked between you two, clearly thrilled. “I studied all your best work. Figured if I beat you to enough contracts, the rankings would shift. Maybe I’ll even challenge you properly soon.”

Toji moved.

It took him less than a second to close the distance. He had the girl pinned against the wall by her throat, feet dangling, before she could even reach for her weapon.

“You don’t touch her contracts,” he said, voice calm but terrifying. “You don’t use her tricks. You don’t talk about her. You don’t exist in the same world as her. Understood?”

The copycat’s eyes widened in genuine fear. She nodded frantically.

You watched, heat pooling low in your stomach. The casual brutality, the possessiveness, it shouldn’t turn you on this much. But god, it did.

Toji released her. She dropped to the floor, gasping.

“Run,” he said simply.

She scrambled away like the devil was behind her.

Silence fell over the blood-scented suite. You stared at Toji’s back, chest rising and falling. He turned to you slowly. The jealousy was still burning in his eyes, mixed now with something hotter, more dangerous. You stepped closer until you were toe-to-toe.

“You just threatened a rookie because she copied me,” you said softly, almost awed.

Toji reached out and tugged you forward by the front of your shirt until your bodies pressed together.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice gravel-rough. “I did.”

Your hands came up to rest on his chest. You could feel his heartbeat. It was beating fast, heavy, alive.

“I thought you hated my theatrics,” you murmured, lips curving.

“I do.” His hand slid to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. “But they’re yours. Not hers. Not anyone else’s.”

The confession hung between you, heavy and intimate.

You tilted your head up, lips barely an inch from his. “Careful, Fushiguro. Keep talking like that and I might think you like me.”

Toji’s grip tightened. His forehead dropped to rest against yours, breathing you in.

“Annoying as fuck,” he muttered.

But he didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

The copycat was already forgotten. The dead executive didn’t matter. The only thing that existed in that moment was the burning tension, the slow terrifying slide from rivalry into something neither of you could stop anymore.

You were both in so much trouble.

The mission had ended with both of you covered in someone else’s blood and arguing over who got to keep the target’s ridiculously expensive watch as a trophy.

You won, obviously. You’d pinned Toji against a wall with a knife to his throat and a grin on your face until he’d rolled his eyes and let you have it. He called it “not worth the headache.” You called it a victory.

Now it was 2:17 a.m. and you were both exhausted, standing in the alley behind the target’s high-rise while rain drizzled lazily from the sky.

Toji wiped a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. His dark shirt clung to his broad chest and shoulders, still damp from earlier exertion. He looked unfairly good for a man who’d just snapped three necks.

“You’re tired,” he said suddenly, without looking at you.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re favoring your left leg again. The one that got shot last month. And you’ve been yawning every three minutes even though you think you’re hiding it.” He finally glanced at you, green eyes sharp. “Don’t bullshit me.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, then closed it. He was right. The adrenaline crash was hitting hard tonight.

Toji exhaled through his nose, then did something that short-circuited your brain.

“Come eat with me.”

You stared at him. “... What?”

“Dinner. Or whatever the fuck you call it at this hour.” He shrugged like it was nothing, but his shoulders were tense. “There’s a late-night izakaya two blocks from here. Quiet. Good whiskey. I’m hungry.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “Is this a trap? Are you going to poison my food?”

Toji gave you a flat look. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t waste good whiskey on it.”

A surprised laugh bubbled out of you. “Wow. That’s almost sweet.”

“Shut up and walk.”

The izakaya was small, tucked into a narrow side street, and almost empty at this hour. Warm wooden interiors, soft lighting, and the low sizzle of food from the open kitchen. The owner took one look at your disheveled, slightly bloody appearances and simply nodded like he’d seen worse.

Toji ordered without asking you. He ordered a grilled mackerel, yakitori, agedashi tofu, and a bottle of your favorite whiskey that he definitely shouldn’t have known about. You raised an eyebrow when the bottle hit the table.

“You’ve been paying attention, Fushiguro.”

He poured for both of you, sliding your glass over with two fingers. “Hard not to when you steal mine every time we cross paths.”

You clinked glasses and took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through your chest. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the quiet clink of chopsticks and the rain tapping against the windows.

It felt strangely… domestic.

Dangerously so.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you observed, stealing a piece of chicken from his plate. “No lectures about how I made the kill too theatrical?”

Toji watched you eat his food with mild annoyance and something warmer underneath. “You handled the guards well this time. Almost clean.”

“Almost?” You gasped dramatically, hand on your chest. “Was that… a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late. It already had.

Halfway through the meal, a group of loud businessmen entered. One of them stumbled too close to your table, reeking of alcohol. Without a word, Toji shifted his chair, pulling yours closer to him and angling his body so he was between you and the drunk. His knee pressed firmly against yours under the small table.

You didn’t comment on it. But your pulse quickened.

He noticed when your shoulders started to slump from exhaustion and silently pushed the rest of the tofu toward you. The one dish he knew you liked more than the others. When you shivered slightly from the damp clothes, he shrugged off his jacket and dropped it over your shoulders without ceremony. It smelled like him. Gun oil, rain, and something darker that made your stomach tighten.

“You’re being weirdly nice,” you muttered, pulling the jacket tighter around you. “Should I be worried you’re dying or something?”

Toji leaned back, studying you with heavy-lidded eyes. The scar at the corner of his mouth twitched. “Maybe I’m just tired of watching you freeze because you refuse to dress practically.”

“Liar.” You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “You like taking care of me. Admit it.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his foot hooked around your ankle under the table, pulling your leg between his. The contact was casual. Possessive. The heat of his calf against yours sent a slow shiver up your spine.

The tension that had been simmering since the copycat incident thickened.

You spent the rest of the meal trading insults and stolen bites of food like an old married couple who also occasionally tried to murder each other. Toji’s stares grew longer. Your laughs got quieter, breathier. Every time your fingers brushed reaching for the same skewer, electricity crackled.

When the bill came, he paid before you could even reach for your wallet.

“Not a date,” he said gruffly when he caught your look.

“Obviously.” you replied, but your voice had gone soft.

Back outside, the rain had picked up again. Toji walked you toward the nearest safehouse, specifically his safehouse, without asking. His hand hovered near the small of your back the entire way, never quite touching but ready to pull you out of danger at any second.

Inside the apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before the tension snapped taut.

You turned to face him in the dim entryway light. Water dripped from your hair onto his jacket. Toji stood close. Too close. His broad frame filled your vision, eyes dark and unreadable as they dropped to your mouth.

“You gonna keep pretending this was just dinner?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Toji stepped forward, backing you against the wall without touching you. One hand came up, bracing beside your head. The other hovered at your waist, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab you.

“I don’t do this shit,” he said roughly. “The nice dinners. The worrying. The—” He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched. “You’re making me fucking stupid.”

Your breath hitched. You could feel the heat rolling off his body. The way his chest rose and fell. The way his eyes kept flicking between your eyes and your lips like he was losing the battle.

“Good,” you whispered, tilting your chin up. “I like you stupid.”

Toji’s hand finally moved. His fingers slid under the hem of your shirt, palm pressing flat against the bare skin of your waist. The touch was scorching. His thumb stroked slowly back and forth, rough calluses dragging deliciously against soft skin.

You let out a shaky breath.

He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, noses brushing. His voice dropped to a gravelly murmur that went straight between your legs.

“You have no idea what I wanted to do to you when that drunk asshole got too close tonight.”

Your hands came up to fist his shirt. “Then show me.”

For one electric second, Toji looked like he was going to devour you right there against the wall. His grip on your waist tightened, almost bruising. His lips hovered just above yours, breath hot and ragged.

Then he pulled back with a low, frustrated growl, stepping away like it physically pained him.

“Not tonight,” he said, voice strained. “You’re dead on your feet. And when I finally fuck you, I want you awake enough to remember every second of it.”

Your knees nearly buckled at the raw promise in his words.

Toji turned and headed toward the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to look back at you. His eyes raked over your body. “Get some sleep,” he ordered. “You’re staying here.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, but not before you caught the very obvious bulge straining against his pants.

You slid down the wall slightly, heart hammering, thighs pressed together.

This wasn’t just obsession anymore.

This was foreplay stretched across months of violence and banter, and it was rapidly approaching the point of no return.

You smiled to yourself in the dark, still wearing his jacket.

“Professional courtesy, my ass,” you whispered.

The underworld had finally snapped.

It started with a single encrypted message blasted across every assassin network, black-market forum, and dead-drop server at exactly 3:00 a.m.

CONTRACT: DOUBLE ELIMINATION Targets: Toji Fushiguro & “Queen of Hearts” Bounty: ¥500,000,000 each (¥1 Billion total) Status: ACTIVE — NO TIME LIMIT Priority: ALPHA Note: Bonus ¥200M for proof of both kills within 72 hours of each other. The client is tired of the circus.

Within an hour, the entire city’s assassin population was mobilized. Old rivals. New blood. Even some retired legends crawled out of hiding for a cut of that kind of money. The two untouchable #1s had finally become prey.

You found out while lounging on Toji’s couch in nothing but one of his oversized black shirts, legs draped over the armrest, eating cereal straight from the box.

Your tablet pinged. Then pinged again. Then started vibrating nonstop.

“Huh,” you said around a mouthful of cereal. “That’s new.”

Toji emerged from the bathroom, towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping down the deep grooves of his abs and the sharp V of his pelvis. He took one look at your face and knew something was wrong.

“What?”

You turned the tablet toward him.

He read the contract in silence. His expression didn’t change, but you saw the subtle flex of his jaw and the way his shoulders tightened. He walked over, snatched the tablet, and scrolled through the attached kill permissions, bounty hunters already accepting, and the rapidly growing betting pool.

“Half a billion each,” you whistled. “We’re worth more dead than alive. That’s almost flattering.”

Toji tossed the tablet onto the coffee table and braced his hands on the back of the couch, caging you in without touching. Water droplets fell onto your bare thighs.

“This isn’t a joke,” he said, voice low. “This is every asshole in the city coming for us at once.”

You looked up at him, cereal box still in hand. “Then they’ll die tired.”

His eyes darkened as they raked over you. You wearing his shirt, legs bare, looking far too relaxed for someone who’d just become the most wanted person in the underworld. The tension that had been building for weeks thickened into something suffocating.

“You’re too calm,” he growled.

“And you’re dripping on me.” You reached up and dragged a finger slowly down his wet chest, collecting a droplet. “It’s distracting.”

Toji caught your wrist, grip firm but not painful. His thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling it jump.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, leaning closer until his face was inches from yours. “Half these bastards have been waiting for an excuse to come after us. Especially you, with your fucking calling cards and circus acts.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous, even as heat pooled low in your stomach from the way he loomed over you.

“Maybe I like being hunted,” you whispered, voice teasing. “Especially if you’re the one protecting me.”

Toji’s grip tightened. For a second you thought he’d finally snap. Pin you to the couch and fuck the attitude out of you right there. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the way his shirt rode up your thighs.

Instead, he exhaled sharply and pulled back, jaw clenched so hard the scar at his lip stood out white.

“Get dressed,” he ordered. “We’re not staying here.”

The next 48 hours were pure chaos.

You and Toji tried working separately at first, old habits died hard.

You turned three separate ambush teams into public spectacles: one group was found zip-tied to a billboard with Queen of Hearts cards taped over their mouths. Another woke up naked in a police station with “Property of Toji Fushiguro” Sharpied across their chests.

Toji’s kills were quieter. Cleaner. Terrifyingly efficient. Entire crews simply vanished overnight, leaving nothing but bloodstains and fear.

But the sheer volume was overwhelming.

On the third night, you got cornered in an underground parking garage by a twelve-man team led by a former associate who clearly wanted that bonus money.

You were holding your own with knife flashing, theatrical dodges, laughing even as a bullet grazed your arm, when Toji appeared like a demon summoned from hell.

He dropped from the upper level, landing in the middle of the group like a wrecking ball. The fight turned brutal and beautiful. You moved like fire. Toji moved like death, covering your blind spots with terrifying instinct.

At one point you were back-to-back, breathing hard, surrounded by bodies.

“You’re slowing down, old man,” you panted, spinning to slash a man’s throat.

Toji grabbed another by the face and slammed him into a concrete pillar hard enough to crack bone. “You talk too much.”

“Yet you keep showing up.”

A knife whistled past your ear. Toji yanked you against his chest, shielding you with his body as he fired three suppressed rounds over your shoulder. The heat of him, the solid wall of muscle, the way his hand splayed possessively across your lower back. It was intoxicating.

When the last attacker dropped, you stayed pressed against him for a second longer than necessary. Your hands fisted in his shirt. His arm remained locked around your waist.

“You’re bleeding again,” he muttered, thumb brushing the fresh graze on your arm.

“It’s barely a scratch.” You tilted your head up, lips brushing his jaw. “You worried about me, Fushiguro?”

Toji looked down at you. The garage lights cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the scar and the dangerous hunger in his eyes. His hand slid lower, gripping your hip hard enough that you felt it in your core.

“Every time you bleed,” he said roughly, “I want to burn this entire city down.”

Your breath hitched. The sexual tension that had been simmering for months was now a roaring flame. You could feel him half-hard against your stomach, his body radiating heat through his clothes.

You licked your lips. “Then maybe stop pretending you don’t want to fuck me every time you save me.”

Toji’s eyes flashed. He walked you backward until your back hit a concrete pillar, crowding you against it. One thick thigh pushed between your legs, pressing up with just enough pressure to make you gasp.

“You think I don’t?” His voice was gravel and sin. “I’ve wanted to bend you over every surface we’ve fought on for months. Shut that pretty mouth up with my cock. Make you scream my name instead of making jokes while people die.”

Your knees weakened. You rolled your hips against his thigh, chasing friction. “Then do it.”

Toji groaned low in his throat, forehead dropping to yours. His hand slid under your shirt, palm hot against your bare skin, climbing higher—

A new ping echoed through the garage from both your phones.

Contract updated. Additional assassins inbound. Estimated arrival: 4 minutes.

Toji cursed viciously and stepped back, chest heaving. You both looked wrecked with pupils blown, breathing ragged, clothes disheveled.

“This isn’t over,” he promised, voice dark.

You smirked, even as your body throbbed with unmet need. “Better not be. I expect full delivery, Fushiguro.”

Two hours later, you both ended up on a rain-slicked rooftop, backs against an AC unit, sharing a stolen bottle of whiskey while the city lights glittered below.

The contract loomed over everything. Every shadow could hide a sniper. Every passing car could carry a kill team.

Toji passed you the bottle. His fingers lingered against yours.

“We’re stronger together,” he said quietly. No bullshit. No games.

You took a long drink, then leaned your head against his shoulder. “Yeah. I know.”

He didn’t move away. Instead, his arm came around you, heavy and warm.

The great Toji Fushiguro and the infamous Queen of Hearts, the underworld’s most chaotic duo, were officially being hunted.

And for the first time, neither of you wanted to face it alone.

The safehouse smelled like gun oil, instant ramen, and barely contained sexual frustration.

You were sprawled across the kitchen counter again (your favorite perch), sharpening a knife while Toji leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. The updated bounty contract glowed on both your screens: more assassins accepting by the hour, new kill teams forming, and one particularly bold group already offering to split the payout if they brought your heads in the same bag.

“Enough,” Toji said suddenly, voice rough. “We’re done playing separate.”

You paused mid-stroke, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? Is the great Toji Fushiguro finally admitting he needs me?”

He pushed off the wall and stalked toward you, stopping between your knees. His hands braced on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in.

“I need you to stop being a reckless pain in my ass for five minutes so we can make these bastards regret waking up today.” His eyes dropped to your mouth. “And I need you where I can see you.”

Your breath caught. The memory of his thigh between yours in the parking garage flashed hot through your mind.

“Careful,” you murmured, dragging the flat of your knife lightly down his chest. “That almost sounded like you care if I die.”

Toji snatched the knife from your hand and set it aside. “You’re not dying. Not while I’m breathing.” He leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear. “And when this is over, we’re finishing what we started against that pillar.”

Heat flooded your body. You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him flush against you.

“Promise?”

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise. “Yeah.”

Then he stepped back, jaw tight, like touching you any longer might make him forget the entire city wanted you both dead.

“Gear up. We’re working together tonight. No more solo heroics.”

You grinned. “Yes, dear.”

Toji muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “gonna kill her myself.”

The first joint operation was at an underground casino in the financial district. It was neutral ground where several mid-level contractors had gathered to plan how best to collect your bounties.

You arrived as Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi, a disgustingly rich couple celebrating their anniversary. You wore a slinky black dress with strategic slits for easy knife access. Toji looked illegally good in a tailored black suit that barely contained his shoulders.

The hostess took one look at you two and beamed. “Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi! Right this way. Your private booth is ready.”

Toji’s hand settled possessively on your lower back as you walked through the glittering crowd. His thumb stroked slow circles against your spine through the thin fabric.

“Behave,” he muttered.

“Where’s the fun in that, husband?”

He pinched your side. You yelped and laughed, drawing fond looks from several tables. People were already whispering.

“What a beautiful couple.”

“They look so in love.”

If only they knew the “loving husband” had three guns and a garrote hidden under his suit, and the “adoring wife” had already marked four targets for death before dessert.

The plan was elegant in its simplicity: you would cause delightful chaos, and Toji would clean up with ruthless efficiency.

It worked better than either of you expected.

You started by “accidentally” spilling an extremely expensive bottle of wine across three bounty hunters’ table while pretending to be tipsy. While they were distracted, you planted trackers and stole their phones.

Toji moved like a shadow behind you, silently eliminating two solo operators in the hallway who had been tailing you. When one guard noticed something wrong, you appeared out of nowhere, looping your arm through Toji’s and pulling him into a slow dance on the small floor near the bar.

“Smile, darling,” you cooed, pressing your body flush against his. “We’re supposed to be newlyweds.”

Toji’s hand slid low on your back, dangerously close to your ass. He pulled you tighter, swaying with surprising smoothness for a man built like a walking weapon.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he growled against your ear, breath hot.

You tilted your head up, lips brushing his jaw. “You’re hard.”

“Focus.”

“I am focused.” You nipped his earlobe. “On how good you feel against me.”

Toji’s grip tightened almost painfully. The sexual tension between you was so thick it felt like the entire casino should have noticed. His thigh slipped between yours mid-turn, pressing up just enough to make your breath hitch.

A passing waiter smiled at you both. “Such a lovely couple! How long have you been married?”

“Six months,” you said sweetly at the same time Toji grunted, “Too long.”

The waiter laughed like it was an adorable joke.

Toji looked like he wanted to throttle you. You looked like you wanted him to do something much filthier.

The night spiraled from there.

You turned a quiet assassination into performance art. By rigging the lights to strobe during a critical moment, sending two teams of assassins crashing into each other in hilarious confusion. Toji followed behind like the grim reaper, putting down anyone who survived your chaos with cold, brutal precision.

At one point you were literally sitting on a bar counter, legs crossed, kicking a man in the face while Toji choked out another two feet away. Your eyes met across the violence and something feral passed between you.

By the end of the night, the casino was in ruins, twelve assassins were dead, and the surviving ones were fleeing in absolute terror.

As you slipped out through the service exit, covered in blood spatter and adrenaline, Toji grabbed you by the waist and shoved you against the alley wall.

His mouth crashed against yours in a bruising kiss. The months of frustration, banter, and near-misses finally exploding. It wasn’t soft. It was teeth and tongue and pure hunger. You moaned into his mouth, fingers digging into his hair, legs wrapping around his hips as he ground against you.

He pulled back just enough to growl against your lips, “You fight like you fuck, chaotic as hell.”

You laughed breathlessly, biting his lower lip. “And you fuck like you fight. Scary. Efficient. Hot as hell.”

Toji kissed you again, harder, like he was trying to devour the laughter right out of your mouth. His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your dress higher—

A new alert pinged on both your phones.

Four kill teams converging on this location.

Toji cursed viciously and rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“Later,” he promised, voice wrecked. “When we’re not being hunted.”

You nodded, lips swollen, eyes dark with want. “You better survive tonight, Fushiguro. I have plans for you.”

The next three days blurred into the most terrifyingly effective partnership the underworld had ever seen.

You two became a nightmare in motion.

Your unpredictability paired perfectly with his cold efficiency. You would create absurd distractions by setting off fireworks in a warehouse, releasing a flock of pigeons with Queen of Hearts cards tied to their legs, pretending to be a hysterical civilian while secretly planting bombs. While Toji would walk through the chaos like death incarnate, ending lives with terrifying economy of movement.

Assassins started refusing contracts that even mentioned your names.

One terrified survivor was recorded sobbing into a burner phone. “They’re not even human anymore. She’s laughing while she fights and he’s looking at her like he wants to fuck her and kill everyone else at the same time. They’re married, I swear to god—”

You saved the clip and played it on loop in the safehouse just to watch Toji’s eye twitch.

But even in the middle of war, the domesticity bled through in the strangest ways.

Toji stealing your cigarettes and replacing them with your favorite brand “because these are shit.”

You making him sit still while you cleaned blood off his face after fights, perched on his lap.

Both of you arguing over escape routes like an old married couple arguing over directions.

Falling asleep back-to-back on watch, only to wake up tangled together.

The tension never eased.

Every shared glance lingered. Every brush of bodies during fights felt electric. Every night you collapsed into whatever safehouse you could reach, the air grew heavier with everything you weren’t saying.

On the fourth night, after completely dismantling a major kill squad in an abandoned subway station, you and Toji stood on a rooftop overlooking the city, breathing hard, covered in sweat and blood.

You turned to him, eyes bright. “So what happens when this is over?” you asked, echoing a question you’d been holding onto for weeks.

Toji went quiet for a long moment. The wind tugged at his dark hair as he stared out at the glittering lights. Then he reached over and pulled you against his side, arm heavy around your shoulders. “I don’t know,” he admitted, voice low. “But I’m not going back to quiet missions.”

You smiled against his chest. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done ruining your life, Fushiguro.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

The alliance was temporary in name only. Everyone in the underworld could already see it: The two deadliest assassins in the city weren’t just working together.

They were becoming something far more dangerous.

The city bled neon into the night sky as you and Toji stumbled onto the rooftop of the abandoned department store. Your lungs burned. Every breath tasted like copper and gun smoke. Behind you, the industrial district was still echoing with distant gunfire and sirens. The remnants of the massive ambush that had nearly ended both of you.

Thirty assassins. Coordinated. Well-funded. Someone had really wanted that billion-yen bounty tonight.

You slammed the rusted access door shut and slid a heavy metal pipe through the handle for good measure. Toji dropped heavily against an old, graffiti-covered AC unit, one hand pressed tight to his left side where a bullet had torn through muscle. Blood seeped steadily between his fingers, dark and glossy under the moonlight.

You weren’t much better. A deep graze burned across your ribs, and multiple shallow cuts stung every time you moved. But you were alive. Both of you.

“Fuck… that was too close,” you rasped, sliding down the wall beside him until your shoulders pressed together. Your thigh brushed his, and neither of you pulled away.

Toji let out a low, pained grunt as he shifted. “You’re smiling again.”

“Am I?” You touched your split lip and winced, but sure enough, a tired grin tugged at your mouth. “Guess I’m just happy we’re not dead. Thirty guys, Toji. Thirty. And we still walked out breathing.”

He turned his head to look at you. Sweat and blood streaked his face, making the scar at the corner of his lip stand out starkly. His dark hair was messy, clinging to his forehead. Even exhausted and bleeding, he looked devastatingly handsome.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in it anymore. Just exhaustion and something warmer threaded underneath.

You laughed softly, the sound echoing across the empty rooftop. Wind whipped around the old building, carrying the distant sounds of the city that still wanted you both dead. For a few precious minutes, though, it felt like the world had forgotten you.

Toji reached over without a word and tugged you closer until you were practically in his lap. His large hand settled on your waist, thumb pressing just below the graze on your ribs. The touch was careful and almost gentle which felt foreign coming from someone like him.

“You’re bleeding,” he said gruffly, echoing the words he’d once spoken in pure rage at the amusement park.

“So are you, genius.” You reached up and brushed damp hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his scar. “Let me see how bad it is.”

He didn’t protest when you carefully lifted his torn shirt. The wound was ugly but not fatal, it was just a through-and-through on his side. You tore a strip from the bottom of your own shirt and pressed it against the injury, applying firm pressure. Toji hissed but didn’t flinch.

“You’re getting soft on me, Fushiguro,” you teased quietly, trying to lighten the heavy air between you.

Toji’s hand covered yours, holding the makeshift bandage in place. His palm was rough, warm, and steady despite the pain.

“Shut up.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy. Charged. The kind of quiet that came after realizing you’d almost lost everything.

You eventually broke it, voice softer than usual.

“So what happens when this is over?”

Toji didn’t answer right away. He stared out at the glittering skyline, the towering skyscrapers and the pulsing lights of the underground world that had made you both legends. His arm tightened around you, pulling you more firmly against his chest until you could feel every rise and fall of his breathing.

“I don’t plan that far ahead,” he admitted after a long pause. “Never have. Jobs used to end the same way every time. Kill the target. Collect payment. Disappear into the next shitty motel. Wake up. Do it again.”

He swallowed, jaw working.

“Then you came along.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak. Your head rested against his shoulder, listening to the steady rumble of his voice.

“You ruined every clean kill I tried to make. Ate a dead man’s grapes like it was a fucking buffet. Left your stupid cards everywhere. Turned my missions into goddamn comedy shows.” A rough chuckle escaped him. “I used to think you were the most irritating person alive.”

“Used to?” you murmured, smiling against his neck.

Toji’s hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your messy hair. “Now missions feel wrong when you’re not there fucking them up. Too quiet. Too empty. I catch myself listening for your stupid laugh in the middle of a fight. Looking for that flash of red from your knives. Waiting for you to call me boring while you’re doing backflips over gunfire.”

He turned his head, pressing his lips to your temple.

“I’ve been imagining shit I never thought about before,” he confessed, voice low and rough. “Waking up and you’re still in my bed, stealing the blankets and my cigarettes. Arguing over stupid shit like what takeout to get after a job. Coming home, actually coming home, instead of just crashing wherever is safest for the night.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, louder than the pain from your wounds.

You pulled back just enough to look at him properly. The vulnerability in his green eyes was rare and devastating.

“I used to be bored out of my mind,” you whispered. “Everyone in this world is so predictable. Same moves. Same fear. Same emptiness. I turned jobs into games because it was the only way to feel alive.”

You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“Then I met you. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t posture. Didn’t play along with my chaos… but you also didn’t walk away. You kept showing up. Kept matching me. Kept surviving everything I threw at you.” Your voice cracked slightly. “Somewhere along the way, messing with you stopped being a hobby. I just wanted your attention. Your reactions. You, Toji. All the time.”

The wind howled across the rooftop.

Toji’s eyes darkened. Hunger. Possession. Something deeper.

He moved first.

One moment you were talking, the next his mouth crashed into yours. All the months of biting tension, stolen touches, and interrupted almost-kisses finally exploding. The kiss was rough, desperate, and filthy. His tongue claimed your mouth like he owned it. You moaned, climbing fully into his lap, straddling his thick thighs as your fingers dug into his hair.

Toji groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest. His large hands gripped your ass, pulling you down hard against the growing bulge in his pants. You rocked against him instinctively, grinding slow and deliberate, chasing the delicious friction through too many layers of torn clothing.

“Fuck,” he growled against your lips, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me every time you smile like a maniac in the middle of a bloodbath.”

You gasped as his mouth moved to your neck, sucking and biting a mark just below your ear. One of his hands slipped under your torn shirt, palm scorching as it slid up your bare skin, stopping just beneath the curve of your breast. His thumb brushed teasingly close to your nipple.

“Toji—” you breathed, rolling your hips harder, feeling him throb beneath you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown black with lust, breathing ragged. Blood still stained both of you, but it only made everything feel more raw. More real.

“When this is over,” he said, voice wrecked and promising, “I’m taking you somewhere no one can find us for a week. I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk straight. Until the only name you remember is mine. Until you’re dripping with me and still begging for more.”

A full-body shiver ran through you. You kissed him again, slower this time but no less hungry, grinding down against his cock like you could fuck him through both your pants.

The distant sound of helicopters slicing through the night sky shattered the moment.

Toji cursed viciously, forehead dropping against yours. His hands were still gripping you possessively, unwilling to let go just yet.

“They’re still hunting,” he said, breathing hard.

You nodded, stealing one last slow, filthy kiss before climbing off his lap. Your legs felt shaky. Your body ached with unmet need.

You offered him your hand. He took it, rising to his feet with a pained grunt, then immediately pulled you against his side again, protective even now.

“Together?” you asked, looking up at him.

Toji leaned down and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead, then your swollen lips.

“Together,” he confirmed. “And when we’re done making this city bleed… you’re mine. No more running. No more pretending this is just rivalry.”

You smiled brightly and genuinely happy despite the blood and danger.

“Professional courtesy can go fuck itself.”

Toji huffed a tired laugh and slung an arm around your shoulders as you both moved toward the next fight. The rooftop faded behind you, but the words, the promises, and the heat of what you’d started lingered like a brand.

The end of the war was coming.

And whatever came after it… you would face it side by side.

The Eclipse Auction House was buried three floors beneath one of the city’s most expensive skyscrapers. Crystal chandeliers hung from black marble ceilings, casting fractured light across velvet seating and tables made of dark glass. The air smelled of aged whiskey, expensive cologne, and the underlying metallic tang of barely concealed violence. Neutral ground or not, everyone here was armed and dangerous.

You and Toji needed a name. The client who had placed the massive double bounty on your heads had stayed anonymous for too long. Tonight’s target was Kurosawa, a sleazy but well-connected information broker who loved beautiful women and even more beautiful money.

The plan was simple: you would flirt, extract the information, and leave. Toji would watch from the shadows and step in only if things went south.

Toji had hated the plan the second you suggested it.

Now, dressed in a sleek, backless black dress that clung to every curve and featured a dangerously high slit up your left thigh, you leaned against the obsidian bar with practiced ease. Your hair was down, lips painted a deep, seductive red. A delicate knife was strapped high on your thigh, hidden but easily accessible.

Kurosawa was already hooked.

The broker slid into your space like he belonged there, one elbow resting on the bar as his eyes shamelessly traced the line of your cleavage. He was attractive in a polished, predatory way. His sharp suit, expensive watch, and the confidence of a man who rarely heard the word “no.”

“Queen of Hearts in the flesh,” he murmured, voice dripping with charm. “I was starting to think the legends were exaggerated. But here you are… even more deadly up close.”

You laughed softly and tilted your head, letting a strand of hair fall over your shoulder. “Flattery from a man like you? I should be careful. I hear you collect secrets the way other men collect women.”

Kurosawa smirked and stepped closer, his hand brushing your waist. “I’d be happy to collect you instead.”

From his position in a shadowed booth across the room, Toji watched everything.

He sat perfectly still, broad shoulders tense beneath his tailored black suit. A glass of whiskey sat untouched in front of him. His green eyes were locked on the scene at the bar like a predator tracking prey. Every time Kurosawa leaned in closer, every time his hand dared to linger on your hip, Toji’s jaw tightened further. The scar at the corner of his mouth twitched with barely restrained irritation.

He knew it was an act.

He knew.

But logic had very little power over the ugly heat twisting in his chest.

You glanced toward his booth for a split second and caught his gaze. Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you gave him the tiniest wink before turning back to Kurosawa with a dazzling smile.

Toji’s hand flexed on the table. The wood creaked under his grip.

You leaned in toward Kurosawa, letting your fingers trail lightly down his tie. “I need a name,” you purred, voice low and sweet. “The client who put the billion-yen bounty on me and Fushiguro. Tell me who’s that angry… and maybe I’ll let you take me somewhere quieter after this.”

Kurosawa’s hand slid lower on your waist, bold and possessive. “That kind of information is expensive, beautiful.”

You traced a slow circle on his chest. “I’m very good at paying in other ways.”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “The client is Harada Senior, head of the Crimson Serpent syndicate. You and Fushiguro killed his only son during that mess at the Grand Eclipse Casino. This isn’t business. It’s revenge.”

You filed the information away, still smiling. “And where is dear old Harada planning his next move?”

Kurosawa opened his mouth to answer when a deep, dangerous voice cut through the air behind him.

“Time’s up.”

Toji appeared like a storm cloud, towering over the broker. His presence was suffocating. The easy chatter around the bar died instantly as people sensed the shift in atmosphere.

Kurosawa stiffened. “Fushiguro. I didn’t realize the two of you were—”

“We’re not,” you said lightly, still playing your role even as your pulse raced at the look on Toji’s face.

Toji’s eyes, however, were pure murder. He grabbed Kurosawa’s shoulder with one massive hand, squeezing hard enough to make the man wince.

“Walk away,” Toji said, voice low and terrifyingly calm. “Before I decide your tongue looks better on the floor than in your mouth.”

Kurosawa paled and quickly disappeared into the crowd.

The second he was gone, Toji’s hand wrapped around your wrist and he pulled you through a side door into a dimly lit service corridor. The heavy door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the noise of the auction house.

Toji spun you around and pinned you against the wall in one fluid motion. His forearm braced beside your head while his other hand gripped your hip with bruising strength. His body heat rolled over you like a furnace.

“You let him touch you,” he growled, breath hot against your ear. “Laughed at his pathetic lines. Let his filthy hands slide all over your waist like he had any fucking right to.”

Your breath hitched. The raw jealousy in his voice sent heat straight between your legs. “It was just an act, Toji,” you whispered, even as you arched into him. “You knew that.”

“I did.” His hand slid down your thigh, pushing the slit of your dress higher until his rough palm found bare skin. “Doesn’t change the fact that I wanted to rip his arms off every time he touched you.”

You shivered at the possessiveness in his tone. Your hands came up to fist the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

“Jealous?” you teased, lips brushing his jaw. “Didn’t think the great Toji Fushiguro got jealous over little old me.”

He pressed his hips forward, letting you feel the thick, hard length of him against your stomach. A low groan escaped him when you rolled your hips in response.

“Keep pushing me,” he warned, voice wrecked, “and I’ll fuck you right here against this wall until you forget every other man’s name.”

Your knees weakened. You bit your lip, heart hammering.

Toji’s hand continued its journey under your dress, fingers teasing along the edge of your lace underwear. He pressed his thigh between your legs, giving you something to grind against.

“You’re mine to fight with,” he continued, lips brushing your neck. “Mine to chase. Mine to ruin.” He sucked a dark, claiming mark just below your ear. “Not his. Not anyone else’s.”

You moaned softly, rocking against his thigh. The friction was delicious but not nearly enough. “Then stop holding back,” you breathed. “Take what’s yours.”

Toji cursed under his breath. His control was fraying. You could feel it in the way his hands trembled slightly with restraint. He kissed you hard, devouring your mouth like a starving man. His tongue claimed yours while his hand finally slipped beneath your underwear, fingers stroking through your wetness with devastating precision.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growled against your lips. “All this from me being jealous?”

“From you looking like you wanted to kill him for touching me,” you admitted breathlessly, riding his fingers shamelessly.

Toji’s eyes were nearly black with lust. He curled his fingers just right, drawing a sharp gasp from you.

“I still might kill him later,” he muttered. “Just on principle.”

You laughed breathlessly, then moaned as his thumb circled your clit. The tension between you was unbearable, months of slow burn finally threatening to snap.

But distant footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Toji pulled his hand away with a frustrated snarl. He fixed your dress with surprisingly careful hands, though his eyes still burned with hunger. You could see the massive bulge straining against his pants, impossible to hide.

“Not here,” he said, voice rough. “Not like this. When I finally fuck you, it’s going to be somewhere safe. I want you screaming my name for hours, not biting your lip trying to stay quiet.”

You whined in protest but nodded, legs still shaky.

Toji leaned in and kissed you again but slower this time, no less intense. A promise.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he murmured against your mouth. “In every single way.”

You smiled, still flushed and aching. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

He adjusted himself as best he could, then took your hand, intertwining your fingers in a rare public display of possession.

“Let’s go finish this bounty shit,” he said. “The sooner we kill Harada Senior, the sooner I can bury myself so deep inside you that you forget what day it is.”

Your stomach flipped with anticipation.

As you walked back into the main hall together with Toji’s hand firm and possessive on your lower back. Several people quickly looked away. The message was clear:

The Queen of Hearts and Toji Fushiguro were no longer just rivals.

They were something far more dangerous.

And the jealousy?

It only made the fire burn hotter.

The Harada estate sat on a private hill overlooking the bay, surrounded by high walls, armed guards, and enough surveillance to make a government facility jealous. Harada Senior had gone underground after learning you and Toji were coming for him, but tonight he was hosting a private security meeting. His last mistake.

You and Toji had spent three days planning this. No theatrics. No calling cards. This wasn’t a game anymore. This was the final thread of the billion-yen bounty, and cutting it meant freedom.

“Stick to the plan,” Toji muttered as you both crouched on the ridge above the estate, wind whipping through the trees around you. He checked the magazine in his rifle one last time, then glanced at you. His eyes lingered. “No hero shit.”

You smirked, tightening the strap on your tactical vest. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He didn’t smile back. Instead, he reached over and grabbed the front of your vest, pulling you in for a hard, sudden kiss. It tasted like urgency and fear and everything neither of you had fully said yet.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours for a second.

“Stay alive,” he ordered, voice rough.

“You too, old man.”

The infiltration went smoothly at first.

You slipped through the east perimeter, taking out guards with silenced shots and precise knife work. Toji moved like a ghost through the west gardens, leaving bodies in his wake without a sound. Your comms crackled occasionally with short updates.

“Third floor clear.”

“Main security room neutralized.”

You met on the second floor balcony overlooking the grand study where Harada Senior was supposed to be. But the moment you both dropped inside, you knew something was wrong.

The room was empty.

“Trap.” Toji growled.

The doors slammed shut. Lights died. Red emergency beams flooded the hallways outside.

Then the gunfire started.

It came from everywhere.

Hidden panels in the walls burst open. Heavily armored elite guards poured in carrying military-grade weapons. Someone had anticipated your every move.

“Back to back!” Toji shouted.

You moved instinctively, shoulder to shoulder with him as the room turned into a warzone. Bullets shredded furniture and shattered glass. You fired while flipping over a heavy oak desk, landing shots with deadly accuracy. Toji was a machine beside you. Every bullet found a target, every movement efficient and brutal.

But they just kept coming.

A grenade rolled into the room.

“Toji!” you screamed.

He kicked it back through the doorway, but the explosion still rocked the floor. The balcony behind you collapsed. Smoke filled the air.

In the chaos, you made a fatal mistake.

You saw the sniper lining up on Toji from an upper balcony, a clean shot straight to his head while he was busy putting down three guards. There was no time to warn him.

You didn’t think.

You just moved.

You tackled Toji sideways with every ounce of strength you had. The sniper’s bullet meant for his skull slammed into your chest instead, right below your collarbone. The impact felt like being hit by a truck.

Pain exploded through your body.

You hit the ground hard, gasping, blood already flooding your mouth.

“NO!” Toji’s roar shook the room.

He became something inhuman.

The remaining guards didn’t stand a chance. Toji unleashed pure violence by tearing through armor with knives, snapping necks, using their own bodies as shields while he fired. His eyes were wild, terrifying. Any trace of restraint vanished the second he saw you bleeding out on the floor.

Within ninety seconds, the room was silent except for the ringing in your ears and your own wet, labored breathing. Toji dropped to his knees beside you, hands shaking as he ripped open your vest. The bullet had punched through your armor. Blood poured from the wound at an alarming rate.

“No, no, fuck— stay with me,” he growled, pressing both hands hard against the wound. His face was pale, eyes wide with something you’d never seen on him before. Pure terror.

You coughed, tasting copper. “T-Toji… the sniper…”

“Dead. All of them are dead.” His voice cracked. “Why the fuck did you do that? I had it covered—”

You tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. “Couldn’t… let you die. Would’ve been… too quiet without you.”

“Shut up,” he snarled, but there was no anger in it. Only fear. He scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he ran through the blood-soaked mansion. “You’re not dying. You hear me? You’re not fucking allowed to die.”

The world blurred.

You caught fragments. Toji kicking down doors, shooting at more guards who tried to stop him, his voice growling your name over and over like a prayer and a threat at the same time. His heartbeat hammered against your ear, frantic and alive.

By the time he reached the stolen van waiting at the extraction point, you were barely conscious. He laid you across the back seats, stripping off his own shirt to press against your wound as he sped down the mountain road like a madman.

“Stay awake,” he ordered, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back to grip your hand so tightly it hurt. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. I swear to god I’ll kill you myself if you die on me.”

You squeezed his hand weakly, vision swimming. “Why… why do you care so much?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “I was just… your annoying rival…”

Toji’s grip tightened until you thought your bones might break. His voice came out raw, broken, nothing like the calm assassin you’d known.

“You really asking me that?” he choked out. “After everything? After all the times you ruined my jobs and made me laugh when I wanted to strangle you? After you made my life loud and chaotic and worth waking up for?”

Tears stung your eyes. Or maybe that was just the blood loss.

“I can’t do quiet anymore,” he continued, voice thick. “Not without you. So don’t you fucking dare leave me with silence again.”

You wanted to answer, but darkness swallowed you instead.

You woke up in a hidden clinic. It was one of the underground’s best black-market doctors that only the highest ranks knew about. The room was dim. Machines beeped steadily beside you. Your chest was heavily bandaged, and pain radiated with every breath.

Toji sat in a chair right next to the bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes were still stained with your blood. His eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted, but they snapped to you the second you stirred.

“You’re awake,” he said hoarsely.

You tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Toji was on his feet instantly, gently pushing you back down.

“Easy.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then the dam broke.

“Why would you do that?” he demanded, voice shaking with leftover fear and anger. “Why the fuck would you take a bullet for me? I’ve survived worse. I could’ve—”

“Because I love you, you idiot,” you whispered.

The words hung in the air.

Toji froze. His breath caught.

You gave him a weak, tired smile. “I think I’ve been in love with you since you first called me a walking complication. I just… didn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid.”

Toji stared at you like you’d punched him in the chest.

Then he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. His hand cupped the side of your face with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You almost died because of me,” he whispered.

“I’d do it again.”

“Don’t,” he growled. “Never again. I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t lose you. Not you.”

He kissed you slowly and desperately, trembling with everything he’d been holding back for months. It wasn’t lust this time. It was fear and relief and love so heavy it hurt.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy.

“I love you too,” he said roughly, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Been driving me crazy for months. I’m shit at this… but I’m yours. If you’ll still have me after all this.”

You laughed weakly, then winced at the pain.

“Even when I’m annoying?”

“Especially when you’re annoying.”

You reached up and brushed your fingers over his scar. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m nowhere near done ruining your life, Fushiguro.”

Toji huffed a tired, relieved laugh and pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he was afraid you’d disappear.

The bounty war wasn’t over yet.

But in this small, sterile room, something far more important had finally been settled.

The safehouse smelled like gun oil, instant coffee, and drying blood.

You were propped up on the worn leather couch, still sore and heavily bandaged from the bullet you’d taken for Toji four days ago. The doctor had finally cleared you for light movement, but Toji had been hovering like a murderous guard dog ever since. Currently, he sat across from you at the low table, meticulously cleaning his weapons with slow, practiced movements. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing powerful forearms corded with muscle and scarred from years of violence.

You were supposed to be resting.

Instead, you were sharpening one of your favorite knives while stealing glances at him.

The silence had been comfortable for nearly twenty minutes. Then you ruined it, because of course you did.

“You know,” you said casually, testing the edge of the blade with your thumb, “for someone who used to call me a walking complication, you’ve been weirdly gentle since I got shot. It’s unsettling. I keep waiting for you to tell me I’m an idiot again.”

Toji didn’t look up immediately. He ran a cloth along the length of his pistol with deliberate care before finally lifting his gaze. Those sharp green eyes pinned you in place.

“You are an idiot,” he said flatly. “A reckless, theatrical, pain-in-the-ass idiot who threw herself in front of a bullet like it was a fucking game.”

You grinned. “And yet here you are, still cleaning my knives because I can’t use my left arm properly.”

He exhaled through his nose which was the closest thing to a laugh you’d get, and reached over to snatch the whetstone from your hand. “Give me that before you cut yourself again.”

You let him take it, watching as he began sharpening the blade with far more precision than you ever managed. The quiet scrape of metal filled the room. Outside, rain pattered against the windows, turning the city lights into soft blurs.

After a few minutes, Toji spoke again, voice low.

“When you went down…” He kept his eyes on the knife, but his jaw tightened. “I stopped thinking. Everything went red. I don’t even remember most of what I did in that room. Just that if you died, I was going to burn the entire fucking city down and then follow you.”

Your heart stuttered.

You shifted on the couch, wincing slightly at the pull in your chest. “Toji…”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, still focused on the blade. “Don’t make it dramatic. That’s your job, not mine.”

But his hands had stilled.

You watched him for a long moment. The scar at the corner of his mouth, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his massive shoulders were slightly hunched like he was bracing himself.

“You’re annoying,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. Then laughed. “Wow. Romantic. Really setting the mood here.”

Toji finally set the knife down and looked at you properly. His expression was serious, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes.

“You’re annoying,” he repeated, slower this time. “You never shut up. You turn clean jobs into circuses. You steal my cigarettes and my food and my goddamn sanity. You make everything complicated just because you can.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“And?” you prompted softly, heart pounding.

Toji’s gaze dropped to your bandaged chest for a second, then back to your face.

“And I keep looking for you anyway,” he said, voice rough. “Every mission. Every quiet night. Every fucking room I walk into, I expect you to be there smiling like an idiot, ruining my plan and making me want to throttle you and kiss you at the same time.”

The confession hung heavy in the air between you.

You swallowed hard. The rain outside grew louder.

“I love you,” you said simply. No theatrics. No grand speech. Just the truth. “Not because you’re the only one who can keep up with me. But because you’re the only one who never tried to make me someone else. You let me be chaotic. You matched it. You made me feel… alive.”

Toji stood up and crossed the small distance between you in two strides. He carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside you, mindful of your injuries, then pulled you gently into his lap so you were straddling him. His large hands settled on your hips, warm and steady.

“I’m shit with words,” he muttered, forehead resting against yours. “But I love you too. Been in love with you longer than I wanted to admit. Even when I thought you were the most irritating woman alive.”

You laughed quietly, then winced at the pain in your chest. Toji’s grip tightened instinctively, protective.

“Easy,” he murmured, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. “You’re still healing, idiot.”

“Worth it,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “Taking that bullet meant I got to hear you say all this soft shit. Totally worth it.”

Toji huffed and kissed you. There was no frantic hunger this time, just pure emotion. His lips moved against yours like he was trying to memorize the feeling. When he pulled back, his thumbs stroked gently over your cheekbones.

“No more taking bullets for me,” he ordered, voice low and serious. “We do this together from now on. You bleed, I bleed. You live, I live. Got it?”

“Got it, husband.” you teased, even though your eyes were a little misty.

Toji’s eyebrow twitched. “Don’t push it.”

You grinned and leaned in to kiss him again, deeper this time. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair as the kiss slowly grew hotter. His hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you closer until you could feel him hardening beneath you.

“Careful,” he growled against your mouth. “Doctor said light movement only.”

“I can be very light,” you murmured, rolling your hips teasingly.

Toji groaned, biting your lower lip. “You’re going to kill me.”

“But what a way to go.”

He laughed a real, low, rare sound that vibrated through his chest, and rested his forehead against yours again.

“The bounty on Harada is finished,” he said after a moment. “Most of the underworld has backed off. They’re calling us the ‘Bloodbound Duo’ now. Some are even too scared to say our names.”

You smiled, tracing the scar on his lip with your thumb. “Sounds like we’re officially terrifying together.”

Toji’s eyes darkened with promise. “We’re not done yet. But when we are… I want out. Or at least… less. I want nights where we’re not bleeding out on rooftops. I want to fuck you without worrying about someone kicking down the door. I want you. Every chaotic, ridiculous part of you without the constant threat of death.”

Your heart swelled. You kissed him again, softer this time.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” you whispered. “We’ll burn the rest of the threats, take the money we’ve earned, and disappear for a while. Or we can rule this underworld together. I don’t care, as long as you’re stuck with me.”

Toji’s arms wrapped around you carefully, holding you like you were something precious.

“Professional courtesy is officially over,” he muttered against your neck.

You laughed brightly. “Finally. Took you long enough to admit you’re obsessed with me.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He did.

The rain continued falling outside as Toji kissed you like the rest of the world could burn for all he cared. The weapons lay forgotten on the table. The war was winding down.

And for two of the deadliest assassins in the city, this quiet, bloody, love-soaked moment felt like the real beginning.

The private cliffside villa sat perched on a secluded stretch of coastline, far from the neon chaos of the city. No contracts. No bounties. No assassins stupid enough to come looking for the Bloodbound Duo. Just the endless crash of waves against the rocks below, warm salt air, and the kind of silence that felt almost foreign to both of you.

You stood barefoot on the wide wooden balcony, wearing nothing but one of Toji’s oversized black shirts. The hem barely reached mid-thigh, and the sea breeze kept slipping underneath, teasing your bare skin. The stitches on your chest pulled slightly as you breathed, but the pain was manageable now. Just a dull reminder of the bullet you’d taken for him.

Strong arms wrapped around you from behind. Toji pulled you back against his bare chest, his skin still warm from the shower. He was wearing only dark sweatpants that hung low on his hips. One large hand splayed possessively across your stomach while the other held two glasses of whiskey.

“Thought you were supposed to be resting,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You leaned back into him, tilting your head to the side so he could kiss down your neck. “I got bored. Besides, you’ve been staring at me like that for three weeks. I figured it was time you finally did something about it.”

Toji chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest. He handed you one glass, then clinked his against yours.

“To surviving each other,” he said.

You both drank. The whiskey burned pleasantly down your throat.

After a few quiet minutes watching the moonlit ocean, you turned in his arms and looked up at him. Toji’s green eyes were darker than usual, heavy with months, or years, of pent-up hunger.

You set your glass down on the railing, reached up, and pulled him into a kiss.

It started slow. Almost careful. But the moment your tongue brushed his, something in Toji snapped. He groaned into your mouth and lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you back inside.

The bedroom was bathed in soft moonlight. Toji laid you down on the massive bed like you were something precious, but the way his hands gripped your thighs told you he was barely holding back.

He hovered over you, drinking in the sight of you in his shirt, legs parted, looking up at him with that familiar mischievous glint.

“Off.” he growled, tugging at the hem.

You sat up enough for him to pull the shirt over your head. The cool air hit your bare skin, making your nipples harden instantly. Toji’s gaze darkened as it roamed over your body, the bandages across your chest, the bruises, and the scars you both wore like trophies.

He leaned down and pressed a slow, reverent kiss directly above your healing wound.

“Still sore?” he asked, voice rough.

“A little,” you admitted. “But I want this. I want you. Don’t you dare hold back now.”

Toji’s control frayed. He kissed you hard, claiming your mouth with teeth and tongue while his hands explored every inch of you. He cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your sensitive nipples until you arched and moaned into his mouth. Then his lips followed, sucking, licking, and gently biting one nipple while his fingers played with the other.

You gasped, fingers threading through his dark hair. “Toji…”

He moved lower, kissing down your stomach until he settled between your thighs. He pushed your legs wider apart, eyes locked on how wet you already were for him.

“Been thinking about this for so fucking long,” he muttered.

Then his mouth was on you.

Toji ate you out like a man starved. His tongue dragged slowly through your folds before focusing on your clit. Alternating between firm licks and gentle suction that had your hips bucking against his face. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling instantly against that perfect spot while he sucked on your clit.

“Fuck— Toji—!” you cried out, thighs trembling around his head.

He groaned against you, the vibrations sending sparks through your body. He didn’t stop. He fucked you with his fingers and worshipped your clit until your back arched off the bed and you came hard, gushing against his tongue with a broken moan of his name.

Toji worked you through it, licking up every drop until you were shaking and oversensitive. Only then did he rise up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You reached for him desperately, pulling him down into a messy kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

“Need you inside me,” you whispered against his lips, tugging at his sweatpants.

Toji shoved them down, freeing his cock. He was rock hard, thick, and heavy, the tip glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, earning a deep groan from his chest.

He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your slick folds.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice strained with restraint.

You hooked your legs around his waist. “Fuck me, Toji.”

He thrust in with one deep, powerful stroke.

The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming. You gasped sharply, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. Toji buried his face in your neck, breathing hard.

“Fuck… so tight,” he groaned. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

He gave you a moment to adjust before he started moving with slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The pace gradually built until he was fucking you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin mixing with your moans and his low grunts.

Toji hooked one of your legs over his arm, spreading you wider so he could drive even deeper. Every thrust punched the air out of your lungs.

“You’re mine,” he growled, biting down on your shoulder. “This pussy is mine. Been mine since the day you stole my target and ate those fucking grapes.”

“Yes— yours—!” you moaned, meeting his thrusts desperately.

He reached between you and rubbed tight circles on your clit while pounding into you. The dual sensation had you spiraling fast.

“Come for me again,” he demanded, voice rough. “Want to feel you squeezing my cock.”

You shattered.

Your second orgasm crashed over you even harder than the first. You clenched around him rhythmically, crying out his name as pleasure tore through your body. Toji cursed, hips stuttering as your walls milked him.

He fucked you through it, then flipped you over onto your stomach with surprising care for your injuries. He pulled your hips up and thrust back in from behind, the new angle making you see stars.

“Too deep— fuck, Toji—!” you whimpered, gripping the sheets.

“You can take it,” he growled, one hand fisting your hair while the other gripped your hip. “Take every fucking inch like the good girl you are.”

His pace became punishing. It was now hard and relentless thrusts that had the headboard slamming against the wall. The wet, filthy sounds of him fucking you filled the room. You pushed back against him, meeting every stroke, lost in the overwhelming pleasure.

When you came for the third time, it was almost too much. Your legs shook violently. Toji followed right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, hot and thick.

For several long moments, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant waves.

Toji carefully pulled out and collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your swollen lips. Surprisingly tender after how hard he’d just fucked you.

“You okay?” he murmured, hand gently stroking your back.

“More than okay,” you whispered, smiling dazedly. “I think you ruined me for anyone else.”

“Good.” He kissed you again, slow and deep. “Because there won’t be anyone else. Ever.”

You curled into his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow down. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, occasionally brushing over the edge of your bandage with careful reverence.

The next morning, you both stood on the balcony again, sharing a cigarette as the sun rose over the ocean.

Toji’s arm was wrapped securely around your waist. You were back in his shirt, thighs still pleasantly sore.

“So,” you asked, blowing smoke toward the sky, “what now? Full retirement? Or do we go back and become the most terrifying married couple in the underworld?”

Toji smirked, stealing the cigarette from your fingers.

“Both,” he said. “We disappear for a while. Fuck. Fight. Eat overpriced fruit in other people’s penthouses.” He glanced down at you, eyes warm. “Then when we get bored… we remind them why they should never have put a bounty on us.”

You laughed brightly and leaned up to kiss him.

“I love you, you know that?”

Toji’s expression softened in that rare way it only did for you.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your lips. “I love you too, you annoying little menace.”

The Queen of Hearts and the man who once prized clean kills had finally found their perfect match. Chaotic, violent, passionate, and completely theirs.

And the underworld?

It would never be the same again.

The camera lens was unforgiving in its stillness.

It sat on its tripod like a silent judge, red recording light blinking softly in the dimmed studio lighting. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and old paper archives, perhaps, or the weight of a life already being catalogued for posterity.

You sat with your hands folded tightly in your lap, back straight, the way one sits when they know they are being measured.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the director said gently from behind the camera. Her voice was kind, professional. “We can start with something simple. How did you first meet Wakatoshi-kun?”

You almost smiled at the honorific. Even years later, people still spoke of him with that slight deference.

The question was simple on the surface. But nothing about Ushijima Wakatoshi had ever been simple once you let him into your life.

You exhaled slowly.

“It was during his third year at Shiratorizawa,” you began, voice quiet but steady. “I wasn’t anyone important. Just… there.”

Shiratorizawa Academy – Three Years Earlier

The late autumn wind cut across the school grounds, carrying the sharp scent of damp grass and distant rain. You had been sitting on the stone steps near the gymnasium, sketchbook balanced on your knees, when the heavy doors slammed open.

Ushijima Wakatoshi stepped out first, as he always did. His shoulders squared with an expression that remained unreadable, a volleyball bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. His teammates spilled out behind him in a loud, chaotic wave of voices and laughter. Tendou’s teasing rose above the rest, followed by Semi’s dry retort and Reon’s calm mediation.

But Ushijima didn’t join them.

His gaze swept the courtyard once, then landed on you.

He changed direction without a word.

The others noticed. Of course they did. Tendou’s grin sharpened with curiosity, but he didn’t call out. They had learned by then that when Ushijima moved with purpose, it was better not to interrupt.

He stopped a few feet away from where you sat.

“You’re here again,” he said. Not a question. Just observation.

You looked up, pencil still in hand. “I am.”

A comfortable beat of silence passed between you, it was natural between you. The kind of silence most people found awkward with him.

Ushijima nodded once, then lowered himself onto the step below yours, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed your knee. He didn’t ask what you were drawing. You didn’t offer an explanation.

The two of you simply existed there, side by side, as the sky slowly bruised into evening.

That was how it started.

No grand meeting. No dramatic collision of fates.

Just two people who learned they could sit in silence and not feel the need to fill it.

Back to Present – Studio

The interviewer leaned forward slightly, intrigued.

“Many of Ushijima’s former teammates have described him as… difficult to get close to. That he doesn’t open up easily. Would you agree with that assessment?”

You let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh, though there was no real humor in it.

“He doesn’t open up to people,” you said carefully, echoing the words you knew they had heard from others. “Not in the ways most people expect.”

You paused, eyes drifting somewhere far away.

“But he does open up. Just… not with words.”

Cut.

Past – Shiratorizawa, Winter

The gym lights were still on long after practice had officially ended.

You had brought him an onigiri wrapped in convenience store plastic. It was nothing special, just something to eat because you knew he sometimes forgot when he was deep in training mode.

Ushijima accepted it without thanks, unwrapping it methodically. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed.

Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“My left hand feels slower today.”

It was such a small sentence. To anyone else, it might have sounded like nothing. But you understood what it meant coming from him.

You tilted your head. “The serve or the spike approach?”

“Approach.” He took another bite. “The timing is off by a fraction.”

You nodded. No dramatic solutions. No coddling.

“Try shifting your weight a little earlier on the plant foot tomorrow. You always favor your right side when you’re tired.”

He considered your words for a long moment, then gave a single, decisive nod.

That was all.

But the next day, after practice, he found you again on the same steps.

He didn’t say “thank you.” He never did.

He simply sat closer than usual.

Present Day

One of the producers asked the question you had been dreading.

“Were you two… dating?”

The studio felt smaller suddenly. The lights are hotter.

You stared at the camera for a long time.

The silence stretched.

Finally, you answered, voice barely above a whisper:

“We never defined it.”

You could almost hear the collective lean-in from the crew.

You continued, eyes lowered.

“I was just… there. And he let me stay. That was enough for a long time.”

Present – Studio

A former Shiratorizawa teammate, probably Semi or Reon, appeared on screen during the edited footage they showed you later. His voice was thoughtful, almost cautious.

“Ushijima… he’s not the type to talk about feelings. Hell, he barely talks about anything that isn’t volleyball. Most of us respected him, but getting close to him? That was rare.”

The interviewer’s voice cut in gently: “Did anyone manage it?”

The teammate gave a small shrug. “Not really. He kept everyone at arm’s length.”

Cut.

You sat straighter in your chair when they asked for your response.

“He does open up,” you said quietly, but firmly. “Just not in ways most people notice.”

Past – Shiratorizawa Academy, Late Autumn

The stone steps outside the gym had become your unspoken meeting place.

That afternoon, the air carried the sharp bite of the coming winter. Dry leaves skittered across the ground as the wind picked up. You sat with your back against the cold wall, knees drawn up, a half-finished drawing of the gym’s roofline in your lap.

Ushijima appeared without warning, as he often did. His practice jacket was zipped halfway, dark hair still damp with sweat despite the chill. He carried the faint scent of rubber court and clean soap.

He stopped in front of you for half a second, then lowered himself onto the step below, broad shoulders filling the space. His volleyball bag landed beside him with a dull thud.

Neither of you spoke for several minutes.

You continued shading the shadows under the eaves. He stared straight ahead, elbows resting on his knees, large hands loosely clasped.

After a while, he broke the silence.

“The wind today affected the ball’s path more than expected.”

You hummed softly, not looking up from your sketch. “It was stronger during the second half of practice, right? I noticed it pushing the serves wide.”

Ushijima turned his head slightly toward you. His olive-green eyes studied your face for a moment, then returned to the horizon.

“Yes,” he confirmed simply.

That was it.

No explanation needed. No lengthy discussion. You watched from the sidelines again today. Not because you were a manager or a fan club member, but because you simply showed up. And somehow, that had become enough for him to expect your presence.

When the cold started seeping through your uniform, you rubbed your hands together. Without a word, Ushijima shifted closer, his shoulder now lightly pressing against your leg. The warmth from his body cut through the chill.

You didn’t thank him. He didn’t expect it.

The silence that followed felt heavier than usual, but comfortable. Like two people breathing in the same rhythm.

Present – Studio

The interviewer leaned in. “So your relationship was… quiet?”

You gave a small nod.

“Very quiet. We didn’t need to fill every moment with conversation. He liked that, I think. Most people try to pull words out of him. I never did.”

A faint, bittersweet smile touched your lips.

“I just accepted what he gave. And he gave more than most people realized.”

Past – Winter, After a Match

The roar of the crowd still echoed in the hallways of the gymnasium long after the final whistle.

Shiratorizawa had won, as expected. Ushijima’s spikes had been merciless, each one landing like a verdict.

You waited near the exit like always, leaning against the wall with your arms crossed against the cold. Players trickled out in groups, loud and triumphant. Tendou spotted you first and flashed a dramatic wink, but he didn’t stop to tease.

Ushijima came out last.

His eyes scanned the hallway once before locking onto you. Something in his posture eased for a fraction that no one else would notice.

He walked straight to you.

Without stopping, he placed his bag down and stood close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him from the match. His breathing was still slightly elevated, chest rising and falling under his jacket.

You looked up at him.

“Good game,” you said softly. “That last spike in the fourth set… it was perfect.”

He nodded once. Then, after a beat:

“I looked for you before the final serve.”

Your heart stuttered, but you kept your voice even. “I was there. Third row from the front, left side.”

“I know.”

He didn’t say anything more. He simply stayed there, letting the noise of his celebrating teammates fade into the background. For a few precious minutes, it was just the two of you in that quiet corner of the hallway.

When he finally picked up his bag again, he spoke one last time before leaving.

“Tomorrow. Same steps?”

You smiled faintly. “Same steps.”

Present – Studio

One of the crew members asked gently, “Did it ever feel like more than friendship?”

You paused, fingers tightening slightly in your lap.

“It felt like everything,” you answered honestly. “But we never called it anything. No labels. No promises.”

Your gaze drifted to the floor.

“And for a while… that was enough.”

Present – Studio

The lighting felt warmer now, or maybe it was just the memories surfacing. The interviewer flipped a page on her notes.

“During his rise to the professional league, Ushijima became even more focused. Many people around him said he lived and breathed volleyball. Was there anyone who could pull him out of that mindset?”

You looked directly at the camera this time.

“I never tried to pull him out,” you said. “I just stood beside him in it.”

Past – Spring, Shiratorizawa Third Year

Cherry blossoms drifted across the school courtyard like pale pink snow. Practice had ended late again. The team was exhausted but buzzing with quiet confidence knowing that nationals were approaching.

You waited on the usual steps, a small bento box balanced on your knees. Nothing fancy. Just rice, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables you had prepared quickly after class.

Ushijima emerged from the gym doors, towel around his neck. His eyes found you immediately. He walked over with that steady, powerful stride and sat beside you this time. On the same level, shoulders almost touching.

You opened the bento and handed him the chopsticks first.

He accepted it without question and began eating. After a few bites, he spoke.

“My spike timing improved this week.”

You nodded, watching the blossoms catch in his dark hair. “I saw. You were reading the blockers better. Less predictable.”

He ate in silence for a while longer. Then, unexpectedly:

“My father called yesterday. He wants me to consider moving to Tokyo sooner for the pro team scouting.”

Your chopsticks paused mid-air for half a second before you continued eating.

“And what do you think?” you asked calmly.

Ushijima stared at the falling petals. “It is the correct path. Stronger competition. Better facilities.”

You didn’t push. You never did.

Instead, you simply said, “Then that’s what you should do.”

He turned his head to look at you fully. Those intense olive eyes studied your face like he was memorizing it. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the cherry trees.

When he finished the bento, he closed the box neatly and set it aside. Then he did something rare… he stayed even after finishing.

His hand rested on the stone between you. Not quite touching yours, but close enough that you could feel the warmth.

You slid your fingers over until they brushed his. He didn’t pull away. He never did with you.

Present – Studio

A soft chuckle came from the interviewer. “It sounds like you two were very close.”

You gave a small, pained smile.

“We were. He would finish every important match and look for me first in the stands. Not his coach. Not his teammates. Me. I became the constant he returned to.”

You paused, throat tightening slightly.

“He shared things with me he never told anyone else. Small things. How a certain serve felt off. How the pressure from expectations sat on his shoulders. He didn’t complain. He just stated facts. And I listened.”

Past – Summer, Before Nationals

The night air was thick and humid. The team had won another practice match, but Ushijima had stayed behind in the gym long after everyone left. You found him there, alone under the dimmed lights, practicing his approach over and over.

You sat on the bench near the court, watching silently.

When he finally stopped, sweat dripping down his face, he walked over and dropped down beside you. His breathing was heavy.

“I keep thinking about the future,” he said suddenly. His voice was low, almost rough. “Volleyball is everything. But sometimes… there is space for other things.”

Your heart clenched. You turned to him.

“Like what?” you whispered.

He looked at you for a long time. The words seemed to hover on his tongue, but he never released them.

Instead, he reached out and gently fixed a strand of hair that had stuck to your cheek from the humidity. His calloused fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.

“You,” he said simply.

No grand confession. No “I like you.” Just that one word, you, delivered like an undeniable fact.

You felt your eyes sting, but you smiled and leaned your head lightly against his broad shoulder. He allowed it. The gym lights hummed above you as the two of you sat in the quiet afterglow of his hard work.

No labels. No promises.

Just the steady beat of his heart next to yours.

Present – Studio

The interviewer asked carefully, “Did you ever wonder where you stood with him?”

You let out a slow breath.

“Every day. But I stayed anyway. Because being important to Ushijima Wakatoshi… that was already more than most people ever got.”

Your voice grew quieter.

“I thought it would be enough forever.”

Present – Studio

The mood in the room had shifted. The interviewer’s voice softened, sensing the weight behind your answers.

“There came a point when Ushijima made a major career decision. By turning pro and moving to the Sendai Frogs initially, then the national team path. How did that affect your… connection?”

You stared at your hands for a long moment. The camera kept rolling.

“It forced us to face what we never named,” you replied.

Past – Late Summer, After Nationals

The celebration had died down hours ago. Shiratorizawa had taken the championship again, and the team party was loud and chaotic. But Ushijima had slipped away early.

You found him on the rooftop of the school building, the city lights glittering below. The night breeze carried the last remnants of summer heat.

He stood at the railing, broad back straight, gazing out at nothing in particular. When he heard your footsteps, he didn’t turn around right away.

You stopped beside him, close enough that your arm brushed his.

“Congratulations,” you said softly. “You were incredible out there.”

He gave a single nod. Then, after a beat of silence, he spoke in that steady, matter-of-fact tone:

“I’ve decided. I’m going pro. The offer from the Sendai Frogs is the most logical choice. Stronger training environment. Better path to the national team.”

Your chest tightened. You had known this day would come, the rumors had been swirling for weeks. Still, hearing him say it so plainly hurt.

“That’s… good,” you managed. “It’s what you’ve been working toward.”

Ushijima finally turned to look at you. His expression was calm, almost peaceful, as if the decision had already settled perfectly in his mind.

“Yes. It is the correct decision.”

The silence that followed felt different this time. Heavier.

You swallowed hard, staring at the city lights instead of him.

“And where does that leave us?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Your voice was quieter than you wanted.

He blinked once, as if the question surprised him.

“You can visit when you want,” he said simply. “Tokyo isn’t far.”

That wasn’t what you meant. Not even close.

Your hands gripped the railing until your knuckles turned white. The words you had held back for so long finally pushed forward.

“Wakatoshi… What am I to you?”

The question hung in the warm night air.

Ushijima looked at you directly, those intense olive eyes steady and honest. He didn’t hesitate.

“You are important.”

Important.

Not “I need you.”

Not “Stay with me.”

Not “I love you.”

Just… important.

You felt something crack inside your chest. The breeze suddenly felt colder.

“I see,” you whispered.

He reached out and placed a large, warm hand on your shoulder. A rare gesture of comfort from him. “This is the best path for my career. You understand that.”

You did understand. That was the problem. You had always understood him better than anyone.

But for once, you wished he would understand you.

Present – Studio

The interviewer waited patiently as you gathered yourself.

“Did you tell him how you felt?” she asked.

You shook your head slowly.

“No. Not then. I realized at that moment that I didn’t know where I stood in his life. And he… he didn’t see why that mattered.”

Your voice cracked just slightly.

“He thought ‘important’ was enough. For him, it was the highest thing he could say.”

Past – Two Weeks Later

The train station was crowded with students and salarymen. Ushijima stood on the platform in his casual clothes, bag slung over his shoulder, ready for his first official meeting with the pro team staff in Sendai.

You had come to see him off.

He turned to you as the train approached, expression unchanged from any other day.

“I will call when I settle in,” he said.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. The crack in your chest had widened into a chasm.

The train doors opened. He stepped toward them, then paused.

For a second, you thought he might say something more. Something that would change everything.

Instead, he simply said, “Take care.”

And he boarded.

You stood on the platform until the train disappeared from view. He never looked back.

That night, you packed your own things quietly. No dramatic goodbye. No angry letter.

Just a quiet finality.

You left for a different city the next morning.

He didn’t stop you.

Because in his mind, if it was your decision, he would respect it.

Present – Studio

You looked straight into the camera, eyes tired but clear.

“I left because staying would have hurt more. He never said what I needed to hear… and I couldn’t keep pretending it was enough.”

The room had grown quieter. Even the crew seemed to sense the shift as the interview moved into heavier territory.

The interviewer spoke carefully. “After he turned pro, the two of you… drifted apart?”

You gave a slow nod, eyes distant.

“Not with shouting or fighting. It was quieter than that.”

Past – Autumn, One Month After He Left

Your new apartment in a different prefecture felt too empty. The boxes were still half-unpacked, the walls bare. You had taken a simple job and tried to build something new, but every quiet moment pulled your thoughts back to him.

Your phone lit up with a rare message.

Wakatoshi: Practice went well today. The team’s coordination is improving. How are you?

You stared at the screen for a long time. The words were typical Ushijima, always factual and direct. No mention of missing you. No question about why you had suddenly left without a proper goodbye.

You typed back with trembling fingers.

You: I’m okay. Settling in. Glad practice is going well.

That was the last real conversation for a while.

He continued sending occasional updates. Just short and straightforward texts about matches, training, and small observations about the pro environment. You replied every time, keeping the tone light, never mentioning the growing distance or the ache in your chest.

But the silences between messages stretched longer.

Present – Studio

“He never asked me to stay,” you said, voice low. “And I never explained why I left. We both just… accepted it.”

The interviewer nodded sympathetically. “Did he try to reach out more?”

You shook your head.

“Not in the way I hoped. He respected my decision completely. That’s who he is.”

Past – Winter, Three Months Later

The snow fell heavily outside your window as you watched a recorded match on your laptop. Ushijima dominated the court as always. With his powerful spikes, unshakeable focus. He was always the ace the team relied on.

After the match, the camera caught him scanning the stands for a moment. The same habit. Looking for someone who was no longer there.

Your phone buzzed.

Wakatoshi: We won. The spike in the third set worked as planned.

You didn’t reply for two days.

When you finally did, it was short.

You: Congratulations. You looked strong out there.

No more late-night thoughts shared. No more quiet evenings on the steps. The comfortable silence that once connected you now felt like a wall.

One evening, you sat on your bed and typed a longer message. Containing everything you had held back.

Wakatoshi, I left because I realized I was waiting for something you might never say. I was important, but I needed to know if I was more. I’m sorry for disappearing like this.

Your thumb hovered over send for a long minute… then you deleted it.

Instead, you sent nothing.

Two weeks later, you changed your number. Not out of anger, but out of the need for a clean break. A quiet finality.

He never chased after you. He simply continued his path, as steady and unwavering as always.

Because if leaving was your decision, he would respect it.

Present – Studio

You took a slow, shaky breath as the camera focused on your face.

“I left without a big scene. No fight. No closure. Just… gone. And he let me go. Not because he didn’t care, but because he believed respecting my choice was the right thing.”

Your eyes glistened under the studio lights.

“He never stopped me. And that silence hurt more than anything he could have said.”

The interviewer gave you a moment before asking gently, “Do you regret how it ended?”

You hesitated longer this time, the pause stretching.

“He never said what I needed to hear,” you whispered. “And I never gave him the chance to learn how.”

Past – One Year Later

You saw him on television more often now. Called the rising star of the pro league, the powerful opposite hitter everyone talked about. Ushijima Wakatoshi, the man who spoke little but dominated everything.

Sometimes, late at night, you wondered if he ever thought about those quiet moments on the steps, or the way your hand had brushed his, or the single word “you” he had given you under the gym lights.

But life moved forward.

You built new routines. New people entered your life, though none ever felt quite right.

And somewhere across the country, Ushijima kept playing. Still strong, focused, and unchanging. The fracture had become a canyon.

Present – Documentary Studio

The set looked different for Ushijima’s session.

Warmer lighting, a single chair centered in the frame. He sat with perfect posture, wearing a simple black team jacket, hands resting calmly on his thighs. The camera loved him. All because of his sharp features, broad shoulders, and that unreadable intensity never wavered.

He had answered every question so far with his usual precision: short, factual responses about his career, training philosophy, and key matches. No embellishment. No emotion.

Until now.

The interviewer leaned forward, tone shifting.

“We’ve spoken with several people from your past. One person in particular was mentioned often. Someone important during your Shiratorizawa years. She appeared in earlier interviews but preferred to remain vague about your relationship. May I ask… who was Reader to you?”

The room fell completely silent.

Ushijima didn’t move at first. His olive-green eyes stared straight into the camera for a long, heavy pause. Five seconds. Ten. The kind of silence that made the crew exchange uneasy glances.

Then, in his deep, steady voice:

“She was the person I chose.”

The words landed like a spike hitting the court. The interviewer blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Could you… elaborate?”

Ushijima took another long breath. For the first time in the entire interview, his gaze softened, just slightly.

“I do not speak many words. Most people find this difficult. But with her… I did not need to. She understood without explanation. She sat with me in silence. She saw my plays before I made them. She was there after every match. Not because she had to be. Because she chose to be.”

He paused again, as if searching for the right words. Something he rarely did.

“I never called her my partner. I never said romantic things. But every day, I chose to be near her. I looked for her first. I told her things I told no one else. When she left, I respected her decision. I thought… that was correct.”

His large hands tightened almost imperceptibly on his thighs.

“To me, choosing someone every day was love. I believed it was obvious. I did not know it needed to be said.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ushijima looked directly into the camera again, his voice quieter but firm.

“If she is watching this… I was wrong. You were more than important. You were the only person I ever chose above volleyball.”

Cut to black.

Later – Your Apartment

The documentary had aired.

You sat alone in the dim glow of your screen, knees drawn to your chest, watching the final episode. When Ushijima’s interview segment began, you had expected his usual short answers.

You were not prepared for this.

His deep voice filled your small room. Those simple, devastating words “She was the person I chose.” echoed in your ears.

Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them.

All those quiet moments rushed back at once: the stone steps at Shiratorizawa, his shoulder warm against yours in the cold, the single word “you” under the gym lights, the way he always looked for you first.

He had loved you.

In his own way, the only way he knew how, he had loved you deeply.

And you had left because you never heard it spoken.

Too late.

The screen faded to black on his final words. You sat there in the dark, chest aching with a bittersweet pain that felt both crushing and healing at the same time.

Everything was recontextualized.

Every silence. Every glance. Every choice.

He had chosen you.

And you had never truly known until now.

Three Weeks Later

Your phone had been quiet for years. Then one message changed everything.

Unknown Number: This is Ushijima Wakatoshi. I received your new contact from the documentary staff. I watched the full series. If you are willing, I would like to meet. 

There are things I need to say clearly this time.

You stared at the message for nearly an hour before replying with a single line.

You: Okay. When and where?

He chose a small, quiet café in Tokyo on a weekday morning. It was early enough that the usual crowd hadn’t arrived yet. Neutral ground. No pressure.

When you walked in, he was already there.

Ushijima sat by the window, shoulders filling the chair, wearing a simple dark sweater. His hair was a little longer than you remembered, but his posture was the same. The moment he saw you, he stood up immediately.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he said your name. Just your name. But the way he said it made your throat tighten.

You sat across from him. Two cups of coffee were already on the table. Black for him. The way you liked it for you.

“I watched the interview,” you started, voice barely above a whisper. “What you said…”

Ushijima nodded once. He looked at you directly, those intense olive eyes holding yours without flinching.

“I was wrong,” he said plainly. No excuses. No softening. “I thought my actions were enough. Choosing to be with you every day, looking for you first, sharing my thoughts with only you. I believed that expressed everything. I did not understand that you needed the words.”

He paused, hands resting calmly on the table.

“I love you.”

The words came out steady and certain, like a spike he had practiced a thousand times. Simple. Honest. Devastating in their directness.

Your breath caught.

“I loved you then,” he continued. “I love you now. When you left, I respected your decision because I thought it was what you wanted. But after the documentary… I realized I had never given you a reason to stay.”

Tears welled in your eyes. You didn’t try to hide them.

“I waited so long to hear that,” you whispered. “I thought I was just… convenient. Important, but not enough.”

Ushijima’s brow furrowed slightly, the closest he came to pain.

“You were never convenient. You were the only person who made the world quieter. With you, I did not have to be the ace or the future of Japanese volleyball. I could just be… me.”

He reached across the table slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you didn’t, he covered your hand with his. Large, warm, calloused from years of spiking. The same hand that once brushed hair from your cheek under gym lights.

“I cannot change the years we lost,” he said. “But if you will allow it, I want to choose you again. Properly this time. Every day. With words when you need them.”

The café faded around you. All that existed was the steady rhythm of his voice and the warmth of his hand.

You turned your palm up and laced your fingers through his. “I never stopped choosing you either,” you admitted, voice thick with emotion. “Even when it hurts.”

A small, rare smile touched Ushijima’s lips. The smile was barely there, but real.

“Then we start again,” he said simply. “No unspoken things this time.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand.

Outside, the city moved on as usual. But inside that small café, two people who had once let silence define them finally gave it language.

Not perfect. Not without scars. But hopeful. And this time, chosen out loud.

Two Years Later

The stadium was alive with thunderous applause. Flags waved in waves of red and white as the final whistle echoed through the massive arena. Japan had won another grueling international match, and once again, Ushijima Wakatoshi stood at the center of it all.

His final spike in the fifth set had been devastating. With a powerful, decisive strike that left the opposing blockers frozen. The crowd chanted his name, but his focus remained sharp, unbroken.

You sat in your familiar seat: third row, left side of the court. The same position you had occupied since his high school days. Only this time, you weren’t hidden in the shadows or watching from a distance. You wore his national team jacket openly over your shoulders, the fabric still carrying his scent.

People had noticed. Of course they had. Cameras had panned toward you multiple times during the match. Social media was already buzzing with new photos and speculation, but none of that mattered tonight.

The players lined up for their final bow. Ushijima moved with them, tall and composed, but his eyes weren’t on the crowd or his teammates.

They were on you.

Even across the glowing court, his gaze found you instantly. That subtle shift in his posture. The slight relaxation of his broad shoulders told you everything. He gave one firm, deliberate nod in your direction before straightening again. A private acknowledgment in the middle of thousands of screaming fans.

Your heart swelled the same way it had on those quiet Shiratorizawa steps years ago.

The corridor outside the locker rooms was quieter now, though the distant roar of the crowd still vibrated through the walls. Staff members moved efficiently, and a few teammates offered you polite nods as they passed. They had grown used to seeing you here.

You leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed, watching the door.

When Ushijima finally emerged, he looked exactly as you remembered from every important match. His hair damp from the shower, team jacket zipped halfway, and duffel bag slung effortlessly over one shoulder. His presence filled the hallway.

His olive-green eyes locked onto you immediately. Without hesitation, he walked straight toward you, ignoring the lingering reporters and crew. He stopped just inches away, towering over you in that familiar, comforting way.

“You came,” he said, voice deep and steady. There was a quiet warmth beneath the words now. Something he had learned to let show.

“I promised I would,” you replied softly, smiling up at him. “You were incredible out there, Wakatoshi. That last spike… the timing, the power. It was perfect. The blockers had no chance.”

He nodded once, accepting the praise with the same seriousness he gave everything. But then he added something more, words he now gave freely.

“I saw you before the serve. Knowing you were watching made it easier. I wanted to end it cleanly for you.”

Your breath caught. Even after two years of rebuilding, his honest declarations still made heat rise to your cheeks.

He reached out with one large hand and gently adjusted the jacket on your shoulders, making sure it covered you against the post-match chill. His fingers lingered, brushing lightly along your arm in a touch that was both protective and tender.

“The press is waiting outside,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours. “They will take many photos again. Are you comfortable with that?”

You slipped your hand into his without thinking. His fingers closed around yours immediately. The gesture was warm and sure. “Let them,” you said. “I’m not hiding anymore. This is us now.”

A rare, small smile touched his lips. It was subtle, barely curving the edges of his mouth, but it was real and meant only for you. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, right there in the open hallway where anyone could see. No hesitation. No shame.

“Come home with me,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to hear everything you thought about the match. Every detail. And then… I just want you close.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand. “I’d like that.”

As you walked together toward the exit, hand in hand, the flashes of cameras greeted you. Reporters called out questions, but Ushijima ignored them all, his focus entirely on you. He kept his grip steady, guiding you through the crowd with quiet protectiveness. The world saw it now. What had once been unspoken was finally visible.

In the car ride back to his apartment, the city lights blurred past the windows. Ushijima drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. It was a simple touch, but it spoke volumes.

“You are here,” he said quietly after a while, echoing the same words from years ago, but now filled with deep contentment. “Every important match… you are here.”

“I’m staying,” you whispered, placing your hand over his. “No more quiet fractures. No more wondering where I stand. We say it now.”

He glanced at you at a red light, eyes soft in the glow.

“I love you,” he said plainly, like it was the most natural fact in the world. “I chose you then. I choose you every day now.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but they were happy ones. You leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder as the light turned green.

“I love you too, Wakatoshi.”

The apartment was warm when you arrived. He made tea the way you liked it while you curled up on the couch. Later, as you talked through the match. Conveying every one of your honest thoughts and the small observations only you would notice. He listened intently, occasionally nodding or adding his own insights.

When conversation faded, he simply pulled you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you. The silence that settled between you was the same comfortable one from years ago… but now it carried no uncertainty. No unspoken pain.

Just peace.

And love, finally spoken out loud for the world, and each other to see.

The final season of the London social cycle felt different this year.

It was quieter.

More restrained.

As though the ton itself had grown weary of its own spectacle and was now holding its breath, waiting for something inevitable to unfold. Fewer explosive scandals. Fewer frantic debutantes. Fewer bright, chaotic beginnings. The balls were still lavish, the gowns still exquisite, but the air carried a subtle finality. Like the last page of a long, elegant book turning slowly.

You, Lady Reader Vale, moved through it all with the quiet composure that had become your armor.

Widowed at twenty-four after a brief, politically advantageous marriage to the late Viscount Vale, you had returned to society this season not as a debutante, but as something far more dangerous: a young widow of considerable intelligence, modest fortune, and significant political connections through your late husband’s family. You were socially untouchable in the way only certain widows could be. You were respected, observed, but rarely pursued with the feverish hunger reserved for the young and innocent. Men looked at you with interest, yes. But it was calculated interest. Strategic. Safe.

You preferred it that way.

You had spent the past two years learning how to navigate the ton without ever truly belonging to it. You observed. You listened. You spoke only when your words would land with precision. Your dark eyes missed nothing, and your silence was often more powerful than any debutante’s laughter.

Suguru Geto returned to society with the same quiet elegance that had always defined him.

The Viscount of Blackthorne had spent the previous year largely absent from the social whirl, tending to his vast estates and the intricate web of political influence he wove so effortlessly. When he reappeared at the opening ball of the season. Hosted once again by Lady Danbury, the room seemed to adjust itself around him. Tall, composed, with long dark hair tied neatly back and an aura of unsettling calm, Geto moved like a man who had already decided the outcome of every conversation before it began.

He was not loud like Satoru Gojo nor coldly precise like Kento Nanami.

He was something far more dangerous: controlled devotion wrapped in velvet.

You noticed him the moment he entered.

He noticed you almost immediately after.

The introduction was seamless, arranged by mutual acquaintances who saw the obvious symmetry: two intelligent, composed individuals of good standing who understood the value of a strategic match. Geto bowed with perfect grace, his dark eyes meeting yours without hesitation or flirtation. Only assessment.

“Lady Vale,” he said, voice smooth and low, carrying the quiet authority that made lesser men fall silent. “I have heard much of your insight during your late husband’s tenure. It is an honor to finally meet you.”

You curtsied with equal composure. “Lord Blackthorne. The honor is mine. Your influence on the recent trade reforms has been… illuminating.”

The conversation that followed was everything society approved of: polite, intelligent, and laced with mutual respect. You spoke of estates, of political alliances, of the quiet power that came from understanding how the world truly worked. Geto listened. Truly listened. His gaze never wavered, and when he replied, his words were measured, thoughtful, and perfectly aligned with your own.

It felt inevitable.

By the end of the evening, he had asked permission to call on you the following afternoon.

Your mother was delighted. Society murmured approval. Even Satoru Gojo, watching from across the ballroom with his usual mischievous grin, raised a glass in your direction as if to say, Well done.

Geto chose you immediately.

Not with passion or grand declarations.

But with the calm certainty of a man who had decided this was the correct course.

The courtship began the very next day.

He arrived at the Vale townhouse at precisely four o’clock, dressed in immaculate black and deep burgundy, his long hair tied back with a simple ribbon. The conversation in the drawing room was structured and efficient. You spoke of your late husband’s estate management, of the political networks you still maintained, of the stability you both sought in a second marriage. Geto listened with that same unsettling calm, offering thoughtful insights that proved he had researched you thoroughly.

There was no heat in it.

No stolen glances and lingering touches. Only precision.

And yet, when he rose to leave, he paused at the door and looked at you one final time.

“You are exactly as I anticipated, Lady Vale,” he said softly. “Intelligent. Composed. Valuable.”

The words should have felt like a compliment.

Instead, they settled over you like a weight. Perfect, logical, and strangely hollow.

You watched him go, the door closing softly behind him, and wondered why the most suitable match you had ever encountered already felt… wrong in ways you could not yet name.

But Geto had chosen.

And in the world of Suguru Geto, choice was the same as fate.

The courtship of Lady Reader Vale and Viscount Suguru Geto unfolded with the same meticulous elegance that defined everything about the man.

There were no spontaneous gestures. No impulsive rides through Hyde Park. No stolen moments in moonlit gardens that could spark scandal. Everything was structured. Planned. Executed with the quiet precision of a man who viewed marriage not as a leap of the heart, but as the careful alignment of two powerful pieces on a chessboard.

Geto called upon you every Tuesday and Thursday at precisely four o’clock.

He arrived in a sleek black carriage, always dressed in deep, rich tones. Charcoal waistcoats, burgundy cravats, black coats tailored to accentuate his tall, lean frame and the graceful strength in his shoulders. His long dark hair was invariably tied back neatly, a few rebellious strands occasionally escaping to frame his sharp, aristocratic features. He brought gifts that were thoughtful rather than extravagant: a rare volume of political philosophy, a finely bound collection of essays on estate management, once even a delicate silver hair comb etched with subtle vines that he said reminded him of the quiet resilience he saw in you.

Your conversations in the drawing room were never frivolous.

You spoke of estates. How best to manage tenant relations without breeding resentment. You discussed influence like the delicate balance of power in Parliament and how one’s public image could be wielded like a blade. You touched on future expectations of the importance of heirs, the necessity of maintaining social order, the quiet strength required to navigate a world that rewarded composure over passion.

Geto listened with absolute focus. His dark eyes never left yours. He never interrupted. When he replied, his voice was smooth and low, carrying the weight of someone who had already considered every angle before speaking.

“You understand the value of stability better than most,” he said during one such visit, sitting across from you with perfect posture, long fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Most widows in your position would seek passion or security through remarriage. You seek order. That is… rare.”

You met his gaze steadily, your own composure matching his. “Passion fades, my lord. Order can be built. Maintained. Protected. I have learned that lesson quite thoroughly.”

He inclined his head, a faint smile touching his lips. The presence of it was not warm, but approving. “Then we are aligned in our philosophy.”

From the outside, the courtship looked perfect.

Society whispered approval. “Lord Blackthorne has chosen wisely,” they said. “A widow with political acumen and a viscount with influence. What a formidable pair they will make.”

Even Satoru Gojo, who had been unusually quiet on the matter, watched the two of you from across ballrooms with an unreadable expression, his usual bright grin tempered by something sharper.

But beneath the polished surface, something was missing.

There was no heat.

No stolen glances that lingered too long.

No accidental brushes of fingers that sent sparks racing.

No moments where conversation faltered because the air had grown too thick with unspoken desire.

The silence between you and Geto never felt empty, it felt intentional. Comfortable, even. You understood each other with alarming speed. He anticipated your thoughts. You anticipated his objections. When you challenged a point he made about land reform, he did not become defensive. He listened, considered, and adjusted his stance with quiet respect.

Yet the absence of fire unsettled you both in ways neither of you voiced.

One Thursday afternoon, during a particularly long visit, the conversation turned more personal than usual.

You were seated near the window, late sunlight casting golden patterns across the carpet. Geto sat opposite you, legs crossed elegantly, studying you with that calm, penetrating gaze.

“Tell me, Lady Vale,” he said softly, “do you want this match? Or have you simply decided it is the most logical course?”

The question landed like a stone in still water.

You paused, teacup halfway to your lips. No one had ever asked you that before. Not with such quiet honesty. Not without expectation attached.

You set the cup down carefully.

“I want stability,” you answered truthfully. “I want a partner who understands the weight of duty and does not flinch from it. I want a life that is not dictated by fleeting emotion. You offer that. So yes… I have decided it is logical.”

Geto was silent for a long moment. His dark eyes searched your face as though looking for cracks in your composure.

“And yet,” he murmured, almost to himself, “logic has never felt quite so… insufficient before.”

The words hung between you.

For the first time since the courtship began, Geto looked momentarily unsettled. Not displeased but as though something he had neatly categorized had refused to stay in its box.

He recovered quickly, of course. The mask of elegant control slid back into place. He rose, bowed with perfect grace, and took his leave with the promise to call again on Tuesday.

But you saw it.

The first crack.

That evening, after he had gone, you stood at your bedroom window, staring out at the gaslit street. The silence of the house felt heavier than usual. You thought of his question. Of the way his voice had softened when he spoke it. Of how, despite the perfect alignment of your minds, your body remained untouched by any real spark.

And you wondered, not for the first time, whether a marriage built on perfect logic could ever truly satisfy the parts of you that still remembered what it felt like to burn.

Meanwhile, across London in his own imposing townhouse, Suguru Geto sat in his study, a glass of brandy untouched on the desk before him.

He could not stop thinking about your answer.

“I have decided it is logical.”

The words should have pleased him. They aligned perfectly with his own philosophy. Control. Order. Intentional attachment.

Yet they unsettled him more than any passionate declaration ever could.

Because for the first time in years, Suguru Geto found himself wanting something he could not neatly categorize.

He wanted to know what your voice sounded like when it wasn’t measured and composed.

He wanted to see what your eyes looked like when they weren’t carefully guarded. He wanted to feel whether the silence between you could ever become something warmer. Something alive.

He leaned back in his chair, long fingers drumming once against the armrest before stilling completely.

Control was slipping.

Not dramatically. Not dangerously.

But enough.

And the worst part was that Lady Reader Vale had done nothing to cause it.

She had simply existed by being intelligent, composed, quietly powerful, and in doing so had begun to reshape the very order he had spent years perfecting.

Geto closed his eyes, allowing himself one rare moment of honesty.

He was not falling in love.

He was beginning to suspect that love, for him, might look like this: quiet, deliberate, and far more dangerous than passion ever could be.

Because once he let her in—truly in—he was not sure he would ever be able to let her go.

And for a man who prized control above all else, that realization was the most unsettling of all.

The courtship continued with the same flawless precision that had defined it from the beginning.

Tuesday and Thursday afternoons became sacred appointments in both your calendars. Suguru Geto arrived at precisely four o’clock, never early, never late. He was always impeccably dressed. Deep charcoal or burgundy tones that accentuated his tall, elegant frame and the quiet authority he carried like a second skin. His long dark hair remained neatly tied back, though a few stray strands occasionally escaped to brush against his sharp cheekbones, giving him an almost poetic beauty that contrasted with the rigid control in his dark eyes.

The conversations in your drawing room were never frivolous. They were intellectual duels wrapped in velvet courtesy.

You spoke of estate management. The delicate balance between tenant welfare and profitability. Geto countered with thoughtful insights on long-term political alliances and how one’s public image could be leveraged as quietly as any weapon. You discussed the education of future children, the maintenance of social order, and the necessity of emotional restraint in positions of power. He listened with absolute focus, nodding occasionally, his gaze never leaving your face.

There was respect between you. Deep, genuine respect.

But still… no heat.

No stolen glances that burned.

No accidental brushes of fingers that lingered too long.

No moments where the air grew thick with unspoken desire.

The silence between you felt intentional. Comfortable. Almost companionable.

Until the afternoon it wasn’t.

It was a Thursday, late in the season. The drawing room was bathed in soft golden light from the setting sun. Your mother had excused herself to speak with the housekeeper, leaving the two of you momentarily alone. A rare occurrence that neither of you commented upon.

You were seated near the window, a book of political essays open on your lap. Geto sat across from you, legs elegantly crossed, one long finger tapping slowly against the arm of his chair as he studied you.

“Lady Vale,” he said suddenly, his voice low and smooth as always, yet carrying a new weight. “Do you want this match? Or have you simply decided it is the most logical course?”

The question sliced through the comfortable silence like a blade.

You closed the book slowly, fingers tracing the embossed leather cover as you considered your answer. No one had ever asked you that before. Not with such quiet, unflinching honesty. Not without expectation or agenda attached.

You met his dark eyes directly.

“I want stability,” you answered truthfully. “I want a partner who understands the weight of duty and does not flinch from it. I want a life that is not dictated by fleeting emotion or reckless passion. You offer that, my lord. So yes… I have decided it is logical.”

Geto was silent for a long moment.

His expression did not change. It seems he was too controlled for that, but something shifted behind his eyes. A flicker. A hesitation. The first visible crack in the flawless architecture of his composure.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, long fingers interlacing.

“No one has ever asked me that question before,” he admitted quietly. “Not honestly. Everyone assumes I want what is logical. What is correct. What maintains order.” His gaze held yours, dark and intense. “But you… you ask as though the answer matters beyond strategy.”

The air between you thickened.

For the first time since your courtship began, the silence no longer felt comfortable. It felt charged. Heavy with things neither of you had named.

You set the book aside and folded your hands in your lap, refusing to look away. “Does the answer matter to you, Lord Blackthorne? Or is this simply another piece you are placing on your board?”

Geto’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He rose from his chair with fluid grace and crossed the room until he stood directly in front of you. The proximity was new. You could smell the faint scent of sandalwood and ink that always clung to him.

He looked down at you, dark eyes searching your face as though trying to solve a puzzle he had not anticipated.

“I have spent years building a life that makes sense,” he said, voice low and rougher than usual. “Control is not a preference for me. It is survival. Emotion is… unpredictable. Dangerous. It disrupts order. And yet…”

He reached out slowly, his fingers hovering just above your cheek before he allowed them to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“… When I sit across from you, logic feels strangely insufficient,” he finished, almost whispering. “You understand me too quickly. You see through the structure I have built. And instead of resisting it, you simply exist outside of it. That unsettles me more than any argument ever could.”

Your breath caught.

The crack had widened.

Geto did not pull away. His fingers lingered against your skin for one heartbeat longer than propriety allowed, thumb brushing lightly along your jawline. His dark eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to yours.

For one suspended moment, the air crackled with something dangerous.

Desire.

Not the wild, chaotic passion of younger couples, but something deeper. Controlled. Potent. The kind of desire that could reshape a man who had spent his life refusing to be reshaped.

Then the sound of your mother’s footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Geto stepped back instantly, the mask of elegant composure sliding back into place with ruthless efficiency. He bowed with perfect grace.

“Until Tuesday, Lady Vale,” he said, voice once again smooth and measured. “I look forward to continuing our discussion.”

He left without another word.

But the crack remained.

That night, you could not sleep.

You lay in your bed, staring at the canopy above, replaying the moment his fingers had touched your skin. The way his voice had roughened. The way his eyes had darkened with something he clearly did not know how to name.

Meanwhile, in his own townhouse, Suguru Geto sat in his study long after midnight, a glass of brandy untouched on the desk.

He could still feel the warmth of your skin against his fingertips.

He could still hear the quiet challenge in your voice when you had asked whether the answer mattered to him.

For the first time in years, Suguru Geto found himself questioning the very foundations he had built his life upon.

Control. Order. Intentional attachment.

All of it felt suddenly… fragile.

Because Lady Reader Vale had done something no one else had ever managed.

She had made him hesitate.

And hesitation, for a man like Geto, was the beginning of surrender.

He closed his eyes, allowing himself one rare moment of raw honesty.

He did not love you.

Not yet.

But he was beginning to fear that what he felt for you was far more dangerous than love.

It was devotion.

And devotion, once awakened, did not ask for permission. It simply took root.

And refused to be uprooted.

The crack that had appeared in Suguru Geto’s composure did not close.

Instead, it widened. Slowly and inexorably with every subsequent meeting.

The courtship continued on its carefully scheduled rhythm: Tuesday and Thursday afternoons at precisely four o’clock. Geto arrived without fail, always impeccably dressed, always bearing a thoughtful gift that spoke more of respect than romance. A first-edition treatise on governance. A set of fine inkstones carved with subtle patterns. Once, a single perfect white camellia, chosen because he remembered you mentioning in passing that its quiet resilience reminded you of winter gardens.

Yet beneath the flawless structure, something fundamental was shifting.

Geto began thinking about you outside of necessity.

He found himself pausing in the middle of reviewing estate ledgers, his mind drifting to the precise way you had challenged his view on tenant reform the previous Thursday. He caught himself wondering what you were doing at odd hours. Whether you were reading in your library, walking the gardens, or simply sitting in silence with that same composed grace that both soothed and unsettled him.

He began seeking your presence without logical reason.

One Tuesday, after a particularly long session discussing the merits of strategic alliances, he lingered longer than usual. When your mother politely suggested it was growing late, he offered to escort you on a short walk through the small private garden behind your townhouse instead of departing immediately.

The garden was modest but elegant. Neatly trimmed hedges, late-blooming roses, and a stone bench beneath an ancient oak. The evening air was cool and fragrant. Geto walked beside you in silence for several minutes, hands clasped behind his back, his long dark hair catching the last rays of sunset.

“You have been unusually quiet today,” you observed softly, glancing at him. “Is something troubling you, my lord?”

Geto stopped beneath the oak, turning to face you fully. The golden light painted his features in warm tones, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the intensity in his dark eyes.

“I find myself thinking about you at inappropriate times,” he admitted, voice low and measured, yet carrying an honesty that surprised even him. “Not merely as a prospective wife, but as… a presence. I wonder what you are reading. What thoughts occupy your mind when you are alone. Whether you ever allow yourself to feel something beyond careful calculation.”

He stepped closer, the space between your bodies shrinking until you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“This is not how I intended this courtship to progress,” he continued, almost to himself. “I chose you because you represented order. Stability. A partner who would understand the necessity of restraint. And yet…”

His hand rose slowly, fingers hovering near your cheek before he allowed them to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, but the heat in his dark eyes was anything but restrained.

“… You make me want to forget restraint entirely.”

Your breath caught.

The air between you thickened, heavy with the weight of unspoken desire. Geto’s fingers lingered against your skin, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with deliberate slowness. His gaze dropped to your lips, dark eyes darkening further.

For one suspended moment, you thought he might kiss you.

He leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath against your mouth, his body radiating controlled power. The scent of sandalwood and ink wrapped around you like a promise.

Then he stopped.

With visible effort, Geto pulled back, jaw tight, breathing measured but heavier than usual. He lowered his hand and took a single, deliberate step away, restoring propriety with ruthless discipline.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice rougher than you had ever heard it. “That was… inappropriate.”

You searched his face, heart racing. “Was it inappropriate? Or was it honest?”

Geto’s eyes flashed with something raw. Desire, conflict, and the first true fracture in his iron control.

“Both,” he admitted quietly. “And that is the problem.”

He escorted you back inside shortly after, bowing with perfect grace before departing. But the crack had widened further.

From that evening onward, the awareness between you became impossible to ignore.

Geto began noticing when you were absent.

At Lady Danbury’s next gathering, when you arrived slightly later than usual due to a prior commitment, he stood near the entrance, posture impeccable, but his dark eyes scanned the room with uncharacteristic restlessness until they found you. The moment they did, the tension in his shoulders eased. Only slightly, but enough for you to notice.

During a card evening at the Geto townhouse, he seated you directly beside him rather than across the table as propriety might suggest. When another gentleman attempted to engage you in conversation, Geto smoothly redirected the discussion back to include you both, his hand brushing yours beneath the table in a fleeting, possessive touch that sent heat racing up your arm.

He no longer spoke only of logic and order.

One Thursday afternoon, as rain pattered softly against the windows, the conversation turned unexpectedly intimate.

You were discussing the merits of emotional restraint when you asked him quietly, “Do you ever allow yourself to feel something simply because it exists? Not because it serves a purpose?”

Geto was silent for a long moment, staring into the fire.

Then he looked at you. Really looked at you with dark eyes burning with restrained intensity.

“I am beginning to,” he said, voice low and rough. “And it terrifies me.”

The air in the room grew thick.

He rose from his chair and crossed to where you sat, stopping directly in front of you. This time, he did not ask permission. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking slowly across your lower lip.

“You are becoming necessary to me, Lady Vale,” he murmured, the confession slipping out like a surrender. “Not as a strategic match. Not as an ornament. As you. And I do not know how to want something without needing to control it.”

His thumb pressed gently against your lip, parting it slightly. His breathing had grown heavier, control visibly fraying at the edges.

You rose slowly to your feet, bodies now only inches apart.

“Then stop trying to control it,” you whispered. “And simply feel it.”

Geto’s eyes darkened to near black.

For one breathless moment, the restraint snapped.

He pulled you against him with surprising strength, mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was nothing like the polite courtship you had shared so far. It was deep, hungry, and laced with weeks of carefully suppressed desire. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you with deliberate thoroughness while one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist possessively.

You moaned softly into the kiss, fingers clutching the front of his coat as heat flooded through your body. Geto groaned in response, backing you against the nearest wall, his body pressing flush against yours. You could feel the hard evidence of his arousal against your hip, the rigid control he had maintained for so long finally cracking under the weight of real want.

He broke the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point before soothing it with his tongue.

“You taste like surrender,” he rasped against your skin, voice hoarse with need. “And I am terrified of how much I want to take it.”

His hand slid down your side, gripping your hip and pulling you harder against him. The kiss resumed but fiercer this time and more desperate until the sound of approaching footsteps forced you both apart.

Geto stepped back immediately, breathing ragged, dark eyes still burning with barely-leashed hunger. He adjusted his coat with trembling fingers, restoring his elegant mask with visible effort.

“Until Thursday,” he said, voice rough. “I… look forward to seeing you again.”

He left without another word.

But the control had slipped.

And neither of you could pretend it hadn’t.

That night, alone in your room, you touched your lips, still tingling from his kiss, and realized the truth:

Suguru Geto was no longer simply courting you out of logic.

He was beginning to crave you.

And craving, for a man like Geto, was far more dangerous than love could ever be.

The kiss in the drawing room changed everything, and nothing.

On the surface, the courtship continued with its signature elegance. Geto still arrived at precisely four o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He still brought thoughtful gifts and engaged in measured, intelligent conversation. Society still murmured approval at the perfect symmetry of the Viscount of Blackthorne and the intelligent young widow, Lady Reader Vale.

But beneath the polished exterior, the tension had become unbearable.

Geto’s control was slipping faster now, and he knew it.

He found himself replaying that kiss at the most inconvenient moments. During meetings with his stewards, while reviewing correspondence, even in the quiet hours before dawn. The memory of your soft moan against his mouth, the way your body had pressed instinctively into his, the taste of you on his tongue… it haunted him. He, who had always prided himself on mastery over desire, was now consumed by it.

And he hated how much he craved more.

The outside pressure arrived like a slow-moving storm.

It began with Satoru Gojo.

Gojo had been unusually quiet about your courtship at first, watching from the edges of ballrooms with his trademark bright grin. But as the weeks progressed and Geto’s behavior grew more visibly strained, Gojo’s amusement turned into something sharper.

One evening at a private dinner hosted by Lady Danbury, Gojo cornered Geto near the terrace doors while you were engaged in conversation across the room.

“You’re looking a little… unravelled, old friend,” Gojo said lightly, swirling his champagne. His blue eyes, however, were sharp. “The perfect match doesn’t seem quite so perfect anymore, does it? I’ve never seen you this distracted. Not even when we were younger and causing chaos.”

Geto’s expression remained calm, but his fingers tightened around his glass. “My courtship with Lady Vale is proceeding exactly as planned. There is no distraction.”

Gojo laughed softly, leaning closer. “Liar. You look at her like she’s the only thing in the room that actually matters. And when she speaks to anyone else, you get this little twitch in your jaw. It’s almost cute.” His voice dropped, losing its playful edge. “Be careful, Suguru. You’re not marrying a political asset anymore. You’re falling for a woman who sees through every wall you’ve built. And once you let her in… you won’t be able to control what happens next.”

Geto’s dark eyes narrowed. “I control what happens next. Always.”

Gojo’s smile faded completely. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

Shoko Ieiri was even more direct.

She visited you the following afternoon, unannounced, and wasted no time once you were alone in the drawing room.

“You’re playing with fire,” she said bluntly, setting her tea aside. “Geto is not like the others. He doesn’t fall in love. He decides to possess. And right now, he’s deciding that he wants you in a way that terrifies him. I’ve known him long enough to see the signs. He’s losing control, and when men like Geto lose control, they either pull away completely… or they consume what they desire.”

You met her gaze steadily. “And if I want to be consumed?”

Shoko’s eyes softened with concern. “Then make sure he consumes you because he loves you. Not because he needs to own the one thing that makes him feel something real. There’s a difference. And with Geto… the line is very thin.”

Their words lingered.

Geto, for his part, tried to ignore them.

He threw himself deeper into the courtship, determined to prove that he was still in command. He arranged a private dinner at his townhouse. With just the two of you, with strict chaperones at a respectful distance. The table was set with exquisite precision: candlelight, fine china, and dishes chosen specifically because he had noticed your preferences over the weeks.

The conversation began as it always did.

But halfway through the meal, Geto set his fork down and looked at you with unnerving intensity.

“I have been thinking about what you said last week,” he said quietly. “About experiencing life rather than managing it. I find the concept… troubling. And yet I cannot stop turning it over in my mind.”

You set your own utensils aside, heart beating faster. “And what conclusion have you reached?”

He leaned forward, dark eyes burning. “That I want to experience you. Not as a wife on paper. Not as a strategic alliance. But as a woman who makes me question every rule I have lived by.”

The air in the dining room grew thick.

Geto rose slowly and circled the table until he stood behind your chair. His hands settled on your shoulders, thumbs stroking the bare skin above your gown with deliberate slowness.

“I have never wanted anything I could not control,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Until you.”

His fingers slid up to your neck, tilting your head back gently so he could look down at you. The touch was possessive, reverent, and laced with barely-leashed hunger.

“I think about kissing you again,” he confessed, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I think about laying you across this table and learning every sound you make when restraint is no longer an option. I think about ruining the perfect order I have built… just to see what we become in the chaos.”

Heat flooded your body at his words.

You reached up, covering one of his hands with yours. “Then stop thinking,” you whispered. “And do it.”

Geto’s breath hitched.

For one dangerous moment, his control wavered completely. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dark with promise.

“Not here,” he rasped. “Not yet. But soon… I will show you exactly how much control I am willing to surrender for you.”

He straightened, stepping back with visible effort, the mask of elegance sliding back into place just as a servant entered to clear the courses.

But the promise had been made.

And both of you knew it was only a matter of time before the carefully constructed walls between you came crashing down.

That night, alone in his bed, Geto stared at the ceiling, one hand clenched in the sheets.

He was no longer courting you out of logic.

He was courting you because he could no longer imagine a world without you in it.

And for a man who had spent his entire life mastering control, that realization was the most terrifying and exhilarating thing he had ever experienced.

The outside pressure had done its work.

Now, only one question remained:

Would Suguru Geto choose to surrender… or would he try to control the surrender itself?

The promise Geto made in the dining room did not remain a promise for long.

Over the next fortnight, the carefully constructed boundaries of your courtship began to erode, piece by piece, under the weight of something far more powerful than logic.

Geto still maintained the outward appearance of perfect control. He arrived on schedule. He spoke with measured elegance. He never allowed public displays that could invite gossip. But in private, in the quiet corners of ballrooms, in the shadowed alcoves of his townhouse, in the rare moments when chaperones were distracted. The restraint he had clung to for so long was steadily unraveling.

And you were the catalyst.

One rainy Thursday afternoon, the scheduled visit took an unexpected turn.

The drawing room felt smaller than usual, the rain pattering steadily against the windows creating a cocoon of intimacy. Your mother had been called away to handle an urgent matter with the household staff, leaving the two of you alone for longer than propriety strictly allowed.

Geto sat across from you as always, but his posture was less rigid today. His dark eyes held yours with an intensity that made the air feel thick.

“You asked me once if I ever allowed myself to feel something simply because it exists,” he said quietly, setting his teacup aside. “I have been considering that question ever since.”

He rose and crossed the room with deliberate grace, stopping directly in front of where you sat. Without asking permission, he took your hand and pulled you gently to your feet.

“I have spent my life believing that desire must be governed,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “That emotion must be intentional. That attachment should serve a greater order.”

His free hand rose to cup your cheek, thumb stroking slowly across your lower lip.

“But you…” He leaned in, breath warm against your mouth. “You make me want to experience rather than manage. And I am finding it increasingly difficult to resist.”

The kiss that followed was no longer tentative.

Geto claimed your mouth with a hunger that had been building for weeks. It was deep, possessive, and laced with the quiet ferocity of a man who had denied himself for far too long. His tongue swept against yours, tasting, claiming, while one hand tangled in your hair and the other gripped your waist, pulling you flush against his hard body.

You moaned softly into the kiss, fingers clutching the front of his coat. The sound seemed to snap something in him.

He backed you against the nearest wall, mouth never leaving yours. His hand slid down your side, gripping your hip and pressing you harder against him so you could feel the unmistakable hardness of his arousal through the layers of fabric.

“Feel what you do to me,” he growled against your lips, voice hoarse. “Every rational thought disappears when I think of you. I want to lay you down right here and show you exactly how little control I have left.”

His fingers found the laces of your gown, tugging them open with surprising dexterity. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, exposing the tops of your breasts. Geto groaned low in his throat, mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck and across your collarbone before closing over one nipple through the thin chemise. He sucked hard, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak until you arched against him with a broken whimper.

“Geto…” you gasped, hands threading through his long dark hair.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes nearly black with desire. “Say my name properly,” he commanded, voice dark and velvet-rough. “Suguru.”

“Suguru,” you breathed.

The sound of his given name on your lips seemed to break the last thread of his restraint.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, hands sliding up your legs beneath your skirts. With deliberate slowness, he pushed the fabric higher, exposing your thighs and the damp heat between them. His dark eyes flicked up to meet yours as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“I have imagined this,” he confessed, voice rough. “Every night. How you would taste. How you would sound when I finally stop holding back.”

He pushed your undergarments aside and leaned in, tongue dragging slowly through your folds. The first lick drew a sharp moan from you. Geto groaned in response, the vibration sending pleasure racing through your body. He licked again, deeper this time, savoring you with deliberate, devastating thoroughness. When his tongue circled your clit and two long fingers pushed inside you, curling against that perfect spot, your knees nearly buckled.

He held you steady with one strong hand on your hip, devouring you like a man starved. His fingers thrust deep and steady while his mouth worked your clit with relentless precision. Just sucking, licking, flicking until you were trembling and gasping his name.

“Come for me,” he ordered against your core, voice dark with command. “Let me feel it.”

You shattered with a choked cry, thighs shaking as pleasure crashed through you. Geto continued licking you through every wave, drawing out your release until you were oversensitive and whimpering.

Only then did he rise, lips glistening with your arousal. He kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, while his hands worked frantically at his trousers.

He freed his cock and lifted you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he positioned himself at your entrance.

“Look at me.” he commanded, voice strained with need.

Then he thrust inside you in one powerful stroke.

You both moaned loudly at the sensation. The stretch, the fullness, the perfect way he filled you. Geto buried his face in your neck, breathing hard as he gave you a moment to adjust.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were deep, controlled at first, but quickly turned harder, more desperate. Each powerful stroke drove you against the wall, the wet sound of skin meeting skin mixing with your shared moans. Geto’s grip on your thighs was bruising, his mouth claiming yours again in a messy, hungry kiss.

“You feel perfect,” he groaned against your lips. “So tight. So wet. Made for me. Only for me.”

He angled his hips, hitting that sensitive spot inside you with every thrust. Pleasure built fast and overwhelming. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you clenched around him.

“Suguru—I’m close—”

“Come,” he growled, voice rough with command. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You shattered again with a cry, walls pulsing around him. Geto followed moments later with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, hips jerking with the force of his release.

For several long minutes, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the rain against the windows.

Geto held you close, still buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours. His arms trembled slightly as he fought to regain control.

“I have never lost control like that,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “And yet with you… I find I do not want it back.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time, almost tender, before carefully lowering you to your feet and helping you straighten your gown with surprisingly gentle hands.

The ideological crack had become a chasm.

Geto no longer believed desire must be governed.

He was beginning to understand that some things like the way he wanted you were meant to be experienced.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

And he was no longer sure he wanted to stop the fall.

The weeks following that rainy afternoon in the drawing room were a slow, exquisite unraveling.

Suguru Geto no longer pretended he was in full control.

He still maintained the outward elegance of the courtship. The scheduled visits, the thoughtful gifts, the measured conversations in front of chaperones but in the stolen private moments, the mask slipped completely. He sought you out with increasing urgency. He touched you with a hunger that bordered on reverence. And every time he kissed you, every time his hands mapped your body with deliberate possession, he seemed to lose another piece of the rigid ideology he had built his life upon.

You felt the shift in every encounter.

One evening, after a quiet dinner at his townhouse, he dismissed the servants early and pulled you into his private study. The moment the door closed, he had you pressed against the heavy oak desk, mouth devouring yours while his hands worked open the fastenings of your gown with practiced urgency.

“I think about you constantly,” he confessed between kisses, voice rough and low. “Even when I am reviewing ledgers. Even when I am supposed to be focused on political matters. You have invaded every part of my mind.”

He lifted you onto the desk, pushing your skirts up around your waist. His fingers found you already slick and ready, and he groaned softly as he sank two long fingers inside you, curling them with devastating precision while his thumb circled your clit.

“Look at how wet you are for me,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “You undo me so easily, Lady Vale. One touch and I forget every rule I have ever lived by.”

He brought you to release with his fingers first. Fast, intense, your cries muffled against his shoulder  then freed himself from his trousers and thrust into you in one deep stroke. The desk creaked beneath you as he took you hard and deep, hips snapping with controlled power, one hand gripping your thigh while the other braced beside your head.

“You feel like sin and salvation at once,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “And I am no longer sure which I crave more.”

He drove you both over the edge with relentless intensity, spilling deep inside you with a low, broken groan that sounded almost like surrender.

Afterward, he held you close, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.

“I am losing the battle against what I feel for you,” he whispered. “And I am beginning to fear I do not want to win it.”

The proposal came on a crisp autumn evening, exactly as one might expect from Suguru Geto. Ever the elegant, intentional, and yet strangely vulnerable.

He had arranged a private dinner in the gardens of his country estate just outside London. Lanterns hung from the trees, casting a soft golden glow over the perfectly manicured paths. A single table had been set beneath a canopy of climbing roses, with fine china, crystal glasses, and a bouquet of white camellias at its center.

Geto waited for you at the entrance to the garden, dressed in black and deep burgundy, his long dark hair tied back with a simple ribbon. When you approached, he took your hand and brought it to his lips, eyes never leaving yours.

“Lady Vale,” he said softly. “Thank you for indulging me tonight.”

The dinner was exquisite, the conversation flowing with the familiar intellectual depth you had come to expect. But beneath it all, the air hummed with anticipation.

When the final course had been cleared and the servants had discreetly withdrawn, Geto rose from his chair and came to stand before you. He took both of your hands in his, thumbs stroking slowly over your knuckles.

“I came into this courtship with a very clear purpose,” he began, voice low and steady, yet carrying an undercurrent of emotion he no longer tried to hide. “I sought a wife who understood order. Stability. The necessity of control. You were perfect on paper. Intelligent. Composed. Politically valuable. Everything I believed I needed.”

He paused, dark eyes searching your face.

“But you have become so much more than that.”

Geto sank to one knee with graceful precision, still holding your hands. From his coat pocket, he withdrew a ring. A beautiful emerald-cut sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds, set in delicate gold. It was elegant, intentional, and unmistakably expensive.

“Marry me, Lady Reader Vale,” he said, voice quiet but unwavering. “Not because it is the most logical choice. Not because society expects it. But because I have come to realize that my life feels incomplete without you in it. I want you by my side. As my wife, my partner, my equal. I want to build something real with you. Something that challenges me. Something that makes me better.”

He lifted the ring slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

“I cannot promise you wild passion or reckless romance. I am still the man I have always been. Always controlled, deliberate, perhaps too rigid at times. But I can promise you this: I will choose you every day. I will protect you. I will listen to you. And I will allow you to reshape the parts of me that need reshaping.”

The proposal was not dramatic.

It was not flowery, but it was honest.

And for Suguru Geto, that was the greatest surrender of all.

You looked down at him. This powerful, elegant man on his knee, offering not just his name but the willingness to let go of some of his iron control and felt something deep inside your chest shift.

You did not answer immediately.

Instead, you asked the question that had been lingering between you since the beginning.

“If I accept… will you choose me? Or will I simply fit into what you already decided?”

Geto was silent for a long moment.

Then he rose to his feet, still holding your hands, and pulled you gently against him.

“I choose you,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “Not as a decision I made months ago. Not as a strategic match. But as the woman who has made me question everything I thought I needed. I choose you, Reader. Messy. Real. With all the ways you challenge me and all the ways you make me feel alive. I choose you. Not because it is logical, but because I cannot imagine my life without you anymore.”

The honesty in his voice was raw.

You searched his eyes and found no calculation. Only the truth.

You smiled softly and nodded.

“Then yes,” you whispered. “I will marry you, Suguru.”

Relief and something deeper. Something like devotion flashed across his face.

He kissed you then, slow and deep, pouring weeks of restrained longing into the embrace. His hands framed your face with surprising tenderness, thumbs stroking your cheeks as his tongue moved against yours in a kiss that felt like both surrender and claim.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing unsteady.

“You have no idea what you have done to me,” he murmured. “I thought I was choosing a wife. Instead, I have found someone who is rewriting the very shape of my devotion.”

He slipped the sapphire ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly.

Later that night, after the carriage had brought you both back to his London townhouse under the guise of “discussing wedding details,” the restraint finally shattered completely.

The moment the door to his private chambers closed behind you, Geto had you in his arms.

This time there was no hesitation.

He kissed you with raw hunger, backing you toward the large four-poster bed while his hands worked open the fastenings of your gown. Fabric pooled at your feet. He lifted you onto the bed, following you down, mouth never leaving yours.

“I have imagined this every night since that afternoon in the drawing room,” he rasped, trailing kisses down your neck and across your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard while his hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding you already slick and ready.

“So wet for me already,” he groaned, pushing two fingers deep inside you. “You undo every ounce of control I possess.”

He worked you open with skilled, relentless fingers until you were trembling and moaning his name. Only then did he shed his own clothes, revealing the lean, powerful body beneath. His toned muscle, smooth skin, and his thick, hard cock curving upward against his stomach.

He settled between your thighs, positioning himself at your entrance.

“Eyes on me.” he commanded softly.

Then he thrust inside you in one deep, smooth stroke.

You both moaned at the sensation. Geto buried his face in your neck, breathing hard as he gave you a moment to adjust before he began to move. With deep, powerful strokes that filled you completely.

“You feel like everything I never allowed myself to want,” he groaned, hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. “Tight. Perfect. Mine.”

He took you with controlled intensity at first, then with growing desperation. Harder, deeper, one hand pinning your wrist above your head while the other gripped your hip. The bed creaked beneath you. Your moans filled the room as pleasure built fast and overwhelming.

When you were close, he reached between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles.

“Come for me,” he growled against your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

You shattered with a cry, walls clenching tightly around him. Geto followed moments later with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, hips jerking with the force of his release.

Afterward, he did not pull away.

He stayed buried inside you, rolling onto his back and pulling you on top of him, arms wrapped tightly around your body. His fingers traced slow patterns along your spine as your breathing slowly returned to normal.

“I meant every word,” he whispered into the quiet. “I choose you. Not as a decision. As a necessity. As the one person who makes me want to be more than I was.”

You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

“And I choose you,” you replied softly. “The man who is learning that control is not the same as emptiness.”

Geto tightened his arms around you, a rare, soft smile curving his lips.

For the first time in his life, Suguru Geto was not trying to govern love.

He was allowing it to govern him.

And in that surrender, he had never felt more alive.

The proposal was not the end.

It was only the beginning of something far more complex and far more dangerous than either of you had anticipated.

The announcement of your engagement to Suguru Geto, Viscount of Blackthorne, was met with quiet approval from society. It was seen as a perfect match: a composed, intelligent widow and a powerful, elegant viscount. Whistledown wrote a single, elegant column noting the “quiet inevitability” of the union, praising the “refined symmetry” of two minds that understood power and order.

But behind closed doors, the reality was far more turbulent.

Geto’s control had not returned.

If anything, it had fractured further.

In the days following the proposal, the two of you existed in a strange liminal space that was publicly proper and privately ravenous. Every scheduled visit now carried an undercurrent of barely-leashed hunger. Geto would arrive at four o’clock as always, exchange polite conversation with your mother for the required time, and then find excuses to steal you away into private corners.

One such afternoon, in the shadowed alcove of his townhouse library, he had you pressed against the bookshelves within minutes of your mother stepping away.

His mouth was on yours before you could speak. His hands roamed with increasing boldness, sliding beneath your skirts to grip your thighs and lift you against him. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he ground his hard length against your core through the layers of fabric.

“I cannot stop wanting you,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Even when I try to focus on ledgers, on politics, on anything. My mind returns to how you feel around me. How you sound when you come undone.”

He dropped to his knees right there between the shelves, pushed your skirts up, and buried his face between your thighs. His tongue worked you with devastating skill. Long, slow licks followed by focused suction on your clit until your legs trembled and your fingers were tangled tightly in his long dark hair.

“Suguru—” you gasped, hips rocking against his mouth.

He groaned in response, the vibration sending sparks through you. Two fingers pushed inside you, curling relentlessly while his tongue flicked faster. He brought you to release with ruthless precision, holding you steady as you shattered against his mouth, your soft cries muffled behind your own hand.

Only when you were still trembling did he rise, wiping his glistening lips with the back of his hand before kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“I am no longer pretending this is merely logical,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. “You are becoming my weakness. And I find I do not want to cure it.”

The wedding was set for early winter. A quiet, elegant affair at Geto’s country estate, as befitted his preference for order and privacy.

But in the weeks leading up to it, the tension between you only intensified.

One night, after a small dinner with close acquaintances which included a watchful Satoru Gojo and a concerned Shoko Ieiri, Geto escorted you home in his carriage. The moment the door closed and the vehicle began to move, the restraint snapped.

He pulled you into his lap, mouth claiming yours in a fierce, hungry kiss. His hands were everywhere. Sliding beneath your gown, cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples until you moaned into his mouth.

“I need you,” he growled, voice dark and strained. “Now.”

He freed himself from his trousers with impatient movements, his thick, hard cock springing free. You sank down onto him slowly, both of you groaning at the perfect stretch. Geto’s head fell back against the seat, eyes half-lidded with pleasure as you began to ride him.

The carriage rocked with your movements, adding to the sensation. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you harder, deeper, while his mouth latched onto your breast, sucking and biting until you were whimpering.

“You feel like heaven and ruin,” he rasped, thrusting up to meet you. “I thought I could control this. I was wrong. You have ruined me for order.”

He reached between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles. Pleasure built fast and overwhelming. You came with a choked cry, walls clenching tightly around him. Geto followed moments later with a deep groan, spilling hot and deep inside you as his hips jerked through his release.

Afterward, he held you close, still buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body as the carriage continued its gentle sway through the streets.

“I am terrified of how much I need you,” he whispered against your hair. “And yet I have never felt more alive.”

The wedding itself was beautiful in its restraint.

A small gathering in the private chapel of Geto’s estate. Soft candlelight. Elegant vows spoken with quiet sincerity. When Geto slipped the ring onto your finger and looked into your eyes, there was no calculation left. Only raw, honest devotion.

“I choose you,” he said softly, for your ears alone. “Not as a decision. As my fate.”

You smiled and answered with equal honesty.

“And I choose you. The man willing to let go of perfect control for something real.”

That night, in the grand master chambers of the estate, the last remnants of restraint disappeared completely.

Geto carried you across the threshold and laid you on the large bed with surprising tenderness. Then the tenderness gave way to hunger.

He undressed you slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. When you were bare beneath him, he worshipped your body with mouth and hands. Sucking marks into your breasts, licking a slow path down your stomach, then spreading your thighs and devouring you until you came twice on his tongue.

Only then did he enter you.

The first thrust was deep and slow, both of you moaning at the connection. He moved with powerful, deliberate strokes, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“You are mine,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “Not as a possession. As my equal. My partner. My devotion.”

He took you again and again slow and deep, then hard and desperate. Until you were both trembling and spent, bodies slick with sweat and tangled together.

In the quiet aftermath, Geto held you against his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine.

“I thought marriage would bring order,” he murmured. “Instead, it has brought something far more dangerous.”

You lifted your head to look at him. “And what is that?”

He smiled small, soft, and genuine.

“Love that refuses to be governed.”

Marriage did not “fix” Suguru Geto.

It refined the contradiction.

He remained controlled, but now he chose what deserved his control.

He remained distant, but no longer untouched.

He remained elegant and composed, but willingly allowed himself to be shaped by the woman who had become his anchor.

And you, Lady Reader Geto, did not soften him.

You anchored him.

Which was far more dangerous.

Because anchoring something powerful does not make it safe. It only decides where and how beautifully it breaks.

In the quiet nights that followed, as you lay in his arms, you understood the final truth of your union:

Suguru Geto had not fallen in love.

He had decided that love was something that could be governed.

And in choosing to let you govern part of him instead… he had become irreversible.

The new season arrived in London like a bright, relentless wave. Fresh debutantes in pastel gowns, ambitious mamas scanning every ballroom, and the familiar swirl of gossip that never truly rested. Lady Whistledown’s first column of the year had already declared the season “most promising yet,” but for you, Miss Reader Whitcombe, it felt like another year of the same quiet invisibility.

You were not ridiculed. You were not pitied.

You were simply… unnoticed.

Not the most beautiful. Not the most wealthy. Not the one mothers whispered about with ambition. Your family’s modest connections and your own unassuming presence had kept you safely on the edges of society for three seasons now. You observed everything from the periphery: the calculated smiles, the strategic dances, the quiet desperation behind perfectly polite conversations. People liked you well enough. They simply never saw you.

Except for one man.

Satoru Gojo, the Marquess of Whitecrest, had made you his confidante years ago. Almost by accident. He had been teasing you at a garden party, bored and restless, when you delivered a dry, razor-sharp observation about a nearby lord’s blatant fortune-hunting. Gojo had laughed and from that moment, something shifted. He sought you out at every event. He stood too close when he spoke to you. He told you things he told no one else: his frustrations with the ton, his boredom with endless debutantes, his quiet exhaustion with being the center of every room.

Society never questioned it.

Why would they?

Gojo was untouchable. He was charming, impossibly wealthy, devastatingly handsome with his silver-white hair, striking blue eyes, and that perpetual, playful grin. He flirted with half the room and committed to none of it. You were the safe, overlooked friend. The one who made him laugh without expecting anything in return. No one saw threat in the way he leaned down to whisper in your ear, or how his hand sometimes brushed your waist when guiding you through a crowd. It was simply Gojo being Gojo.

Until this season.

You had decided, quietly and firmly, that you were done being invisible.

It began at the first major ball of the season, hosted by the newly married Duke and Duchess of Avarice. The ballroom glittered under crystal chandeliers, the air thick with perfume and string music. You wore a gown of deep midnight blue. Richer and more striking than your usual muted tones chosen deliberately to make you stand out just a little more. Your dark hair was pinned with simple pearls, but your posture was straighter, your gaze steadier.

Gojo found you almost immediately, as he always did.

He appeared at your side like a sudden breeze, tall and radiant in black evening wear that made his silver hair and bright blue eyes pop. That signature grin curved his lips as he leaned in close. Too close for propriety, yet no one batted an eye.

“There you are, my favorite wallflower,” he teased, voice low and playful. “I was beginning to think the season would be dreadfully dull without your sharp tongue to entertain me.”

You turned to him, meeting those brilliant blue eyes without your usual hesitation. “Perhaps I have decided not to be a wallflower this year, my lord.”

Gojo’s grin faltered for the briefest second. With surprise flickering across his features before he recovered with a laugh. “Bold words. I like it. Come, let’s dance before some boring viscount tries to claim your card.”

He offered his arm, and you took it. As he led you onto the floor, his hand settled at your waist with familiar ease. The waltz began, and he spun you effortlessly, his touch light but confident.

“You look different tonight,” he murmured, eyes narrowing playfully as he studied you. “Not just the gown. There’s something in your eyes. A plan, perhaps?”

You met his gaze steadily. “I am tired of being overlooked, Gojo. I want to be seen. Truly seen. And I think I need your help to make that happen.”

He laughed again, but this time it carried a note of genuine intrigue. “My help? You want the great Satoru Gojo to play matchmaking tutor? How delightfully scandalous.”

“Not matchmaking,” you clarified, voice firm even as your heart raced. “Confidence. Presence. How to hold a room the way you do. How to choose instead of waiting to be chosen.”

Gojo’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement and something sharper. Curiosity, perhaps even a hint of challenge. “You want me to teach you how to shine, little observer? Careful. I might enjoy that far too much.”

The dance ended, but the conversation lingered in the air between you like a promise.

Later that evening, as you stood with Shoko Ieiri near the refreshment table, she arched a dark brow at you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she said quietly, sipping her champagne. “Asking Gojo for help. He doesn’t do anything halfway.”

You smiled faintly, watching Gojo across the room as he effortlessly charmed a group of debutantes. “I know. But I am done waiting for someone else to notice me. If he can teach me how to be seen… then perhaps this season will be different.”

Shoko’s gaze flicked toward Gojo, then back to you. “Just remember that he’s never been serious about anything in his life. Not really.”

But as Gojo caught your eye from across the ballroom and offered you that bright, devastating grin, you felt the first spark of something new.

This season, you would not be invisible.

And Satoru Gojo, for all his charm and effortless detachment, had no idea what he had just agreed to step into.

The morning after the Duke and Duchess of Avarice’s ball, you found yourself standing in the sun-drenched drawing room of the Whitcombe townhouse, heart fluttering with a mixture of nerves and determination. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching on the delicate porcelain tea set your mother had laid out. You had sent a note to Satoru Gojo the night before. It was brief, direct, and perhaps a touch bolder than you had ever allowed yourself to be.

If your offer of assistance still stands, I would like to begin tomorrow at ten o’clock. — R.

He had replied within the hour, his handwriting bold and looping across the page: Ten o’clock sharp. Wear something that makes you feel dangerous, little observer. We start with presence.

Now, here he was.

Gojo arrived precisely on time, as though punctuality itself were another game he played effortlessly. He swept into the room in a light blue morning coat that made his silver-white hair gleam like fresh snow, those impossibly bright blue eyes already sparkling with mischief. A single red rose dangled lazily from his fingers. Clearly not for you, but he twirled it once before tossing it onto the side table with a grin.

“Miss Reader Whitcombe,” he drawled, bowing with exaggerated flair. “Ready to stop hiding in plain sight?”

You smoothed your hands over the deep emerald day gown you had chosen. Richer than your usual muted shades, the color chosen deliberately to make your eyes stand out. “I am ready to be seen, my lord. Not hidden. Not overlooked. Seen.”

Gojo’s grin widened, but something sharper flickered behind it. Intrigue, perhaps even a hint of challenge. “Good. Because teaching you how to command a room is going to be far more entertaining than I expected.”

Your mother hovered nearby with a chaperone’s polite smile, but Gojo waved her off with that effortless charm he wielded like a weapon. “Fear not, Mrs. Whitcombe. I promise to behave… mostly. We will stay within sight of the open doors. No scandals today.”

The lessons began immediately.

First, posture. Gojo circled you slowly, eyes appraising. “Chin up. Shoulders back. You walk as though you are apologizing for taking up space. Stop it. The room belongs to you the moment you decide it does.” He placed two fingers under your chin, tilting your face upward. The touch was light, casual. Yet it sent a small spark racing down your spine. “There. Now you look like someone worth remembering.”

Next, conversation. He taught you how to speak so people listened. “Most ladies wait for permission to have an opinion,” he said, leaning against the pianoforte as though he owned the room. “You already have them. You just hide them. Say what you think. Say it clearly. Say it with a smile that makes them wonder if you are teasing them or challenging them.”

He made you practice on him by role-playing as various suitors. When you delivered a dry, perfectly timed observation about the absurdity of the season’s matchmaking rituals, Gojo threw his head back and laughed, loud and bright.

“That’s it,” he praised, blue eyes gleaming. “Again. Louder. Like you mean it.”

By the end of the first session, your cheeks were flushed and your pulse was racing. Not just from the effort, but from the way his attention never wavered. He watched you like you were the most fascinating puzzle he had ever encountered.

The lessons continued over the following days, each one more detailed, more intimate in its own careful way.

One afternoon he took you to a quiet corner of Hyde Park for “walking practice.” He taught you how to hold a man’s gaze without flinching, how to let your hand linger on a gentleman’s arm just long enough to make him wonder, how to choose your words so they landed like velvet-wrapped blades.

“You’re a quick study,” he murmured as you practiced a slow promenade beside him, his arm linked with yours. The park was busy with the fashionable hour, eyes turning toward the striking pair you made. “Soon they won’t be able to look away.”

You felt it already. The subtle shift in how people glanced at you. Whispers followed, curious rather than dismissive. A young baron even nodded politely as you passed, his eyes lingering a second longer than they ever had before.

But the true test came three days later at the Royal Society’s public exhibition in the park. A grand spectacle featuring the latest scientific wonders, including a demonstration of hot air balloons rising gracefully into the clear blue sky.

The event was crowded, the air buzzing with excitement. Nobles and commoners alike gathered on the lawns as brightly colored balloons strained against their tethers, flames roaring beneath silk envelopes. Gojo had insisted you attend together, claiming it was the perfect place to practice “being the center of attention.”

“Stay close,” he said lightly, offering his arm. “And remember, when people look at you today, you look back. Like you own the sky itself.”

You did exactly that.

Dressed in a striking lavender gown with silver embroidery that caught the sunlight, you walked beside him with the new confidence he had been drilling into you. Heads turned. Conversations paused. For the first time, you felt the weight of genuine notice rather than polite indifference.

Then disaster struck.

One of the larger balloons, still tethered but caught by a sudden gust of wind, broke free from its moorings far sooner than planned. The massive silk envelope lurched sideways, ropes snapping, the heavy wicker basket swinging wildly toward the crowd. People screamed and scattered. The balloon hurtled low across the lawn. Directly toward you.

You froze for a single, terrifying heartbeat.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist and yanked you backward with impossible speed. Gojo spun you both, shielding your body with his own as the basket slammed into the ground mere feet away, ropes whipping through the air where you had just been standing. The impact sent a gust of wind and dust billowing outward. Shouts erupted everywhere.

Gojo held you tightly against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other locked around your waist. His heart hammered against yours. It was fast, urgent, no longer playful.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low and rough, all trace of his usual teasing gone. His blue eyes searched your face frantically, silver hair tousled by the wind. “Reader, talk to me. Did it hit you?”

You shook your head, breathless, fingers clutching the front of his coat. “I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

For a long moment he simply held you there, the chaos of the crowd fading into background noise. His grip was protective, almost possessive, his body shielding yours from prying eyes and flying debris. The scent of him, that was clean linen, faint citrus, and something uniquely Gojo, wrapped around you like a secret.

Then the moment shattered.

Spectators rushed forward. Shoko appeared at your side, eyes wide with concern. Suguru Geto stood a few paces away, watching the scene with quiet amusement, one dark brow arched.

Gojo released you slowly, but not before his thumb brushed your cheek in a gesture far too intimate for public view. His usual grin slid back into place, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

“Well,” he said lightly, voice carrying across the gathering crowd, “that was certainly one way to make an entrance. My heroic rescue of the season’s most perceptive young lady. You’re welcome, everyone.”

Laughter rippled through the onlookers. The incident became an instant spectacle. Gojo’s dramatic save already being retold with embellishments. But as he guided you away from the wreckage, his hand remained at the small of your back, steady and warm.

Later, in the relative quiet of a shaded path, he stopped and turned to you fully.

“You were incredible,” he said, voice softer than you had ever heard it. “Even when that thing nearly took your head off, you didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stood there like you trusted the world to sort itself out.”

You met his gaze, the new confidence he had helped awaken still thrumming in your veins. “I trusted you.”

Gojo’s smile faltered for half a second. Something unreadable flickered across his features. Something that looked almost like unease.

The lesson had worked too well.

You were no longer invisible.

And for the first time, Satoru Gojo seemed to realize that the woman he had been teaching to shine might just outshine everything he had ever taken for granted.

The effects of your “lessons” with Satoru Gojo did not appear overnight. They unfolded gradually, like ink spreading through water. Subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

Over the next two weeks, Gojo continued your education with surprising dedication. Morning sessions in your drawing room turned into afternoon promenades in Hyde Park and evening strategy talks during balls. He was thorough, playful, and relentlessly observant.

He taught you how to enter a room: not by rushing in, but by pausing just inside the doorway for three full seconds, letting your presence register before moving. He showed you how to hold eye contact with a gentleman long enough to make him forget his next sentence, then break it with a small, knowing smile that left him wondering what you were thinking. He corrected the way you held your fan. Not as a nervous shield, but as an elegant extension of your wrist. He even made you practice lowering your voice slightly when delivering a clever remark so it sounded intimate rather than sharp.

“You’re not trying to shout over the room,” he told you one golden afternoon in the Whitcombe garden, leaning against a stone pillar while you practiced walking the gravel path. “You’re making them lean in to hear you. That’s power.”

You followed his instructions. And slowly, the ton began to notice.

At Lady Mei Mei’s musical evening, when you offered a quiet but insightful comment about the soprano’s choice of aria, three gentlemen turned their heads. At the next ball, when you danced with Lord Choso Kamo and managed to keep the conversation light yet engaging, he asked for a second dance. An honor he rarely bestowed. Young Lord Nobara’s guardian, Maki Zenin, even commented dryly that “the Whitcombe girl has finally decided to stop hiding behind the wallpaper.”

You felt the difference in every room you entered. Heads turned a fraction longer. Conversations paused when you spoke. Mothers who had once looked straight through you now offered polite smiles and curious glances. For the first time in three seasons, you were not simply present. You were seen.

Gojo watched it all with bright, amused eyes.

At first, he found it entertaining.

During a carriage ride through the park one sunny morning (with your maid seated primly across from you), he lounged opposite you, long legs stretched out, silver hair catching the light streaming through the window.

“Look at you,” he teased, blue eyes sparkling. “Two weeks ago they barely remembered your name. Now Lord Geto asked me yesterday if I thought you’d accept an invitation to his private card party. I told him you were very selective these days.”

You smiled, the new confidence settling comfortably on your shoulders. “And what did you tell him about my selectivity?”

Gojo’s grin widened. “That you only accept invitations from the most charming, devastatingly handsome marquesses, of course.”

You laughed softly, but there was a new steadiness in your voice when you replied. “I accepted an invitation from Viscount Nanami for tomorrow’s garden gathering. He seemed genuinely interested in my thoughts on the new trade bill.”

Gojo’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes shifted, just for a moment. A tiny flicker. He covered it instantly with a dramatic sigh.

“Nanami? How dreadfully respectable. You’ll die of boredom listening to him talk about proper ledgers and moral duty. I should come along as your protector.”

“You’re not invited,” you said lightly, adjusting your gloves. “And I think I can manage a conversation without needing rescue.”

He was quiet for the rest of the short ride. When the carriage stopped, he helped you down with his usual theatrical flourish, but his hand lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary.

The shift continued.

Suitors began to appear. Tentative at first, then bolder. A baron asked you to dance twice in one evening. A scholarly earl sent you a book of poetry with a thoughtful note. Even Lord Toji Fushiguro, usually more interested in cards and horses than debutantes, offered you a slow, appraising smile when you passed him at a soiree and commented dryly on the absurdity of the latest betting scandal.

You handled each interaction with the tools Gojo had given you: steady eye contact, calm replies, and that small, enigmatic smile he had taught you. It worked. People listened. They remembered you.

And Gojo… began to feel it.

At first it was merely annoying.

During Lady Utahime’s card party, he watched from across the room as you played whist with a small group that included Lord Geto and two other gentlemen. You laughed at something Geto said and the entire table leaned in, captivated. Gojo found himself interrupting the game under the pretense of needing fresh air, pulling you aside the moment you rose from the table.

“You’re enjoying yourself a little too much tonight,” he said, voice light but edged with something new. His hand rested at the small of your back as he guided you toward the terrace. “Geto was practically hanging on your every word. Since when do you flirt with my best friend?”

You raised an eyebrow, the confidence he had helped cultivate making you bold. “I wasn’t flirting. I was simply having a conversation. You wanted me to be seen, remember? You taught me how.”

Gojo’s usual easy grin faltered. He leaned against the stone railing, arms crossed, silver hair glowing under the lantern light. “I did. But I didn’t expect you to be this good at it so quickly.”

You studied him for a long moment. The playful mask was still there, but cracks were forming. His shoulders were just a fraction too tense. His fingers tapped restlessly against his sleeve.

“You wanted this.” you reminded him gently, echoing words he had once said to you in jest.

Gojo looked away toward the darkened garden, jaw tightening for half a second before he forced another bright smile.

“I did,” he admitted. Then, quieter, almost to himself: “Just not like this.”

The unease grew in small, uncharacteristic ways over the following days.

He began interrupting conversations you were having with other gentlemen. Appearing at your side with some perfectly timed, charming remark that smoothly redirected attention back to him. He dismissed potential suitors with casual, cutting humor that sounded playful but carried a sharper edge than usual. During one promenade, when a respectable viscount approached to ask if you would save him a dance at the next ball, Gojo stepped closer than necessary, his shoulder brushing yours possessively.

“She’s already promised the first two dances to me,” he announced cheerfully, even though no such promise had been made.

You shot him a pointed look once the viscount had walked away. “That was unnecessary.”

Gojo only shrugged, but his blue eyes were darker than usual. “Was it? You’re suddenly very popular, Miss Whitcombe. I’m simply making sure no one takes advantage of my star pupil.”

The words were light, but the tension beneath them was not.

Shoko noticed it too. During a quiet afternoon visit, she sipped her tea and regarded you with knowing eyes.

“Gojo is unraveling,” she said plainly. “He’s never had to share your attention before. Now that he does, he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling. It’s almost entertaining to watch.”

You stared into your cup, heart beating a little faster. “He asked for this. He helped me become someone people notice.”

“And now he’s realizing he preferred when only he noticed you,” Shoko replied softly. “Be careful, Reader. Gojo has never been good at wanting something he can’t laugh off or walk away from.”

That night, at yet another ball, the shift became impossible for Gojo to ignore.

You danced with a kind, intelligent baron who genuinely seemed interested in your opinions. Gojo watched from the edge of the floor, arms crossed, his usual carefree smile nowhere to be seen. When the dance ended and the baron bowed, asking if he might call on you tomorrow, Gojo appeared at your side within seconds.

“Baron,” he said with a dazzling grin that didn’t reach his eyes, “I’m afraid Miss Whitcombe has a prior engagement tomorrow. With me. Important… tutoring matters.”

The baron looked surprised but bowed politely and retreated.

You turned to Gojo, frustration and something warmer mixing in your chest. “You cannot keep doing this.”

Gojo’s blue eyes met yours. It was bright, intense, and for once without any trace of humor.

“I know,” he said quietly, the words almost lost beneath the music. “But I don’t like it. Watching them look at you like that. Like they think they could have you.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer, voice dropping so only you could hear. “I wanted you to shine. I just didn’t realize how much it would bother me when the entire room finally saw what I’ve been seeing all along.”

For the first time since your lessons began, Satoru Gojo did not look entirely in control.

And you realized, with a quiet thrill and a touch of fear, that the game had changed.

The shift he didn’t understand had already begun.

And neither of you could pretend it was still just a harmless lesson anymore.

The transformation you had undergone under Satoru Gojo’s tutelage continued to ripple outward through the ton like stones skipped across a still pond. What had once been polite indifference toward Miss Reader Whitcombe had become something far more charged: curiosity, interest, and, in some corners, open admiration. Invitations arrived with greater frequency. Gentlemen who had previously looked straight through you now paused to bow, to ask after your health, to request a dance or a promenade.

You felt the change in every room you entered. The weight of eyes that no longer slid past you. The subtle hush that fell when you offered an opinion. The way conversations seemed to bend toward you rather than around you.

Gojo noticed it too.

At first he had laughed about it. Loud, bright, theatrical laughter that filled whatever space the two of you occupied. But the laughter had begun to carry a sharper edge, a tension that he tried (and failed) to hide behind his usual effortless charm. He still sought you out at every event. He still stood too close when he spoke to you. He still whispered teasing observations in your ear that made your pulse quicken. Yet something had shifted in the way he watched you now.

The jealousy, when it finally surfaced, was not loud or dramatic. It was Gojo, after all. It was quiet. Possessive. Poorly disguised behind smiles that no longer reached his eyes.

It happened at Lady Utahime Iori’s grand garden party, one of the most anticipated events of the early season.

The grounds of her country estate just outside London had been transformed into a living watercolor: manicured lawns rolling down to a serene lake, colorful lanterns strung between ancient oaks, long tables groaning under silver platters of strawberries, chilled champagne, and delicate pastries. Musicians played softly beneath a white pavilion while guests in pastel silks and crisp linen coats strolled the paths or lounged on blankets beneath parasols.

You arrived on the arm of your mother, dressed in a gown of soft lavender silk edged with silver thread that caught the sunlight and made your dark hair gleam. Gojo had personally approved the color two days earlier, declaring it “dangerous enough to make them look twice.” He had been right. Heads turned the moment you stepped onto the lawn.

Gojo found you within minutes, as he always did.

He appeared at your side in a white linen shirt open at the throat and a pale blue waistcoat, silver hair tousled by the breeze, blue eyes bright and playful. “There’s my favorite student,” he said, offering his arm with a flourish. “Come. I’ve claimed the best spot by the lake before some boring earl tries to bore you with talk of crop yields.”

You took his arm, the familiar warmth of him sending a small thrill through you. “You seem unusually possessive of lake views today.”

He grinned, but the expression was a touch too sharp. “Can’t have my prize pupil distracted by lesser company.”

You spent the next hour in easy companionship. Walking the gravel paths, trading quiet observations about the guests, laughing at his exaggerated impressions of the more pompous lords. For a while it felt exactly like the old days: light, effortless, safe.

Until Lord Toji Fushiguro appeared.

The man was impossible to overlook. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that fell messily across his forehead and a scar cutting through one side of his mouth that gave his smiles a dangerous edge. He was not titled in the traditional sense. Rumor said he had made his fortune through less-than-gentlemanly means, but society tolerated him because he was wealthy, amusing, and utterly unconcerned with their rules. He moved through the crowd like a wolf among sheep, green eyes sharp and appraising.

He spotted you beside Gojo and changed direction without hesitation.

“Miss Whitcombe,” Toji drawled as he approached, voice low and rough with that unmistakable gravel. He stopped directly in front of you, ignoring Gojo entirely for a moment. His gaze swept over you slowly, openly appreciative. “You’re looking particularly… noticeable today. I don’t recall the wallflower being quite so bold last season.”

Gojo’s arm tightened fractionally beneath your hand.

You kept your voice steady, the confidence Gojo himself had taught you rising to the surface. “Perhaps I have simply decided not to hide anymore, Lord Fushiguro.”

Toji’s scarred mouth curved into a slow, predatory smile. He stepped closer, close enough that the faint scent of leather and smoke clung to him. “Good. Hiding never suited you. A woman with eyes like yours deserves to be looked at properly.” His gaze dropped deliberately to your lips for half a second before returning to your eyes. “Care to take a turn around the lake with me? I promise I’m far more interesting than whatever nonsense Gojo’s been feeding you all afternoon.”

The invitation was bold. Forward. The kind of advance that would have made the old, invisible version of you blush and retreat.

But you were not that version anymore.

Before you could respond, Gojo spoke.

His voice was still light, still playful on the surface but the undercurrent was ice.

“Fushiguro,” he said, smile wide and dazzling and utterly false, “always so charming. Unfortunately, Miss Whitcombe has already promised the next hour to me. We have… important tutoring matters to discuss.” His hand slid from your arm to the small of your back, fingers pressing possessively into the silk of your gown. The touch was light, but the message was unmistakable.

Toji’s green eyes flicked to Gojo, amusement glinting in them. “Tutoring? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” He looked back at you, ignoring Gojo’s claim entirely. “Come on, sweetheart. One turn around the lake won’t ruin his lesson plan. I’ll even let you win the next argument if you want.”

Gojo’s fingers flexed against your back, the only outward sign of the storm brewing beneath his charming façade. His smile never wavered, but his voice dropped, still playful yet edged with something darker.

“She’s not interested, Fushiguro. Find another wallflower to charm. This one’s already spoken for.”

The words hung in the air. Too possessive, too territorial for the “harmless friend” everyone believed him to be.

You felt the tension radiating from Gojo’s body like heat from a flame. His usual effortless charm had cracked. The hand at your back was no longer casual; it was a claim.

Toji chuckled low, unbothered, but his eyes sharpened with interest. “Spoken for, eh? Didn’t realize the great Marquess of Whitecrest had finally decided to stop playing games.” He gave you one last lingering look, slow and appreciative. “If you change your mind, Miss Whitcombe, you know where to find me. I don’t mind a little competition.”

With a mocking half-bow, Toji sauntered away, leaving the air between you and Gojo thick and charged.

You turned to face him fully, heart pounding. “That was unnecessary.”

Gojo’s blue eyes were darker than you had ever seen them. The playful mask had slipped completely. He stepped closer, voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Was it?” he asked, the words rough around the edges. “He was looking at you like you were something he could just… take. Like you weren’t already—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. His hand remained at the small of your back, fingers pressing harder as though afraid you might slip away. “I don’t like it. I don’t like the way they look at you now. The way they think they have a chance. The way they speak to you like they could have you.”

Your breath caught at the raw honesty in his tone.

Gojo exhaled sharply, running his free hand through his silver hair. “You wanted to be seen. I helped you become seen. And now…” His voice dropped even lower, almost pained. “Now I can’t stand the way everyone else is finally looking.”

The confession hung between you, heavy and undeniable.

For the first time since your lessons began, Satoru Gojo was not laughing. He was not deflecting with charm or teasing. He was jealous, it was openly, messily, possessively jealous and he had no idea how to hide it anymore.

You searched his face, the bright blue eyes that had once seemed so untouchable now stormy with emotions he clearly did not know how to name.

“Careful, Gojo,” you whispered, voice soft but steady. “You almost sound like a man who wants more than friendship.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t deflect.

He simply looked at you, the weight of weeks of shifting feelings finally pressing down on him.

And for once, the great Satoru Gojo had no clever reply.

The garden party incident with Toji Fushiguro lingered like smoke in the air between you and Satoru Gojo. He tried to laugh it off the next day by sending you an extravagant bouquet of white roses with a note that read:

“For my favorite almost-victim of rogue balloons and overly bold wolves. Try not to get stolen before our next lesson. — G”

But the lightness felt forced. You could sense the crack in his usual effortless charm, the way his teasing now carried an undercurrent of something sharper, something unsettled.

The realization came to him slowly at first, then all at once, like a storm that had been gathering on the horizon for weeks.

It began with small things he could no longer ignore.

During a musicale at the home of Lady Nanami (who had returned to society after her quiet wedding the previous season), you sat near the front row, listening intently as the soprano performed. Gojo had claimed the seat beside you, his long legs stretched out, one arm draped casually over the back of your chair. To anyone watching, it looked like the same old comfortable friendship.

But when Lord Mahito, a slick, unsettlingly charming gentleman known for his wandering eyes and silver tongue, leaned over during the intermission to compliment your gown and ask if you would honor him with a dance at the next ball, Gojo’s entire body tensed.

He interrupted before you could answer, voice bright but edged with steel. “Sorry, Mahito. She’s already promised that dance to me. And the one after. And possibly the supper interval. Busy schedule, you understand.”

Mahito raised an eyebrow, amused. “How territorial, Whitecrest. I didn’t realize you’d finally decided to claim something for yourself.”

Gojo’s smile was dazzling. Dangerous. “Some things are worth claiming.”

You felt the heat of his gaze on the side of your face long after Mahito had walked away. When you turned to him, his blue eyes were no longer playful. They were intense. Focused. Almost hungry.

Later that same evening, as guests mingled in the drawing room, Gojo pulled you into a quiet alcove behind a large potted fern. The space was small, intimate, the music and laughter from the main room muffled.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” he said, voice low. He stood close. Closer than propriety allowed even for close friends, his silver hair glowing softly in the candlelight. “All these men suddenly circling you like moths. Mahito. That baron from last week. Even Fushiguro, of all people. It’s becoming… distracting.”

You tilted your head, heart beating faster at the proximity. “You wanted me to be seen, Gojo. You taught me how. Now that I am, you’re complaining?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh and ran a hand through his hair, messing it further. “I know. I know I did. But I didn’t expect…” He trailed off, blue eyes searching your face as though looking for an answer he wasn’t ready to hear. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this. Like every time someone looks at you the way I’ve always looked at you, something in me wants to remind them that I saw you first.”

The admission hung heavy in the small space.

You stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “And how exactly have you been looking at me, Gojo?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his hand rose, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your temple with surprising gentleness. The touch lingered. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, and for one breathless moment, the air between you crackled with everything neither of you had named yet.

Then Shoko appeared at the entrance of the alcove, clearing her throat pointedly.

“Careful,” she said dryly. “People are starting to talk about more than just your little ‘lessons.’”

Gojo dropped his hand and stepped back, flashing Shoko his brightest, most blinding smile. “Just giving my favorite student some last-minute advice, Ieiri. Nothing scandalous.”

But his eyes, when they returned to you, told a different story.

The realization deepened over the following days.

He began seeking you out more urgently. Not just at balls and parties, but in quieter moments. Showing up at your family’s townhouse for “impromptu lessons” that turned into long conversations about everything and nothing. He would lounge in your drawing room, long legs draped over the arm of a chair, telling you ridiculous stories about his latest escapades while watching you with an intensity that made your skin warm.

One rainy afternoon, he arrived unannounced, soaked from the downpour, silver hair plastered to his forehead. Your mother allowed him entry with a resigned sigh, and the two of you ended up in the library, the fire crackling warmly.

Gojo paced in front of the hearth, unusually restless.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted suddenly, stopping to face you. “The way Fushiguro looked at you. The way Mahito leaned in like he had any right. The way every idiot in London suddenly thinks he can have a chance with you now that you’ve decided to shine.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “I created this. I taught you how to be impossible to ignore. And now I hate it. I hate the idea of someone else getting to see the parts of you I thought were just for me.”

You stood slowly, heart thudding. “Gojo… what are you saying?”

He crossed the room in two long strides, stopping just short of touching you. Rain still clung to his lashes. His blue eyes were stormy, no trace of his usual playful mask remaining.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice rough and honest in a way that made your chest ache. “I’ve never had to want something I couldn’t just laugh off or walk away from. But the thought of you choosing someone else or someone permanent, feels wrong. It feels like losing something I didn’t even know I needed.”

The confession wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t charming. It was raw, messy, and entirely un-Gojo-like.

For the first time, Satoru Gojo didn’t feel in control.

And the realization that he wanted you. Not as a friend, not as a project, not as a passing amusement, but you… it had hit him with the force of a summer storm.

He didn’t kiss you that afternoon. He simply stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours as if waiting for you to tell him he was being ridiculous.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached up and brushed a raindrop from his cheek with your thumb. “Then maybe it’s time you stopped laughing it off.”

Gojo’s breath hitched. His hand came up to cover yours, holding it against his face for a long moment.

The shift was no longer something he could pretend wasn’t happening.

It was real.

It was terrifying.

And for once in his charmed, effortless life, Satoru Gojo had no clever escape.

He was falling.

And he had no idea how to stop.

The weeks following Gojo’s raw admission in the library felt like walking along the edge of a blade. It was sharp, precarious, and impossible to ignore.

He had not kissed you that rainy afternoon. He had not declared anything grand or dramatic. He had simply stood there, silver hair still damp, blue eyes stripped of their usual playful armor, and let you see the storm raging beneath. Then he had stepped back, offered one of his trademark bright smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and left with the excuse that he had “important marquess business” to attend to.

But the distance between you had changed.

Where once Gojo had filled every silence with effortless teasing and laughter, now there were moments of heavy, loaded quiet. He still sought you out at every event. He still stood too close. He still found excuses to touch your hand, your waist, the small of your back. Yet something had shifted. The charm felt more desperate. The laughter more forced. And when other gentlemen approached you, now with genuine interest. He no longer interrupted with playful banter. He watched. Silent. Intense. Jaw tight.

You decided you could no longer wait for him to sort through whatever battle was happening inside his head.

So you began creating distance.

Not dramatically. Not with coldness or confrontation. You simply stopped making yourself so readily available.

When he sent notes suggesting impromptu “lessons,” you replied politely that you were otherwise engaged. When he appeared at your townhouse unannounced, you were often out visiting Shoko or accompanying your mother on calls. At balls and soirées, you accepted dances from other gentlemen. Respectable, kind men who looked at you with honest admiration rather than the complicated storm that lived in Gojo’s eyes. You laughed at their jokes. You held conversations that did not revolve around him. You let yourself be seen by the ton without constantly checking where Gojo stood in the room.

It was deliberate.

Because you refused to be a convenience.

You refused to be a passing fascination he only valued when it was at risk of disappearing.

You refused to be the safe, overlooked friend he could keep close without ever having to risk anything real.

Shoko noticed immediately.

During a quiet tea at her residence one overcast afternoon, she set her cup down and fixed you with that knowing, slightly tired look she wore so well.

“You’re pulling away,” she said plainly. “Smart. Painful, but smart. He’s been sulking like a kicked puppy for days. Geto finds it hilarious. I find it exhausting.”

You stirred your tea slowly, the spoon clinking softly against porcelain. “I’m not pulling away to punish him. I’m doing it because I won’t be something he only wants when someone else shows interest. If he wants me, he has to choose me clearly. Not because he’s jealous. Not because he’s bored. Because he actually wants me.”

Shoko leaned back, dark eyes thoughtful. “He’s never had to fight for anyone’s attention before. Everyone has always orbited around him. Now you’re making him feel what it’s like when the orbit shifts. It’s good for him. Terrifying, but good.”

The distance worked, perhaps too well.

Gojo’s behavior grew more restless.

At Lady Danbury’s ball, he watched from across the room as you danced with a respectable earl. His usual spot near the refreshment table remained empty; instead, he leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, silver hair gleaming under the chandeliers. When the dance ended and the earl bowed, offering to fetch you lemonade, Gojo appeared at your side before the man could return.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice light but strained. His hand brushed your elbow as he guided you toward the terrace doors, the touch lingering. “You’ve been quite popular lately. I barely get a moment with my favorite student anymore.”

You met his gaze steadily, the confidence he had helped you build now serving as both shield and weapon. “You wanted me to be seen, Gojo. I’m simply following your lessons.”

He stopped near the open doors, the cool night air drifting in. The noise of the ballroom faded behind you. His blue eyes searched your face, the playful mask cracking further.

“I know what I said,” he murmured. “But this… this isn’t what I meant. You’re pulling away from me. Deliberately. And I hate it.”

You didn’t soften. “Then stop treating me like a toy you only miss when someone else tries to play with it. I won’t be your safe confidante anymore, Gojo. Not if it means watching you flirt with half the room while keeping me close enough to comfort you but never close enough to risk anything real.”

His jaw tightened. For a moment, the great Satoru Gojo looked almost lost. Silver hair tousled, shoulders tense, the effortless charm nowhere to be found.

“I’m not—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “I’m not good at this. Wanting something and actually having to earn it. I’ve never had to before. Everyone has always just… given me what I wanted. But you…” His voice dropped, rough and honest. “You make me want to try. And that terrifies me more than anything.”

You held his gaze, heart aching even as you stood firm. “Then try. But do it honestly. Not because you’re jealous. Not because you’re bored. Because you choose me. Clearly. Without retreat.”

He reached for your hand, fingers brushing yours, but you stepped back gently before he could close the distance.

“Not yet,” you whispered. “When you’re ready to say it without the games… I’ll be here.”

You turned and walked back into the ballroom, leaving him standing alone on the terrace, the cool night air swirling around him.

The distance you created hurt.

It hurt you to see the confusion and frustration in his eyes. It hurt to watch him try, and fail, to hide how much your absence affected him. But you held your ground.

Because you were no longer the overlooked girl who waited to be chosen.

You were the woman who had learned how to choose herself first.

And if Satoru Gojo wanted you, he would have to prove he was ready to do the same.

The distance you created worked faster than you expected.

By the end of the week, Gojo’s usual effortless charm had frayed at the edges. He still attended every event, still flashed that dazzling smile that made half the room sigh, but his eyes kept finding you with increasing urgency. He no longer interrupted your conversations with playful banter. He watched. Silent. Brooding. The playful marquess who once treated life like one long joke was unraveling in plain sight, and he had no idea how to stop it.

You felt the tension building like a storm ready to break.

It finally shattered at Lady Danbury’s masquerade ball. The most anticipated event of the mid-season.

The ballroom was a riot of color and candlelight. Guests wore elaborate masks: gold, silver, black lace, feathered creations that turned the evening into something dreamlike and dangerous. You had chosen a simple silver mask that covered the upper half of your face, paired with a deep sapphire gown that made your skin glow. Gojo had spotted you the moment you arrived. Of course he had. Even masked, he would know you anywhere.

He found you on the terrace shortly after midnight, the cool night air a welcome relief from the heat inside. His own mask was a dramatic black and silver creation that only accentuated his striking blue eyes and silver hair. He looked every inch the untouchable marquess, until he spoke.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said without preamble, voice low and rough. He stepped close, closer than he should in public, even behind masks. “For days. No notes. No dances. No ‘lessons.’ You’re punishing me.”

You lifted your chin, refusing to step back. “I’m not punishing you. I’m protecting myself. I won’t be your safe little secret anymore, Gojo. I won’t wait on the sidelines while you flirt with the room and keep me close only when it suits you.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair and dislodging his mask slightly. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?” you challenged, voice steady even as your heart raced. “Because from where I stand, you only seem to want me when someone else shows interest. When Toji looked at me. When Mahito asked me to dance. When I started pulling away. Suddenly I matter. But I’ve always mattered, Gojo. You just never wanted to admit it.”

The words landed hard.

Gojo stared at you for a long moment, the playful mask completely gone. His blue eyes were dark, stormy, stripped bare. The music and laughter from inside felt distant now, as if the entire world had narrowed to just the two of you on this moonlit terrace.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted suddenly, the confession raw and unfiltered. “The idea of you with someone else. I hate it. Every time another man looks at you like he could have you, something in me wants to drag you away and remind them you’re,” He stopped, jaw clenching. “You’re mine to tease. Mine to teach. Mine to—”

He cut himself off again, breathing hard.

You stepped closer, refusing to let him hide behind half-truths. “That is not the same as wanting me, Gojo. Jealousy is not a declaration. Convenience is not a choice.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and electric.

Then Gojo did something completely uncharacteristic.

He laughed, but it was short, broken, and entirely without humor.

“You’re right,” he said, voice hoarse. “Of course you’re right. I’ve spent my whole life making everything a game because it was easier. Safer. No one gets too close. No one expects too much. But you…” He reached out, fingers brushing your masked cheek before he gently lifted your silver mask away, revealing your face fully. His own mask followed, tossed onto the stone balustrade. “You snuck past every defense I had. You make me laugh when I want to be serious. You challenge me when I want to be lazy. You see me when everyone else just sees the marquess.”

He took your hands in his, grip tight and warm.

“I don’t just enjoy your company,” he continued, the words tumbling out messy and real. “I need it. I seek it. I lie awake thinking about it. The idea of you choosing someone else. Someone steady, someone who won’t drag you into chaos feels wrong in a way nothing ever has. I don’t know how to do this properly. I’ve never had to. But I’m trying. For you.”

He swallowed hard, blue eyes locked on yours with rare vulnerability.

“Then I want you,” he said simply, voice cracking on the last word. “Not as a friend. Not as a project. Not as something temporary. I want you, Reader. Messy. Real. All of it. If you’ll still have me after I’ve been an idiot for so long.”

The confession wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t charming or rehearsed. It was Satoru Gojo at his most honest. Stripped of jokes, stripped of masks, laying his heart bare on a moonlit terrace because he finally couldn’t laugh it off anymore.

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

You searched his face for any sign of deflection, any trace of the old playful shield.

There was none.

Only him.

Only truth.

You stepped forward, closing the last bit of distance, and cupped his face with both hands.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “No more games. No more distance. Choose me clearly, Gojo. Every day. Not just when you’re scared of losing me.”

His breath hitched. A slow, genuine smile, soft and real, curved his lips for the first time in weeks.

“I choose you,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “Right now. Tomorrow. Every damn day after that. I’m yours if you’ll have me.”

The kiss that followed was inevitable.

It started slow. Tentative, almost careful, his lips brushing yours like he was afraid you might vanish. Then hunger took over. Gojo groaned softly, one hand sliding to the nape of your neck while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turning heated and desperate, weeks of tension finally breaking free. His tongue traced your lower lip, seeking entrance, and when you granted it he kissed you like a man who had been starving.

You melted into him, fingers threading through his silver hair, tasting champagne and something uniquely Gojo on his tongue. The world around you disappeared completely.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Gojo rested his forehead against yours again, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I care to admit,” he whispered. “Lesson number whatever: never teach a woman how to shine if you’re not prepared to be blinded by her.”

You smiled against his lips. “Took you long enough to realize it.”

He kissed you once more. Slower this time, sweeter before pulling back just enough to look at you properly.

“No more distance,” he promised, voice rough with emotion. “No more pretending. You’re not invisible anymore, Reader. Not to them. And never ever to me.”

For the first time all season, Satoru Gojo wasn’t playing a game.

He was choosing you.

Clearly.

Honestly.

Completely.

And you chose him right back.

The days after the masquerade blurred into a haze of stolen glances, secret smiles, and the quiet thrill of something finally real.

Satoru Gojo no longer played games.

He chose you openly. Walking beside you at every event, dancing with you more than once which was deemed scandalous by ton standards, and openly dismissing anyone who dared flirt too boldly. The playful marquess was still there, bright and charming as ever, but now his charm had a possessive edge. His hand lingered at your waist. His eyes followed you with open hunger. And when he whispered in your ear, the words were no longer teasing jokes. They were promises.

Society noticed. Whispers followed you both, but for once Gojo didn’t seem to care. He simply grinned wider and pulled you closer.

You, however, needed one final assurance.

One quiet evening, after a smaller gathering at Shoko’s residence, Gojo offered to escort you home in his private carriage. Your mother had already left earlier with a headache, leaving you in his capable and now officially courting hands. The night air was cool, the streets of London quiet except for the rhythmic clop of hooves and the gentle sway of the carriage.

The moment the door clicked shut and the carriage began to roll forward, the air between you changed.

Gojo sat across from you at first, long legs stretched out, blue eyes dark and fixed on you with undisguised intensity. The silver mask of the marquess was gone. What remained was raw want.

“Come here,” he said, voice low and rough.

You didn’t hesitate.

You moved across the carriage and into his lap, straddling his thighs. The moment your bodies met, Gojo’s hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. His mouth crashed into yours with weeks of pent-up hunger. Everything was deep, devouring, and utterly unrestrained.

This was no careful kiss.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you like he was starving. You moaned softly, fingers threading through his silver hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a low growl from his throat. His hands roamed boldly. Sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts through the silk of your gown, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch.

“God, I’ve wanted this,” he rasped against your lips, breaking the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Every time I saw another man look at you… every time you pulled away… I nearly lost my mind.”

He nipped at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, then soothed it with his tongue. One hand slipped beneath your skirts, gliding up your thigh until his fingers found the slick heat between your legs. He groaned when he felt how wet you already were.

“So ready for me,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “All this time, and you’ve been this wet just from my touch?”

Two long fingers slid through your folds, circling your clit with precise, devastating pressure before pushing inside you. You gasped, hips rocking instinctively against his hand as he curled his fingers, stroking that perfect spot inside you while his thumb continued working your clit.

“Ride my fingers, sweetheart,” he commanded softly, blue eyes locked on your face. “Let me feel how much you want me.”

You obeyed, grinding down on his hand, pleasure building fast and sharp. Gojo watched you with rapt attention, silver hair falling into his eyes, lips parted as he drank in every moan, every tremble.

When you were close. Thighs shaking, walls fluttering around his fingers, he suddenly withdrew his hand. You whimpered at the loss, but he was already freeing himself from his trousers. His cock sprang out, thick, hard, and leaking at the tip.

He positioned you over him, the blunt head nudging your entrance.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.

Then he pulled you down onto him in one smooth, deep thrust.

You both moaned loudly as he filled you completely, stretching you perfectly. The carriage continued its steady rhythm, the motion only adding to the sensation as he began to move. With deep, powerful strokes that rocked you against him.

Gojo’s hands gripped your hips, guiding you as you rode him. The pace was relentless. Every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your body. He leaned forward, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard while his hips snapped upward to meet yours.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned against your breast, teeth grazing your skin. “So tight. So wet. Made for me.”

You could only moan his name, fingers digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core. The carriage creaked with every thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin mixing with your shared gasps and moans.

Gojo’s hand slipped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that pushed you closer to the edge.

“Come for me,” he growled, voice strained. “I want to feel you fall apart on my cock.”

The command sent you spiraling. You came hard, crying out his name as your walls clenched rhythmically around him. Gojo followed moments later with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, hips jerking with the force of his release.

For several long minutes, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the steady clop of the horses outside.

Gojo held you close, still buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if he never wanted to let go. He pressed soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Tender now, after the storm.

“I meant what I said on the terrace,” he whispered, voice rough but sincere. “I choose you. Not because I’m jealous. Not because I’m bored. Because you’re the only person who has ever made me want to stay. To be better. To be real.”

You cupped his face, looking into those brilliant blue eyes that had once seemed so untouchable.

“I choose you too,” you whispered back. “All of you. The charm, the chaos, the man beneath the mask. No more games. Just us.”

He kissed you again. Now slow, deep, and full of promise.

The carriage continued its gentle sway through the quiet streets of London, carrying the two of you toward a future that was no longer pretend.

No more lessons.

No more distance.

Just Satoru Gojo choosing you again and again, without needing the thrill of almost losing you.

And you, no longer invisible.

Not to society.

And never, ever to him.

After a year, the gardens at Whitecrest Manor were in full bloom, a riot of color that seemed almost too vibrant for early summer. White roses climbed the trellises, lavender swayed in the gentle breeze, and the air carried the sweet scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of ancient oaks, casting dappled patterns across the stone paths where you walked arm-in-arm with your husband.

Satoru Gojo, the Marquess of Whitecrest, no longer looked like the untouchable rake who had once danced through every ball with effortless detachment. Marriage had not dimmed his brilliance. His silver hair still caught the light like fresh snow, and his blue eyes still sparkled with that familiar mischief but there was a new softness in the way he carried himself. A quiet certainty. A deliberate choice to stay.

He walked slower these days when he was with you, as if savoring every step. His hand rested possessively at the small of your back, thumb tracing lazy circles through the silk of your gown. The touch was casual to anyone watching, but you knew better. It was a constant reminder. I’m here. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you.

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of your ear. His voice was warm, teasing, but laced with that deeper affection he no longer tried to hide. “I can practically hear the wheels turning in that beautiful head of yours. Care to share with your devoted husband?”

You smiled, tilting your head to look up at him. The silver mask he once wore so effortlessly had been replaced by something far more precious: honesty. “I was thinking about how different everything feels now. Last season I was invisible. Now I’m the Marchioness of Whitecrest, walking through gardens that belong to us, with a man who once claimed he could never be tied down.”

Gojo let out a soft laugh. The same genuine, bright, and entirely yours. He stopped walking and turned you gently to face him, both hands settling on your waist. The breeze played with a few strands of your hair, and he tucked one behind your ear with surprising tenderness.

“I never said I couldn’t be tied down,” he corrected, blue eyes sparkling with playful defiance. “I said I didn’t want to be. Big difference.” He leaned in closer, forehead resting against yours. “And then you came along, my clever little observer, and made me realize that being tied to you isn’t a cage. It’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to stay.”

Your heart swelled at the words. This was the Gojo few people ever saw. The one who had learned to choose without needing the thrill of escape, the one who had traded endless entertainment for something deeper and infinitely more rewarding.

He kissed you then. Slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that spoke of lazy mornings and late nights and a thousand quiet moments in between. His lips moved against yours with familiar hunger, but there was a new reverence in it. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your lower lip, eyes dark with promise.

“Speaking of staying…” His voice dropped into that low, dangerous register that still made your knees weak. “I’ve been thinking about that carriage ride home from Lady Danbury’s ball last month. The one where I couldn’t wait until we reached the manor.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at the memory. That night had been pure fire. Gojo pulled you into his lap the moment the carriage door closed, hands roaming boldly beneath your skirts, his mouth claiming yours with desperate need while the carriage rocked steadily beneath you. He had taken you right there, deep and relentless, whispering filthy praises against your neck as you rode him to shattering release. The driver had undoubtedly heard everything, but Gojo hadn’t cared. He never did when it came to you.

“You’re incorrigible,” you murmured, but your voice betrayed you with its breathiness.

Gojo’s grin turned wicked. “Only for you, my love. And I’m thinking we should recreate that particular lesson tonight. Maybe with fewer clothes and more creative use of the seats.”

Before you could reply, he kissed you again. Deeper this time, one hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively while the other tangled in your hair. The kiss quickly grew heated, his tongue teasing yours, his body pressing you back against the stone balustrade overlooking the rose garden. You could feel him hardening against your stomach, the evidence of his desire unmistakable even through layers of fabric.

When he finally pulled back, both of you breathing harder, his eyes were dark with want.

“God, I love you,” he said, the words simple and unshakable. “Not because you made me want to be better. Not because you challenged me. But because you’re you. Sharp. Observant. Kind even when I don’t deserve it. You see through every mask I’ve ever worn and still chose to stay.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs tracing the familiar lines of his jaw. “And I love you,” you whispered back. “The man who taught me how to shine. The man who learned how to stay. The man who chooses me every single day, even when it’s not easy.”

Gojo’s expression softened into something achingly tender. He pressed his forehead to yours once more, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.

“We’ve come a long way from ‘harmless lessons,’ haven’t we?” he murmured.

You smiled. “From invisible wallflower to the woman who finally caught the untouchable marquess.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and full of joy. “You didn’t catch me. I surrendered. Willingly. Repeatedly. And I plan to keep surrendering for the rest of our lives.”

Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in hues of gold and rose, you found yourselves in the master chambers of Whitecrest Manor.

Gojo had dismissed the servants early. The room was bathed in the soft glow of candles and the last remnants of sunset streaming through the tall windows. He undressed you slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. From your shoulders, the curve of your neck to the swell of your breasts. When you were bare before him, he looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

Then he let you undress him.

Your hands explored the hard planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hips. When you wrapped your fingers around his already hard cock, he groaned low in his throat, hips jerking into your touch.

“Always so eager for me,” you teased, echoing words he had once used on you.

Gojo’s eyes darkened with heat. “Only for you. Always for you.”

He lifted you onto the large four-poster bed with effortless strength, settling between your thighs. This time there was no rush. He kissed his way down your body slow, deliberate, worshipful. Until his mouth found your core. His tongue worked you with devastating skill, licking and sucking until you were writhing beneath him, fingers tangled in his silver hair as you came with a broken cry of his name.

Only then did he slide into you deep, slow, and perfect. He moved with long, powerful strokes, eyes locked on yours the entire time, whispering filthy praises and tender declarations in equal measure.

“You feel like home,” he groaned against your neck, hips snapping forward. “So tight. So perfect. Mine.”

You met every thrust, legs wrapped around his waist, nails digging into his back as pleasure built again. When you came a second time, clenching around him, Gojo followed with a deep, guttural moan, spilling inside you as he buried his face in your neck.

Afterward, he pulled you into his arms, holding you close against his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare back while your breathing slowly steadied.

“I never thought I’d want this,” he admitted quietly into the darkness. “A life that isn’t endless entertainment. A woman who sees every part of me and stays anyway. But with you… it’s not just enough. It’s everything.”

You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. “And you gave me more than I ever dared hope for. You taught me how to be seen. Then you chose to see only me.”

Gojo tightened his arms around you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Every day,” he promised, voice warm with sleep and certainty. “I’ll choose you every single day. No more running. No more games. Just us.”

In the quiet of Whitecrest Manor, with the moon casting silver light across your intertwined bodies, Satoru Gojo. Once the untouchable marquess who refused to be tied down held his wife close and chose to stay.

Not because he had to.

But because, for the first time in his life, he truly wanted to.

And that choice was the greatest lesson of all.

London welcomed the new season with its familiar glittering frenzy. The air in every ballroom felt thick with perfume, expectation, and the sharp scent of ambition. Fresh debutantes fluttered about in delicate pastels and nervous laughter, while mothers scanned the crowds like hawks searching for the most advantageous prey. Lady Whistledown’s scandal sheets had already begun their ruthless commentary, crowning the newest Diamond and predicting matches that would shape the coming months.

You, Lady Reader Laurent, arrived at the first major ball of the season on the arm of your younger sister, Celeste, with your mother trailing behind in quiet satisfaction. The Laurent family had spent the winter preparing for this moment. Celeste who is soft-spoken, graceful, with gentle hazel eyes and an effortlessly warm smile had been deemed the perfect debutante. Society had taken to her immediately. You, however, were viewed quite differently.

Where Celeste moved through the ton like a gentle summer breeze, you observed everything with a sharpness that made people pause. Your dark eyes missed nothing. Your words, though always polite enough to avoid outright scandal, carried an edge of honesty that many found unsettling. You had no interest in playing the demure, simpering role expected of young ladies. You noticed patterns, contradictions, and the quiet calculations people made behind their smiles.

The ballroom at Lady Danbury’s residence sparkled under hundreds of candles, the polished floors reflecting the swirl of silk gowns and tailored coats. Music from the string quartet floated through the warm air as couples danced in perfect time.

You stood near the edge of the dance floor, a glass of lemonade in your gloved hand, watching the scene unfold with quiet detachment. Your gown tonight was a deep sapphire blue, elegant but understated compared to the frothy pastels favored by most debutantes. It suited you.

Your gaze inevitably drifted toward him.

Kento Nanami, the Earl of Westbridge.

He stood near the refreshment table, tall and impeccably dressed in a dark green coat that accentuated his broad shoulders and athletic frame. His golden-blond hair was styled with neat precision, and his posture spoke of a man who moved through life with absolute control. At thirty-two, he was widely regarded as one of the most eligible and sensible gentlemen in London. Wealthy, responsible, and famously restrained. His estate was rumored to be managed with the same meticulous care he applied to everything else.

He had already danced once with Celeste. The interaction had been perfectly proper. With measured conversation, courteous smiles, and the kind of steady attention that made mothers whisper with approval.

You watched them both with narrowed eyes. There was no spark, no genuine warmth in his gaze when he looked at your sister. Only careful calculation. As if he were weighing her virtues like entries in a ledger.

“He is considering her, isn’t he?” you murmured to yourself.

A low, amused voice interrupted your thoughts. “Observing the Earl of Westbridge so intently, Lady Reader Laurent? Careful, one might think you have designs of your own.”

You turned to find Lord Satoru Gojo leaning casually against a nearby pillar, his silver hair gleaming under the candlelight, bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief. The Marquess of Whitecrest had a reputation for chaos wrapped in effortless charm, and he seemed to delight in inserting himself into situations that did not concern him.

“I have no designs, my lord,” you replied evenly. “Merely curiosity. He conducts his courtship with the precision of a banker reviewing accounts.”

Gojo laughed softly, clearly delighted. “Sharp tongue. I like that. Most ladies would be fluttering their lashes and hoping for a second dance. You, however, see straight through the performance.”

Before you could respond, Celeste returned from the dance floor, cheeks flushed with gentle excitement. Shoko Ieiri walked beside her, your sister’s closest companion for the evening, her dark eyes observant and slightly amused.

“Lord Westbridge is a wonderful dancer,” Celeste said softly, smoothing her pale pink gown. “So very… steady.”

You offered her a small smile, though it did not reach your eyes. “Steady is one word for it.”

Your mother appeared then, beaming with pride. “He has already asked permission to call upon Celeste tomorrow afternoon. This could be a most excellent match, girls. The Earl of Westbridge is known for his propriety and sound judgment.”

You said nothing, but your gaze drifted back across the room.

Nanami was watching your group now. When your eyes met his, he offered a polite nod, nothing more. Yet something in his expression shifted ever so slightly when his attention moved from Celeste to you. A faint furrow between his brows. A momentary tightening of his jaw.

He did not look pleased.

Later in the evening, circumstance finally forced you into direct conversation.

Celeste had stepped away briefly with Shoko to speak with another acquaintance, leaving you momentarily alone near a tall arched window. The cool night air drifted in, carrying the faint scent of garden flowers. Nanami approached with measured steps, his expression composed and unreadable.

“Lady Reader,” he greeted with a precise bow. His voice was deep, calm, and carried the weight of quiet authority. “I trust you are enjoying the ball.”

You curtsied politely, meeting his gaze directly. “It is… illuminating, Lord Westbridge. Tell me, have you already decided?”

Nanami’s golden-brown eyes narrowed slightly. “Decided what, precisely?”

“That my sister is suitable,” you said plainly, keeping your voice low enough that only he could hear. “You danced with her once. You spoke with the exact amount of interest required by propriety. Your posture, your choice of words, even the timing of your smile. They all suggest careful calculation rather than genuine feeling. You have already weighed her virtues against your requirements for a wife, have you not?”

The directness clearly caught him off guard. Most young ladies would never speak so candidly to a man of his station.

“Lady Celeste is graceful, well-mannered, and possesses a kind and gentle disposition,” Nanami replied evenly, though you caught the faintest edge of irritation in his tone. “Those are valuable and practical qualities in a potential wife.”

“How fortunate for her,” you said softly, a faint, humorless curve touching your lips. “To be selected like a sound investment. One hopes the returns will meet your expectations, my lord.”

A flicker of genuine annoyance crossed his features. Kento Nanami was not accustomed to being challenged so openly. Especially not by an elder sister who seemed entirely uninterested in securing his favor for herself.

“I assure you, Lady Reader, my intentions toward your sister are entirely honorable and well-considered.”

“I do not doubt your honor, Lord Westbridge,” you replied, holding his gaze without flinching. “Only your imagination. When you picture your future, do you see real conversation and companionship… or simply compatibility on paper?”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. His jaw tightened visibly. You could see the precise way he was weighing his response, calculating the risks of continuing this conversation.

Before he could answer, Celeste returned, her gentle smile lighting her face as she curtsied gracefully. “Lord Westbridge. I hope my sister has not been too forward. She sometimes forgets that not everyone appreciates such candor.”

You offered no apology. You simply inclined your head. “It was a pleasure speaking with you, my lord. Do enjoy the remainder of your evening.”

As you walked away with Celeste, you felt the weight of Nanami’s gaze following you across the ballroom. It was not the polite regard he had shown your sister.

It was sharper. More focused.

He did not like you.

That much was clear.

What unsettled you more was the quiet realization that the feeling was not entirely mutual.

Because despite his rigid demeanor and transactional approach to courtship, Kento Nanami had managed in the space of one conversation to disrupt the careful detachment you had cultivated all evening.

And the season had only just begun.

The days after Lady Danbury’s ball settled into a predictable rhythm that should have pleased Kento Nanami greatly.

He called upon your sister, Lady Celeste Laurent, with clockwork precision. Afternoon visits at the Laurent townhouse were conducted with impeccable propriety: tea served at exactly four o’clock, conversation flowing along safe, agreeable topics. Like the weather, the latest improvements to his Westbridge estate, Celeste’s graceful accomplishments in watercolors and pianoforte. He brought small, thoughtful gifts like fresh flowers and a book of poetry he believed suitable for a gentle young lady. Everything progressed exactly as logic dictated it should.

Yet the irritation lingered.

And it was growing sharper with every passing day.

Because you were always there.

Not intruding, never openly disruptive, but undeniably present. Sitting quietly in the corner of the drawing room with a book or embroidery hoop, your dark eyes flicking up occasionally to observe the exchange. Offering the occasional dry remark when Celeste faltered or when Nanami’s measured compliments landed a touch too perfectly. Your words were never rude enough to warrant rebuke, yet they carried an edge that sliced straight through the polished surface of his carefully constructed courtship.

You watched him like a puzzle you were determined to solve, and found wanting.

On the third such visit, the tension finally ignited.

Celeste had excused herself briefly to fetch a new shawl after a sudden chill entered through the open windows. Your mother had stepped out to speak with the housekeeper, leaving you and Nanami alone in the sunlit drawing room for the first time.

You set your embroidery aside and regarded him directly across the low table.

“You are very thorough, Lord Westbridge,” you said, voice calm but laced with unmistakable challenge. “Every word chosen with care. Every gesture timed perfectly. Tell me, does my sister feel like a wife to you yet, or merely the most suitable candidate on your list?”

Nanami’s golden-brown eyes narrowed. He placed his teacup down with deliberate control, the porcelain clicking softly against the saucer. The irritation that had been simmering since the ball flared hotter.

“Lady Reader Laurent,” he replied, his deep voice low and edged with steel, “you presume a great deal. My intentions toward your sister are serious and honorable. I fail to see why my conduct offends you so persistently.”

You leaned forward slightly, the sapphire of your day gown catching the afternoon light. Your gaze locked onto his without hesitation, unflinching.

“Because it is not courtship I see when you sit with her,” you said quietly, each word precise and cutting. “It is evaluation. You look at Celeste as though you are reviewing the terms of a contract. Does she smile at the right moments? Speak softly enough? Possess the exact temperament that will not disturb your orderly existence? Tell me honestly. Have you once looked at her and felt anything beyond mild approval?”

The air between you thickened. Nanami’s jaw tightened visibly, a muscle ticking beneath the clean line of his cheek. He was not a man who raised his voice, yet the intensity in his stare sharpened to something almost dangerous, controlled fury wrapped in restraint.

“You speak of feeling as though it were a requirement,” he countered, voice dropping lower, rougher than his usual measured tone. “Love is not a prerequisite for a successful marriage, Lady Reader. Stability is. Compatibility is. A household that runs without chaos or unnecessary emotion. Your sister understands that. She does not challenge every word I speak. She does not dissect my every action as though searching for flaws.”

You rose slowly from your chair, refusing to let him tower over the conversation. You stepped closer, stopping just far enough that propriety was maintained. Yet close enough that the space between your bodies felt charged.

“And that is precisely the problem,” you said, voice soft but intense, almost a whisper. “You want a wife who will never challenge you. Who will never force you to confront anything beyond your neat little ledgers and scheduled days. You want comfort, my lord, not a partner. Celeste deserves more than to be someone’s carefully chosen solution to loneliness. And you…” Your eyes searched his face, dark and unrelenting. “You deserve to be shaken out of that suffocating restraint you wear like armor.”

Nanami stood as well, the movement deliberate and powerful. He was taller than you, broader, yet he did not use his size to intimidate. Instead, he closed the remaining distance by a single step, his presence suddenly overwhelming. Warmth, the faint scent of sandalwood and crisp linen, and the quiet storm brewing behind his composed exterior.

“You presume to know what I deserve, Lady Reader?” His voice had dropped to a near growl, low and intense, vibrating with barely-leashed frustration. “You, who hides behind sharp observations and refuses to play by any rules but your own. You speak of shaking me as though disruption were a virtue. Tell me, then. What exactly do you feel when you watch me with your sister? Satisfaction at finding fault? Or something far less noble?”

The question hung heavy between you. For the first time, the irritation had cracked open into something rawer. Your breath came a fraction quicker. His chest rose and fell with more force than his usual calm allowed. The air crackled with unspoken tension. Anger, awareness, and a dangerous undercurrent neither of you was ready to name.

You refused to look away. “I feel irritation, Lord Westbridge. The same irritation you clearly feel toward me. Because for all your logic and restraint, you cannot dismiss me as easily as you would like. And that… that unsettles you more than you care to admit.”

Nanami’s gaze dropped for the briefest second to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes. The silence stretched, thick and electric. His hands flexed at his sides as though fighting the urge to reach out. Whether to silence you or pull you closer, even he seemed uncertain.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway broke the moment.

Celeste returned, oblivious to the charged atmosphere, her gentle smile brightening the room. “I apologize for the delay. Shall we continue our conversation, my lord?”

Nanami stepped back immediately, composing himself with ruthless efficiency. He bowed slightly to your sister. “Of course, Lady Celeste.”

But as he resumed his seat and turned his attention back to Celeste, his eyes flicked to you once more—sharp, intense, and no longer merely irritated.

The irritation had become attention and impossible to ignore.

The following weeks unfolded with painful, exquisite precision.

Kento Nanami continued his courtship of your sister with the same methodical dedication he applied to every aspect of his life. He escorted Celeste on promenades in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, danced with her twice at every ball, and sent perfectly worded notes expressing his continued admiration. Society began to speak of them as a foregone conclusion. “The Earl of Westbridge has chosen well,” mothers whispered approvingly. “Such a steady, respectable match.”

You watched it all from the edges.

And the irritation between you and Nanami had transformed into something far more dangerous.

You found yourselves thrown together more often than propriety should allow. At musicales, at card parties hosted by Lady Utahime Iori, and during group outings arranged by well-meaning hostesses. Each time, your paths crossed in ways that felt both accidental and inevitable. Every conversation started politely and ended with that same sharp intensity. Words exchanged like dueling blades, each one probing deeper than the last.

One such evening occurred at a private musicale hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Avarice.

The grand drawing room of Sukuna’s townhouse had been transformed for the occasion. Candles burned low, casting warm light across heavy velvet drapes and polished mahogany. Ryomen Sukuna, the Duke of Avarice, sat in a high-backed chair like a king holding court, his rose-pink hair striking against the dark tones of his evening attire. Beside him, his Duchess who your former acquaintance from the previous season held their infant son with quiet pride. The baby, a small bundle with faint hints of pink in his downy hair and tiny tattoos just beginning to show along one wrist, slept peacefully against her shoulder. The Duke’s hand rested possessively on the back of her chair, his crimson eyes occasionally softening when they drifted to his wife and child. It was a rare public glimpse of the man beneath the fearsome reputation.

You stood near the pianoforte after the performance, a glass of ratafia in hand, when Nanami appeared at your side.

He had just finished speaking with Celeste, who was now engaged in gentle conversation with Shoko Ieiri across the room. The air between you and the Earl felt heavier than the humidity outside.

“You disapprove,” Nanami said without preamble, his deep voice low enough that only you could hear. He did not look at you directly at first, his gaze fixed on the small gathering. “Of my courtship. Of the match. You have made that abundantly clear.”

You turned slightly toward him, your dark eyes meeting his golden-brown ones with unflinching honesty. “I disapprove of the idea of it, Lord Westbridge. Not necessarily of you. Though the distinction grows blurrier each time we speak.”

He finally faced you fully. The candlelight caught the sharp line of his jaw and the faint tension in his shoulders. “Then enlighten me, Lady Reader. What exactly is it that you see when you look at us? Because from where I stand, the arrangement is logical, mutually beneficial, and entirely proper.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the silence stretch just long enough to unsettle him. “I see a man who has convinced himself that feeling nothing is the same as being in control. You speak to my sister with courtesy, but never with wonder. You touch her hand during dances as though following choreography rather than desire. She smiles at you because she believes it is what she should do. But tell me honestly, when you imagine waking beside her for the next forty years, does the thought bring you peace… or simply relief that your ledgers will remain balanced?”

Nanami’s expression hardened, but beneath the restraint you caught something rawer. Frustration, yes, but also the first flicker of genuine conflict. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine.

“And what would you have me do instead?” he asked, intensity burning quietly in every word. “Throw away years of careful planning for some fleeting emotion? Risk chaos and regret because society demands grand passion? You speak as though love is simple. As though it does not complicate everything it touches.”

You met his intensity with your own, refusing to retreat even an inch. The space between your bodies felt too small for a public room, yet neither of you moved away.

“Love does complicate things,” you admitted, your voice equally low and charged. “But so does pretending it does not exist. You are not cold, Lord Westbridge. I have watched you long enough to know that. You simply refuse to act on what you feel. You bury it beneath duty and logic until it suffocates. And the worst part?” You leaned in fractionally, eyes locked on his. “I think you are beginning to realize it. Every time you look at me instead of her.”

The words landed like a spark on dry tinder.

Nanami’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. His gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat. Long enough for heat to bloom low in your stomach before snapping back to your eyes. The tension between you crackled, silent and suffocating. His hand flexed at his side, as though fighting the instinct to reach out and touch you, to silence you, or perhaps to pull you closer and finally confront whatever this was becoming.

“You are dangerous, Lady Reader,” he said, the words rough and quiet, laced with something darker than mere irritation. “You force me to question things I have spent years perfecting. And I do not appreciate the disruption.”

“Yet here you are,” you replied softly, heart pounding despite your composure, “seeking me out in every room. Anticipating my responses. Watching when you think I will not notice. If I am such a disruption, my lord… why do you keep returning to it?”

Before he could answer, a soft cry from the ducal heir drew attention across the room. The Duchess of Avarice gently rocked her son, and Sukuna’s large hand came up to cradle the baby’s head with surprising care. The moment was tender, intimate. A stark contrast to the restrained storm brewing between you and Nanami.

Celeste glanced toward you both, her gentle smile faltering for the briefest second as she noticed how close you stood.

Nanami stepped back immediately, restoring proper distance with ruthless efficiency. He bowed his head slightly. “We should rejoin the others, Lady Reader.”

But as he walked away to offer his arm to Celeste, his eyes found yours one last time across the room.

Later that night, long after the musicale had ended and you had returned home, you stood at your bedroom window staring out at the rain-slicked streets. Sleep refused to come.

Because in the spaces between words, in the glances that lasted too long, and in the heavy silences that followed every sharp exchange, something was shifting.

You were beginning to understand him. Not through kindness, but through brutal honesty.

And he was beginning to see you.

Not as the irritating elder sister. But as the one woman who refused to let him hide behind his perfect restraint.

The tension was no longer merely irritation. It had become something far more intimate.

And far more impossible to ignore.

The shift happened so gradually that even you almost missed it at first.

What began as irritation had quietly, dangerously evolved into something far more treacherous: a gravitational pull neither of you could fully deny.

Kento Nanami continued his courtship of your sister with outward perfection. He called at the Laurent townhouse twice a week. He sent Celeste thoughtful, appropriate gifts. Embroidered handkerchiefs, a volume of moral essays, a delicate cameo brooch. He danced with her at every ball, always the exact number of times expected, never once risking gossip. Society nodded in approval. Whistledown even mentioned the “steadfast attentions of the Earl of Westbridge toward the gentle Lady Celeste Laurent” in one of her columns.

Yet behind the flawless performance, Nanami’s attention had begun to drift.

And it drifted relentlessly toward you.

At first, it was subtle. A glance across a crowded ballroom that lingered a second too long. A deliberate choice to stand near your side during group conversations. The way he would position himself so that when Celeste spoke, his eyes still found yours.

Then it became less subtle.

During a lavish garden party hosted by Lady Mei Mei, the shift became impossible to ignore, at least for you.

The grounds were alive with color: blooming roses, delicate lanterns strung between trees, and long tables laden with delicate pastries and chilled champagne. Celeste walked arm-in-arm with Nanami along one of the gravel paths, her pale yellow gown fluttering gently in the breeze. You trailed a few steps behind with Shoko Ieiri, who kept shooting you knowing sidelong glances.

“You’re watching him again,” Shoko murmured, voice dry with amusement. “And he’s watching you when he thinks no one notices.”

You kept your expression neutral. “He is merely being polite.”

Shoko laughed softly. “Polite does not usually involve staring at the elder sister while courting the younger.”

Further ahead, Nanami and Celeste paused near a fountain. When your sister bent to admire a cluster of white roses, Nanami’s gaze lifted and locked directly onto you.

There was no polite nod this time. No quick averting of eyes. He held your stare across the distance, golden-brown eyes intense and unreadable. The look carried weight. Awareness. A silent question that sent heat crawling up your neck despite the cool afternoon air.

When Celeste straightened and continued speaking, Nanami answered her with perfect courtesy, but his attention had already fractured. Minutes later, when a group of guests gathered for an impromptu croquet match, he maneuvered the pairings with quiet efficiency.

Somehow, you ended up as his partner.

The game began innocently enough. Laughter rang out as mallets struck balls across the lawn. Celeste played with gentle enthusiasm on another team, cheered on by Shoko and several other young ladies. But between turns, Nanami found reasons to speak to you.

“You anticipate my strategy too well, Lady Reader,” he said during one lull, voice low so only you could hear. He stood close adjusting his grip on the mallet while his eyes flicked to yours. “Almost as if you have been studying me.”

You met his gaze head-on, the tension between you crackling like summer lightning. “Perhaps I have. Or perhaps you are simply predictable, my lord. Every move calculated three steps ahead. Every word weighed for maximum propriety.”

A faint muscle ticked in his jaw. He stepped even closer under the pretense of demonstrating a proper swing, his arm brushing yours. The contact was brief, but it burned.

“And yet you continue to disrupt every calculation,” he murmured, the words rougher than intended. “You speak truths no one else dares voice. You challenge me in ways that should infuriate me. Instead…” He paused, golden eyes darkening. “Instead, I find myself seeking you out in every room. Anticipating your sharp replies. Noticing when you are absent.”

Your breath caught. The admission hung between you, heavy and undeniable. The croquet game continued around you, but the world had narrowed to the space between your bodies and the intensity in his stare.

“You should not say such things,” you whispered, heart hammering. “Not while you are courting my sister.”

“I know.” His voice dropped even lower, almost a growl of frustration. “Believe me, I know. Yet here I am. Unable to stop.”

For one suspended moment, the air felt too thick to breathe. His hand flexed on the mallet as though fighting the urge to reach for you instead. Your fingers tightened around your own mallet, the wood warm from your grip. The pull was magnetic. Dangerous, forbidden, and growing stronger with every stolen glance and charged word.

Celeste’s gentle laughter from across the lawn broke the spell.

Nanami straightened immediately, restoring perfect distance. He offered you a curt, polite nod before returning his focus to the game. But the shift had been noticed at least by you.

And by him.

Later that evening, during the carriage ride home, Celeste sat quietly beside you, hands folded in her lap. The silence felt heavier than usual.

“You and Lord Westbridge seemed… engaged in conversation during croquet,” she said softly, not accusing, but observant in her gentle way. “He values your opinions, doesn’t he?”

You swallowed, guilt twisting in your chest. “He finds me irritating, Celeste. Nothing more.”

Your sister smiled faintly, though it did not reach her eyes. “Irritation does not usually make a man look at someone the way he looks at you.”

You had no answer for that.

The days that followed only deepened the unspoken shift.

At a ball two nights later, Nanami danced with Celeste once, then again. Proper. Expected. But between sets, he found his way to your side near the refreshment table. He spoke of trivial matters yet every sentence carried an undercurrent. His eyes lingered on your face. His hand brushed yours when passing a glass. He asked questions that probed deeper than polite conversation allowed: what you thought of certain political reforms, whether you believed duty alone could sustain a marriage, whether you had ever wanted something you knew you should not have.

Each exchange left you breathless and unsettled.

And each time, he returned to Celeste with flawless composure.

No one else seemed to notice the change.

Not yet.

But you felt it in every glance that lasted too long.

In the way he sought you out in crowded rooms.

In the way his voice softened imperceptibly when he spoke to you alone.

In the way the courtship of your sister continued.

Because the more Nanami pursued Celeste on paper, the more his attention, his focus, his quiet intensity belonged to you.

And the more you tried to convince yourself it meant nothing, the more impossible it became to look away.

The shift no one should have noticed had become impossible to ignore.

For both of you.

The evening had been meant to be ordinary.

A quiet dinner party at the home of Lord and Lady Geto. It was intimate, exclusive, with no more than twenty guests. The drawing room after supper was warm and softly lit, conversations humming in low, civilized tones. Celeste had been seated beside Nanami at dinner, as expected, her gentle laughter occasionally drifting across the table like a soothing melody. You had been placed farther down, near Shoko Ieiri, who watched everything with her usual quiet perceptiveness.

But after the meal, when the guests began to disperse into smaller groups, the inevitable happened.

You slipped away from the main drawing room in search of cooler air, stepping into a small, dimly lit antechamber connected by a narrow corridor. Heavy velvet curtains framed the single tall window, and a low fire burned in the grate, casting long shadows across the bookshelves and a single velvet settee. The room was rarely used during parties, the room was too secluded, too private.

You had only meant to catch your breath for a moment.

You did not expect him to follow.

The door clicked shut behind Kento Nanami with a soft, final sound that made your pulse spike. He stood just inside the threshold, tall and imposing in his dark evening attire, the golden light from the fire sharpening the lines of his jaw and the intensity in his golden-brown eyes.

For several heartbeats, neither of you spoke.

The air thickened instantly, heavy with everything that had been building for weeks. Every charged glance, every sharp word, every stolen moment of proximity that should never have happened.

“You should not be here,” you said quietly, your voice steadier than you felt. You remained near the window, gloved hands clasped tightly in front of you. “If someone sees—”

“I know.” His voice was low, rough, stripped of its usual polished restraint. He took one step forward, then another, until the space between you felt dangerously small. “I know I should not be here. I know this is improper. I know I am courting your sister.”

He stopped only when he was close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the faint trace of sandalwood and crisp linen that always clung to him. His gaze burned into yours. Intense, conflicted, and no longer hidden behind layers of logic and duty.

“Then why did you follow me?” you whispered, heart hammering against your ribs.

Nanami’s jaw clenched. His hands flexed at his sides as though fighting for control. When he spoke again, the words came out raw, almost pained.

“Because I cannot stop thinking about you.”

The admission hung in the air like smoke, thick and irreversible.

You drew in a sharp breath. “Lord Westbridge—”

“Kento,” he corrected, voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. “Say my name when we are alone. At least give me that much.”

The intensity in his eyes made your knees feel weak. This was not the composed Earl of Westbridge who calculated every move. This was a man pushed to the edge of his restraint.

You lifted your chin, refusing to retreat even as heat flooded your body. “Kento… you are courting my sister. You have made your choice. You chose stability. You chose propriety. You chose her.”

His hand rose slowly, hovering near your cheek before he caught himself and curled it into a fist at his side. The restraint cost him visibly. His breathing had grown heavier, his broad shoulders tense beneath the fine fabric of his coat.

“If circumstances were different—” he began, voice strained, the words torn from somewhere deep and unwilling.

You stopped him before he could finish.

“But they are not different,” you said fiercely, stepping closer until only inches separated you. Your voice trembled with the force of everything you had been holding back. “You cannot have both. You cannot court Celeste with one hand and look at me like this with the other. It is cruel. To her, to me, and to yourself.”

Nanami’s control finally fractured.

He closed the remaining distance in one swift motion, backing you gently but inexorably against the wall beside the window. One large hand braced beside your head, the other hovering at your waist, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat of his palm through your gown. His face was inches from yours, golden-brown eyes dark with raw, unfiltered need.

“You think I do not know that?” he rasped, voice low and intense, every word vibrating with frustration and desire. “You think I have not spent every night lying awake, replaying every conversation, every glance, every sharp word you have thrown at me? You have dismantled every logical reason I had for this match. You make me question everything I thought I wanted. And still, I cannot stay away from you.”

Your breath came in shallow bursts. The intensity radiating from him was overwhelming. His body so close, his scent surrounding you, the raw honesty in his eyes stripping away every defense you had left.

“You are making this impossible,” you whispered, your own voice cracking. “Every time you look at me like this… every time you seek me out… it hurts. Because no matter how much I tell myself to stop, I keep hoping you will choose differently.”

Nanami’s forehead dropped until it nearly rested against yours. His free hand finally moved, fingers brushing the bare skin just above your glove with aching restraint. The touch was feather-light, yet it sent fire racing through your veins.

“If I were a different man,” he murmured, voice hoarse and trembling with the effort of holding back, “I would kiss you right now. I would forget duty, forget propriety, forget every rule I have lived by. I would pull you against me and show you exactly how little control I have left when it comes to you.”

Your lips parted on a silent gasp. The image his words painted was vivid and devastating. You could almost feel it. The press of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the way his body would cage yours completely.

“But I am not a different man,” he continued, the words bitter. “And you… you deserve more than stolen moments in dark rooms and half-spoken confessions.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You could hear your own heartbeat, could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. His hand at your waist finally made contact. Light, trembling, as though touching you might burn him. The tension coiled so tightly between you that it felt like the air itself might snap.

Then, footsteps in the corridor outside.

Voices. Laughter. Someone calling for more wine.

Nanami pulled back as though scorched, stepping away with visible effort. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes were still dark with want, but the mask of composure was already sliding back into place.

He bowed his head once, voice rough. “Forgive me, Lady Reader. This… will not happen again.”

He turned and left the room without another word, the door closing softly behind him.

You remained against the wall for several long moments, legs unsteady, heart racing, lips still tingling with the ghost of a kiss that never came.

The breaking point had been reached.

And neither of you had emerged unscathed.

Outside, the dinner party continued as though nothing had changed.

Inside you, everything had.

The rumors began quietly, as the most damaging ones always did.

A whispered observation here.

A raised eyebrow there.

A servant who had lingered too long in the corridor outside the antechamber at Lord and Lady Geto’s dinner party.

By the end of the week, the ton had begun to notice.

Nothing explicit enough to ruin anyone outright, at least not yet. Just enough to plant seeds of doubt. “The Earl of Westbridge seems rather… attentive to the elder Laurent sister.” “Did you see how he sought her out during the musicale?” “One does wonder why he spends so much time speaking with Lady Reader when his courtship of sweet Lady Celeste appears so steady.”

Lady Whistledown, ever merciless, devoted an entire paragraph to it in her latest sheet:

It appears the ever-practical Earl of Westbridge has developed a curious fascination with more than one Laurent flower this season. While his attentions to the gentle Lady Celeste remain perfectly proper, one cannot help but note how frequently his gaze drifts toward her sharp-tongued elder sister, Lady Reader. A most intriguing development… or a most unfortunate miscalculation?

The words spread like smoke through drawing rooms and ballrooms alike.

Your reputation, once merely “interesting” for its directness, now carried a faint shadow of scandal. Mothers who had previously been neutral toward you began steering their sons away. Whispers followed you when you entered rooms. Fans fluttered faster whenever you and Nanami happened to be in the same space.

Celeste remained untouched by direct gossip. She was still the picture of gentle perfection. Smiling softly, dancing gracefully, never once giving anyone reason to question her conduct. But you saw the change in her eyes when she looked at you. A quiet hurt. A growing realization.

She knew.

The worst part was that the rumors were not entirely unfounded.

The tension between you and Nanami had only grown more unbearable since that night in the antechamber. He still called upon Celeste. He still danced with her. He still played the role of the perfect suitor with flawless execution.

But his eyes found you constantly.

At the next ball, hosted by the Viscount of Blackthorne (Suguru Geto), the air felt thick with unspoken accusation.

You stood near the edge of the dance floor in a deep emerald gown, trying to appear composed while Shoko Ieiri kept you company. Across the room, Nanami led Celeste through a waltz with mechanical precision. His posture is perfect, his steps exact. Yet every time the turn brought him facing your direction, his golden-brown eyes locked onto yours with burning intensity. The look was no longer merely aware. It was hungry. Frustrated. Possessive in a way that made your stomach twist.

When the dance ended, he escorted Celeste back to your mother, bowed politely, and then without hesitation made his way straight toward you.

Shoko excused herself with a knowing look. “Try not to set the room on fire.” she murmured before slipping away.

Nanami stopped before you, close enough that the heat of his body cut through the crowded ballroom. His voice was low, controlled, but edged with strain.

“Lady Reader.”

“My lord.” you replied, matching his formality even as your pulse raced.

He offered his arm with rigid courtesy. “Walk with me. The terrace. Now.”

It was not a request.

You placed your hand on his sleeve, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. He led you through the French doors onto the dimly lit terrace, where the cool night air offered little relief from the heat simmering between you. Lanterns cast soft golden pools of light, but most of the space remained in shadow. Private enough to be dangerous.

The moment you were far enough from the doors, Nanami released your arm and turned to face you fully. The restraint he had shown all evening finally cracked.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?” he said, voice low and intense, each word sharp with frustration. “The rumors are everywhere. Your name is being linked to mine in ways that could destroy your standing. And yet—” He stepped closer, backing you slowly against the stone balustrade. “And yet I cannot stop looking for you. I cannot stop thinking about that night. About how close I came to throwing away every principle I hold dear just to taste your mouth.”

Your back met the cool stone. Your breath hitched as he loomed over you, tall and broad, the fire in his eyes unmistakable even in the low light.

“You are the one courting my sister,” you shot back, voice trembling with equal parts anger and longing. “You are the one who keeps choosing duty over what you clearly want. Do not put this entirely on me, Kento.”

The use of his given name made something in him snap.

He braced one hand on the balustrade beside your head, the other hovering at your waist. His face was inches from yours, breath warm against your lips.

“I am trying,” he growled, the words rough and raw. “God help me, I am trying to do what is right. But every time I look at Celeste, I see what I should want. And every time I look at you…” His voice dropped to a near-whisper, trembling with intensity. “I see what I crave. You challenge me. You unsettle me. You make me feel alive in ways my perfectly ordered life never has. And it is driving me mad.”

Your hands rose of their own accord, pressing lightly against his chest. You could feel his heart pounding beneath your palms. It was fast, heavy, as uncontrolled as his voice had become.

“Then stop torturing us both,” you whispered fiercely. “Either commit to the path you chose, or have the courage to choose differently. But do not stand here and tell me you are suffering while you continue to court her.”

Nanami’s forehead dropped until it rested against yours. His breathing was ragged. The hand at your waist finally made contact, fingers gripping the silk of your gown with barely restrained force.

“I ended the courtship this afternoon,” he confessed, the words spilling out like a confession. “Before coming here. I told your mother and Celeste that I could not, in good conscience, continue. Not when my attention… my desire… has been elsewhere.”

Your eyes widened. The revelation hit you like a shock.

Before you could respond, he continued, voice hoarse and vulnerable in a way you had never heard from him.

“I do not know how to do this, Lady Reader. I do not know how to want someone this fiercely without reducing it to logic or duty. I have spent my entire life avoiding exactly this kind of chaos. And yet here I am, ruining my own plans, risking scandal, and still unable to stay away from you.”

The intensity between you reached its peak. His body pressed closer, almost flush against yours. His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you in until there was no space left. You could feel every hard line of him. The tension in his shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing against your hip.

For one breathless moment, it felt as though he might finally kiss you. Consequences be damned.

But he held back, trembling with the effort.

“I am terrified of miscalculating this,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Of hurting you. Of hurting Celeste. Of becoming someone I no longer recognize.”

You tilted your face up, lips nearly brushing his. “Then stop calculating, Kento. For once in your life… just feel.”

The sound of approaching voices from inside forced you both apart.

Nanami stepped back sharply, running a hand through his usually impeccable hair. His eyes were still dark with want, his breathing unsteady.

“This is not over,” he said quietly, the promise heavy in his tone. “But we must be careful. The rumors are already spreading. Your reputation—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “We will speak again when it is safer.”

He bowed his head once, then turned and disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving you alone on the terrace with your heart racing and your body still burning from his nearness.

Consequences had arrived.

Rumors swirled.

Celeste’s gentle heart was quietly breaking.

Your own reputation hung in a delicate balance.

But for the first time, Nanami had chosen.

Not perfectly.

Not without pain.

But he had chosen to stop pretending.

And in the quiet aftermath of that terrace, with the night air cooling your flushed skin, you realized the truth:

The real scandal was not the rumors.

It was how deeply, how irrevocably, you had both already fallen.

The days following the terrace confrontation were some of the most agonizing of your life.

London society had sharpened its teeth. The rumors, once mere whispers, had grown bolder and more pointed. Whistledown’s latest column had been particularly cutting:

“One must wonder if the Earl of Westbridge’s sudden decision to end his courtship of the gentle Lady Celeste Laurent has anything to do with the rather frequent proximity he shares with her elder sister, Lady Reader Laurent. A most curious turn of events for a gentleman once celebrated for his impeccable logic and restraint.”

Invitations to certain homes began to dwindle. Mothers who had once smiled at you now offered cool, polite nods. Even some of your acquaintances glanced at you with a mixture of curiosity and judgment. Celeste remained outwardly composed but you saw the quiet pain in her eyes whenever your paths crossed at home. She never accused you. She simply withdrew, spending more time with Shoko or in her own room, leaving an uncomfortable silence between you that neither of you knew how to bridge.

And Nanami?

He had become a ghost.

He no longer called at the Laurent townhouse. He sent no notes. He appeared at balls and soirées only briefly, always maintaining careful distance from both you and Celeste. Yet you felt his presence like a shadow. His golden-brown eyes finding you across crowded rooms, intense and conflicted, before he forced himself to look away.

The restraint was killing him. You could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the rigid set of his jaw, the way his hands clenched at his sides whenever you were near.

Until the night everything finally broke.

It happened at a private soiree hosted by Lady Utahime Iori. The evening was smaller and more intimate than most, with music, card tables, and quiet conversations in candlelit corners. You had attended with your mother and Celeste, determined to face the whispers head-on rather than hide.

You were standing alone near a tall window, attempting to collect yourself, when Nanami appeared.

He moved with purpose this time. No polite hesitation, no calculated approach. He stopped directly in front of you, close enough that the heat of his body cut through the chill seeping from the glass behind you. His expression was stormy, the usual mask of composure fractured beyond repair.

“Outside,” he said, voice low and rough. “Now. The garden path. I will not ask again.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You glanced once toward the main room where Celeste sat speaking softly with Shoko, then followed him without a word.

The garden behind Lady Iori’s townhouse was dimly lit by lanterns, the paths lined with late-blooming jasmine whose sweet scent hung heavy in the night air. Nanami led you deeper until the sounds of the soiree faded into a distant murmur. Only then did he stop and turn to face you.

The intensity radiating from him was almost tangible.

He looked exhausted. Dark circles beneath his eyes, hair slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it. The Earl of Westbridge, always so meticulously put together, was unraveling before your eyes.

“I cannot do this anymore,” he said, the words bursting out with raw force. His voice was hoarse, stripped of its usual calm precision. “I ended the courtship with your sister because it was the honorable thing to do. Because I could not in good conscience offer her a marriage when my every thought, every desire, was consumed by you. And yet—”

He stepped closer, backing you gently against the trunk of an old oak tree, one hand bracing beside your head while the other hovered at your waist.

“And yet logic still screams at me that this is a mistake,” he continued, golden-brown eyes blazing with conflict. “I have spent my entire life building order. Stability. A life without chaos or unpredictable emotion. You threaten every part of that. You make me question my own judgment. You make me want things I was never taught to want. And I am terrified of what that means.”

Your breath came fast and shallow. The intensity in his gaze pinned you in place more effectively than any physical hold could. You could feel the tremor in his frame. The war raging inside the man who had always prided himself on control.

“Then why are you here?” you asked, voice trembling but steady. “If logic tells you this is wrong, why do you keep seeking me out? Why do you look at me as though you are starving?”

Nanami’s hand finally made contact, sliding to your waist and gripping the silk of your gown with barely restrained force. He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours, his breathing ragged.

“Because logic has failed me,” he admitted, the confession sounding like it was torn from his soul. “For the first time in my life, reason is not enough. I look at Celeste and I see everything I should want. Gentleness, peace, order. But when I look at you…” His voice dropped to a rough whisper, thick with emotion. “I see fire. Challenge. A life that will never be simple or predictable. And God help me, I want it. I want you. So fiercely it keeps me awake at night.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand tightening at your waist.

“I do not know how to do this without miscalculation,” he said, vulnerability cracking through the intensity. “I do not know how to love without reducing it to duty or risk assessment. I have never allowed myself to simply… feel. But I cannot rationalize this away any longer. I cannot pretend that continuing as planned would be fair to anyone, least of all to you.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with everything left unsaid for weeks.

You lifted a hand to his face, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw. He leaned into the touch like a man starved for contact.

“Then stop trying to rationalize it,” you whispered. “Stop calculating every possible outcome. For once, Kento, choose what you want instead of what you think you should want.”

His eyes darkened. For one breathtaking moment, the conflict in his gaze gave way to pure, unfiltered desire. His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You could feel every hard line of his body. The rapid beat of his heart, the tension in his muscles, the unmistakable evidence of how deeply he wanted you.

“I am choosing,” he said, voice low and fierce. “I am choosing you, Lady Reader Laurent. Despite the scandal. Despite the whispers. Despite the fact that I have no guarantee this will not end in disaster. I am choosing you.”

The words landed like a vow.

He did not kiss you, not yet. The restraint was still there, trembling on a knife’s edge. But the choice had been made.

The garden path felt smaller, the night air thicker. Somewhere in the distance, music from the soiree drifted faintly, a reminder that the world continued on while yours tilted on its axis.

Nanami rested his forehead fully against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in.

“I do not know what comes next,” he admitted quietly. “Only that I cannot go back to pretending.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle over you.

This was not the neat, logical resolution he had always craved.

It was messy, but it was honest.

And for Kento Nanami, that was the greatest risk of all.

The weeks that followed Nanami’s choice were neither smooth nor simple.

Society did not forgive easily. Whispers turned into open speculation. Some hostesses quietly withdrew invitations. Others watched the three of you—Nanami, you, and Celeste—with barely concealed fascination. Celeste bore it with quiet grace, though the hurt in her eyes when she looked at you lingered like a bruise. Your mother alternated between worry and cautious hope. Shoko remained your steady anchor, offering dry commentary and silent support in equal measure.

Nanami, true to his nature, did not rush.

He did not declare his intentions with grand gestures or public displays. Instead, he began the slow, deliberate process of doing things properly. This time with you at the center. He called at the Laurent townhouse openly, asking permission to court you. He spoke with your mother and father in measured, honest tones, acknowledging the complications his previous courtship of Celeste had caused. He gave your sister space and respect, sending her a private letter of sincere apology that left Celeste tearful but understanding.

And between the two of you, the tension that had simmered for so long finally began to breathe.

It came to a head one rain-soaked evening, nearly a month after the garden confession.

Nanami had requested a private audience at his own townhouse under the strictest propriety. Your mother and a maid present in an adjoining room with the door ajar. But after the formal conversation ended and your mother stepped away briefly to speak with the housekeeper, the two of you found yourselves alone in his impeccably ordered study.

The room was warm, lit by a low fire and several lamps. Heavy bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers and philosophical texts arranged with military precision. Rain lashed against the tall windows, muffling the outside world.

Nanami stood behind his desk at first, then slowly walked around it until he was only a few feet away from you. The mask of the composed Earl had slipped away completely tonight. He looked at you with raw, unguarded intensity. Golden-brown eyes dark with weeks of restrained longing.

“I have spent every day since the garden trying to find the right words,” he said, voice low and rough. “Trying to calculate the best way to tell you what I feel without sounding like a fool. But there is no perfect calculation for this.”

He closed the distance, stopping just short of touching you. His hand rose, hovering near your cheek before he allowed his fingers to brush lightly along your jaw.

“I want you, Lady Reader Laurent,” he confessed, the words simple and devastating in their honesty. “Not as a suitable match. Not as a logical choice. I want you because you challenge me. Because you see through every wall I have built. Because when I am with you, I feel… alive. And I am tired of denying it.”

Your heart pounded so hard you were certain he could hear it. You stepped closer, eliminating the last bit of space between you.

“Then stop denying it, Kento,” you whispered.

The dam finally broke.

Nanami pulled you into his arms with a low, desperate sound, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that held weeks of pent-up hunger. It was not gentle. It was deep, fervent, and consuming. His lips moving against yours with a passion that belied his usual restraint. One hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slid down your back, pressing you flush against his hard body.

You gasped into his mouth as heat flooded through you. Your hands fisted in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss turned hotter, more urgent. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and when you granted it, he groaned softly, tasting you with deliberate thoroughness.

The rain continued its steady rhythm outside, but inside the study the air had grown thick and electric.

Nanami walked you backward until your hips met the edge of his large oak desk. With surprising strength, he lifted you onto it, stepping between your parted knees without breaking the kiss. Papers scattered unnoticed to the floor. His hands sliding up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist, then boldly cupping your breasts through the silk of your gown. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing a soft moan from you that he swallowed eagerly.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with desire.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice hoarse, “and I will. But God help me, I have wanted this, wanted you, for so long.”

You answered by pulling him back down, kissing him fiercely. “Don’t stop.”

The permission unlocked something primal in him.

Nanami’s mouth trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point while his hands worked at the fastenings of your gown with surprising dexterity. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your waist and exposing your breasts to the warm air. He groaned at the sight, lowering his head to take one peaked nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue until you arched against him with a broken whimper.

His free hand slid beneath your skirts, gliding up your stockinged thigh until he reached the bare skin above. Fingers teased along the edge of your undergarments before slipping beneath, finding you already slick with need.

“So wet for me,” he murmured against your breast, voice dark and reverent. Two thick fingers stroked through your folds, circling your clit with precise, devastating pressure. “All this time… you wanted this as badly as I did.”

You moaned, hips rocking into his touch as he pushed one finger inside you, then two, curling them expertly against that sensitive spot while his thumb continued its relentless circles. Pleasure built fast and sharp, your hands clutching his shoulders as you trembled.

“Kento—” you gasped, head falling back.

He kissed you again, swallowing your cries as he worked you closer to the edge. When your walls began to flutter around his fingers, he quickened his pace, driving you over with ruthless precision. You came hard, biting down on his shoulder to muffle your cry, body shaking in his arms.

Nanami held you through it, murmuring soft praises against your skin. Only when your breathing began to steady did he withdraw his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth and tasting you with a low, satisfied groan.

But he was far from finished.

He freed himself from his trousers, his cock hard and heavy, the tip already glistening. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the blunt head through your slick folds.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, voice strained with need.

Your eyes met his as he pushed inside you stretching you perfectly. The sensation drew a shared moan from both of you. Once fully seated, he paused, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.

“You feel like everything I never allowed myself to want,” he whispered.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were deep and controlled at first, each stroke deliberate and powerful, dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you. The desk creaked beneath you as his pace gradually increased. One hand gripped your hip, the other braced on the desk as he drove into you with years of pent-up longing.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting every thrust, nails digging into his back through his shirt. Pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly once more.

“Kento—please—” you gasped.

He reached between you, thumb finding your clit again, circling with firm pressure. “Come with me,” he growled against your ear. “Let me feel you.”

The command sent you spiraling. You came again with a choked cry, walls clenching tightly around him. Nanami followed moments later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan as he spilled inside you, hips jerking with the force of his release.

For several long minutes, the only sounds were your mingled breathing and the steady patter of rain against the windows.

Nanami stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body as though afraid to let go. He pressed soft, almost reverent kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“I love you,” he said quietly, the words simple and unshakable. “Not because it is logical. Not because it makes sense. But because I cannot imagine my life without you in it.”

You cupped his face, eyes shining. “I love you too, Kento. Messy. Complicated. Exactly as we are.”

He kissed you again.

It was not effortless.

Society would still talk. Healing with Celeste would take time. Nanami would never become impulsive or reckless. You would never stop challenging him.

But it was real.

And in the quiet aftermath, with the rain falling softly outside and Nanami’s arms wrapped securely around you, you both understood:

Some choices were worth every miscalculation.

The ballroom of Lady Danbury’s townhouse glittered like a cage made of crystal and candlelight. Hundreds of candles flickered in their sconces, casting warm gold across the polished parquet floors and the sea of silk gowns in every shade of debutante hope. Fill with shades of ivory, blush, and the palest lavender. The string quartet played a waltz that had already claimed three of your dances, each one as forgettable as the last.

You stood near the tall windows that overlooked the darkened garden, a glass of lukewarm lemonade in your gloved hand. Your gown was a deep rose silk edged in delicate gold embroidery. Your gown chosen by your mother with the quiet optimism of someone who still believed beauty could be manufactured through fabric and posture. It suited you. It did not, however, make you memorable.

Three weeks into the season and the pattern had become cruelly clear.

Mothers smiled politely when they introduced their sons. The sons bowed, offered one obligatory dance, and then drifted toward the true prizes: the daughters with larger dowries, brighter smiles, or simply more obvious beauty. You were not plain. You were simply… overlooked. Sharp tongue tucked behind composure, quick mind hidden beneath the required demure smiles, you had learned early that society rewarded performance, not substance.

Tonight was no different.

Your dearest friend, Lady Shoko Ieiri, leaned against the same window frame, a half-empty glass of champagne dangling from her fingers. Her dark hair was pinned with pearl combs, and her sage-green gown made her look like a bored woodland sprite who had wandered into the wrong century.

“Still no bites?” Shoko asked, voice low and dry. “I counted four gentlemen who looked at you, considered it, then remembered they were supposed to be pursuing Miss Featherington’s cousin instead.”

You gave a soft laugh that didn’t reach your eyes. “At this rate I shall be the spinster aunt who embroiders excessively and frightens the children with my opinions.”

Shoko’s mouth curved. “Better than marrying one of these peacocks who think a title excuses a personality like wet bread.”

Your gaze drifted across the room, and caught.

He stood alone near the far column, half in shadow, entirely unbothered by the way the entire ballroom seemed to orbit him without daring to approach. Ryomen Sukuna, Duke of Avarice. The title itself was a whisper of scandal and warning. He had inherited the dukedom young, under circumstances London still speculated about in hushed tones. Wealth beyond measure. A reputation that made debutantes blush and their mothers clutch their pearls. He never danced more than once in an evening, never lingered, never courted.

And yet every mother in the ton dreamed of trapping him for a daughter.

He was impossible to ignore. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that made the air feel heavier. His hair was a striking shade of rose-pink, swept back from his face in careless waves that somehow looked deliberate. Black tattoos, those delicate and sharp lines that curved along his jaw, disappeared beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt, and reappeared over the backs of his hands had marked him like living ink. His eyes, when they flicked toward the crowd, were the deep crimson of old blood under candlelight. He wore black evening dress as though it were armor, the only color the blood-red ruby pin at his throat.

He looked like sin dressed for supper.

And he looked bored.

You didn’t know what possessed you. Perhaps it was the third lukewarm lemonade. Perhaps it was the way Lord Harrington had just patted your hand like you were a promising filly he might consider later. Perhaps it was simply that you were tired of being invisible.

You set your glass down, smoothed your gloves, and walked straight toward him.

Shoko’s quiet “Reader—” followed you, but you didn’t stop.

The Duke noticed your approach. His gaze slid over you slowly, assessing, the way a predator might note an unusually bold rabbit. When you stopped a respectful, but not too respectful, distance away, he lifted one dark brow.

You curtsied, brief and precise.

“Your Grace,” you said, voice steady despite the frantic beat of your heart. “You are being hunted.”

A beat of silence. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Something too sharp to be a smile.

“And you,” he replied, voice low and rough like velvet dragged over stone, “are being ignored.”

The words should have stung. Instead they felt like truth, and truth had always been your weakness.

You lifted your chin. “I find the two states have much in common this season. Both leave one rather… conspicuous in their discomfort.”

Sukuna’s crimson eyes narrowed, studying you as though you were a puzzle he had not expected to find entertaining. Up close he was even more overwhelming. Heat seemed to roll off him, and the faint scent of sandalwood and something darker clung to his coat.

He tilted his head. “Most young ladies would flutter their lashes and pretend they came over to admire the flowers.”

“I am not most young ladies.”

“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Evidently not.”

A waltz swelled around you. Couples spun past in a blur of color and laughter. You could feel eyes on your back. A debutante approaching the Duke of Avarice without introduction was the sort of thing that would be in tomorrow’s gossip sheets.

You didn’t care.

“I have a proposition,” you said quietly.

His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture sharpened. “Bold.”

“Practical,” you corrected. “You require an excuse to keep the more determined mamas and their daughters at bay. I require… visibility. A name that is spoken of. A reason for the rest of the ton to stop looking through me as though I were part of the wallpaper.”

He was silent long enough that you began to wonder if you had just ruined yourself in front of the most dangerous man in London.

Then he laughed, genuinely amused by you. The sound slid down your spine like warm wine.

“You want me to court you,” he said, stating it plainly.

“I want the illusion of courtship,” you clarified. “Public dances. Occasional promenades. Enough lingering glances that society believes you have chosen someone. In return, I will be the perfect shield. Polite, composed, and never demanding more than you offer. When the season ends, we part amicably. No broken hearts. No expectations.”

Sukuna’s gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second, then back to your eyes. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I return to being ignored, and you return to being hunted. We both lose nothing we didn’t already have.”

He stepped closer. Just one step, but it closed the distance enough that you had to tilt your head to keep his eyes. The tattoos along his jaw seemed to shift in the candlelight.

“Careful, Lady Ashbourne,” he murmured, using your name as though he had already decided it belonged in his mouth. “I do not half-perform anything. If we do this, it will not be polite glances across a room. It will be convincing.”

Your pulse thundered. “I am not asking for half-measures, Your Grace.”

A long, considering silence.

Then he offered his arm.

“Very well,” he said. “One waltz. Let them talk.”

You placed your hand on his sleeve. The muscle beneath the fabric was hard as iron.

As he led you onto the floor, the entire ballroom seemed to inhale at once. Shoko’s eyes were wide. Across the room, Lord Satoru Gojo. The silver-haired, impossibly beautiful, and always smiling like he knew every secret in London had paused mid-conversation with Lord Suguru Geto and lifted a brow in open delight.

Sukuna’s hand settled at your waist with proprietary ease. The other took yours. He moved like a man who had never been refused anything in his life.

“You realize,” he said as the music began, voice pitched for your ears alone, “that once we begin this little game, there is no stepping back without consequence.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I am counting on it.”

The waltz carried you both into the swirl of bodies, and for the first time all season you felt seen. Not as a prize, not as a wallflower but as the woman who had just walked straight into the lion’s den and offered him a bargain.

Ryomen Sukuna watched you with something dark and unreadable flickering behind those crimson eyes.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a small, treacherous voice whispered that this arrangement was going to be far more dangerous than you had planned.

Because the Duke of Avarice did not look like a man who played pretend.

He looked like a man who took what he wanted.

And right now, he was looking at you.

The morning after Lady Danbury’s ball, London woke to a new favorite topic.

Whispers spread through drawing rooms like wildfire carried on silk fans. “Did you hear? The Duke of Avarice danced with Lady Ashbourne, twice.” “Not just danced. He lingered.” “She approached him. Can you imagine the audacity?” Servants carried the gossip from household to household along with the fresh milk and newspapers. By noon, your name was on every tongue that mattered.

You sat in the Ashbourne drawing room, a cup of tea cooling untouched beside you, while your mother paced with barely contained excitement. Lady Ashbourne’s cheeks were flushed, her fan fluttering rapidly. “Two dances, Reader! And with him! The Duke has never shown interest in any young lady before. This could be—”

“Mother, please,” you interrupted gently, though your own stomach twisted with a mix of nerves and something far more treacherous. “It was only a waltz. Do not read sonnets into a single evening.”

But you could not stop replaying it. The weight of Sukuna’s hand at your waist. The way his crimson eyes had never left yours during the dance, as though the rest of the ballroom had ceased to exist. The low timbre of his voice when he had murmured, “You dance better than you pretend to be invisible, Lady Ashbourne.” You had nearly missed a step.

A soft knock sounded. Shoko Ieiri entered without waiting for full permission. After all, she’s your oldest friend who had that privilege, dropping onto the settee beside you, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She carried the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, the scandal sheet everyone pretended to disdain but devoured.

“Have you seen this?” Shoko asked, unfolding the paper with dramatic flair. “‘The Duke of Avarice, long a solitary lion in our glittering jungle, has at last been spotted with a companion. Lady Ashbourne approached the beast without fear and emerged unscathed… for now. Is this the beginning of a most unexpected courtship, or merely a fleeting amusement for the untouchable Duke?’”

Your mother gasped in delight. “See? Even Whistledown notices!”

Shoko shot you a sidelong glance, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. Across the room, your younger brother, Megumi, the always quiet, observant, and far too perceptive for his fourteen years had pretended to read a book but kept stealing glances your way.

You forced a calm smile. “It is an arrangement, nothing more. The Duke needs breathing room from the endless parade of ambitious mamas. I need… attention. Proper attention. Suitors who actually see me rather than looking past to the next debutante.”

Shoko leaned closer, voice dropping. “And how does it feel, being the shield for Ryomen Sukuna? He is not exactly known for gentle manners.”

You thought of the tattoos that peeked from his collar, the controlled power in every movement, the way his touch had felt deliberate rather than performative. Heat crept up your neck. “It feels… strategic.”

But strategy had never made your pulse race quite like this.

That afternoon brought the first real test of your bargain.

Hyde Park was alive with the season’s ritual promenade. Carriages rolled along the paths, parasols twirled like colorful flowers, and the elite of the ton displayed themselves and their prospects. You walked arm-in-arm with Sukuna, your gloved hand resting lightly on his sleeve. He had sent a note that morning. Brief, commanding, and signed only with his initial: S. That was requesting your company at four o’clock sharp.

He wore a deep burgundy coat that made the pink of his hair and the crimson of his eyes stand out like warnings. The black tattoos along his jaw and hands drew stares wherever you passed. People bowed or curtsied as you went by, but none dared approach too closely. The Duke’s reputation cleared a path better than any footman.

“You are quiet today,” Sukuna remarked, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His stride was unhurried, yet it forced you to match his pace. “Regretting your bold proposition already?”

You glanced up at him. In daylight he was even more striking. Sharp cheekbones, the faint scar that bisected one brow, the way his full lips curved with faint amusement. “Not at all, Your Grace. I was merely wondering how long it will take for the mothers to stop glaring daggers at me.”

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Let them glare. It keeps them occupied.”

As you continued along the path, several familiar faces appeared. Lord Toji Fushiguro rode past on a powerful black stallion, his dark hair tousled by the breeze and a smirk playing on his scarred lips. He tipped his hat with lazy confidence, green eyes flicking over you both with open interest.

“Sukuna,” Toji drawled, reining in just enough to be heard. “Didn’t expect to see you playing the devoted escort so early in the season. Lady Ashbourne, my condolences if he’s already boring you with that silent stare of his.”

Sukuna’s expression remained impassive, though his grip on your arm tightened fractionally. “Fushiguro. Still wasting good horseflesh on pointless rides, I see.”

Toji laughed, a rough, unbothered sound. Riding beside him was Choso Kamo, his long dark hair tied back, pale face calm and watchful as always. Choso offered a polite nod, his eyes lingering on you with quiet curiosity. “A pleasure to see you out, Lady Reader. The park seems livelier with new company.”

You offered a polite curtsy from your position. “Lord Fushiguro, Lord Kamo. It is merely a pleasant afternoon stroll. Nothing more than that requires condolences… yet.”

Choso’s gaze was steady. “Interesting choice of companion. Most ladies would not dare approach the Duke without proper introduction.”

“I find proper introductions are overrated when one has a clear purpose,” you replied smoothly.

Sukuna’s lips twitched. The closest he came to approval. Toji whistled low. “Sharp tongue. Careful, Sukuna, or she might actually make this interesting.” With another lazy wave, Toji and Choso continued on, leaving a trail of whispers in their wake.

Sukuna guided you toward a quieter stretch of path lined with blooming roses, their perfume heavy in the warm air.

“Acquaintances of yours?” you asked once they were out of earshot.

“Annoyances, more like,” he corrected, though there was no real heat in it. “Fushiguro enjoys stirring trouble. Kamo watches everything and says little. They are useful when one needs information… or a distraction from the more persistent mothers.”

You nodded, then dared to press a little further. “And what do you enjoy, Your Grace?”

He stopped beneath the shade of a large oak, turning to face you fully. The park sounds faded, the sounds of laughter, hoofbeats, and distant music from a nearby bandstand. His crimson eyes held yours with that same heavy, deliberate intensity from the ballroom.

“Control,” he said simply. “And results. I do not waste time on frivolities.”

His free hand rose, brushing a stray curl from your temple with surprising gentleness. The touch lingered, thumb grazing your cheekbone through the thin fabric of his glove. It was not necessary. No one was close enough to require such a performance. Yet he did it anyway.

Your breath caught. “And this arrangement… is it a result you desire?”

Sukuna’s voice dropped lower, intimate. “It is proving more entertaining than I anticipated.” His hand slid down to your waist, pulling you a fraction closer under the pretense of adjusting your shawl against a nonexistent breeze. The heat of his palm burned through the layers of silk and corset. “Tell me, Lady Reader. Does the attention feel as you hoped? The eyes following you? The suitors who now hesitate?”

You swallowed, hyper-aware of every point of contact. “It does. But I did not expect…” You hesitated, then continued honestly, “I did not expect you to perform quite so convincingly.”

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “I warned you. I do not do things by half-measures.”

For a long moment you stood there, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies. His scent wrapped around you. The tattoos on his hand flexed as his fingers tightened ever so slightly at your waist.

Then he released you, stepping back just enough to restore propriety, though the air between you still crackled.

“Come,” he said, offering his arm once more. “Let us give them something else to whisper about. I believe Lady Utahime Iori has organized a small gathering for cards and music this evening at her residence. You will accompany me.”

It was not a request.

As you resumed walking, you caught sight of other faces in the distance. Kento Nanami was nowhere to be seen, but young Nobara Kugisaki pointed excitedly toward a group of debutantes while her guardian, Maki Zenin, looked on with sharp disapproval. Further along, Mahito wandered with his usual unsettling grin, though no one seemed eager to engage him. The ton watched. And for the first time, they were watching you.

But it was Sukuna’s attention that weighed the heaviest. Every lingering touch, every low word meant only for your ears, every deliberate glance. It was all part of the illusion.

Or so you told yourself.

Because when his fingers brushed yours again as he helped you into the carriage later that afternoon, the spark that jumped between you felt anything but pretend.

And in the quiet of the carriage ride home, with Sukuna sitting across from you, watching you with hooded crimson eyes, you began to suspect that the line between performance and reality was already blurring faster than either of you had planned.

The card party at Lady Utahime Iori’s elegant townhouse was a more intimate affair than the grand balls that defined the season. Candlelight glowed softly against cream-colored walls adorned with tasteful landscapes and family portraits. Small tables had been arranged in the drawing room for whist, loo, and commerce, while a pianoforte in the corner provided gentle background music played by one of the younger guests. Refreshments were laid out with precision.

You arrived on the arm of the Duke of Avarice, and the subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere was immediate. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Fans fluttered faster. Eyes followed the pair of you with undisguised curiosity.

Lady Utahime greeted you both with a warm but slightly strained smile, her usual composed demeanor carrying a hint of wariness toward Sukuna. “Your Grace. Lady Ashbourne. How kind of you to join us this evening. Please, make yourselves comfortable. The tables are open for play.”

Sukuna inclined his head, the barest acknowledgment. “Lady Iori.” His voice remained low, controlled, carrying that rough velvet edge that made every word feel intentional.

He guided you through the room with a hand lightly at the small of your back. Proprietary, steady, and far too warm through the silk of your evening gown. The deep rose color you wore tonight complemented the burgundy of his coat in a way that felt almost deliberate, as though the ton needed another reason to speculate.

Shoko Ieiri was already seated at one of the whist tables, partnered with your younger brother Megumi, who looked mildly uncomfortable in his formal attire but determined not to embarrass the family. Shoko caught your eye and offered a subtle nod of encouragement, though her gaze flicked to Sukuna with open assessment.

Across the room, Lord Toji Fushiguro lounged against the mantelpiece, a glass of brandy in hand, his scarred lips curved in that familiar lazy smirk. Lord Choso Kamo stood nearby, quiet and watchful as ever, his long dark hair neatly tied back. Toji raised his glass in a mock toast when he spotted you both.

“Back so soon, Sukuna? And with the same charming shield. Bold move for a man who claims he wants distance,” Toji called, loud enough for nearby guests to hear but not quite scandalous.

Sukuna didn’t break stride. “Fushiguro. Still hunting for easy sport, I see.”

You offered a polite smile to both men. “Lord Fushiguro, Lord Kamo. I hope the evening finds you well.”

Choso nodded once, his dark eyes steady. “It does, Lady Ashbourne. Particularly with such… unexpected company elevating the gathering.”

Toji chuckled low. “Careful, Kamo. The Duke doesn’t share his toys easily.”

Sukuna’s hand pressed a fraction firmer against your back as he led you away, his expression unchanging. Only you felt the tension in his frame, the controlled power that never quite relaxed.

He chose a table for two near the windows, away from the larger groups. “We will play commerce,” he decided, pulling out your chair with effortless courtesy. “Unless you prefer something else?”

“Commerce is fine,” you replied, taking your seat. The game required strategy and subtle bluffing. It was fitting, given the performance you were both maintaining.

As the cards were dealt and play began, the conversation around you hummed with the usual society pleasantries. Nobara Kugisaki, vibrant and outspoken even at her young age, sat at a nearby table with her guardian Maki Zenin. Nobara’s voice carried clearly as she declared her hand with confidence, while Maki watched with sharp, approving eyes, occasionally correcting a misstep with quiet precision.

But your focus remained on the man across from you.

Sukuna played with the same deliberate intensity he brought to everything. His long fingers, marked by those intricate black tattoos that disappeared beneath his cuffs, handled the cards with precision. Each movement was economical, unhurried. When he spoke, it was only to you, his voice pitched low so the words remained private amid the clink of glasses and murmur of other tables.

“You handled Fushiguro well,” he noted, eyes on his cards rather than you. “Most ladies would simper or retreat.”

“I have no interest in simpering,” you said softly, laying down a card. “Nor in retreating. Especially not when the arrangement benefits us both.”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. He won the trick, then leaned forward slightly as he gathered the cards. The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his tattoos along his jaw and the deep crimson of his eyes. “Benefits. Yes. The invitations have already increased. Mothers who once pushed their daughters toward me now hesitate. And you… you are no longer overlooked.”

It was true. Several gentlemen had nodded in your direction with renewed interest when you entered. Whispers followed you like shadows. Yet the heaviest gaze in the room remained Sukuna’s.

As the game progressed, the illusion deepened. His knee brushed yours beneath the table. Accidental at first, then lingering. When he reached across to discard a card, his fingers grazed the back of your gloved hand. The contact sent a spark up your arm that had nothing to do with strategy.

“You are tense,” he observed quietly during a lull, his voice a rumble meant only for you. “Is the performance becoming burdensome?”

You met his eyes. “It is becoming… convincing. Perhaps too much so.”

He held your gaze for a long moment. “Good. Half-measures are useless.”

Later, when the card tables broke for refreshments and light conversation, Sukuna escorted you toward the terrace doors. The night air was cool and carried the faint scent of blooming jasmine from the small garden beyond. Few guests had ventured outside yet; the darkness offered a fragile privacy.

He stopped just beyond the threshold, where the light from the windows still reached but the voices inside blurred into a distant hum. The Duke turned to face you, his broad frame blocking the breeze.

“Tell me,” he said, voice lower now, almost intimate, “what you hoped to gain from this bargain beyond mere visibility.”

You hesitated, then answered honestly. “To be seen as someone worth pursuing. Not just the polite afterthought. Not the girl that mothers consider only when better options are exhausted.”

Sukuna studied you in silence. The tattoos on his face seemed to shift in the shifting light. He lifted a hand and traced the edge of your jaw with the backs of his fingers. Barely a touch, yet it stole your breath. “You were never an afterthought. Not to anyone with eyes.”

The words hung between you. His hand lingered, thumb brushing just beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward his. The distance between your bodies narrowed without conscious decision. Heat rolled off him, sandalwood and smoke and something darker, more primal.

For a heartbeat, the performance slipped. His crimson eyes dropped to your lips. Yours to the hard line of his mouth.

Then a soft cough sounded from the doorway.

Lady Utahime stood there, composed but clearly aware she had interrupted something. “Your Grace, Lady Ashbourne. Refreshments are being served inside. I thought you might wish to rejoin the others before the next round of play.”

Sukuna’s hand dropped away slowly, as though reluctant. “Of course, Lady Iori.”

He offered you his arm once more. As you walked back inside, the weight of his touch remained imprinted on your skin.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of polite conversation and calculated glances. Shoko pulled you aside briefly near the pianoforte, her voice low. “Be careful. Sukuna is not a man who gives anything lightly. And what he does give… it tends to consume.”

You smiled, though your pulse still raced. “I know. It is only an arrangement.”

But as Sukuna’s gaze found yours across the room. Heavy, deliberate, possessive in a way that had nothing to do with the ton watching, you wondered how long you could keep telling yourself that lie.

Later that night, after he had escorted you home in his carriage, the silence between you felt heavier than before. He helped you down, his hands lingering at your waist a second longer than necessary. The street was quiet, lit only by gas lamps and the moon.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice rough in the darkness, “we walk in the gardens at Vauxhall. Let them see us where shadows make rumors easier to birth.”

It was not a question.

You nodded, throat tight. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He stepped back, but his eyes held yours. “Sukuna,” he corrected quietly. “When we are alone… call me Sukuna.”

Then he was gone, the carriage rumbling away into the night.

You stood on the steps of your family home, heart pounding, the cool air doing nothing to calm the heat lingering where he had touched you.

The man beneath the fearsome reputation was not cruel. He was not even truly cold.

He was controlled. Intentional. And every deliberate glance, every lingering touch, every low word spoken only for you… felt like a choice.

A dangerous one.

And you were no longer certain you wanted to step away from it.

Vauxhall Gardens at twilight was a world of illusion and temptation. Lanterns strung between ancient trees glowed like captured stars, casting soft, colorful light across winding paths, hidden grottos, and secluded alcoves. The distant strains of an orchestra floated on the evening air, mingling with laughter and the occasional burst of fireworks that painted the sky in bursts of gold and crimson. It was the perfect stage for a performance. One where shadows could hide truths and proximity could blur every line.

You walked beside Sukuna along one of the less crowded paths, your arm linked with his. The deep emerald silk of your gown whispered against the gravel, the fabric chosen to catch the lantern light and make you impossible to overlook. A light shawl draped over your shoulders did little to ward off the evening chill, but the heat radiating from the Duke beside you more than compensated.

He looked every inch the formidable Duke of Avarice tonight. With a black evening coat tailored to perfection over broad shoulders, the blood-red ruby at his throat winking like a warning. His rose-pink hair caught hints of lantern glow, and the intricate black tattoos tracing his jaw and hands stood out starkly against his pale skin. Heads turned as you passed. Whispers followed like trailing smoke.

Sukuna’s hand rested possessively at the small of your back whenever the path narrowed, guiding you with effortless authority. Each touch lingered longer than the last. No longer purely for show. No longer easily explained away as performance.

“You are quiet again,” he observed, voice low and rough, meant only for your ears. The orchestra swelled in the distance, masking his words from any stray listeners. “Does the spectacle displease you?”

You glanced up at him. In the colored lantern light, his crimson eyes appeared darker, more intense. “It does not displease me. It simply… feels different tonight. The eyes on us are sharper. The rumors more insistent.”

A low hum escaped him. Almost amusement, but edged with something heavier. “Let them speculate. That was the bargain.”

Yet as you continued deeper into the gardens, the bargain felt increasingly fragile. The path led to a secluded alcove framed by climbing roses and thick hedges, where the lantern light dimmed to an intimate glow. Sukuna guided you inside without asking, his body shielding you from the main thoroughfare. The air here smelled of night-blooming flowers and damp earth, heady and private.

He stopped, turning to face you. The space between your bodies shrank until you could feel the warmth of his breath against your forehead. His hand rose slowly, fingers tracing the edge of your shawl before sliding it down your shoulders with deliberate care. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat in his gaze.

“You shiver,” he murmured, though his thumb now stroked slowly along your bare upper arm. “The night is not that cold.”

“It is not the night,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Your heart hammered against your ribs. This close, you could see the faint texture of the tattoos along his jaw, the way his full lips parted slightly as he studied you. The performance had long since stopped feeling like acting. Every glance from him carried weight. Every touch felt claimed.

Sukuna’s other hand settled at your waist, drawing you closer until the skirts of your gown brushed his legs. There was no audience here. No need for pretense. Yet he did not pull away. Instead, his head dipped, lips hovering just above the shell of your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, the words a dark command wrapped in velvet. “And I will.”

Your hands rose of their own accord, resting lightly against the hard plane of his chest. Beneath the fine fabric, you felt the steady, powerful beat of his heart. “I do not want you to stop.”

The admission hung in the air, heavy and irrevocable.

His grip tightened, fingers flexing against your waist as though fighting for restraint. The air crackled with tension that had nothing to do with the distant fireworks or the orchestra. His mouth brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that your breath hitched. Then lower, along the line of your neck, the barest graze of lips and warm breath that sent sparks racing down your spine.

You tilted your head instinctively, granting him more access. A soft sound escaped you.

Sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, crimson eyes burning. His thumb traced your lower lip, the touch possessive, almost reverent. “This was not part of the arrangement,” he said, voice rougher now, strained. “Yet here we are.”

“No,” you whispered, fingers curling into his coat. “It was not.”

For one suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space between you. His body pressed closer, the hard lines of his chest and thighs evident even through layers of clothing. One of his hands slid up your back, pressing you flush against him, while the other cupped the nape of your neck. The almost-touch became something more. His lips hovering, breath mingling, the promise of a real kiss hanging like a blade.

Then footsteps.

Soft voices approached from the main path. A group of guests, laughing and chatting, drawing nearer to the alcove.

Sukuna released you instantly, stepping back with ruthless control. The loss of his heat left you cold and unsteady. He adjusted your shawl with steady hands, restoring propriety in seconds, though his eyes still smoldered with unspoken want.

“Compose yourself,” he murmured, though his own voice carried a faint rasp. “They cannot see.”

You nodded, drawing in a shaky breath as the group passed by without noticing the charged moment they had interrupted. Sukuna offered his arm once more, his expression once again the cool, detached mask of the Duke. But his fingers brushed yours as you took his arm. A deliberate, lingering contact that promised the tension had only been paused, not extinguished.

As you resumed walking, the distant fireworks exploded overhead in brilliant cascades. The ton continued its spectacle, unaware of how close the line between illusion and desire had come to vanishing entirely.

Yet you felt it in every step.

The way Sukuna’s gaze kept returning to you. No evidence of jealousy when other gentlemen nodded in passing with renewed interest. Something sharper. Something that made your skin prickle with awareness.

He watched you as though you already belonged to him.

And you, no longer certain where the performance ended and the truth began, did not step away.

Later, when he escorted you back to the carriage, the silence inside was thick, electric. Sukuna sat across from you, long legs stretched out, his crimson eyes never leaving your face in the dim light. His hand rested on the seat beside him, fingers drumming once before stilling.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally, voice low in the enclosed space, “there is a private musicale at the home of Lady Mei Mei. We will attend together. And afterward…”

He let the sentence trail, but the promise in his eyes was unmistakable.

You swallowed, pulse racing. “Afterward?”

Sukuna leaned forward slightly, the carriage lantern casting shadows across his tattooed features. “Afterward, we will find a moment alone. And this time, there will be no interruptions.”

The words sent a shiver through you. One of anticipation, not fear.

As the carriage rolled through the gaslit streets of London, the illusion of courtship had fully transformed. What had begun as mutual convenience now pulsed with raw, unspoken need. Touches that once served as performance now served as prelude.

And in the quiet dark, with Sukuna’s intense gaze fixed upon you, you realized the dangerous truth:

You no longer wanted the illusion.

You wanted him.

The musicale at Lady Mei Mei’s residence was meant to be an elegant, refined evening. With strings and voices rising in perfect harmony, champagne flowing in crystal flutes, and the cream of London society gathered to admire talent and display their own refinement. The drawing room had been transformed into a miniature concert hall, with rows of gilded chairs arranged before a small stage where a talented soprano performed a haunting aria from the latest Italian opera.

You sat beside Sukuna in the second row, your gloved hand resting lightly on his arm as propriety demanded. The deep sapphire blue of your gown shimmered under the candlelight, the neckline modest yet elegantly framing your collarbones. Sukuna, as always, commanded attention in black and burgundy, the blood-red ruby at his throat catching every flicker of light. His presence beside you felt heavier tonight, more intentional. The almost-kiss in Vauxhall Gardens still lingered between you like smoke. It was unspoken, unresolved, and now… impossible to ignore.

Throughout the performance, his thumb traced slow, absent circles on the back of your gloved hand. Each pass sent warmth blooming up your arm. No one could see the movement beneath the shadow of your skirts and his coat, yet the intimacy of it made your cheeks flush. When the soprano reached a particularly emotional crescendo, Sukuna leaned slightly closer, his breath brushing your ear.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, though his crimson eyes were fixed on you, not the singer. “But not nearly as captivating as the woman beside me.”

Your breath caught. The words were quiet, private, and far too bold for the setting. You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. The tattoos along his jaw seemed to sharpen in the low light, and for a moment the entire room faded.

The performance ended to enthusiastic applause. Guests rose, mingling as footmen circulated with trays of refreshments. Lady Mei Mei glided through the crowd in a gown of silver silk, her sharp smile never quite reaching her calculating eyes as she accepted compliments. Shoko Ieiri found you near the refreshment table, Megumi trailing behind her with his usual quiet vigilance.

“You two are becoming quite the spectacle,” Shoko said under her breath, sipping her champagne. “Even Mei Mei has been watching. Be careful. The walls here have ears, and tongues sharper than knives.”

Before you could respond, Sukuna’s hand settled at your elbow. “Come,” he said simply, voice low. “There is a quieter room where we may speak without half of London listening.”

It was reckless. You knew it the moment you allowed him to guide you away from the main drawing room, down a dimly lit corridor lined with portraits and closed doors. The distant music and conversation grew muffled as he opened a door to what appeared to be a small private library. Shelves lined with leather-bound volumes, a single window draped in heavy velvet, and a low fire burning in the grate for warmth.

The door clicked shut behind you.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The air thickened instantly, charged with everything that had been building since Vauxhall. Sukuna turned to you, his broad frame filling the space, crimson eyes dark with intent.

“No interruptions this time,” he said, the words a rough promise.

He closed the distance in two strides. One large hand cupped the back of your neck while the other pulled you flush against him by the waist. This time there was no hesitation. His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. Deep, demanding, and laced with the hunger he had kept tightly leashed until now. You gasped against his lips, hands fisting in the front of his coat as heat flooded your body.

Sukuna kissed like he did everything else: with complete control and devastating intensity. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, then delving inside with possessive strokes that left you dizzy. The taste of him where wine and something darker lingered, uniquely him had intoxicated you. His hand slid lower, gripping your hip and pressing you back against the edge of a heavy oak desk. Papers scattered unnoticed.

You arched into him, a soft moan escaping as his mouth trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not enough to mark but enough to make your knees weaken. The tattoos on his hands flexed as his fingers dug into your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

“Lady Ashbourne,” he growled against your skin, voice hoarse. “You have been driving me to distraction.”

Your fingers threaded through his rose-pink hair, tugging lightly. “Then stop restraining yourself, Sukuna.”

The use of his given name seemed to snap something in him. He lifted you effortlessly onto the desk, stepping between your parted knees as your skirts pooled around your thighs. His mouth returned to yours, hungrier now, while one hand boldly slid up your stockinged leg beneath the silk. The touch burned. Deliberate, exploratory, stopping just short of true impropriety but promising everything. Heat pooled low in your belly, your body responding with shameless need.

The kiss deepened, turning feverish. His hips pressed forward, letting you feel the hard evidence of his desire against your core through layers of fabric. A broken sound left your throat. Sukuna swallowed it, his free hand cupping your breast through your bodice, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak until you trembled.

Time lost meaning. The distant music from the musicale faded entirely. There was only the heat of his body, the roughness of his voice murmuring your name like a curse and a prayer, the way his touch mapped your curves as though committing every inch to memory.

Then, the unmistakable creak of a floorboard just outside the door.

Voices.

A servant’s hushed whisper followed by a gasp.

Sukuna pulled back instantly, eyes blazing. He helped you down from the desk with surprising care, smoothing your skirts and adjusting your shawl while you frantically fixed your hair. Your lips felt swollen, your skin flushed. One look at him with hair slightly mussed, mouth reddened already told you the damage was done.

He opened the door with calm authority, but it was too late.

A young maid stood frozen in the corridor, eyes wide, a tray of empty glasses in her hands. Behind her, Lady Mei Mei herself had just rounded the corner, her sharp gaze taking in the scene with cold calculation.

The silence stretched, heavy and damning.

By the next morning, the scandal had exploded across London.

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers carried the headline in bold, merciless print:

“The Duke of Avarice and Lady Ashbourne: A Compromised Rose in the Library?”

The column detailed enough to ruin reputations: a closed door for far too long, disheveled appearances upon emerging, the maid’s testimony whispered to anyone who would listen. Your name, once rising in quiet interest, was now synonymous with ruin. Mothers who had begun to consider you a possible match for their sons now steered them firmly away. Invitations dried up overnight. Even some of your family’s closer acquaintances sent regretful notes.

Your mother wept quietly in the drawing room. Megumi watched you with solemn eyes, saying little but staying close. Shoko arrived early, her face pale but determined. “This is bad, but not insurmountable. If Sukuna does the honorable thing…”

But Sukuna had gone quiet.

He had sent a single, brief note the morning after:

We must speak. This afternoon. My carriage will call for you. Nothing more.

No reassurance. No declaration.

When his carriage arrived, you stepped inside to find him already seated, expression unreadable. The ride to his imposing townhouse was silent, the air thick with tension. Once inside the grand, coldly elegant drawing room. With dark woods, heavy drapes, and a massive fireplace that did little to warm the space, he finally spoke.

His voice was controlled, but beneath it lay something conflicted, almost strained.

“The rumor will not die on its own,” he said, standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back. “Your reputation is in tatters. Mine… survives, as these things always do for men of my station. But yours will not.”

You lifted your chin, though your heart ached. “Then what do you propose, Your Grace?”

He turned to face you fully. The Duke of Avarice looked every bit the powerful, untouchable man society feared. Yet for the first time, conflict flickered in those crimson eyes. Not distance. Something worse.

He crossed the room and stopped before you. One hand rose, fingers brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness.

“Marriage,” he said bluntly. “It is the only way to salvage what remains.”

The word hung between you, inevitable and heavy. But his next words were not romantic. They were brutally honest.

“I will not promise you love, Lady Ashbourne. I will not promise heirs or the soft domestic life society expects. I will not become a tame husband who bends to expectation. If you accept this, it will be a union on my terms. Cold where it must be, honest where it can. You will be Duchess of Avarice, protected and provided for. But you will not have my heart laid bare, nor the fairy tale they sell to debutantes.”

His thumb traced your lower lip, eyes darkening with memory of the library. “It is not a romantic offer. It is a warning.”

Yet even as he spoke the harsh truth, his touch lingered. His body leaned closer, as though some part of him fought against the very distance he was imposing.

You searched his face. The sharp tattoos, the controlled set of his jaw, the storm in his crimson eyes. The man who had kissed you with such raw hunger in that library was the same man now offering marriage without softness.

And still… you could not walk away.

Because beneath the warning, beneath the conflict, you had already seen glimpses of the man beneath the reputation. And you wanted more than half of him.

Even if accepting meant stepping fully into the fire.

The heavy silence in the Duke of Avarice’s drawing room pressed down like London fog. The fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting long shadows across the dark wood paneling and the towering bookshelves lined with ancient tomes no one seemed to touch. You stood near the center of the room, hands clasped tightly in front of you, while Sukuna remained by the tall window, his broad back to the gray afternoon light filtering through heavy velvet drapes.

He had spoken the word, marriage, with the same blunt finality he used for everything else. Now he waited, crimson eyes fixed on you with that unnerving intensity, the black tattoos along his jaw stark against his skin.

You drew in a slow breath, forcing your voice to remain steady. “You speak as though this is a business merger rather than a lifelong union, Your Grace.”

Sukuna turned fully toward you, the ruby at his throat catching the firelight like fresh blood. “Because it is closer to the former than the latter. I will not lie to you, Lady Ashbourne. Not now. Not ever.” He crossed the room in measured steps, stopping only when he stood close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his powerful frame. “I will give you my name. My protection. My wealth. The title of Duchess will shield you from the whispers that have already begun to tear your reputation to shreds. You will want for nothing material.”

His hand rose, fingers brushing a loose curl from your temple with surprising gentleness. The same hand that had gripped your waist so possessively in the library the night before. The memory sent heat flooding through you despite the gravity of the moment.

“But I will not promise love,” he continued, voice low and rough. “I will not promise tender words whispered in the dark or the kind of devotion the poets sell. I will not fill my nursery with heirs simply because society demands it. Legacy, expectation, the endless cycle of producing the next Duke of Avarice… those chains end with me if I choose. And I have chosen control over my life above all else.”

You searched his face, heart pounding. The man before you was not cruel. He was brutally, unflinchingly honest. In the library he had kissed you like a man starved, his body hard and urgent against yours, yet here he stood offering marriage as a warning rather than a declaration.

“If I accept,” you said quietly, “what exactly will our life look like?”

Sukuna’s crimson eyes darkened. He stepped even closer, one large hand settling at your waist as though unable to resist the pull any longer. “It will be honest. Intimate in ways society will never understand. You will share my bed when desire demands it. And it will demand it, make no mistake.” His thumb stroked slowly over your hip through the silk of your gown, a deliberate echo of the heated touches from the night before. “You will have freedom within reason. I will not cage you, nor will I parade you as some trophy. But you will not have softness. You will not have a husband who bends. I am not built for it.”

His other hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up so you could not look away. The air between you thickened, heavy with the memory of scattered papers, desperate kisses, and the hard press of his body between your thighs.

“I will ruin you properly this time,” he murmured, voice dropping to that dangerous rasp. “Not in a hasty library, but slowly. Thoroughly. Until you forget every rule they taught you about what a duchess should be. But do not mistake passion for love, Lady Ashbourne. Passion burns hot and leaves ash. Love… love demands change. Softness. Vulnerability I have spent years carving out of myself.”

You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath fine linen and muscle. “And if I want more than ash?”

Sukuna’s grip tightened, pulling you flush against him. His head dipped, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “Then you will have to fight for it. Because I will not hand it over easily. Accept this marriage and you accept a man who refuses to be tamed. Refuses to become what they expect. The cold estate in the country. The endless social obligations. The pretty lies.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his mouth hovering dangerously close to yours. “It is not a romantic offer. It is a warning. Walk away now and I will find another way to silence the scandal. Perhaps a generous settlement, a quiet exile to the continent for a time. But if you stay… you stay with me. All of me. The parts that desire you. The parts that will possess you. And the parts I keep locked away.”

The choice hung between you, sharp and undeniable.

Your mother’s tear-streaked face flashed in your mind. The cruel headlines in Whistledown. The way doors had already begun closing. But beneath all of that was the truth that had been growing since the first waltz: you did not want half of Ryomen Sukuna. You wanted the controlled fire, the deliberate touches, the man who looked at you like you were both salvation and ruin.

You rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his. Soft at first, then deepening when his arms banded around you like iron. Sukuna groaned low in his throat, kissing you back with the same hungry intensity from the library. His hands roamed possessively, one sliding up to tangle in your hair, the other gripping your backside and lifting you slightly so your bodies aligned perfectly. Heat surged between you, urgent and undeniable. You felt him harden against your belly, a reminder that whatever else he withheld, his desire for you was raw and real.

When he finally pulled back, both of you breathing raggedly, his forehead rested against yours.

“Say it,” he commanded, voice hoarse.

You met his crimson gaze without flinching. “I accept, Sukuna. I will marry you. On your terms… for now.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Relief, perhaps, or the first crack in his iron control. He kissed you once more, slower this time, sealing the bargain with a touch that promised both pleasure and peril.

The wedding was arranged with ruthless efficiency. A special license was procured within days. The ceremony itself was small and private, held in the ornate chapel of his London townhouse. Shoko stood as your witness, her expression a careful mix of concern and quiet support. Megumi watched solemnly from the front pew beside your mother, who dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

Sukuna looked devastating in formal black, the tattoos on his hands and jaw stark against the crisp white of his shirt. When the vows were spoken, his voice was steady and deep, binding you to him with the same deliberate intensity he brought to every action.

“You are mine now, Duchess,” he murmured against your ear as the simple gold band etched with a subtle pattern that matched the lines of his tattoos slid onto your finger. His hand squeezed yours possessively. “In name. In body. In every way that matters.”

By early evening you were installed in his imposing townhouse, now your home. The rooms were grand but cold with high ceilings, dark woods, and heavy drapes that blocked out much of the light.

That night, after the last well-wisher had departed and the house settled into quiet, Sukuna came to you in the ducal chambers.

You stood by the large four-poster bed in a delicate white nightgown edged with lace, heart racing as he entered wearing only a black silk robe that hung open at the chest, revealing the hard planes of muscle and the edges of more tattoos that disappeared beneath the fabric. The fire in the hearth painted his skin in warm gold and deep shadow.

He crossed the room slowly, crimson eyes devouring every inch of you. “No more performances,” he said, voice rough with promise. “No more almosts.”

Sukuna reached you, large hands sliding over your shoulders to push the nightgown down your arms. It whispered to the floor, leaving you completely bare to his gaze. His breath hitched before he lifted you onto the bed with effortless strength, laying you back against the cool sheets.

He shed his robe fully, revealing the powerful, tattooed body beneath: broad shoulders, defined chest and abdomen marked with intricate black patterns that continued down his hips and thighs, and the thick, heavy length of his cock already hard and curving upward. The sight made your mouth go dry and heat pool low in your belly.

Sukuna climbed over you, caging you with his arms. His mouth claimed yours in a deep, devouring kiss, tongue stroking against yours with possessive hunger. He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point before moving lower. His lips closed around one nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak. You arched with a gasp, fingers threading into his rose-pink hair. His free hand kneaded your other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple until both peaks were tight and aching.

Lower still, he kissed a path down your stomach, hands spreading your thighs wide. He settled between them, broad shoulders holding you open. Crimson eyes flicked up to meet yours for a heartbeat before his mouth descended.

His tongue dragged slowly through your folds, tasting you with deliberate thoroughness. A low groan vibrated against your core when he found your clit, circling it with firm strokes before sucking it between his lips. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling expertly against that sensitive spot while his mouth worked you relentlessly. Pleasure built fast and sharp. Your hips bucked, but he pinned you down with one strong arm across your pelvis, forcing you to take every sensation.

“Sukuna—” you moaned, thighs trembling.

He didn’t stop. He devoured you like a man starved, fingers thrusting deep and steady, tongue flicking faster until the coil inside you snapped. You came hard, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your walls clenching around his fingers.

Only when the aftershocks faded did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He positioned himself between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance, slick with your release.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.

He pushed in slowly at first, stretching you inch by thick inch. The burn was exquisite. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you completely, bottoming out with a deep groan. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were powerful and controlled, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingled with your moans and his low, guttural grunts. He hooked one of your legs over his hip, changing the angle so he hit that perfect spot with every thrust. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.

“Mine,” he growled against your lips, hips snapping harder. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, legs wrapping tighter around him. “Sukuna— yours— ah—”

He drove into you faster, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you. Sweat slicked your skin. His mouth claimed yours again in a messy, desperate kiss as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. You came a second time, walls fluttering around his cock, pulling a broken groan from his throat.

Sukuna followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with one final, powerful thrust. He spilled deep inside you, hot and thick, his body shuddering against yours as he growled your name like a curse.

For several long moments, the only sounds were your ragged breathing. Sukuna did not pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you, holding you close with one arm banded possessively around your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your damp skin.

But even in the afterglow, the distance lingered. He offered no soft words of love. No whispered endearments. His touch remained attentive, his body warm and solid. But his heart stayed guarded, locked behind walls he had built long ago.

You lay there in the circle of his arms, sated and aching in the best way, skin still tingling from his possession, and realized the truth.

Marriage had not softened the edges between you.

It had sharpened them.

The real battle had only just begun.

The first weeks of marriage settled over the ducal townhouse like a heavy velvet cloak.

You were now Her Grace, the Duchess of Avarice. The title carried weight, and the ton felt it. Whispers still lingered in drawing rooms and behind fans, but they had shifted from scandal to speculation. Some called it a brilliant match. Others predicted it would end in quiet misery. Lady Whistledown had written a single, arch column on the wedding: “The Rose and the Beast have wed in haste. One wonders whether the thorns will draw blood before the season is out.”

You learned quickly that being Sukuna’s wife meant living in two worlds at once.

By day, the house ran with ruthless efficiency. Servants moved like shadows, anticipating needs before they were spoken. Your new wardrobe arrived in trunks of silk, velvet, and jewels that could rival any duchess in London. Invitations trickled back in that were cautious at first, then grew bolder as hostesses realized the Duke’s wife could not be entirely shunned without risking his displeasure.

By night, however, the distance between you and your husband sharpened into something almost tangible.

Sukuna was never cruel. He was simply… contained.

He joined you for dinner most evenings, seated at the opposite end of the long mahogany table. Conversation flowed easily enough. Politics, the latest gossip Shoko brought during her visits, observations about the ton. He listened when you spoke, offered dry, cutting remarks that made you laugh despite yourself, and watched you with those crimson eyes that never seemed to soften.

But he rarely volunteered pieces of himself.

After dinner, he would retire to his study or the library, leaving you to your own devices unless desire pulled him to your shared chambers. And when it did, the passion was as intense and consuming as your wedding night.

He took you with the same deliberate control he applied to everything else. Hands pinning your wrists, mouth mapping every inch of skin, hips driving deep and steady until you shattered beneath him, crying out his name. Sometimes he was slower, almost teasing, drawing out your pleasure until you begged. Other times he was rougher, fucking you against the wall or bent over the desk in his study, growling low praises that made your toes curl.

Yet afterward, he would hold you. His arm heavy across your waist, breath warm against your neck. But the words never came. No soft confessions. No promises whispered in the dark. Just the steady beat of his heart and the quiet reminder that he had warned you exactly what this marriage would be.

One evening, after a particularly intense encounter where he had brought you to release twice before finding his own, you lay curled against his chest, fingers tracing the black tattoos that curved over his shoulder and down his arm.

“Sukuna,” you murmured into the quiet, “do you ever wonder what it would be like if we stopped fighting the current?”

His fingers paused where they had been stroking lazy circles on your bare hip. “Fighting what current?”

You lifted your head to look at him. Firelight danced across his sharp features, highlighting the tattoos along his jaw. “This. Us. The walls you keep so carefully in place. The way you touch me like I belong to you, yet refuse to let me see beyond the surface.”

For a long moment he was silent. Then he rolled you beneath him in one smooth motion, caging you with his arms. His body was still warm and heavy from exertion, his cock half-hard against your thigh.

“I touch you like you belong to me because you do,” he said, voice low and rough. He leaned down, brushing his lips along your collarbone. “I claimed you in front of God and half of London. That is not enough?”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the inked lines on his cheeks. “It is more than I expected. But it is not everything I want.”

His crimson eyes darkened. He kissed you then. His lips were deep, possessive, and almost punishing in its intensity. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you still slick from earlier. He stroked you slowly, deliberately, until you were gasping and arching into his touch.

“You want softness,” he murmured against your mouth, slipping two fingers inside you and curling them just right. “You want me to bare my soul and promise you the fairy tale. I warned you I cannot give that.”

You moaned as his thumb circled your clit, pleasure building again despite the ache in your muscles. “I want you, Sukuna. Not the version you show the ton. Not the controlled Duke who keeps everyone at arm’s length. The man who kissed me in the library like he was drowning. The man who looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.”

He thrust his fingers deeper, faster, watching your face with hooded eyes as you trembled beneath him. “And if that man is not gentle? If he is selfish and possessive and refuses to change?”

“Then I will take him anyway,” you gasped, hips rocking against his hand. “All of him. Even the parts he hides.”

Sukuna’s control frayed. He withdrew his fingers, replaced them with the thick length of his cock, and drove into you in one powerful stroke. You cried out, nails digging into his back as he set a relentless pace. Deep, hard thrusts that shook the bed. His mouth claimed yours, swallowing every moan while his hips snapped forward.

He fucked you like a man trying to prove a point and lose himself at the same time. One hand pinned your wrist above your head. The other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper. Pleasure coiled tight and sharp inside you.

“Come for me,” he growled against your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart while I’m buried inside you.”

You shattered with a broken cry, walls clenching around him. Sukuna followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot and deep onto your stomach with a low, guttural groan.

Afterward, he collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest once more. His breathing was still ragged, but his voice, when it came, was quieter than usual.

“You ask for more than I know how to give,” he said into the darkness. “But I am not blind, Duchess. I see what this is doing to you. The way you watch me when you think I am not looking.”

You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, over one of the larger tattoos. “Then stop hiding.”

He did not answer. But his arm tightened around you, and for the first time, the silence that followed felt less like distance and more like hesitation.

The days continued in that strange rhythm with public poise and private fire. You attended a handful of events together, Sukuna’s hand always at your waist, his presence a shield and a statement. Toji Fushiguro offered crude congratulations with a smirk. Choso Kamo observed the pair of you with quiet curiosity. Shoko visited often, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

“You look well,” she told you one afternoon over tea, “but tired. Is he… kind to you?”

You smiled, thinking of the way Sukuna had woken you that morning with his mouth between your thighs until you sobbed his name. “He is many things. Kind is not the word I would use. But he is honest. And he wants me.”

Shoko raised a brow. “Wanting is not the same as loving.”

“No,” you agreed softly. “But it is a beginning.”

Yet as the weeks passed, the cracks in Sukuna’s armor became more visible if only to you.

He began lingering in bed longer after lovemaking, fingers tracing patterns on your skin as though memorizing you. He sought you out during the day more often, pulling you into his study for “conversation” that inevitably ended with you bent over his desk or straddling his lap. Once, after a particularly tiresome dinner with several lords, he dragged you into an empty corridor and took you against the wall with frantic urgency, muffling your cries with his hand over your mouth.

The passion never dimmed.

But the distance… the distance was slowly, stubbornly beginning to fray.

One rainy evening, you found him in the library, staring into the fire with a glass of brandy in hand. You approached quietly and slid onto his lap without asking. He stiffened for a moment, then his arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer.

“You are persistent,” he muttered, but there was no real irritation in his voice.

You rested your head against his shoulder. “You warned me you would not change easily. I am simply refusing to accept half of you.”

Sukuna was silent for a long time. His free hand stroked down your back, then slipped beneath your dressing gown to rest warm and possessive on your bare thigh.

“Careful, Duchess,” he said at last, voice low. “If you keep pushing, one day I may stop pushing back.”

You smiled against his neck. “That is exactly what I am hoping for.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, the fire burned lower, and for the first time since the wedding, the silence between you felt less like a wall and more like the quiet before something inevitable gave way.

Marriage had not resolved anything.

But it had brought you closer to the fire.

And you were no longer afraid of getting burned.

The weeks following your wedding blurred into months, each one layering new complexities onto the already intricate dance of your marriage. The ducal townhouse, once imposing and cold with its high ceilings and heavy velvet drapes, slowly began to feel like a living space rather than a fortress. Servants moved with their usual quiet efficiency, but now they offered you small, respectful smiles when they passed. The gardens you had begun tending showed the first hints of autumn color. The crimson and gold leaves mirroring the tattoos that marked your husband’s skin.

You had learned the rhythm of being the Duchess of Avarice intimately: public poise during the occasional society event, where Sukuna’s hand rested possessively at the small of your back and his presence alone silenced whispers; private fire that consumed you both behind closed doors. He still offered no flowery declarations of love. He still guarded the deepest parts of himself with the same iron control that had defined him since long before you entered his life. But the walls were cracking.

He no longer left your bed the moment pleasure faded. Instead, he lingered, his large, tattooed body curled around yours, one arm banded heavily across your waist as though afraid you might slip away in the night. He began seeking you out during the day more often. By pulling you into his study under the pretense of discussing estate ledgers, only to end up with you bent over the desk or straddling his lap while he took you with deep, deliberate strokes. Once, after a tedious dinner with several lords, he had dragged you into a dimly lit corridor and fucked you against the wall with frantic urgency, his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries as he spilled deep inside you.

The passion between you never dimmed. If anything, it burned hotter, more insistent.

Yet the emotional distance remained a sharp edge, one that pricked at you even in the afterglow.

One stormy autumn evening, the rain lashed violently against the tall windows of the master chambers. Thunder rolled in the distance like distant cannon fire. The fire in the massive hearth roared high, casting flickering gold and shadow across the room and the large four-poster bed. You stood before the ornate mirror in nothing but a thin silk robe the color of deep wine, slowly brushing out your hair after your evening bath. The strokes were methodical, almost meditative, but your mind wandered to the man who now shared your life, and your body, so completely, yet still withheld so much.

The door opened behind you. Sukuna stepped inside, rain-damp rose-pink hair clinging to his forehead. He had already discarded his coat and waistcoat somewhere downstairs; his white shirt hung open at the collar, revealing the intricate black tattoos that swirled across his broad chest and disappeared beneath the fabric. Water droplets traced paths down the hard planes of muscle. His crimson eyes found yours in the mirror and darkened with immediate, unmistakable hunger.

He said nothing at first. He simply crossed the room with that predatory grace that always made your pulse quicken. Large hands settled on your shoulders from behind, sliding the silk robe down your arms with deliberate slowness. It whispered to the floor, leaving you completely bare to his gaze. His palms skimmed down your sides, warm and possessive, before wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling your back flush against his chest.

“You have been quiet today, Duchess,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was already rough with want, the low timbre sending a shiver racing down your spine. “Thinking too much again?”

You leaned back into him, feeling the solid heat of his body and the growing press of his hardening cock against the curve of your backside through his trousers. “I was thinking about what you said the night we married,” you replied softly, your breath catching as one of his hands drifted upward to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the already tightening nipple. “That you would not promise heirs. That you would not be bound by legacy or expectation.”

His hand stilled for the briefest fraction of a second. Then the other slid lower, bold and unhesitating, cupping your mound before two thick fingers parted your folds. He found you already slick with anticipation and began slow, teasing circles over your swollen clit.

“And?” he asked, voice dropping even lower, dangerous. His fingers moved with practiced precision, coaxing pleasure from you with every stroke.

You gasped softly, hips rocking instinctively into his touch. “And I realized I do not need your promise,” you managed, voice trembling. “I only need you. All of you. Including the parts you fear giving. The legacy. The vulnerability. The possibility of something more permanent than passion.”

Sukuna growled low in his throat. A sound that vibrated through his chest and into your back. He spun you around in his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the floor as though you weighed nothing. In three strides he had you on the bed, laying you down on your back against the cool sheets. He stripped off his remaining clothes with impatient, economical movements, revealing the powerful, tattooed body beneath: broad shoulders, defined abdomen marked with swirling black ink, powerful thighs, and his thick, heavy cock standing proud and hard against his stomach, the tip already glistening with arousal.

He climbed over you, caging you completely with his arms. Instead of entering you immediately, he kissed his way down your body with deliberate, devouring hunger. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak. His free hand kneaded your other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple until both were tight and aching, sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core.

Lower still, he moved with predatory focus. He pushed your thighs wide apart, settling his broad shoulders between them. Crimson eyes flicked up to meet yours for a heartbeat. Dark, hungry, and carrying a rare flicker of something deeper, before his mouth descended.

His tongue dragged slowly through your folds, tasting you thoroughly. A low, appreciative groan vibrated against your core when he reached your clit, circling it with firm, relentless strokes before sucking it between his lips. Two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling expertly against that sensitive spot deep within while his mouth worked you mercilessly. Pleasure built fast and sharp, coiling tight in your belly. Your hips bucked, but he pinned you down with one strong forearm across your pelvis, forcing you to take every sensation he gave.

“Sukuna—!” you moaned, fingers threading desperately into his damp rose-pink hair, tugging as the pleasure mounted.

He didn’t relent. He devoured you like a man starved for your taste, fingers thrusting deep and steady, tongue flicking faster and harder until the coil inside you snapped violently. You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling around his head as waves of intense pleasure crashed through you. Sukuna continued licking you through every aftershock, gentling his tongue only when you became oversensitive and whimpering.

When he finally rose, his chin glistened with your release. His crimson eyes burned with raw, unguarded need. He positioned the thick head of his cock at your entrance, rubbing it slowly through your slick folds, teasing your still-fluttering entrance.

“You want everything?” he rasped, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Even the parts that could bind me to you forever? Even a child that would make this marriage irrevocable in every possible way?”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs stroking tenderly over the sharp black tattoos along his jaw. “Yes,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “Even those. Especially those. I want all of you, Sukuna. No more walls. No more half-measures.”

With a guttural, almost pained sound, Sukuna pushed inside you in one slow, powerful thrust. You both groaned loudly as he bottomed out, stretching you perfectly, filling you to the brink. He held still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged as he savored the tight heat of your body around him.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were deep, deliberate, and devastatingly controlled at first. Each stroke dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you, pulling moans and gasps from your throat. He hooked one of your legs over his hip, changing the angle so he could sink even deeper, the head of his cock brushing that perfect spot with every thrust. The wet, obscene sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with your increasing moans and his low, possessive growls.

“Take me,” he commanded hoarsely, hips snapping harder, faster. Sweat slicked both your bodies. “Take every drop. Let me give you what you asked for.”

One hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it in tight, relentless strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. Pleasure built again, sharper and more intense than before, coiling low and tight in your belly. Sukuna’s pace began to falter. His legendary control fraying at the edges as he fucked you with raw urgency, hips pistoning powerfully.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice breaking slightly.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his crimson gaze through the haze of overwhelming pleasure. “Sukuna… please— I’m so close—”

He slammed into you harder, thumb pressing firmer against your clit. “Come for me, Duchess. Let me feel you milk my cock while I fill you. While I give you my child.”

The words, combined with the relentless stimulation, sent you hurtling over the edge. You shattered with a loud, broken cry, walls clenching rhythmically and fiercely around his thick length. Sukuna followed you over the brink almost instantly, burying himself to the hilt with one final, powerful thrust. His body shuddered violently as he came, hot, thick pulses of his release flooding deep inside you again and again, filling you so completely that you could feel the warmth spreading.

He stayed buried inside you long after the last spasm, breathing hard against the curve of your neck, arms wrapped tightly around you as though anchoring himself. The rain continued to lash the windows outside, but inside the chamber there was only the sound of your mingled breathing and the crackle of the fire.

For several long, quiet minutes, neither of you moved. Sukuna finally lifted his head, his crimson eyes searching yours with a vulnerability he had rarely allowed himself to show.

“I did not want this,” he admitted quietly, voice still rough from exertion. “The vulnerability. The possibility of legacy. The fear that loving you would force me to become someone softer, someone weaker than the man I swore I would always be.”

He brushed damp strands of hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone.

“But you refused to accept only half of me. You pushed. You demanded. And somewhere in these months of fire and silence, I stopped wanting to deny you the rest.”

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of the admission coming from a man who had built his entire reputation on control and isolation.

Sukuna leaned down and pressed a slow, deep kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. “I will not change overnight, Duchess. I am still the Duke of Avarice. Still selfish in many ways. Still difficult and possessive. But I choose you. Not because scandal forced my hand years ago. Not because duty or society demands it. But because, for the first time in my life, I want to stay. With you. All of me, whatever that eventually becomes.”

You pulled him down into another kiss, tasting salt and truth on his lips. In the quiet afterglow, with his release still warm and deep inside you and his powerful body curled protectively around yours, something fundamental had shifted.

It was not a fairytale ending.

Sukuna would never transform into a gentle, doting husband who wrote sonnets or danced at every ball with effortless charm. He would remain sharp-tongued, fiercely independent, and unapologetically dominant. You would continue to challenge him, to push against his walls, and to demand the parts he still tried to keep hidden.

But in the quiet, stolen moments. When no eyes from the ton watched and no roles remained to play, he chose to stay.

He chose you.

And several months later, when your courses failed to arrive and a discreet visit from the physician confirmed the unmistakable signs of early pregnancy, Sukuna’s reaction was not fear or cold calculation.

He found you in the private garden one crisp morning, kneeling among the late-blooming roses. Without a word, he dropped to one knee beside you, his large, tattooed hand coming to rest gently and almost reverently over your still-flat stomach.

“A child,” he murmured, voice low and thick with an emotion he no longer tried to fully conceal. His crimson eyes held a new softness when they met yours. “Our child.”

He pulled you into his arms right there among the flowers, kissing you deeply, possessively, and with a tenderness he was only beginning to learn how to give. His hand never left your stomach, as though already protecting what you had both created in the fire of that stormy night.

It was not perfect.

It was not easy.

But it was real. Raw, complicated, and undeniably theirs.

And in the end, for the Duke of Avarice and his sharp-tongued Duchess, that was more than enough.

You lived in a small apartment in a quiet corner of Setagaya, Tokyo. The kind of place where the streets grew soft at night and streetlights looked like distant stars.

Your condition had always been there. Skin-to-skin contact brought sharp pain, swelling, and sometimes worse. Doctors never found a real cure. So you learned to live inside an invisible wall. Gloves on your hands. Long sleeves. Careful steps. No hugs. No handshakes. No casual brushes against the world.

Most days you stayed inside during the busy hours. But every evening, you walked to Hoshi no Hon, a tiny old bookstore tucked in a narrow alley. The shop smelled of paper, ink, and faint lavender from the dried flowers hanging near the window. It only opened in the late afternoon until midnight. Perfect for someone who preferred the gentler light of streetlamps and moon glow.

You worked the evening shift alone most nights. The owner, an old woman who asked no questions, let you wear your thin black gloves while you arranged books and helped the few customers who wandered in. You sold fairy tales, poetry, old maps of forgotten places, and stories about people who touched the stars.

That was your world. Despite not being able to touch it, it was still beautiful and safe.

One rainy evening in early autumn, the bell above the door chimed softly. You looked up from stacking a pile of illustrated books and saw him.

Tall. Bright white hair. Black blindfold. A long dark coat still dotted with raindrops. He looked like he had stepped out of one of the fantasy books on the shelf.

“Evening,” he said with an easy smile. “Heard this place has the best collection of old star legends. Mind if I look around?”

His voice was light and warm, like nothing could ever bother him. You nodded and gestured to the back corner with a gloved hand.

“Go ahead. The astronomy and folklore section is over there.”

He moved slowly through the narrow aisles, but he kept space between you. Not too close. Not too far. Most people didn’t notice how carefully you positioned yourself. He did. Or at least, he acted like he did.

You watched him from behind the counter as he pulled books out, flipped through pages, and sometimes hummed softly to himself. He stayed for almost an hour. When he finally brought three books to the counter, he didn’t reach out to hand them over. He placed them gently on the wooden surface and stepped back.

“These look good,” he said. “Especially the one about the midnight sun. Kinda poetic, right? A sun that never sets… but only for a little while.”

You rang him up quietly, heart beating a little faster than usual. His presence felt different. Not scary. Just… new.

Before leaving, he paused at the door. “Nice shop. Peaceful. I might come back.”

You gave a small nod. “You’re welcome anytime.”

He smiled again, bright even under the blindfold, and stepped out into the rainy night.

You stood behind the counter for a long time after he left, staring at the spot where he had stood. For the first time in years, the quiet bookshop felt a little less empty.

A few evenings later, the bell chimed again just after the rain started.

You were rearranging a shelf of old fairy tales when Satoru Gojo stepped inside. This time he wasn’t wearing a blindfold. His eyes were a clear, striking blue like the sky right before sunrise. They seemed to catch every bit of warm light from the paper lanterns hanging above the counter.

“Back again,” he said with a casual grin. “Missed the smell of old books. Or maybe I just wanted to see if you’d recommend something new.”

You felt a small flutter in your chest but kept your voice steady. “Welcome back. Looking for more star stories?”

“Something like that.” He wandered the narrow aisles slowly, hands in his coat pockets. He never came too close to you. He stayed on the other side of the shelves or left plenty of space when he moved. It felt natural with him, not forced.

You returned to dusting the counter with your gloved hands, stealing quiet glances. He pulled out a book about northern lights, flipped through it, then put it back. Every few minutes he’d make a soft comment.

“This one says the midnight sun makes people fall in love because time feels endless. Think that’s true?”

You smiled a little behind the counter. “Maybe for people who can stay out in the light.”

He looked over at you, those bright eyes gentle. “And for people who only come out at night?”

The question hung softly in the air. You didn’t answer. He didn’t push.

Instead he brought two books to the counter and placed them down carefully, stepping back so you could scan them. No reaching over. No accidental brushes. He paid, then lingered near the door.

“Quiet night,” he said, looking out at the wet street. “Want me to walk you partway home when you close? I’ll keep my distance. Promise.”

You hesitated. No one had ever offered that before. Most people stayed far away once they noticed your gloves and careful movements. But something about him felt safe.

“… Okay,” you said quietly. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

He waited outside under the awning while you locked up. The rain had softened into a light drizzle. Streetlights glowed on the wet pavement like scattered stars. You walked on the left side of the narrow alley, he stayed on the right, with comfortable space between you.

Neither of you spoke much at first. Then he started talking about silly things like how the konbini near here had the best melon bread at night, how he once tried to count all the lanterns in Setagaya and gave up after two hundred.

You found yourself answering more than usual. Small things. How you liked the way the shop smelled after rain. How some books felt warm even though they were old.

At the corner where your street began, he stopped.

“This far enough?” he asked.

You nodded. “Thank you.”

He gave you that bright smile again. “See you soon, bookstore keeper.”

As you walked the rest of the way home alone, gloves still on, arms wrapped around yourself, the night felt a little softer. You caught yourself wondering when he would come back.

For the first time in a long time, you were looking forward to the next evening shift.

Over the next two weeks, Satoru became a regular part of the quiet evenings at Hoshi no Hon.

He usually arrived sometime after eight, shaking rain or autumn leaves from his white hair before stepping inside. The bell chimed like a soft welcome now. He never crowded the small shop. He moved between the shelves like he was browsing a dream, sometimes reading passages out loud in his light, playful voice.

You stayed behind the counter most of the time, gloved hands organizing receipts or wiping dust that wasn’t really there. But you talked more. The conversations felt easy, like turning pages in a favorite book.

One night, he found an old children’s book about a girl who could only touch the world through mirrors. He brought it to the counter and leaned against the wall a respectful distance away.

“This one’s kind of sad,” he said, blue eyes scanning the colorful illustrations. “She watches everyone else hold hands and hug, but she can only see it. Never feel it. Think she ever finds a way around it?”

You looked down at the book, chest tightening. “Maybe she learns that watching is enough.”

Satoru was quiet for a moment. “Doesn’t sound enough to me.”

The shop was empty except for the two of you. Soft lantern light glowed between the shelves. Outside, a light wind rustled the alley trees. You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded.

He started bringing small things. A warm canned coffee he placed on the far end of the counter. A pretty bookmark with pressed flowers he slid across the wood with the edge of the book. Little gifts that never required him to get too close. You kept every one.

On a quieter night, when only a few customers had come and gone, he sat on the old wooden stool near the window while you rearranged a display of poetry books. The space between you stayed gentle and steady.

“You ever wonder what it would be like?” he asked suddenly. “If the world didn’t have so many walls.”

You paused, fingers brushing the spine of a book. “All the time. But wondering doesn’t change anything.”

He turned those bright blue eyes toward you. There was no pity in them, just quiet understanding. “Maybe it doesn’t have to change everything. Just… one small thing.”

Your heart did a strange little flip. You looked away, focusing on straightening the books. “What about you? You seem like someone who can touch anything he wants.”

Satoru gave a small laugh, but it sounded a little distant. “Looks can be tricky. Sometimes the strongest walls are the ones no one else can see.”

He didn’t explain more, and you didn’t ask. The silence that followed felt comfortable, like a shared secret.

Before closing time, he helped you carry a small box of new arrivals to the back shelf. Still keeping perfect distance, never once letting your hands or arms come near. When the box was placed down, your fingers almost brushed the air where his had been. For a second, the almost-touch hung between you like a held breath.

Neither of you mentioned it.

At the door that night, he waited while you locked up. The street was quiet, glowing under the soft amber lights.

“Walk you to the corner again?” he offered.

You nodded. Side by side, with that familiar safe space between you, you walked down the quiet alley. He told you a silly story about trying to catch fireflies as a kid and failing spectacularly. You laughed softly for the first time in years.

When you reached the usual corner, he stopped and gave you that bright, warm smile.

“See you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Tomorrow.”

You walked the rest of the way home with a strange, fluttering feeling in your chest. The gloves on your hands felt heavier than usual. For the first time, the invisible wall around you didn’t feel quite as unbreakable.

The evenings grew cooler as autumn settled deeper into Tokyo. Leaves turned gold and red along the alley outside Hoshi no Hon, and the shop felt even cozier with the soft glow of the lanterns.

Satoru came almost every night now. Sometimes early, sometimes just before closing. He always entered with that same easy smile, white hair slightly messy from the wind, blue eyes bright under the warm light.

One quieter Thursday, only a handful of customers had passed through. You were placing a new shipment of poetry books on the front table when he arrived carrying two warm cans of sweet milk tea. He set one down on the far side of the counter for you.

“Thought you might like this,” he said. “It’s the kind with extra honey.”

You thanked him softly and took it with your gloved hands. The warmth seeped through the fabric. For a moment, you imagined what it would feel like without the gloves. You pushed the thought away.

That night the shop stayed empty after nine. Satoru sat on his usual stool by the window while you worked. He read out loud from a thin book of short stories. It was the funny ones about spirits who fell in love with humans. His voice was relaxed, playful, filling the small space like gentle music.

You listened as you dusted shelves, smiling at the silly parts. Every so often he would glance over at you, checking if you were still enjoying it.

When you finished your tasks, you sat on the low chair behind the counter. The distance between you was the same as always but somehow it felt smaller tonight.

“Can I ask you something?” he said after closing the book.

You nodded.

“Why this shop? Why the night shift?”

You looked down at your gloves. “It’s peaceful. People come here looking for stories, not conversations. And… I like being around beautiful things I can still be near.”

He was quiet for a while, watching the lanterns sway lightly.

“I get that,” he said finally. “Being close to things without really touching them.”

You met his eyes. Those clear blue eyes held no judgment, only a kind of soft understanding that made your chest ache in a new way.

He stood up slowly and walked to the poetry shelf. “Come here for a second. I want to show you something.”

You hesitated but stepped out from behind the counter. He pointed to a high shelf without reaching for you.

“That one. The blue cover. Read the first line for me?”

You carefully pulled the book down. Your gloved fingers brushed the edge of the shelf where his hand had been moments before. A tiny spark of almost-touch passed between you again.

You opened the book and read softly:

“Even the moon longs for the sea it can never hold.”

Satoru smiled, but it was quieter than usual. “Yeah… that one.”

You put the book back. For a few seconds you stood closer than normal, the air between you feeling warm and alive. Neither of you moved to close the gap. You both just stayed there, letting the moment breathe.

Later, when it was time to close, he waited outside as always. The alley was lit by soft streetlamps and a few glowing vending machines. You walked side by side with the usual space between you. Tonight he told you about a festival he once saw in Kyoto where thousands of lanterns floated down a river.

“It looked like the stars had fallen into the water,” he said.

You tried to picture it. “I’ve never been to anything like that.”

“Maybe one day,” he replied gently.

At your usual corner, he stopped and turned to you. The night wind moved his white hair.

“I like these walks,” he said. “And the shop. And talking to you.”

Your heart beats faster. “I like them too.”

He gave you that bright smile again, the one that made the night feel less lonely. “Goodnight then. Sleep well.”

You walked home the rest of the way alone, clutching the empty milk tea can like a small treasure. Inside your quiet apartment, you sat by the window for a long time, still wearing your gloves, staring at the distant city lights.

The wall around you felt thinner tonight. Not gone, but thinner.

And for the first time, that scared you a little.

The days passed gently, one quiet evening melting into the next. Satoru’s visits became the brightest part of your nights at Hoshi no Hon. He no longer waited for the bell to announce him. You started recognizing the rhythm of his footsteps on the alley stones before he even reached the door.

One Tuesday night, the shop was wrapped in a soft hush. Only the occasional rustle of pages and the low hum of the heater broke the silence. You were sorting a box of new arrivals when Satoru arrived carrying two warm sweet potatoes wrapped in foil. He set yours on the counter’s far edge like always.

“Found these at the stall down the street,” he said, blue eyes sparkling. “They’re extra sweet tonight. Figured we could share the quiet with something warm.”

You thanked him and ate slowly behind the counter, the sweetness spreading through you. He sat on his stool by the window, peeling his own potato and watching the leaves drift outside. Every now and then he would read a funny line from whatever book he picked up, making you smile behind your glove-covered hand.

Later, when the shop emptied completely, he stood up and wandered over to the fairy tale section. “Hey, come look at this one with me.”

You stepped out carefully, keeping the usual space. He pointed to an old illustrated book about a lonely snow spirit who could never be touched without melting.

“Reminds me of something,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “Always watching the warm world but staying frozen on the outside.”

You stared at the delicate drawings of the spirit reaching out, hands fading into snowflakes. Your throat felt tight. “Some stories don’t have happy endings.”

Satoru turned his head toward you. His eyes were gentle, searching. “Maybe they just haven’t reached the ending yet.”

You stood there longer than usual, the air between your bodies feeling charged and alive. Your gloved fingers rested on the edge of the shelf. His hand was only a small distance away. For a heartbeat, you both lingered in that almost-space. Close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to stay safe. Neither of you moved to close it.

Eventually you stepped back first, heart racing. “I should finish closing soon.”

He nodded without complaint and helped you carry the empty box to the storage corner, always careful, always respectful. When you locked the front door, he was waiting under the soft glow of the streetlamp.

“Walk?” he asked simply.

You nodded.

The alley felt narrower tonight, the lanterns swaying above like tiny floating moons. You walked on your side, he on his. The space between you had become its own familiar shape.

He told you about a dream he had the night before: flying above Tokyo with no one able to reach him, no matter how hard he tried to get closer. You listened quietly, then shared a small piece of your own.

“Sometimes I dream I’m in the middle of a crowd… and everyone is holding hands in a circle. But I’m just standing there, watching.”

Satoru slowed his steps. “Does it make you sad when you wake up?”

“Every time.”

He looked at you then, really looked, his bright blue eyes catching the light. “I hate that for you.”

The honesty in his voice made your eyes sting. You blinked quickly and kept walking.

At the usual corner, he stopped. The wind tugged at his white hair. For a moment he seemed like he wanted to say more, but he only smiled that warm, easy smile.

“Tomorrow again?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” you answered.

You walked the rest of the way home alone, the sweet potato wrapper still warm in your coat pocket. Inside your quiet apartment, you sat on the edge of your bed and slowly peeled off your gloves. Your hands looked pale and untouched, almost unreal.

You stared at them for a long time, imagining what it might feel like if someone held them. If he held them.

The thought both warmed and terrified you.

The wall around your life was still there. But every night with Satoru, it felt like a single brick was loosening.

The next evening, Satoru arrived earlier than usual, his white hair glowing under the lantern light like fresh snow. He didn’t browse the shelves. Instead, he walked straight to the counter, blue eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them.

“There’s a small lantern festival tonight by the river in Arakawa,” he said, voice warm with excitement. “Not the big crowded one. Just a quiet gathering where people write wishes and let them float. I thought… maybe we could go. Together. I’ll keep my distance the whole time. I promise.”

Your heart jumped. You rarely left the safety of the shop at night. But the way he looked at you made it hard to say no.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let me close early.”

The walk to the river took twenty minutes. Cool autumn wind brushed your cheeks as you moved through quieter streets. Satoru stayed on your right, two steps of space between you, hands in his pockets. Streetlamps and passing cars painted soft streaks of light across his face. He told stories the whole way. The silly ones about cursed spirits scared of cats, and how he once accidentally turned a vending machine into a fountain. You laughed more than you had in years.

When you reached the riverbank, the scene took your breath away.

Dozens of glowing paper lanterns drifted slowly on the dark water like fallen stars. People stood along the edge in small groups, writing wishes on thin strips of paper before folding them into the lanterns. Soft music played from somewhere nearby. The air smelled of river mist, roasted chestnuts, and faint incense.

Satoru bought two lanterns and two markers. He placed yours on a wooden bench with enough space, then sat on the far end.

“Write whatever you want,” he said gently. “No one has to see it.”

You stared at the blank paper. Your gloved fingers felt clumsy. After a moment, you wrote:

Just once… to feel warm without fear.

You folded it carefully and placed the lantern on the water’s edge using a long stick the organizers provided. Satoru did the same on his side. His lantern joined yours, both glowing side by side as the current carried them slowly downstream.

For a while you stood watching the lights float away. The space between you felt electric. When a sudden breeze made you shiver, Satoru stepped a little closer. Still not touching, but close enough that you could feel his warmth cutting through the night air.

“Beautiful, right?” he murmured.

You nodded, eyes stinging. “I’ve never seen anything like this up close.”

He turned toward you. The lantern light painted gold across his face and made his blue eyes look almost glowing. “I’m glad I got to show you.”

A couple nearby laughed as they hugged, their lantern already far down the river. You looked away quickly, but Satoru noticed.

He reached out, not toward you, but toward the space beside you and let his fingers hover in the air near your gloved hand. So close. Almost there.

“I wish I could…” He stopped himself, letting the words fade.

Your chest ached. You wanted it too. More than anything.

Instead, you turned your hand palm-up on the bench. He did the same a few inches away. No contact. Just two hands reaching toward each other under the drifting lantern lights. The almost-touch felt heavier and sweeter than any real one you’d ever had.

You stayed like that until most of the lanterns had floated far away, tiny golden specks disappearing into the night.

On the walk back, the silence felt full. At your usual corner, Satoru stopped and faced you fully.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he said, voice low. “I don’t want this to just be shop talks and short walks anymore. I like being around you. A lot.”

Your throat tightened. “I like being around you too, Satoru.”

He smiled, soft and real. For a second he looked like he might step forward. But he stayed where he was, eyes never leaving yours.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” you answered.

You walked home with the memory of glowing lanterns burned behind your eyes and the ghost of his almost-touch still warming your palm.

That night, lying in bed without your gloves for once, you pressed your bare hand to your cheek and wondered how much longer you could keep living like this. Always reaching, never holding.

The wall was cracking faster now.

The next evening at Hoshi no Hon felt different. The lanterns from the river still glowed faintly in your memory, and the air in the shop seemed warmer, heavier with everything unsaid.

Satoru arrived a little after eight, white hair slightly damp from a passing drizzle. He didn’t pick up a book right away. Instead, he placed two cups of hot chocolate on the counter. One for you on the far side and leaned against the wall across from you.

“I had fun last night,” he said softly. “More than I’ve had in a long time.”

“Me too,” you replied, gloved fingers wrapping around the warm cup.

He watched you for a moment, those bright blue eyes gentle but serious. The playful smile faded into something quieter.

“I need to tell you something,” he started. “I’ve known for a while now… about your condition.”

Your breath caught. The cup suddenly felt too heavy in your hands.

Satoru continued carefully, never stepping closer. “I noticed the gloves. The way you move. How you always keep space like it’s life or death. And… I have a way of seeing things most people can’t. I didn’t want to assume, but after the first few nights I was sure. Skin-to-skin hurts you. Badly.”

You stared down at the counter, cheeks burning. “You knew this whole time?”

“Yeah.” His voice was soft, almost sad. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to feel exposed. I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me. But I also didn’t want to keep pretending I didn’t understand why you live behind this careful wall.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. No one had ever said it out loud so kindly. Most people either pitied you or slowly drifted away once they found out.

“I’ve had it since I was little,” you whispered. “Doctors don’t know why. Touching anyone… it feels like fire under my skin. Swelling, pain, sometimes worse. So I just… stopped trying.”

Satoru listened without interrupting, his expression steady and warm.

“I’m sorry you’ve carried that alone,” he said. “It must be exhausting. Watching everyone else touch so freely while you stay on the outside.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly with your sleeve.

“I liked that you treated me normally,” you admitted. “Even after you knew.”

“Because you are normal to me,” he replied simply. “Just someone who deserves to feel safe. And… I get it more than you might think.”

You looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

He gave a small, bittersweet smile. “I have my own kind of wall. Something that keeps everything at a distance. I can be around people, but real closeness has always been… complicated for me too.”

The shop felt smaller, the lantern light softer. For the first time, the space between you didn’t feel like just your burden. It felt shared.

Satoru slid a small folded paper across the counter with the edge of a book. “I wrote something for you. You don’t have to read it now.”

You picked it up carefully. Inside, in neat handwriting, were the words:

Even walls can have windows. I like looking through yours.

You held the note tightly, heart aching in the best and worst ways.

“Does knowing change anything for you?” you asked quietly.

“Only that I want to stay even more,” he answered. “If you’ll let me.”

The rest of the night passed in gentle conversation. He read poetry out loud again, voice light and warm, while you worked. When closing time came, he walked you home as usual, keeping that careful, respectful distance. But tonight the silence felt full of new understanding.

At the corner, he stopped and turned to you.

“I’m really glad you let me in a little,” he said. “We’ll keep going at your pace. No pressure. Ever.”

You nodded, smiling through the quiet tears you couldn’t quite hide.

“Goodnight, Satoru.”

“Goodnight.”

As you walked the last stretch home, the note from him safe in your pocket, something inside your chest shifted. The wall you had lived behind for so long finally had a name. And for the first time, you didn’t feel completely alone on your side of it.

Two nights later, the shop was quiet again. Only the soft ticking of the old wall clock and the occasional rustle of pages filled the air. You were behind the counter organizing a new stack of poetry books when Satoru arrived. He carried two warm chestnut pastries this time and set yours down with his usual careful distance.

But tonight he seemed a little different. Restless, like he had been thinking about something important.

After you ate in comfortable silence, he spoke.

“I want to show you something,” he said gently. “If you’re okay with it. It might help you understand what I meant the other night… about my own wall.”

You nodded, curious and a little nervous.