Yapper

the crux of kikuta's conflict, as well as sugimoto's, lies in their survivor's guilt complex. at the time of the tls arc kikuta has lost tojiro (his younger brother) to illness during the sino-japanese war, and sugimoto lost his parents and cut ties to his childhood friend and fiance due to his family contracting tuberculosis. both of them had no control other their families deaths, but they cannot make peace with themselves because in the end they were the only ones who managed to escape death. their difference at the time lies in the fact that kikuta was the one who advised tojiro to go into the military, and therefore indirectly has led him to that outcome, which only serves to amplify his sense of guilt.

later on, during the russo-japanese war, sugimoto follows the exact same path of self-hatred after being saved by toraji at the cost of his life. even though he is regarded as a hero by many people, this title does nothing to erase his guilt.

it is interesting, however, how in the tokyo love story arc sugimoto resolves kikuta's conflict (and by extension his own) with the exact same advice that he later on has to learn how to follow for the entirety of the main story timeline:

the thing is, both what happened to tojiro AND toraji are the results of their own respective choices and the external forces that they had little to no control over. by trying to take responsibility for the choices of others kikuta and sugimoto invalidate these decisions and take away from other people's discretion. we see this exact character flaw in sugimoto's treatment of asirpa, and, funny enough, also once more during the tls arc — in sugimoto's conversation with yuusaku (who is also asirpa's parallel, as i've already talked in my other post). "in the end, it's my call to make" — is the exact thing that sugimoto has to learn to understand about other people as well.

another thing worth noting would be this particular scene:

this is quite an interesting idea. in a way it reminds me of the ainu's belief that every thing has its own kamuy, and therefore a purpose. however, unlike ainu, kikuta believes that things carry out the spirits of the people that own them, rather than their own. this is why him giving sugimoto his brother's cap is although a little, but still such crucial point for both of them. it essentially becomes a part of sugimoto — both metaphorically and literally, as it's such a prominent character design part of his that we almost never see him not wearing it (even underwear is not as often present on him as the damn cap). it not only represents him never forgetting kikuta and tojiro, but is also symbolic of the kikuta's guidance incorporated by him.

kikuta's habit of collecting his enemies' guns likely stems from this belief as well. after the revelation of this peculiar hobby it leaves an impression of kikuta being some arrogant officer that enjoys boasting about his skills. but if we look at it with kikuta's belief in mind, it now seems more like a way for him to never forget the people killed by his hand. and doesn't that sound familiar?

there's no clear evidence in the text that suggests sugimoto inheriting this specific standpoint from kikuta. i actually believe that, most likely, he's developed it on its own. but imo this particular instance is more about the imagery and subtle association rather than a direct influence of kikuta's teachings.

it is not literally saving people's lives that makes sugimoto a hero in the eyes of the others; him being exactly "just a soldier who didn't die" does. surviving himself and preserving the memories of others, both friends and enemies alike, — by being immortal sugimoto — is how he's able to save those around him.

meeting kikuta after so many years in the sapporo's brewery arc serves to bring sugimoto back to when he made the decision to join the military and reevaluate both the changes it brought to him and the words he's said to kikuta. it's the final nail in the coffin before sugimoto is able to let his past go in order to give asirpa support as a true equal and partner during the final arc, just like kikuta has given him support in the very beginning of his journey.

as for kikuta, him seeing sugimoto after so many years and learning that, in fact, he's not only survived the war, but also became a hero that's saved lots of his fellow soldiers' lives, — and that it was he, kikuta, who's set him on that path, — brings the last closure to the main regret of his life. he was a soldier for a long time, but in the end his biggest accomplishment becomes not his rank, nor the amount of enemies eliminated by him. he is killed as a spy, but a part of him would still continue to reside in sugimoto — together with a spirit of his younger brother, finally bringing meaning to both his death and life.

The party is already roaring by the time you arrive.

Music spills from the open windows of the estate, a raucous brass section that makes the walls tremble. The lawn outside looks like the aftermath of a parade. Champagne flutes sit abandoned in hedges, feather boas drape over marble statues, and cigarette butts are crushed into the gravel driveway.

Inside is worse. Or better. Depends on how you look at it.

You’ve heard the rumours about nights like this. Nights that never end, nights that blur together until you can’t remember if the sun’s come up once or twice since the last toast. But stepping through the doors still knocks the air out of you.

Gold and smoke.

Everywhere you look, someone is putting on a show. A starlet balancing on the piano in beaded heels, head thrown back as she warbles off-key. A producer on the floor, stripped to his undershirt, clutching his chest like he’s just delivered Hamlet’s final monologue. Couples pressed together in dark corners, kissing like it’s the last reel of the picture.

You keep your head high and your mouth shut. You’re new enough to the business that they don’t know your name yet, but not so new you don’t understand what nights like these are for. Appearances. Connections. Being seen.

And you are seen.

The dress doesn’t let anyone ignore you. A slip of pale silk, scandalously cut for anyone with eyes sharp enough to notice. The neckline plunges low, the back even worse. A high slit up your thigh flashes with every step; it isn’t the kind of gown you buy. It’s the kind you let yourself be talked into by a costumer friend with a wicked grin and an eye for trouble.

You wear it anyway. Because you’ve promised yourself you’re not just another pretty girl waiting to be discovered. You’re here to work. To fight tooth and nail for the parts that matter. If they’re going to remember you for the dress, fine, let them. They’ll remember your lines afterwards.

Someone offers you a glass as you pass, a coupe filled to the brim with bubbles. You take it with a polite smile, careful not to spill on the silk. The champagne is cold, too sweet, fizzing against your tongue.

You drift through the rooms, cataloguing everything. Who’s talking to who, who’s watching who, who’s too drunk to stand. You tell yourself it’s research. That one day you’ll play a scene just like this, and you’ll need to know how to make it real.

Then the crowd shifts, laughter swelling like a wave, and all eyes turn toward the grand staircase.

And there he is.

Jack Conrad makes an entrance the way other men breathe; effortless and inevitable. His tuxedo jacket hangs open, bowtie undone, hair swept back like he’s just walked off a set. He looks tipsy already, but he carries it well, with that loose-limbed grace that’s made audiences swoon for a decade. He smiles, and the room bends toward him, hungry for a piece.

You don’t. Not exactly. You sip your champagne and stay where you are. But you feel the heat of him anyway, even from across the room.

You’ve never been the type to fall apart over a movie star, even if his name does stretch across half the marquees in Los Angeles. You’ve seen him on screens, larger than life. He looks like someone who has been adored for a very long time and knows exactly how to wield it.

Someone bumps into you from behind, sloshing champagne dangerously close to your bare back. You sidestep, lips pressed tight, and the offender is already too drunk to notice.

You hover near the French doors that lead onto the balcony, enjoying the occasional sweep of cool air when they open. Your eyes keep dragging back to him, whether you mean to or not.

You watch the way he takes command of the room without ever raising his voice, how he touches elbows, shoulders, waists, as if everyone belongs to him for a fraction of a second. He kisses cheeks, lifts glasses, throws back his head when he laughs.

You should hate it. The performance of it all. The way people orbit him like he’s already written into their lives.

But instead you find yourself… fascinated.

Not just by the charm, but by the cracks in it. How quickly his eyes slide away when no one’s watching. How the laughter cuts off, sharp, when he thinks he’s out of earshot. How he drinks like he’s trying to catch up to something already running away from him.

And then his gaze finds yours.

It shouldn’t. Not with the sheer number of people pressed into this house. Not with the noise, the smoke, the glitter, the thousand other distractions. But somehow, across the room, Jack Conrad sees you.

The corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile, more like an acknowledgement, a man spotting another player on the board.

You look away first. Deliberately. A sip of champagne, a glance out to the balcony, the faint arch of your brows like you’ve already dismissed him. It’s not strategy, not exactly, but you know better than to play wide-eyed and eager. You’ve seen enough of this town to know who always loses.

Still, your pulse hums.

Minutes pass. You talk briefly to a cinematographer who can’t stop bragging about his new lenses. You listen to a dancer gossip about some director’s affair. You nod, smile, let your champagne coupe be replaced when it empties. The silk of your dress moves with every shift of your hips, the slit teasing the air against your thigh.

You can feel eyes sliding over you, cataloguing you, and for once it doesn’t make you flinch.

And then, like the simplest trick in the world, he’s there.

Jack Conrad moves with the ease of someone who’s never had to fight through a crowd in his life. The sea of bodies parts for him, unconsciously, like they’re giving way to a current. One moment he’s across the room, cigarette smoke trailing in his wake. The next, he’s at your elbow.

“Now that,” he says, voice low and warm, “is a dangerous dress.”

Up close, he’s even more overwhelming. Broad shoulders filling the undone tuxedo, the sharp sweep of his jaw softened by the faintest hint of stubble. His cologne is rich, threaded with the sharper tang of tobacco and champagne. His eyes flick deliberately over you, then return to your face with a grin that could be mistaken for polite.

You arch a brow, tilting your champagne coupe just enough to make the bubbles wink in the light. “Dangerous to whom?”

“To every man in this room.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And a fair number of women too, I’d wager. You’ll have the whole place in stitches before the band makes it to their second set.”

“I’ll do my best to survive the carnage.” You take a sip, eyes steady on his.

He laughs, quick and bright, and it’s clear he’s used to people melting when he aims it their way. It doesn’t surprise you that he expects the same from you.

“Tell me,” he leans just slightly closer, enough that the smoke from his cigarette curls around you, “did you dress to cause chaos, or is this simply what you keep tucked in the back of your closet for casual evenings?”

You let your mouth curve slow, deliberate. “Maybe I dressed for myself.”

The pause he gives you is subtle, but it’s there.

“Then I owe you a debt of gratitude. The evening was dreadfully dull until just now.”

You hum, unimpressed. “From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like you were suffering.”

He glances over his shoulder at the crowd still watching him, waiting for the next line. “Ah, but suffering in style is still suffering, darling. The great tragedy of my life.” His grin broadens. “Care to be my cure?”

“That depends. Is this the part where you charm me, or the part where you bore me with all the lines you’ve used before?”

Jack’s head tips back with another laugh, this one rougher, more surprised. “Sharp as a tack.” He exhales smoke, eyes narrowing playfully. “You’re new. I’d remember you otherwise.”

“And you make a habit of remembering every woman in silk?”

“Only the ones worth remembering.”

Your pulse jumps at the line, but you don’t let it show. You tip your glass against his in a mock toast. “That’s a very pretty answer.”

“The best kind,” he counters.

There’s a beat of silence. His gaze lingers on your mouth just long enough for you to notice before drifting back to your eyes. The noise of the party seems to dull around you, the brass from the band muffled, the laughter fading to background hum.

You decide not to fill the quiet. Let him work for it.

And he does. He leans closer, voice pitched lower, private now. “Tell me your name.”

You weigh him, the way his eyes gleam like he already expects you to give it, the way he frames the words like it’s the most important thing in the world. You consider making him wait. You consider lying.

But you don’t.

You tell him.

He repeats it back, savoring it, as though trying it on for size. Then, softer, “It suits you.”

The compliment should sound rehearsed, part of the act. But something in his tone catches, the faintest stumble, and it makes your skin prickle.

“You’re very good at this,” you murmur.

“At what?” His grin is wolfish.

“At pretending you’ve never done it before.”

He laughs again, a real sound this time. “God, you’re dangerous.”

You shrug, letting the silk slide against your bare shoulders. “So they tell me.”

Your eyes dart briefly to the glass dangling in his fingers. The way his shirt gapes open at the collar, exposing the bronze sweep of his chest, makes heat creep into your throat before you force your gaze back to his face.

Jack smirks like he caught it. He always catches it.

“Appearances are everything in this town,” he says. “You should know that better than most. Up-and-comer, aren’t you?”

Your brows lift. “Is that your way of saying you’ve never heard of me?”

“Darling,” he drawls, drawing out the word like a tease, “I’ve heard of everyone. I just prefer to be reminded firsthand.”

You roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth betray you with the faintest curl. “Do you ever turn it off?”

“What’s the fun in that?” His smile flickers, just for a second, something more tired than charming. But then he tips the ash from his cigarette into an abandoned glass, all bravado again. “Besides, why would I turn it off when it’s working so well on you?”

“It’s not.” The protest comes too fast, and his grin widens.

“Not yet,” he says softly.

You should walk away. You know that. You’ve heard the stories, how his name in the papers is always followed by another scandal. But instead you stand rooted to the spot.

Jack leans closer, his voice pitched so low you feel it hum in your bones. “Tell me. Have you danced yet tonight?”

“I don’t make a habit of throwing myself around like the chorus girls in there,” you murmur, tilting your head toward the writhing crowd in the main room.

He chuckles, deep and amused. “Neither do I.” His gaze flicks down the line of your body and back again, heat tucked behind the smirk. “Though I wouldn’t mind breaking the habit, just this once.”

“You’re assuming I’d say yes.”

“I’m assuming you like an audience,” he says. “And I’m offering you the best one in the city.”

Your breath catches before you can stop it. The sheer arrogance should make you bristle, but instead you feel yourself leaning toward him, drawn like everyone else. He extends a hand, palm up, a gesture as old as time and twice as tempting.

“Come on,” he says, grin flashing, shirt collar a little too undone, muscle peeking in the golden lamplight. “One dance. No script, no cameras. Just you and me.”

You stare at his hand, at the calluses across his palm that don’t belong to a man who lives only for glamour. Against your better judgment, against the voice in your head reminding you he’s dangerous, you set your glass aside.

And then you give him your hand.

His fingers close over yours, warm and certain. The noise of the party swells as he leads you toward the centre of the room, but it feels like it’s receding, like the two of you are stepping into a scene that belongs to no one else.

The band slips into something slower, the brass section low and sultry, the piano meandering underneath. Jack doesn’t hesitate; of course he doesn’t. He pulls you close with a practised ease, his hand sliding to your waist like it belongs there.

You tell yourself you’re not going to melt. You tell yourself you’re not one of those girls who sigh and swoon just because Jack Conrad turns his attention your way.

But then his palm settles against the small of your back, firm and warm, and you forget how to breathe for half a second.

“You lead like a man who’s done this a thousand times,” you say, lifting your chin, forcing the words out as casually as possible.

He grins down at you, eyes glinting. “Darling, I’ve done everything a thousand times.”

“That’s supposed to impress me?”

“It’s supposed to warn you,” he counters, spinning you in a lazy circle. The silk of your dress whispers around your legs, the slit flashing as you move. “But I suspect you’re the sort who ignores warnings.”

His confidence is infuriating. It’s also intoxicating. He’s taller than you expect, solid under the tuxedo that hangs just a little too loose, like he’d rather be rid of it.

“You think you know me already,” you murmur, your voice steadier than you feel.

“I see you.” He draws you closer, so close you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through silk and cotton. “And I like what I see.”

The words should be cheap, another line in his endless arsenal. But it's the way he says them. So low, so smooth, like they’re meant for your ears alone, it makes heat curl low in your belly.

“You don’t even know my favourite colour,” you argue, though your hand has found its way to his shoulder, fingers brushing against muscle you can’t quite ignore.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your palm. “Blue,” he guesses, eyes locking with yours. “Like the dress you’ll wear to our second dance.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weak. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath tickles your ear, “are smiling.”

Damn him. He’s right.

You try to hide it, biting your lip, focusing on the rhythm of the music instead. But every step just presses you deeper into him. His hand guides yours with unshakable confidence, his touch both commanding and careful, as if he knows exactly how far to push without overstepping.

The room is still loud, people still laughing and shouting around you, but it blurs at the edges.

“You do this with every woman, don’t you?” you ask, your voice softer now, though you try to make it cutting. “Pull them into your arms, whisper pretty lines, spin them until they forget which way is up.”

Jack smiles, slow and dangerous. “Maybe.” He dips you just enough to make your pulse jump, then pulls you upright again, steady as stone. “But tonight, I’m only doing it with you.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You want to laugh, to throw another barb, but the words tangle in your throat. Because the truth is, it feels too good to be held like this, to be seen like this, to be the focus of a man who lives like the world is his stage.

You don’t want him to let go.

And you realise, too late, that people are watching.

You catch them in your periphery. Heads tilted, whispers traded behind champagne coupes, curious glances slipping your way. A handful of women are more blatant, their painted mouths pressed tight.

You tilt your chin higher, fingers tightening on Jack’s shoulder because you like the way their jealousy looks. Like you’ve won something they thought was theirs by right.

Jack notices. Of course he does. His grin is wolfish as he spins you once more, deliberately dramatic, as if to show you off. It earns a ripple of laughter from the crowd, but his voice, when it dips to you, is quieter. “See what you’ve done? You’ve made me the most envied man in the room.”

You laugh, low, a little breathless despite yourself. “You’ve never had trouble with envy before.”

“No,” he agrees. His gaze pins yours as the last note fades. “But tonight feels… sweeter.”

The applause is scattered but enthusiastic, a smattering of hands clapping from those drunk enough to enjoy the show. And then, without even glancing for permission, he guides you through the crowd.

The air outside is a revelation. Cool against your flushed skin, sharp with the scent of jasmine from the garden below. The balcony is crowded enough that you’re not alone; a couple smokers are hunched at the far end, two men arguing over a script by the railing. I

It’s a relief all the same.

The chaos of the party hums behind the glass doors, muted now, a world away.

Jack doesn’t perform as much out here. He leans against the balustrade with a sigh, tossing the spent end of his cigarette over the edge. For the first time since you spotted him, his shoulders loosen. His smile seems less hungry for the audience he just left behind.

You take your place beside him, gripping the cool stone railing, silk brushing your thigh where the slit parts. You can feel eyes still darting your way from inside, but you ignore them.

Or rather, you savour them.

You glance sidelong at Jack. “You enjoy making a scene.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “And you enjoy stealing it.”

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head.

The stone balustrade is cool beneath your hands, but the air between you is anything but. Jack leans his hip against the railing, the open line of his shirt catching the breeze, hair mussed in a way that makes him look more man than myth. For the first time tonight, it doesn’t feel like he’s playing to a crowd.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet before it can turn dangerous. “Do you collect dances the way other men collect cufflinks?”

He chuckles, a low rumble that curls in your chest. “Only the memorable ones.”

“And what makes one memorable?” you press.

His eyes find yours, steady and deliberate. “You’ll find out.”

It’s shameless. Absolutely shameless. But the way he says it, like he already knows how the rest of your night will play out.

You shift against the railing, silk slipping higher along your thigh. You should pull it down, cover up, reclaim the distance.

“You assume too much,” you say, sharper than you mean it to be.

“And you protest too much.” His grin softens, less sharp now, almost fond.

“It’s all right, darling. No one will blame you for enjoying yourself.”

You should bite back, remind him you’re not some wide-eyed ingénue waiting to be swept off her feet. But the words catch when his hand brushes yours on the railing.

You glance away, out at the garden below, where lanterns sway in the night breeze. “You really think everyone falls for this act of yours?”

“Not everyone,” he admits, watching the smoke from his fresh cigarette curl into the dark. “But enough.”

“And what happens when they stop?”

That earns you a look, sharp and quick, a flicker of something raw before it’s smoothed away. He exhales smoke and laughs, but there’s no performance in it this time. “Then I’ll have to hope I’ve learned a few other tricks.”

The honesty surprises you more than any of his clever lines. For a moment, you see the man beneath the marquee lights. His edges are a little blurred, the shine a little dulled.

“Maybe you’re better when you stop performing,” you murmur.

Jack’s head tilts, his grin returning. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

When his hand brushes yours again, you don’t move away.

The balcony hums with its own quieter rhythm. A couple clinks glasses near the railing, someone laughs too loudly at a joke you don’t hear, but it all fades into background. Jack’s presence fills the space more completely than the music ever did.

You angle your body toward him despite yourself, your shoulder brushing his sleeve. The warmth of him makes the silk of your dress feel thinner, your skin more exposed than it already is.

“You’re quieter out here,” you say, eyes tracing the glow of lanterns in the garden below. He’s not smiling now, not really. His lips curve, yes, but his eyes are far away, reflecting the scatter of lights below.

“You make it look easy,” you murmur.

“That’s the trick.” He taps ash over the railing, hand steady, movements slow. “You learn to walk into a room and drink the air before anyone else can. You keep it in your lungs until they’re all chasing you for a breath.”

“And what happens when you run out?”

He smirks faintly at that, flicking you a sidelong look. “Then you hope no one notices before the scene ends.”

There’s something raw beneath the humour, a hairline crack in the golden-boy mask.

Then he turns back to you, “So tell me. Why are you here?”

The question is sharper than the ones before, less playful, and you feel it settle low in your stomach. You could lie. But something about the way he’s watching you makes the truth rise anyway.

“Because I want more than what they’re offering,” you say softly.

Jack’s eyes don’t leave yours, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it hang there, lets it settle between you, lets you feel the weight of your own words. And then, slowly, he leans in, close enough that you can smell the tobacco on his breath, the faint sharpness of his cologne.

“You’ll get it,” he says finally, voice low and certain.

Your pulse stumbles, heat coiling low in your belly.

You look away first, to the house behind you, the golden windows blazing with light. “So,” you say, forcing your voice back to casual, “what’s it like hosting a party like this?”

He chuckles, softer than before. “Like living in the middle of a circus. Only the clowns drink better liquor.”

You laugh, biting your lip, and his eyes flick down to catch the motion.

“And where does the ringmaster sleep?” you ask, teasing. It’s meant as a joke, but your voice betrays you, dipping lower, heavier.

Jack doesn’t miss it. His grin returns, slow and knowing. “Upstairs,” he says simply.

The word hangs there, deliberate. Not a command, not an invitation.

Yet.

Jack watches you, silent now, letting you sit in it. And though the noise from the party still drifts out in bursts of laughter and applause, the only thing you can hear is the quiet thrum of your own heartbeat.

The night air tastes different now. The longer you stand with him, the more the party behind you feels like a theatre curtain waiting to be drawn again.

“You’ve got the look,” he says quietly.

You arch a brow. “Which look is that? Starry-eyed ingénue? Naïve dreamer?”

He shakes his head, lips curving in something almost gentle. “The look of someone who knows exactly what they want, and is half a breath away from reaching for it.”

The words settle over your skin, warm and heavy.

“I don’t like being predictable,” you murmur.

“Good.” His gaze lingers a moment longer, then flicks toward the glowing house behind you. “Because predictable would mean we stay out here all night pretending.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. He doesn’t move, doesn’t press, just lets the weight of the choice fall squarely in your lap.

And you hate, absolutely hate, that he’s right.

That you want to see what comes next. That you’re already imagining the feel of his hand closing around yours, leading you through the crowd, upstairs.

You bite your lip, tilt your chin. “And if I don’t feel like pretending?”

Jack’s smile is slow, deliberate, a man savouring his victory without ever needing to gloat. “Then we stop.” His hand lifts. Not to touch you, not quite, but hovering near enough that you could take it if you wanted. “Come upstairs with me.”

The words aren’t shouted, aren’t performed. They’re just for you, quiet as a secret.

And you hate yourself even more for liking that.

You let the pause stretch long enough to feel like power, then slide your hand into his. His grip closes warm and firm, steadying in a way you don’t want to examine too closely.

“Try to keep the dramatics to a minimum,” you whisper.

“No promises,” he says, and his grin flashes sharp again as he tucks your hand against his arm.

It’s immediate, the shift in the air.

Heads turn. Conversations falter. The string quartet drowns under the swell of whispers snapping like static. Jack Conrad doesn’t do discreet. Every eye is on you, on him, on the way your silk clings and your hair gleams under the chandeliers.

A woman near the bar watches you pass with a look that could cut glass, her manicured nails curling around her champagne flute. Another leans into her companion, whispering too loudly, the glint of envy sharp in her eyes.

The men, some with wives on their arms, some without, track the curve of your dress, the slope of your back, with an openness that makes your skin prickle.

And you revel in it.

You walk taller, chin lifted, and though you know you’ll read about it tomorrow, Starlet Caught in Conrad’s Net!

You find yourself tightening your grip on him anyway.

Jack doesn’t rush. Of course he doesn’t. He takes his time, pausing here to greet a producer, there to accept a compliment with a dazzling smile. But his hand never leaves yours, his arm never shifts, and every pause feels less like a delay and more like a public proclamation.

This one is mine tonight.

At the foot of the staircase, he finally glances down at you, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Still with me?”

Your laugh is softer than you expect. “Unfortunately.”

He chuckles, guiding you onto the first step. “Careful, darling. You’ll hurt my feelings.”

“I doubt you have any left to hurt.”

“Touché.”

The chandeliers gleam above you, the carpet muffles your heels, and all you can think is how dangerous it feels to be following him upward when you already know how steep the fall could be.

The door clicks shut behind you, cutting off the roar of the party. Silence blooms, thick and startling. For the first time all night, there’s no soundtrack, no laughter.

Just you, him, and the soft hum of Los Angeles drifting in from the balcony beyond the curtains.

You take in the room and almost laugh. Room is too small a word. It’s an empire in silk and velvet, half living space, half shrine. Chandeliers glow overhead, their light glinting off mirrored walls and heavy gilt frames. There’s a bar in one corner, a marble fireplace in another, and French doors leading out to a terrace bigger than your entire apartment.

And the bed, God.

The bed isn’t a bed at all. Wide, high, draped in satin, pillows spilling like excess itself.

Of course Jack Conrad sleeps here.

“Subtle,” you murmur, wandering a few steps in, fingers grazing the velvet arm of a chaise.

“Not my design,” he says easily, but his grin betrays him. “I just happen to make good use of it.”

When you turn back, he’s closer than you realised. His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You should push him away. Demand more. But then he leans in and kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not practised. It’s the kind of kiss that steals the breath you didn’t know you were saving, all teeth and heat, his mouth claiming yours like he’s starving for it.

One hand cups the back of your neck, the other finds your waist, pulling you flush against the solid weight of him.

You melt, and you hate yourself for it, but your arms are already winding around his shoulders, silk tugging high up your thigh as you arch into him. His chest is hot, firm, the faint scratch of stubble rough against your lips as the kiss deepens, hungry and ungraceful.

But even as your pulse races, a thought wedges sharp between your ribs. You break the kiss, breathless, lips tingling.

“Tell me something,” you whisper.

He nips at your lower lip, reluctant to let go. “Anything.”

“Is this for me,” you ask, voice low, “or for the audience in your head?”

For the first time, he falters. The smile flickers. His grip on your waist tightens.

“There’s no audience here,” he says finally, rougher than before. “Just you.”

And then his mouth is on yours again, harder this time, nothing smooth about it. His teeth scrape, his tongue demands, his hands roam with less finesse and more urgency. You stumble back against the mirrored wall, satin straps slipping on your shoulders as he presses into you, the sharp edge of need replacing the champagne sparkle.

Your dress shifts under his hands, silk sliding higher, baring more skin with every tug. His undone shirt gapes open, warm skin and muscle brushing against you, the faint line of hair on his chest catching your fingertips. You don’t mean to claw, but you do, leaving faint half-moons as you cling.

The kiss is messy now, breathless, his mouth trailing down to your jaw, your throat. You're head tips back against the glass.

The mirror behind you chills your back, but Jack burns everywhere else. His mouth moves against your throat, open and hot, his hands greedy as they skim down your waist, bunching silk in his fists.

The dress gives under his touch, slippery as water. One strap falls, then the other, your bare shoulders catching the chandelier’s glow. He pulls back just enough to look, eyes hooded, chest rising and falling against yours.

For a second, he just stares until his mouth twists into that half-smile again, and his hands are tugging lower.

“God, you wear temptation well,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You should answer, but your breath hitches when his palm slides flat over your hip, thumb dragging the slit higher until cool air licks the inside of your thigh.

“Jack-”

He cuts you off with another kiss, rougher, hungrier, his tongue sweeping against yours until you’re gasping into his mouth. The sound makes him groan, and suddenly he’s shoving the dress down, impatient, silk puddling at your waist before slipping to the floor.

You step out of it without thinking, shivering in nothing but heels and delicate scraps of lace. His eyes roam over you shamelessly, head tilting back like he’s just been handed his favourite view in the world.

“Christ,” he breathes, voice low, roughened at the edges. “You’ll ruin me.”

Before you can reply, his hands are on you again. Skimming your ribs, spanning your back, pulling you into him.

Your fingers drag down his creased shirt, down the sharp cut of his waist, and he hisses through his teeth. His hand finds the back of your thigh, lifting, pressing you closer, until you can feel exactly how much he wants you.

The kiss turns messy again, teeth clashing, lips swollen. His hand cups your jaw, tilts your head, and when he pulls back, he’s already steering you away from the mirror, toward the monstrous bed waiting like an invitation.

Each step is a stumble, a push and pull, your laughter breathless between kisses as he nudges you backwards.

The room blurs.

Velvet, gold, crystal chandeliers. All you can see is him, all you can feel is his grip.

Your calves bump the satin edge, and in one fluid motion, he lifts you onto it. You sink into the mattress, plush and endless, the silk sheets cool against your overheated skin. Jack looms over you, shirt hanging open, hair mussed, lips swollen from your kiss.

And for once, there’s no audience. Just the two of you, teetering at the edge of something you can’t take back.

His weight dips the mattress as he follows you down, bracing himself with one hand while the other skims the length of your thigh. You’re still tugging at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the fabric until you shove it off completely, baring the breadth of his chest.

He lets you, even laughs against your mouth when you scrape your nails over his skin. But he doesn’t push further, not yet. Instead, his lips trail down the slope of your throat while his hand slides higher.

“Please-” your voice cracks when his thumb brushes the lace at your hip.

“Relax, darling,” he murmurs against your collarbone, hot breath spilling over your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And then his fingers slip beneath, stroking once, light and deliberate. The sound that escapes you is humiliatingly soft, and his grin curves against your chest like he’s just won something.

You’d assumed that this was all for him. That he’d take what he wanted and bask in the aftermath like another round of applause. But his focus is on you, entirely, his hand working with unhurried precision, learning the places that make you gasp, the ones that make your hips arch off the bed.

The mattress swallows your movement, satin sheets slick under your back as he settles between your knees, spreading you open with a confidence that should infuriate you.

Two fingers slide against you, teasing, testing, before one presses inside. You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, eyes flying open at the sudden stretch. He groans low, head tipping back for a moment, like the heat of you around his hand is its own undoing.

“God, you’re tight,” he mutters, voice rough, unfiltered. He looks down at you again, eyes dark, hungry, but steady. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

You want to be clever, to throw some sharp remark, but his thumb circles slow and insistent at your clit, and the words dissolve into a broken gasp.

Jack chuckles, low and pleased. “Thought so.”

The pace builds, two fingers now, curling just right, working you open with a focus that feels almost dangerous. Your body trembles under him, every nerve sparking, every breath caught between protest and surrender.

He reaches his other hand behind you, unclasping your bra with expert precision before tossing it somewhere behind him. His mouth is everywhere, neck, chest, the soft swell of your breast, while his fingers keep up their relentless rhythm, curling deep inside until your thighs tremble against his hips.

Every sound you try to bite back slips free anyway, filling the space between you, and he eats it up like it’s the only music worth listening to.

“Jack-”, you feel his grin against your skin.

“That’s it, darling,” he murmurs, lips brushing the peak of your breast before sucking it into his mouth. “Let go for me.”

The pressure builds, unbearable, pleasure coiling low until you’re twisting against the sheets, clutching at his shoulders.

His thumb circles harder, faster, and then it hits; white heat flashing through you, your back arching off the satin, a cry tearing from your throat before you can stop it.

He doesn’t stop right away. He works you through it, steady and sure, until you collapse back against the mattress, chest heaving, body boneless beneath him. Only then does he ease his fingers from you, trailing them lightly over your thigh, soothing after the storm.

You blink up at him, dazed, half certain you imagined it. But the look on his face, that smug and utterly satisfied curve of his mouth, tells you he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Beautiful,” he says simply, voice low and rough. He leans down, kisses you slow once, and then shifts back.

For a moment, you just breathe, trying to pull yourself together. And then you realise he’s standing at the edge of the bed, unbuckling his belt.

The sound of the metal makes your pulse jump all over again. You prop yourself on your elbows just in time to watch his trousers slide down lean hips, his briefs doing little to hide just how well he's built.

Heat floods your cheeks before you can stop it, his grin turning wicked when he notices where your gaze sticks.

“Flattering, isn’t it?” he drawls, voice teasing but thick with hunger.

You roll your eyes, but your throat is dry, words failing as he kicks the trousers aside and fishes in the nightstand drawer. The rip of foil is unmistakable, and something about the casual, practised way he tears it open only makes your heart race faster.

He glances back at you, condom in hand, eyes gleaming in the low light. “Don’t look so shocked, sweetheart. You didn’t think I’d drag you all the way up here without being prepared, did you?”

Your laugh comes shaky, your body still thrumming from what he’s already given you. “I just-” You stop, shake your head, smirk despite yourself. “Guess I thought this was all about you.”

His expression softens, just for a beat, before that wicked grin returns. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s about to be.”

His fingers are deft as he rolls the condom down, and you can’t help staring at the way his knuckles flex, at the way his cock fills out every inch, heavy and thick.

Heat pools low in your belly, spreading until you’re shifting against the sheets just from the sight of him.

Jack notices, of course he does. He strokes himself once, slow and deliberate, his grin widening at the way your breath stutters. “Like what you see?”

He climbs back onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, body crowding over yours until you’re caged beneath him. He braces himself with one arm, the other guiding himself between your thighs.

The blunt head of him presses against you, not pushing in yet, just teasing, dragging slickly along your folds. Your hips twitch, chasing, and his low chuckle ghosts hot against your ear.

“Eager already,” he murmurs, voice dark, “and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Jack,” you gasp, equal parts plea and warning.

He leans down, lips brushing yours without kissing. “Say it again.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, satin sheets tangling beneath you as you whisper, “Jack.”

This time, he gives you what you want.

He pushes in slow and steady, stretching you inch by inch. The breath catches in your throat, the sensation overwhelming. Thick, filling, almost too much. Your legs tighten around his waist instinctively, pulling him deeper, and his groan vibrates low against your mouth.

“Christ,” he grits out, eyes squeezing shut for a beat before he forces them open again, holding your gaze. “You feel… unbelievable.”

Your head falls back, mouth opening on a broken sound as he sinks the rest of the way, until he’s fully seated, his hips flush to yours. The fullness is dizzying, almost unbearable, and yet you never want him to move, terrified the stretch will undo you completely.

For a moment, he just stays there, pressed deep, chest heaving, his forehead nearly resting against yours.

And then his hips roll, slow and deliberate, and the world tilts.

The drag of him inside you steals the air from your lungs with every slow roll. He keeps his eyes on you, and it’s infuriating, the way he seems to drink in your reactions.

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails scoring into warm skin, desperate for something faster, harder. But Jack only smirks, his mouth hovering just above yours.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “Could stay right here all night.”

The idea is dizzying, unbearable. “You’re-” Your protest cuts off when he angles his hips just so, hitting deep enough to make your vision blur.

He groans at the sound you make, the tight clench of you around him. “God, that’s it. That’s perfect.”

You want to stay sharp, to keep your ground, but the rhythm pulls it from you piece by piece. Each thrust erodes another layer of control until all you can do is cling tighter, your body arching to meet him.

Jack swallows a curse, his jaw flexing, and you realise with a sudden, startling clarity that the restraint is costing him.

“Jack,” you gasp, half a plea, half a demand.

His composure cracks. His mouth claims yours in a kiss that’s nothing like the slow, teasing brushes before. It’s fierce, consuming, all tongue and teeth and desperation. His hips snap harder, rougher, driving into you with a force that makes the headboard shudder.

You moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed and answered by a growl deep in his chest.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he rasps, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he pounds into you harder, sweat slicking his skin. “Knew you’d take it. Knew you’d love it.”

Your nails rake down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist as the tempo builds, every thrust sharper, hungrier. The satin sheets twist beneath you, clinging damp to your skin as your body bows with the impact of him.

There’s nothing elegant left in it. No polished edges, no practised charm. It’s raw, rough, the kind of giving in that feels like a free fall.

He braces on one forearm, the other hand finding your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see every flicker of expression, every flicker of unravelling. “Look at you,” he groans, almost reverent despite the roughness.

“God, you’re driving me mad.”

Your body answers before your mouth can, tightening around him in a way that makes him falter, curse, and slam in even deeper.

The pace is brutal now, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, each drag of him inside you pulling you closer to that sharp, unbearable edge.

And still he doesn’t look away.

As if the sight of you falling apart beneath him is better than any curtain call he’s ever taken.

The rhythm grows frantic, his body driving into yours with an urgency that strips away the last veneer of control. Every thrust ricochets through you until you can hardly breathe.

You clutch at him, nails biting into his skin, your voice breaking on a gasp. “Jack- please-”

The plea undoes him. His forehead presses hard to yours, sweat dampening his curls, his breath ragged and hot against your lips. “Come for me,” he groans, the words a command and a plea all at once.

His hand slides down, finding your clit, thumb circling with ruthless precision even as his hips keep their punishing pace. The sensation collides, overwhelming, and you break with it, a cry ripping free as your body shatters around him.

The climax tears through you in waves, white-hot and blinding, your muscles clenching tight around him. You’re dimly aware of him swearing, guttural, as the squeeze of you drags him to his own edge.

He thrusts through it, chasing, each drive harder, more desperate, until he finally stills, buried deep, his body locking against yours as he spills into the condom with a hoarse, unrestrained groan.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the harsh drag of breath, the faint creak of the bed beneath you, the echo of what you’ve just done still vibrating in your bones.

Jack collapses to his elbows, chest pressed to yours, heavy but not crushing, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat. He stays there, breath warm against your skin, his body still trembling faintly with aftershocks.

You stare at the ceiling, heart racing, every inch of you still thrumming, trying to reconcile the man above you with the figure who’d smiled for the crowd downstairs.

The sheets are damp, clinging, and your body hums in the kind of heavy, aching satisfaction that makes moving feel impossible. Jack finally shifts, easing out of you, and slips away to discard the condom.

You half-expect him to keep going with the showmanship. To pour himself another drink, to grin like the whole thing was another notch in a belt. But when he comes back, he’s carrying a crisp shirt from the dresser, the buttons undone, fabric soft from wear.

“Here,” he says simply, draping it over your shoulders before you can even think to reach for your dress. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

You blink up at him, thrown. “Thanks.”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no smugness in it now, no audience to play to. Just a tired, lopsided sort of warmth. He brushes a hand along your jaw, thumb grazing your cheekbone. “You alright?”

The tenderness of it unsettles you more than his confidence ever did. “Yeah. I’m… yeah.”

“Good.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple, and then flops back onto the bed beside you, tugging you down with him. When you hesitate and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, half-thinking he’s about to tell you to dress and sneak back into the party, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you firmly against his chest.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he mutters into your hair, as if reading your mind. “Get your ass back in bed.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling surprised and a little breathless. “Didn’t take you for the clingy type.”

“Don’t spread it around,” he grumbles, but his grip tightens, one hand splayed warm and solid across your hip.

The room is quieter than you’d expect for a house full of chaos just one floor below. The muffled thrum of music and laughter still filters up, but here, cocooned in tangled sheets and Jack’s arms, it feels distant. Almost unreal.

You tilt your head to glance at him, taking in the softened edges: the hair mussed from your hands, the sweat still cooling on his temples, the steady rise and fall of his chest. “You know tomorrow’s papers will be insufferable, right?”

“Mm.” He doesn’t even open his eyes, just smirks against your forehead. “Let ‘em write. Gives me something to read with my coffee.”

You huff a laugh, but your chest feels warm, molten. He really doesn’t care, or maybe he cares in a way that makes the scandal seem small, a distraction at best.

You settle against him, letting the heat of his body bleed into yours, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against your side.

And for tonight, that’s enough.