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𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗜𝗭𝗘𝗥𝗦 𑣲᭪𓏻 ―

I write for: Hunter x Hunter, Dr Stone, Death Note, Tokyo Ghoul, Kakegurui, Blue lock, Detective Conan, Toilet Bound Hanako-Kun. I'm open for anime recommendations! I have watched lots of animes, but this are what I'd like to write for! If you want to order something that is not here, simply ask :3

currently obssessed with: Blue lock and Michael Kaiser

my specialty is dark & angst themes ! I do write fluff, rarely ^^ everything with pink hearts is my favorites :3

rules, navigations, all you need to know — MUST READ

order not made = against the rules, or I'm still writing

𝗗𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗞𝗦 𑣲᭪𓏻 ―

all is ranked based on my favorites

Gilded — Meguru Bachira x Reader ( BLUE LOCK ) 🩷

Fervor — Feitan Portor x Reader ( HUNTER X HUNTER ) 🍹

Reverie — Juuzou Suzuya x Reader ( TOKYO GHOUL )

𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗧𝗦 𑣲᭪𓏻 ―

Ce qui Reste ; ll — Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader ( HUNTER X HUNTER ) 🩷

𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗧 𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 𑣲᭪𓏻 ―

Amor, haine et gloire — Rin Itoshi x Reader ( BLUE LOCK ) 🩷 every verse is peak, trust 🙏🏻

Verse l. Le Cocktail Neurologique

Verse ll. Haine

Verse lll. Forcé de

Verse IV. Fête pour toi

Verse V. Fête pour toi ( ll )

Sacrilege — Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader ( HUNTER X HUNTER )

Verse l. Confession

Verse ll. Assumption ( Tomorrow is never promised )

Palimpsest — Kaneki Ken x Reader ( TOKYO GHOUL )

Verse l.

Burning Avarice — Leorio Paradinight x Reader ( Hunter x Hunter ) ALADDIN AU

Chapter l.

˚.⋆♬ 𝗠𝗘𝗟𝗢𝗗𝗬 𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗜𝗔𝗟𝗦 ˚.⋆♬

Treat you better ; by Shawn Mendes — Michael Kaiser x Reader ( BLUE LOCK ) 🩷

Playdate ; by Melanie Martinez — Midari Ikishima x Reader ( KAKEGURUI ) 🍹

Thank You ; by Dido - Kurapika Kurta x Reader ( HUNTER X HUNTER )

© 2025 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.

everything is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.

a low, mocking chuckle left his throat, a sharp, arrogant smirk instantly pulling at the corner of his lips as he leaned back, entirely unbothered. he rolled his eyes, treating your cold demeanor like nothing more than a pathetic, amusing little game you were trying to play to get a rise out of him.

​“ Oh? Going for a dramatic opening tonight, mein Schatz? ” he joked, his voice dripping with a smug, condescending amusement as he looked down at your deadpan face. he reached out casually, his tattooed fingers gesturing toward you in a dismissive wave.

“ What's the matter? Did a director reject your little script, or are you just desperate for the King's attention? ”

​he really didn’t believe you.

to a narcissistic god like Kaiser, the concept of someone actually leaving him was a literal impossibility. when you took a deliberate step backward, creating a cold, physical gap between you, his smirk only widened. he figured you were just being dramatic— throwing a quiet tantrum over some minor grievance just to see how long it would take for him to come baby you.

standing his ground, he crossed his large arms over his chest with an insufferable, confident grin, completely content to wait for you to drop the act and come crawling right back into his space.

but now, reality is hitting him like a physical wrecking ball.

​everywhere Kaiser turns, his sharp blue eyes are assaulted by the brutal, undeniable proof that you weren't playing a game. he can't escape you. your face is plastered across the city, but you aren't alone anymore.

​he passes a massive, towering billboard in the center of the district, and his jaw instantly clenches so hard the bone aches. it’s a high-fashion campaign poster, and there you are, looking flawlessly deadpan and ethereal, but another man’s large hands are wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

​when Kaiser turns on the television in the team lounge, a teaser for your highly anticipated new romance drama is playing. he freezes, a sickening, volatile heat rising in his throat as he watches the screen. the camera cuts to a close-up of you in the rain, staring up at your handsome male co-star with that quiet, intense focus you used to give him. the guy reaches out, gently cupping your jaw, and the scene cuts to black right as his lips press into yours in a slow, impossibly close, intimate kiss.

​even on social media, the internet is flooded with viral paparazzi photos of you out in the city— walking side-by-side with the same guy, his arm slung casually and possessively over your shoulders while your frame leans into his side.

​seeing you with someone else, occupying a space that used to belong entirely to the King, changes everything. the mocking, arrogant disbelief Kaiser hid behind completely evaporates, leaving behind a raw, suffocating vacuum of pure desperation.

it finally clicks in his delusional, narcissistic brain: you were dead serious about the breakup.

you really walked away, and the terrifying realization that he has actually lost his Queen is beginning to tear his pathetic pride to absolute shreds.

he looks at the screen, a dark, manic smirk forcing its way back onto his lips as he completely rewrites reality to protect his bleeding ego. he zooms in on a paparazzi photo of you and this new guy, dissecting every single millimeter of your expression with a hyper-fixated, desperate intensity.

I know he's just not right for you.

right. he’s not right for you, Kaiser tells himself, the thought hardening into absolute, delusional certainty. there's no way. that generic peasant you’re parading around with is nothing but a temporary downgrade. Kaiser knows that man isn't the one for you— he is. he’s the only King fit for a Queen like you, and no amount of high-fashion billboard casting can change that.

And you can tell me if I'm off, but I see it on your face when you say that he's the one that you want.

​he convinces himself that he can see right through your cold facade. your signature deadpan expression? that’s not you being your usual cool, unbothered self— no, Kaiser tells himself you’re secretly miserable. he decides that the slight tilt of your head in the photo means you're bored out of your mind, and that you’re only staying with this guy out of spite to punish him.

he gaslights himself into believing that your eyes look completely empty without him, convincing his own desperate mind that you are practically begging for him to come break this up and rescue you.

but what drives him absolutely insane, what Kaiser hates more than anything else— is the sheer, agonizing absurdity of seeing his brilliant, untouchable Queen completely wasting her time on a nobody. time that should be spent revolving around him.

​he glares down at his phone, his thumb harshly tracing the edge of your jawline on the screen, his chest heaving with a volatile mix of suffocating possessiveness and pure arrogance.

​And you're spending all your time in this wrong situation, he thinks, the realization twisting like a knife in his gut before transforming into a dark, stubborn conviction. every single second of it is a mistake.

​it’s a complete farce, a pathetic waste of your days, and he refuses to believe you actually want this. he convinces himself that you’re just trapped in your own stubbornness, playing a part in a script that doesn't belong to you.

his eyes narrow into a dangerous, intensely focused glare as he locks his phone, a delusional smirk finally returning to his lips.

​And anytime you want it to stop, he promises silently into the empty room, his voice a low, rough murmur of absolute certainty. all you have to do is say the word, and your King will come tear that little fantasy to shreds.

he paces the length of the empty locker room, his cleats clicking sharply against the concrete floor, a restless, volatile energy vibrating through his entire frame. the thought of you with that other man is a physical sickness in his stomach, but the anger is mutating into something much more dangerous: a desperate, delusional obsession.

​Tell me, why are we wasting time on all your wasted crying,

​the question burns through his mind, a frantic, bitter demand directed at your absent face. he remembers the silence of your breakup, but his broken mind twists it now, wondering if you’re secretly suffering behind closed doors. he convinces himself that you must be shedding tears over this entire mess, wasting your precious energy on a situation that is completely Beneath you.

why are you putting yourself through this? why are you wasting all that time on a generic nobody, when you should be with me instead?

​he grips the edge of a bench, his knuckles turning stark white as his sharp blue eyes fixate on the floor. it hits him then— a rare, unsettling flash of genuine worry that he instantly cloaks in his signature, suffocating arrogance.

​that guy doesn't know how to handle someone as complex and untouchable as you. he doesn't know your rhythms, your pacing, or how to properly worship a Queen. Kaiser knows, with an absolute, terrifying certainty, that this peasant is going to fail you. you’re going to get hurt, just for the sake of trying to prove a point to him. the mere thought of you being broken by someone else makes his jaw clench until it aches. you're wasting your time, risking your own heart on a fraud, when the only place you belong— the only place you’ve ever belonged— is right back by your King's side.

—

​the heavy, rhythmic thud of a football colliding with a concrete wall echoes through the empty training facility. over and over. Kaiser strikes the ball with a violent, reckless force, not even caring about the flawless accuracy of his impact right now— he just needs to drown out the noise in his own head.

​but it isn’t working.

​he stops the ball dead under his cleat, his chest heaving as a slick layer of sweat glitters against his skin. his blue eyes shift down to the dark reflection on the polished floor, his mind instantly dragging him right back to you. to the intolerable reality that you are still out there, living a life that doesn't revolve around him.

​I'll stop time for you.

​the thought hits him with the force of an absolute command. it’s not a romantic promise; it’s an exhibition of his own god complex. he doesn't care about your schedule, your high-profile modeling contracts, or the massive film sets you’re currently ruling over. if you wanted him to, he would willingly freeze his entire world. he would put his own skyrocketing career on pause, block out the media, and make the entire universe stand perfectly still just to accommodate your presence again.

​The second you say you'd like me too.

​he clenches his jaw, a low, dangerous growl vibrating in his throat. that’s the catch. that is the only thing keeping him locked in this agonizing, self-inflicted purgatory. he is a King, and a King does not beg— but he is waiting. he’s waiting for that single, microscopic shift in your deadpan demeanor. the absolute second you drop that stubborn act, the very moment you look at him and give him even a shred of confirmation that you want him back, he will drop everything. he will halt the world in its tracks and reclaim what is his, entirely convinced that you are just one word away from running right back to his throne.

he kicks the ball away, sending it hurtling into the far corner of the facility just to break the suffocating silence.

​I just wanna give you the lovin' that you're missing,

​the thought is heavy, dark, and thick with an insatiable hunger. he knows exactly what you’re missing out there in the real world. that generic peasant you’re with probably treats you like glass, handling your deadpan demeanor with cautious, polite hesitation. he probably smiles gently, holds your hand softly, and treats you like a standard, fragile trophy.

​it makes Kaiser want to vomit.

​because you aren't standard, and you certainly aren't fragile. Kaiser knows the real you— the actress who wears a flawless, unbothered mask to the public but craves something entirely different behind closed doors. he knows the intense, friction-filled passion that only he could provide. he remembers the way his tattooed hands used to grip your waist, the bruising intensity of his kisses, and the suffocating, worshipful way he would consume your entire attention until you couldn't think of anything else.

​you’re starving in that whatever polite public relationship you have with that guy, and he knows it. he can practically feel the void left in his absence. nobody else can match your frequency. nobody else can give you that volatile, addictive devotion that kept you anchored to him. he stands there in the dim light of the facility, his fingers curling into a tight fist as he glares into the empty space, entirely consumed by the delusional certainty that you are out there freezing to death without his fire.

Baby, just to wake up with you would be everything I need, and this could be so different.

​the rare, suffocating wave of genuine vulnerability hits him before he can even block it with his arrogance. Kaiser closes his eyes, his head dropping back against the cold brick wall of the facility. for a single, fleeting second, the grand illusion of the stadium, the flashing cameras, and his desperate need for global dominance completely fades away.

​he visualizes it with an agonizing clarity: waking up in the quiet luxury of his apartment, the morning sun filtering through the blinds, and finding your calm, beautiful face resting against his chest. no scripts, no paparazzi, no exhausting masks for either of you to wear. just your smooth, deadpan gaze meeting his before he can even murmur a smug greeting. it would be everything. it’s a reality so vastly different from this pathetic, engineered distance you’ve forced between you. if you were just by his side, he wouldn't have to spend every waking hour fighting the urge to tear the city apart looking for you.

​Tell me what you want to do.

​he opens his eyes, his sharp blue gaze snapping back into focus, instantly hardening with that familiar, dangerous edge. the moment of softness is gone, cloaked once more in his unyielding hubris. he’s tired of the guessing games. he’s tired of analyzing billboard posters and dissecting television teasers. he stands up straight, a dark, demanding smirk slowly returning to his lips as he issues the silent ultimatum into the empty air.

​he’s putting the ball in your court. he’s giving his Queen the floor. all you have to do is make your move, dictate the play, and tell him exactly how you want to end this farce— because the King is losing his patience, and he’s ready to rewrite the script.

'Cause I know I can treat you better than he can,

​the absolute certainty of it settles deep into his chest, a dark, immovable anchor. he scoffs, running a sweat-slicked hand through his blue-tipped hair as a mocking laugh leaves his throat. it’s an undeniable fact. that generic placeholder of a man doesn't have the status, the drive, or the sheer brilliance to match you. he’s a nobody playing a part he’s bound to mess up. Kaiser knows exactly how to elevate you, how to challenge your sharp mind, and how to give you a lifestyle that matches your untouchable talent. to him, keeping you by his side isn't just a desire— it's the natural order of things.

​And any girl like you deserves a gentleman.

​the word feels foreign in his mind, almost amusing, but Kaiser twists it to fit his own twisted, royal standards. a gentleman? no, you don't need some soft, boring guy who treats you like an ordinary porcelain doll. a high-caliber woman like you deserves a King. you deserve someone who will aggressively guard your space, worship your deadpan perfection, and ruthlessly destroy anything that threatens your peace.

I know I can treat you better, better than he can.

​the thought repeats in his mind like a final, unyielding verdict. he’s done waiting for real in the shadows of an empty training facility, done watching you pretend to be content with a fraud.

​Kaiser lets out a slow, sharp breath, his blue eyes gleaming with a dangerous, calculating light. a dark, predatory smirk settles onto his lips as he grabs his jacket, slinging it casually over one shoulder. the King has sat on his hands for long enough. you wanted to see how far he would let this joke go? well, playtime is officially over.

​he doesn't care about your new script, the paparazzi, or the pathetic little barrier you’ve tried to build between you. he knows exactly what you’re missing, he knows your true worth, and he knows that nobody else alive can give you the volatile, addictive devotion that he handles so effortlessly.

​as he walks out into the cool night air, his mind is already spinning with a sharp, tactical precision. he isn’t going to just sit back and watch your world revolve around someone else. he’s about to change the game entirely. whether you're ready for it or not, Michael Kaiser is coming to reclaim his Queen— and he’s going to make damn sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

cause he knows he will treat you better. way better than he can.

© 2026 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.

this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters and songs depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.

did something so embarrassing in class today infront of MANY STUDENTS and oh god do I want to bury myself in the deepest parts of land that exists here on earth

I did heard that you can distract yourself by being super focused so here's me writing and publishing a Michael Kaiser fanfic angst despite me not reading the manga, and relying on spoilers I have read, tiktoks I have watched and studying on google ( yes I'm an overthinker. and yes I'm quite good at studying people / characters. )

I do love Kaiser tho 😼 also suprising that this is my shortest work so far despite me being obsessed with him... suddenly I'm Ness... ( I'll be honest I hope I used this right I'm guessing Ness is Kaiser's duo..? who always submits to him..? )

really wanted to do a cheating fiction, and a Kaiser one of course. but this is the best I could do! I wouldn't like to hurt myself intentionally and you readers too... maybe next time :p

​as your driver brings the vehicle to a silent halt directly in front of the grand entrance, a uniformed white-gloved valet immediately steps forward, opening your door with a practiced, deferential bow. stepping out onto the pristine pavement, the sheer scale and oppressive opulence of the hotel hits you all at once. the air smells subtly of expensive cedarwood and fresh linen, a sterile, high-end environment that is meant to feel like a sanctuary, but currently feels more like a beautiful cage.

​before you can even take a step toward the glass double doors, the heavy purr of another high-end engine echoes against the limestone walls. you turn your head just in time to see a second private car— a matching, tinted-window luxury sedan—smoothly pull up directly behind yours.

​the door clicks open, and Rin steps out onto the pavement. his posture is rigid, his coat perfectly tailored, and his expression completely unreadable as his dark eyes lock onto yours across the short distance.

the grand glass doors of the luxury hotel slide open, and a woman steps out onto the pristine driveway, her bright, energetic presence instantly cutting through the heavy tension hanging between you and Rin. she looks relatively young, dressed in a sharp but comfortable tailored suit, and she carries herself with an easy, approachable warmth that feels entirely welcoming.

​“ Ah, you two must be the stars of the hour! ” she calls out, her voice cheerful and light as she walks briskly toward you both. a bright, genuinely friendly smile lights up her face as she stops right between your two cars, looking from you to Rin with an enthusiastic wave.

“ Welcome, welcome! I'm so glad you both made it safely. Traveling in these private cars can be so draining, right? ”

​she steps closer, offering a warm, polite nod to each of you in turn. “ It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you both in person. I've heard so much about you! ”

you stare at her for a long moment, your eyes taking in her bright smile and overly cheerful demeanor. you really don't want to judge someone at first sight— especially not the person holding the keys to your freedom for the next few weeks— but you can't entirely help the skepticism creeping into your mind. she seems almost too bubbly for a situation this heavy.

​brushing the thought aside, you decide to think of it as nothing for now, offering her a polite, matching smile as you step forward to greet her back.

“ Well, the drive wasn't too bad, but I'm definitely glad to finally be out of the car. ” you say, offering her a warm, easy smile to match her friendly energy. “ It's great to meet you too. ”

​the counselor chuckles softly, her eyes shifting over to Rin. seeing his rigid posture, unreadable expression, and dead silence, she simply gives a knowing, unfazed wave of her hand.

​“ Oh, don't worry, I didn't expect any greetings from you, Rin- kun. ” she says with a lighthearted laugh, completely unbothered by his icy silence. she turns back to face both of you, her smile widening. “ To be completely honest, I’ve thoroughly studied both of your files and public profiles before today. But even before this assignment landed on my desk? I actually adored you both from the very start. I've been a huge fan of yours for a long time! ”

she sure talks a lot, you think to yourself, keeping your face completely neutral so your skepticism doesn't show. despite the internal eye-roll, you keep up the polite front, offering her a smooth smile.

​“ Good to hear, ” you reply simply.

​“ Alright, let's get you two out of the sun! ” she says, gesturing toward the towering glass doors of the lobby. “ We should head inside, get you registered, and check out the room where you'll be staying. ”

​​Rin doesn't give a single reaction. he just stands there like a statue, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, staring blankly ahead as if the woman infront of you in is entirely beneath his notice.

as the three of you begin to move toward the entrance, two hotel bellhops step forward in perfect sync. they efficiently lift your luggage and Rin's bags from the trunks of the private cars, quietly wheeling them in behind you.

—

the heavy, polished mahogany door clicks shut behind you, sealing the three of you inside the expansive penthouse suite. as you step fully into the room, the sheer scale of the space immediately opens up before you. it is massive, incredibly spacious, and dripping in modern luxury. high ceilings make the room feel endless, and a massive wall of floor-to-ceiling windows bathes the entire balcony area in soft, natural afternoon light, offering a sweeping, uninterrupted view of the city skyline below. the interior design is flawless— plush, cream-colored carpets that sink beneath your shoes, sleek marble surfaces, and high-end, custom-designed furniture arranged perfectly around a sophisticated, minimalist living area.

​it is fully equipped with absolutely everything you could possibly need for a long-term stay. a state-of-the-art entertainment system lines one wall, a sleek mini-bar is stocked with premium drinks, and a small, private kitchenette sits quietly in the corner, complete with top-tier appliances. on the surface, it looks like an absolute paradise, designed to cater to your every comfort.

​however, as your eyes scan past the gorgeous living space and venture further into the layout of the suite, your gaze lands on the bed— and your breath hitches slightly.

​right there, taking up a prominent and undeniable center stage in the room, is just one single, massive king-sized bed.

​your eyes immediately dart to the left, scanning the immediate layout for any sign of a second door, but there is only one. a single, grand doorway leads into a massive, opulent bathroom complete with a deep soaking tub.

one bathroom, one bed.

​there is no separate room to retreat to, no guest bed hidden away in a corner, and no escaping each other's presence. you look at that single, sprawling mattress, and the reality settles heavily in your chest: from this exact moment on, you are going to be sleeping in the exact same bed.

the counselor claps her hands together softly, breaking the silence as she turns around to face you both with that same bright, easy smile.

​“ Alright! I know you both have your own separate personal lives, schedules, and routines out there in the real world, ” she says, gesturing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. “ But for the duration of this program, you are strictly required to stay right here under this roof. No exceptions, no slip-ups. ”

​she walks over to the center of the spacious room, looking between you and Rin with an encouraging nod. “ So, look around and get comfortable, because from this exact moment on, you call this place your 'New Home.' ”

​Rin finally speaks up, his voice dropping into a flat, icy drawl that cuts right through the counselor's bubbly enthusiasm. he doesn't even bother looking at the massive bed, keeping his sharp, unamused gaze fixed entirely on her.

​“ And you? ” he asks, his tone entirely deadpan and laced with a biting, quiet sarcasm. “ Are you staying in this room to watch us sleep too? ”

the counselor lets out a slightly awkward, nervous laugh, adjusting her posture as Rin’s blunt question catches her briefly off guard. she clears her throat, trying to quickly smooth over the cold sarcasm he just threw her way.

​“ ...Of course not, ” she says, waving her hand quickly with a polite, reassuring smile. “ We absolutely respect your privacy and boundaries here. I'm actually staying in the suite right next door to yours! ”

​she gestures toward the main hallway outside before looking back at the two of you. “ My job isn't to monitor your every breath. I will just be coming in to counsel both of you every day for about two hours— or even shorter than that, depending on how quickly we progress and how well you cooperate. ”

Rin's jaw tightens slightly, and his eyes narrow as he lets out a quiet, scoffing breath. his entire posture radiates an intense annoyance, his dark eyes cutting over to give the counselor a look of freezing, unamused contempt.

the counselor shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her bright smile faltering for a fraction of a second as she feels the palpable awkwardness radiating off Rin once again. she clears her throat, quickly trying to salvage the cheerful atmosphere she's trying so hard to maintain.

​“ ...Well! I'll give you two some time to unpack and settle in, ” she adds, backing toward the mahogany door with a polite, slightly strained nod. “ I'll come back at 6:00 PM tonight for our very first session. Make yourselves comfortable! ”

​with that, she swiftly slips out into the hallway, and the heavy door clicks shut behind her, leaving you and Rin in total silence.

the heavy silence that settles over the room the second the door clicks shut is absolute, and it makes the sprawling, luxurious penthouse feel suddenly very, very small.

​an intense wave of awkwardness washes over you. standing alone in a massive, five-star hotel suite with Rin feels completely surreal and deeply weird. the sprawling king-sized bed sits in your peripheral vision like an unspoken threat, and you genuinely have no idea what to do with your hands, where to look, or what to say first.

​you steal a quick glance at Rin. for all his usual cold confidence, he simply stands immovable by the entrance, his hands still shoved deep into his coat pockets. he stares blankly at the wall, completely barricading himself behind a wall of rigid silence as he flatly refuses to acknowledge the absolute absurdity of the situation.

to break the suffocating silence, you decide to just focus on unpacking your things. thankfully, the suite is equipped with a massive walk-in closet that includes separate, private sections for both of you, giving you at least a little bit of personal boundary. you head over to the grand bathroom, carefully arranging your expensive makeup and skincare products into the sleek drawers under the marble vanity, trying to focus entirely on the mundane task to calm your nerves.

​while you're busy organizing your things, Rin finally moves from his spot by the door. true to his quiet, efficient nature, he doesn't waste any time lingering or complaining out loud. he carries his bag over to his side of the private closet and begins to unpack with methodical, military-like precision.

​he hangs his tailored coats perfectly straight, places his folded clothes in neat, orderly stacks, and sets his watch and personal items down on the dresser with a sharp, calculated efficiency. every movement is completely silent and deliberate, his face a mask of cold indifference. once everything is put away exactly where it belongs, he zips his empty bag shut and slides it out of sight.

while you are still tucked away in the sprawling marble bathroom, carefully organizing your skincare bottles, arranging your brushes, and setting up the rest of your needs in the vanity drawers, you hear the rustle of fabric from the main room.

​Rin has already moved with quiet efficiency. he changes into sleek, dark athletic gear that fits his lean build perfectly, grabbing his water bottle as he prepares to burn off the suffocating tension of the suite.

​just as you are finishing up, you step toward the bathroom doorway. Rin is already at the entrance of the penthouse, his hand resting on the sleek brass handle.

for a second, it looks like he’s just going to vanish without a single word. but right before he pulls the door open, he pauses.

he doesn't turn around to look at you, keeping his back entirely turned as he delivers a flat, icy notification.

“ Gym, ” he says simply, his voice low, blunt, and completely devoid of emotion. “ Don't look for me. ”

​before you can even offer a reply, the heavy mahogany door clicks open and snaps shut behind him, his sudden departure leaving you completely alone in the quiet luxury of the massive suite.

you stand frozen in the middle of the room for a few moments, staring at the empty space where he just was, before finally letting out a long, heavy breath you didn't realize you were holding.

​a quiet, cynical laugh slips past your lips, and you shake your head at the absolute absurdity of it all.

​already updating each other? the official fake dating contract hasn't even started yet, and it suddenly, terrifyingly feels like you're both falling right back into an old rhythm. it is a stark, jarring reminder of how easily you used to read each other's movements, a muscle memory of a past you thought you'd buried. despite the walls, the coldness, and the bitter tension between you now, that brief, blunt notification felt entirely too natural— just like before.

whatever, you think, brushing the heavy thought away before it can spiral into something worse. you're too emotionally exhausted to unpack the past right now.

​you kick off your shoes, walk over to that massive, intimidating king-sized bed, and deliberately crawl onto your side of the mattress. it is unbelievably soft, practically swallowing you whole, and the crisp, expensive linens feel cool against your skin. you pull the heavy sheets up over your shoulders, closing your eyes and letting the quiet hum of the luxury suite's air conditioning lull you into a deep, dreamless sleep, completely shutting out the reality of the situation for a few hours.

—

a sharp, rhythmic knocking at the heavy mahogany door abruptly pulls you out of your deep sleep. you blink open your eyes, momentarily disoriented by the luxurious surroundings before the reality of the penthouse clicks back into place. your gaze darts to the digital clock on the nightstand— it’s right around 6:00 PM.

​the counselor.

​you throw off the heavy sheets, quickly smoothing down your clothes and running a hand through your hair to make yourself look presentable. stepping across the plush carpet of the quiet suite, you cross the living room and pull open the massive front door.

​

it’s not the counselor.

​standing on the other side of the threshold is Rin.

​he is leaning slightly against the doorframe, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his skin and his dark athletic clothes looking damp from his workout. a gym towel is draped loosely around his neck, and his dark hair is slightly messy, falling across his forehead in damp strands. he looks completely exhausted but still carries that same sharp, unbothered intensity.

​​he stops knocking the second the door swings open, his cold, unreadable eyes dropping down to look at you. he takes in your disheveled appearance with a look of total, flat indifference— not caring in the slightest that he just dragged you out of a dead sleep. he just stands there, waiting for you to step aside so he can get back into the room.

without a single word, you simply step backward, pulling the heavy door wide open to give him room to pass. no greetings, no polite remarks, no " how was your workout— " absolutely nothing.

​Rin doesn't offer anything either. he just pushes past you with a silent, fluid stride, bringing the cool, heavy dampness of the gym air into the warmth of the suite. as he walks straight toward his side of the room without looking back, you let the door click softly shut behind him, the thick silence between you two completely locking back into place.

without saying a word, Rin grabs a fresh set of clothes from his side of the closet and walks straight into the massive marble bathroom, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. a moment later, the muffled, steady hum of the shower starts up, filling the quiet suite with a rhythmic background noise.

​left alone in the living area, you sit down on the plush, cream-colored sofa. for a few minutes, you just stare blankly at the floor-to-ceiling windows, letting the exhaustion completely drain from your body. but as the silence of the room settles back in, you realize you can't just sit here in a daze forever.

​pulling your phone out of your pocket, you decide to finally update your mother. you open your messages and begin to type, carefully crafting a text that strikes the perfect balance— reassuring her that you've arrived safely and that the accommodations are incredibly luxurious, while entirely omitting the suffocating, awkward tension currently showering in the next room.

a few minutes into your texting, a polite, brisk knock sounds at the front door. you slide your phone into your pocket, stand up, and cross the room to open it.

​the counselor is standing on the threshold, sporting a fresh, professional smile and holding a sleek leather folder tightly against her chest.

“ Good evening! Ready for our first session? ” she asks brightly.

​“ Good evening. Yes, come on in, ” you reply smoothly, stepping back to let her pass into the lavish living area.

​she steps inside, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood before she stops and looks around the empty space. “‎ Thank you. Now, where is Rin? We're scheduled to start right at six. ”

​“ He's in the shower, ” you answer simply, gesturing vaguely toward the closed marble bathroom door, where the muffled sound of running water is still faintly audible.

the counselor nods understandingly and walks over to the plush seating area.

“ That's perfectly fine! ” she says, smoothing down her skirt as she settles into one of the armchairs. “ Since it’s your very first session, I don't mind waiting for quite a while. It gives everyone a chance to settle in. ”

​following her lead, you cross the room and sit down on the opposite couch, sinking into the soft leather. the space between you feels formal, a stark contrast to the quiet tension that usually fills the room when it's just you and Rin.

​trying to break the ice and get a sense of what you're actually trapped here to do, you look across at her. “ So, what exactly are we going to be doing? For the first sessions and the weeks ahead? ”

​the counselor smiles, opening the sleek leather folder on her lap. “ To start, we'll keep things simple. The first week is entirely about establishing a baseline— understanding your communication styles, identifying where the friction lies, and laying down the ground rules for your cooperation. As the weeks progress, we'll move into behavioral exercises, shared problem-solving tasks, and deep-dives into your past dynamics to figure out how to build a functional partnership. ”

​she looks up from her notes, her eyes locking onto yours with a keen, observant gaze. “ Essentially, we are going to dismantle the walls you've both built up, piece by piece. ”

a quiet, humorless laugh slips past your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly mask it by shifting slightly on the plush leather cushions.

​inside your head, you can’t help but roll your eyes. she did not answer my question, you think dryly.

​all that high-sounding corporate jargon—baselines, friction, behavioral exercises, dismantling walls— was just a massive, deeply rehearsed evasion tactic. she used a ton of fancy, therapeutic buzzwords to sound profound, but she didn't actually tell you a single concrete thing about what you’d actually be doing for the next two hours. it was an incredibly polished way of saying absolutely nothing.

the heavy click of the bathroom door unlocks, and the muffled hum of the running water finally cuts out.

​a moment later, Rin steps out into the living area. his posture is rigid and sharp once more, a faint cloud of clean-scented steam trailing behind his broad shoulders. he’s changed into a fresh, simple black t-shirt and comfortable dark trousers, his dark hair still damp and slightly messy from the towel as he brings a cold, unbothered stillness back into the room.

​the counselor’s face immediately lights up with that professional, expectant smile as she shifts in her seat. “ Ah, Rin! Perfect timing. Please, come join us. ”

​both you and the counselor wait for him to cross the room and take a seat on the vacant couch next to you. but Rin doesn't move toward the furniture at all. instead, he walks just far enough into the room to be present, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he comes to a halt.

​he just stands there. he doesn't sit down, he doesn't slide into the empty spot beside you, and he doesn't offer a single word of greeting. he looks entirely like a statue of pure, freezing contempt, his cold gaze fixed on the counselor as if he's just waiting for her to get this pathetic charade over with.

the counselor doesn't seem deterred by Rin's rigid, standing posture. if anything, she takes a slow, deliberate breath, adjusting her glasses as her professional smile sharpens. she looks between you on the couch and Rin standing like an unyielding shadow near the wall.

​“ Well, since we're all here, let's begin, ” the counselor says smoothly, clicking her pen. “ We'll start with something brief to gauge your current perspective on one another. I'm going to ask a few introductory questions. ”

​she flips to a fresh page in her leather folder, her eyes tracking back to Rin before landing on you.

“ The first one is simple, but it requires absolute honesty, ” she says, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet suite. “ In one word... describe your partner's biggest flaw. ”

​the silence in the room instantly turns suffocating.

true to form, Rin doesn’t hesitate for a single second. he doesn't need time to think, and he clearly doesn't care about following her "one word" rule either.

​“ Annoying. ” he says bluntly, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a blade.

​

he doesn’t stop there. his cold eyes lock right onto you, his expression hardening as the words spill out with practiced ease. “ Stubborn. A hidrance . Distraction. ”

​every word is delivered with a flat, icy precision, entirely devoid of hesitation. he rattles them off like a checklist he’s had memorized for years.

​the counselor’s pen hovers over her notepad, her eyebrows shooting up at the sudden, unfiltered barrage.

you don't even let him breathe after that last word. a sarcastic, bitter smile flashes across your face, and you sit up straighter on the couch, locking your eyes right back onto his cold stare. if he’s going to completely ignore the rules and throw a checklist at you, you’re more than happy to return the favor.

​“ Arrogant. ” you fire back instantly, your voice dripping with sharp defiance.

​

you don't miss a beat, rattling yours off just as quickly as he did. “ Emotionally stunted. Selfish. Impossible. ”

​the words hit the air between you like a physical barrier, each one a direct hit from years of knowing exactly how to push his buttons.

​the counselor’s gaze darts back and forth between the two of you like she's watching a high-stakes tennis match. the air in the luxury suite is practically vibrating with the sudden spike of mutual irritation, the quiet awkward from earlier completely replaced by a familiar, fiery tension.

a sharp, dark scowl instantly ripples across Rin’s face. he didn't expect you to fire back so quickly— or so accurately—and his pride clearly takes the hit.

​he takes a deliberate step closer to the seating area, his posture stiffening as he looks down at you, completely abandoning his detached, quiet routine.

​“ Hypocritical, ” he hits back, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerous and low.

​he locks entirely into the confrontation, his sharp eyes narrowing into slits. “ Vindictive. Childish. Unbearable. ”

​he delivers each syllable with a cold, biting emphasis, as if he's trying to physically weight you down with the words. he is completely ignoring the counselor now; his entire focus is narrowed entirely on you, his jaw clenched tightly as he waits to see if you have the nerve to keep this going.

before you can even open your mouth to fire back at his dismissive comment, the crisp click of the counselor's pen against her notepad cuts through the air, shattering the heavy silence.

​she looks between the two of you, a dry, highly amused smile playing on her lips as she leans back against the cushions of the couch.

​“ Wow, ” she says, her tone dripping with calm, deliberate irony. she glances up at Rin, then cuts her eyes over to you. “ Let's not forget... you two have to sleep in the exact same bed tonight. ”

​the implication hangs heavy in the air, a sharp reminder of the forced proximity you're both trapped in. she’s essentially telling you that no matter how much venom you spit at each other during the day, the walls of this penthouse aren't moving, and you're still going to be sharing a mattress at the end of the night.

​even with the counselor trying to diffuse the room, the absolute venom in the words Rin just threw at you— hypocritical, vindictive, childish, unbearable— burns right through your composure. a hot surge of anger tightly grips your chest.

you clench your jaw, your fingers digging into the fabric of the couch cushions as you glare at him, a lethal retort practically sitting on the tip of your tongue.

​but before you can let the fury spill out, the counselor takes a long, slow breath and shuts her leather folder with a definitive, heavy thud. the sudden sound cuts right through the thick, angry tension vibrating between you and Rin.

​“ You know what? Let's entirely throw out the intake questions, ” she says, her tone shifting from corporate and clinical to something far more deliberate. she slides her pen into her pocket and looks between the two of you with a knowing, unyielding expression. “ Verbal communication clearly isn't working for you right now. You're both just using words as weapons to defend yourselves, so we are going to try something completely different. ”

​she turns her gaze directly onto Rin, pointing to the empty cushions on the couch right across from you. “ Rin, sit down. Directly across from her. Right now. ”

​Rin stiffens, his eyes narrowing in absolute defiance, but the counselor's sharp, expectant stare doesn't waver. with a slow, incredibly tense movement, he finally walks over, sinking into the vacant spot on the couch right across you, his posture rigid and tight as he deliberately presses himself against the furthest edge of the cushions to keep as much distance between you two as possible.

​“ Here are the rules, ” the counselor announces, checking the watch on her wrist. “ No talking. No moving. No breaking away. You are going to maintain absolute, uninterrupted eye contact for exactly thirty seconds. Starting... now. ”

suddenly, you have no choice. your furious glare is locked dead onto Rin’s, and his icy, piercing eyes are pinned directly on yours.

the first five seconds are pure defiance.

you glare at him with all the lingering heat from your argument, and he stares back with that same cold, immovable intensity. you’re determined not to be the one to blink first.

​but by second ten, the anger starts to drain out of the room, leaving behind something much worse.

​oh, this feels incredibly awkward...

​​without the shield of sharp words or petty insults to hide behind, you are suddenly just... looking at him. really looking at him. because he just got out of the shower, you can smell the faint, clean scent of his soap drifting across the small space between you on the cushions. his damp hair is starting to dry in slightly messy tufts, making him look frustratingly human instead of the untouchable, robotic wall he usually builds around himself.

​​by second twenty, the silence is so heavy it feels physical. you notice the slight tension in his jaw, the way his dark eyelashes cast long shadows in the dimming light of the suite, and the sheer intensity of his gaze. Rin isn't looking away either. his piercing eyes are locked onto yours, completely unblinking, but his initial detachment seems to crack just a fraction. the coldness morphs into something far heavier— a dark, suffocating gravity hidden beneath his stubbornness, a charged weight of unresolved history that neither of you is allowed to speak out loud.

​your heart thumps against your ribs, the rhythm suddenly feeling way too loud in the quiet room. you find yourself focusing on a tiny fleck of color in his iris just to keep from losing your mind. sharing a bed tonight was already going to be a disaster, but sitting this close, forced to hold his gaze, makes the luxury penthouse feel smaller than a cage.

​“ Five seconds left, ” the counselor’s voice murmurs quietly from the background, her watch ticking down the final moments of the agonizingly long half-minute.

“ And... time! ”

​the counselor suddenly claps her hands together, a bright, booming sound that violently shatters the suffocating silence.

the agonizing tension in the air snaps instantly, and she sits up with a massive, beaming smile, her entire demeanor pivoting back to a burst of pure, high-energy enthusiasm.

​“ Oh, look at you two! Brilliant! Absolutely exceptional! ” she chirps loudly, nodding along as if she’s just witnessed a pair of toddlers successfully share a toy box.

​a sharp, dark scowl immediately ripples across his face. the lingering, suffocating tension from the eye contact is completely wiped out, replaced by sheer, unadulterated irritation. he looks at the counselor as if she has completely lost her mind, his body stiffening with deep embarrassment at being praised like a schoolchild.

​he lets out a harsh, aggressive scoff through his nose and abruptly shifts his weight on the couch, tearing his eyes away from you to glare directly at the floor. his hands clench into tight fists against his knees, his jaw working as he forces himself to swallow down a venomous retort. it’s taking every single ounce of his restraint not to walk out of the room right now.

the counselor’s eyes light up with an entirely too-bright, mischievous spark. she slaps her hands onto her knees and stands up, practically bouncing with newfound energy.

​“ Okay, since we conquered the eyes, it's time to bridge the physical gap! ” she announces cheerfully, gesturing between the two of you. “ Words divide you, but actions connect you. So, we are going to try something more physical to get you two back in sync. ”

​Rin’s head snaps up, his irritated glare sharpening into pure, freezing disgust.

​

“ Absolutely not. ” he says, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register.

​“ Oh, absolutely yes! ” she counters, completely unfazed by his killer aura. she steps closer to the coffee table, waving her hand dismissively. “ Nothing crazy. I just want you two to stand up, face each other, and hold hands. Palm to palm, fingers intertwined. And we're going to hold that connection for a full minute to ground your energies. ”

​the silence that hits the room this time is practically radioactive.

​Rin looks from the counselor's expectant smile down to your hands, and then slowly up to your face. his entire body is as rigid as a stone wall. the idea of holding your hand— feeling your warmth, letting his fingers slide between yours right after that intense eye contact— is clearly pushing him straight to his limit.

“ He's right, ” you say quickly, shaking your head as you slide your hands safely into your pockets. you look at the counselor, trying to sound like the voice of objective reason. “ I'm not doing that. This is moving a bit too fast. We just got here, and we can barely stand to look at each other without a timer running. Forcing physical contact right now is completely counterproductive. ”

the counselor doesn't skip a beat. her high-energy cheerfulness instantly drops away, replaced by the cool, sharp authority of someone who has diagnosed a hundred couples just like you. she looks you dead in the eye, her voice dropping into a calm, unyielding tone.

​“ You think this is fast ? You two lived together. You slept in the same space, breathed the same air, and built an entire life out of relying on one another. ” she says smoothly, her words cutting through your excuses with absolute, clinical precision. “ You aren't strangers on a first date trying to pace yourselves. The intimacy between you isn't new— it's just broken. You aren't afraid of moving too fast. You're afraid of how familiar it's going to feel the second your skin touches his. ”

​the truth of her words hits the room like a physical weight, leaving you completely breathless. there is a 100% accurate, undeniable logic to it that leaves you with absolutely nothing left to argue.

you open your mouth to find a loophole, a sarcastic retort, anything— but the words die in your throat. across from you, Rin’s posture turns impossibly rigid, his gaze flickering up to you for a fraction of a second, his cold eyes instantly hardening as the counselor’s dead-on accuracy forces his defensive walls to slam shut completely.

with all your defenses completely dismantled by the counselor’s logic, there is nothing left to do but comply. you rise from the couch first, but Rin remains glued to the cushions, his arms crossed so tightly over his chest his knuckles are white.

​“ I’m not doing this, ” he says, his voice a low, vicious hiss directed straight at the counselor. “ pathetic. ”

​the counselor doesn’t even blink. she simply crosses her legs, giving him a calm, unyielding look that silently communicates she is entirely willing to sit here in total silence until midnight if that’s what it takes.

​seconds tick by, heavy and suffocating.

Rin’s jaw works furiously, a dark, dangerous energy radiating off him as he realizes he’s trapped. he can’t leave, he can’t argue his way out of it, and his stubborn pride refuses to let him lose this pathetic game of chicken.

​finally, with a harsh, aggressive scoff, he abruptly forces himself up from the chair. his movements are stiff, every line of his lean frame radiating absolute, unadulterated fury.

​but even standing up, the sheer awkwardness and raw intensity of the moment is too much to face head-on. neither of you can bear to look each other in the eye after what was just exposed.

​without a word, you both instinctively turn your bodies, standing shoulder-to-shoulder but facing in completely opposite directions.

​in the heavy silence, you reluctantly reach your hand back into the small, empty space between you, your fingers searching blindly.

for a terrifying second, nothing happens. Rin just stands there like a statue of ice, his breathing shallow. then, slowly, with an incredibly tense, agonizing reluctance, you feel his heavy, cool hand slowly move back to meet yours, his palm rough and solid as it makes contact with your skin.

internally, Rin’s irritation is a cold, sharp blade. he keeps his gaze locked fixedly on the far wall of the penthouse, his jaw a hard, unyielding line. this is completely ridiculous— an absolute waste of his time. he harbors a deep, quiet resentment toward the counselor for trying to dissect both of you, and a bitter contempt for the agency for orchestrating this entire farce.

​but beneath the annoyance, a much more calculating tension is setting in.

​

the counselor’s parting shot echoes in his mind: you're afraid of how familiar it's going to feel.

when your skin finally makes contact with his, the immediate familiarity of it is a jolt he didn't prepare for. your hand fits against his palm with a ruthless, seamless ease that his muscle memory recognizes instantly. it’s an unwanted reminder of how things used to be— back when touching wasn't a mandated exercise, but a silent, functional reality between you.

​he refuses to let the sudden spike in his pulse betray him. controlling his breathing with deliberate precision, Rin locks his fingers completely rigid against yours. his grip is firm, steady, and entirely devoid of warmth. he doesn't squeeze, but he doesn't pull away either; to retreat would be an admission of weakness. he just stands there, facing forward like a statue, counting down the seconds in grim silence while keeping his eyes strictly averted from yours.

you stare resolutely at the opposite wall, your face burning with an awkwardness so intense it makes your skin prickle. your hand feels entirely too small wrapped up in his, and the sheer, solid warmth of his palm is making it impossible to breathe normally.

​don't think about it, you tell yourself fiercely. just ignore him. think about something else. anything else.

​panicking, you try to completely pull your mind away from the luxury suite, searching for a safe distraction to get you through the remaining seconds. you try to conjure up a good memory— a moment of pure peace from your public life, a time you felt completely happy.

​you think of that massive, high-profile movie premiere you had to attend 2 years ago. yes, focus on that. you remember the flashing cameras, the roaring crowd, and the glamorous, overwhelming energy of the red carpet. but as the memory expands, you realize you can't even remember the movie itself. all you can remember is Rin.

​because he was your bodyguard, he had been right there, a silent, immovable shadow in a tailored suit. you remember how overwhelmed you had felt by the suffocating crowd and the blinding camera flashes. Rin hadn't said anything comforting— he never did. but he had quietly stepped into your space, using his broad shoulders to block out the aggressive paparazzi, creating a small, impenetrable pocket of breathing room just for you. when a reckless reporter had lunged too close with a microphone, Rin’s hand had firmly gripped your upper arm, using his stride to anchor you and steer you with sharp, clinical precision through the chaos without missing a single beat. his presence had been the only grounding thing in that entire, dizzying night.

​​a sharp, suffocating frustration tightens in your chest, infuriating you to your core. it’s a bitter, inescapable realization. you’ve spent so much time with him, lived so much of your life wrapped up in his cold protection, that your entire history is completely saturated by his presence. every single memory, even the ones out in the glamorous world, has his fingerprints all over it. there is no "safe place" in your mind where he doesn't exist, no mental sanctuary where you can actually escape him. and standing here, forced to hold his hand in the quiet of the penthouse, that realization feels less like a comfort and more like a beautifully constructed cage.

​a shaky breath slips past your lips, and without thinking, your fingers involuntarily tighten just a fraction against his.

​Rin doesn’t flinch, but the sudden, tight flex of your fingers causes a distinct, rigid lock to ripple up his forearm. it is a microscopic reaction, but to anyone paying attention, it’s a total shutdown of movement. he remains completely motionless, his hand a solid, immovable weight against yours. he doesn't return the pressure— doing so would acknowledge the sudden break in your composure— but the fact that he doesn't immediately yank his hand away is a statement in itself.

for a second, the heavy silence between you stretches, the quiet penthouse suddenly feeling far too small.

​​Rin keeps his eyes pinned to the wall, his profile completely unreadable. yet, the tight line of his shoulders betrays the heavy, analytical focus now running through his mind. he knows exactly what that sudden pressure means. he recognizes it as a physical leak of your frustration— a blatant sign that your composure is slipping— and the sheer familiarity of that reaction threatens to disrupt his own calculated focus.

​rather than pulling away or giving you the satisfaction of calling you out, he merely hardens his stance. he treats the contact like a test of raw endurance, anchoring himself in place and refusing to let your friction throw him off balance.

caught in the heavy downpour of your own memories, your resolve completely slips. before you can stop yourself, your head turns just a fraction, your eyes involuntarily drifting over your shoulder to look at him.

​from this angle, you can only see the sharp, tense line of his profile. he doesn't move his head. he doesn't turn to meet your gaze, keeping his eyes fixed rigidly on the blank wall ahead of him as if he's staring right through it.

​but you can see the absolute rigidity in his composure.

​the muscle in his jaw tics, clamped tight as he forces his expression into a mask of total indifference. but while his face remains an unreadable blank, his hand betrays the sudden spike in tension. the exact second your eyes land on his profile, his fingers stiffen further inside your grip, locking into place like iron.

​he knows you're looking. he can feel the exact weight of your stare, heavy and searching, but he flatly refuses to look back.

turning his head would mean acknowledging the shift between you, giving into the counselor’s trap, and letting the past override his current guard.

to look would be to yield, and Rin doesn't yield. instead, he holds his gaze firmly ahead, his jaw hard and his stance unmoving, silently enduring the scrutiny as he waits for the timer to run out.

“ And that's one minute, ” the counselor's voice breaks through the silence, her tone dropping its previous childish cheer. it feels like it ended way faster than you expected— probably because your mind was so thoroughly trapped in those old red-carpet memories— but the sudden announcement makes you instantly let go of his hand.

​you pull your arm back, dropping your hand into your pocket as you step away, the lingering warmth of his palm still burning against your skin. Rin doesn't waste a single second either. he immediately drops his arm, his shoulders relaxing by a fraction as he takes a deliberate step back, his face a perfectly blank, unreadable mask once again.

​but as you both turn to face the seating area, you realize the counselor isn't looking at her notepad anymore.

​she is sitting forward, her chin resting in her hand, watching the two of you with a terrifyingly sharp, knowing expression. the playful, high-energy facade she used earlier is completely gone. she has been reading every single micro-expression, every shift in weight, and the exact second your fingers tightened against his.

​“ Fascinating, ” she murmurs quietly, her eyes sliding from you over to Rin's rigid posture. “ You both put up such a loud, angry front with your words. But the second you're forced to be silent, the truth comes out. ”

​she stands up slowly, smoothing down her skirt. “ You didn't look at each other because you hate each other. You looked away because the history between you is so heavy neither of you knows how to carry it alone anymore. You're both terrified of how much you still matter to the other. ”

​the absolute accuracy of her words leaves a suffocating silence in the room, cutting straight through the defenses you both spent the last hour building up.

​“ I'm going to ask you both a very direct question, and given the forced proximity of this assignment, I need absolute, unvarnished honesty, ” she says, her voice cutting through the heavy silence.

​she locks her gaze onto you first, then cuts it sharply over to Rin.

​“ Are either of you currently dating anyone else right now? Or, do you have immediate intentions to start dating someone else? ”

​the question hangs in the air like a sudden drop in pressure. it’s a completely standard protocol for a forced-cohabitation assignment— the agency needs to know if there are outside complications— but hearing it out loud makes the room feel entirely too small.

​Rin doesn't blink. he keeps his face an impenetrable mask, but his shoulders lock into rigid lines. he waits in the heavy silence, eyes fixed forward, refusing to speak first. the only sign of the pressure is the sharp, rhythmic tic of the muscle in his clenched jaw.

the counselor’s eyes lock onto you, heavy and expectant. when neither of you immediately speaks, she raises a single, sharp eyebrow and gestures directly at you with her pen.

​“ You first. ” she says, her tone completely unyielding.

a sudden wave of pure irritation flashes through you, hot and sharp. why me first? why do you always have to be the one to lay your cards on the table while Rin gets to stand there like a brick wall, hiding behind his usual stoic silence? it feels entirely unfair, like she’s deliberately putting you on the spot to see if you'll crack.

​you glare at her, the retort practically begging to burst out of your mouth. you want to ask her what difference it makes who goes first, or why she isn't grilling the person who just called you unbearable 3 minutes ago.

​but you force yourself to swallow the anger down. you bite the inside of your cheek, keeping your lips pressed into a tight, frustrated line, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction just yet.

​you force a calm, indifferent shrug, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as you look the counselor dead in the eye.

​“ No, ” you say, your voice completely flat and professional. “ I'm not dating anyone, and I don't have any plans to. My focus right now is strictly on the assignment and meeting the agency's expectations. ”

​it is the safest, most textbook answer you could possibly give. it completely shuts down any romantic implications, frames your life as purely career-oriented, and gives the counselor absolutely zero personal ammunition to use against you.

you’ve effectively wrapped yourself right back up in your professional armor.

​the counselor notes your response, her pen making a tiny, scratchy mark on her ledger, before her sharp gaze slides away from you and lands directly on him.

“ And you, Rin? ” she asks smoothly. “ Same question. ”

Rin doesn’t even hesitate. the second the counselor’s eyes land on him, his expression hardens into a familiar, icy mask of absolute indifference. he slides his hands sharply into his pockets as he looks right past the counselor, staring blankly out the window at the city skyline.

​“ No. ” he says, his voice flat, concise, and completely devoid of emotion. “ I don't have time for distractions. ”

​it is the most textbook, rigidly professional answer possible. he completely mimics your strategy, hiding behind the agency's protocols to avoid revealing even a microscopic glimpse of his personal life. he makes it sound like a machine answering a prompt, utterly cold and unbothered.

​but because he answered so quickly, without a single beat of hesitation, it feels almost too perfectly rehearsed.

​the counselor looks at him for a long, quiet moment, her pen hovering over the paper. she doesn't write anything down right away. instead, she just lets the silence stretch out between the three of you, her eyes scanning Rin’s rigid profile, completely aware that his robotic professionalism is just a massive, impenetrable wall to keep either of you from seeing how deeply disrupted his composure actually is.

​“ Fascinating choice of words, Rin, ”‎ she says, her voice smooth and entirely too sharp. “ You said you don't have time for distractions, ”

​she steps closer, deliberately tilting her head to catch his eye.

​“ So let's hypothetically say the agency's parameters change. What if the 'distraction' in question isn't some outside variable? What if the distraction... is her? ”

she gestures directly at you, her gaze cutting between the two of you like a blade. “ If she were the one disrupting your focus under this roof, would you mind? ”

the counselor is clearly trying to bait him, but Rin doesn't even blink. he doesn't look at you, and his composure doesn't crack by even a millimeter.

​slowly, his eyes slide over to the counselor, his gaze entirely deadpan and dismissive.

​“ She’s a benefit to my reputation, ” Rin says, his voice flat, short, and completely devoid of emotion. “ not a distraction. ”

​he shuts his mouth, leaving it at that. It’s a direct, clinical answer that completely neutralizes her trap without giving either of you a single inch of personal drama to parse through.

the counselor lets out a sharp, knowing click of her tongue, completely unfazed by his bluntness. she leans forward, her pen tapping a rhythmic, mocking beat against her notebook.

​“ So what you're saying is, ” she begins, her voice dropping into an entirely too-shrewd undertone, “ if it weren't for the rules, the mission, or ' operational efficiency '... you wouldn't mind dating her again? ”

​a small, involuntary smile tugs at the corner of your lips. you can't help it. for the past hour, you’ve been the one trapped in the hot seat, squirming under the counselor's psychological microscope while Rin stood by like an unbothered statue. but now? the tables have completely turned. finally, he is the one cornered by her relentless logic, and you are more than happy to sit back and watch him sweat.

​you glance over at him, waiting to see how his perfect, impenetrable armor handles this one.

​​Rin stays absolutely still, but his eyes narrow into a dangerous, icy slit as he glares at the counselor. the short, dismissive answers he used before aren't going to work this time. the silence in the room stretches out, heavy and suffocating, as he bites back whatever harsh retort is resting on his tongue, completely aware that you are standing right there, smiling, waiting to hear his answer.

​Rin lets the silence stretch for a long, agonizing beat. he doesn't look at you— he refuses to give you the satisfaction of seeing him rattled by your smile— but the absolute stiffness of his shoulders proves he knows exactly what you're doing.

he locks his eyes onto the counselor, his gaze cold enough to freeze water. he doesn't take the romantic bait, and he doesn't give a long, defensive explanation.

instead, he shuts the entire line of questioning down with a harsh, unyielding finality.

​“ The past is irrelevant. ” Rin says, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl. “ I don't deal in 'what-ifs'. ”

​he crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw clamped tightly shut. It’s the ultimate stonewall. by refusing to answer a hypothetical question, he avoids saying yes and he avoids saying no. he effectively locks the door, throws away the key, and leaves the counselor with absolutely nothing left to twist against him.

the counselor doesn't flinch at his low, dangerous tone. instead, she slowly leans back in her chair, a sharp, knowing smile spreading across her face as she taps her pen against the ledger.

​“ An irrelevant past, ” she echoes softly, her voice practically dripping with clinical amusement. “ a very efficient defense mechanism, Rin. But silence and deflection are still answers. They just tell me exactly what you're trying to hide. ”

​she leans forward, resting her elbows on her desk, refusing to let him off the hook just yet. “ You can pretend there are no 'what-ifs,' but your body language tells a completely different story. ”

beside you, Rin stays absolutely immobile, his face a flawless mask of stone. he keeps his eyes locked rigidly on the counselor, completely ignoring the provocation.

​but beneath his cold exterior, his focus has completely shifted to you. he doesn't turn his head, but his hyper-vigilant awareness tracks your every movement in his periphery. he catches the tiny, lingering trace of your smile, and the muscle in his jaw tics— a sharp, involuntary reaction to the sheer familiarity of it.

​his crossed arms tighten against his chest, his grip anchoring hard against his own forearms. it isn't a gesture of defeat, but of absolute self-regulation. he forces his posture into an unyielding lock, deliberately keeping his distance because he knows exactly how easily your presence can disrupt his focus. Rin refuses to give the counselor the satisfaction of seeing a reaction, but the rigid, protective tension in his shoulders tells a different story: he has completely tuned out the rest of the room, entirely dialed into your presence as the only variable that actually commands his attention.

the counselor casually waves a hand, dismissing the tension. as far as she’s concerned, she doesn't need to dig any deeper— the heavy, unspoken awareness between the two of you is loud enough.

​“ Alright, ” she says, leaning back with a calm, entirely unbothered smile. “ Consider the ice broken. Now for the final exercise. A two-minute hug. Go ahead. ”

​the directive lands like a lead weight in the quiet penthouse.

​Rin’s gaze snaps from the counselor to the empty space between you, his eyes narrowing into razor-thin, lethal lines. a two-minute hug isn't a psychological exercise; it’s an interrogation tactic disguised as intimacy, a blatant trap designed to strip away whatever boundaries he has left.

for a second, he doesn't move a single muscle. his entire body locks up in flat, unyielding refusal, his jaw tightening so hard the bone looks sharp under his skin.

​he just stands there, his mind clearly racing for a calculated loophole or a cold way out of this command. but the counselor doesn't blink, entirely unmoved by his icy glare. she simply waits, leaving the two of you stranded in the suffocating silence as the seconds begin to tick away.

the counselor lets out a soft, mocking hum, entirely unbothered by his wall. “ You can pretend there are no 'what-ifs,' Rin, but you're both just hiding behind professionalism. What is the actual trajectory here? ”

​​Rin doesn't flinch, but his eyes narrow into razor-thin, lethal lines. he doesn't look at you, but the absolute, freezing temperature of his voice cuts through the room like a

​“ What exactly do you want from this report? ” Rin asks, his tone dropping into a low, dangerously flat drawl. “ You want a timeline? You want to know what’s next on your little checklist? Should we make out right here on the couch? Do we need to have sex in the penthouse to satisfy the agency's parameters? ”

​the words are incredibly blunt, crashing into the quiet room like a physical blow. he delivers them without a single shred of heat or passion— just pure, biting sarcasm meant to weaponize the counselor's own invasive boundaries against her.

he uses every ounce of his discipline to look entirely detached, his posture locking into an immovable, rigid stance. his anger isn't a loud outburst; it is a calculated, freezing malice. by reducing the counselor’s psychological probing down to a sterile, ridiculous checklist of physical acts, he completely strips the situation of any emotional weight, leaving her with nothing but her own invasive metrics to look back at.

but his bluntness hits you like a physical jolt. you freeze, your eyes widening slightly as his crude, biting words echo in the quiet penthouse. Rin doesn't break eye contact with the counselor, his face remaining a mask of pure, frigid defiance, but the sheer escalation in the room makes the air feel suddenly thin.

​as the shock settles, a strange, uneasy realization begins to creep in.

looking at the counselor’s completely unbothered expression— and remembering the invasive checklist she’s been running you both— you realize Rin might not actually be exaggerating. from the hand-holding to a mandatory two-minute hug, the agency's parameters are clearly moving toward a specific, forced endpoint. by the time the final week rolls around, an order like the one he just sarcastically snapped out might actually be on the table.

​a weird, heavy feeling twists in your stomach. it’s a jarring mix of discomfort at the agency's absolute control over your lives, and a sudden, sharp hyper-awareness of Rin standing right across you. the thought of being forced into that level of intimacy under the agency's watchful eye makes your skin prickle.

the train of thought derails instantly though. sex with Rin?

​before you can even stop yourself, the mental image flashes behind your eyes. it’s a sudden, intrusive jolt of memory—the heat of it, the absolute familiarity of his weight, the way his composure completely changes when it’s just the two of you behind closed doors. it has been so damn long since—

​no. absolutely not.

​you violently yank your thoughts back to reality, a sudden flush of heat hitting your face. stop. do not think about that right now.

​you force your gaze strictly ahead, praying that neither Rin nor the counselor can read the sudden, panicked chaos behind your eyes.

the counselor doesn’t even blink. instead, a slow, entirely unbothered smile spreads across her face, infuriatingly amused by Rin’s attempt to shock her.

​“ Well, ” she says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, her tone casual. “ I’m not so sure about the making out on the couch. That feels a bit rushed for Tuesday. ”

​she pauses, her eyes shifting deliberately between the two of you, tracking the rigid tension radiating off Rin and the sudden stillness in your posture.

​“ But as for the sex part? ” she lets out a soft, knowing hum. “ I wouldn’t worry about the agency writing that into the parameters. Because I’m entirely confident that by the end of this mission, you two will be doing that completely willingly. ”

​the drop of a hairpin would have sounded like a bomb in the silence that follows.

​beside you, Rin doesn't move, but the atmosphere around him drops to near freezing. the absolute audacity of her reading right through his defensive armor and turning his own weaponized sarcasm against him has him locking down completely. his jaw tightens to a near-impossible degree, his eyes narrowing into razor-thin, lethal lines as he glares at her, the silence in the penthouse turning thick enough to choke on.

​the crude finality of Rin's words echoes in the room, but instead of shocking you, it hits you like a sudden, suffocating wave of heat.

​a sharp, dizzying rush of pure shame washes over you, and you immediately look down at the carpet, your arms wrapping tightly around your middle.

​because the absolute worst, most horrifying part of this? the counselor is probably 100% right. and you had literally just thought about it.

​you had just been standing there, feeling the intense radiant heat of his body next to yours, silently remembering what it felt like to actually be touched by him.

​you feel utterly exposed, like a complete fool. here is Rin, treating the mere concept of making out or being intimate with you like an absurd, laughable joke to throw in a counselor's face— while you are secretly suffocating on the fact that your brain actually went there.

​the shame burns hot in your cheeks, making you feel incredibly small. you bite the inside of your cheek and fiercely stare at a fixed point on the floor, terrified that if you lift your head even a millimeter, both of them will see the raw, panicked guilt written all over your face.

“ Perfect, ” she says, her voice smooth, calm, and utterly unbothered by the hostility in the room. She taps her pen against the desk with a sharp, definitive click. “ Since you're both so hyper-focused on 'operational efficiency' and handling 'distractions,' let's put it to the test. ”

​“ Hug, ” she commands flatly. “ Right now. Stand up, look each other in the eye, and hug for full two minutes. ”

“ Actually, ” she adds, a small, entirely too-merciful smile playing on her lips as she checks her watch. “ Let's make it thirty seconds instead of the usual two minutes. Consider it a favor since I'm feeling nice today. ”

“ Thirty seconds. Close the distance, hold it, and let’s see just how much that 'operational efficiency' you both boast about actually holds up under physical contact. Clock starts when you touch. ”

​the concession doesn't make the directive feel any lighter. if anything, her " kindness " just underscores exactly how much power she has over the situation, turning a clinical exercise into a ticking clock of pure, agonizing vulnerability.

​Rin doesn't move a single inch. his posture remains locked in a rigid, unyielding line, his jaw clamped shut so tightly that the skin looks pale. he shifts his gaze down to you, his eyes dark and completely unreadable as he calculates his next move.

​he isn't panicking; he is assessing the tactical reality of the counselor's trap. the command has been given, and refusing it outright would only give the agency more leverage to use against them. if he has to execute this directive, he is going to do it on his own terms— maintaining absolute control, locking down his personal feelings, and ensuring that not a single trace of his actual attachment slips through his ironclad guard.

whatever, you think to yourself, the burning humiliation finally pushing you past your breaking point. let’s just get this over with.

​stepping forward, you close the remaining distance between you on the hotel rug and wrap your arms firmly around his neck.

​your body fits against his perfectly. because of the staggering height difference, your face is tucked just under his chin, your forehead brushing the smooth fabric over his collarbone. you lock your hands together behind his neck, resting your weight against him, using him to anchor yourself as you stare blankly over his shoulder at the hotel room wall.

​Rin doesn't hug you back.

​​he doesn't flinch, his breath doesn't hitch, and his composure doesn't crack by even a fraction of a millimeter. his arms remain loose and completely deadweight at his sides, refusing to lift an inch to return the embrace.

the counselor looks down at Rin’s arms, a dry, unimpressed expression settling on her face. she sighs, tapping her pen against her clipboard.

​“ Rin, ” she points out flatly, her voice cutting through the quiet room. “ Why aren't you hugging her back? The directive was an embrace, not acting like a coat rack. ”

when he doesn't move a single millimeter, the counselor loses her patience. she steps forward, completely unfazed by his intimidating frame, and reaches out. she physically grabs his heavy, rigid forearms and drags them up, forcing his arms around your waist.

​Rin’s jaw clamps shut so hard the muscle leaps in his cheek. he glares down at the counselor with absolute, murderous malice, looking ready to snap her wrist— but he doesn't pull away.

​now that his hands have been physically forced against the small of your back, he has no choice but to hold you. his palms flatten against your fabric, his grip turning firm, stiff, and completely unyielding. it’s an incredibly tense, resentful hold— he is entirely furious at the counselor's manipulation, but the sheer, solid weight of his large hands pressing you flush against his chest is suddenly completely undeniable.

​Rin’s eyes narrow into razor-thin, lethal lines as he glares down at the counselor, his hands still forced firmly against your lower back.

​“ You're incredibly annoying. ” he drawls, his voice dropping into a low, cutting murmur that vibrates directly against your chest. he delivers the words with a flat, absolute certainty, treating her intrusive methods like a pathetic joke.

​“ Does the agency actually pay you to play matchmaker, or do you just lack basic boundaries? ”

the counselor merely offers a sharp, clinical smile in response, entirely unfazed by his hostility.

​the sharp, biting venom in Rin’s voice shouldn’t be comforting, but it gives you a familiar anchor to hold onto while your senses completely betray you.

​because right now, you are too close. far too close.

​with your face tucked right under his chin, your nose is practically brushed against the crook of his neck, and you can smell him. it’s the exact same scent that used to fill your bedroom, that used to cling to your sheets. it’s a mix of clean, expensive soap, crisp suit fabric, and that distinct warmth that belongs entirely to him.

​a wave of vertigo hits you. you never, ever thought that after a whole year of breaking up with Rin, you would be forced to hug him like this.

​the sheer absurdity of it makes your chest ache. one year of agonizing distance, one year of building up high, unyielding walls to forget the feeling of his skin— completely dismantled in a random hotel room because of an agency directive. and the thought that terrifies you the most is the heavy, suffocating realization of what comes next. if the counselor is already forcing this level of intimacy on day one, what happens when this mission evolves? if things get more dangerous, or more desperate... what else are you going to be forced to do with him?

you always thought you were a professional.

you’d convinced yourself that you could handle absolutely anything this agency threw at you for the sake of the mission— any undercover role, any dangerous asset, any absurd parameter.

​but as Rin’s large, heavy hands keep you firmly pinned against his chest, the reality of his earlier sarcastic outburst crashes back into your mind, turning your blood to ice.

​just not sex. anything else. you could handle the forced proximity, the awkward tension, even this agonizingly familiar hug in a pristine hotel room. but the absolute line in the sand— the one boundary you cannot, will not cross— is that.

​the sheer thought of it makes your heart hammer frantically against your ribs, right against his. to be forced into that level of intimacy with him under the clinical, watching eye of the agency? to have the one year of painful distance you built up completely obliterated in the most vulnerable way possible? it would destroy you.

​you grip the back of his neck a fraction tighter, your fingers straining against his skin as a silent, desperate panic takes hold. you are ready to endure whatever psychological games this counselor wants to play, but if this assignment actually evolves into what Rin mocked— if the agency dares to push those parameters— you will break.

“ Time’s up! ” the counselor chirps suddenly, clapping her hands together with a sharp, crisp snap that instantly breaks the heavy spell in the hotel room.

​just like that, her clinical, interrogative coldness completely vanishes, instantly replaced by that bright, fiercely positive energy from earlier.

​“ Oh, absolutely spectacular! ” she praises, her face lighting up with a radiant, beaming smile as she enthusiastically scribbles a flurry of notes onto her clipboard. “ See? I knew you two had it in you! Truly excellent cooperation. ”

​she looks up from her board, practically radiating proud, maternal approval, completely ignoring the absolute storm of tension still vibrating between the two of you.

​the abrupt shift is dizzying. her cheery voice bounces off the hotel walls, treating the agonizing, suffocating thirty seconds you just survived like nothing more than a highly successful gold-star exercise on a corporate checklist.

“ So, ” the counselor asks, leaning forward with an expectant, bright smile as she taps her pen against her clipboard. “ How did that feel for both of you? Any notable breakthrough in the operational comfort level? ”

​neither of you answers.

​you don't say a single word, but the look on both of your faces says absolutely everything.

​you are standing there with your jaw tight, your cheeks still burning with a raw, fierce flush of humiliation as you stare rigidly at the carpet, refusing to look at either of them.

​next to you, Rin looks like he is about to dismantle the entire hotel room. his face has settled into a dangerous, icy mask of absolute disgust, his dark eyes narrowed into thin, lethal slits as he glares at the counselor. his hands are buried deep in his suit pockets now, his shoulders tense and rigid enough to snap.

​the silence between you is deafening, heavy with a year's worth of unresolved baggage and the lingering, suffocating ghost of his scent. it is a look of pure, unadulterated misery and profound resentment— proving without a single spoken word that the last thirty seconds didn't fix a damn thing.

the counselor doesn't even mind the toxic silence. she just smiles, completely satisfied with her day’s work, and slides her clipboard into her bag.

​“ ...Well, both of you did exceptionally well today, ” she says, her tone light and breezy as she walks toward the exit of the hotel suite. “ That’s all for our initial assessment. I'll see you tomorrow! ”

​“ Yeah. Bye, ” you say speedingly.

you don't even wait for her to step fully into the hallway before you are practically shoving the heavy wooden door shut behind her. you slam it into the frame with a loud, definitive thud, instantly turning the lock with a sharp click.

​you lean your back against the solid wood, letting out a long, shaky breath you feel like you’ve been holding for the last thirty minutes. finally, she's gone.

but as the echoes of the slammed door fade, the absolute silence of the hotel room rushes back in— and you suddenly remember that you are now completely alone with Rin.

​Rin doesn’t give you— or the ghost of the counselor— the satisfaction of a dramatic outburst.

​he stands in the center of the hotel room for a beat, his hands still driven deep into his pockets. slowly, the murderous glare fades from his face, replaced by his usual unreadable, icy mask. he treats the entire agonizing ordeal like a minor, irritating glitch in his day.

​“ Stupid waste of time. ” he mutters, his voice flat and cuttingly cold.

​without looking at you, he steps past you, his shoulder barely brushing yours as he grabs his dark suit jacket from the back of the chair. he doesn't say another word as he strides toward the heavy glass doors of the hotel balcony, sliding them open just enough to slip through before shutting them behind him with a quiet, decisive click.

​through the glass, you can see his tall silhouette against the city lights. he simply stands at the railing, bracing hands against the cold metal and staring out at the skyline. his shoulders are rigid, his chest rising and falling in a slow, forced rhythm as he uses the crisp night air to fiercely lock down whatever irritation— or lingering awareness— that hug just stirred up.

​and just like that, you are left completely alone in the sudden, deafening quiet of the suite.

​—

the hours bleed away in a heavy, fragile silence.

​Rin stays out on the balcony for a long time, nothing but a dark silhouette framed against the sprawling grid of the city lights. when he finally slides the glass door open and steps back inside, he doesn't look at you. he doesn't say goodnight. he simply moves with that quiet, lethal efficiency of his, tossing his jacket over a chair before retreating to his side of the suite, shutting the door with a soft, final click.

​the separation should make you feel safer, but it doesn't.

​as you finally lie down on the bed, the hotel sheets feel entirely too crisp, too cold. you stare up at the shadows dancing across the ceiling, the absolute quiet of the room offering no comfort. every time you close your eyes, your mind traitorously loops back to those thirty seconds— the solid, radiating heat of his chest, the heavy, forced weight of his hands against your back, and that lingering scent of clean soap that you can still faintly detect on your own skin.

but as the clock ticks steadily toward the morning, a deep, unsettling dread sinks into your stomach.

​the night is ending, the shadows are beginning to gray at the edges of the heavy curtains, and tomorrow is already here. and with it, the counselor will return to push the boundaries even further.

© 2026 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.

this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.

well if it isn't obvious, I am unfortunately tired of editing... I finished writing this on june 7 and tomorrow is my first day in school. freedom no more 💔 gonna be depressed for a whole year ig... I'll try my best to upload new works at least once a month!

hehehe I know I said that dessert series update on this will be early, but I cant help it ! I really love this :3 ( be grateful. I'm losing interest in everything )

I love Rin if it isn't obvious, and hate won't be tolerated in my blog ❤️

he is rolled back into his own routine, his focus entirely internal as he lets the door close softly behind him. he doesn't look at you immediately, his fingers casually adjusting the cuff of his sleeve before he reaches up to brush a few stray strands of dark hair away from his forehead. there isn't a single trace of urgency in his posture, no frantic checking of his own phone, no tense line in his shoulders to suggest he has any idea his carefully guarded privacy was just violently dismantled while he was out of the room. he is completely, blissfully oblivious to the absolute chaos vibrating in the palm of your hand, a quiet figure of absolute calm stepping directly into the center of a roaring public execution.

he shifts his weight slightly, his footsteps entirely silent against the thick carpet as he detours past the foot of the bed, his trajectory set toward the far corner of the room. he is only here because of a brief oversight, navigating the space with the single-minded focus of someone merely retrieving an item he inadvertently left behind before his day truly begins. his dark eyes scan the surface of the dresser, zeroing in on the small, forgotten object resting on the dark wood— his smart watch.

​he reaches out, his long, pale fingers closing around it with a calm, practiced familiarity that makes your stomach do a violent flip. every single one of his movements is agonizingly slow and measured, agonizingly normal, drawing a sharp, painful contrast against the frantic, breathless panic paralyzing your entire body. he slips the item into his pocket, completely unaware that this mundane little errand has just walked him directly into the line of fire, his quiet, domestic presence completely detached from the hyper-viral nightmare waiting to explode on the screen in your trembling hands.

your gaze locks onto him, your eyes wide with a fragile mix of confusion and pure, startled disbelief. of all the moments for him to materialize, of all the hours in the day he could have chosen to step back through that door, it had to be right now— at the exact, devastating second your life is actively burning to the ground on a five-inch screen. it feels like a cruel, twisted joke orchestrated by the universe, a sudden collision of your public nightmare and your private reality that leaves you completely paralyzed beneath the covers.

​you stare at his back, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs as you try to reconcile the absolute, oblivious calm of his posture with the roaring digital avalanche currently vibrating against your palm. the sheer timing of it leaves your mind spinning in circles, a breathless, internal panic screaming in your head because you aren't ready, you don't have a script, and you have absolutely no way to shield him from the fallout of a mistake he doesn't even know has been made yet.

he turns on his heel, his task completed as he begins to track back toward the door, clearly intending to slip out as quietly and efficiently as he had arrived. but before his hand can even reach for the handle, the heavy silence of the suite is violently shattered. your manager’s voice erupts from the receiver, a sharp, frantic volley of words that cuts through the air so loudly it doesn't even need the assistance of a speakerphone to fill the entire room. the raw panic bleeding through the tiny speaker is unmistakable, a frantic, breathless barrage of instructions and damage control that instantly changes the entire atmosphere of the space.

Rin stops dead in his tracks. as someone who navigates the exact same suffocating waters of fame, he recognizes that specific, high-alert frequency instantly; he knows the precise cadence of a career-threatening PR disaster when he hears it. the casual indifference completely vanishes from his posture as he slowly turns his head back toward the bed. his eyes find yours, locking onto your terrified face with a sudden, razor-sharp intensity that makes the breath completely catch in your throat.

“ Are you even listening to me?! ” your manager’s voice blasts through the line again, the sheer volume causing the sound to cut sharply through the heavy air of the suite. “ Your phone has been busy for the last three minutes, and my office is already flooded with press inquiries from outlets we don't even talk to! You need to answer me right now— what is the plan here? What are your plans now that you and Rin have completely blown up the internet?! Do we issue a formal retraction, or are we spinning this into a confirmation? Give me something, because the media is having an absolute field day and your parents' publicists are already drafting a statement! ”

the line crackles with your manager's frantic breathing, the question hanging heavily in the silence of the room like a live wire.

​Rin doesn't blink, his gaze remaining absolutely fixed on you as the words echo clearly off the walls. the casual indifference he had carried into the room just moments ago is entirely gone, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness. he knows exactly what he just heard; he recognizes his own name, and he understands the catastrophic weight of the word blown up in their world. he slowly lowers his hand from the door handle, his posture rigid as he stands his ground at the edge of the room. he looks down at you, his voice dropping into a low, flat rasp that completely cuts through the static of the phone, his tone devoid of panic but heavy with a dangerous, quiet irritation.

“ What did they just say? ” he asks, his eyes boring into yours, demanding an immediate answer.

“ Um... well... ”

the words stumble over each other, completely empty and useless as they dry up in your throat. you can barely squeeze them past the sudden knot in your chest, your voice shrinking under the immense weight of Rin’s unblinking, critical stare. your mind is a total blank, completely incapable of formulating a coherent lie or a comforting truth while he stands there like an executioner waiting for an explanation.

​before you can even attempt to pull yourself together, the tiny speaker in your hand erupts again, the frantic breathing on the other end dropping into a harsh, furious gasp. your manager has caught the distinct, low vibration of Rin’s voice in the background, and the realization only sends their panic into absolute overdrive.

“ Is that him? Is Itoshi Rin, in the room with you right now?! ” your manager demands, their voice escalating into a sharp, angry bark that slices through the tense quiet of the suite. “ What actually did happen last night? Why are the two of you together this morning? You were supposed to be laying low, not handing the paparazzi a front-page headline on a silver platter! Answer me! ”

the frantic, aggressive shouting becomes too much to contain in your palm, the noise vibrating violently against your skin. realizing you can no longer hide the reality of the situation, your thumb moves across the glass, tapping the screen until the audio abruptly expands. you place the call on speaker, the sudden, loud amplification of your manager's furious breathing filling the entire space, completely stripping away whatever privacy you had left.

“ A post from last night. Someone took a photo of us at dinner.. and I accidentally interacted with a comment. It went viral. The internet thinks it’s a relationship confirmation. ” you whisper, the truth finally forcing its way past your lips as you look up at him, your voice sounding incredibly small against the backdrop of the manager’s amplified breathing. you swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the phone.

for the first time since he stepped back into the suite, Rin’s face settles into a look of absolute, icy disgust. there is no loud outburst, no panic— just a heavy, suffocating silence as his dark eyes narrow into twin slits of pure contempt. he stays entirely still, looking down at the glowing screen in your hands as if staring at a piece of garbage that just ruined his morning routine.

​he doesn't yell. instead, he just stares down at you, his dark eyes narrowing into twin slits of pure contempt.

“ Are you stupid? ” he rasps, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, icy tone that completely cuts off the manager's frantic shouting from the speaker. he takes one slow, deliberate step closer to the bed, looming over you with a gaze that feels like a physical threat. “ You couldn't watch where you put your thumb, so now my name is dragged into your circus. ”

he scoffs— a short, bitter sound— and turns his face away, his shoulders rigid with a raw, simmering irritation. he doesn't offer a solution, and he doesn't ask how you're going to fix it. he just stands there, radiating a suffocating, quiet fury that makes it very clear he considers you a massive liability.

right on cue, the sharp, demanding buzz of his own phone slices through the tension, vibrating violently against the fabric of his pocket. he pulls it out with a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes flicking down to the screen. the display flashes aggressively with a caller ID that is undoubtedly his own manager or a frantic PR representative trying to establish a containment zone before the story spirals completely out of control. Rin doesn't even hesitate. with a cold, dismissive flick of his thumb, he hits the silence button, killing the ringtone instantly but leaving the screen to pulse uselessly in his palm, completely ignoring the outside world as if he could simply freeze the crisis by refusing to acknowledge it.

​his blatant, arrogant dismissal sets something off inside you, the suffocating guilt you felt just a second ago instantly hardening into a sharp, defensive anger of your own.

“ The comment was my fault, fine! ” you snap, your voice rising as you finally push yourself up against the pillows, refusing to let him just loom over you like an untouchable judge. you glare back at him, the frustration bubbling over as you point a trembling finger toward the glowing screen. “ But the comment wouldn't even matter if those photos didn't exist in the first place! I didn't ask the paparazzi to follow us, and I didn't force you to come to dinner! ”

a harsh, line of irritation digs deep between Rin’s eyebrows, his eyes darkening further as your defiance hits him. he lets out a low, breathy click of his tongue— a sound dripping with pure annoyance that tells you exactly how pathetic he finds your attempt to shift the blame. he opens his mouth, his lips parting to deliver a characteristically blunt, cutting rebuttal that would likely tear your argument to shreds.

​but the words never get the chance to leave his throat.

​the heavy silence of the room is violently obliterated as the manager’s voice erupts from the speaker again, louder and more abrasive than before, cutting right through the suffocating tension building between the two of you.

“ Oh, great, now you’re screaming at each other! Listen to me, both of you— now is absolutely not the time to be having a pathetic little couples' fight or some dramatic lovers' quarrel! ” the manager barks through the line, their tone an infuriated blend of exhaustion and panic that echoes sharply off the walls of the suite. “ Save the domestic fight for when our phones stop ringing! The entire industry is watching you right now, and I don't give a damn who started what last night. Shut up, put your history aside, and start thinking about damage control! ”

the completely uncalled-for accusation strikes a raw, agonizing nerve. the sheer audacity of the words lovers' quarrel hangs heavily in the air, instantly backfiring and sending a fresh wave of irritation rippling through both of you. you can feel your own blood boiling at the forced assumption, and when you glance back at Rin, his expression has completely frozen into a mask of pure, glacial disgust. being lumped back together into a neat, public narrative of a dysfunctional couple irritates him to his very core, and the collective frustration in the room reaches a dangerous, suffocating peak as you both stare at the blaring phone in mutual, bitter silence.

“ I'm calling Rin's manager right now to hash this out, ” your manager barks through the line, the sound of papers rustling frantically in the background. “ Actually, scratch that— luckily for both of you, you're under the exact same roof. I'm calling a mandatory meeting at the main office. 12:00 PM sharp. No excuses. ”

your manager doesn't even wait for a response, their voice carrying a final, no-nonsense authority that leaves absolutely no room for negotiation. “ That gives you a few hours to pull yourselves together and slip past whatever paparazzi are already gathering outside that hotel. Both of you need to be in that conference room by noon so we can figure out how the hell we're spinning this. Don't be late. ”

with a sharp click, the line goes completely dead, leaving the frantic, demanding tone echoing in the sudden silence of the suite.

the suffocating urge to argue simply drains out of Rin, replaced by a cold, practical indifference. his jaw relaxes slightly, his posture shifting from defensive hostility back into that familiar, unbothered wall of ice.

besides, the manager's irritated reprimand had accidentally struck a terribly accurate chord.

​you aren't a couple. you haven't been for a long time, and the ruined remains of your past relationship aren't worth the energy of a screaming match in a hotel room. why waste the breath fighting over a narrative that shouldn't even exist? he glances down at you one last time, his dark eyes completely devoid of the fire from a moment ago, leaving only a hollow, clinical detachment as he mentally closes the door on the argument.

the second the heavy door clicks shut and his presence finally clears from the room, the fragile composure you were white-knuckling completely shatters. you fling the tangled sheets aside and scramble out of bed, your feet barely registering the cold floor as you rush blindly toward the privacy of the adjacent bathroom. you slam the door behind you, turning the lock with a frantic, trembling hand as if you could somehow shut out the entire world— and the crushing weight of Rin's contempt— with a single piece of brass.

​leaning heavily against the marble sink, you grip the edges until your knuckles turn stark white, staring into the mirror at your own wide, panicked eyes.

the tears hit you instantly, hot and blurring your vision before you can even catch your breath. you press a trembling palm flat against your mouth, desperately choking back a sob because the last thing you want is for anyone— for him, if he’s somehow still lingering in the hallway— to hear you break down.

before you can even begin to wipe the hot tears from your face or steady your breathing, a firm, distinct knock echoes through the suite, rattling the heavy wooden door of the main room. your heart drops straight into your stomach. you freeze against the marble sink, your breath hitching in your throat as the sound cuts through the quiet bathroom.

“ Dear? Are you in there? ”

​the voice is unmistakable— refined, measured, and instantly recognizable. it’s Rin’s mother.

​the absolute nightmare of the morning twists into something even more suffocating. you scramble to turn on the faucet, splashing freezing water over your eyes in a desperate attempt to wash away and erase any physical proof of what happened to you. grabbing a towel, you press it roughly against your skin, forcing your expression into a fragile mask of composure before you finally unlock the bathroom door and cross the suite.

when you swing the main door open, she is standing there, looking as impeccably composed as always, though her eyes instantly scan your face with a sharp, discerning curiosity.

“ I saw Rin downstairs, and he looked incredibly tense, ” she begins, her tone a mix of genuine concern and a mother's natural instinct to pry into whatever storm is brewing. “ He wouldn't tell me a thing. What on earth happened between you two? Did something happen last night? ”

before you can even try to fabricate a polite, harmless lie to keep her from digging any deeper, she sighs softly and raises a hand to wave off your immediate answer. “ Well, whatever it is, you two will have to sort it out. I actually came up to let you know that your parents had to leave the hotel early this morning due to an urgent matter. Your mother told me to tell you to check your phone immediately—she sent you a message. ”

“‎ ...Thank you, ” you manage to say, your voice sounding tighter than you intend as you force a polite, strained smile onto your face. you grip the edge of the door slightly harder, praying she doesn't notice the faint tremor in your fingers or the lingering redness around your eyes. “ I'll look at the message right away. ”

she gives you a slow, perceptive nod, her eyes lingering on you for a fraction of a second longer as if trying to read the unspoken panic written across your features. but, true to her refined nature, she doesn't push any further. with a soft murmur of reassurance, she steps back into the hallway, leaving you free to close the door.

the moment the latch clicks into place, you let out a long, ragged breath you didn't realize you were holding. you lean your back against the heavy wood, staring down at the phone still clutched tightly in your palm, your thumb hovering over the screen as you brace yourself to open your mother's text.

the glowing glass screen of your phone burns into your eyes, the pixels reflecting sharply in the dim, heavy quiet of the bathroom. your thumb hovers, trembling slightly, as you read and reread the message, the stark formatting of your mother’s text cutting through the chaotic noise of the morning like a blade of ice.

We left the hotel to meet with the family trustees. Last night’s photos were a blessing in disguise. The public will call it a PR stunt, and you must play along with Rin. But remember who you are. In our world, a union is absolute. There is no turning back from noon today. Be smart, look beautiful.

the moment the final sentence registers, the air in the room shifts violently. it feels as though the oxygen has suddenly grown thick, heavy, and suffocating, pressing down onto your shoulders with an almost physical, crushing weight. your heart, which had been hammering erratically against your ribs just a second ago, drops into a slow, hollow, resounding thud.

​a bizarre, deeply unsettling sensation washes over you from head to toe. it is a creeping, sudden wave of familiarity that you cannot explain— a haunting, primal instinct buried deep in your chest that whispers, with terrifying clarity, that you knew this was coming. it feels less like a sudden crisis and more like the inevitable snapping of a trapdoor you had been standing on your entire life. an ominous, dark milestone has finally arrived, and the sheer weight of it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

​but then, the rational part of your brain desperately fights to take the wheel. you blink rapidly, forcing a ragged breath back into your lungs as you try to shake the eerie chill from your veins.

​no. you are just spiraling. you press the cool palm of your hand firmly against your forehead, trying to ground yourself in reality. you rationalize the suffocating dread away, convincing yourself that this internal panic is nothing more than the raw, exhausting fallout of your emotions.

you are tired and you are emotionally battered from the explosive, venomous fight you just had with Rin. of course everything feels apocalyptic right now.

your mother is simply being her usual, hyper-dramatic, unyielding self. when she types words as severe as “ in our world, a union is absolute, ” she isn't invoking an ancient prophecy— she is just acting like the ruthless, elite matriarch she has always been. to her, this is a business emergency. she is telling you to stop treating your history with Rin like a petty, emotional grievance and start treating it with the absolute seriousness it demands. she is commanding you to grow up, lock your personal feelings in a box, look pristine, and cooperate with him at noon to salvage your public standing. she expects you to play your part for the cameras, fake the relationship to quiet the media storm, and protect the family name.

Fuck.

​the single, silent word echoes violently in the hollow chambers of your mind, a sharp, profanity-laced puncture to the suffocating quiet of the room.

your grip tightens on the edges of your phone until your knuckles turn a stark, ghostly white, the cold metal digging into your palm as a deeply unsettling question begins to claw its way to the surface. what is this feeling? it isn't the standard, frantic panic of a public relations disaster, nor is it the familiar, heavy ache of the heartbreak you’ve been nursing. it is something entirely different. something completely weird.

​suddenly, a bizarre, heightened sense of self-awareness slams into you, sharpening your senses until the world around you feels terrifyingly vivid. the slow, rhythmic ticking of the clock, the hum of the hotel's ventilation, the hyper-specific way the light reflects off the bathroom tiles—everything lands with an unnatural, heavy significance. your instincts are screaming at you, sending a primal, icy jolt of pure danger straight down your spine. every defensive nerve in your body is suddenly on high alert, firing off a desperate warning that you cannot ignore.

​but then, the pendulum swings violently back to the other side.

the rational, defensive walls of your mind slam shut, desperately trying to construct a shield against the creeping dread. at the end of the day, what are you? you're just an overthinker. a textbook, chronic overthinker who specializes in building mountains out of molehills and turning a simple, stern corporate message into a psychological thriller. you force a harsh, jagged breath past your lips, mentally mocking your own intuition. of course your mind is playing cruel tricks on you; you haven't slept, you haven't eaten, and you just went ten rounds with the one person who knows exactly how to tear down your defenses. maybe there is no hidden trap. maybe there is no grand, terrifying conspiracy lurking beneath the surface. maybe you just need to walk over to your vanity, open your bag, and drink some pills to quiet the frantic, exhausting static screaming inside your head.

pushing yourself away from the cold marble sink, your eyes immediately lock onto your bag, tossed carelessly over the arm of a plush chair during the chaos of your arrival. it feels like a lifeline in the middle of a desert. you cross the room with frantic, uneven steps, your hands unzipping the compartments with a desperate, uncoordinated haste until your fingers finally brush against the familiar, crinkling foil of a blister pack. good thing you always keep a few pills in your bag.

you don't even bother looking for a glass of water; you just pop one of the tablets straight onto your tongue and swallow it dry, forcing the bitter, chalky lump down a throat that feels as tight and dry as sandpaper.

​you stand there by the chair, chest heaving slightly as you wait for the medicine to work, counting the seconds in your head and praying for the chemical wave of calm to finally wash over the static in your brain.

but the moment you drink it, before the pill can even fully dissolve, the sudden silence inside your head doesn't bring peace— it brings an overwhelming, crushing emptiness. and in that hollow space, a sudden, violent ache hits you so hard it completely steals the breath right out of your lungs.

slowly, the frantic edge begins to bleed out of the room. after a few moments, the violent static in your head recedes into a dull, distant hum, and you finally return to normal. your heart, which had been hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, slows its frantic pace, settling into a quiet, rhythmic thud that feels miles away from the previous panic.

you are now calm. the suffocating weight in your chest detaches itself, leaving behind a blank, hollow stillness that washes over you from head to toe.

​but with that artificial peace comes the familiar, inevitable trade-off.

you lift your heavy arm, your thumb lazily lighting up the screen of your phone to check the time: 9:40 AM. a cold shock of disbelief ripples through you. time flies when you're not feeling it. the hours have slipped through your fingers like water while you were trapped inside your own head, leaving you with less than two and a half hours before you have to face the management. and right now, you have a strict, non-negotiable window to manage. after you take a pill, you need to sleep for at least one hour.

this is the exact, clinical side effect of the anti-depressant pills. without that one-hour blackout period, you are left stranded in a state of dangerous calm. its a flatline state of mind where fear is entirely deleted, meaning your inhibitions are gone, too. that is why you sleep for at least an hour for it to properly kick in— so that you don’t walk out into the world with a numb mind and make dangerous, reckless decisions you don't want, decisions that could ruin everything before noon even arrives.

fortunately, the medication is already dictating your next move. one side effect of it is feeling deeply, overwhelmingly sleepy, pulling at the corners of your consciousness and softening the rigid tension in your muscles. the heavy, dark fog of exhaustion rolls in quickly, wrapping around your mind so securely that you know you won't have a hard time sleeping. crawling into the massive, empty hotel bed, you let your eyes slip shut, letting the drowsiness pull you under for sixty mandatory minutes of silence.

—

the heavy oak doors of the hotel suite click shut, the sharp sound swallowed instantly by the vast, dead silence of the penthouse corridor.

Rin doesn't move from the top of the grand staircase, his posture perfectly rigid as he stands with his hands buried deep inside his pockets. he doesn't pace. he simply stands in the quiet, his dark eyes fixed on the empty space where his parents had just been standing, filtering their sudden departure through a lens of cold, detached irritation.

his mother and father are finally gone, heading back to the family estate to finalize what his mother smoothly labeled “ preliminary arrangements ” before the noon meeting. they have left him and you completely alone in the hotel.

as they walked toward the elevators, his mother had paused. she didn't offer a warm smile; she offered that pristine, calculated expression she used whenever she had successfully pinned a target to the wall. her eyes had flicked intentionally toward the closed bedroom door where you were hiding, her voice dropping into that smooth, aristocratic cadence that always carried an underlying threat.

“ Be good, Rin, ” she had murmured, the words light but perfectly heavy. “ Check in on her. ”

she had stepped away for a brief moment, her heels clicking a sharp, unhurried rhythm against the marble floor as she walked over to your door. she knocked— a precise, patronizing cadence— before turning on her heel to join his father at the elevator, leaving the unspoken reality hanging in the air.

​left in the isolated suite, Rin lets out a sharp, quiet breath through his nose, his expression settling into a mask of pure, clinical disgust. he isn't worried about whatever pathetic emotional breakdown you might be having behind closed doors; he is thoroughly repulsed by the sheer idiocy of the situation. your clumsy, lukewarm mistake on social media has efficiently dragged his name back into a public circus, single-handedly disrupting his timeline and compromising the clean, calculated distance he had built after the breakup.

more than anything, it is the calculated behavior of his parents that sets his internal alarms off. they aren't scrambling to bury a catastrophic PR disaster. they are treating this viral nightmare like a long-awaited asset deployment on a battlefield— entirely too calm, entirely too precise.

his gaze shifts, locking onto the dark wood of your bedroom door with a heavy, suffocating intensity. the absolute silence coming from inside the room is total, a stark contrast to the venomous words you both were trading just an hour ago. to Rin, the sudden quiet isn't a sign of peace; it’s just proof of your incompetence, an assumption that you are inside frantically spiraling or trying to piece together a pathetic excuse before the noon deadline.

​he steps toward the opposite wall, leaning his shoulder against the cold surface as he crosses his arms over his chest. he has absolutely no intention of following his mother's instructions to check on you. he doesn't care enough to reach for the brass handle, let alone waste his breath offering comfort to a liability who can't even manage a phone screen without causing a crisis.

​he settles into a rigid, freezing silence, perfectly content to wait out the remaining hour by treating you like a nonexistent obstacle. he has no idea that on the other side of that wood, you aren't just hiding from the noise. he has no idea about your mother's text, the medication, or the fact that you have already blacked out into a deep, chemical sleep.

—

the heavy, narcotic fog of the anti-depressants slowly begins to recede, leaving behind a cold, completely empty clarity. you blink, your eyelids feeling like lead as you force them open, your gaze instantly darting to the digital clock.

​11:00 AM. a sharp spike of adrenaline slices right through the lingering drowsiness. you slept for nearly an hour and a half. time didn't just fly; it completely vanished while you were blacked out under the sheets, leaving you with exactly sixty minutes before you have to walk into that corporate slaughterhouse at noon.

the dangerous calm your medication promised is fully active now— your heart isn't racing, your hands aren't shaking, but your mind is working with a detached, clinical speed.

​you slip out of bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor as you march straight back into the private bathroom. you can't walk into that meeting looking like a victim of last night’s fallout.

​stepping up to the built-in closet in the corner of the bathroom, you pull open the sleek doors. fortunately, because your lifestyle demands constant readiness for paparazzi evasions, you always keep a few specialized cover-up outfits stored here for emergencies.

​you pull out a heavy, oversized black trench coat and a structured, low-profile dark hoodie— pieces designed to completely swallow your silhouette and give the media absolutely nothing to photograph. you grab a pair of wide, pitch-black designer sunglasses from the shelf. catching your reflection in the mirror, you lean in close; the skin around your eyes is still slightly swollen, the whites a faint, telltale red from the raw crying spell before you took the pill. the sunglasses are non-negotiable.

finally, you pull a deep-brimmed bucket hat over your hair, tugging it down until the shadow completely obscures the upper half of your face.

standing in the harsh bathroom light, your disguise is complete. you are totally obscured, hidden behind layers of fabric and dark glass. you look like a ghost hiding in plain sight— untouchable, unrecognizable, and completely locked inside your own fortress.

​you grab your phone, checking your mother's text one last time. the calm in your veins feels terrifyingly absolute as you grip the bathroom door handle, ready to step back out into the suite where Rin is waiting.

​the heavy click of your bedroom door unlatching cuts through the dead quiet of the suite.

​Rin doesn’t look up immediately, but his head shifts, his eyes tracking you the exact second you step into the living area. he stays leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze slowly traveling down your figure with a cold, unhurried precision.

​you are completely swallowed by the oversized black coat, the deep brim of the bucket hat throwing the top half of your face into shadow, while the pitch-black sunglasses completely hide your red, swollen eyes. you look like a phantom trying to erase itself from existence.

​Rin doesn't ask about the disguise. he doesn't waste his breath making a snide comment about the sunglasses indoors, and he doesn't care enough to ask how you managed to stop your previous breakdown. his expression remains entirely flat, a clinical mask that filters your ridiculous appearance as a purely tactical choice to dodge the press. he merely observes the unnatural, rigid stillness of your frame, his sharp eyes calculating whether you're actually composed or just freezing under the pressure.

for a beat, the silence between you is heavy enough to suffocate, the lingering venom of your morning fight still hanging invisibly in the air. but under the influence of the pill, the dangerous calm in your veins keeps your posture rigid and your tongue silent. you don't flinch under his stare.

satisfied that you are at least functioning enough to move without making a scene, Rin pushes himself off the wall in one fluid, silent motion. he doesn't say a word to you. he doesn't offer a hand, and he doesn't wait for an explanation. he simply reaches into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around his car keys with a faint, metallic jingle, and walks straight past you toward the private executive elevator at the end of the hall.

​he is controlling the environment. no private chauffeur, no company drivers to overhear the sharp, jagged edges of a broken relationship. just him, you, and the claustrophobic confines of his car.

​the elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. Rin steps inside, turning around to face the front, his eyes locked straight ahead as he waits for you to step into the cage with him. the clock on your phone softly shifts to 11:15 AM.

​forty-five minutes left until the trap springs.

—

the private elevator doors slide open with a heavy, muted chime, welcoming you both into the sleek, clinical expanse of the corporate headquarters. the atmosphere here is thick with a different kind of tension— not the raw, emotional quiet of the hotel suite, but the frantic, high-stakes buzz of a multi-million-dollar damage control operation.

​you walk into the main conference room side-by-side, a perfectly coordinated unit on the surface, though the space between you feels like a freezing void.

​the room is dominated by a massive, polished mahogany table that stretches from one end of the glass-walled boardroom to the other. seated along its length is a formidable line of executives, legal analysts, and PR strategists representing both sides of the aisle. Rin's entire personal management team and PR core are already entrenched, their faces illuminated by the stark, white glow of open laptops and printed dossiers detailing last night's media fallout.

as you take your seat, your manager's eyes immediately lock onto your face, a sharp frown creasing their forehead. they lean forward, gesturing vaguely at your obscured features. “ Why are you still wearing sunglasses inside? We're behind closed doors. Take them off so we can actually look at you while we go over the timeline. ”

​the demand hangs in the air, but under the absolute, icy control of the medication, you don't blink. your voice is flat, devoid of any room for argument as you firmly insist on keeping them on, offering no explanation and letting the dark lenses remain a solid wall between your raw, red eyes and their prying eyes. your manager lets out a brief, frustrated breath but ultimately drops it, sliding a thick folder across the mahogany surface toward you.

​the documents hit the wood with a dull thud, and the room falls into a suffocating, professional silence as every eye at the long table turns to look at you and Rin, waiting for the official briefing to begin.

breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the long mahogany table, Rin’s head manager suddenly leans forward, his arms resting flat against the polished wood as his eyes track the two of you with a sharp, appreciative glint. the stern, panicked tension that usually defines a high-stakes crisis meeting completely vanishes from his expression, replaced instead by a cold, calculating satisfaction.

​he lets out a low, approving hum, nodding slowly as his gaze shifts from Rin’s rigid, unreadable posture back to your obscured, pristine composure.

“ I have to hand it to you, ” Rin's manager says, his voice carrying a smooth, professional praise that echoes clearly across the quiet boardroom. “ Even behind the glasses, the two of you look entirely together. The framing is perfect. Seeing you side-by-side in this room, it makes complete sense why the media is fueling the fire so aggressively. The narrative writes itself. ”

​the compliment lands with a heavy, clinical weight, treated not as a validation of a relationship, but as a highly successful evaluation of a premium corporate product. along the table, several of Rin's PR strategists nod in silent agreement, their pens hovering over their legal pads as they stare at the visual dynamic between you two, already calculating how to monetize the very scandal that had originally threatened to tear your careers apart.

the head of the public relations team taps a manicured finger against her tablet, and the official briefing finally starts now. the atmosphere in the room instantly hardens, shifting from speculative praise into a cold, rapid-fire interrogation as the lead strategist leans over the mahogany table, her eyes locking onto the two of you with unyielding intensity.

the very first question is delivered without a single shred of hesitation: “ What are you two doing together, after breaking up last year? If we are going to spin this to the press, we need the baseline truth of why you were caught in the same vicinity before we draft the official statement. ”

​the question hangs heavily in the air, a blunt reminder of the fractured past you have spent months trying to bury. under the steady, numbing influence of your medication, you calmly part your lips, fully prepared to deliver a detached, rehearsed response to deflect the inquiry. but before you can even utter a single syllable, the air next to you shifts.

​Rin cuts in, answering instead.

“ Our families hosted a private dinner last night. ” Rin says, his voice flat and cutting through the room like a sheet of dry ice.

​the answer is short, cold, and entirely devoid of emotion. he doesn't look at you, and he doesn't look at his manager. his dark eyes remain fixed forward, his posture perfectly still as he delivers the line with precision that leaves absolutely no room for further questioning. he lays out the excuse that because the two families are closely intertwined, it was simply an obligation— a standard, high-society dinner night that the media blew entirely out of proportion. it is a completely sterile, professional story, reducing the entire chaotic fallout into a simple, bloodless matter of family courtesy.

the lead strategist tilts her head, her pen hovering over her legal pad as she zeroes in on Rin’s rigid posture, completely unsatisfied with the brief explanation. “ A family dinner explains the setting, Itoshi Rin, but it doesn't explain the specific proximity in those photos. The press is hyper-focusing on the intimacy of the shots. We need you to elaborate on the timeline of the evening. ”

​the demand hangs heavily over the mahogany table, the PR team waiting for him to flesh out the lie. Rin’s jaw tightens, a cold silence settling over him as he prepares to deliver another flat, cutting response to shut the inquiry down completely.

​but you don't give him the chance. you lean forward slightly, answering this time.

“ The dinner concluded late, and given the volume of press already gathering outside the estate, it was deemed practical to leave together to avoid a scene. ” you say, your voice perfectly flat, smooth, and devoid of a single tremor behind your dark lenses.

the lead strategist narrows her eyes, tapping her pen aggressively against the mahogany table as she refuses to back down. the PR team isn't buying the neat, clinical cover stories, and the atmosphere in the boardroom grows visibly tighter.

“ That still doesn't answer our question, ” she says, her voice sharp and unyielding as she presses further more. “ You're giving us logistics, but the public is looking at the subtext. Why are the two of you, as ex-partners who supposedly cut ties last year, agreeing to attend an intimate family dinner night in the first place? Let alone leaving in the exact same car, and allowing that level of physical intimacy to be captured in the photos? If there is unresolved history or if you two are secretly reconciling, we need to know right now, because the media is tearing those images apart frame by frame. ”

​the question hits like a blunt instrument, laying bare the raw, chaotic truth of your breakup that you’ve both been desperately trying to suppress. along the table, the executives lean in, their eyes darting between your unreadable sunglasses and Rin’s rigid, frozen profile, demanding a real answer for the undeniable friction captured by the cameras.

Rin’s jaw tightens, his fingers locking against the polished edge of the table as a sharp spike of irritation breaks through his frozen composure. he doesn't look at the strategist, his dark eyes shifting slightly as he delivers a short, cutting response, his voice dripping with a cold, visible annoyance that causes the room to instantly quiet down.

​“ We don't dictate our families' social calendars, ”‎ he says, the words clipped and flat. “ And we don't control the angle of a telephoto lens. ”

​he stops there, completely omitting the strategist's question about a reconciliation. it isn't that he lacks an answer— it's that he simply refuses to validate the intrusive inquiry with a response, leaving a heavy, defiant void in the room.

recognizing the escalating friction, you immediately step in to smooth over the rough edges before the PR team pushes harder. under the flat, untouchable influence of your medication, your voice remains completely level as you elaborate further, likewise bypassing the reconciliation question entirely to focus purely on the logistics.

​“ What Rin means is that our families are ridiculously close with each other— to a degree that standard boundaries simply do not apply, ” you explain, your tone smooth and clinical behind your dark lenses. “ The dinner was an absolute family mandate, not a personal choice. As for sharing the car and the perceived proximity in the photos, we were only forced to do those things to maintain public appearances for our parents. We were playing our parts under duress. It was a performance engineered by our families, and nothing more. ”

​

the lead strategist finally leans back in her leather chair, letting out a long, slow sigh of relief as she taps the top of her pen against her tablet. for the first time since the briefing started, the sharp, defensive tension in her shoulders visibly loosens.

​

“ Finally, ” she murmurs, nodding slowly as she looks across the table at you. “ That's the first thing you two have said all noon that actually makes strategic sense. A family mandate we can sell. We can work with 'filial obligation' and overbearing parents. It perfectly defuses the scandal. ”

​she pauses, her eyes scanning the two of you as she flips a page in her digital dossier. the room grows quiet again, the remaining PR analysts holding their breath as she brings the focus back to the one glaring omission from your previous statements.

“ Well, ” she asks, her voice dropping into a professional, unyielding cadence as she zeroes in on the lingering elephant in the room. “ What about the reconciling? Are you two getting back together, or is this purely a media facade? ”

​the question hangs heavily over the long mahogany table, thick and suffocating.

​none of you answer.

a sudden, heavy weight anchors itself in the back of your throat. under the numbing layer of the medication, you actually want to answer— to just say a flat, definitive no and kill the speculation right here— but you somehow can't. the word sits like a block of lead behind your teeth, completely unreachable, as if your mind refuses to let you voice a lie that definitive, or a truth that complicated.

​the silence in the room stretches into seconds, becoming louder and more damning with every tick of the clock.

​

seeking some kind of cue, you shift your head slightly beneath the brim of your hat, looking at Rin through the dark tint of your sunglasses. his profile is completely frozen. his arms are still crossed over his chest, his gaze locked straight ahead on the glass wall behind the strategist. there isn't a single twitch in his jaw, no shift in his posture, and absolutely no indication that he plans on answering. he has completely closed himself off, treating the intrusive question with a cold, defiant vacancy that functions as a total shutdown to their interrogation.

the strategist lets out a small, knowing laugh, the sound cutting through the thick, suffocating silence of the boardroom. she shakes her head slightly, a cynical, highly professional smile playing at the corners of her lips as she taps her pen against the digital tablet.

​“ Still not sure, I see? ”‎ she murmurs, her tone dripping with the casual amusement of someone who deals in curated human drama for a living.

​to her, your mutual paralysis isn't a sign of emotional wreckage— it’s a goldmine. she reads the heavy, unbreakable silence between you and Rin as the perfect, ambiguous tension of two people who are still tangled up in each other, completely blind to the fact that you are both simply frozen behind your own walls. along the table, the rest of the PR team exchanges quiet, satisfied glances, their fingers instantly flying across their keyboards to rewrite the midday press release.

Rin’s manager immediately leans forward, his hands slamming flat onto the polished mahogany table as a sharp, ambitious grin spreads across his face.

​“ Then it's settled, ” he suggests, his voice cutting through the room with a sudden, aggressive energy. “ We lean into the ambiguity. You two fake date— publicly commit to a relationship for a while to ride out this wave. It completely controls the narrative, protects the stocks, and satisfies both of your families. ” he pauses, letting out a casual, dismissing shrug as if he were discussing a minor contract clause. “ And who knows? You'll develop feelings again eventually anyway. It’s a win-win. ”

​the words hit the room like a physical blow. while the sheer audacity of the proposal leaves you trapped in a frozen, breathless silence, the reaction from the seat next to you is instantaneous and hostile.

​Rin’s chair scrapes sharply against the floor as he abruptly leans forward, a dark, dangerous edge cutting into his features. a volatile wave of irritation shatters his stillness, his lips parting as he moves to shoot the pathetic proposal down entirely.

​but he gets interrupted by the lead strategist before the savage refusal can even leave his mouth.

​“ Wait. ” she cuts in, raising a hand to stall him as she stares intently at her tablet, her eyes flashing with sudden inspiration. “ Actually... I just thought of that, and it isn't a bad idea at all. ”

“ Think about the metrics, ” she says, her eyes flashing as she leans over the table, thoroughly convinced it's a good idea. “‎ A high-profile reconciliation narrative is exactly what the public is starving for right now. If we announce that you're officially back together, the sentiment shift on social media will be instantaneous. It completely flips the script from a messy scandal to a grand romantic reunion. ”‎

she gestures broadly with her pen, charting out the trajectory in the air. “ The positive effects on this are endless. Your individual engagement rates will skyrocket, and the collective buzz will push both of your fame and careers to an entirely new tier. Brands will be tripping over themselves to sign you as a package deal. We're talking massive endorsements, exclusive joint features, and ultimately, significantly more high-profile projects for the both of you. ”

a suffocating, dark pressure radiates from Rin, his fingers digging into the edge of the mahogany table as he shoots a freezing glare directly at the strategist.

​“ I don't care. Find another strategy. ” Rin says, his voice flat, short, and cuttingly blunt.

“ It'll be awkward anyway, ” you say, your voice cutting through the tension with a flat, clinical honesty that matches the numbing weight of the medication.

you lean back slightly, your dark lenses fixed directly on the strategist. “ Forcing us to act like a couple after a year of trying to forget each other is completely counterproductive. On camera, off camera— we'll act awkward with each other. The public isn't stupid; they'll spot the forced chemistry immediately, and then we're dealing with a fraud scandal on top of everything else. ”

the lead strategist doesn't flinch at Rin’s sharp refusal, nor does she look deterred by your clinical breakdown of how disastrous the forced chemistry would be. instead, a slow, entirely unsurprised smile creeps onto her face. she paces a finger along the smooth edge of her tablet, looking between Rin’s dark, freezing glare and your completely unreadable sunglasses with the smug satisfaction of a chess player who had already mapped out this exact trajectory ten moves ago.

​“ I knew you would disagree, ” the strategist says, her tone smooth, entirely unfazed by the hostile energy vibrating from his side of the table. “ And I knew you would say exactly that. Honestly, I’d be worried if you didn't raise those concerns. Forced chemistry is a PR nightmare, and the last thing we need is the public catching onto a stiff, awkward performance. ”

​she leans forward, resting both elbows on the polished mahogany surface of the long table, her eyes glinting with a calculated intensity as she unveils the next phase of her contingency plan.

​“ Which is why we aren't just going to throw the two of you to the wolves and hope for the best, ” she proposes, her voice carrying a tone of absolute authority that commands the entire room. “ To bridge that gap and eliminate the awkwardness, the agency is going to hire a high-level celebrity relationship counselor— someone strictly bound by a ironclad non-disclosure agreement. Their sole job will be to work with the two of you behind closed doors, iron out the lingering friction, and systematically make you get used to acting like a couple again. ”

she taps her pen against the table for emphasis, mapping out the clinical strategy behind the bizarre suggestion. “ They will coach you on micro-expressions, physical proximity comfort, and how to mirror each other's body language naturally in high-stress environments. By the time they are done with you, the lingering tension from your breakup won't look like awkwardness— it’ll look like intense, magnetic history. If you two can't find the rhythm on your own after a year apart, we will pay an expert to build it for you. ”

both you and Rin immediately move to voice your disagreement, your voices almost overlapping as you attempt to shut the absurd proposal down completely. Rin’s posture turns razor-sharp, his shoulders hardening with an aggressive, suffocating tension as he prepares to deliver another biting refusal, while you shift forward to dissect the sheer logistical nightmare of letting a stranger into the wreckage of your past relationship.

​but this strategist is incredibly smart.

​before either of you can even fully articulate a protest, she effortlessly cuts off your momentum with a raised hand and a flawless counter-argument. she has already anticipated every single objection, safety net, and loophole you could possibly throw at her. with cold, brilliant efficiency, she smoothly weaponizes your own logic, your family obligations, and the ironclad terms of your contracts against you, shutting down every escape route until your mutual resistance is completely suffocated by her flawless strategy.

your manager suddenly clears a throat, shifting in a leather chair as they re-enter the conversation, their eyes darting between the sharp-witted strategist and the tense, silent standoff happening on your side of the table. they smooth down the sharp fabric of their blazer, an analytical, deeply protective focus taking over their features as they recognize a golden opportunity to bridge the gap between the agency’s aggressive corporate goals and your deep, volatile reluctance to dive headfirst into a public facade.

​“ Let’s look at this logistically from a rollout perspective, ” your manager speaks, leaning forward with an elegant, deliberate posture to rest their forearms on the mahogany table as they address the room. “ The strategist is right about the counseling, but a sudden, massive public announcement right now would look too manufactured. It would trigger immediate skepticism. Instead, I suggest we hold off entirely on releasing an official statement first. No press releases, no formal confirmations, no sudden 'we’re back together' captions. We let the media speculate and spin their wheels in the mud for a little while longer while we buy ourselves some time. ”

​they turn their gaze directly toward you, giving you a steady, sharp look that implicitly communicates they are trying to protect you from the worst of this mess, before cutting their eyes over to Rin. their expression remains thoroughly business-minded, yet layered with a quiet, sharp perceptiveness as they map out the tactical timeline.

​“ Instead of rushing to the microphones, we use the first few weeks behind closed doors to focus entirely and exclusively on improving both of your relationships, ” your manager explains, their voice dropping into a collaborative, highly strategic cadence. “ We let the counselor do their job in total secrecy. The primary goal during this initial phase isn't public consumption; it’s stripping away the friction so you two can actually stand in the same room without radiating absolute hostility. We need to build a baseline of comfort first. ”

​your manager then turns back to the lead strategist, a calculated, knowing smile playing on their lips as they unveil the second half of their rollout plan. “ Then, once the foundation is solid and the awkwardness is handled, we start dropping subtle, organic breadcrumbs. We begin by giving a few carefully staged hints of both of you appearing together in the wild. A blurry background appearance on a friend's social media story. A casual, seemingly accidental spotting at a coffee shop near the agency. We let the fans and the paparazzi do the heavy lifting of connecting the dots themselves. By the time we actually step out as an official couple, the public will feel like they discovered it on their own, making the narrative entirely bulletproof. ”

“ Brilliant! ” the strategist says, a sharp, victorious smile locking into place as she snaps her digital folder shut with a definitive click. “ Then it's settled. No immediate statement. We secure the counselor, clear your schedules for the private sessions, and prepare the soft-launch rollout. ”

​

with those final words, the oppressive boardroom meeting officially draws to a close, the PR team immediately dispersing into a flurry of quiet chatter and frantic typing as the heavy tension in the air begins to scatter.

as the conversation ends and everyone stands up to leave, your manager steps into your line of sight, blocking the exit with a quiet, purposeful authority. they look between you, Rin, and Rin's manager, their expression serious and completely unreadable.

​“ I'd like to talk to the three of you in private, ” your manager says, their voice low enough to stay beneath the noise of the clearing room. “ Away from the agency. Let's move this down the street. ”

​

without waiting for an objection, they lead the way out of the corporate headquarters. the four of you exit the building in a tense, tight formation, navigating the busy sidewalk until you slip into a quiet cafe tucked around the corner, the bell above the door chiming softly as you step inside to find a secluded table in the back.

the moment you sit down, you immediately lean across the small wooden table and complain to your manager. your tone isn't whiny or annoying; instead, it carries the easy, exasperated familiarity of someone venting to a close friend.

“ Seriously? ” you sigh, shaking your head as you slide your dark sunglasses down the bridge of your nose just enough to look them in the eye. “ You only made it worse. ”

your manager lets out a soft, tired chuckle, shaking their head as they lean back against the vinyl booth. there's no corporate shield up right now— just the genuine, weary honesty of someone who has been fighting in your corner all morning.

​“ That was the best I could do, and you know it. If I hadn't stepped in with that rollout plan, that strategist would have had a press release pushed to every major outlet by noon, forcing you two to play the doting, ecstatic couple on a morning talk show tomorrow. ”

​they lean forward slightly, their voice dropping to a quiet, conspiratorial murmur. “ I bought you time. Instead of throwing you straight into a public circus, I managed to lock you both behind closed doors where the public can't touch you. Trust me, in that boardroom? That was a win. ”

Rin’s manager immediately adds to the sentiment, leaning over the table with an enthusiastic nod as a broad, overly optimistic smile breaks across his face.

​“ Exactly! Your manager handled that beautifully, ” he says, gesturing between the two of you as if he's already looking at a finished masterpiece. “ And let's be honest, it’ll only be a matter of time before you two get comfortable with each other again anyway. You have too much history for it not to click. A few weeks behind closed doors with a professional, and the spark will be right back. Before you know it, you'll be falling in love all over again. ”

Rin immediately disagrees, slamming his coffee cup down with a sharp clink.

​“ Stop dreaming. ” he cuts in, his voice flat and freezing. “ This is a contract obligation, not a second chance. ”

you immediately lean your chin on your hand, a faint, teasing smirk playing on your lips as you decide to flirt with him right then and there.

“ Oh, come on, ” you say softly, your eyes locking onto his from over the rim of your cup. “ You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss me even just a little bit. ~ ”

Rin doesn't look away. instead, his gaze shifts slowly back to you, his dark eyes dead, hollow, and freezing. he leans slightly over the table, his presence entirely suffocating.

“ Stop acting, ” Rin rasps, his voice a low, venomous blade. “ Your delusional performance is making me sick. The only thing I miss is the space I had before your incompetence dragged me back into this circus. ”

you let out a small, quiet laugh, utterly unfazed by his hostility as you take a slow sip of your drink while moving your gaze to your manager.

​Rin's manager beams, pointing a finger between the two of you with a triumphant grin. “ See? Look at that! It's working already without a counselor. ”

“ When exactly does this counselor thing even start? ”

“ At 3:00 PM today, ” your manager replies smoothly, checking their watch before looking back up at you with a serious expression. “ And you're going to be staying in a hotel for weeks, or months. ”

​you instantly freeze, a mouthful of your drink going down the wrong pipe as you almost completely choke on it, coughing sharply into your napkin.

​​Rin finally looks up from his cup, his dark eyes cutting over to your panicked, coughing figure with a look of pure, unbothered contempt.

the afternoon quickly slips away after that, the heavy weight of the 3:00 PM deadline looming over the table until the managers finally call it, standing up to handle the final corporate arrangements. the lingering tension in the cafe slowly dissolves into a quiet, resigned reality as you and Rin are led out to separate cars, the reality of the upcoming weeks at the hotel finally setting in.

“ Idiot. ” he murmurs, his voice flat and freezing as he sets his cup down.

© 2026 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.

this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.

OKAY I know I stated I'll be updating my dessert series on june but I got... carried away.

ain't my fault the plot is fire 🥹 and besides. I'm trying my best to finish this as soon as possible while I still have motivation and spark! ( I've lost the remaining sparks for my othet works. )

consider this an... early gift?

you check the time on your gold watch, the deep blue stones embedded in the band catching the dim ambient light of the interior. they match the weight of the earrings pulling slightly at your lobes— a sharp, regal contrast to the ethereal white of your ensemble. on the seat beside you, your marble-patterned clutch sits like a polished stone, its gold ring handle gleaming.

you are exactly on schedule, though you know on time is already late by your father’s standards.

the restaurant is still several miles away, tucked into a quiet, prestigious corner of the district where the Michelin stars are earned through discretion as much as flavor. your phone buzzes once in your clutch— a brief, formal notification. your family has already arrived. you can almost picture them: your parents seated at the head of a long, white-clothed table, already engaged in the performative pleasantries of high-society small talk with Rin’s family.

they are waiting for you to complete the picture. you lean back, smoothing a stray hair, watching the streetlights dance across the polished surface of your marble clutch.

the soft glow of your phone screen illuminates the dark interior of the limousine as you slip it out from your marble clutch.

​you tap the notification, and a photo blooms across the screen. it’s a shot taken from the head of the table at the restaurant— a perspective of polished silver, crystal glassware, and the warm, golden ambiance of the private dining room. your parents are already there, looking impeccable and poised, seated across from Rin’s family.

they look perfectly settled, their expressions a blend of practiced hospitality and quiet command. the empty chair at the center of the frame is glaringly obvious, a silent reminder that the two legacies are currently lopsided, waiting only for your arrival to begin the evening's formalities. you stare at the image for a moment, before locking the phone and sliding it back into your bag.

the silence of the limousine is broken only by the faint, rhythmic tap of your manicured nails against the glass of your phone. you unlock it again, the screen’s light catching the pearlescent sheen of your dress as you bypass your messages and open your social media apps.

the feed is a relentless flood of the past. edits and high-definition photos from exactly a year ago dominate the screen— remnants of a time when the headlines were obsessed with the two of you. you scroll past a candid shot of you and Rin at a gala, the composition blurred and romantic, followed by a professional red-carpet still where his hand was possessively at the small of your back.

the comment sections are a graveyard of speculation, fans still dissecting the chemistry in every frame and mourning the " power couple " that no longer exists. seeing his face— the familiar line of his jaw and that specific, guarded look in his eyes— feels jarringly intimate against the cold, formal reality of the dinner ahead.

​you stare at a particular video edit, the music low and melancholic, flickering through clips of you two in much less guarded moments than the one you are about to walk into.

a huff of irritation escapes your lips, the sound muffled by the quiet luxury of the car. you had intended to scroll down and check the comments, perhaps to see if the rumors had finally died down— but the screen suddenly hitches. whether it’s a momentary lag in the signal or a slight trip of your fingers against the glass, the interface jumps.

instead of the comment section, the app forces a transition, loading the original poster’s full profile. the grid of photos flickers into view, a dedicated archive of your past relationship staring back at you in high definition.

you stare at the loading icon for a second too long, your thumb hovering over the screen. it’s a small, technical inconvenience, but in the high-pressure silence of the limousine, it feels grating.

you’ve always preferred things to be seamless and precise, and this digital stumble feels like a crack in your composure. you wait for the unresponsive screen to catch up with your commands.

you finally manage to navigate back, your thumb sweeping over the glass to reveal the comment section. the engagement is relentless; even months after the official silence, the media and the public are still clutching at the threads of what you and Rin used to be. the timestamps show that people are still arguing in real-time, refusing to let the ghost of the relationship rest.

me and bae fr

one top comment reads, a delusional attempt to project onto the curated perfection of the photo.

your eyes track to the thread beneath it, where a cynical reply has already garnered hundreds of likes:

are you genuinely dumb? they broke up ages ago 💀

the bluntness of the word broke up feels jarringly loud in the quiet of the limousine.

you scroll further, the blue stones of your watch shimmering as your hand shifts. another comment, posted only a few hours ago, sits near the top with a string of hopeful emojis:

they're just taking a break guys! trust 🙏🏻 "

a bitter sort of irony settles in your chest as you read it. the public is still holding out for a " break " to end, while you are currently dressed in thousands of dollars of silk and stone, heading toward a dinner where you’ll have to sit across from him as if those comments aren't the furthest thing from the truth.

a soft, unexpected huff of laughter breaks the silence of the cabin, the sound bright against the muted hum of the air conditioning. you look down at the screen, your eyes crinkling slightly as you reread the words:

“ THEY'RE STILL TOGETHER !!! ” I yell as they dragged me into the asylum...

the sheer, self-aware absurdity of the comment catches you off guard. in a sea of bitter arguments and desperate theories, the dramatic flair of the " asylum " joke is genuinely funny.

you find yourself smiling at the screen, the marble clutch resting forgotten against your thigh. for a split second, the tension in your shoulders dissipates. it really is a funny comment— the idea that it would take a literal padded cell to keep the dream of " You and Rin " alive.

you linger on the screen for a second more, the blue light of the phone reflecting in the teardrop sapphire of your earrings, before the limousine finally draws to a complete, seamless halt.

through the tinted glass, you see the warm, amber glow of the restaurant’s entrance, and your expression smooths back into a mask of polished, untouchable elegance.

—

the heavy door of the restaurant is held open by a silent attendant, and the transition from the cool, dark privacy of the limousine to the golden, hushed opulence of the dining room is seamless. your heels click with rhythmic precision against the polished floor as the maître d’ leads you toward a secluded alcove in the back— the kind of space reserved for people who buy privacy as easily as they buy wine.

as you round the corner, the scene is exactly as the photo promised. both families are already settled, the air thick with the scent of expensive lilies and aged oak. they are huddled over their leather-bound menus, the gold-leaf edges catching the candlelight as they discuss vintages and appetizers with a terrifyingly casual grace.

​the maître d’ pulls out the only remaining chair, and you realize with a jolt of dry amusement exactly what the seating chart entails. you are placed directly across from Rin.

it’s a move so transparently orchestrated by your parents that it borders on the theatrical. they don’t even look up as you sit, though the slight, satisfied curve of your mother’s lips tells you everything you need to know.

Rin is already leaning back in his chair, his menu discarded on the table. the moment your eyes meet, he doesn't hide his reaction; he gives you a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance. his brow is slightly furrowed, his jaw set in a way that says he’s been counting the seconds until this " coincidence " occurred.

in response, you don't falter. you settle into your chair, and you offer him a slow, deliberate smile.

the moment you are settled, the silence of the table is broken by Rin’s parents. they set their menus down with practiced grace, their eyes sweeping over you with a warmth that feels almost strategic.

“ My dear, ” Rin’s mother begins, her voice a smooth, melodic lilt that carries across the centerpiece of white orchids, “ you look absolutely radiant. Truly, even more gorgeous than the last time we saw you! ”

Rin’s father nods in solemn agreement, his gaze appreciative of the polished image you present. across from you, Rin shifts slightly, his annoyed expression tightening as his parents’ praise fills the space between you. he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, his eyes darting toward the gold-rimmed wine glass in front of him.

you don't let his coldness deter you. instead, you tilt your head slightly. you let out a soft, airy laugh— the kind that sounds effortless and melodic in a room this quiet.

“ I could say the very same for you. You look stunning tonight ~ ” you reply, your voice steady and sweet as you lean in just an inch.

the compliment lands perfectly, earning a delighted smile from his mother and a subtle, approving nod from your own parents. you catch Rin’s eye for a fleeting second, your smile still lingering, watching as he looks away with a sharp, silent exhale of breath.

your mother seizes the moment with a practiced, elegant poise, her voice cutting through the soft clink of silverware with a playful sharpness. “ Oh, hush now, ” she says, her eyes darting between you and the man sitting across from you. “ I’m quite sure she could say the very same thing about your son, couldn't she? ”

the suggestion hangs in the air for a heartbeat— a blatant, heavy-handed nudge toward the past you both spent a year trying to bury. you feel a flicker of genuine irritation spark in your chest, a sharp contrast to the cool silk against your skin. it’s the kind of comment that feels like a trap, designed to force a compliment out of you for the sake of parental optics.

but before you can even think of a retort, the table erupts into a chorus of light, sophisticated laughter. both sets of parents share a look of knowing amusement, their mirth filling the private alcove as if they’ve just pulled off a brilliant joke.

even Rin’s father chuckles, leaning back in his chair with an air of immense satisfaction. seeing them all so perfectly aligned, so seemingly convinced of their own matchmaking prowess, you realize there is no room for a protest. you keep your expression anchored, your lips curved into a steady, beautiful smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. you maintain the mask of the dutiful daughter, nodding along to the laughter while the weight of the blue sapphires at your ears feels suddenly, momentarily, very heavy.

the menus are finally collected by a waiter who moves with the silent efficiency of a shadow, leaving the table to settle into the rhythmic clinking of crystal. while the rest of the group navigates the more avant-garde sections of the menu— selecting delicate tartares, foams, and deconstructed seafood dishes that look more like art than dinner— you keep your choice grounded.

when the server reaches you, you opt for the classic: a thick, prime cut of steak with a side of creamy mashed potatoes.

it’s a deceptively simple order for a place with this many accolades, but as the " fancy " plates begin to arrive for the others— tiny, intricate portions garnished with edible gold and micro-greens— your choice feels like a quiet act of defiance. there is something satisfying about the weight of a traditional meal while everyone else picks at their elaborate, bite-sized courses.

Rin watches as your plate is set down, the rich aroma of the butter-laden potatoes and the seared crust of the steak rising between you. he has something much more complicated in front of him, something that requires a specific fork and a great deal of precision to eat. you pick up your knife, the silver cool and heavy in your hand, and catch the way his eyes linger on your plate for a second too long.

you take a slow, deliberate bite, the rich flavors a stark contrast to the performative elegance of the conversation swirling around you. across the table, the parents are deep into a discussion about offshore investments and summer galas, but in the space between you and Rin, the only thing that matters is the steady, sharp glide of your steak knife and the silent, irritated heat of his gaze.

Rin’s father leans back, swirling the dark, expensive vintage in his glass as he shifts his attention away from the general conversation. he has a way of looking at people that feels like an audit— calculated but impeccably polite. sensing the sharp, silent friction crackling across the table, he decides to bridge the gap with a topic that centers the spotlight firmly on you.

“ So, ” he begins, his voice resonant and carrying that effortless authority of a man used to being listened to, “ How has the career been treating you lately? Between the acting and the modeling, you must be keeping an incredibly demanding schedule. ”

the table goes quiet for a moment, the focus shifting from the parents' business talk to your personal life. your mother looks over with an expectant, proud tilt of her chin, while Rin keeps his gaze fixed on his plate, though his grip on his silverware tightens just a fraction.

​“ I’ve been following your recent campaigns, ” Rin's father continues, offering a nod of genuine professional respect. “ The work is impressive. It takes a certain level of discipline to maintain that kind of presence in the public eye. ”

you set your knife down with a soft, controlled click against the fine china. you can feel Rin’s eyes flick up to you for a split second, wary of how you’ll answer, his irritation still simmering just beneath the surface of his polished exterior. it’s a question that demands a perfect answer— one that balances humility with the high-society success everyone at this table expects from you.

“ It’s been a whirlwind. ” you respond, your voice carrying that effortless, melodic lilt that sounds perfect in a room like this. “ The latest campaign was demanding, but I find that the discipline of the set keeps me grounded. ”

your answer is flawless, hitting the exact note of professional ambition and polished humility that brings an approving murmur from both sets of parents. you take a slow sip of your water, the crystal cool against your lips, and then set the glass down with a precise, silent touch.

with a graceful turn of your head, you shift your gaze directly onto Rin. you let a small, expectant smile play on your lips— the kind that looks innocent to the parents but feels like a challenge to him.

“ But enough about me, ” you say, your eyes locking onto his with a shimmering, pointed curiosity. “ How has your son been faring? I’m sure his recent ventures have been just as... captivating. ”

the table goes quiet, all eyes turning toward Rin. he tenses visibly, the jaw you once knew so well tightening as he’s forced into the spotlight you just expertly aimed at him. you maintain your smile, leaning back slightly in your chair so the cream silk of your dress catches the golden light, waiting for him to find his voice under the heavy weight of everyone’s expectations.

Rin remains silent for a beat too long, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. for a moment, it’s just the two of you— the sharp blue of your sapphires clashing with the cold, guarded dark of his eyes. he looks like he’s debating whether to just ignore you entirely, his jaw tight as he stares you down.

but then he feels the heavy, expectant silence from across the table. his father’s brow is raised, and the air in the room suddenly feels thick with the demand for him to be the " perfect son " for the sake of the audience.

he doesn't give you a polite smile. he doesn't even pretend to be enthusiastic. he just lets out a short, sharp exhale through his nose and looks away, his hand tightening momentarily around the stem of his wine glass.

“ It’s fine, ” he says, his voice flat and dangerously low. it’s the shortest possible answer he can give— the bare minimum required to satisfy his parents without acknowledging their presence as anything more than an obstacle. “ Everything is exactly where it needs to be. ”

​he takes a slow, deliberate sip of his wine. the gold band on his finger catches the light, a stark reminder of the tie that binds him to this table. he offers no details, and the compliment you threw his way is left to wither in the air, unreturned.

instead, he sets the glass back down with a sharp clack against the tablecloth.

​he doesn't look at them. he looks at you— his eyes narrowed, tracing your expression as if dissecting a weak play on the field.

“ I’m sure everyone here is much more interested in hearing about your 'captivating' projects than my logistics, ” he adds. the sarcasm is a thin blade, slightly invisible to his parents but meant to draw blood from you. he leans back, folding his arms in a way that feels less like relaxation and more like a challenge. he’s finished playing the part of the dutiful son. now, he’s just waiting for you to fail.

you let out another laugh— this one soft and musical, brushing off his sarcasm as if it were nothing more than a playful jest. it’s a perfect performance of grace, one that makes Rin’s biting tone look even more sour by comparison.

the reaction from his side of the table is instantaneous. his mother’s expression shifts, her polite smile tightening into something much sharper as she cuts a sideways glare toward her son. the irritation is clear in the set of her shoulders; he is failing the unspoken test of the evening, and she isn't about to let him ruin the atmosphere.

​“ Rin, ” she says, her voice carrying a warning edge disguised as a laugh, before she immediately turns back to you, her face softening into a mask of fond nostalgia. “ Oh, don't mind him. He’s always been so moody when he's busy. It reminds me of that summer you two spent in the south of France— remember, dear? ”

she doesn't wait for an answer, leaning toward your mother with a conspiratorial glimmer in her eyes. “ They were practically inseparable. We could hardly get them to come to dinner because they were always off on those midnight drives. I don't think I've ever seen Rin quite as... attentive as he was back then. ”

she turns her gaze back to the two of you, her eyes flitting between your polished composure and Rin’s rigid silence.

“ Honestly, seeing you both sitting across from each other like this, it feels like no time has passed at all. Some things just have a way of looking right, don't they? ”

​she lets the suggestion hang in the air, a heavy-handed tease intended to force a bridge over the gap of your breakup.

across from you, Rin’s grip on his silver fork is so tight his knuckles are turning white, his eyes fixed stubbornly on his plate as his mother continues to weave a romanticized version of your history right over the dinner table.

​your mother doesn't miss a beat, leaning into the conversation with a knowing, elegant tilt of her head. she sets her wine glass down, the light from the chandelier dancing in the deep red liquid, as she catches the eye of Rin’s mother.

“ Oh, I remember those months vividly, ” your mother adds, her voice smooth and laced with a playful, maternal mischief. “ It was impossible to get a word out of her. She’d be tucked away in that library for hours, and we all knew exactly who was on the other end of that silent phone. You two always had that strange, quiet understanding— no one else could really get a word in when you were in the same room. ”

​she turns her gaze toward Rin, offering him a smile that is far too sharp to be anything but a nudge. “ I remember your father complaining that he hadn't seen you for weeks because you were always 'supervising' whatever project she was working on. You were quite the shadow back then, weren't you, Rin? ”

across the table, your father lets out a low, amused chuckle, nodding in agreement. the parents are in full harmony now, weaving a thick, stifling net of nostalgia around the two of you.

​“ It’s funny, isn't it? ” your mother continues, her eyes shimmering as she looks back and forth between you and Rin. “ How some people just have a specific... magnetism. No matter how much time passes or how 'busy' they get, that history doesn't just disappear. It’s written all over both of your faces tonight. You both still have that exact same look when you think the other isn't watching. ”

she lets the comment settle over the table like a heavy velvet shroud. the implication is clear: in their eyes, the breakup was a mere footnote, and this dinner is the beginning of the correction. you feel the heat of Rin’s silence from across the table— a sharp, jagged contrast to the lighthearted teasing of the people who still think they know exactly what’s best for both of you.

the laughter from both sides of the table is rich and synchronized, a sound of absolute confidence that their " subtle " matchmaking is working. your father’s chuckle blends with Rin’s father’s amusement, creating a wall of sound that makes the private alcove feel smaller, more suffocating.

you join in, letting out a light, practiced laugh that perfectly mimics their tone— a strategic move to mask the irritation still humming under your skin. it’s the easiest way to play along without actually surrendering to the narrative they’re spinning.

“ You all have such vivid memories, ” you say. you catch Rin’s eye for a fraction of a second— his expression is still a mask of cold boredom— before you pivot the conversation entirely.

“ Speaking of being inseparable, ” you continue, your tone breezy as you tilt your head toward Rin’s parents, “ where is Sae? I noticed his seat is empty. Is he joining us later? ”

the mention of his brother hangs in the air, successfully cutting through the thick atmosphere of romantic nostalgia. Rin finally looks up from his plate, his eyes narrowing. the shift in focus is immediate, giving you the briefest moment of breathing room from the weight of your parents' expectations.

Rin’s mother sighs, a delicate, practiced sound of maternal long-suffering. she adjusts the pearls at her neck, her focus shifting away from the romantic teasing for a brief moment.

“ Oh, Sae, ” she says, waving a hand dismissively as if his absence were a recurring tax she’s forced to pay. “ He isn't back from Japan yet. He’s stuck in some other country now— Spain, I think? Or perhaps back to Germany? Honestly, between the league matches and his training schedule, I can't keep track. He sent a very brief message saying he wouldn't be able to make the flight in time for tonight. ”

Rin’s father nods, though his expression is a bit more rigid. “ A professional commitment. He takes those matches far too seriously to drop them for a family dinner, even one as important as this. ”

​the mention of Sae's absence brings a different kind of weight to the table— one of professional distance and the cold reality of the Itoshi brothers' diverging paths. across from you, Rin doesn't say a word, but the mention of his brother seems to settle into him like a cold draft. he stares at his wine glass, his expression unreadable, though the muscles in his jaw remain tightly coiled.

“️️ Well, ” your mother chimes in, trying to bring the lightheartedness back, “ It’s a shame. But at least it gives us more time to focus on the two of you. ”

​she catches Rin’s eye with a pointed look, her smile returning in full force. the diversion worked for a second, but the parents are already circling back, their intent as clear as the polished crystal on the table. you feel the heat of Rin's gaze flick back to yours, his eyes dark with a renewed, sharp annoyance at being the sole target of the evening once again.

—

the dinner plates are cleared with a silent, synchronized efficiency, leaving nothing but the white linen and the guttering candles between the two families. you wait for the signal to finally end the night, but as your father sets his linen napkin down, he doesn't reach for his coat. instead, he leans forward, his hands clasped with an air of renewed authority.

“ The night is still far too pleasant to call it an evening just yet, ” he announces, his voice resonant and full of a practiced, wealthy warmth that seems to vibrate through the crystal glassware. he looks over at Rin’s parents, who offer identical, knowing smiles. “ I’ve arranged for the private lounge at the Skyline to be opened for us. It’s only a few blocks away, and the terrace view tonight is something even a seasoned traveler like Rin shouldn't miss. ”

Rin’s mother claps her hands together softly, her pearls catching the golden light. “ Perfect suggestion! It’s much more intimate there. We can actually talk without the clatter of a dining room. And it’s been so long since the families had a moment of true privacy together. ”

the suggestion hangs in the air, a heavy-handed command disguised as an invitation. you feel a sharp, cold prickle of irritation settle in your chest, and you look over at Rin. he is already standing, his movements jerky and forced, his shoulders so rigid they look as though they might snap. he doesn't look at you; he stares at a point somewhere above his father’s shoulder, his expression a mask of pure, concentrated endurance.

“ I actually have an early call time on set, ” you interject, your voice smooth and melodic despite the way your heart is beginning to thud. you pick up your marble clutch, the gold ring handle cool against your fingers. “ I really should be heading back to get some rest. ”

“ Nonsense, darling, ” your mother chirps, her hand coming down on your forearm. it’s a light touch, but the pressure is unmistakable— a silent command to stay in your seat. “ One drink. It’s barely ten. Besides, I’m sure Rin wouldn't mind ensuring you get there safely once we’ve had our toast. It’s settled. ”

Rin finally looks down, his eyes narrowing as he catches your gaze. he doesn't say a word to the parents, but the way he hooks his suit jacket over his arm is violent in its precision. he stands there, a silhouette of pure, unadulterated annoyance, waiting for you to stand so the " next phase " of their plan can begin.

the exit from the restaurant is as orchestrated as the meal itself. as you reach the curb, the two limousines idling at the entrance aren't the empty, cavernous sanctuaries you expected. instead, through the tinted glass, you can see the interiors are cluttered— heaped with oversized, ribbon-wrapped boxes, floral arrangements, and heavy gift bags that both families have been " exchanging " behind the scenes.

your father pauses by the lead car, placing a hand on the door handle, then turns to you and Rin with a look of feigned, sudden realization.

​“️ Oh, look at that, ” he says, his voice brimming with a hollow sort of surprise. “ Between the antique cases from your mother and the wine crates Rin’s father brought... there’s hardly enough room for a person in there, let alone four. ”

Rin’s mother steps up beside him, nodding in immediate, graceful agreement. “ He’s right. It’s absolutely packed to the brim. We could barely fit the four of us in there comfortably with all these lovely gifts. ” she turns her gaze toward you, her smile bright and immovable. “ There’s no sense in everyone being cramped and wrinkling their clothes. ”

you look at the car, then at Rin, who is standing perfectly still, his suit jacket gripped so hard in his hand that the fabric is beginning to strain. the " lack of space " is a transparent lie— a final, physical shove to force the two of you into a private vacuum.

​“ It’s a short drive to the lounge, ” your mother chimes in, her eyes shimmering with a victory she’s not even trying to hide. she reaches into her own small clutch and produces a set of keys, holding them out toward Rin. “ Why don't you and Rin take the coupe? It’s much more practical. He knows the way, and it'll give you two a chance to actually breathe away from all our 'boring' business talk. ”

Rin stares at the keys in her hand as if they were a live wire. the silence in the street is heavy, punctuated only by the low, expensive purr of the idling engines. you can feel the heat of his irritation radiating off him in waves— the raw, jagged energy of a man who knows he’s being played and has run out of polite ways to decline.

​“ Take them, Rin, ” his father adds, his voice dropping into that tone of quiet, patriarchal command that leaves no room for a " no " in front of company.

with a sharp, nearly imperceptible jerk of his arm, Rin reaches out and snatches the keys from your mother’s fingers. the metal clinks sharply in the quiet night air. he doesn't look at his parents, and he doesn't look at you. he just turns on his heel toward the sleek, silver coupe parked a few yards away, his stride long and predatory.

“ Get in, ” he says, his voice flat and dangerously low, directed only at you. he doesn't wait for a reply, nor does he offer to open your door. he’s already heading for the driver’s side, leaving you standing on the sidewalk.

the cold night air catches the silk of your dress as you pause just inches from the passenger door, your hand hovering over the sleek, polished handle of the coupe. the metal is chilled, a stark contrast to the warmth of the restaurant you just left. but as you prepare to slide into the leather-scented interior, a sharp, artificial prick of light cuts through the darkness.

​it’s a flash— quick, intrusive, and unmistakable. it lasts for only a fraction of a second, an electric white pulse that reflects off the teardrop sapphires at your ears and the gold ring handle of your marble clutch.

​you freeze. your heart skips a beat, a sudden, cold jolt of adrenaline sparking through your veins. you immediately whip your head back, your eyes searching the shadowed alcoves of the street, the dark windows of the boutiques across the way, and the line of parked cars stretching into the gloom. you scan for the silhouette of a lens, the movement of a person ducking behind a pillar, or the tell-tale glow of a screen.

​but there is nothing.

​the street remains deceptively quiet, the only movement coming from the low, rhythmic hum of the luxury van’s exhaust and the distant, muffled sound of city traffic. the parents are already settling into their own vehicle, oblivious, their laughter drifting away as they disappear behind tinted glass.

​a wave of confusion washes over you, followed quickly by a creeping, lowkey paranoia. you know that flash. you’ve experienced it on red carpets, in the wings of runways, and through the intrusive lenses of the paparazzi who used to haunt your every move when you and Rin were the world’s favorite headline. it’s a familiar ghost, yet the emptiness of the street makes you feel as though your mind is playing tricks on you— or worse, that someone is far better at hiding than they used to be.

​you stand there for a moment too long, your breath hitching in the cool air, before you force yourself to move. you can’t afford to look rattled, not here and certainly not in front of him.

you pull open the heavy door of the coupe and slide into the low, bucket seat. the interior is a cocoon of dark leather and carbon fiber, smelling of expensive upholstery and the sharp, icy scent of Rin’s presence. the silk of your cream-colored dress rustles as you settle in, the fabric pooling around your legs in the cramped space.

​you sit directly next to the driver’s seat.

the silence in the car is immediate and heavy, broken only by the faint, mechanical hum of the dashboard lights. Rin doesn't start the engine. he just sits there, his hands clamped on the wheel, staring straight through the windshield as if he's trying to burn a hole in the car in front of him.

​he can clearly feel the rustle of your silk dress inches away from his arm. the cramped space makes your presence impossible to ignore, and he hates it.

​he doesn't turn his head. he just shifts his eyes toward you, the look in them cold, sharp, and full of genuine loathing.

“ The back, ” he says. his voice is a flat, dead rasp. “ Move. ”

he doesn't elaborate. he just waits, his jaw tight, his gaze tracking the way you're settled into the seat next to him. when you don't immediately jump out, he lets out a short, jagged breath of derision.

“ Don't get comfortable, ” he mutters, his voice dropping an octave into something dangerously low. “ I’m not your driver, and this isn't a date. Get in the back or get out of the car. ”

you don’t move. instead, you settle deeper into the leather. you tilt your head, a small, knowing hum of amusement escaping your lips as you catch his reflection in the dashboard light.

“ The back? ” you repeat, your voice a smooth, playful contrast to the heavy silence. “ And leave you alone with that temper? I think I’ll stay right here. It’s much more... nostalgic. ”

Rin’s hands tighten on the steering wheel until the leather creaks under his grip. he doesn't look at you, he doesn't even acknowledge the tease. the only sign he heard you is the way his jaw shifts, his teeth audibly grinding together.

he lets out a breath— a sharp, huff of pure derision through his nose. “ Annoying, ” he mutters.

he doesn't argue, he doesn't try to convince you to move again. that would require too much effort, and he’s clearly decided you aren't worth the breath. instead, he shifts his gaze back to the road, his expression turning into a mask of cold, focused indifference.

“ Don't touch anything, ” he adds, his voice a flat, dangerous monotone.

before you can even offer a witty retort, he slams the car into gear. the engine doesn't just start; it snarls, a violent roar of power that shakes the cabin as he floors it. he doesn't care about the smooth " limousine " ride your parents expect— he takes the first corner with a sharp, gut-wrenching precision that sends your marble clutch sliding toward him.

​he doesn't look at you, ignoring your presence entirely as he weaves through the city traffic like he's trying to outrun the very air in the car.

the silk of your dress flutters violently as you reach out and press the button, the glass sliding down with a mechanical hum to let the city night roar into the cabin. the high-speed wind immediately tangles your hair, pulling strands loose from their polished arrangement, but you don't care. you lean your head back against the leather, closing your eyes and letting the sharp, cold air hit your face to drown out the stifling tension of the car.

it wasn't your fault your two families were so intertwined that their business mergers eventually bled into their children’s lives. it wasn't your fault that " dating Rin " had once seemed like the only logical conclusion to a lifetime of shared galas and coordinated holidays. you weren't trying to win him back, and you certainly weren't seeking his attention— you were just existing in the same suffocating orbit your parents had trapped you both in.

Rin’s jaw tightens. he hates the disorder. the wind is a variable he didn't account for, a loud, messy intrusion into his space. he can feel the air swirling around his own head, breaking his focus.

​he doesn't look at you, he doesn't even turn his head. he just reaches over with one hand and slams the window button up from his side, the glass sliding shut with a definitive, mechanical thud that cuts the noise instantly.

“ Tch. Distracting, ” he mutters, his voice a flat, dead rasp.

the silence returns, even heavier than before. he stares straight ahead, his eyes cold and fixed on the road, dismissing your attempt to change the atmosphere as nothing more than an annoyance he’s already corrected.

—

the coupe jerks to a stop at the curb, the engine cutting out with a sharp, mechanical finality. Rin doesn't wait. he’s already out of the car before the dashboard lights have even dimmed, his movements cold and efficient. he doesn't look back, leaving you to deal with the heavy passenger door yourself.

through the glass, you see them. both sets of parents are clustered near the entrance of the lounge under a warm, golden glow. they look like they’ve been waiting for this specific arrival all night—four faces turned toward the car with identical, expectant smiles.

​as you step out and smooth the silk of your dress, the parents are already closing in. your mother reaches you first, her eyes bright with a triumphant sort of glee.

“ There you are, ” she says, her voice a melodic, knowing lilt. she brushes a hand against your shoulder, her gaze flicking immediately to Rin, who is standing several feet away. “ The drive wasn't too long, I hope? We were just saying how lovely it is to see the two of you in that car again. ”

Rin’s father nods, a small, disciplined smile on his face as he looks at his son. “ Good pace. I trust you handled the car well. ”

​Rin doesn't offer a polite response. he doesn't even offer a nod. he stands there with his arms folded, his suit jacket hooked over one shoulder, staring at the lounge doors as if they’re an obstacle he needs to clear. the only sound he makes is a short, sharp exhale of breath through his nose— a sound of pure, unadulterated boredom.

“ Inside. ” he mutters. it’s the only thing he says. he doesn't wait for the parents to lead the way, and he doesn't wait for you. he just starts walking, his back a rigid wall of indifference as he heads toward the entrance. he’s finished with the pleasantries, and he’s making it very clear that every second he spends here is a second he’s counting down.

Rin's parents remain gathered under the warm, amber glow of the lounge's entrance, watching Rin’s retreating figure with a mix of practiced patience and subtle embarrassment. the tension he left behind is thick, a jagged contrast to the smooth, jazz-inflected atmosphere of the building.

​Rin’s mother turns to you, a soft, apologetic sigh escaping her as she reaches out to squeeze your forearm. her pearls shimmer in the golden light, reflecting the flicker of genuine regret in her eyes.

“ I am so sorry, dear, ” she murmurs, her voice a low, elegant apology that carries the weight of a thousand similar moments. “ He’s always been so... difficult when he’s focused on his training. I had hoped he’d show a bit more grace tonight, especially with you. ”

your own parents stand just behind her, their expressions a blend of forced neutrality and keen observation. they are waiting for your reaction, searching for any crack in your composure that might betray how you actually feel about his blatant coldness.

​but you don't give them the satisfaction of a frown or a sharp retort. instead, you settle your marble clutch comfortably against your hip and offer a slow, effortless smile— the kind that is as beautiful as it is untouchable. the sapphire at your ear catches a stray gleam of light as you tilt your head back toward the doors where Rin just disappeared.

“ It's fine, ” you say, your voice carrying that smooth, melodic lilt of someone who isn't bothered in the slightest. “ Still cold as ever. ”

the remark lands perfectly. it’s light enough to pass for a joke to the parents, yet sharp enough to acknowledge the reality of his behavior. a wave of relieved, sophisticated laughter ripples through the group.

​“ Well, ” your mother says, stepping forward to usher everyone inside, “ at least some things are consistent. Let’s not let the night go to waste standing on the sidewalk. ”

as they lead the way into the lobby, you follow at a leisurely pace. you maintain that steady, beautiful smile, even as you think back to the silent, high-speed drive and the phantom flash of light on the street.

the transition into the private lounge is a seamless plunge into a world of shadow and steel. as the heavy doors seal behind you, the humid city air is replaced by a temperature that is comfortingly cold— a dry, crisp chill that makes the silk of your dress feel like a second skin. the lighting is sparse, reduced to amber strips along the floor and the cold, blue glow of the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass.

​your parents move toward a cluster of low-slung velvet armchairs in the far corner, their silhouettes framed by the sprawling lights of the district below.

almost immediately, the atmosphere among them shifts. the playful matchmaking and lighthearted teasing from the sidewalk vanish, replaced by the hushed, rhythmic cadence of a " deep talk. " they lean in close, their voices dropping into a serious murmur about market shifts, legacy planning, and the kind of high-stakes logistics that keep their world spinning.

​they have effectively built a wall of professional gravity around themselves, leaving you and Rin adrift in the vast, open space of the lounge.

​Rin is already at the far end, standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass. he’s a dark, rigid silhouette against the city lights. he doesn't have a drink, he doesn't have his phone out. he just stands there with his arms folded, staring out at the skyline with a look of bored, icy detachment.

​you walk over, the rhythmic click of your heels the only sound in the cold room. you stop a few feet away, the cream silk of your dress shimmering in the low light.

​Rin doesn't turn, he doesn't acknowledge your approach. the only sign he knows you’re there is the way his reflection in the glass narrows its eyes, his jaw setting into a hard line.

seconds pass. the silence becomes heavy, a cold weight in the refrigerated air of the lounge.

“ You're in the way. ” he finally mutters.

​his voice is barely a whisper, a flat, jagged rasp that doesn't even carry a hint of emotion. he doesn't turn around, he doesn't tell you to move. he just states it as a fact, his eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting for you to either disappear or stop existing in his line of sight. he’s not looking for a fight or a conversation; he’s just existing in a space that he no longer wants to share with you.

you take a slow, deliberate step back, then another, until there’s a wide, cold expanse of polished stone between the two of you. it’s a ridiculous distance— enough to make the " awkwardness " of the night feel like a physical weight in the room— but in this silence, it’s the only thing that feels safe.

​both your parents are still a world away, their voices a blurred hum of business and legacy. here, in the refrigerated quiet, you find your eyes drifting back to his silhouette.

​it is a frustrating, bitter realization, but you can’t deny the memories. they surface unbidden, triggered by the sharp scent of his cologne or the specific way he stands when he’s reaching his limit. you remember a different version of this silence— one that didn't feel like a war zone. you remember the way he loved you in his own way: a love that wasn't built on flowers or soft words, but on a terrifying, singular focus.

​the way he’d watch your rehearsals from the back of the room, silent and unmoving, until you were the only two left. the way he’d correct your posture or your form with a touch that was clinical and rough, yet possessed a hidden, frantic heat. it was a love that felt like being the only target in his sights, a devotion that was as demanding as it was deep.

now, he’s just a stranger in a familiar suit.

​Rin doesn't move. he doesn't look at the space you’ve vacated, and he doesn't acknowledge the heavy silence you're both drowning in. he stands perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the distant lights of the city. he isn't reminiscing, he isn't feeling the " awkwardness. " he’s simply existing in the silence as if he’s alone in the room.

​the only sound is the distant, muffled laughter of the parents and the faint hum of the building. Rin remains a dark, unreachable silhouette. he doesn't turn his head, he doesn't say a word. he just continues to stare out the glass, his jaw locked, completely indifferent to your presence and the memories you're currently fighting back.

the memory feels out of place in this sterile, freezing lounge. you can almost feel the phantom warmth of how it used to be— those rare moments when the sharp edges of his ambition seemed to curve around you instead of cutting through you. back then, the way your lives were woven together felt less like a corporate arrangement and more like a foregone conclusion. you had convinced yourself that his intensity was just his way of holding on.

​but looking at the rigid line of his shoulders now, that " meant to be " feels like a fever dream.

he isn't looking back. he isn't caught in the gravity of " what used to be " to him, those years were likely just another stage of growth he’s already evolved past— a season of his life that he’s closed the door on with clinical precision.

​the silence between you remains heavy and one-sided.

​Rin reaches up, his fingers adjusting his tie with a quick, forceful tug that looks more like he's tightening a noose than fixing his appearance. it’s the only movement he’s made in minutes. he doesn't look at you, doesn't check to see if you're still standing there, and doesn't offer a single word to break the chill. he just continues to stare out at the horizon, his expression a mask of bored, glassy indifference.

—

the parents finally rise from their velvet armchairs, the low, rhythmic hum of their business talk coming to an abrupt end.

they check their watches in unison, a shared look of realization passing between them as they acknowledge how late it has actually gotten.

“ It’s well past midnight, ” Rin’s father says, his voice cutting through the cold silence of the lounge with practiced authority. “ We'll head to the suite. It’s closer, and everything is already prepared. ”

your mother nods, smoothing her dress as she casts a meaningful look in your direction. “ It’s for the best. There are two rooms ready— one for us, and the usual suite for you and Rin. No sense in making things difficult at this hour. ”

​the arrangement is stated as a fact, leaving no room for negotiation. the " shared " room— the one you and Rin have occupied countless times during family stays— is where you are expected to spend the rest of the night.

​Rin doesn't argue, he doesn't even look over at the parents to acknowledge the plan. he simply pushes off from the glass wall, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he turns toward the exit. his face is a mask of flat, icy indifference, the only sign of his irritation being the subtle, hard set of his jaw.

​“ Whatever. ” he mutters.

the realization hits you with the same sudden chill as the air conditioning in the lounge. you had been so lost in the distance between you and the weight of your own memories that the passage of time had become a blur. now, the reality of the parents' " efficient " planning settles in: you aren't just sharing a space, you’re sharing the bed.

​the same bed where the silence won't have a vast, marble floor to hide in.

​Rin is already moving toward the exit, his stride purposeful and entirely detached. he doesn't glance back to see your reaction or to see if you’re even following. to him, the arrangement seems to be just another annoying logistical hurdle, something to be endured with as little interaction as possible.

​he reaches the elevator bank first, pressing the button with a sharp, clinical jab. as the gold doors slide open, he steps inside and turns around, his arms folded tightly over his chest. he doesn't hold the door open for you; he just stands there, a dark and rigid figure framed by the elevator’s mirrors, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above your head.

​the " meant to be " feeling from earlier has completely vanished, replaced by the reality of a guy who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. he doesn't say a word as you step into the small, enclosed space with him, but the air in the elevator immediately feels twice as thin.

—

the penthouse suite is as seamless and cold as the lounge. it’s a massive, two-story expanse of glass and dark wood, with the first floor acting as a sprawling gallery of designer furniture that nobody actually sits in.

“ Go on upstairs, dear, ” Rin’s mother says, her voice smooth but carrying a sharp undercurrent as she glances toward her son. she places a gentle hand on your back, nudging you toward the glass-railed staircase. “ Get settled. We’ll be up in a moment. ”

your own parents follow suit, offering tired smiles as they begin the trek to the second floor, leaving Rin standing in the center of the foyer.

​you catch the look on Rin’s mother’s face as you turn away— the tight, disciplined pull of her features. she’s definitely about to tear into him for his behavior at the lounge.

​as you climb the stairs, the rhythmic click of your heels against the wood is the only sound. you don't look back, but you can feel the heavy, silent tension radiating from Rin as he remains downstairs. he doesn't move, standing there like a statue with his arms crossed, staring at a piece of abstract art on the wall as if he’s preparing for the lecture he knows is coming.

reaching the second-floor landing, the layout is clear: your parents’ wing is to the left, and the shared suite is at the far end of the hall. the hallway is dimly lit, the plush carpet muffling your footsteps as you walk toward the door that marks the end of the night.

​you push the door open to the suite. it’s exactly as you remember— minimalist, freezing, and dominated by a single, expansive king-sized bed. the sheets are pulled taut, a pristine white expanse that feels more like a battlefield than a place to rest. you step inside and let the door swing shut, the soft click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. you’re alone for now, but the heavy silence of the hallway tells you it won’t be long before the lecture downstairs ends and the door opens again.

the hot water of the shower wash away the evening's tension, leaving your skin flushed and smelling of expensive hotel soap. after drying off, you methodically strip away the rest of the night: the heavy sapphires go onto the vanity, and your makeup is wiped clean until your face is bare. you change into the prepared sleepwear, but the sight of the single, pristine bed makes your chest tighten.

​you aren't doing it. not tonight.

you remembered seeing it earlier— a spare, folding foam mattress tucked away in the deep storage closet between your separate bathrooms. it’s heavy and awkward, but you manage to haul it out, dragging it across the plush carpet toward the far corner of the room.

​the door to the suite clicks open.

Rin walks in, his tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. he looks exhausted and twice as irritable after the lecture downstairs. he stops dead in his tracks the moment he sees you.

​he doesn't move. he just stands there, one hand still on the door handle, staring at you as you struggle to push the foam into place on the floor. his eyes are cold, tracking your movements with a look of pure, bewildered disbelief.

“ What are you doing? ” he asks. ​his voice is a low, jagged rasp, cutting through the silence of the room. he doesn't offer to help, and he doesn't move to the bed. he just watches you.

you don't look up from the foam, focusing on smoothing out the edges of the makeshift bed. the room is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the city through the reinforced glass, but the air around Rin feels like it’s vibrating with a sharp, static tension.

“ I’m sleeping on the floor, ” you say. ​your voice is steady, matching the chill of the room. you don't offer an explanation or an apology; you just state it as a final decision, a way to reclaim some space in a night that has felt entirely out of your control.

Rin doesn't move. he stays rooted by the door, his silhouette tall and imposing against the light from the hallway. he stares down at you, then at the thin foam mattress, his eyes narrowing into cold, thin slits. the silence stretches out, heavy and jagged, until he lets out a short, sharp huff of air through his nose— a sound of pure, biting disbelief.

​he doesn't argue, he doesn't tell you to get on the bed. he just stares at you for a long, frozen moment, his jaw locked tight enough to crack, before he turns away and heads toward his own bathroom without a single word.

you finally give up on the floor, sliding into the massive king-sized bed and settling a careful distance away from him.

​despite the comfort of the mattress, you can't seem to settle. you keep moving around, tossing from side to side and constantly adjusting the pillows in a frustrating attempt to find a comfortable spot. every shift of your weight feels loud in the quiet room, but you can't help it.

to make matters worse, the air conditioner is blowing directly over you. the steady, freezing breeze sweeps across your face and shoulders, a sharp chill that makes you shiver and continuously pull the heavy sheets higher around your neck to shield yourself from the draft.

you keep moving again, unable to stay still for more than a few seconds. you roll onto your other side, the heavy sheets rustling loudly against the duvet as you pull your knees up, trying to shield yourself from the relentless chill.

a moment later, you shift again, flipping the pillow over to the other side and adjusting your position yet another time. no matter how you arrange yourself, the mattress feels too vast, the quiet feels too loud, and you just keep tossing and turning in the dark, desperate to find a single spot where you can finally settle down.

the endless rustling of the duvet finally breaks his patience. Rin rolls over, the movement sudden and sharp. in the dim light, his eyes are narrow, flat, and completely devoid of warmth. he looks at you with pure, clinical irritation.

“ Stay still, ” he rasps, his voice a low, jagged friction in the quiet room. “ You're being annoying. ”

he doesn't offer you space, and he doesn't care that you're freezing. he just stares at you for a cold, hard second, his jaw locked tight, waiting for you to finally shut up and stop moving so he can go back to sleep.

“ Well, it's hard for me to find a comfortable spot. ” you mutter back, your voice muffled slightly by the heavy sheet.

you pull the covers all the way up to your chin, trying to shield yourself from the steady, icy draft cutting across the bed. it’s an instinctive defense against both the room's temperature and his total lack of empathy, a futile attempt to get comfortable under his critical watch.

​Rin doesn't offer a single word of sympathy. he doesn't shift the blankets, and he doesn't adjust the thermostat. he just keeps his narrow, unblinking glare fixed on you through the darkness, his silence heavy and unyielding as he waits for you to finish complaining and finally stay still.

despite the cold weight of his glare, your limbs just won't settle. the freezing draft from the AC sweeps across the pillow again, hitting the exposed skin of your neck and making you shiver.

you turn over entirely, rolling away from him to face the edge of the mattress, dragging the heavy duvet with you in a loud, aggressive rustle of fabric. you tuck the edges under your feet, trying to lock the warmth in, but a second later your shoulders feel stiff. you shift back, your elbow digging into the mattress as you flip the pillow over to find a side that doesn't feel like ice. every single movement is magnified in the dark, the constant friction of the sheets acting as a relentless, rhythmic disruption in the small space between you.

the relentless, rhythmic friction of the sheets finally snaps whatever thin thread of patience Rin has left. the mattress shifts sharply as he rolls over to face you, the sudden movement tense and entirely hostile.

in the pale, filtered darkness of the room, his face is a rigid mask of pure irritation. his brows are drawn low, and his eyes are narrow, sharp slits tracking the clumsy, frustrated movements of you wrestling with the sheets. there isn't a single trace of softness in his posture; he looks at you like a loud, broken fixture in the room that is actively ruining his rest. he is completely, utterly done with the disruption.

“ Get over here, ” he rasps. the words are a flat, heavy directive, delivered in a low, jagged monotone that cuts right through the steady hum of the AC. he doesn't ask, and he doesn't phrase it like a choice.

he doesn't open his arms to invite you in, and he doesn't shift toward your side to be welcoming. he just glares at you through the dark, his jaw set in a hard line. to him, this isn't an act of affection or a peace offering— it's a brutal, logical solution to a nuisance. if you're going to complain about being cold and you can't stay still on the edge of the mattress, the only way to make you stop moving and shut up is to anchor you right next to him where the draft doesn't hit.

“ Sleep here and stay still. You're being annoying. ” he mutters, his voice deadpan and sharp with friction as he indicates the space right beside him.

for a second, you just freeze right where you are, your fingers still tightly gripping the edge of the heavy sheets. the words seem to hang in the dark, sterile air of the suite, feeling entirely detached from reality. you’re not even sure if you heard him correctly, or if the cold and the sheer exhaustion of the long night are finally catching up to you, causing you to hallucinate a voice in a half-dreaming state.

​Sleep here. the directive repeats in your mind, sounding entirely wrong coming from him. it feels utterly out of character— this is the same guy who spent the entire evening acting like a wall of solid ice, treating you like an inconvenient logistical hurdle he was forced to endure. he doesn't do comfort, he doesn't do warmth, and he certainly doesn't invite people into his space. everything about the command goes against the rigid, clinical distance he has maintained since the lounge, making your chest tighten with a sudden, confusing spike of adrenaline.

yet, even as your brain scrambles to analyze the sheer absurdity of the moment, you find that you can't deny him. there is a heavy, unyielding gravity in his flat tone that completely strips away your ability to argue or refuse. whether it's because you're too exhausted to fight the freezing draft any longer, or because the raw, blunt authority in his voice leaves absolutely no room for negotiation, your body moves on its own. slowly, tentatively, you begin to shift your weight across the wide expanse of the mattress, leaving your isolated corner behind to cross the invisible line into his space.

you are finally on the bed now, the massive expanse of the mattress no longer dividing the two of you. yet, despite the sudden proximity, the distance between you feels just as vast. you are both facing opposite sides, your backs turned to one another like two rigid, parallel walls in the dark. you stare out at the freezing gloom of the familiar suite, your eyes wide and completely awake, while he remains entirely motionless behind you, a silent, heavy presence that radiates an unmistakable chill.

​your mind is a chaotic, racing mess of thoughts as you lie there, barely daring to breathe. it’s completely ridiculous— one second he’s snapping at you to move, and the next, he’s treating you like you don't even exist, shutting you out the exact moment you complied. you can’t help but think about how frustratingly predictable his stubbornness is, even when he's the one who demanded this arrangement. he probably just expects you to act like a statue now, treating you less like a person and more like an annoying fixture he had to secure in place just to get some peace and quiet.

the heat radiating from his back is a stark contrast to the icy draft from the air conditioner, a strange, solid warmth that you can feel even through the thick layers of the duvet without actually touching him. it’s an intensely awkward, high-pressure boundary to navigate. you are close enough to hear the faint, disciplined rhythm of his breathing, close enough that the slightest tilt of your shoulders would cause your blades to brush against his, but you don't dare shift an inch. you just lock your joints and stare into the shadows, acutely aware of every single centimeter of space between your spine and his, wondering how on earth you're supposed to actually fall asleep like this.

suddenly, amidst the chaotic swirl of your thoughts, a random spark of memory clicks into place. it’s a sudden, sharp realization that bubbles up from some forgotten biology lecture or an article you’d skimmed through years ago: there is an actual, literal science behind why your heart is hammering against your ribs right now. your brain, completely hardwired for survival, is currently brewing what researchers call “ The Neurochemical Cocktail. ”

it makes perfect sense when you analyze it through a purely logical lens. your body has been under pressure all night— the stifling atmosphere of the lounge, the heavy weight of expectations from your parents, the freezing cold of the AC, and the sheer, unpredictable tension of being trapped in this room with him. in response to that high-stress environment, your adrenal glands have been working overtime, flooding your system with cortisol and adrenaline. it’s the classic fight-or-flight response, keeping your senses hyper-alert, your muscles tense, and your pupils dilated in the dark. every single nerve ending is firing, which is exactly why the mere proximity of his back feels like an electric current in the room.

​but there’s a second, more complicated layer to the cocktail. now that you’ve actually moved closer to him, crossing that invisible boundary into his immediate space, your brain is introducing a conflicting dose of oxytocin and dopamine into the mix. even though he is being completely cold and detached, facing the opposite direction like a wall of stone, the human brain instinctively reacts to close physical proximity and shared warmth by seeking comfort. it’s a jarring, highly volatile chemical contrast— the raw, panicked edge of adrenaline fighting against the heavy, primal urge to settle down and find safety in the dark.

​lying there in the freezing gloom, you can't help but fixate on the sheer irony of the biology of it all. your mind is fully aware that this arrangement is entirely transactional, a blunt solution to an annoyance, yet your hormones and neurotransmitters are completely ignoring that logic. they are... are... reacting... him as... if he’s... a focal point.. intense focus.. amplifying the..

before you can even finish the thought, the sheer exhaustion of the night finally catches up to you. the complex chemical theories and the hyper-awareness of the space between your spine and his begin to blur together into a heavy, indistinct fog. your eyelids grow impossibly heavy, fluttering once, twice, before finally falling shut against the darkness of the suite.

​the tense, rigid line of your shoulders finally softens, slipping away as the cold draft from the air conditioner ceases to matter. cradled by the solid, unyielding warmth radiating from behind you, your racing mind completely shuts down, and you fall into a deep, instantaneous sleep.

—

the heavy, suffocating silence of the bedroom is abruptly shattered by the aggressive, buzzing vibration of your phone against the nightstand. the sound cuts through your deep sleep like a blade, jarring you awake. your eyes blink open, blurry and disoriented, staring blindly into the dim, early morning light filtering through the gaps in the heavy curtains.

​you groppingly reach out, your fingers fumbling against the cold wood until you grab the device. the bright screen flares to life, stinging your eyes. the digital clock across the top reads 7:24 AM. your chest tightens automatically, who on earth would be blowing up your phone this early? besides, you're sure your call time on set is 10am.

then, you see the caller ID. it’s your manager, and the screen is already lighting up with a fresh incoming call, overriding a string of missed ones.

​instinct, sharpened by years of navigating the cutthroat entertainment industry and the relentless demands of fame and media, kicks in instantly. in your world, a manager calling repeatedly at sunrise is never a casual check-in. it means the radar is spiking; it means a crisis, a scandal, or a massive logistical collapse.

your heart rates spikes, the lingering fog of sleep vanishing in a fraction of a second as your thumb swipes to clear the call screen so you can check your notifications instead.

​your lock screen is completely flooded. a wall of unread messages stretches down the display, a frantic text crawl of urgent notifications and missed call alerts that makes your stomach do a slow flip.

but as your eyes scramble to decipher the wall of text, skipping past the frantic opening lines, your gaze locks onto the very first complete sentence that registers in your brain. written in all-caps, bolded by the sheer weight of its implications, the message reads:

NO SHOOT FOR THE TODAY.

you stare at the glowing text for a few more seconds, the sheer weight of the cancellation sinking in. no shoot. no schedule. no demanding directors, flashing cameras, or rigid scripts to follow for the rest of the day. the frantic knot of anxiety that had tightened in your chest at the sight of those missed calls completely unravels, replaced by a wave of profound, heavy relief.

​you don't reply to the messages. you don't scroll down to read the chaotic paragraphs explaining why the production collapsed. in your line of work, an unexpected free day is a rare, priceless luxury, and you have absolutely no intention of wasting it by stressing over logistics at seven in the morning.

your thumb flicks the side button, and the bright screen instantly goes black, plunging the space back into a soft, dim twilight. you set the phone face-down on the nightstand, cutting off the potential for any more distracting flashes.

​turning away from the edge of the mattress, you slide back down into the deep warmth of the bed, burying your face into the cool fabric of the pillow. the freezing breeze from the air conditioner is still sweeping through the suite, but beneath the heavy sheets, the air is perfectly insulated. you pull the covers up over your shoulders, letting the quiet rhythm of the room wash over you as your eyes flutter shut once more, instantly drifting back into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

—

the frantic, buzzing vibration of your phone cuts through the quiet room once again, dragging you right back out of your deep sleep. you blink your eyes open, squinting against the morning light that is now pouring much brighter through the gaps in the curtains. your eyes track to the digital clock on the screen: 8:17 AM.

before you even look at the caller ID, you instinctively glance at the space beside you. the mattress is completely empty. the sheets on his side are smoothed out, cold to the touch, and devoid of any lingering warmth. Rin is already gone, leaving absolutely no trace of his presence behind.

​the phone continues to ring aggressively in your hand, your manager's name flashing relentlessly across the screen. knowing you can't ignore the persistence a second time, you clear your throat to shake off the morning rasp, drag your thumb across the glass, and lift the phone to your ear.

“ ...Why? ” you murmur, your voice still heavy with sleep.

the moment the line connects, your manager’s voice explodes through the speaker, so loud and frantic that you instinctively pull the phone a few inches away from your ear to save your eardrums.

there is no greeting, no apology for waking you up a second time— just a torrent of high-pitched, panicked words that completely shatters the residual quiet of the bedroom.

​“ Are you seeing this?! Please tell me you’re looking at the feeds right now! ” your manager half-shouts, their breath hitching sharply over the line. “ A fan caught you. they spotted the two of you last night, and they didn’t just watch—they took photos. clear ones. two of them are already making the rounds, and the engagement is spiking every second. ”

the sheer volume of their voice makes your stomach drop, the last remnants of sleep instantly evaporating. you listen in stunned silence as your manager begins to rattle off the exact details of the leaked images, their tone a chaotic mix of professional dread and sheer disbelief.

“ The first photo is from the restaurant, ” your manager explains, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “ The lighting is perfect, unfortunately. It catches you mid-laugh, completely bright and smiling, looking right across the table at Rin. It looks incredibly candid, incredibly intimate— like there’s no one else in the room. It’s exactly the kind of shot the media eats alive because it looks completely unprompted. ”

​your manager pauses just long enough to take a sharp, ragged breath before plunging straight into the second problem. “ And then there’s the second one. Someone was waiting outside by the vehicle. It’s a shot of you getting into the car, right as you’re about to slide into the back seat to sit next to him. The angle tracks your profile perfectly, and you can see Rin right there in the frame inside the car. It links the two of you together from dinner straight into a private vehicle, and the internet is already losing its mind trying to piece the timeline together. Do you have any idea what this does to the press cycle today?! ”

a cold, numbing sensation spreads rapidly from your chest right down to your fingertips, making the phone in your hand suddenly feel incredibly heavy. your brain completely stalls, struggling to process the frantic words screaming through the receiver. confusion and sheer shock hit you in a simultaneous wave, leaving you entirely disoriented as you sit up in the empty bed, the sheets slipping down your shoulders.

​suddenly, the massive wall of unread alerts you woke up to a hour ago makes terrifyingly perfect sense. it wasn't just your manager trying to reach you; your lock screen was a chaotic battlefield of notifications from every single social media platform installed on your phone. direct messages, tags, mentions, and urgent texts from friends and colleagues were piling up in real-time, a digital avalanche triggered by a couple of leaked snapshots. the sheer scale of it leaves you breathless, your mind racing to grasp how a private dinner turned into a public spectacle while you were asleep.

“ What...? ” you breathe out, your voice barely a whisper against the panic vibrating over the line. “ Wait... ”

your thumb trembles slightly as you pull the phone away from your ear, switching to the messaging thread where your manager has already forwarded the links. you tap the first preview, and the image expands to fill the bright screen.

​your breath catches in your throat. your manager wasn't exaggerating.

​there you are, captured in high-definition, laughing with a rare, unforced warmth that feels entirely too exposed for public viewing, your eyes locked onto Rin's cold profile. and right beneath it, the second image is even more damning— the sharp, unmistakable angle of you stepping into the private car, the interior light illuminating Rin sitting right there in the shadows, waiting for you. seeing the raw, undeniable proof staring back at you makes your heart hammer violently against your ribs, the absolute reality of the crisis finally crashing down on you.

your finger hovers over the glass, your eyes darting frantically down the screen as you scroll past the images to check the actual source of the leak. but as the page refreshes in real-time, the notification counter at the bottom of the app doesn't just climb— it explodes, jumping by thousands in a matter of seconds.

​a cold sweat breaks out across your neck. something else just happened. the press cycle isn't just spiraling anymore; it has entirely broken containment.

“ Please tell me that was an accident, ” your manager's voice suddenly cracks over the line, completely stripped of its previous anger, replaced now by pure, unadulterated dread. “ Please tell me your phone was unlocked in your pocket, or you slipped, or— ”

“ Ugh... what now? ” you stammer, your thumb frantically tapping into the trending tab.

“ The top comment on the main thread! ” your manager half-screams, their voice trembling. “ Look at what your account just did! ”

​you click the link, and the top-voted comment under the leaked screenshot fills the top of your screen. it’s a hyper-viral, chaotic fan reaction typed in frantic all-caps:

“ THEY'RE STILL TOGETHER !!! ” I yell as they dragged me into the asylum...

and right beneath it, glowing with a definitive, unmistakable blue hue that seals your absolute ruin... is the tiny icon of your own verified, official account profile.

​You liked it.

your heart completely stops. your thumb must have brushed against the screen when you frantically grabbed the phone at 7:24 AM, or maybe your half-asleep brain had clicked it in a daze before you drifted back to sleep. or maybe when you were heading to the restaurant, where your phone lagged? either way, it does not matter.

to the public, to the paparazzi, and to the millions of fans watching the feeds explode, this wasn't a glitch. this was an official confirmation. it was a direct validation of the rumors, an intentional nod to the chaos, and a match thrown directly into a warehouse full of gasoline.

​the media is already going completely feral. headlines are rewriting themselves across every major entertainment outlet in real-time, notifications are blurring into a solid, blinding white sheet of light on your screen, and the sheer volume of the digital backlash is enough to make the room spin.

before you can even open your mouth to explain, to panic, or to tell your manager to get the PR team on the line, the heavy door to the suite suddenly clicks.

​the handle turns, and the door swings open.

© 2026 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.

this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.

OHHH FUU🤤🤤 NEVER LOCKED IN THIS MUCH AFTER CE QUI RESTE

make me a student drop out and you'd be getting new works like this every 2 weeks.

but I chose my future. not like i'm actually earning money in this looool

I love Rin's character honestly and I hate mischaracterizations about him. I hate mischaracterization in general but anyway... I'm pretty sure I portrayed him well. Rin, even if not a ex-relationship-thing, will definetely not treat his partner in a sweet i-love-you-babe-thing😭!!! sure, he'll probably develop a soft spot ( just like I portrayed on the bed scene ) but he definetely won't change his personality😭😭

​

​In the old world, Xeno was a man of logic and Stanley was a man of calculated risk. In the Stone World? They were a united front of terrifying, overprotective smothering.

​“ Absolutely not, ” Xeno said, not even looking up from his blueprints as his daughter reached for a makeshift machete. “ The flora in this sector has mutated variations of contact dermatitis. Furthermore, Stanley has tracked a jaguar population three kilometers north. You will remain within the perimeter. ”

​“ Dad, I'm fourteen, not four, ” she groaned, dropping the blade. “ I survived the petrification. I think I can handle a walk. ”

​Stanley, leaning against a wooden beam while cleaning his rifle, blew a slow puff of smoke into the air. “ Listen to your father. You go past the treeline without me, and I’m putting you on a permanent mandatory base arrest. I don't care if you're technically a teenager; out here, you're fragile cargo. ”

​“ You guys are unbelievable, ” she muttered, kicking a stray pebble. “ You're trying to rebuild civilization but you won't even let me look at it. ”

​

​an hour later, seeking any form of entertainment in the high-tech, low-resource camp, she slipped into Xeno’s personal tent. her eyes immediately landed on his desk. Specifically, on the ridiculous, dramatic, custom-made claw-gloves he insisted on wearing.

​“ How does he even function in these? ” she whispered to herself.

​

she slid her hands into the oversized, metallic contraptions, the elongated claws clinking together loudly. shaking her hands experimentally, she picked up a graphite pencil and a bound piece of handmade paper.

​keyword: tried.

​the moment she closed her hand, the heavy, awkward claws clattered against each other. the pencil slipped out of her grip, rolling across the desk. when she tried to scoop it up, the sharp tips just stabbed the wood, creating a frustratingly loud clack-clack-clack.

​

“ How does Dad wear these all the time and manage to get any work done? ” she grumbled aloud, balancing the notebook on her forearms like a clumsy waiter. “ I can't even manage to pick up my notebook and pencil... ”

​“ Because, my dear, it requires an elegant synergy of physics, muscle memory, and an unwavering commitment to aesthetic superiority. ”

​she froze.

​Xeno was standing at the entrance of the tent, his arms crossed, a highly amused, elegant smirk playing on his lips. eight behind him was Stanley, who had a rare, genuine grin splitting his face, his shoulder shaking with silent laughter.

​“ Do you require a lesson in aerodynamic finger-weaving? ” Xeno asked, stepping forward with an theatrical flourish. “ Or have you simply realized that your father is, indeed, elegant in all dimensions? ”

​“ I think she just realized you're a dork, Xeno, ” Stanley chuckled, walking over and gently tugging the heavy gloves off her hands, replacing them with her fallen pencil. “ Stick to the normal hands for now, kiddo. We have enough trouble keeping track of you without you stabbing your own homework. ”

wow! Its so easy to write drabbles??? damn I should've start doing this before... I just hope both of them are in character because I don't pay too much attention to xeno and stanley😔

I don't even write drabbles, ( probably my last ) but I felt bad for the one who ordered this. seems like you want this drabble for a while, and I hope I got it right and you enjoyed this!!

SHORT UPDATE: NEW FANFIC

​the atmosphere is dominated by a deep, cozy heat that seems to radiate from the very walls, creating a sense of density in the air that is almost tangible. through the glass, the distant hum of life— the occasional, rhythmic roll of tires on warm asphalt or the faint, melodic chirping of birds hidden in the foliage— drifts in like a hazy, half-remembered memory. a soft, breeze wanders through the half-open window, carrying the subtle, clean scent of sun-warmed concrete and the distant, sweet greenery of a nearby park. it is just enough of a movement to make the sheer, ivory curtains ghost against the wooden frame, a flutter that breaks the stagnant warmth for a fleeting second before the air settles once more into its comfortable, drowsy weight.

​inside the bedroom, the light is a masterpiece of shifting transition. the sun, now slanting at a lazy, dramatic angle, filters through the swaying branches of the trees outside, casting long, soft shadows across the floorboards. the room is bathed in a dim, amber-tinted glow that highlights the stray dust motes dancing in the air, moving in slow, aimless circles within the beams of light like tiny, golden spirits.

​everything within the sanctuary of the apartment feels slow, saturated, and profoundly quiet. the distant, muffled ticking of a clock or the soft, hypnotic whir of a fan in another room only serves to deepen the silence, marking the passage of time without ever disturbing it. it is the kind of afternoon where time feels entirely elastic, stretching out in the heat and inviting nothing but the absolute luxury of being still. the golden light pools in the creases of the mattress, warming the fabric and turning the space into a quiet haven, tucked away and hidden from the rush of the world outside.

you’re stretched out across the bed, sinking into the soft, sun-warmed duvet as the afternoon heat settles over you. the world has narrowed down to the glowing rectangle of your phone, the screen’s light reflecting faintly in your eyes as you scroll.

there’s a lazy, rhythmic comfort to it—your thumb flicking upward in a slow, repetitive motion that keeps pace with the quiet hum of the room. you’re drifting through an endless stream of photos, updates, videos, memes— everything. the digital noise providing a sharp contrast to the stillness of the apartment. lost in the mindless loop of social media, you’ve let the minutes bleed together, perfectly content to stay anchored in the amber-tinted shadows of the bed while the rest of the world passes by outside.

the peaceful, amber-tinted silence is shattered in a sudden, elastic blur of movement. there is no warning, no soft footsteps on the hardwood or a quiet approach. only the abrupt, heavy impact of a body launching itself into the mattress with the spring-loaded energy of a cat. the bed springs groan under the sudden weight, sending a physical ripple through the sheets that nearly knocks the phone from your hands as the mattress dips violently.

​before you can even draw a startled breath, Bachira has colonized your space entirely.

​with a fluid, almost feline grace, he slides into the narrow gap between your arms, wedging himself against you with a needy, tactile intensity. he doesn't just lie down next to you; he anchors himself to you. his face disappears instantly, buried firmly in the soft space just beneath your chest, hiding away from the world in the warmth of your shirt. you can feel the immediate, radiating heat of him— that high-octane body temperature he always carries—seeping through the fabric as he nuzzles closer.

​his arms wrap around your waist in a locked embrace, his fingers curling into your clothes as if to ensure you can’t drift away. he is a chaotic tangle of limbs and soft, dark hair, squeezing you with a fierce, grounding affection that forces a huff of air from your lungs. he remains perfectly silent, his entire body relaxing into yours as he turns your quiet, solitary afternoon into a lopsided, heart-thumping hug.

you blink, momentarily stunned by the sudden weight and warmth of him, before shifting your gaze downward to the messy crown of dark hair currently pressed against your ribs. you can’t help but let out a soft, breathless huff of a laugh at the sheer absurdity of the position he’s put you both in. “ Bachira? What are you doing? ” you murmur, your voice thick with the laziness of the afternoon as you nudge his shoulder.

​the answer comes as a muffled vibration against your chest, his voice low and honey-thick with a sleepy sort of mischief.

“ ..Nothing, ” he hums, though the word is nearly lost in the fabric of your shirt.

​he doesn't move an inch to explain himself. instead, he only tightens his hold, his arms squeezing your waist a little firmer as if to prove that his version of nothing involves becoming your permanent shadow. he nuzzles closer, his nose brushing against your chest in a slow, content gesture, making it very clear that he has no intention of moving until the sun finally disappears from the room.

with a small, exasperated sigh that ruffles the dark tufts of his hair, you decide to concede to his sudden invasion, realizing that trying to dislodge him would be like trying to move a mountain made of warm, stubborn energy. you lift your phone back into your line of sight, the light of the screen once again illuminating your face as you settle back into the rhythmic, mindless scroll of your feed. you choose to ignore the fact that your personal space has been entirely compromised, acting as if having a world-class striker anchored to your torso is just another mundane part of your Saturday.

​your thumb resumes its slow flicking motion, navigating through an endless stream of digital memes, but the experience has changed. every movement you make is now mirrored by the slight shift of his weight against you; when you breathe, you feel the rise and fall of his chest synced perfectly with yours. the persistent, radiating heat of his body acts like a living radiator, turning the cozy warmth of the room into something much more intimate and heavy.

​even as you focus on the glowing images on the screen, your peripheral vision is filled with the sight of his arms locked firmly around your waist and the way his hair tickles the underside of your chin. he is perfectly still now, a silent, heavy presence that demands acknowledgment without saying a word, making it increasingly difficult to actually process anything you’re watching.

the silence of the room is broken not by his movement, but by a sudden, playful shift in his energy. you can feel him grinning against your skin before you even hear his voice— a tiny, mischievous vibration that makes your heart skip a beat.

​slowly, Bachira tilts his head back, shifting just enough to peek out from his hiding spot beneath your chest. his chin rests right against you as he looks up, his bright, wide eyes searching yours with a look of mock offense. the golden afternoon light catches the yellow highlights in his hair, making him look even more like a golden retriever than usual.

​“ Hey, hey... are you really just gonna keep looking at that little glowing box? ” he teases, his voice a soft, melodic lilt that’s impossible to ignore. he lets go of your waist with one hand just to reach up and poke the side of your phone, trying to wobble it out of your grip. “ I’m right here, you know. I'm way more interesting than a screen. Why are you ignoring me? Is the monster on your phone more fun than me? ”

​you can't help but look down at him, the sight of his pouty lip and those dilated, expectant pupils finally breaking your resolve. you let your phone drop onto the duvet beside you with a soft thump, your hands finally free.

​“ ..Maybe because I was actually being productive doing nothing until a certain someone tackled me, ” you retort, though there’s no bite in your tone. you reach down, your fingers finally tangling into the messy, soft strands of his hair. “ What do you want, Meguru? You said you were doing nothing . ”

​“ I changed my mind, ” he chirps, his grin widening until his eyes crinkle at the corners. he nuzzles his cheek back into your palm, leaning into your touch with a contented sigh. “ Doing nothing is better when you're doing it with me. Talk to me! Tell me something. ”

despite his chirping request and the expectant, golden-bright look in his eyes, you choose to call his bluff. you offer one final, lingering stroke through the softest part of his hair before withdrawing your hand, reaching back for the device resting on the beddings. it’s a deliberate, playful rejection, a silent challenge to see how he’ll handle being sidelined for a second time.

​for a few beats, the room returns to that artificial silence, broken only by the faint, digital pings of your notifications and the rhythmic, ghostly flutter of the curtains. you keep your gaze fixed on the screen, scrolling with a forced concentration that you know is driving him crazy. beneath your chest, Meguru is a coiled spring. he stays perfectly still, his chin still anchored against you, but his pupils are blown wide, tracking the movement of your thumb with the predatory focus of a cat watching a laser pointer. the atmosphere between you becomes thick with a new kind of tension— not the heavy, sleepy weight of the afternoon, but a sharp, electric anticipation that vibrates through his locked embrace.

​then, the quiet is gone in a flash of yellow-tipped hair and lightning-fast reflexes.

​without a word of warning, Bachira’s grip on your waist vanishes, and before you can even register the movement, his hand shoots upward like a strike on the pitch. his fingers are nimble and sure, snatching the phone right out of your relaxed grip before you have the chance to tighten your hold. you’re left staring at your empty palms, the sudden lack of weight leaving you momentarily stunned.

​he ends up perched at the edge of the bed, just out of arm’s reach, holding your phone high above his head like a trophy. he’s grinning now, a wide, jagged expression of pure triumph that shows off his teeth, his eyes dancing with a manic, playful light. the sun catches the yellow of his hair as he wags the device back and forth, taunting you with the very thing you used to ignore him.

you let out a exaggerated groan of frustration, your hands dropping uselessly onto the rumpled sheets where your phone had been just a second ago. the sudden absence of the device makes the room feel even warmer, and you fix him with a look that tries— and fails— to be stern.

​“ Meguru! Give it back! ” you huff, your voice rising in a mock-annoyance that only fuels the fire in his eyes. you scramble onto your knees, the mattress shifting and dipping under your weight as you try to close the distance he’s created.

“ Seriously, what are you doing now? ”

​Bachira doesn't move a muscle to return it. instead, he leans back on his elbows, the phone held just a few inches higher, teasingly out of reach. his grin doesn't falter for a second. if anything, it grows wider, more jagged and full of that signature chaotic energy. he watches you scramble toward him with the delighted focus of a boy watching a game he knows he’s winning.

​when you reach out, your fingers grazing the edge of your phone’s case, he suddenly tilts his head to the side. instead of a verbal answer or a playful retort, he simply sticks his tongue out at you. it’s a purely childish, bratty gesture, delivered with a cheeky blep that completely shatters any remains of your " annoyed " facade. he’s completely unbothered by your protest, his eyes crinkling shut as he wiggles the phone tauntingly, making it clear that if you want your digital life back, you’re going to have to work for it.

the playful energy in the room suddenly hits a wall as you let out a sharp, genuine huff of irritation. the initial fun of the chase evaporates, replaced by the lingering heat of the room and the sudden realization that you just wanted a quiet afternoon. without a word, you stop reaching for the phone, your expression flattening into one of dull resignation.

​you don't snap or yell; instead, you simply turn away from him, your body moving with a deliberate, heavy finality. you sink back into the mattress, laying down sideways and curling your knees slightly toward your chest. you've positioned yourself at the very edge of the bed, creating a vast, cold expanse of sheets between you and him, your back turned like a solid wall of silence.

​the view of the soft shadows on the wall and the swaying curtains is all you give your attention to now. you let your gaze fixate on a single spot on the wallpaper, pointedly looking in the opposite direction of where he sits perched with his prize.

​the silence that follows isn't like the cozy, amber-tinted quiet from before. it’s pointed and sharp. you can hear the rustle of the sheets as he likely realizes the game has stopped, but you don't nudge him, you don't look back, and you certainly don't ask for the phone again.

the sudden silence seems to ring louder in his ears than any of your protests did. behind you, the bed stays still for a heartbeat, the only sound being the soft, rhythmic rustle of the curtains. then, the triumphant energy he was radiating just moments ago pops like a bubble.

“ ..Huh? ”

​the sound is small, genuine, and laced with a sudden, confused tilt. you don’t have to see his face to know his head is cocked to the side, his big eyes blinking in a rare moment of genuine uncertainty. the weight of his " win " clearly didn't taste as sweet once he realized the playfulness had drained out of the room.

the mattress groans again as he abandons his perch at the edge. there’s no feline grace this time— just a hurried, clumsy scramble as he jumps back at the bed, the force of his movement jostling your sideways frame.

the heavy impact of him throwing himself back onto the bed sends a jolt through the mattress, but he doesn't let go of his prize. even as he wraps himself around you, his fingers are still clamped firmly around your phone, the hard edges of the device pressing into the space between your bodies.

​he drapes his weight over your side, hugging you again with a clingy, frantic energy, but it’s a lopsided embrace. one arm is hooked tightly around your waist, pulling you back toward him, while his other hand— the one still clutching your phone— is tucked awkwardly against his own chest, trapped in the narrow gap where your bodies meet. he’s like a hoarders of treasure, unwilling to give up the item that started the fight but terrified of the silence you’ve greeted him with.

​

​he’s squeezed against you so tightly that you can feel the cool glass of the screen through the thin fabric of your shirt, a strange, metallic sensation amidst all that human warmth.

he senses the shift in the atmosphere— the way your body has gone rigid and your silence has turned sharp. to Bachira, silence isn't peaceful; it's a wall he doesn't know how to climb.

​he squeezes his arm tighter around your waist, his fingers still clutching your phone against his chest as if he’s forgotten he’s even holding it. he shifts his head, nuzzling his face deeper into the crook of your neck until his nose brushes against your skin, his breath coming in soft, hesitant puffs.

​ “ ...Are you angry? ”

​his voice is stripped of its usual melodic lilt. it’s small, muffled by your shoulder, and carries a rare, fragile note of genuine concern. he doesn’t pull away to look at you; instead, he stays anchored to your back, waiting for a reaction with the wary stillness of a creature that knows it pushed a joke just a few inches too far.

​the "monster" in him has gone quiet, replaced by a boy who is suddenly terrified that he’s lost his playmate. he waits. his heartbeat thumping a rapid, anxious rhythm against your spine, desperate for any sign— a sigh, a nudge, or even a scolding— that tells him he hasn't actually pushed you away.

​the silence stretches out, thick and heavy like the amber sunlight pooling on the beddings. your lack of a response seems to make him more restless; you can feel the way his grip on your waist hitches, his fingers twitching slightly against your shirt. the phone, still clutched in his other hand, feels like a forgotten relic between your bodies— the trophy has lost all its value now that the game isn't being played anymore.

​“ Hey... ”

​

he asks again, calling out your name. his voice dropping an octave, losing every bit of its playful edge. he nuzzles his forehead against the back of your neck, his hair tickling your skin as he tries to coax a reaction out of you. when you remain a sideways, motionless silhouette, a soft, defeated huff of air escapes him.

​“ I'm sorry, ” he murmurs, the apology muffled by your shoulder but surprisingly sincere. “ I was just playing around. I didn't mean to actually make you mad.. ”

​

he finally loosens his locked grip, his hand moving tentatively as he slides your phone across the mattress, nudging it back toward your side of the bed as a peace offering. he doesn't pull away, though. instead, he shifts his weight, pressing his chest more firmly against your back and hiding his face completely in the crook of your neck.

​“ ..Don't be quiet, ” he whispers, his voice small and unusually vulnerable. “ It's boring when you're quiet. You can have the 'glowing box' back, just... don't look away from me, okay? ”

​he sounds less like a world-class athlete in that moment and more like a kid who realized his favorite person isn't laughing at his jokes anymore. he stays there, anchored to you, waiting with bated breath to see if his apology is enough to melt the cold shoulder you’ve given him.

the moment you begin to shift, the tension in Bachira’s body snaps into a high-alert stillness. he reacts instantly to your movement, his limbs loosening just enough to allow you to roll over, though he stays draped over you, his wide, expectant eyes tracking every inch of your face as you turn.

​now, you are finally facing him.

​the golden light of the afternoon catches the faint, anxious glint in his dilated pupils. he looks smaller like this, his messy dark hair splayed across the pillow and his lower lip tucked in slightly as he waits for the verdict. he’s braced for a lecture or a lingering frown, his entire being focused on the tiny distance between your noses.

​you don't say a word. instead, you reach out, your hand cupping the side of his face— your thumb brushing over his cheekbone as you pull him just a fraction closer.

​slowly, you lean in and kiss him.

​it’s a soft, lingering contact that tastes like the quiet heat of the Saturday afternoon. the effect is instantaneous. Bachira’s entire world stops. his eyes go wide, frozen in a state of pure, unadulterated surprise, and the restless energy that usually hums through his veins completely stalls. he doesn't move, doesn't blink, and for the first time in his life, his mouth— usually so full of chirps and teases— is firmly shut. he is speechless and shocked, his brain short-circuiting as the "monster" inside him goes silent in the face of your touch.

but before the shock can even wear off, and while his guard is completely decimated by the kiss, you act.

with the precision of a striker finding the back of the net, your free hand dives for his loosened grip. your fingers curl around the cool casing of your device, and with a swift, triumphant flick of your wrist, you snatch your phone back from his stunned hands.

​you pull away just as slowly as you leaned in, a small, devious smirk playing on your lips as you settle back into your side of the bed. you don't give him a second to recover; you simply turn the screen back on, the blue light illuminating your face as you return to your scroll.

Meguru is left staring at you, his face flushed a deep, frantic red and his hand still hovering near the air where your phone used to be. he looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe, his heart thumping so loudly you can practically hear it against the mattress.

for a long, agonizingly silent heartbeat, Meguru remains a statue. the flush on his cheeks is still deepening, and his lips are parted in that stunned, breathless "O" of total disbelief. you can practically see the gears in his head grinding to a halt, then suddenly whirring back to life at twice their normal speed as the realization finally clicks.

​the kiss was a decoy. a tactical maneuver. a feint.

​his eyes snap from your face down to the phone in your hand, and then back to your eyes, which are alight with a triumphant, devious spark. the shock in his expression doesn't just fade; it evolves into a look of sheer, competitive delight. the "monster" isn't just back— it’s ecstatic.

​“ Oh... so that’s how we’re playing? ” he breaths out, his voice a low, raspy whisper that carries a dangerous amount of playfulness.

before you can even register the shift in the air, he lunges. this isn't the clumsy, needy scramble from before; this is the explosive, reflexive speed of a world-class athlete. his body is a blur of motion as he bridges the gap you’d tried to create, his weight coming down over you with a sudden, overwhelming force that pins you back into the sun-warmed mattress.

​his hand moves like a strike, his fingers weaving through yours with practiced accuracy. before your thumb can even complete its next scroll, he snatches your phone again, his grip iron-clad as he yanks it back into his possession.

​he doesn't retreat this time. he stays hovered directly over you, his chest heaving with a frantic, excited rhythm and his face inches from yours. he’s grinning— a wide, jagged, chaotic expression that says he’s completely seen through your trick and found it the most exhilarating thing that’s happened all day. he holds the phone high above his head once more, but his other hand stays firmly planted beside your head, caging you in.

​“ Nice try! Really, really nice try, ” he chirps, his eyes dancing with a manic, golden light. “ But if you think you can just pay me off with a kiss and go back to that box.. you’re dreaming! ”

you let out a long, dramatic exhale, your head sinking back into the pillow as you go limp beneath him. “ Geez, ” you mutter, the word half-lost in a breathless laugh of genuine surrender.

​you look up at him, taking in the way he’s looming over you with that triumphant, cheshire-cat grin. he looks so incredibly proud of himself, perched there like he’s just scored the winning goal in the World Cup final rather than just mugging his partner for a smartphone. the golden light of the late afternoon highlights the sweat-slicked tips of his hair and the manic, happy glow in his eyes.

“ You're a menace, Meguru, ” you tease, your voice dropping into a playful lilt as you intentionally let your gaze wander over his face, lingering just a second too long on his lips.

​you reach up, but instead of clawing for the phone, you slowly trail your fingers down the center of his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart through his shirt. the steady thump-thump is a testament to how much that "decoy" kiss actually rattled him, despite his current bravado.

​“ So, what's the plan then, star player? ” you murmur, tilting your head and offering him a challenge of your own. “ Are you waiting for a whistle to blow? ”

Bachira’s grin falters for a split second, replaced by a sharp, audible intake of breath as your fingers trace that slow path down his chest. he’s usually the one setting the pace, the one creating the chaos, but the way you’re looking at him now— with that heavy-lidded, challenging gaze— has the "monster" inside him doing backflips.

​he’s still holding the phone high, but his arm feels a little heavier now, his focus entirely diverted from the prize to the person beneath him.

​“ Whistle?.. I don't need a referee for this, ” he murmurs, his voice losing its chirpy edge and dropping into a huskier, more grounded tone. he slowly lowers his arm, but instead of handing the phone back, he simply lets it drop onto the pillow next to your head, completely discarded. his hand slides down to pin your wrist against the mattress, his fingers interlocking with yours in a firm, tactile grip.

​he leans in even closer, his yellow-tinted hair creating a private, shadowed canopy that shuts out the rest of the room.

“ You’re the one who started playing dirty, ” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours in a slow, agonizingly playful tease. “ You think you can just flip a switch and leave me short-circuited? That’s a foul. ”

​​“ A foul? ” you repeat, your voice barely a breathy whisper that ghosts over his lips. you can see the way his eyelashes flutter at the proximity, his pupils pulsing with every word you speak. “ Then why aren't you calling for a penalty, Meguru? ”

​“ A penalty? Oh! I like the sound of that! ” he chirps, his voice bouncing back to its usual melodic, high-energy lilt.

​suddenly, the weight of his body isn't a "pin" anymore; he turns into a literal pile of jelly, collapsing his upper body onto yours in a massive, goofy "hug attack." he releases your wrist only to wrap both arms around your shoulders, burying his face in the crook of your neck and wiggling around like a hyperactive puppy trying to find the best spot on a rug.

​“ The penalty is... tickle torture! ” he declares, his muffled voice vibrating against your skin.

​before you can even process the change in pace, his fingers are dancing against your ribs with the same lightning-fast precision he uses for his dribbling. it’s chaotic, unpredictable, and completely ruins the "cool" atmosphere you were trying to build. he’s laughing now— that bright, infectious cackle that sounds like pure mischief— as he rolls with you across the duvet, the discarded phone forgotten and buried under a mountain of rumpled sheets.

​“ You thought you were so smooth with that kiss, didn't you? ” he teases, pulling back just enough to look at you, his face flushed pink and his hair standing up in even messier tufts than before. he’s perched over you again, but this time he’s holding his hands up like claws, ready to strike again if you even think about reaching for your phone.

​“ Nope! No phone! The monster says it’s officially Meguru-time until the sun goes down! ” he lets out a playful rawr, his eyes wide and sparking with fun.

​

you explode into a fit of breathless, genuine laughter, your body twisting and arching on the mattress as you try to escape those lightning-fast fingers. the transition from the heavy, golden tension of a moment ago to this pure, unadulterated chaos is so sudden it leaves you gasping.

​“ Hah.. M-Meguru! Stop! ” you shriek through your giggles, your hands flying up to try and catch his wrists, though it’s like trying to grab smoke. he’s too quick, his fingers finding every sensitive spot along your ribs with a striker’s lethal accuracy. “ I yield! I yield! Seriously, I can't— ”

​another burst of laughter cuts you off as he finds a particularly ticklish spot, making you kick out your legs beneath the duvet. the "cool" version of you from five minutes ago is officially gone, replaced by a squirming, red-faced mess.

“️ Okay, okay! You win! ” you manage to gasp out, your eyes watering from laughing so hard. you reach out, finally managing to snag the hem of his shirt to pull him closer, hoping that a hug might actually pin his arms down. “ ..Bachira, I'm gonna lose my breath! No more phone, I promise! ”

​Bachira finally relents, though he keeps his hands poised over your sides like he’s ready to strike again at the slightest hint of a lie. he’s hovering over you, chest heaving with his own laughter, his face bright and eyes sparkling with pure, mischievous joy. he looks down at you, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, and gives you a cheeky, triumphant grin.

​“ Promise? For real, for real? ” he asks, tilting his head with that bird-like curiosity. “ No more looking at the glowing box until the sun disappears? ”

“ Yes, no more phone. ”

before you let the phone go for good, you steal one last glance at the screen. the digital numbers shimmer: 4:10 PM. Only twenty-five minutes have passed since the sun was at its peak gold, yet it feels like you've lived through a whole championship match of teasing. the afternoon is still ripe, the shadows only just beginning to stretch their long, lacey fingers across the floorboards.

​

as you settle back into the mattress, the room's cozy, heavy heat wraps around you again. you adjust your position, shifting until you are lying flat on your back, sinking deeper into the soft, sun-warmed bedding. the change in posture opens up the space, and Bachira immediately adapts with the fluid, instinctive movement of a shadow.

​he doesn't just lie infront of you; he practically drapes himself over your front returning to that same needy, tactile anchor from the start. he tucks his head into the crook of your neck and shoulder, his messy dark hair tickling your chin. one of his arms is slung heavily across your stomach, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, while his legs tangle slightly with yours beneath the blankets.

​“ 4:10... ” Bachira’s voice is a sleepy, muffled vibration against your skin. he nuzzles closer, his nose brushing your neck as he exhales a long, satisfied breath. “ That means we have lots of 'nothing' left to do. Don't move, okay? I'm recharging. ”

​the ivory curtains ghost against the window frame, a rhythmic flutter in the amber light. you close your eyes, letting the drowsy weight of the afternoon and the warmth of his locked embrace pull you back into that peaceful, saturday slumber. no phones, no distractions— just the two of you, drifting in the liquid gold of the quiet apartment.

you let your arms rest naturally, one hand perhaps coming up to idly toy with the soft tufts of hair at the nape of his neck. now that the phone is banished to the nightstand, the world feels incredibly small and quiet. you can feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart against your ribs, slowing down from the excitement of the chase into a calm, sleepy cadence.

​the heat of the sun on the bed and the radiating warmth of Bachira squeezed against your front create a cozy, inescapable weight.

​“ Hey, ” he whispers, not moving an inch from his spot against your shoulder. “ No cheating. I can feel if you're thinking about the phone. Just stay like this... the monster wants to nap now. ”

​you can't help but smile at the ceiling, watching the lacey shadows of the trees dance across the plaster. you aren't thinking about the phone at all; the heavy, heart-thumping reality of him anchored to your side is way more interesting than anything on a screen.

for a long moment, Meguru is so still you think he might already be drifting off, but then you feel a slight shift in his posture.

​he doesn't pull away. instead, he nuzzles his face just a fraction higher, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. then, with a soft, lingering tenderness that feels worlds away from his usual chaotic energy, he presses a warm, sleepy kiss right against your pulse point.

​it’s not a tease or a prank this time; it’s a quiet, grounding anchor of affection. the skin there is thin, and you can feel the faint, upturned curve of his lips against you before he lets out a long, content sigh that ghosts over your skin.

​“ Night-night... ” he mumbles, the words barely intelligible as his head sinks back into the hollow of your shoulder.

​and then, as if someone simply flipped a switch, his entire body goes completely lax. the tension in his arm across your stomach vanishes as he goes limp, his breathing deepening and slowing into the heavy, rhythmic cadence of immediate sleep.

​it’s a talent only he seems to possess— to go from a whirlwind of movement to a deep slumber in the span of a single breath. the "monster" has finally curled up for a nap. the golden light at 4:17 PM catches the soft rise and fall of his chest, and you’re left pinned to the bed by a world-class athlete who has decided that your shoulder is the best pillow in the world.

​he doesn't stir when the curtains flutter or when a car hums by outside. he’s out cold, his messy dark hair splayed across your collarbone, holding onto you even in his dreams.

​you find yourself staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the tree branches perform a slow, silent ballet across the plaster. it’s a strange, suspended kind of reality. usually, your thumb would be flying across a screen, your brain buzzing with the frantic energy of a thousand different digital thoughts. but now, with the phone banished to the nightstand, the silence is loud. it’s heavy.

​

your gaze drifts down to the top of Meguru’s head. from this angle, he looks almost vulnerable— the jagged, chaotic energy he carries is smoothed over by sleep. you can feel the heat of his breath against your neck, a steady, puffing warmth that marks the passage of time more accurately than any clock could.

​ a quiet thought drifts through your mind: What now?

​the afternoon is cooling, the initial heat of the sun fading into that crisp, slightly chilly edge that spring evenings carry. you could try to reach for the bedding to pull it higher over both of you, but the slightest shift makes Bachira let out a tiny, subconscious mumble, his grip tightening on your waist even in his sleep. he’s like a human burr, stuck to you with a biological need for proximity.

​you realize, with a soft, internal huff of amusement, that you’re effectively trapped.

​there’s no scrolling to save you from your own thoughts now. you’re forced to just be— to feel the weight of his arm, the softness of his hair tickling your chin, and the way your own heart has started to slow down to match his. it’s a luxury you rarely allow yourself: the total, absolute stillness of doing nothing with someone who makes "nothing" feel like an event.

​slowly, carefully, you let your head sink deeper into the pillow, turning your face just enough so your cheek rests against the crown of his head. the clean, slightly citrusy scent of his shampoo lingers in his hair, mixing with the scent of sun-warmed skin.

​your phone can wait. the memes will still be there tomorrow. but right now, in the fading gold of a Saturday, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be stuck. you close your eyes, finally letting the drowsy weight of the afternoon claim you too, drifting off into the quiet alongside the boy who refused to let you be alone.

but the stillness of the room is so absolute that your brain begins to fill the void with its own digital ghosts. even with your eyes closed and your phone a distant, cold object on the nightstand, your muscle memory betrays you. in the dark theater of your mind, a phantom thumb flicks upward, and an imaginary Instagram feed begins to unspool with vivid, haunting clarity.

​the "feed" is perfect— no ads, no filler, just the mindless, high-definition loop of your subconscious. you can almost see the saturated colors of a top-down cooking video. a knife slides through a thick, buttery graham cracker crust; a pour of vibrant, glossy strawberry glaze cascades over a mountain of velvety white cream cheese. you can practically taste the tart sweetness, the imagined chill of the cheesecake providing a sharp, delicious contrast to the stifling amber heat currently radiating from Bachira’s body. it feels so real that your senses tingle, your mind fixating on that perfect, digital slice of heaven.

​but the phantom scroll begins to slow. the vivid red of the strawberries starts to bleed into the warm, honeyed shadows of the bedroom.

​the weight of Meguru’s arm across your stomach feels heavier now, a grounding anchor that pulls you away from the imaginary screen and back into the physical reality of the bed. his rhythmic, deep breathing acts like a metronome, lulling your frantic thoughts into a steady, quiet crawl. the cool edge of the afternoon air brushes against your skin, but you are cocooned in the radiator-like warmth of the boy who conquered your attention.

​the strawberry cheesecake fades. the digital noise goes silent.

the phantom light of the screen finally flickers out in your mind, replaced by the featureless dark of a sleep too heavy for dreams.

​outside, the sun continues its slow, inevitable descent, the liquid gold deepening into a bruised, royal violet along the horizon. the shadows of the trees stretch until they cover the floorboards entirely, eventually climbing the walls to swallow the stray dust motes that had danced so vibrantly only an hour before. the rhythmic flutter of the ivory curtains slows as the breeze dies down, leaving the room in a state of perfect, breathless equilibrium.

​in the center of the quiet apartment, the bed remains a small, warm island. the discarded phone sits dark and cold on the nightstand, its glass face reflecting nothing but the dimming sky. it is no longer a rival for your affection, but a forgotten relic of a day that was successfully stolen.

​as the last of the daylight retreats, the only sound left is the synchronized rise and fall of two breaths— one light and steady, the other deep and grounded. wrapped in the gravity of a Saturday that refused to be rushed, you and Bachira remain anchored to one another, lost to the world in a silence that is finally, beautifully complete.

© 2026 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.

this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.

I'm not even done watching blue lock, but I already decided to write this. AUGHHH I LOVE YOU BACHIRAAA

seems like this is also my first work where readers relationship with my chosen character is classified... yeah not classifying the relationship adds more tension and plot sorry

I'm free for two weeks :3 and decided I will use my time to write fanfics ! despite having lots of unfinished works... uh yeah anyways

expect more posts this month! I'll randomly post fanfics !

​you extend the towel. the fabric is thick, bleached bone-white, a stark contrast to the grime clinging to his frame.

​Feitan doesn’t move. his eyes, sharp and silver-flecked under the brutal fringe of his hair, fixate on your outstretched fingers.

“ Feitan?— ”

he looks at your hand as if it’s a foreign object— something soft and dangerously misplaced in a room filled with the scent of ozone and copper. the silence between you stretches, thick as velvet, weighted by the exhaustion rolling off his shoulders in invisible waves.

​he remains motionless, a statue of damp silk and jagged nerves. the silver of his gaze flickers, tracing the line of your wrist, weighing the simple gravity of the gesture. there is no gratitude in his expression, only a quiet, simmering suspicion, as if waiting for the kindness to sharpen into a blade.

​he doesn’t reach for the cloth. instead, he simply breathes, his chest rising in a slow, jagged hitch that betrays the cold deep in his marrow.

the dampness from his clothes begins to steam in the warmth of the room, blurring his edges until he looks less like a man and more like a ghost clawing its way back to the living.

his fingers close around your wrist first, slick and freezing against your pulse, but his grip is a frantic, grounding pressure.

he doesn't pull away. for a long, suspended breath, he simply holds you there, his thumb tracing the shallow valley of your inner arm while the water from his hair maps new paths down the bridge of his nose.

​slowly, the tension in his arm snaps. he drags the towel from your hand with a sudden, sharp jerk.

​he begins to scrub at his face, the movements violent and uncoordinated.

the white fabric is instantly ruined, blooming with ugly, dark smears of soot and something thicker, darker, that refuses to be ignored. he works with a jagged desperation, as if the grime is a second skin he’s trying to flay off.

​underneath the frantic motion, his eyes remain locked on the floor, hidden beneath the wet weight of his bangs. the rhythmic friction of the cloth is the only sound in the hallway, a harsh, abrasive rasp that fills the space between your breathing. when he finally pulls the towel away, his skin is rubbed raw, a flush of angry crimson blooming across his cheekbones, yet he looks no less haunted than when he first stepped through the door.

​he stands there, clutching the damp, stained mass of cotton against his chest, his shoulders hunched high as if bracing for a blow that hasn't come.

​Phinks leans against the doorframe at the end of the corridor, his massive frame nearly filling the space. the overhead light catches the harsh line of his nonexistent brow, casting his eyes into deep shadow. he doesn’t move toward you; he just stands there, arms folded across his chest, watching the way Feitan clings to the ruined towel like a lifeline.

​his gaze flickers from the dark, spreading stains on the floor to the raw, agitated flush on Feitan’s face. there is no humor in his expression, none of the usual bravado that clings to him like a second skin.

​“ You look like garbage, ” Phinks says, leaning heavily against the doorframe. he doesn't lower his voice; he never does.

​Feitan’s back stays rigid. he doesn't acknowledge the presence, but the way he’s wringing that towel looks like he’s practicing how to snap a neck.

​​Phinks scoffs, eyes tracking the red staining the floor. “ Don't bleed on the rug. Chrollo wants us moving by dawn. You gonna be a problem, or can you actually walk? ”

​the question hangs in the amber light, heavy and uninvited. Feitan’s head drops lower, his wet bangs shielding his expression from both of you. a single, dark droplet falls from the hem of his mask, disappearing into the white cotton of the towel.

Feitan’s voice comes from the back of his throat, a sound like dry parchment tearing. it’s thin, vibrating with a lethal sort of exhaustion that makes the small hallway feel even tighter.

​“ Too much noise, ” he spits.

​he finally turns his head just enough for a single, dilated eye to fix on Phinks. he doesn't look at you, but the hand not clutching the towel twitches, his fingers curling into a claw against his thigh.

​“ Job done, ” he continues, the words clipped and jagged, sounding more like a curse than a status update. “ go back to sleep, Phinks. Or I remove tongue so you stay quiet. ”

​he doesn't wait for a reaction. he pivots away from both of you, his movements stiff, like a rusted machine forced into motion. the metal of the zipper is a biting chill against his skin, the only sound in the room until the fabric finally parts. as the mask drops, it reveals the jagged reality of his composure— teeth gritted against a shuttering breath and a jawline tight with a tension he can no longer kill. without the high collar to hide behind, his face is a raw, cinematic landscape of exhaustion and heat.

he heads toward the bathroom, the stained towel still bunched in his fist, leaving a trail of dark, smeared footprints that look like bruises on the wood.

​the door doesn't just close behind him; he slams it, the frame shuddering with the force of his departure. the lock clicks home with a finality that feels like a physical wall being dropped between him and the rest of the world.

Phinks remains anchored in the doorway, his chin lifting as he watches the bathroom door settle into its frame. he lets out a short, sharp exhale— a sound that sits somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. he uncrosses his arms, his massive shoulders rolling with a casual, blunt ease that stands in sharp contrast to the jagged energy Feitan just dragged through the hall.

​he turns his head toward you, his eyes glinting with a low, gutter-light mockery.

​“ Tch, ” he says, the sound clicking against his teeth. “ Look at this mess. He thinks he’s the only one who had a long night. ”

​he pushes off the doorframe, gesturing with a heavy hand at the dark, watery smears staining the floorboards. his gaze travels from the puddles up to your face, his expression flat and unimpressed, though there's a flicker of rough amusement behind it.

​“ The hell is his problem? ” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble. “ You try to hand him a towel and he looks at you like you’re holding a cursed blade. I’ve seen him more agreeable after being tortured for three days straight. ”

“ Just let him be. ”

​“ Don’t waste your breath being kind next time, ” he says, a lopsided, mocking grin finally pulling at his mouth. “ He’s just gonna drip on your rugs and snap at the air anyway. Let him rot in the shower—if he’s still acting like a wounded animal in an hour, just lock the kitchen. He’ll figure it out eventually. ”

you let out a breath, a soft, dry sound that barely qualifies as a laugh. it’s a brittle thing, born more from the absurdity of the bloodstains and Phinks’s lack of tact than any real humor.

​the moment is severed by the groan of another door.

​Shizuku emerges from the shadows of the far room, her oversized sweater swallowing her frame. she stops short, her large, blinking eyes fixing on the two of you through the thick frames of her glasses. her head tilting to the side in a slow, bird-like motion.

​“ Oh, ” she says, her voice flat and airy. “ You’re both still here. ”

​she looks down at the dark, smeared trail Feitan left behind, then back up at you and Phinks. there is no judgment in her gaze, only a mild, detached curiosity.

​“ Why are you both still awake? ” she asks, adjusting her glasses with a pale finger. “ It’s very late. And the floor is leaking. ”

​Phinks snorts, rolling his shoulders as he prepares a retort, but the rhythmic hammering of the shower behind the locked door is the only real answer she gets. the hallway feels smaller now, crowded with the lingering scent of rain and the heavy, unspoken weight of whatever Feitan brought home with him.

​ “ Ask the brat in the bathroom, ” he says, jerking his chin toward the sound of the spray. “ Feitan just crawled in looking like he went ten rounds with a monsoon. ”

​he casts a sidelong glance at you, a jagged, mocking glint in his eyes.

​“ Besides, ” he adds, his voice dropping into that lazy, gravelly drawl. “ I was just checking in to see if she was still in one piece. Hard to tell with him lately. He’s touchy as a live wire. ”

​Shizuku blinks, her gaze drifting back to the dark, watery smears on the wood. she doesn't seem convinced, or perhaps she simply doesn't care enough to hold the thought. she just pulls her sweater sleeves down over her hands, her silhouette soft and blurred against the sharp edges of the hallway.

​ “ It doesn't matter, ” she says, her voice a calm, flat line that cuts through Phinks’s posturing. “ You should both be sleeping now. ”

​she tilts her head, her expression remaining perfectly vacant, yet there’s a cold, practical weight to her words that silences the air.

​ “ We have the mission tomorrow, ” she reminds you, her tone as detached as if she were reading a grocery list. “ Dying of exhaustion is a very messy way to fail. Especially for Feitan. He’ll be even more difficult if he hasn’t slept. ”

​Phinks lets out a sharp, clicking sound with his tongue, his smirk faltering just a fraction. he looks like he wants to argue, but the logic is too blunt to ignore. he casts one last look at the locked bathroom door, then at you, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.

​“ Yeah, yeah. The glasses are right, ” he grumbles, turning back toward his own room with a heavy, rhythmic stomp. “ Get some rest. If he’s still acting like a brat in the morning, it's your problem. ”

​Shizuku remains in the corridor for a second longer, watching Phinks disappear.

then, she turns her gaze back to you, her eyes reflecting nothing. “ Goodnight, ” she says simply, before finally retreating into the shadows of her doorway.

“ Sleep well, Shizuku. ”

the hallway is suddenly hollow, the air reclaiming its stillness now that the others have retreated into the dark. the only remaining pulse in the apartment is the muffled, violent drumming of the water against the bathroom tiles.

​you turn away from the stained floorboards, your footsteps heavy and silent as you move toward the room you share with him. the space is cool, smelling faintly of old paper and the sharp, lingering scent of his smoke.

​you lay down, the mattress yielding beneath your weight. the sheets are crisp, a pale expanse that feels almost too clean compared to the grit still clinging to your palms. you stare up at the ceiling, watching the way the stray light from the street filters through the blinds, casting a skeletal ribcage of shadows across the walls.

​the sound of the shower cuts off abruptly. in the new, jarring silence, the house feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the click of a lock and the wet, heavy drag of footsteps.

you stay awake. sleep is a distant, unreachable shore, so you simply lie there with your head turned toward the window.

​beyond the glass, the sky is a bruised, heavy indigo, thick with the remnants of the storm. there is no clear shape to the moon, no silver coin pinned to the dark; instead, there is only a faint, ghostly luminescence bleeding through the cloud cover. it is a bruised light, pale and uncertain, casting just enough of a glow to turn the edges of the furniture into jagged, unfamiliar silhouettes.

​behind the wall, the pipes groan one last time as they settle, leaving you alone with the rhythmic, slow ticking of the clock and the cold, metallic memory of his grip on your wrist.

the door clicks open, a soft, mechanical snap that cuts through the quiet. Feitan enters the room, his movements stripped of their usual fluid grace, replaced by a heavy, stiff-jointed exhaustion. he is no longer dripping, but the dampness clings to him like a second skin, the scent of soap struggling against the stubborn, underlying tang of iron.

​the towel you gave him is draped around his neck, the white fabric ruined by dark, jagged smears that wouldn't wash away. he doesn't look at the bed. he moves to the corner of the room where the faint, bruised light of the moon doesn't reach, his silhouette bleeding into the shadows until only the pale smudge of the towel remains visible.

​“ Stay awake for what. ”

​his voice is a low, rough friction, barely reaching you across the space. he finally turns, his wet hair casting sharp, needle-like shadows across his brow. he still holds the edge of the towel in one fist, his knuckles white and prominent, as if he’s still anchoring himself to that single, small act of kindness.

you shift slightly against the pillows, the fabric of the bedsheets rustling in the heavy quiet. the faint, ghostly light from the window catches the small, tethered curve of a smile on your lips.

​“ Hmm, nothing. ”

the words are light, a soft ripple in the stagnant air of the room. Feitan doesn’t move. he remains a dark, jagged shape against the wall, but you can feel the weight of his gaze. unblinking and sharp— cutting through the dimness to find your face. the playfulness of your tone seems to hang between you, a delicate, shimmering thing that doesn’t quite belong in a room that smells of wet silk and cold metal.

​he lets out a short, huffed breath through his nose, a sound that isn't quite a scoff but lacks the warmth of a laugh. his fingers tighten on the ruined towel, his shoulders dropping just a fraction of an inch as the silence stretches back out, long and velvet-dark.

​“ Stupid. ”

he lifts his hands, the white fabric of the towel bunching between his fingers as he begins to rub at his hair. the motion is rough and impatient, a rhythmic, muffled friction that hides his face from view. the damp, dark strands of his hair are tossed into a wild, jagged mess beneath the cloth.

​you watch the play of the shadows across his tensed shoulders, the way the movement pulls the damp fabric of his shirt tight against his spine.

​“ You missed a spot, ” you murmur, your voice trailing off with a slow, honeyed pull. “ if you want, I could do a much better job than that. ”

​the rubbing stops instantly. the towel remains draped over his head, a ghostly shroud that obscures his eyes, but the air in the room suddenly feels thick, charged with a sharp, static tension. he doesn't pull the cloth away. he stays perfectly still, his hands still raised, the only sound the ragged, low hitch of his breathing.

​“ You have death wish. ”

​the words are a muffled, lethal rasp from beneath the cotton, but he doesn't move to leave. he stands there in the dark, caught in the gravity of your suggestion, the ruined towel still clutched in his hands like a white flag he refuses to drop.

you lean back further into the cool expanse of the pillows, your gaze tracing the jagged line of his silhouette in the bruised light.

​“ Maybe, ” you breathe, the word slow and deliberate, a soft challenge thrown into the dark. “ but you look tired, Feitan. and that towel is doing a terrible job of taking care of you. ”

​you reach out a hand, your fingers ghosting over the edge of the mattress, an unspoken invitation in the small space left between you.

​“ Come here. Let me. ”

​the silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Feitan finally pulls the towel down, the fabric falling to rest around his shoulders like a discarded weight. his hair is a chaotic, damp mess, sticking to his forehead in dark needles that frame the golden, dilated heat of his stare. he looks at your hand, then back to your eyes, his chest rising and falling in a slow, jagged rhythm that betrays the sudden, frantic pulse at his throat.

​“ Think you are funny, ” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave until it’s nothing more than a lethal vibration. he takes one step closer, the floorboards groaning under the sudden shift of his weight. “ think you can touch me so easily. ”

you tilt your head, the faint light catching the soft, daring glint in your eyes as you hold his stare.

​“ ...Can I ? ”

​the question is barely a whisper, a thread of silver in the dark. Feitan doesn’t answer, his body locked in a rigid, uncertain tension, but you don't wait for the permission he’s too proud to give.

you slide from the bed with the fluid silence of a shadow, the floorboards barely sighing under your weight. before he can pivot, before he can snap a retort or slip a blade from his sleeve, you are behind him. you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face against the damp, cool fabric of his shirt.

​he flinches. a sharp, electric jolt that travels through his entire frame— and his breath hitches in a sudden, jagged stop. he is smaller than he looks, all wire-corded muscle and hard edges, but the heat radiating from him is a feverish contrast to the cold rain still clinging to his scent. his hands, still clutching the edges of the towel at his chest, freeze mid-air.

​for a long, breathless second, he is a statue of stone and repressed violence. then, slowly, the lethal rigidity in his spine begins to fray. he doesn't pull away. he doesn't even move to loosen your grip. he simply stands there, his head bowing low as he lets out a long, shaky exhale that tastes of surrender.

​“ You are annoying, ” he mutters, his voice cracking like dry earth, but he leans back, just a fraction— into the warmth of you.

you shift your grip, your palms sliding further around his torso until they flatten against the hard, low planes of his stomach. he is terrifyingly lean, his abdomen a landscape of deep, defined ridges that feel like carved stone under your fingertips. every muscle is coiled and sharp, yet the skin there is soft, hidden, and pulsing with a heat that makes your own breath catch.

​at the touch, Feitan’s stomach muscles ripple in a sudden, involuntary spasm. he lets out a low, shaky hiss through his teeth, his fingers digging into your arms with a renewed, frantic pressure.

​“ Really...? ” you repeat, your voice dropping to a whisper as you trace the dip where his muscles meet the waistband of his trousers.

Feitan’s head drops, his chin pressing hard against his chest. he lets out a low, guttural sound— halfway between a snarl and a shuddering moan— and his fingers reach up, blindly catching your forearms through his sleeves. he grips you there, his touch bruising and desperate, as if he’s trying to decide whether to throw you across the room or pull you even closer.

​“ I kill you, ” he rasps, the threat sounding more like a prayer as he finally sags against you.

you let out a soft, low hum, the sound muffled against the damp fabric of his shirt. your fingers continue their slow, deliberate descent, trailing past the sharp ridges of his lower abs toward the dark silk of his waistband.

​“ …Would you? ”

​the question is a silken taunt, barely audible over the frantic, uneven thud of his heart against his ribs.

​Feitan’s reaction is instantaneous. a sharp, jagged gasp breaks from his throat as your fingertips graze the very edge of the fabric, dipping just low enough to send a fresh electric jolt through his spine. his grip on your forearms tightens until it’s nearly painful, his knuckles grinding into your skin as he tries to anchor himself against the sudden, overwhelming pull of your gravity.

​“ Stop it, ” he chokes out, though he makes no move to physically push you away. his breath is a hot, ragged fire against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold dampness of his hair. “ you play with thing you do not understand. ”

​his fingers shift, sliding down from your arms to tangle with yours, his leather-bound grip pinning your hands firmly against his stomach to keep them from wandering any lower. he holds you there, trapping your palms against the hard, heaving map of his muscles as he breathes you in.

the room descends into a heavy, suffocating silence as he remains perfectly still, the only sound is the ragged drag of his breath against your neck. then— with the sudden, violent fluidness of a striking snake, the tension snaps.

​before you can draw another breath, he pivots. his strength is deceptive— all lean as he forces you to turn, pressing your chest down toward the mattress until you are bent over the edge of the bed. your back is now flush against his front, the damp heat of his body branding you through your clothes.

​he doesn't let go. instead, he jerks your arms behind you, crossing your wrists in a sharp, restrictive X. he clamps both of your hands together with a single, bruising palm, pinning them against the small of your back with a finality that makes the room feel smaller.

​you tilt your head back, your neck exposed and vulnerable in the dim, bruised light, until you can see the silver heat of his stare.

​“ Hm? Are you suggesting... something? ~ ”

​the playfulness in your voice is a thin, shimmering wire, but it vibrates with the sudden shift in power. Feitan leans down, his chest crushing against your shoulder blades as he brings his face inches from yours. his hair, still damp and smelling of rain, brushes against your cheek like needles.

​“ You talk too much, ” he rasps, his voice a low, guttural vibration that you feel more than hear.

​he doesn't move his hand from your wrists. instead, he tightens the cross, his grip a grounding, lethal pressure that locks you in place. his eyes trace the curve of your throat, dark and dilated, before settling on your lips with a simmering, quiet violence.

​“ Think you in control because I let you touch me, ” he murmurs, his breath a hot, feverish ghost against your skin. “ but you forget what I am. ”

the pressure is immediate and total. as he leans down, the damp, searing heat of his chest flattens against your shoulder blades, squeezing the air from your lungs. every ridge of his torso, those hard, stone-carved planes you were just tracing with your fingers, is now branded into your back.

​because he’s pinning your wrists in that sharp cross against your spine, your own hands are trapped like a physical wedge between your bodies, forced into the scorching space where his stomach meets your lower back. you can feel every jagged, uneven thud of his heart through the layers of fabric, a frantic rhythm that betrays the lethal stillness of his posture

​the weight of him is suffocating and intoxicating all at once. the dampness of his shirt begins to seep through yours, a cold, wet chill that is quickly burned away by the sheer fever of his skin.

​“ Too close? ”

​he breathes the words against the sensitive curve of your ear, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he shifts his weight, pressing even harder, forcing your body to conform to the rigid, unforgiving lines of his. he’s so close that when he speaks, you can feel the vibration of his chest echoing through your own ribs, a dark harmony that makes your pulse spike in a sudden, panicked thrill.

​he tilts his head, his nose ghosting along your jawline, his damp hair dripping a single, cold bead of water onto your collarbone.

​“ You want to see, ” he murmurs, his grip on your wrists tightening until you’re forced to arch just a fraction more against him. “ now you look. ”

you let out a soft, low-throated chuckle, the sound vibrating through your chest and into his. the fact that you’ve managed to crack that iron-cold composure, dragging him from his exhaustion into this sharp, focused heat, makes your pulse dance.

​“ I'm looking, Feitan, ” you purr, your voice steady despite the way he’s crushing the air from your lungs.

​you shift your hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate movement that grinds your lower back into his trapped hands and the hard line of his thighs. it’s a bold, dangerous move, a final nudge to see just how far the thread will stretch before it snaps.

​“ I like the view much better from here. ”

​you tilt your head further back, offering him the pale, vulnerable line of your throat, your eyes hooded as you catch his steel-edged stare in the dim light.

​“ But if you’re trying to scare me into being quiet, you’re doing a very poor job of it. ”

​the air in the room seems to catch fire at your words. Feitan’s grip on your wrists hitches, his fingers digging in with a sudden, bruising intensity. he looks like he wants to break you or pull you through the floorboards, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches that burn against the skin of your neck.

​“ You… troublesome, ” he rasps, the word sounding like a snarl that got lost on the way to his throat. he leans even lower, his lips ghosting just a hair’s breadth from the pulse jumping in your neck. “ I should pull out your teeth so you not bite back. ”

you let out a soft, breathy sigh, the sound hitching as he presses his weight more firmly into your spine. you lean your head back until your hair brushes against his shoulder, your gaze meeting his with a slow, hooded confidence.

​“ Then why haven't you? ”

​you murmur the words, a silken challenge that hangs heavy in the dim, bruised light. you shift again, a slow and agonizingly deliberate press against him, feeling the way his body coils like a spring under the provocation.

​“ You talk a lot about what you 'should' do, Feitan. But all I feel is you holding onto me like you're afraid I'll disappear if you let go. ”

​you let a small, triumphant smile tug at the corner of your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries across the space between your lips and his ear.

​the silence that follows is deafening. for a second, the only sound is the frantic, rhythmic thud of his heart hammering against your back. his grip on your wrists turns white-knuckle, and you see his jaw set so hard it looks like it might crack. he looks down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered heat— a lethal mixture of irritation and a hunger he can no longer mask.

​“ You think you win, ” he hisses, the words vibrating through your skin as he nuzzles roughly against your jaw, his teeth ghosting over the sensitive skin there. “ you think you are safe because I tired. Big mistake. ”

​

you don't pull away when his teeth graze your skin; instead, you arch your back further into him, forcing the contact until you can feel the jagged heat of his breath coating your neck. the playfulness has bled out of your expression, replaced by something dark and heavy that matches the suffocating tension in the room.

​“ I don't think I'm safe at all, Feitan. ”

​your voice is no longer a whisper; it’s a low, resonant vibration that seems to pull the very air out of his lungs. you turn your face as much as the X-lock on your wrists allows, your lips inches from his, your gaze locked onto the liquid silver of his eyes with a terrifyingly steady intensity.

​“ I think you’re dangerous. I think you could ruin me in this room... and no one would hear a thing. ”

​you lean back, your weight fully supported by his chest, your skin burning wherever it meets his damp clothes. your eyes drop to his mouth for a heartbeat before snapping back to his.

​“ But I think you want this more than you want to kill me. I think you’ve been thinking about it all night... while you were out in the rain, while you were in the shower, while you were standing in the dark watching me sleep. ”

​you let your voice drop into a raw, jagged register that mimics his own.

​

​the effect is like dropping a match into a powder keg. Feitan’s pupils blow out until his eyes are almost entirely black, and a low, guttural growl rips from deep in his throat— a sound of pure, unadulterated frustration and hunger. he yanks your wrists upward, forcing your chest flatter against the bed, while his other hand abandons the towel to tangle violently into your hair. he pulls your head back, exposing the full, trembling length of your throat to the bruised light.

Feitan doesn’t hesitate. the moment the challenge leaves your lips, he leans in, his movements losing their stiff exhaustion and turning into something hungry and precise. he doesn't go for your mouth; instead, he sinks his face into the side of your neck, his breath a scorching brand against your skin.

​he starts just below your jaw, his lips pressing firmly into the sensitive cord of your throat. the first mark is slow, a heavy, dragging pressure that makes your toes curl against the sheets. he isn't being gentle— he doesn't know how to be. but there is a desperate, grounding quality to the way he claims the space.

​you let out a jagged, broken breath as you feel his teeth ghost over your skin before the sharp, stinging pull of a hickey begins to bloom.

​“ ...Feitan… ”

​the sound of his name only seems to fuel him. he moves lower, his tongue tracing the path of the heat he’s creating, leaving a trail of damp fire in the cool air of the room. he works with a focused, silent intensity, his grip on your wrists remaining absolute, pinning you to the bed as he maps the column of your neck with dark, purple-red constellations.

​each mark is a silent retort to your teasing, a way of marking exactly where his restraint is fraying. he pauses for a second, his forehead resting against your collarbone as he takes a ragged, shaky breath, his chest heaving against your back. the room is silent except for the frantic, shared rhythm of your breathing and the distant, fading drip of the storm outside.

​he nuzzles into the crook of your shoulder, his voice a muffled, lethal vibration.

​“ Keep talking, ” he mutters, his lips hovering over a fresh, stinging mark. “ see what else I find to quiet you. ”

the sensation of his mouth against your skin sends a dizzying, liquid heat straight to your core. you lean into the sharp sting of his marks, your eyes half-lidded and clouded with a heavy, sweet haze.

​you let out a soft, broken whimper that sounds entirely too much like an invitation, your body yielding and soft against the rigid, punishing lines of his.

​“ ...Is that all? ”

​the words are a low, breathless taunt, dripping with a honeyed arrogance that dares him to go further. you tilt your head to the side, giving him better access, the movement dragging your skin even more firmly against his teeth.

​“ You mark me like I’m a prize, Feitan… but you’re still holding my hands back. Are you worried about what I’ll do if you let me go? are you afraid I’ll find out you’re actually… soft for me? ”

​the word soft is a deliberate, lethal strike.

​you feel the exact moment his control fractures. he lets out a sharp, hissed intake of air, his fingers tightening around your crossed wrists until it’s a bruising, desperate anchor. he stops the trail of hickeys abruptly, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder as his whole body trembles with the effort of not simply devouring you.

​“ Shut up, ” he rasps, his voice cracking, thick with a dark, suffocating hunger. “ you know nothing. I could break you in half and you still… you still smile. ”

​he bites down— not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a stinging, definitive mark right on the sensitive junction of your shoulder and neck.

​“ Keep pushing, ” he breathes against the raw skin, his voice a low, guttural promise.

you turn your face as much as the sharp angle allows, catching his gaze with a slow, languid smile that is all teeth and triumph.

​there is no fear in that smile, only a deep, intoxicating heat that says you knew exactly how this would end the moment you reached for him. it’s a smile that acknowledges the marks on your neck and the bruising grip on your wrists, and asks for more.

​Feitan stares at you, his eyes wide and dark, his chest heaving as he watches the way your expression doesn't falter. he looks like a man staring into an abyss, mesmerized by the fall. for all his talk of monsters and death wishes, he is the one caught in the snare of that smile, paralyzed by the sheer, terrifying softness of it.

​“ ...You crazy, ” he whispers, the words less of an insult and more of an admission of defeat.

​he doesn't pull away. instead, his forehead drops to yours, his wet hair creating a dark curtain around both your faces, sealing you away from the rest of the world. he stays there, breathing in the scent of your skin and the silent challenge of your smile, his grip on your wrists softening just enough to let his thumbs trace the frantic, matching pulse in your veins.

the air in the room is thick, charged with the kind of tension that makes your skin hum. Feitan doesn't move his head from yours, his smoke-colored eyes searching yours. he looks frustrated by the fact that he can’t make you flinch— that every jagged edge he shows you is met with that same, devastatingly soft smile.

​slowly, he releases your wrists.

the moment he releases your wrists, he doesn't give you a second to breathe or celebrate the victory. with a sudden, violent fluidness, his hands slide from your arms to your waist, and he flips you onto your back. the mattress groans under the sudden shift, and before you can even blink, he is hovering directly over you, pinning you down with the sheer weight of his presence.

​he brackets your hips with his knees, but then he goes further— one knee slides upward, a slow, heavy, and deliberate wedge that forces your legs apart and settles firmly between them. the friction of his damp trousers against your skin is a cold shock, but it’s immediately scorched away by the feverish heat radiating from his thighs.

he plants his hands on either side of your head, his arms corded with tension as he looms over you. his hair, still wild and dripping, creates a dark, jagged curtain that shuts out the rest of the room. the bruised amber light catches the molten steel of his eyes, which are now dark, dilated, and fixed on yours.

​he leans down, his chest crushing yours. the hard, defined ridges of his abs grind against you with every shallow, jagged breath he takes. he reaches out, one hand sliding from the mattress to tangle roughly into your hair, pulling just enough to force your head back and expose the dark, blooming marks he’s already carved into your neck.

his gaze drops to your lips, his expression a mask of simmering, quiet violence. he moves his knee just a fraction higher, a slow and agonizingly physical reminder of exactly who has control of the room now.

​“ I tired of your talk, ” he breathes against your mouth, his lips ghosting over yours without quite touching. “ maybe I find better use for this tongue. ”

the sound that breaks from your throat is low and syrupy, a soft, vibrating moan that hangs in the heavy space between your lips. it’s a jagged, pretty sound— one that could be a genuine surrender to the heat of him, or just the final, sharpest hook in your game of provocation.

​Feitan freezes.

​the mercury heat in his eyes flickers, a momentary flash of genuine uncertainty crossing his face as he tries to read the curve of your mouth. he hates the ambiguity of it. he thrives on the concrete—on the clear lines of pain, fear, or victory—but you are giving him something blurred and maddeningly soft.

​his hand in your hair tightens, his knuckles grazing your scalp as he yanks your head back a fraction more. he leans into the knee he has wedged between yours, the pressure blunt and uncompromising, trying to force a more honest reaction out of you.

​“ You think this game, ” he rasps, his voice cracking with a raw, jagged frustration.

​he drops his head, his face burying into the crook of your neck, right beside the darkest mark he’s made. he inhales sharply, the scent of your skin clearly unraveling whatever is left of his thin composure. his chest is heaving now, the hard planes of his stomach rippling against yours in a frantic, uneven rhythm.

​“ Keep making that noise, ” he breathes, his lips ghosting over the raw skin of your throat, his teeth grazing the pulse point that’s currently hammering against him. “ and I make sure you not tell the difference anymore. ”

​he bites down again, harder this time, a sharp and possessive claim that’s meant to ground both of you in the reality of the room. he wants to hear that sound again, but he wants to know— needs to know—that he’s the one who tore it out of you.

​

“ Fuck... ”

a low, jagged curse slips from your lips, the word muffled against the heat of his shoulder. it’s a sharp, breathy sound—half-smothered by the sheer weight of him and the biting pressure of his knee.

​Feitan pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes narrowed into silver slits. he’s never been one for pretty words, and hearing you drop your guard into something so raw and unpolished sends a fresh surge of dark adrenaline through him. it’s the sound of someone losing their composure, and for Feitan, that is the ultimate victory.

​“ Dirty mouth, ” he rasps, a ghost of a cruel, triumphant smirk finally pulling at the corner of his lips.

​he leans down, his chest grinding into yours with a renewed, crushing intensity. his hand shifts from your hair, his fingers sliding down to grip your chin, forcing you to hold his gaze. his thumb is rough as it presses into your lower lip, dragging it down until you’re forced to look at him with your mouth slightly open, breathless and wrecked.

he sinks his face back into the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right above your collarbone. he’s no longer just marking you; he’s looking for every gasp and every jagged, whispered curse you have left, determined to strip away every bit of your teasing until there’s nothing left but the truth of his name on your tongue.

“ ...You're hard... Aren't you? ”

the air in the room suddenly feels like it’s been sucked out, replaced by a vacuum of pure, static shock.

​Feitan goes absolutely rigid. the hand gripping your chin freezes, his fingers digging into your skin with a sudden, involuntary pressure. your voice, clear and silken even in its breathlessness, cuts through the low-lit violence of the moment like a silver blade.

​he doesn't move for a long, heavy second, his face still buried against your collarbone. you can feel the exact moment his heart skips a beat before hammering against your ribs with a frantic, primitive rhythm. the blunt reality of your words, and the physical truth of the position he’s forced you into, hangs between you, stripped of all metaphor.

​slowly, he lifts his head.

there is a raw, jagged flush crawling up his neck, a heat that has nothing to do with the storm outside and everything to do with the way you just dismantled his last shred of deniability.

​“ You… ” he starts, his voice failing him.

​he doesn't pull away. if anything, the pressure of his knee between yours becomes more insistent, more desperate, as if he’s trying to crush the confession back into your lungs. he looks at you with a mixture of pure, unadulterated loathing and a hunger so sharp it looks like physical pain.

​“ You no shame, ” he finally rasps, the words coming out as a broken, guttural hiss.

​he leans down until his forehead is resting against yours, his damp hair shielding both of your faces from the dim light. his breath is a feverish, ragged mess against your lips.

​“ Think you are clever, ” he breathes, his hand sliding from your chin to wrap violently around the back of your neck, his thumb pressing into the hollow behind your ear. “ Think because you notice, you have power. ”

​he shifts his weight, the movement blunt and unmistakable, forcing you to feel every inch of the reaction you just called out.

​“ So what if I am? ” he snarls softly, his lips finally grazing yours in a jagged, desperate ghost of a kiss. “ What you going to do about it? ”

you let out a soft laugh, the sound vibrating directly into his chest. the terror and the heat of the moment are blurred into a single, intoxicating rush, and you have never felt more in control than you do right now, pinned beneath the weight of a man who could kill you with a flick of his wrist but is currently trembling because of a few words.

​you lean up, closing the microscopic gap between your lips and his until you are breathing the same air, your eyes locked onto his dark, blown-out stare.

​“ What am I... going to do? ”

​you repeat his question in a velvet murmur, your voice dripping with a slow, honeyed confidence. you move your hands now free from his hands— and slide them up his chest while you rise up, your palms tracing the frantic, thundering rhythm of his heart before hooking behind his neck. you pull him down just a fraction more, forcing him to feel the curve of your smile against his mouth.

​“ I think the question is… what are you going to do? ”

​you shift your hips, a slow, agonizingly deliberate grind against the blunt reality of him, your eyes never leaving his.

​“ Show me how much you ‘ hate ’ this. ”

​the air in the room practically snaps.

Feitan’s fingers dig into the back of your neck, his grip bruising and desperate, as a low, guttural sound— a real, unadulterated growl— breaks from the back of his throat. he looks like he’s about to snap, his jaw set so hard you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.

​“ You… ” he rasps, the word a shattered piece of glass. “ I should really tear you tongue out. ”

​but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he collapses the final distance, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that is less of an invitation and more of a collision— harsh, jagged, and tastes of iron and desperation.

the collision of his mouth against yours is everything he is: sharp, jagged, and entirely overwhelming. it’s not a soft or practiced kiss; it’s the desperate, messy hunger of a man who has been starving in the rain and finally found a fire.

​you don't recoil from the violence of it. instead, your fingers tangle deeper into the damp, dark silk of his hair, your nails grazing his scalp as you pull him down, refusing to let him retreat. you meet his tongue with a daring heat of your own, turning the kiss into a frantic, breathless battle for territory.

​Feitan lets out a muffled, broken sound against your lips— a low, frustrated groan that vibrates through your entire frame. he’s no longer the calculated torturer; he’s a live wire, and the way you’re pulling him closer is only stripping away the last of his insulation. his hands abandon the mattress, one arm sliding under your back to haul you up against his chest, while his other hand remains clamped at the nape of your neck.

​the knee wedged between your thighs remains a heavy, grounding anchor, and every time the kiss deepens, he shifts against you, the blunt reality of his physical state a constant, thrumming pressure that neither of you can ignore.

​the air in the room is thick with the scent of damp wool, salt, and the sudden, sharp ozone of adrenaline. he breaks the kiss for a split second, his chest heaving, his lips hovering just a hair’s breath from yours.

​“ You… ” he gasps, his voice a shattered wreck of its usual lethality. “ You not know when to stop. ”

​even as he says it, he’s the one who dives back in, his mouth finding the line of your jaw, then the raw, stinging marks on your neck, reclaiming every inch of skin he’s already marked. he’s making out with you with a jagged desperation, his hands wandering from your neck to your waist, his grip so tight he’s practically trying to pull you into his own skin.

​“ ...Stop me then. ” you breathe against his ear, a silken taunt that sends a fresh shudder through his wire-corded frame.

​he doesn’t stop. he only holds you tighter, his breathing coming in frantic, hot hitches as the hallway and the mission and the storm outside all dissolve into the suffocating, electric heat of the bed.

the atmosphere in the room thickens until it’s visceral, a heavy weight that makes every breath feel like a deliberate choice. the distance between you hasn't just vanished; it’s been incinerated.

​his hands begin to move with a restless, searching energy. he finds the hem of your shirt, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your waist with a touch that is both freezing and scorching. you let out a jagged, broken sound as he hitches the fabric upward, his palms finally meeting the warmth of your back in a way that feels like a collision of two worlds.

​he breaks the kiss, his forehead dropping back to yours, his chest rising and falling in a frantic, uneven rhythm that mirrors your own. the silence of the room is gone, replaced by the symphony of his grip on the sheets and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a pulse that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.

​“ Trouble, ” he rasps, the word a shattered vibration against your lips.

​he shifts, the movement blunt and uncompromising, shedding the last of his lethal restraint as he anchors himself to the heat of you. the bruised light from the window catches the way his shoulders lock, his spine arching as he yields to the gravity of the moment. it isn't a surrender; it’s a total, quiet unraveling, a slow-motion collapsed into the dark pull of the bed.

​every touch becomes a question he doesn't have the words to answer, and every breath you draw together is a thread tightening, pulling the two of you into a space where the storm outside can no longer reach. the scent of rain and copper is gone, swallowed by the intoxicating, dizzying haze of a fire that’s been burning in the dark for far too long.

—

the air in the room suddenly grows still, the frantic friction of the last few moments narrowing down to a single, heavy point of gravity. Feitan’s breath hitches, a sharp, jagged intake of air that stalls in his lungs as you shift your position beneath him, your intent written in the slow, deliberate way you move.

​he remains anchored to the mattress, his hands clutching the sheets until the fabric groans, his knuckles a ghostly, bloodless white in the dim amber light. as you slide lower, the physical distance between you is replaced by a suffocating, electric tension. he lets out a low, guttural sound—halfway between a warning and a desperate, broken plea as he feels the shift in the atmosphere.

​he sinks back against the pillows, his head falling back as his spine arches into a rigid, trembling line. the silver heat of his gaze is gone, hidden behind squeezed-shut eyelids, leaving only the raw, frantic rhythm of his breathing to fill the silence.

his fingers tangle violently into the bedding, his entire frame vibrating with a high-frequency tension that betrays how thin his composure has truly become.

​“ You… ” he starts, but the word is swallowed by a sharp, airless gasp.

​his jaw sets, the muscle jumping in his cheek as he yields to the quiet, devastating focus of your actions. the room feels smaller, hotter, centered entirely on the jagged, uneven rise and fall of his chest and the way his hands occasionally twitch, reaching out as if to stop you before curling back into the sheets, trapped by the very surrender he swore he’d never give.

the air in the room seems to catch fire, the silence thickening until the only sound left is the jagged, staccato rhythm of his breathing. as you continue with a slow, devastating focus, Feitan’s restraint doesn't just fray— it snaps.

​his hand, previously buried in the sheets, suddenly lashes out. he finds the silk of your hair, his fingers threading through the strands and tightening with a bruising force. he isn't pulling away; he’s anchoring you there, his knuckles white as he holds you in place with a raw, desperate intensity.

​his head thumps back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly the skin around them creases. a low, broken sound— something between a growl and a stifled sob rips from his throat.

​“ Don’t… ” he rasps, the word dying in his throat as his grip in your hair tightens even further.

his other hand finds the edge of the mattress, his nails nearly clawing through the fabric as he tries to find some kind of purchase in a world that has turned entirely to liquid heat. his fingers clench in your hair, a silent, frantic command to never, ever stop.

as the tension reaches a breaking point, Feitan’s grip in your hair shifts from a static anchor to something more active, more demanding.

​he doesn't let go, but his fingers tighten with a renewed, rhythmic pressure, wordlessly communicating the jagged pace he needs. his other hand reaches down, his palm flat against the back of your head, his touch a mixture of a heavy, grounding weight and a desperate, guiding force.

​he is no longer just enduring the sensation; he is participating in his own undoing.

​“ Stop... thinking, ” he rasps, his voice a shattered, guttural mess that barely sounds human.

​his hips shift in a slow, involuntary tilt, meeting you with a blunt honesty that betrays exactly how close he is to the edge. every time he breathes, it’s a sharp, airless hitch that hitches his chest off the bed, his spine arching until it’s a rigid bow of corded muscle.

the hand on your head guides you with a sudden, frantic urgency, his knuckles grazing your scalp as he wordlessly pushes for more, his movements becoming more uncoordinated and raw.

​he is a man who thrives on being the one in control, but right now, the only control he has is the way he holds you— guiding the very fire that is consuming him. a low, continuous vibration hums in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated friction, until his eyes fly open, staring at the ceiling with a vacant, silver intensity that sees nothing but the dark.

his grip in your hair isn't just possessive now— it’s a vice. his knuckles are stark white, and he uses that grip to anchor you with a sudden, rough urgency. he isn't pleading; he’s taking, his fingers tightening in a wordless, jagged command for you to keep going, to go harder, to finish what you started.

​“ Don’t you dare stop, ” he rasps, his voice a jagged, low-frequency snarl that vibrates through the crown of your head.

​it’s not a request. it’s a threat, delivered with the last shred of his fraying authority.

​his spine stays arched in a rigid, trembling line, his chest heaving as he fights for air. the hand on the back of your head is heavy and uncompromising, guiding you with a frantic, rhythmic pressure that betrays just how close he is to the edge.

he’s no longer making pretty sounds—every breath is a sharp, airless hitch, a guttural sound of pure friction that he can’t seem to swallow back down.

​his eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, his pupils blown out into wide, black voids as the room starts to tilt. he shifts his weight, the movement blunt and involuntary, meeting your focus with a desperate, final intensity.

​the low hum in his throat builds into a sharp, choked-off sound as he finally hits the breaking point. his grip in your hair reaches a bruising peak, his whole body locking up for a few agonizing, electric seconds before the tension shatters. he falls back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling in wrecked, shallow gasps, his fingers still tangled in your hair as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll disappear into the dark.

you slowly sit up, your own hair a mess from his grip, and look down at him. a slow, languid smile spreads across your lips— the same one that started this whole mess.

​“ ...Look at you, ” you murmur, your voice a low, honeyed purr that seems to echo in the quiet room.

Feitan’s eyes snap open, the molten steel burning through the shadows. his hand is still tangled in your hair, and at your words, his fingers flex reflexively, a sharp, warning tug that brings your face inches from his. He looks like he wants to kill you and kiss you all over again, his jaw set so tight it’s a miracle it doesn't crack.

​“ ...Quiet, ” he rasps, his voice a shattered, low-frequency ghost of its usual self.

​“ Make me, ” you tease, your eyes dropping to his mouth before snapping back to his. you lean in, your breath ghosting over his lips. “ you seem… a bit preoccupied. Should I help you find your voice again? ”

a low growl rips from his throat— he yanks your head down, his thumb dragging across your lower.

​“ You talk too much, ” he breathes, his eyes narrowing into lethal slits even as he pulls you back down into his space. “ I find another way to stop your mouth. ”

the tension in the room doesn't just return; it mutates into something far heavier, a thick, atmospheric weight that makes the very air feel like a physical pressure against your skin. Feitan doesn’t wait for another word to leave your mouth. he reacts with a sudden, jolting energy, his hands sliding from your hair to your waist, his grip so tight it feels like he’s trying to fuse your shadows together.

​he hauls you back down, the mattress dipping low as he maneuvers you with a restless, frantic urgency. the playfulness of your tease is immediately swallowed by the raw, unpolished heat radiating from him.

the exchange becomes a blur of friction and shallow, shared breaths. there are no more words, only the rhythmic, heavy thud of a heart hammering against ribs and the sound of leather and linen twisting under the weight of two people who have stopped trying to pretend they aren't unraveling. he moves with a desperate sort of focus, his hands mapping the curve of your spine and the slope of your shoulders as if he’s trying to memorize the geography of your skin in the dark.

​every touch is a jagged escalation. the space between you disappears entirely, replaced by a suffocating intimacy that tastes like salt and iron. he buries his face in the hollow of your neck, his breathing a series of hot, jagged hitches that vibrate against your pulse point, while his fingers tangle back into your hair, pulling you closer until there is no air left between you.

​the bruised light from the window catches the way his muscles lock, his entire frame vibrating with a high-frequency tension that refuses to break. it’s a total, quiet collapse into the dark— a slow-motion fall where the only thing keeping either of you grounded is the bruising, uncompromising grip you have on each other.

​

—

the heavy, electric heat of the room finally begins to thin as the storm outside peters out into a dull, rhythmic drizzle. the absolute, suffocating darkness of the midnight hours slowly gives way to a bruised, cinematic grey— the first tentative light of dawn bleeding through the gaps in the curtains.

​the air is cool now, smelling of damp pavement and fading ozone, a stark contrast to the feverish friction of the hours before.

​Feitan has finally stilled, though the tension never fully leaves his frame. he’s a dark, jagged silhouette against the rumpled white of the sheets, his breathing deep and steady for the first time since the sun went down. the violent, magnetic pull that dictated every movement of the night has settled into a heavy, exhausted quiet, leaving the room feeling vast and hollow in the early light.

​the clock on the wall ticks with a sudden, sharp clarity that wasn't there before, marking the end of the vacuum you’ve been living in. the mission, the Troupe, and the cold reality of the world outside are starting to settle back into the corners of the room, reclaiming the space that, for a few times, belonged only to the two of you.

​the night is over, and the soft haze of the dark is retreating, leaving behind only the cooling marks on your skin and the quiet, heavy weight of a man who looks entirely different in the light of day.

—

the grey, watery light of morning filters through the room, looking less like a new beginning and more like an unwelcome intrusion. Feitan is awake long before the sun manages to fully clear the horizon, his eyes snapping open with a sharp, instinctive clarity that feels like a physical ache.

​he feels… volatile. his skin feels a size too small, tight with the residual heat of a night that refused to let him rest. there is a heavy, leaden irritation settled behind his eyes— partly from the lack of sleep, but mostly from the lingering, honeyed memory of your laugh and the way he had completely unspooled in the dark. to a man who views any loss of control as a weakness, the echoes of last night are a jagged thorn in his side.

​he rolls out of bed with a silent, lethal grace, his movements stiff. he doesn't look back at the bed as he pulls on his high-collared coat, the fabric feeling abrasive against the marks on his skin.

​when he slides open the door to the common area, the atmosphere is already humming with the low-frequency energy of the Troupe.

​Machi is sitting by the window, her needle moving in a rhythmic, silver blur as she repairs a fraying shroud. she doesn’t look up when Feitan enters; she doesn’t need to. the shift in the room’s pressure tells her exactly who it is.

​“ Your Nen is erratic, ” she says. her voice is flat— not a taunt, just an observation.

​Feitan doesn't answer, moving toward the shadows near the back of the room, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. he exudes a sharp, foul energy that would make anyone else back away.

​Machi finally pauses, her threads suspended in the air like a web. she turns her gaze toward him, her pink eyes devoid of humor. she notes the rigid set of his shoulders and the slight delay in his step.

​“ You’re moving heavy, ” she states plainly. She doesn't smirk; she simply watches him with the detached interest of a doctor looking at a broken tool. “ If you need stitches, sit down. If you’re just going to bleed on the floor, do it somewhere else. ”

​Feitan’s hand twitches toward the hilt of his umbrella, his silver eyes narrowing into dangerous, lethal slits. Machi doesn't blink, already returning her needle to the fabric.

​“ Keep talking, ” he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly warning that still carries the jagged edge of his exhaustion. “ and I find new place for your needles. ”

​Machi huffs a short, dry laugh, the sound brittle and gone as soon as it hits the air. she is entirely unimpressed by the threat; she has lived among monsters far too long to flinch at a bared tooth.

the rest of the Troupe continues their preparations, but the heavy, charged silence Feitan brought into the room remains, a simmering reminder of the night he’s trying so hard to forget.

the tension in the room is already thick enough to choke on, but there is always someone in the Troupe willing to poke at a fresh wound.

​as the silence between Machi and Feitan stretches, the heavy door creaks open. Phinks saunters in, his footsteps heavy and echoing compared to Feitan’s ghost-like tread. he stops short, eyes darting between Machi’s rhythmic sewing and the dark, radiating gloom coming from the corner.

​Phinks whistles low, a sound that grates against the quiet.

​“ Look at you, ” Phinks says, leaning his weight against the doorframe and crossing his arms. he doesn't have Machi’s clinical detachment; he has a predator’s eye for weakness and a loud mouth to go with it. “ You’re looking a little sluggish, Feitan. What’s the matter? Shadows under your eyes are darker than your coat. ”

​Feitan flares— a cold, jagged spike of Nen that makes the air in the room feel thin.

​Phinks just grins, undeterred.

“ Don't tell me you’re having trouble sleeping. What, did one of those 'toys' from last week start haunting your dreams? Or are you just afraid of what happens when you close your eyes? ”

​the click of Feitan’s umbrella handle is the only warning. the metal guard slides a fraction of an inch, revealing a sliver of polished, lethal steel.

​“ You want... permanent sleep? ” Feitan’s voice is a low, guttural rasp, his grip tightening until his knuckles turn white.

​Phinks just lets out a boisterous laugh, the sound bouncing off the damp walls.

“ Temper, temper. I’m just saying— if you keep moving that slow, the next mark is going to see you coming from a mile away. Maybe Machi can stitch your eyelids open for you. ”

​Machi doesn't even pause her needle, but her voice cuts through Phinks’s laughter like a cold blade.

“ He’s already irritated enough, Phinks. If he burns the building down, you’re the one explaining it to Boss. ”

—

the morning light feels far more welcoming to you than it did to the man who just left the room. despite the scant few hours of sleep, you feel a humming, electric sense of satisfaction— a warm glow that seems to have settled deep in your bones.

​you pull on a thick, black turtleneck, the soft fabric a deliberate choice to hide the dark, blooming evidence of Feitan’s lack of restraint. after smoothing down the collar, you step out into the common area, radiating a quiet, sunny energy that feels entirely out of place in the grim hideout.

​Feitan is a dark blot in the corner of the room, his aura radiating do not approach, but you can’t help the soft, secret smile that tugs at your lips when your eyes catch the back of his head.

​" Good morning, " you chirp, your voice light and clear, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a bell.

the common area is a mess of half-packed crates and the sharp smell of gun oil. you walk in feeling a strange, humming lightness in your chest— a sharp contrast to the oppressive, leaden silence radiating from Feitan’s corner. you’ve pulled the black fabric of your turtleneck all the way up to your jaw, the material a soft but necessary shield.

​Shalnark is leaning against a crumbling concrete pillar, flipping a small butterfly knife open and shut with a rhythmic, metallic clack-clack. he doesn't look up immediately, but as you approach, his hands go still.

​he turns his head, his bright, emerald eyes scanning you with the detached precision of a scientist examining a specimen. a slow, thin smile stretches across his face— not quite warm, but definitely knowing.

​“ You're making a lot of noise, ” he says calmly. his voice is pleasant, but there’s a cold, analytical edge underneath.

​you blink, glancing around the quiet room.

“ I haven't said a word. ”

​“ Not with your mouth, ” he counter-purrs, finally turning his full attention to you. he leans back against a crate, crossing his ankles. “ Your energy. It’s... loud. Very bright. It’s actually a bit distracting compared to the black hole sitting in the corner. ”

​he flickers a glance toward Feitan, then back to you, his eyes lingering on the high, thick collar of your sweater. his grin widens, becoming something more pointed and mocking.

“ ...Whatever. ”

Phinks is adjusting his tracksuit sleeves with a bored expression, while Machi is standing by the door like a silent, sharp-edged sentinel. Feitan is a shadow among shadows, his umbrella gripped tight, his aura still simmering with a low-frequency irritability that makes the others give him a wide berth.

​you’re finishing your own preparations, still feeling that lingering, electric hum of satisfaction despite the early hour.

​Phinks glances around the room, his brow furrowing as he does a quick head count.

​“ Where’s the short one? ” he grunts, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “ We’re supposed to be moving in five minutes. ”

​Shalnark doesn’t even look up from his phone, but a small, amused huff escapes him. “ Probably still in the back. She’s not exactly a morning person when she’s in the middle of a dream. ”

​you realize with a start that Shizuku hasn’t made an appearance yet.

​“ Someone go get her, ” Machi says, her voice flat. She flickers a glance toward the hallway, then back to the group. “ Unless we want to leave her behind and explain to Chrollo why we’re short a vacuum. ”

​Phinks rolls his shoulders and looks at you, then at Feitan, then back to you. a slow, mischievous glint enters his eyes— the kind of look that spells trouble.

​“ Hey, Feitan, ” Phinks calls out, his tone dripping with mock-innocence. “ Since you’re already so awake and energetic, why don’t you go wake her up? Or are you afraid you’ll accidentally take her head off because your nerves are shot? ”

​Feitan’s grip on his umbrella tightens until the leather creaks. he doesn't move, his golden eyes fixed on a point on the wall with lethal intensity.

​“ Do it yourself, ” Feitan rasps, his voice a jagged shadow of its usual self.

​Shalnark lets out a bright, airy laugh, finally pocketing his phone. “ I think he’s worried if he goes back into the sleeping quarters, he might not come back out. It’s a very... high-pressure environment back there this morning. ”

​he gives you a pointed, sidelong look, his smile sharp and knowing.

​“ Go on, ” Shalnark nudges you playfully.

“ You’re the only one here who doesn't look like they're ready to murder someone. Go see if Shizuku’s actually alive under those blankets. ”

—

the hallway is narrow and damp, the stone walls holding onto the chill of the dying storm. as you pull away from the heavy atmosphere of the main room, the silence back here feels almost surreal. you push open the heavy wooden door to the sleeping quarters, the hinges letting out a soft, rhythmic groan.

​Shizuku is nothing more than a static mound under a pile of grey wool blankets. she hasn’t moved an inch despite the noise of the Troupe prepping just a few walls away.

​you lean over the cot and give the mound a firm shake. “ Shizuku. Wake up, it’s time to go. ”

​there’s a muffled hum from beneath the wool. slowly, the blankets slide down, revealing a mess of short, dark hair and a face that looks entirely untroubled by the concept of time. she blinks, her eyes unfocused, before reaching for her glasses on the floor.

​she slides them onto the bridge of her nose and stares at you, her expression as flat and empty as a calm lake.

​“ Oh, ” she says, her voice light and airy. “ Is the mission over? ”

​“ It hasn't started yet. Everyone is waiting. ”

​Shizuku sits up slowly, the blankets pooling around her waist. her gaze drifts upward, fixing on the high, dark fabric of your turtleneck. she tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing behind her lenses with a clinical, detached sort of curiosity.

​“ You're dressed for winter, ” she observes. her voice is devoid of Shalnark’s mockery or Machi’s sharpness— it’s just a statement of fact. “ But the humidity is 82%. I saw it on the news before I fell asleep. ”

​she reaches out a pale hand, her fingers hovering near the edge of your collar.

​“ Did you get a throat infection? ” she asks, her tone genuinely puzzled. “ Or did Feitan lose his temper and try to squeeze the life out of you again? You look very... muffled. ”

​she blinks once, her head tilting to the opposite side.

​you simply give Shizuku a small, noncommittal shrug, refusing to let her blank-faced logic break your stride. while she slowly begins the process of finding her boots and summoning Blinky, you finish pulling your gear together. you double-check the tuck of your turtleneck in a cracked shard of a mirror, ensuring every mark is hidden, and then turn to head back out.

​when you and Shizuku finally emerge into the main hall, the atmosphere is pulled tight like a bowstring.

​Phinks is leaning against the exit, arms crossed over his chest. he checks his watch and then looks at the two of you, his eyes lingering on you just a second too long with a smirk he doesn't bother to hide. “ Finally. I thought we were going to have to send a search party to drag you out of there. ”

​Machi doesn't say a word; she simply pushes off the wall and heads for the door, the silent signal that the grace period is over.

​Feitan is already halfway to the exit, his back to the room. he hasn't looked at you once since you walked back in, but the way his shoulders are set, rigid and defensive— speaks volumes. as you pass by him to reach the door, the air around him feels several degrees colder, a sharp, biting frost that smells faintly of the night’s lingering electricity.

​Shalnark falls into step beside you, his phone already back in his hand. he doesn't look up as he speaks, his tone breezy and conversational. “ Nice of you to join us. Try to keep up, okay? We wouldn't want you getting... distracted... again. ”

the city streets are a labyrinth of grey concrete and stagnant puddles, reflecting the dull, overcast sky. the Troupe moves with a synchronized silence, weaving through the morning crowds like shadows passing through light.

​Feitan is at the head of the formation, a dark, jagged silhouette. he moves with a stiff, agitated grace, his umbrella tapped rhythmically against the pavement with a sharp, metallic clack that sounds like a countdown. he hasn't looked back once.

​you, however, feel bold. the lingering warmth of the night hasn't faded, and his visible irritation only makes the urge to poke the bear more irresistible.

​you quicken your pace, dodging past Shalnark to pull up alongside Feitan. he doesn't acknowledge you, but the line of his jaw tightens until the bone looks like it might snap.

​“ You're walking very fast... ” you murmur, leaning in just enough so your voice doesn't carry to the others. “ Are you trying to run away from your thoughts? ”

​Feitan’s pace doesn't falter, but his silver eyes cut sideways, a lethal, amber flash beneath his dark fringe. “ Do not push luck, ” he rasps, his voice still carrying that wrecked, gravelly friction from the night before. “ I am in no mood for games. ”

​“ No? ” you let your hand drift toward his, your fingertips grazing the dark fabric of his sleeve for just a fraction of a second—a touch light as a breath but heavy with intent. you lean closer, your voice dropping to a private hum. “ That’s a shame. You seemed very... invested in the games we were playing a few hours ago. You certainly didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave then. ”

​

the rhythmic clack of his umbrella stops instantly.

​he halts in the middle of the sidewalk, the suddenness of it forcing Phinks and Machi to swerve around you both with knowing, annoyed glances. Feitan turns to face you, his presence looming and dangerous. he’s close enough that you can feel the radiating heat from his chest, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, concentrated molten steel.

​“ You think you are clever, ” he breathes, his voice a low-frequency vibration that you feel in your teeth. he steps into your space, his hand coming up to grip the handle of his umbrella so hard the leather groans.

he leans down, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping pointedly to the high, dark collar of your turtleneck before snapping back to your eyes.

​“ Be careful, ” he warns, his voice dropping to a whisper that is pure, unadulterated threat. “ Or I give you reason to wear that sweater for a month. ”

​

the sidewalk becomes a sudden, static bubble in the middle of the city's morning rush. the rest of the Troupe has drifted to a halt a few paces ahead, and the silence is heavy. Phinks has his arms crossed, looking between the two of you with an expression of pained disbelief, while Machi simply stares at a distant rooftop, her patience visibly thinning. Shalnark is the only one watching with blatant, clinical amusement, his head tilted as he waits to see if Feitan actually snaps.

​you don't flinch. instead, you meet that molten, murderous glare with a slow, deliberate blink. you reach up, two fingers grazing the edge of your high collar, adjusting the fabric with a languid grace that is pure provocation.

​“...I'd love to, ” you breathe, your voice a soft, honeyed challenge that carries just enough weight for him to hear. “ But... I think your... not feeling well right now. Whatever. Maybe when you’ve had a nap. ”

​you give him a final, devastatingly casual smile and step around him, falling back into stride with a spring in your step.

​

the silence behind you is deafening.

​Phinks lets out a sharp, incredulous bark of a laugh, shaking his head. “ Man, I've seen people face the Zoldycks with more self-preservation than that. You’re either the bravest person in this city or the most annoying. ”

​Shalnark just whistles low, his eyes bright. “ I give it ten minutes before he tries to incinerate the entire block. That was... bold. ”

​Feitan remains frozen for a heartbeat longer, his knuckles white as he grips his umbrella. he eventually exhales a sharp, jagged breath and starts walking again, his pace more aggressive than before, his head down as he tries to bury the frustration— and the memory of the night—under a layer of lethal focus.

​the morning sun finally begins to tear through the stubborn, bruised clouds, casting long, sharp-edged shadows across the damp pavement. as the group moves deeper into the industrial heart of the city, the playful friction of the morning starts to submerge beneath the cold, professional weight of the mission ahead.

the towering skeletons of unfinished skyscrapers loom over you, and the air turns metallic with the scent of grease and impending rain.

​the Troupe settles into their familiar, rhythmic silence. Feitan stays at the very edge of the formation, a dark, vibrating needle on a compass that refuses to point north. every few minutes, his gaze flickers toward you, sharp and unreadable, before he snaps his attention back to the horizon.

​the private war between the two of you hasn't ended; it has simply evolved, settling into a simmering, electric truce.

the city is waking up, loud and indifferent, but for the Spiders, the world is still narrow, dangerous, and perfectly contained within the shadows they cast.

​by the time you reach the mission objective, the night is a ghost, tucked away into the dark corners where memories go to wait. but as the first sounds of conflict begin to echo in the distance, you catch one last look from Feitan— a promise of a reckoning that will be far less quiet than the morning.

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© 2026 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.

this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.

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( sorry i have no dividers )

​inside, the air is warmer. heavier, too. it lingers against your skin in a way that refuses to leave immediately, like the room itself is reluctant to let go of what just happened. there’s a faint trace of something expensive in it. cologne, maybe, or the ghost of something sweeter—but it’s already fading.

​behind you, there’s movement. subtle. controlled. the soft rustle of fabric shifting back into place.

​you don’t turn right away. instead, your fingers move first— slow, unhurried, brushing over your clothes as you begin to fix them. a sleeve smoothed down, a strap adjusted with quiet precision. each motion is deliberate, almost careful, as if restoring yourself requires a certain kind of attention. it doesn’t, really. but you take your time anyway, because time here, stretches differently.

​there’s a small, metallic sound behind you. the faint slide of a belt threading through loops. you hear it before you see it. measured, steady.

​then— click. final. like something being closed, sealed, returned to where it belongs.

​he moves toward the side table where his things wait exactly where he left them. a watch, a phone, a wallet placed neatly beside both. he doesn't look at you as he opens it. the leather creases softly in his hand— clean, expensive, untouched by anything inconvenient.

​​he pulls out the bills, his thumb grazing the edges with a slow, possessive rhythm. there’s an arrogance in the way he handles it, a quiet confidence that everything in this room— including you— has a clear, manageable price.

​you tilt your head, watching his reflection in the glass. a small, playful smile tugs at your lips.

​ “ Careful, ” you murmur, your voice trailing over the silence like a dare. “ you keep counting like that, you might realize you’re losing money. ”

​he pauses, his shoulders shifting as he finally turns to face you. his gaze is heavy, lingering on the line of your throat with a blatant, unshaded lust that he doesn't bother to hide. he looks sure of himself, like a man who has never been told no in a language he understood.

​“ It’s just paper, ” he says, his voice low and gravelly, thick with the remnants of his own satisfaction. he fan the bills out slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “ and for tonight? I'd say it’s a bargain. ”

​you let out a soft, melodic hum, stepping closer just to watch the way his breath hitches— just a fraction.

​ “ A bargain, ” you repeat, your tone dripping with a light, practiced flirtation. “ is that what i am? a discount? ”

​he laughs, a short, sharp sound that holds no real humor, only the weight of his own ego. he reaches out, the money still caught between his fingers, waiting for you to bridge the final gap.

​“ You're whatever I want you to be as long as I’m paying, ” he counters, his thumb brushing the top bill. “ and right now, I'd say you're worth every cent. ”

then—

on the nightstand near the bed, your phone begins to vibrate. the screen lights up, cutting through the moody atmosphere of the room.

​Amber.

​the name flashes against the dark wood, the buzzing sound persistent and demanding, but you don't reach for it yet. instead, your gaze remains fixed on him. you watch the way he handles the money— the slow, possessive slide of his thumb over the edges of the bills as he pulls them from his wallet.

​he finally holds the stack out, his fingers lingering on the paper with an arrogance that suggests he believes this is the only part of the night that truly mattered.

​finally, you step toward the nightstand and retrieve your phone. the vibration stops just as your fingers brush the glass, leaving the room in a sudden, ringing silence. you don't answer the notification. you just hold the device loosely, meeting his eyes as you bridge the final gap between you.

​the exchange is quiet and efficient. your fingers slip between his, taking the stack of bills with a practiced ease that feels as natural as breathing. the contact is brief—just long enough for him to feel the cool silk of your sleeve against his skin— and then it's gone.

​you fold the money once, neat and precise, before slipping it away.

​he leans back against the table, a self-assured, breathy laugh escaping him as he watches you prepare to leave.

​“ Same time next week? ”

​“ If you’ve got the money. ”

a short, meaningless goodbye is exchanged— the kind that evaporates the second the door clicks shut behind you. the heavy silence of the hotel hallway swallows the sound of your heels as you finally reach for your phone and hit the call back.

​Amber answers on the first ring, her voice a sharp explosion of static and noise.

​“ Where the hell are you? ” she demands, the background roar of the club muffled but present. “ I’ve been sitting here like an idiot for twenty minutes. ”

​you step toward the elevator,

​“ Relax, ” you murmur, pressing the button and watching the gold doors slide open. “ I’m on my way already. ”

—

the doors part and the noise spills over you all at once— bass, laughter, and glass against glass. light cuts through the dark in restless flashes, painting the red silk of your dress in colors that don’t stay long enough to settle. inside, nothing pretends to be quiet and nothing pretends to be clean.

​you step in like you belong to it, because you do.

​not in the way they think, but in the way the room reacts. eyes follow; some are obvious about it— lingering too long. others are quieter, stolen glances from behind glasses and shadows. you feel the weight of it— the curiosity and the judgment dressed up as interest. your name moves through places like this without needing to be spoken aloud, wrapped in the half-truths of what they think you are.

​that girl.

​the one who—

​you don’t slow down and you don’t acknowledge it. you let their attention slide off you like it never had the chance to land.

​the bar glows ahead, lined with bodies and movement folding into itself in a careless rhythm. and then, you see her.

​Amber.

​she’s exactly where you expected her to be, elbows resting against the counter and her posture loose. a glass is caught between her fingers— salt clinging faintly to the rim. margarita, not her first and definitely not her second.

​she spots you almost immediately. her face lights up all at once, like you’re something she’s been waiting on longer than she’ll admit.

​“ Finally! ” she calls out over the noise, lifting her glass slightly in your direction. “ I was starting to think you ditched me for something better. ”

you make your way toward her, weaving through the crowd like it parts just enough to let you through.

“ Please, ” you reply, voice slipping easily into something amused, something familiar. “ this is the better option. ”

you gesture lightly to her drink as you reach her side, eyes flicking over it once.

then back to her.

“ How many is that? ”

Amber squints at the glass like it might answer for her.

“ …Irrelevant. ”

you hum softly, unconvinced.

“ Why are you even drinking on Saturday? ”

​Amber leans over the bar, her chin propped up by her hand as she stares gloomily into the neon-green depths of her drink as she breathes a sigh of disbelief.

​“ I just don’t get it, ” she rants, her voice rising just enough to cut through the heavy bass and the clinking of bottles. “ I’m out here every night. I look good, I’m fun, I’m right here. where is he? where is the person who’s supposed to actually get me? it’s like the universe is just skipping over my floor entirely. ”

​she takes a long, aggressive sip through her straw and huffs, a stray lock of blonde hair falling over her eyes.

​“ And you, ” she says, pointing a shaky finger at you. “ you don’t even look like you’re searching. How are you so calm about it? don’t you want to know who’s on the other side of the glass? ”

you don't answer immediately. you just watch a bead of condensation trail down your own glass, your mind slipping away from the noise and back to the rule everyone whispers like a prayer or a curse.

​your soulmate will be similar to you. it’s a quiet, terrifying absolute.

they say the universe doesn’t pair you with what you want, but with what you are. like calls to like— a mirror held up to the parts of your soul you try to keep in the dark. if you are kind, they are light; if you are cruel, they are the blade. whether it is for good or for bad, you are destined to meet someone who carries the same weight you do.

you think about your life— the red dress, the exchange of cash in high-rise penthouses, the way you’ve learned to navigate the shadows of other people's desires. if the rule is true, then whoever is out there for you isn't a saint or an angel coming to save you. they’re someone who understands the transactional nature of the world just as well as you do, someone who thrives in the silence and the secrets.

it isn't a romantic thought; it’s a revelation that makes your skin crawl.

​“ I’m not searching, Amber, ” you finally murmur, the bass thumping in time with the uneasy rhythm of your heart. “ I’m just waiting to see what kind of mirror the universe decides to hold up to me. ”

“ Surely you're curious, right? ” she presses, her voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone she gets when she’s three drinks deep. “ Even just a little bit— ”

​you don't let her finish. you lift a hand, catching the bartender’s eye with a practiced ease that cuts through the noise.

​“ Tequila, ” you say, your voice smooth and final. “ salt and lime. ”

​you don't look at Amber. instead, you pick up the laminated drink menu, flipping through the pages with an intense, mock-seriousness. you scan the list of over-priced cocktails as if the choice between a cosmopolitan and a mojito is the most pressing matter in the world, pointedly ignoring the way she’s staring at the side of your head.

​“ Hey, I’m talking to you. ” she huffs, nudging your shoulder.

​you just hum, eyes still fixed on the menu.

​she rolls her eyes, but her expression shifts, settling into something uncharacteristically earnest. she leans closer, her breath smelling of agave and citrus.

​“ Seriously though, ” she says, and the sudden lack of a joke in her voice makes. “ we should go to that church across town tomorrow. The old stone one. ”

​you pause, the tequila shot arriving in front of you. you stare at the clear liquid for a second before a dry, sharp laugh escapes your throat.

​“ What, to repent for our sins? ”

​“ No, ” Amber counters, her eyes wide and dead serious. “ to pray we find our soulmates. You’d love the priest, I heard he's— ”

you shake your head, licking the salt from the back of your hand before tossing the shot back. the burn is immediate and grounding, a sharp line of fire that clears the fog for a split second. you bite into the lime, the sourness making your eyes water.

​“ You’ll find it soon, Amber. ” you murmur, setting the glass down with a heavy clink against the bar.

—

the night doesn’t end so much as it unthreads.

​one moment, the world is vaguely yours—Amber’s voice nearby, the glass in your hand, and the bass pressing against your ribs like a second heartbeat. then, without ceremony, everything stops being something you can hold onto.

​drinks keep finding their way into your hands. you don’t remember deciding to have them; it’s just a quiet accumulation, as if the night has decided your refusal no longer matters. each glass arrives with a different weight and a sweetness that never quite tastes like the last.

​you stop counting. at some point, counting feels like something other people do.

​the room softens. the edges of everything blur as if dipped in water. faces lose precision and voices stop landing where they should. you’re still standing— you think— but your balance feels borrowed. your body has stopped negotiating with you before it moves.

​Amber is a flickering shape of familiarity. you catch fragments of her— a wide gesture, a laugh rising too quickly— but your thoughts refuse to align. they arrive slightly too late, always lagging behind the moment they were meant for. you blink and the world changes angle, you blink again and it changes back.

​then, attention shifts.

​you feel it before you see it, like heat before a fire. it isn't casual; it’s a heavy, gathering focus. you don’t remember moving, but suddenly you are the center of something that was forming long before you arrived. the air feels denser here, compressed.

​voices begin to stack. they aren't conversations anymore, just fragments— numbers and exclamations that sound transactional rather than social.

​then, a voice cuts through the static, sharp and hungry.

​“ Seven Hundred and Fifty Thousand! ”

​it doesn’t feel like it’s about you. it’s just a number floating in an unreal place. there is a heavy, expectant pause. then, an escalation.

​“ Eight Hundred Thousand! ”

​the room reacts. bodies shift in a collective, ritualistic rhythm. the numbers climb, overlapping and rebuilding higher each time. you don’t understand what they are measuring anymore, only that they are competing.

​your vision narrows. you try to ground yourself in your own breath or the feeling of your hands, but they feel out of reach, belonging to a version of you from earlier in the evening. the voices keep climbing until the numbers stop sounding like value and start sounding like distance.

​your name might be said, you aren't sure. you don't answer because you don’t recognize what is being asked of you anymore.

​the world tilts. you blink slowly, but the room doesn't right itself. there is no panic, just a slow, spreading disconnection— like a system shutting down one layer at a time. something is being taken out of your hands before you even realized you were holding it.

​and then— black.

—

morning doesn’t arrive gently; it crashes in.

​through thin curtains, through the half-awake silence, through the dull throb behind your eyes that feels like it’s still finishing a night you don’t fully remember.

your phone is the first thing you hear. then the second, then the third.

​Amber.

Amber.

Amber.

​missed calls are stacked on top of each other like she’s trying to pull you back into something you’re not ready to touch yet.

you blink slowly, once, twice. the world refuses to sharpen. your eyelids feel heavy and your thoughts are lagging, arriving late to a place they never agreed to enter. you reach for the phone anyway.

​11:00 a.m.

​it stares back at you without judgment. just fact, just consequence.

​for a moment, you don’t move. you just lie there, letting awareness return in uneven, dreamy pieces. ceiling first, then sound. then the weight of your own body against unfamiliar bedding. the sheets are tangled in a way that doesn’t feel like sleep— they’re too disrupted, like the night didn’t end so much as it scattered itself across the room and left without cleaning up.

​you sit up slowly, and that’s when it becomes real. the room isn't yours, it’s expensive in a way that doesn’t try to prove itself— muted lighting, clean surfaces, furniture placed with intention instead of comfort.

a hotel room.

​you look down at yourself, the bathrobe isn't yours either. white, soft, and slightly loosened at the collar, it hangs off you with a quiet, undeniable weight. you don’t ask questions, because some answers are already sitting in your body before your mind catches up.

a breath leaves you. quiet, steadying. it isn't shock; it’s recognition. recognition of gaps. of missing hours, of the kind of night that doesn’t leave explanations—only aftermath.

​your gaze drifts across the room and stops.

​an envelope.

​it’s resting on the bedside table like it belongs there. no drama, no urgency. just placement, finality. you pick it up; it’s heavier than it looks. thick, organized. cash inside— bundled, stacked, too much to feel accidental. thousands folded into neat certainty, the kind of amount that replaces questions with silence. no note, no explanation. just numbers pretending to be closure.

​your mind drifts back to the club— to the neon, the bass, and Amber’s voice cutting through the tequila. she was serious, you think, the realization hitting you with a strange, high-dreamy clarity. she was actually serious about the church thing.

​“ Fuck... ” you mutter, the word rough against the quiet.

​your thumb moves before your thoughts. Amber’s messages are still piling up, a frantic contrast to the stillness of this room.

​Amber: where are you??

Amber: don’t tell me you’re still asleep.

Amber: we’re literally going today!!

Amber: the mass starts at 11:30am !!

​you glance at the corner of your screen.

11:12 a.m.

​for a second, everything else fades— the room, the envelope, the memories you aren't willing to hold in focus. only timing remains. you move faster now, breath sharpening as your fingers type back with zero precision.

​im coming wait dnot go inside yt

​you don’t fix the typos; you just hit send. you’re already out of bed, gathering yourself in uneven pieces— clothes, hair, breath— whatever you can make functional in under a minute. there is no time to think properly, and no time to look back at the envelope.

​the hotel room disappears behind you, left open-ended and unfinished, as if it never needed you to stay a second longer than you already had.

—

your head still doesn’t feel fully yours. it’s like you’re walking slightly behind yourself, watching your body move while your thoughts lag a step too late to correct anything. the world is too bright in places it shouldn’t be, too loud in places it should be quieter.

​you’re not fully drunk anymore, but you’re not fully back either.

​somewhere in between. half-awake, half-lost, stitched together by urgency and habit and the last scraps of memory you’re still holding onto.

​the church is there before you properly register it. stone, height, stillness that feels too clean compared to everything you just came from. people move in and out like they already know where they belong inside it.

​and then— Amber.

​you don’t see her clearly at first, just movement. arms waving somewhere ahead, too exaggerated, too fast, like she’s trying to pull your attention through layers of fog. her voice reaches you in pieces. your name. again. louder. then something else you don’t fully catch.

​then you blink—

​you’re already inside the church, sitting.

​somewhere in the middle rows where the wood is too polished and the silence feels too intentional, like it’s been trained to behave. the air is colder than it should be, carrying that faint, old scent of stone and incense and something you can’t quite name.

​you’re not fully stable in it, not yet. your body is there, yes— feet planted, hands resting somewhere they’re supposed to— but your mind is still lagging behind itself, like it took the wrong turn somewhere earlier and hasn’t caught up.

​you don’t remember much; that’s the problem. it comes in fragments instead of continuity. Amber’s voice, flashes of movement, the ride here, the way the city looked too sharp and too slow at the same time, the feeling of being guided rather than deciding. and the alcohol still sitting somewhere behind your eyes, not enough to fully erase you, but enough to make everything feel slightly displaced.

​you blink, and the church shifts. not literally, but it feels like it does. the walls seem taller than they were a second ago, or closer. or leaning inward in a way that makes you adjust your posture without thinking.

​sounds don’t land properly either. a cough becomes too distant, a whisper feels too long. everything is slightly out of sync with you, like you arrived late to a moment that already started without you. you swallow once, slowly, trying to anchor yourself, trying to make the room behave correctly again just by noticing it harder.

​it doesn’t work. it never really does.

​and then— something changes.

​not in the room, but in your attention. like it’s been pulled, gently but firmly, away from the noise and the distortion. your gaze travels up, past the rows of bowed heads and the flickering candlelight, until it anchors on the figure standing at the altar.

​until… you see the priest.

your head is still heavy, the weight of the night pressing behind your eyes, but the blurred edges of the world finally find a place to anchor.

​it’s him.

​he moves with a quiet, deliberate grace that makes the rest of the room feel clumsy. his hands are steady as they adjust the heavy book on the altar— fingers long, pale, and certain. there is a gravity to him that pulls the light inward, making the stone walls and the flickering candles feel like they were only built to frame him.

​you watch him, and for the first time since you woke up in that hotel room, the hazy disconnection starts to peel away.

​it isn't a holy feeling. it’s something else—something that feels dangerous in its clarity. you’re still wearing the invisible scent of the penthouse on your skin, the weight of the envelope still sitting in your bag like a secret, and here he is. he looks like a sanctuary and a question all at once.

​the thoughts in your head are still tangled, still running too fast for your own good.

​he’s a priest? really?

​the word feels wrong in your mind when you look at the sharp line of his jaw or the way his hair catches the dim, golden glow of the nave. you feel a sudden, jarring urge to laugh— the kind of laugh that would shatter the silence and get you thrown out. the absurdity of it all hits you: the red silk you were wearing hours ago, the money you haven't counted, and the fact that out of everywhere in this city, Amber dragged you here.

​but then he turns.

​he hasn't looked at the crowd yet, his focus still seemingly inward, but you feel the shift in the air again. it’s a physical pressure, a silent command that forces you to sit a little straighter in the hard wooden pew.

​you’re waiting for him to look up. you’re waiting for the moment he finally scans the rows of faces and finds yours— the one that doesn’t belong, the one still vibrating with the pulse of the club.

​you’re waiting to see if the mirror you talked about at the bar is finally going to show itself.

the wooden pew feels solid beneath you, a grounding contrast to the way your mind continues to fray at the edges. you are here, but you are also still partially back in that hotel room, partially lost in the blurring lights of the night before, and the collision of it all makes the air in the nave feel thick— heavy with the scent of beeswax and the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas.

​then, he speaks.

​his voice isn't a command, yet it pulls at the silence until the silence belongs to him. it’s a smooth, resonant sound, like velvet drawn over stone, vibrating in the hollow of your chest.

​as he moves toward the altar, your gaze follows— not with the casual curiosity of a visitor, but with the fixated, unblinking intensity of someone who has just found the only steady point in a spinning room.

the world is still slightly tilted, the edges of the stained glass bleeding colors into the gray stone, but he remains in high definition.

​he turns. it’s subtle, a natural part of the liturgy, but his eyes sweep across the congregation with a calm that feels terrifyingly absolute. when they reach your row, they don't slide past.

​they stop.

​the contact isn't a brush; it’s a collision.

​seconds stretch, warping under the weight of his stare. it is a long, quiet look— longer than is polite, longer than is holy. you feel the heat of the morning sun through the high windows, the throb in your temples, and the sudden, sharp awareness of the bathrobe still hidden beneath your hastily thrown-on clothes.

​he doesn't look away.

​there is something in his expression. not judgment, but a profound, quiet observation, as if he can see the invisible ink of the night before written across your skin. your mind whispers, the rule of soulmates echoing through the haze of the alcohol.

Similar to you. Not in habits, but in the parts you show, and the parts you don’t.

​the silence between you is a tether, pulling tighter and tighter until the air feels like it might snap.

​a sharp nudge at your ribs breaks the spell.

​“ Told you, ” Amber’s voice hissed beside you, a jagged contrast to the sacred quiet.

she’s leaning in, her breath still faintly smelling of last night’s citrus and desperation, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “ Told you you’d love him. I think half the parish is only here to see if he’s actually real. ”

​you don't look at her. you can't. your eyes are still anchored to the front, watching the way his hands— pale, steady, elegant—rest upon the altar.

​“ Who is he? ” you ask. your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, stripped of its usual armor, reduced to a low, rough thread of sound.

​Amber hums, a small, satisfied noise as she settles back, though her eyes remain on the figure at the front.

​“ Father Chrollo, ” she whispers, the name sliding out like a secret. “ Chrollo Lucilfer. Can you believe it? Same age as us, too. it’s a total waste, right? ”

​she pauses, her tone shifting into something more thoughtful, more puzzled.

​“ Everyone wonders why he did it. Why someone like him would choose to shut himself away in a place like this. He’s got that look, hasn't he? Like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Or like he’s hiding something even God hasn't found yet. ”

​you watch Father Chrollo as he bows his head, the dark cross on his forehead a stark mark against his skin. he is composed, a masterpiece of restraint and shadow.

​Chrollo.