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SELF INTRO

@rikiiduck is me and you can call me duckie!!

06 capricorn

Stay, engene, coer, lune, onedoor, shotties

You can obv see that I LOVE death note🍎

English not my first language

GUIDLINES

I write smut, angst, fluff so basically all the stuff

Most of my work around 1k- 10k

愛してる - EPILOGUE

Cold husband Riki x reader

Synopsis: Riki taking care of you during your pregnancy

Warnings: flufffffff

now playing🎧- sienna- the marias

📍a/n: ahhhh thank you so muchhh❤️❤️ here you go hope you enjoyyy!!!!

The Morning Routine: The Bitter Medicine

It started before you even opened your eyes. You woke to the soft, rhythmic sound of wood scraping against stone.

Opening your eyes, you saw Riki sitting on the floor by the low table. He was already dressed in his dark undergarments, his broad back hunched over as he hand-ground dry ginger and mountain herbs into a fine paste using a pestle. He had been doing this every morning to combat your sickness before you even had to sit up.

"Riki..." you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

He immediately stopped, setting the pestle down, and was at your side in an instant. He placed a large, warm hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

"You are not flushed," he murmured, his thumb lightly tracing your cheekbone. "How is your throat? Any chill?"

"I'm fine," you smiled sleepily, reaching up to touch his hand. "Just tired."

"Stay down," he ordered softly.

He reached for the small clay pot resting on the edge of the brazier. He poured the warm, bitter herbal broth into a wooden bowl, blowing on it gently to cool it down to the exact temperature that wouldn't upset your sensitive stomach.

He slid his arm under your neck, slowly lifting you up just enough so you could drink. He held the bowl to your lips, his dark eyes watching your throat swallow each sip.

"I know it tastes like dirt," he whispered, his thumb wiping a stray drop from the corner of your mouth. "But the physician said it strengthens the womb. Drink all of it for me."

You grimaced but finished it, leaning your head back against his chest with a soft groan. He immediately set the bowl down and began his second daily ritual: massage.

Because you were spending so much time resting, your legs and lower back constantly ached. Riki slid his hands under the heavy quilts, finding your calves. His hands were massive, and with slow, incredibly firm pressure, he began kneading the tight muscles, working out the aches with a steady, soothing rhythm.

"Is the pressure alright?" he asked, his voice low and rumbling against your back.

"Mmm, yes... don't stop," you sighed, completely melting into his touch.

"I won't," he murmured, his hands moving up to the small of your back, rubbing in slow, warm circles that made the lingering tension vanish.

The Midday Walk: Restoring Your Strength

The physician had insisted that while you needed rest, keeping your body completely idle would make the labor harder when the time came. You needed to walk. But to Riki, the snowy courtyard was a battlefield of hazards.

When it came time for your midday walk, the process of just getting you out of the room was an event in itself.

Riki personally supervised the wrapping of your feet, making sure the thick cotton tabi socks were secure. He then wrapped you in three separate layers of heavy, padded winter kimonos. By the time he was done, you felt like a giant, soft silk doll.

"Riki, I can barely bend my elbows," you laughed, trying to lift your arms.

"The air is bitter today," he replied seriously, tying a thick wool cowl around your neck, tucking in every stray strand of your hair so the wind couldn't touch your skin. "You will not catch a chill. Not on my watch."

When you finally stepped onto the wooden veranda, Riki didn't just walk beside you—he practically carried half your weight. His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hip pressed flush against yours to keep you steady.

Every single step was slow and deliberate. If there was even a patch of light frost on the wooden planks, he would stop, step in front of you, and scuff it away with the sole of his sandal before letting you tread there.

"Look at the sky, Riki," you said, pointing up at the pale blue winter sky. "It's beautiful."

He didn't look at the sky. He was looking at your face, watching the faint pink color return to your cheeks from the fresh air, his hand resting flat against the side of your stomach where the baby was safely tucked away under all those layers.

"Yes," he whispered, his eyes softening as he pulled you a little tighter against his side. "It is."

The Evening Check: Fighting the Ghosts

The hardest part of the process was always the evening, when the shadows grew long and the cold of the night crept in. This was when Riki's anxiety peaked.

After you had eaten a light dinner—which Riki had practically supervised bite-by-bite to ensure you were getting enough strength—you lay down under the heavy, heated futons.

Riki sat beside you in the dim light of the single candle. He held your wrist, his fingers pressed firmly against your pulse. He did this every night now, counting the beats, making sure your heart wasn't racing the way it had during the dark days of the fever before.

He was so quiet, his face a mask of intense concentration, that you could see the faint bead of sweat on his temple despite the cool air.

"Riki," you whispered, reaching out with your free hand to touch his knee. "My pulse is steady. I promise."

He didn't let go of your wrist immediately. He took a slow, deep breath, then gently pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over your pulsing vein.

"I know," he murmured, his voice thick with raw emotion. "I just... I need to feel it. I need to know you are still here, beating, living."

He climbed under the quilts with you, pulling you entirely into his lap. He laid his head down right against your chest, his ear pressed directly over your heart, while his large hand slid down to cradle your warm, rounded stomach.

"Every day we get through is a victory," Riki whispered against your skin, his grip tightening just enough to let you know he was never letting go. "We are one day closer. Just keep breathing for me, sweetheart. I will handle the rest."

Like they are getting shipped together until they met in real life.

Please with mature content and Riki is rough.

thank you if you do it💗💗💗

The thin wall between us

Idol riki x idol asa

Synopsis: the fans had been shipping them for a long time now, however the wall between them only breaks when they met in an after party

Warnings: smut, p in v, 18+, tension, fluff?

now playing🎧- reminder-the weeknd

📍a/n: hiiiii I’m so sorry for the wait😭😭😭GUYS THIS IS FICTION NOT SHIPPING IRL!!!! (So if you don’t like it then don’t read!!)

The internet had been trying to force them into the same room for six months.

It started with a split-screen edit on TikTok—a synchronized transition between Asa’s lethal, razor-sharp rap verse in a music video and Riki’s fluid, dangerously precise center break during a year-end awards show. They were the same age, both Japanese idols thriving under the brutal glare of the K-pop industry, both carrying a quiet, fiercely intimidating aura on stage that melted into something completely different behind the scenes. The edits turned into viral threads, the viral threads turned into major ship accounts, and suddenly, the digital world was entirely convinced that Nishimura Riki and Enami Asa were sharing secret glances across crowded award show floors.

In reality, they hadn't said a single word to each other. Not until tonight.

The venue for the after-party was an exclusive, underground lounge in Cheongdam-dong, rented out entirely for the final night of a major joint festival. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, high-end alcohol, and the low, heavy thrum of bass vibrating through the velvet-draped walls. Idols from different companies mingled in the dim, amber lighting, masks off, enjoying a rare few hours of absolute privacy away from the cameras.

Asa sat in a corner booth, her fingers curled around a glass of iced water. She wore a tailored, off-the-shoulder black top that exposed the sharp lines of her collarbones, her dark hair falling in sleek sheets past her shoulders. On stage, she was an untouchable force; right now, she was just trying to breathe through the exhaustion of a three-day concert run.

Then, the air in her immediate vicinity shifted.

She felt the physical weight of someone’s presence before she saw him. Looking up through her lashes, her breath caught. Riki was standing at the edge of the VIP section, talking to a senior artist, but his dark, fox-like eyes were locked entirely onto her. He had grown taller over the past year, his broad shoulders easily filling out a loose, silk button-down shirt that was left daringly open at the collar. He looked devastatingly handsome, a quiet, lethal confidence radiating from him.

When the senior artist walked away, Riki didn't hesitate. He set his drink down on a passing waiter’s tray and walked straight toward her booth, his steps slow, deliberate, and entirely predatory.

Asa’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The internet’s favorite fantasy was suddenly walking right into her reality.

"Is this seat taken?" Riki asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded far deeper in person than it did through phone speakers. He spoke in Japanese, the familiar syllables instantly cutting through the loud Korean pop music playing in the background.

Asa swallowed hard, shifting slightly to the side. "No. Go ahead."

Riki slid into the booth, his large frame immediately crowding her space. He didn't sit at a polite distance. He leaned back against the leather cushion, his long legs stretching out, his knee casually brushing against hers through the fabric of her skirt. The point of contact felt like a spark of pure electricity.

"I've seen the videos," Riki murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips before rising back to her eyes. A slow, wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The ones our fans make. The edits."

Asa’s cheeks flushed a faint pink, though she kept her expression cool. "They have a lot of imagination."

"Do they?" Riki leaned in closer, his hot breath fanning over her cheek. His scent—something dark, woody, and expensive—completely filled her lungs. "Because looking at you right now, in person... I think their imagination didn't even come close to reality."

The raw, unfiltered flirtation made Asa's pulse spike. For months, she had wondered what he was like behind the stoic, untouchable idol persona. Now she had her answer: he was shameless, confident, and entirely dangerous.

"You're very bold, Nishimura," she whispered, her eyes defying his gaze.

"Only when I know exactly what I want," Riki replied softly. His hand moved down, his long, calloused fingers casually brushing against the bare skin of her shoulder, sending a violent shiver straight down her spine. "And right now, I want to get out of here. With you."

The penthouse suite Riki had secured was located just a few blocks away, a private sanctuary overlooking the glittering, rain-slicked skyline of Seoul. The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind them, the polite restraint they had maintained in the elevator vanished entirely.

Riki didn't waste a single second.

Before Asa could even turn on the lights, his hand shot out in the darkness, wrapping around her waist with a sudden, bruising intensity that made her gasp. With a single, effortless pull, he hauled her across the hardwood floor, pinning her back firmly against the cold surface of the front door.

"Riki—"

"I spent the last two hours watching you in that lounge," Riki interrupted, his voice dropping into a harsh, demanding register that vibrated straight through her chest. He hovered over her, his towering height completely engulfing her smaller frame. In the dim moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, his eyes looked completely dark, dilated with a fierce hunger. "I watched every single guy in that room try to get your attention. I've been sitting on this fire all night, Asa. I'm done waiting."

Before she could process the absolute dominance in his tone, his mouth crashed down onto hers.

This wasn't a gentle, hesitant first kiss. It was an assault of pure, unchecked possession. Riki used his tongue to part her lips with a desperate, heavy hunger, consuming every soft whimper that tried to escape her throat. He tilted her head back, his fingers tangling roughly in her dark hair to hold her in place as he tasted her deeply. Asa’s mind went entirely blank, her fingers instinctively clawing at the silk of his shirt just to stay grounded as the world tilted on its axis.

He groaned low in his throat, a deep, primal sound that sent a jolt of heat straight to her core. His free hand moved down to the hem of her tailored skirt, his warm palm sliding up the bare skin of her thigh, his fingers digging in tightly, anchoring her to the door.

"Ah, look at you," Riki murmured against her lips, breaking the kiss for just a fraction of a second. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as his mouth dragged a burning path down her jawline to the sensitive skin of her neck. He nipped at the flesh there, hard enough to make her cry out, before immediately soothing it with a wet, heavy stroke of his tongue. "So reactive. Did you want this as bad as I did?"

"Yes," Asa panted, entirely undone, her head tossing back against the door as his mouth moved down to her collarbone, marking her skin with dark, possessive kisses. "Riki, please..."

"Please what?" he taunted softly, his hand sliding to the zipper of her top, pulling it down with a swift, impatient motion. The fabric pooled around her waist, leaving her shivering in her lace bra. Riki pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes scanning every inch of her flushed skin with a scandalous, intoxicating lust. He loved having her completely at his mercy. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."

"I want you," she confessed, her face burning as she looked up at his devastatingly handsome, wicked face.

A dark, intensely satisfied smile spread across his face. "Good."

He caught both of your wrists in his left hand. With a single, effortless motion, he pinned them firmly above your head against the door, locking your fingers in place. He grabbed her waist with his other hand, lifting her off her feet effortlessly. Asa instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips, gasping as the friction of their bodies heat up instantly.

Riki carried her across the suite without breaking his stride, his heavy steps silent on the carpet until he threw her down onto the massive, plush mattress. The impact made her bounce slightly, her hair splaying out in a messy halo across the white sheets. Before she could even scramble back, Riki crawled over her, his heavy body hovering directly between her thighs, trapping her completely beneath him.

He shed his silk shirt in one fluid motion, casting it carelessly to the floor. In the dim amber glow of the city lights, his bare chest looked like it had been sculpted from iron—broad shoulders, lean muscles, and a sharp collarbone marking a perfect map of desire.

"You are so beautiful it makes me sick," Riki whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with lust.

Without another word, his hands moved down to the waistband of her skirt, ripping it down her legs along with her underwear, tossing them aside without a single shred of hesitation. He looked down at her, his breathing ragged, his sharp eyes burning into hers.

He didn't ease into her gently. Riki grabbed her thighs, parting them roughly and draping them over his broad shoulders, opening her up completely before driving himself deep inside her in one heavy, unyielding thrust.

A loud, breathless cry tore from Asa's throat, the sheer fullness and heat of him stretching her to her absolute limit. The world shattered into a thousand brilliant shards of light as Riki groaned deeply, his face burying into the crook of her neck as he immediately began to move.

He was ruthless. The quiet, disciplined center of the stage was replaced by an absolute tyrant in the bedroom, his movements heavy, fast, and completely demanding. Every single thrust was deep, hitting her sweet spot with a punishing accuracy that had her sobbing against his shoulder, her fingernails digging deep welts into the skin of his back.

"Riki—Riki, wait, it's too much—" she gasped, her lower body trembling under the onslaught.

"It's not enough," he growled back, his pace only quickening, his hands gripping her hips so tightly his fingers left dark, temporary marks on her pale skin. He lifted her upper body up, forcing her to look at him as he drove into her again and again, the wet, rhythmic sounds of their bodies colliding filling the quiet room. "Look at me. Watch what I'm doing to you. You're mine. Every single part of you."

Asa could barely breathe, let alone speak. Her mind was entirely consumed by the white-hot pleasure radiating from where they were joined, her core gripping him tightly with every deep, relentless push. Riki’s eyes were completely wild, the veins in his neck and arms straining as he pushed her higher and higher toward the edge, his pleasure completely entwined with her surrender.

He leaned down, his mouth catching hers in a messy, frantic kiss, swallowing her loud, uninhibited cries as her climax finally tore through her. Her internal muscles clamped down on him in tight, rhythmic waves, causing Riki to let out a loud, undone growl. He threw his head back, his jaw straining as he delivered three more deep, devastating thrusts, completely filling her with his warmth as his own release overtook him.

The heavy, frenzied tension that had consumed the penthouse finally began to dissolve, leaving behind only the distant hum of the city traffic below and the synchronized, ragged rise and fall of their chests.

Riki stayed buried deep inside her for a long, quiet moment, his heavy forehead resting against her shoulder as his breathing slowly decelerated. When he finally shifted to pull away, a soft, involuntary whine escaped Asa's lips at the sudden, cold loss of his warmth.

"Shh, I've got you," Riki murmured, his voice a low, incredibly gentle rumble that sounded entirely different from the commanding tone he’d used just minutes before.

He carefully rolled onto his side, but he didn't let her go. Instead, he pulled her trembling, completely spent body right against his bare chest. His long arms wrapped securely around her waist, anchoring her to his solid frame as she instinctively curled into him, hiding her flushed face in the crook of his neck. She was completely breathless, her muscles twitching faintly from the sheer intensity of the climax he had forced out of her.

Riki reached down, grabbing the edge of the plush duvet and pulling it up over both of their shoulders to shield their bare skin from the sudden chill of the room.

"Look at me, Asa," he whispered softly.

When she tilted her head up, her eyes slightly glassy and her lips swollen, Riki’s heart swelled with an overwhelming wave of devotion. He reached up with a remarkably gentle hand, his long fingers carefully brushing away the damp strands of hair that were stuck to her forehead. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, wiping away the tiny, stray tears of sensory overload that had gathered at the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally to your lips—a sweet, comforting contrast to the bruising kisses from earlier. "I told myself I would be gentle, and then I completely lost my mind the moment I touched you."

"It's okay," she breathed, her voice tiny and hoarse. She rested her hand over his heart, feeling its steady, calming rhythm. "I wanted you too."

A soft, genuinely tender smile broke across his face, his sharp eyes crinkling with affection. He leaned down to press his lips against her neck, right over the dark mark he had left there, humming softly against her skin.

He spent the next hour just holding her in the quiet dark, his large hands slowly massaging the tight, aching muscles of her lower back and thighs, easing the tension from her body with practiced care. He whispered sweet, quiet assurances into her hair, praising her for how beautiful she was, how perfectly she fit in his arms, and how deeply he loved her.

The next morning, the bright Seoul sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, illuminating the tangled mess of sheets and discarded clothes on the floor.

Asa woke up slowly, the dull ache in her lower body a stark, vivid reminder of everything that had transpired the night before. She shifted slightly, finding herself still pinned securely against Riki’s side, his large hand resting possessively over her waist even in his sleep. He looked incredibly peaceful, the fierce, dominant predator from the night before replaced by the soft, boyish idol she had seen in interviews.

She reached out, her fingers hovering over the sharp line of his jawline, before she noticed her phone buzzing silently on the nightstand.

Carefully slipping out from under his arm so as not to wake him, she reached for the device and unlocked the screen. The screen instantly lit up with hundreds of notifications. She blinked against the brightness, opening her social media app only to see her name and Riki's trending at the number one spot globally.

A fan had taken a high-quality photo of them at the after-party—specifically, the exact moment Riki had leaned into her booth, his knee brushing hers, his dark eyes locked onto her face with an intensity that could be felt through the screen.

The caption read: “OH MY GOD, THE SHIP IS REAL. LOOK AT THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER. THEY ARE SOULMATES.”

Asa let out a soft, breathless chuckle, her cheeks warming up all over again. If only the fans knew that the internet’s favorite fantasy hadn't just come true—it had ended with the untouchable center completely ruining her against a penthouse door.

"What's so funny?" a low, gravelly voice rasped from the bed.

She turned to see Riki staring at her, his eyes half-closed, a lazy, sleepy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he reached out, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her right back down onto the mattress beneath him.

"Our fans," Asa whispered, her fingers tangling in his messy morning hair as he buried his face in her neck, his warm lips already tracing a path down her skin. "They think we're just matching glances."

Riki groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding down to grip her thigh with that same familiar, rough intensity from the night before, pulling her flush against his heat. "Let them talk. I'd rather spend the day showing you exactly what else we match."

Always

Bf Riki x dancer reader

Sypnosis: Riki comforts you after a harsh dance session

Warnings: fluffff, tiny bit angst

now playing🎧- always- Daniel Caesar

📍a/n: IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE, guys ill try to finish all the request asap 😔😔😔 enjoyyyy!!!!

The walk from the subway station to the apartment complex usually took you exactly seven minutes, but tonight, it felt like an endless trek across a desert. Every step send a dull, throbbing ache straight up your shins, radiating into your knees and lower back like a localized earthquake.

You were twenty-four, a professional contemporary dancer in a city that demanded perfection, and today had been the absolute breaking point. A grueling, ten-hour technical rehearsal for the upcoming showcase had pushed your physical limits past the red line. The choreographer had been relentless, marking the seven-minute piece over and over again until your muscles burned with lactic acid and your toes felt raw inside your slippers.

By the time you finally pressed your thumb against the keypad of the apartment door, your entire body was trembling from sheer exhaustion.

The lock clicked open, and the instant you stepped into the entryway, the warm, comforting scent of cedar and clean laundry washed over you. The living room was bathed in a soft, low amber glow. Riki was sitting on the couch, a sketchpad resting against his knees, his sharp eyes focused intently on a blueprint design he was rendering for his firm.

He looked up the moment the door clicked shut. His expression, initially relaxed and welcoming, shifted instantly into a laser-focused frown the second his eyes landed on your posture.

You hadn't even taken off your coat yet. You were just leaning against the shoe console, your head hanging low, your shoulders shaking minutely.

"Sweetheart?" Riki’s low, smooth voice cut through the quiet apartment. He set his sketchpad on the coffee table, immediately standing up. "You’re late. I was starting to get—"

He stopped mid-sentence. You had finally looked up, and the flickering light revealed the silent, heavy tears streaming down your pale cheeks. The sheer, overwhelming physical pain from your throbbing muscles had combined with the mental exhaustion of trying to look flawless all day, and the dam had completely burst.

A small, broken sob escaped your lips.

Riki closed the distance between you in two long strides. He didn't ask questions. He didn't demand to know what happened or who had upset you. He just stepped directly into your space, his large, warm hands coming up to gently cradle your face, his thumbs instantly wiping away the hot tears.

"Hey, hey... I've got you," he murmured, his tone dropping into that fiercely protective register that always made your heart ache. "What hurts? Tell me where it hurts, baby."

"Everything," you wept hoarsely, your voice cracking as you leaned your forehead against his chest, completely unravelling. "My legs... my back... I can't even stand up straight, Riki. It hurts so bad."

Riki let out a soft, aching breath against your hair. Without a word, he carefully unbuttoned your heavy winter coat, sliding it off your stiff shoulders and letting it drop onto the entryway bench. Then, with the effortless grace he always possessed, he bent his knees and slid one massive arm behind your back and the other beneath your thighs, lifting you into his arms.

You let out a tiny, startled gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck. Even though you were independent enough, in riki’s arms, you felt incredibly small, perfectly shielded from the rest of the world.

He carried you down the short hallway and into the bathroom, setting you down with painstaking gentleness on the closed lid of the toilet. "Stay right here. Don't move an inch," he commanded softly, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to the top of your head before turning around to turn on the bathtub faucets.

You watched through blurry eyes as he knelt on the cold tile floor, rolling up the sleeves of his black sweater. He tested the water temperature with his wrist, adjusting the handles until a thick, soothing steam began to rise from the porcelain tub. He reached into the cabinet, pulling out the heavy bag of lavender Epsom salts he had bought specifically for you months ago, pouring a generous amount into the rushing water.

"Come here," riki murmured, turning back to you. He helped you strip out of your damp, sweat-stained rehearsal clothes, treating your aching joints as if they were made of fragile glass.

When you finally slid into the scalding, mineral-rich water, a long, trembling sigh escaped your lips. The heat instantly began to loosen the tight, angry knots in your calves and lower back, the pain dulling from a sharp knife to a manageable throb.

Riki didn't leave. He pulled over his low wooden desk stool, sitting right beside the edge of the tub. He reached for a small bottle of massage oil, pouring a few drops onto his palms and rubbing them together until his skin was entirely warm.

"Give me your foot," he ordered gently.

You lifted your right leg out of the water, placing your wet, calloused foot into his lap. Riki’s large hands closed around it. He used his broad thumbs to apply a firm, perfectly calculated pressure to your aching arch, working out the intense tension from hours of dancing en pointe.

A soft whimper of relief left your throat, your head dropping back against the rim of the tub as you closed your eyes.

"The choreographer made us run the allegro section twelve times in a row," you whispered, the residual tears finally drying on your face as the comfort took over. "I felt like my shins were going to snap. I was so scared I’d lose my balance and ruin the formation."

Riki paused his movements for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes looking up at you with an intense, fierce adoration. "You could never ruin it. You’re the most incredible dancer I’ve ever seen, sweetheart. But you push yourself too hard. You don't have to carry the physical weight of that studio home with you."

He shifted his grip, his long fingers moving up to massage your tight calf muscles, his thumbs tracing the long lines of your leg with a rhythmic, soothing motion that made your whole body feel like it was floating.

"When we're in this apartment, you aren't a performer," riki murmured, his voice a deep, grounding anchor in the steam-filled room. "You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to be strong. You can just break down, and I'll always be here to piece you back together."

By the time the water began to cool, you felt entirely human again. Riki stood up, wrapping a massive, plush heated towel around your body the moment you stepped out of the tub. He practically carried you into the bedroom, guiding you into a pair of his own oversized, incredibly soft sweatpants and a matching hoodie that smelled entirely of his cologne.

He pulled the heavy duvet back, tucking you into the mattress before sliding in right beside you.

The moment riki’s broad frame settled into the bed, you eagerly crawled across the sheets, burying your face directly into the crook of his neck. His large arms instantly locked around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on top of your damp hair.

His long fingers lazily stroked up and down your back, providing a lingering, warm pressure that kept the aches at bay.

"Better?" Riki whispered into the dark room, his breath ticking against your forehead.

"Mm," you hummed, your eyelids growing incredibly heavy as the utter exhaustion finally transformed into a deep, peaceful drowsiness. You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone, your heart overflowing with a quiet, profound gratitude. "Thank you, Riki. For everything."

Riki’s grip tightened just a fraction, holding you securely against his chest as the quiet night settled over the city. "Always, baby. Sleep now. I've got you."

Cold husband Riki x reader

Sypnosis: as you thought life would get better, something tragic happened to your son, leaving both you and Riki in shock and anger

Warnings: ANGST, fluff, ANGST ANGST ANGST

Now playing🎧- Jane doe- kenshi yonezu, hikaru utada

📍a/n: here we are, the last part of this series, thank you soooo much for the continuous support, I hope you’ll enjoy this last one and stay tuned for other fics❤️❤️❤️❤️

You can read previous part here

The winter of the third year of your marriage arrived not with the gentle dusting of frost, but with a silent, oppressive freeze that locked the northern provinces of the Nishimura clan in a grip of iron.

Outside the sliding shoji screens of the grand estate, the ancient pine trees bent under the weight of heavy, wet snow. Inside, however, the master chambers were kept warm by the constant, low crackle of charcoal in the bronze braziers. It was a warmth that had been meticulously ordered and strictly maintained by the lord of the estate himself.

Nishimura Riki.

A high-ranking samurai whose name was spoken in whispered, fearful respect throughout the capital; a man whose blade was as swift as it was merciless. To the outside world, he was still the untouchable, icy lord of the northern lands. But behind the heavy oak gates of his home, the frost had begun to crack.

Ever since the terrifying night of your rescue, when the raw, bleeding truth of your pregnancy had shattered his cold mask, Riki had been a man possessed by a quiet, desperate need to atone. And when your baby boy was born—a tiny, breathing miracle with Riki’s sharp, dark eyes and a soft, tuft of dark hair—the fearsome samurai had been completely, utterly ruined by love.

Yet, despite the gentle peace that had settled over the household, a invisible wall still lingered within your heart.

You had lived so long under the shadow of his initial coldness, so long protecting yourself behind a shield of quiet obedience, that you still held yourself back. Whenever he walked into the room, you would instinctively stand up to bow. Whenever he reached out to touch you, you would wait, frozen, letting him initiate every embrace, every soft brush of his hand, and every lingering kiss. You were terrified of being "too much." You were terrified that if you let yourself cling to him, if you demanded his warmth first, you would somehow break the fragile, beautiful dream you were living in.

You were always the one being held. You had never been the one to hold him first.

Until tonight.

The hour was incredibly late. The rest of the estate had fallen into a deep, snowy silence, saved only by the distant, rhythmic chime of the night watchman’s wooden blocks. In the adjoining room, your three-month-old son was fast asleep in his lacquer cradle, watched over by a trusted maid.

You sat by the low hearth in the main chamber, the soft orange glow of the embers casting long, flickering shadows across the tatami mats. You wore a simple, heavy cotton kimono of pale plum, your long hair flowing loose over your shoulders. Your hands, usually busy with sewing or folding silks, lay idle in your lap. You were staring at the sliding door, waiting.

With a soft, heavy scrape, the door slid open.

Riki stepped into the room. He looked exhausted. He had spent the entire day in the war room with the clan elders, dealing with the increasingly tense border disputes, and the fatigue was written in the tight line of his jaw and the slight slump of his broad shoulders. He had shed his heavy armor, wearing only a dark, simple indigo yukata, his hair damp from the bath and falling over his eyes.

When his gaze found you sitting by the hearth, the cold, distant look in his eyes instantly dissolved.

"You are still awake," he murmured, his deep, velvety voice thick with the gravel of a long day of silence. He stepped onto the tatami mats, his movements quiet, almost reverent, as if he were afraid of disturbing the peace of the room. "I told you to sleep, sweetheart. The night is cold."

"I wanted to wait for you," you whispered softly.

Riki let out a low, tired sigh—a sound of pure relief—and crossed the room. He sat down by the hearth, sinking onto the cushion beside yours. He reached out, his large, warm hand immediately finding your smaller one, his thumb tracing the soft skin of your wrist. It was his usual gesture, a silent reassurance that he was here, that you were safe.

But as you looked at him—taking in the slight shadow of fatigue beneath his dark eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the entire world, and the sheer, unconditional softness in his gaze when he looked at you—something inside you finally snapped.

The hesitation, the fear of being too much, the ironclad lock you had kept on your own heart for years... it simply melted away like snow under a bright spring sun.

You didn't wait for him to pull you close. You didn't wait for him to ask.

With a tiny, soft intake of breath, you shifted your weight. You slid off your cushion and crawled directly into his space.

Riki froze, his hand tightening slightly on yours in sheer surprise.

Before he could even register what was happening, you slid yourself directly onto his lap. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face completely into the warm crook of his neck, and clung to him with every ounce of strength in your body.

A soft, breathless gasp escaped Riki's lips. His entire body went completely rigid for a split second, utterly stunned by the sudden, overwhelming warmth of you initiating the contact. In all the months you had been together, in all the times he had held you, you had never—not once—been the one to climb into his lap and hold him first.

"Sweetheart...?" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper against your hair, laced with a sudden, anxious panic. "What is it? Are you hurt? Did something happen to the baby?"

"No," you mumbled, your voice incredibly small, muffled against the soft, warm skin of his neck. You tightened your grip around his neck, pulling yourself so close that there was absolutely no space left between you. You let out a tiny, content whimper, snuggling your nose into his collarbone. "Nothing is wrong. I just... I wanted to hold you."

The silence that followed was so sweet, so heavy, it felt like the entire world had stopped spinning.

Slowly, the tension in Riki’s broad shoulders completely shattered. A low, trembling breath escaped his lips—a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. The sheer, dizzying joy of you finally letting go of your walls, of you finally clinging to him because you wanted to, completely overwhelmed him.

His large, powerful arms instantly wrapped around your waist, lock-and-key, pulling you flush against his chest. He lifted you slightly, adjusting your weight so you were nestled perfectly in his lap, your legs draped over his thighs.

"You wanted to hold me?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a register so sweet, so dripping with adoration, it made your chest ache.

"Yes," you whispered, finally pulling your face back just a fraction to look at him. Your cheeks were flushed a beautiful, rosy pink from the heat of the hearth and your own shyness, your eyes shining in the dim light. "I am always the one letting you hold me. I wanted to be the one to do it tonight."

Riki stared down at you, his dark, cat-like eyes incredibly wide and soft. A beautiful, genuine smile—the kind he only ever showed to you and your son—broke across his handsome face, completely erasing the cold, formidable samurai.

"You have no idea," Riki whispered, his voice shaking slightly as he reached up, his long, warm fingers gently cupping your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, "how long I have waited for you to do that."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and sweet against your lips. He began to rain tiny, fluttering, incredibly soft kisses all over your face—first on your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then the soft skin of your cheeks, making you let out a quiet, breathless giggle.

"Riki, stop, it tickles," you whispered, trying to duck your head, but your hands only tightened in his damp hair, pulling him closer.

"I won't," he murmured against your skin, his lips curving into a soft smile. "I'm going to hold you like this all night. You're never allowed to leave my lap now."

He kissed you again, a deep, slow, and dizzyingly sweet kiss that tasted of warmth and quiet winter nights. His tongue tangling with yours in a lazy, intoxicating rhythm that made your head spin. His hands slid down to wrap securely around your back, holding you so close you could feel the frantic, joyful thrum of his heartbeat echoing against your own ribs.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't let you go. He buried his face in your neck, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses to the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his chest heaving with a deep, content sigh.

"I love you," Riki whispered into your skin, his voice a low, protective rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "I love you so much, my beautiful wife. Thank you for holding me."

You curled your fingers into the fabric of his yukata, resting your head back onto his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. For the first time in your marriage, you felt completely, utterly surrendered to his love. There was no more hesitation. No more walls. Just the warm, golden glow of the hearth, the soft breathing of your baby in the next room, and the sweet, absolute certainty that you belonged in his arms.

You did not know, as you drifted off to sleep wrapped in his fierce, protective embrace, that this was the very last night of pure, untainted peace you would ever have.

The morning sun had barely crested the snow-laden roofs of the Nishimura estate when the heavy oak gates groaned open.

A small, elegant procession traveled down the stone pathway of the courtyard. They bore the crest of the Toyotomi—a neighboring, highly influential rival clan. Though a fragile peace treaty had been signed between the two territories the previous spring, a cold, unspoken tension had always lingered. Riki had never trusted them; his sword had tasted too much of their blood in the years before your marriage.

Yet, today, they came bearing gifts of peace.

Riki stood at the top of the engawa, his tall, imposing figure draped in a formal dark gray haori. His hand rested casually but warningly on the hilt of his katana, his sharp, dark eyes narrowed as he watched the head envoy bow low before him.

"We bring congratulations from the Toyotomi Lord on the birth of your young heir, Lord Nishimura," the envoy spoke, his voice smooth and polite. Behind him, servants carried chests of lacquered wood. "To celebrate the continuation of your noble bloodline, we offer the finest silk blankets from the southern ports, hand-carved wooden toys, and a gift of our highest esteem."

The envoy gestured, and a middle-aged woman stepped forward from the back of the procession. She wore the modest, dark robes of a high-class nursemaid, her head bowed in quiet, perfect submission.

"This is Hanako," the envoy continued. "She is a highly skilled nursemaid, trained in the art of infant health and traditional herbal remedies. She has served the daughters of our own clan for decades. We offer her service to your lady wife to ensure the young master grows strong and healthy during this harsh winter."

Riki’s jaw tightened. Every instinct in his warrior’s soul screamed at him to refuse. He did not want a stranger—especially one from a rival clan—anywhere near his wife, let alone his newborn son.

But clan politics were a delicate, dangerous game. To flatly reject a formal gift of peace from the Toyotomi, especially one meant to celebrate a newborn child, would be seen as a direct declaration of war. He could not risk bringing conflict to his gates when you and the baby were still so vulnerable.

Beside him, you stepped out onto the wooden porch, your three-month-old son bundled warmly in your arms. You looked at the woman, then up at Riki. Your eyes met, and Riki saw the slight, anxious question in your gaze.

He let out a slow, controlled breath, his fingers relaxing off his katana.

"We accept the generous gifts of the Toyotomi Lord," Riki spoke, his deep voice carrying a cold, heavy authority that left no room for error. His eyes locked onto the bowing nursemaid. "But let it be known: my house guards its treasures fiercely. Any hand that falters within these walls will be answered by my steel."

The envoy bowed even lower, hiding the brief, icy glint in his eyes. "Of course, Lord Nishimura."

At first, Hanako seemed to be a blessing to the household.

She was quiet, incredibly polite, and kept her head bowed whenever Riki or the higher-ranking samurai passed her in the corridors. She did not overstep. She showed you how to gently massage the baby's stomach to soothe his colicky nights, and she prepared steaming, fragrant bowls of traditional herbal teas to help you regain your strength.

"It is a special blend from the southern provinces, My Lady," Hanako murmured, her voice soft and soothing as she set the porcelain cup beside your low table. "It warms the blood and sweetens the breast milk, ensuring the young master receives the best nourishment."

You smiled softly, lifting the cup. The tea had a strange, slightly sweet, earthy scent, but as you drank it, a deep, comforting warmth spread through your chest.

That night, you sat in the nursery, rocking your baby boy in your arms. Riki stepped into the room, his heavy steps softening to a silent glide the moment he crossed the threshold. He knelt beside you, his large, warm hand reaching out to gently touch the baby’s incredibly soft, chubby cheek.

"How is he?" Riki whispered, his face instantly softening into that rare, beautiful look reserved only for his family.

"He is very sleepy today," you whispered back, leaning your shoulder against Riki’s chest. "Hanako gave me a tea to help him sleep better. He hasn't cried once since this afternoon."

Riki frowned slightly, his dark eyes shifting to the low bronze brazier in the corner of the nursery. A pale, fragrant smoke drifted from the coals—a special incense Hanako had lit to "purify the air and ward off the winter dampness" for the baby. The scent was thick, sweet, and faintly metallic.

"I do not like the smell of this," Riki murmured, his protective instincts flaring. He stood up, walking over to the brazier, his hand hovering over the pale smoke.

"It is only lavender and dried mountain herbs, Riki," you said gently, wanting to ease his constant, hyper-vigilant worry. "She said it keeps the winter cough away from his chest. Look at him... he is breathing so peacefully."

Riki looked back at his son. The baby was indeed sleeping deeply, his tiny, chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Riki let out a low sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. He felt foolish for being so paranoid, but ever since he had almost lost you, fear was a shadow he could not shake.

He walked back to you, dropping to his knees, and wrapped his strong arms around both of you. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple, then leaned down to press his lips to the baby’s soft forehead.

"Perhaps I am simply restless," Riki whispered against your skin, his voice deep and warm. "I just... I cannot lose either of you. You are my entire soul."

You smiled, leaning into his fierce, secure hold, completely unaware of the invisible, deadly web slowly tightening around your small family.

Over the next two weeks, a subtle, terrifying change began to creep over your household.

It started with you. You began to feel an overwhelming, heavy fatigue that you could not shake. Your limbs felt like lead, and a constant, dull fog clouded your mind. You attributed it to the cold winter and the exhaustion of motherhood, but even when you slept for hours, you woke up feeling weaker, your skin pale and clammy.

But the change in your baby boy was far worse.

Initially, you had been relieved by how quiet he was. But soon, his peaceful sleep turned into an alarming, heavy lethargy. He no longer cried when he was hungry. When you held him to your breast, he would only nurse weakly for a few moments before his head would loll back against your arm, falling back into a deep, unresponsive sleep. His skin, once a healthy, rosy pink, began to take on a faint, translucent paleness.

"Riki..." you whispered one afternoon, your voice trembling as you rocked the baby. Your own head felt dizzy, your vision swimming slightly. "Riki, something is wrong. He won't wake up. Even when I tickle his feet, he only whimpers."

Riki, who had been sitting at his desk, instantly abandoned his papers. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, taking his son from your weak arms.

His heart seized with a sudden, icy terror. The baby felt incredibly light, his tiny limbs completely limp in his hands. When Riki touched the baby’s forehead, his skin felt strangely cool to the touch, lacking the vibrant, radiating heat of a healthy infant.

"Summon the estate physician," Riki roared, his voice booming through the quiet corridors, sending the servants outside scrambling in panic.

Within minutes, the elderly family physician was kneeling on the tatami mats, his trembling fingers pressing against the baby’s tiny wrist, then checking his eyes and chest. Hanako stood quietly in the corner of the room, her hands tucked into her sleeves, her head bowed in perfect, silent submission.

"It... it is a deep winter lethargy, Lord Nishimura," the physician stammered, looking sweating and nervous under Riki’s murderous, piercing glare. "The cold air has settled in the young master's lungs. I will prescribe a warming broth for the lady wife to pass through her milk."

"Make sure he wakes up," Riki growled, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. "If my son does not improve by tomorrow, your life is forfeit."

"Y-Yes, My Lord!" the physician squeaked, bowing his head to the floor.

That night, the heavy, sweet scent of the nursery incense burned thicker than ever, mixed with the steam of the fresh herbal teas Hanako brought to your bedside. You drank it desperately, praying it would give you the strength to nurse your fading boy, completely unaware that with every sip, and with every breath of the sweet, toxic air, the invisible poison of the Toyotomi clan was slowly, silently stopping the heart of your precious baby.

The silence that fell over the Nishimura estate on the morning of the third week was not the peaceful, blanketed quiet of a fresh winter snowfall. It was a heavy, suffocating stillness that clung to the paper shoji screens like a damp shroud.

You woke late. The morning light filtered through the screens in a dull, sickly gray. Your head felt as though it were filled with lead, a crushing pressure behind your temples making it difficult to even open your eyes. For a moment, you lay entirely still beneath the heavy silk futon, waiting for the familiar, comforting sound that had defined your mornings for the last three months.

The soft, wet babbling. The tiny, demanding whimpers of your son waking up for his morning milk.

But there was nothing. Only the distant, hollow dripping of melting icicles from the eaves outside.

"Riki...?" you whispered, your voice sounding incredibly weak, raw, and dry.

You turned your head. His side of the futon was already cold, the silk smoothed over. He had likely been called to the gates early; the tensions with the southern borders had been escalating, forcing him to spend his dawns inspecting the guard.

Pushing the heavy covers aside, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over you. You had to press your palm flat against the cold tatami mat to keep from swaying. Your body felt empty, drained of all vital warmth, a lingering, sweet, metallic taste coating the back of your throat—the residue of the herbal tea you had drank before sleeping.

Slowly, dragging your heavy limbs, you crawled toward the sliding door that led to the adjoining nursery.

"My sweet boy..." you murmured, a faint, instinctual dread beginning to tighten like a cold wire around your chest. "Are you still sleeping?"

You slid the door open. The nursery was dimly lit, the small bronze brazier in the corner containing only cold, gray ash. Yet, the sweet, heavy, lavender-and-iron scent of Hanako’s purifying incense still hung thick in the stagnant air, coating your lungs with every breath.

The small, lacquered cradle sat in the center of the room, draped in the fine, pale blue silks gifted by the Toyotomi clan.

You approached it slowly, your knees trembling beneath your simple cotton kimono. The room felt freezing, far colder than it should have been.

"Wake up, little sparrow," you whispered, leaning over the wooden edge, reaching out a hand to pull back the heavy silk blanket. "Mama is here. It is time to—"

Your voice died in your throat.

The baby lay on his back, his tiny fists tucked up near his chin in a posture that looked agonizingly peaceful. But his skin—once a beautiful, flush pink that warmed under your touch—was a dull, waxy, translucent gray. His tiny, delicate lips, which usually parted with soft, milk-warm sighs, were a faint, chilling shade of blue.

Your hand hovered in the air, shaking violently.

"No..." you breathed, a sudden, frantic heartbeat roaring in your ears like a war drum. "No, no, no..."

You dropped to your knees beside the cradle, your fingers desperately reaching down to touch his cheek.

The skin beneath your fingertips was not warm. It did not yield to your touch with the soft, bouncy life of a sleeping babe. It was cold. A deep, solid, penetrating cold that felt exactly like the frozen stones in the courtyard garden.

A high, broken whimper escaped your lips. You grabbed your son, lifting his tiny, feather-light body out of the silk blankets and pulling him against your bare chest. His little head lolled back against your forearm, completely limp, devoid of the natural, slight tension of a living child.

"Wake up," you sobbed, your voice rising into a cracked, hysterical shriek. You rocked him back and forth, rubbing his cold, stiff back with your trembling palms, trying desperately to pour your own body heat into his silent frame. "Wake up! Riki! Riki, help me! He’s cold! Why is he so cold?!"

You pressed your ear to his tiny, fragile chest.

Nothing.

There was no rapid, fluttering heartbeat. No tiny, shallow breaths. Only an empty, echoing silence that seemed to swallow your mind whole.

The paper screens of the nursery were suddenly thrown open with a violent crash.

Riki stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his face pale and wind-bitten from his morning rounds. He had heard your shriek from the courtyard. His dark eyes swept the room, instantly locking onto your form curled on the floor, clutching the silent bundle to your chest as you wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that did not sound human.

"What is it?" Riki demanded, his voice cracking as he strode across the tatami mats, his heavy steps shaking the floorboards. "What is wrong with him?"

"He won't wake up!" you screamed, looking up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes, tears streaming down your pale cheeks. You held the baby out to him, your hands shaking so violently you almost dropped him. "Riki, make him warm! Please, make him warm! He won't breathe!"

Riki dropped to his knees beside you. His large, calloused hands—built to wield steel and take life—reached out, slowly taking his son from your arms.

The moment his fingers brushed the baby’s skin, Riki’s entire body went completely, terrifyingly rigid.

The fearsome Lord of the North, a man who had stared down armies without a single flicker of fear in his eyes, looked down at his son's face, and his jaw began to tremble. He pressed two fingers to the baby’s tiny neck, searching, praying, begging whatever gods were listening for even a single, faint pulse.

There was only the chill of death.

"No..." Riki whispered, a sound so raw and broken it sounded as if his chest were tearing open. "No, not him. Not my boy."

He pulled the infant tightly against his broad chest, burying his face in the soft, white silk of the baby’s swaddle. A harsh, choked sob ripped from his throat, his broad shoulders shaking violently as he held his lifeless heir. He had promised to protect this child. He had sworn on his honor, on his sword, that no harm would ever cross his gates to touch his family.

And now, his son was gone.

"My Lord!"

A sharp voice shattered the agonizing grief in the room. The captain of the estate guard, a trusted samurai, slid the door open, his hand on his sword. Beside him, two guards held Hanako, the Toyotomi nursemaid, by her arms. Her face was pale, but her eyes were cold, devoid of the submissive fear she had worn for weeks. She had been caught trying to slip through the side gates of the estate in the early morning fog.

"We caught her attempting to flee, Lord Nishimura," the captain reported, his voice tight with anger. "In her chambers, we found jars of biku—the powdered root of the black nightshade. And... the ashes in the nursery brazier are laced with it."

Riki’s head snapped up.

The sorrow in his dark eyes instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of such pure, demonic rage that even his own captain took a step back. The air in the room became thick, freezing, suffocating.

Riki gently, reverently laid his silent son back into your arms. You clutched the baby back to your chest, staring blankly ahead, your mind already beginning to fracture under the weight of the horror.

Slowly, Riki stood up. He did not draw his sword. He walked toward Hanako, his movements slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly quiet.

"Who sent you?" Riki asked, his voice a low, vibrating growl that sounded like earth shifting.

Hanako spit on the tatami mats, a cold, mocking smile pulling at her lips. "The Toyotomi clan sends their regards, Lord Nishimura. A cold lord does not deserve an heir. Your bloodline ends in the winter snow."

Before she could even finish her sentence, Riki’s hand shot out, wrapping around her throat with a grip of iron. He lifted her off her feet, slamming her back against the wooden pillar of the corridor.

"You will tell me every name," Riki whispered, his face inches from hers, his eyes burning with a dark, merciless fire. "Every lord who signed the order. Every hand that touched the poison. And when you are finished... I will tear the Toyotomi clan from the earth until not even their ashes remain."

He threw her to his guards, his voice booming like thunder through the estate. "Lock her in the dungeons. Do not let her die yet. I want her to feel every drop of pain she brought into this house."

The guards dragged the screaming woman away, leaving the corridor in a heavy, ringing silence.

Riki turned back to the nursery. He looked at you, still sitting on the cold floor, clutching your lifeless baby boy, rocking him back and forth as you hummed a soft, broken lullaby to a child who could no longer hear.

The rage in Riki’s chest instantly collapsed into a crushing, suffocating guilt. He had let the Toyotomi gifts through his gates. He had ignored his own instincts about the sweet-smelling smoke. He had failed to protect his son.

"Sweetheart..." Riki choked out, dropping to his knees beside you, reaching out to touch your shoulder.

But the moment his hand brushed your skin, you flinched away violently, curling yourself tighter around the empty silk of your baby’s blanket, your eyes wide, hollow, and completely empty of life.

The snow did not stop falling. It drifted high against the dark cedar wood of the estate, burying the stone lanterns and sealing the courtyard in a tomb of white. Inside the master chambers, the air felt frozen, thick with the scent of bitter medicinal roots and the cold, lingering ghost of incense that no longer burned.

Your son had been laid to rest in the quiet, snow-covered cemetery of the Nishimura ancestors, buried beneath a small stone stupa where the winter wind howled through the pines. Riki had stood there in his formal black robes, his face an unreadable, frozen mask of stone, while you had to be carried back to the estate, your legs refusing to support your weight.

Since that morning, the world had ceased to exist for you.

The mind, when broken by a pain too massive to hold, has a way of shutting its doors. You lay on your futon, staring blankly at the dark wood of the ceiling. The sliding screens were shut tight, keeping the room in a perpetual, suffocating twilight. You did not speak. You did not weep. You simply existed as a hollow shell, your body physically rejecting the world.

When the maids brought trays of warm rice and clear broth, you did not even turn your head. If they tried to offer you water, you let it spill past your dry, cracked lips onto the tatami.

"My Lady, please," a young maid sobbed quietly, kneeling beside your futon on the fourth evening. "Just a sip. For the love of the gods, you must take something, or you will fade away."

You did not hear her. In your mind, you were still sitting on the cold floor of the nursery, clutching a silent, waxy-gray bundle to your chest, trying desperately to rub warmth back into skin that was already stone.

The door slid open, its heavy wooden frame scraping against the tracks.

Riki stepped into the room. He had not slept in days. The fearsome Lord of the North looked as though he had been carved out of charcoal and ash. His eyes were deeply sunken, bloodshot and hollow, his sharp jaw covered in a rough shadow of dark stubble. He had spent his nights in the dark dungeons, his hands stained with the blood of the Toyotomi spy as he dragged every name, every detail of the conspiracy from her lips.

But his vengeance brought him no peace. It brought him no warmth. Every time he looked at his own hands, he only saw his failure.

The maid quickly bowed, scrambling out of the room and sliding the door shut behind her, leaving the two of you in the heavy, silent dark.

Riki stood at the edge of your futon, his tall, imposing figure casting a long, tragic shadow over your small form. He looked down at you—at your pale, sunken cheeks, the dark circles under your hollow eyes, and the weak, shallow rise and fall of your chest. You had lost so much weight in just a few days that your simple white sleeping kimono looked far too large, draping over your small frame like a burial shroud.

"Sweetheart," he whispered. His voice was no longer that of a commanding lord. It was raw, cracked, and trembling with a terrifying, fragile desperation.

He dropped to his knees beside you. Slowly, with a hand that shook, he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead.

The moment his fingers made contact with your skin, his breath caught.

You were burning.

Your forehead was scorching hot, a fierce, unnatural heat radiating from your skin. Yet, your shoulders were shivering violently under the heavy silk quilts. The severe mental trauma, the refusal to eat, and the lingering traces of the nightshade poison you had unknowingly consumed through the herbal teas had finally culminated in a brutal, raging brain fever.

"No..." Riki breathed, a sudden, sharp panic piercing through his grief. He pressed the back of his hand to your cheek, then your neck. "No, no, no. You cannot do this. You cannot leave me too."

He reached down, gently sliding his arms beneath your back and knees to lift you against his chest.

But the moment your feverish body felt his touch, a sudden, frantic wave of terror seemed to cut through your catatonic state. Your eyes, wide and wild with delirium, snapped open. You did not see Riki, your husband, the man who loved you. In your fever-addled mind, you only felt the terrifying, heavy hands of the danger he had put you in—the coldness, the steel, the violent world of the samurai that had snatched your baby away.

"No!" you shrieked, your voice a weak, gravelly scratch.

You began to fight him. With what little strength remained in your emaciated body, you thrashed against his chest. You clawed at his broad shoulders, your fingernails digging into his skin, desperately trying to push his heavy frame away from you.

"Let me go! Don't touch me!" you wailed, tears finally bursting from your eyes, scalding hot against your cold, pale cheeks. "He's cold! You let them take him! You let them kill him! Let me go!"

Each word was a jagged blade sliding directly into Riki’s heart, twisting with a merciless, agonizing precision. He knew you were delirious. He knew the fever was speaking.

But he also knew it was the truth.

He had let them take him. His pride, his duty, his politics—they had built the very road the poisoners had walked on.

Riki did not let you go. Even as you hit his chest, even as your weak fists bruised against his shoulders, he only held you tighter. He pulled your burning, shivering body flush against his broad chest, locking his strong arms around you like a vice, refusing to let you retreat back into the cold, silent dark of your mind.

"I am sorry," Riki choked out, his voice breaking entirely as he buried his face in your wild, sweat-damp hair. He held you so close that his frantic, heavy heartbeat thudded violently against your ribs. "I am sorry, my love. I am so sorry. Strike me, hate me, kill me if you must... but please, do not die. Do not leave me alone in this winter."

You thrashed for a few moments more, your weak, exhausted body quickly running out of the false strength of the fever. Slowly, your hands slid down his chest, your fingers weakly curling into the dark fabric of his yukata.

You collapsed against him, your head falling heavily against his collarbone. Your chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths as the fever dragged you back down into the dark, your body shivering violently against his immense, radiating warmth.

Riki rocked you in the dark, his own tears finally spilling over, hot and silent, wetting your hair. He held his broken wife in his arms, staring at the empty, dark corner of the room where the cradle used to sit, knowing that the fearsome Lord Nishimura was completely, utterly powerless against the winter that had settled in his own home.

The fever did not break with the rising of the sun. It lingered like an unwanted guest, thick and oppressive, turning your master chambers into a twilight realm of sweat, delirious murmurs, and agonizing memory.

For three days, the physician’s assistants brought bowls of bitter biwa leaf infusions and cold towels, but they were met with Riki’s silent, terrifying presence at your bedside. He had not left your room. He had ignored the urgent letters from his commanders, the warnings that the Toyotomi clan was mobilizing in panic after the arrest of their spy, and the demands of his elders to return to the war room.

None of it mattered. The province could burn to ashes, and he would not care, so long as the fragile, shallow breath in your chest did not stop.

You floated in a grey, formless sea. In your delirium, you were running through the snow, clutching a swaddle that grew lighter and lighter until there was nothing in your arms but falling snow. You kept calling out, but your voice was swallowed by the howling wind. You felt a terrifying weight pulling you down into the dark, freezing water beneath the ice, and you wanted to let go. You wanted to sink. It was so cold, but at least there, the aching void in your chest would stop hurting.

"No."

A voice, deep and raw, cut through the icy current.

Suddenly, a pair of powerful, burning arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back up, refusing to let you sink.

You opened your eyes. The room was dark, saved only by the dim, flickering orange light of a single candle. Your vision was blurred, the fever making everything warp and spin, but you could see the silhouette of a man hovering over you.

Riki.

He had shed his outer robes, sitting on the edge of your futon in a simple, damp white under-kimono. His hair was a wild, disheveled mess, clinging to his forehead. His face was entirely hollow, his eyes bloodshot, dark, and swimming with a terrifying, primal grief.

"Riki..." you whispered, your voice a barely audible, dry rattle.

The moment he heard his name slip past your lips, Riki’s chest heaved. He slid his hands under your shoulders, lifting your weak, feather-light body up against his chest. He pulled the heavy winter quilts around you, locking you in a suffocatingly tight, desperate embrace.

"I am here," he choked out, his voice cracking violently. "I am here, sweetheart. Please. Look at me."

You tried to push him away. The instinctual terror, the memory of his past anger and the raw grief of your loss made you weakly press your hands against his collarbones. "Let me go... please... it hurts too much..."

"No," Riki sobbed openly, the sound tearing from his throat like a mortal wound. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot tears scalding your skin, mixing with your cold sweat. "I will not let you go. If you sink into the dark, you take me with you. I have nothing left without you."

"The baby..." you wept, the word finally breaking through the wall of your delirium, bringing with it a wave of reality so sharp and painful it felt like a blade twisting in your stomach. Your hands clutched his shoulders, your fingers digging weakly into his skin as you began to sob, your entire frame shaking violently. "Our boy, Riki... he's gone... he's gone and it's so cold..."

"I know," Riki wept, his broad shoulders shaking as he rocked you back and forth on the tatami mats, his strong arms holding you so tightly you could feel the frantic, desperate thrum of his heartbeat. "I know, my love. It is my fault. I let them in. I failed you... I failed him. Cry for him. Hate me, scream at me, but do not leave me. I cannot bear this world alone."

The raw, undone agony in his voice did something to the frozen, fractured pieces of your heart.

For months, you had held back, terrified of being too much, terrified of his coldness. Even after you had finally melted and clung to him, you had kept a tiny part of yourself guarded. But seeing the fearsome Lord Nishimura—the cold, untouchable samurai who commanded armies—completely ruined, weeping like a broken child against your shoulder, the last of your walls dissolved into the heat of your shared tears.

You stopped pushing him away.

With a weak, trembling gasp, you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him first, burying your face in his shoulder as you finally, truly let the grief wash over you. You wept for the little boy you would never see grow, for the empty cradle in the next room, and for the silent house.

And Riki held you through it all, his hands frantically stroking your hair, his lips pressing desperate, salt-stained kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, and your temple, keeping you anchored to the earth with the sheer, burning force of his love.

The fever did not break because of the medicine. It broke because, in the deepest, darkest depths of the winter, you had chosen to cling to him, and he had refused to let you go.

The thaw in the northern provinces did not arrive in a sudden, dramatic rush of warmth. Instead, it was a quiet, almost imperceptible negotiation between the earth and the sky. Slowly, the thick, heavy sheets of ice lining the eaves of the Nishimura estate began to soften, releasing fat, steady droplets of water that chimed against the stone pathways below. The harsh, biting winds of the deep winter relented, carrying with them the faint, wet scent of damp soil and sleeping cedar.

Inside the master chambers, the change was marked by the shifting light. The heavy, dark drapes that had kept the room in a state of perpetual mourning were finally slid aside, allowing the pale, golden fingers of the late-winter sun to paint warm squares across the clean tatami mats.

You sat on the low wooden porch of the engawa, wrapped in a thick, quilted cotton kimono of pale moss green—a color Riki had chosen himself to replace the heavy, dark garments of your illness. Your body was still thin, your wrists delicate and fragile beneath the wide sleeves, but the hollow, waxy grayness had left your skin. A faint, natural rose color had returned to your cheeks, and your eyes, though carrying a quiet, permanent shadow of sorrow, were clear and focused once more.

Beside you sat a small, steaming bowl of medicinal pear and honey broth.

Before you could reach for the ceramic spoon, a tall shadow fell over you.

Riki stepped out onto the wooden deck. He was dressed in a simple, deep indigo yukata, his long hair tied loosely back with a pale blue ribbon. He had completely abandoned his formal samurai garments, his armor locked away in the armory, untouched for weeks. He had ignored three separate summons from the capital's shogunate, delegating all clan administrative duties to his trustiest generals. For the past month, his only duty, his only master, was you.

He dropped quietly to his knees beside you, his massive frame carrying none of its usual rigid, military tension. Without a word, he picked up the spoon, blew gently on the warm broth, and held it to your lips.

"Riki," you whispered, a tiny, soft smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. "I can feed myself today. My hands are not shaking anymore."

Riki paused, his dark, sharp eyes rising to meet yours. The hollow, bloodshot exhaustion that had defined him during your fever had softened, replaced by a quiet, fierce tenderness that seemed to radiate from him like heat from a hearth. He did not lower the spoon.

"I know you can," he murmured, his deep, velvety voice a low rumble in the quiet courtyard. "But let me do this. Please."

You looked at him for a moment, seeing the lingering, unspoken need to care for you in his eyes—the physical manifestation of his silent penance. With a soft sigh, you leaned forward and took the broth from his hand. He watched your throat work as you swallowed, a visible wave of relief washing over his handsome features before he set the bowl aside.

Immediately, his large, warm hand found yours, his fingers sliding between your small ones and locking tight. His grip was firm, almost desperate, a constant grounding reminder that you were both still here. You didn't pull away. Instead, you squeezed back, leaning your shoulder against his broad chest.

"The snow is melting," you whispered, looking out at the courtyard garden where a small stone stupa stood quietly in the distance, partially visible through the bamboo grove.

Riki’s grip on your hand tightened slightly. His jaw clenched for a fraction of a second, the raw pain of your shared loss still a jagged edge in his heart, before he let out a slow, controlled breath. He leaned his head down, resting his temple against yours.

"It is," he agreed softly. "The plum blossoms near the east wall are beginning to bud."

You closed your eyes, absorbing his warmth. The grief of losing your sweet boy would never truly leave you; it was a physical scar carved into your souls, a quiet room in your hearts that would remain locked and dark forever. But the suffocating, freezing terror that had threatened to tear you apart had changed. It had transformed into a profound, unbreakable bond.

In the ashes of your tragedy, you had finally let go of your fear of him. You had clung to him first in the dark, and he had thrown away his pride, his armor, and his coldness to hold you in the light.

"Riki," you murmured, turning your head slightly so your lips brushed the warm skin of his neck. "Are you still afraid?"

He was silent for a long moment, the quiet dripping of the melting icicles filling the space between you. Slowly, he turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"I am terrified every single day," he confessed, his voice dropping to a raw, incredibly honest whisper. He reached up, his large, scarred palm gently cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin with absolute reverence. "I am terrified of this world, of the shadows outside our gates, of my own failures. But when I look at you... when you hold me... the fear does not matter anymore."

He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, deep, and heartbreakingly tender kiss. It tasted of salt, of lingering sorrow, but beneath it all, a burning, resilient warmth that could melt any winter. You wrapped your free arm around his neck, pulling him closer, no longer hesitant, no longer holding back a single fraction of your love.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were shining. He reached into the wide sleeve of his yukata and pulled out a small object, placing it gently into your palm.

You looked down. It was the small, wooden sparrow he had painstakingly carved during the late nights of your pregnancy. It had been salvaged from the nursery, its smooth cedar wood polished to a soft gleam.

"I kept it," Riki whispered, his fingers wrapping over yours, enclosing the small toy between your hands. "We will not forget him. We will carry him with us, in every spring that comes."

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but they were no longer the scalding, hysterical tears of the fever. They were soft, healing, and warm. You nodded, pressing your forehead against his chest, listening to the strong, steady, and protective beat of his heart.

"Together," you whispered.

"Together," Riki promised, wrapping his heavy arms around you and pulling you tightly into his lap.

And there, on the quiet wooden porch, as the first buds of spring fought their way through the retreating winter snow, the fearsome Lord of the North held his wife, completely surrendered to the beautiful, fragile, and fierce warmth of the life they would rebuild together.

Epilogue

"I love you," Riki whispered against your lips, his hand stroking your hair. "I love you so much, my beautiful wife."

"I love you too, Riki," you whispered back, burying your face in his shoulder once more.

As the afternoon sun began to dip, casting a warm, orange glow across the tatami mats, you held onto him, completely surrendered to his warmth. The winter was finally, truly gone, and in its place, the spring had come to stay.

Roommate Riki x reader

Here’s my original ending from this fic

To my favorite roommate,

If you are reading this, it means the storm has finally passed, and I am somewhere where it never thunders anymore.

I asked the lawyers not to give you this until six months had gone by. I knew that if you found it any sooner, you’d spend all your time crying over the pages instead of eating the meals you so carefully cook, or working on those brilliant architectural designs that I know will change the city one day. Please tell me you’ve been eating, Riki. Please tell me you aren't still blaming yourself.

Do you remember the ad I responded to? “Quiet, clean, looking for a young professional.” I moved into that apartment with a heart made of stone, Riki. I was twenty-four, terrified of needing anyone, and convinced that being hyper-independent was the only way to survive. I thought a roommate was just someone to split the electric bill with.

And then I met you.

You, who caught the door with your foot so my hands wouldn't get crushed. You, who quietly made me soup when I was too proud to admit I was burning up with a fever. You, who carried me away from the shattered glass in the kitchen when the sky fell apart, and held me until I wasn't afraid of the noise anymore.

You didn't just break down my walls, Riki. You gave me a home. For the first time in my twenty-four years, you made me realize how beautiful it is to let someone love you.

I know you were angry and heartbroken when I hid the diagnosis from you. I know you roared at me in that hallway, asking how I could keep something so heavy to myself. I need you to understand that I didn't hide it because I didn't trust you. I hid it because I loved you so much it made me weak. I had spent my whole life being a rock, and suddenly, I was faced with a reality where I was going to break into pieces. I was so terrified that if you saw me broken, you would regret the day you ever opened that apartment door for me.

But you didn't regret it. You didn't leave. You held my hand through every single ugly, painful second of the end. You carried me when my legs couldn't do it anymore. You became my strength when my own body betrayed me.

Thank you for carrying my heavy bags, Riki. Thank you for staying awake through the storms. Thank you for showing me what a forever kind of love feels like, even if my forever had to be cut short.

I need you to promise me something now. Turn off the lights in the apartment tonight, look out at the city, and let me go just a little bit. It’s okay to smile again. It’s okay to love someone else one day, someone who gets to stay with you for a long, long time. I am taking the memory of your heartbeat with me wherever I am going, and it is more than enough to keep me warm.

You were the best part of my life, Nishimura Riki.

Always yours,

Your Roommate

Roommate Riki x reader

Sypnosis: Sharing an apartment with Riki was supposed to be strictly business. But he broke down your walls of hyper-independence, the boundaries dissolve into a deep, domestic love. When a sudden, terminal leukemia diagnosis threatens to shatter your happiness.

Warnings: ANGST, fluffffff, reader is very independent, kissing

now playing🎧- blossom- enhypen

📍a/n: I’m sooo sorry I lost the request for this fic😭 anyways I’m gonna try to post more and consistently, enjoyyyyyy

The classified ad had been simple, almost clinical: 2B/2B apartment in the city district. Quiet, clean, laundry in-unit. Looking for a young professional. Rent split 50/50. Contact: Nishimura.

When you first clicked "apply" on the roommate forum, you had expected a chaotic mid-twenties bachelor pad, or worse, a landlord who didn't respect boundaries. You were 24, working a demanding corporate job that swallowed your weeks whole, and completely dedicated to the ironclad rule that had governed your entire life: Do not rely on anyone else. You had moved to the city alone, built your savings alone, and you intended to keep your life entirely self-contained.

Then you met Nishimura Riki.

He was 24, working as a freelance architectural designer, which meant his schedule was irregular but his eye for structure and order was immaculate. The first day you moved in, clutching a box of heavy kitchenware that you stubbornly refused to let him help carry, Riki had simply watched you with a calm, unbothered expression. He didn't force his help on you; he just quietly caught the edge of the door with his foot so it wouldn't slam on your heel.

It didn't take long to realize that Riki was, without a doubt, the most responsible roommate you could have ever asked for. He didn't leave dishes in the sink. He took the trash out before it was even full. If he used the last of the milk, a fresh carton would appear in the fridge before you even woke up for your morning shift. He was quiet, sweet in a reserved sort of way, and deeply respectful of your space.

But your hyper-independence was a hard habit to break. You treated the apartment like a shared business venture, keeping your groceries strictly on your designated shelves and meticulously Venmo-ing him your exact half of the utility bills down to the single cent the moment the invoice hit your inbox.

The first real crack in your defensive wall happened three months into the arrangement.

It was a grueling Tuesday in late November. A nasty seasonal flu had been ripping through your office, and by the time your 5:00 PM clock-out rolled around, your head was pounding so violently you could barely see straight. Every muscle in your body ached, a freezing chill settling deep into your bones despite the heavy winter coat wrapped around you.

When you stumbled through the front door of the apartment, the living room was dark. Riki wasn't home yet; his laptop bag was missing from the entryway hook.

Perfect, you thought, your throat burning as you swallowed. I can lock myself in my room, sleep it off, and no one has to know I’m weak.

You crawled into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin, shivering so violently the mattress shook. You refused to call out sick for the next day, refused to text a friend to bring you medicine, and absolutely refused to burden Riki. You would handle it. You always handled it.

Hours slid by in a delirious, feverish blur. Sometime around 9:00 PM, the soft click of the front door echoing through the apartment signaled Riki’s arrival. You held your breath, burying your face deeper into the pillow, praying he would just go straight to his room.

Instead, a soft, hesitant knock sounded against your bedroom door.

"Hey," Riki’s low, smooth voice cut through the dark. "Your shoes are by the door, but you didn't turn on any lights. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you called out, but the words broke on a harsh, wet cough that you couldn't suppress. Your throat felt like sandpaper. "Just... tired. Going to sleep."

The door slid open anyway, casting a narrow sliver of warm light from the hallway across your bed. Riki stood in the threshold, still dressed in his black work trousers and a soft gray sweater. His sharp eyes narrowed as he took in the shivering mass beneath your blankets. Without a word, he stepped into the room, crossing the floor with quiet, deliberate strides.

Before you could protest, his large, cool palm pressed flat against your forehead. You instinctively flinched, but the soothing chill of his skin against your burning forehead made a weak sigh escape your lips.

"You're burning up," Riki murmured, his tone shifting into something fiercely protective. "Why didn't you text me? I passed three pharmacies on my way home."

"I didn't want to bother you," you muttered, shifting your head away from his hand, your stubborn pride still fighting through the fever. "It's just a cold. I'll be fine tomorrow."

Riki let out a soft, exasperated breath, but his expression remained incredibly gentle. "It's not a bother. We live together. You don't have to do everything by yourself."

He left the room, returning ten minutes later with a tray. He had quietly prepared a bowl of hot, simple broth, a glass of ice water, and a packet of fever-reducing medicine. He sat on the very edge of your mattress, patiently waiting as you weakly pushed yourself up against the headboard.

"Eat," he commanded softly, handing you the spoon.

For the first time in your life, the sheer exhaustion of being independent crumbled. You took the soup, the warmth bleeding into your frozen fingers. Riki didn't leave. He sat there in the quiet room, keeping you company in the dim light until you finished, ensuring you took the medicine before he finally stood up to take the tray back to the kitchen.

"Get some rest," Riki said, pausing at the door, his eyes lingering on you with a strange, soft intensity. "I'll call your office in the morning if you need me to."

"No, I can do it," you whispered automatically.

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Riki's lips. "I know you can. But you don't have to."

By the time January rolled around, the unspoken dynamic between you and Riki had shifted. The professional distance was fading, replaced by a quiet, comfortable domesticity. You still tried to carry your own weight, but Riki had a knack for quietly stepping in before you could burn yourself out.

Then came the storm.

It was a torrential winter thunderstorm, the kind that rolled into the city with a violent, oppressive darkness. The wind howled against the brick exterior of the apartment complex, and the rain lashed against the glass like gravel.

Since childhood, thunderstorms had been your ultimate, hidden vulnerability. The sudden, unpredictable cracks of thunder made your chest tighten with a suffocating, primal panic. But true to form, you kept it entirely to yourself. You hadn't even told your childhood friends, let alone a roommate you had known for only a few months.

At 2:00 AM, a blinding flash of lightning illuminated your bedroom, followed a split second later by a deafening, house-shaking boom of thunder.

You gasped, sitting straight up in bed, your heart hammering frantically against your ribs. Sweat dampened your collar, and your throat felt completely parched from the anxiety. Realizing you wouldn't be able to breathe until you got a drink, you threw off the covers and quietly crept out into the dark hallway, heading toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

The apartment was pitch black, saved only by the erratic flashes of lightning bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling living room windows.

You reached the kitchen counter, your hands trembling so violently the glass rattled against the faucet as you filled it. Just as you raised the water to your lips, another flash of lightning tore through the sky, immediately followed by a brutal, explosive crash of thunder right above the building.

You lost your grip. The glass slipped from your fingers, shattering loudly in the sink as you let out a sharp, involuntary whimper, your entire body violently flinching. You dropped to your knees, pressing yourself against the lower kitchen cabinets, your hands clapping tightly over your ears as you tried to block out the noise.

"Hey—hey, look at me. It's okay."

Suddenly, a pair of warm, solid hands gently took hold of your wrists, pulling them away from your ears. You looked up through tear-filled eyes to see Riki kneeling in front of you. He was wearing loose sleep pants and a black t-shirt, his hair messy from sleep, but his face was completely alert, filled with an intense, soft concern.

"Riki," you breathed, a tear finally slipping down your cheek as another low rumble of thunder vibrated through the floorboards. You instinctively leaned forward, your hyper-independence completely shattering as you buried your face into his broad chest.

Riki didn't hesitate. His large arms instantly wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He lifted you effortlessly off the cold kitchen tile, carrying you away from the shattered glass and straight into the living room, sinking onto the plush couch.

He didn't ask questions. He didn't tease you. He just pulled the soft throw blanket over both of your shoulders, locking you in a tight, protective embrace. His long fingers began to lazily stroke up and down your back, his steady, calm heartbeat echoing against your ear.

"I've got you," Riki murmured into your hair, his voice a soothing, deep anchor against the chaos outside. "I'm right here. You're safe."

Every time the thunder roared, his grip would tighten just a fraction, his chin resting on top of your head, physically shielding you from the sound. Slowly, the terror in your chest began to subside, replaced by the overwhelming, intoxicating warmth of his body.

You fell asleep curled against his chest, completely unaware that Riki stayed awake for hours, just watching you sleep with a fierce, quiet devotion growing in his eyes.

The morning after the storm, the atmosphere in the apartment changed entirely. The unspoken boundaries you had worked so hard to maintain over the last few months had completely dissolved in the warmth of that living room couch. You couldn’t go back to pretending you were just two strangers splitting rent when you now knew exactly how perfectly your head fit beneath his chin, or how steady his heartbeat felt against your cheek.

Spring bled into the city, bringing softer weather but a heavier workload for both of you. True to form, you tried to compensate for your moment of vulnerability by doubling down on your self-sufficiency.

It was a random Thursday evening in April when Riki finally decided he had seen enough.

You had insisted on walking to the local market after an grueling nine-hour shift at your office, refusing his text offering to drive over and pick you up. Now, you were trudging up the three flights of stairs to your apartment, your fingers turning purple and numb under the plastic handles of three massive, overloaded grocery bags. Your shoulders ached, and a weird, persistent fatigue had been weighing down your limbs all week, making each step feel like climbing a mountain.

You reached the landing, breathing heavily, and tried to awkwardly fumble for your keys with your pinky finger without dropping the bags.

Suddenly, the apartment door swung open from the inside.

Riki stood in the entryway, looking incredibly casual in an oversized black hoodie and sweatpants. His eyes didn't even meet yours; they dropped instantly to your white-knuckled grip on the grocery bags. Before you could even utter a greeting, his large hands descended. He didn't ask. He just slid his fingers under yours, effortlessly transferring the crushing weight of all three bags into his own hands in one fluid motion.

"Riki, wait, I can carry them—" you protested automatically, following him into the kitchen as he set the bags onto the counter.

"I know you can," Riki said, echoing the words from months ago. He turned around, leaning his lower back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. His sharp, cat-like eyes locked onto yours, a mixture of fondness and absolute exasperation swirling in his gaze. "But why do you insist on torturing yourself? Look at your hands. They're practically bleeding from the plastic."

"It's just groceries," you muttered, rubbing your sore fingers together, looking away because the intensity of his stare was making your cheeks flush. "I'm used to doing things myself. I've always done it."

"Well, you don't have to anymore," Riki said softly. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you until you were forced to look up at him. He reached down, his warm, large hands gently taking yours, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your red, irritated skin. "Ever since I moved in, you've treated your independence like a shield. You won't let me carry your bags. You won't let me drive you to work when it rains. You treat me like a roommate who's just checking a box."

"That's not true," you whispered, your heart starting to thump erratically against your ribs. "You're a great roommate, Riki. Truly."

"I don't want to be your roommate," Riki murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerously deep, husky register that sent a thrill straight down your spine. His eyes dropped to your lips before locking back onto yours, fierce and completely unyielding. "I want to be the person you call when your day is ruined. I want to be the one who carries your heavy bags, who holds you when it thunders, and who takes care of you when you're too stubborn to do it yourself. I'm in love with you. I have been for months."

The quiet confession hung in the warm air of the kitchen, completely knocking the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, your lips parting in shock, looking at the slight, nervous tightness in his jaw that betrayed just how much courage it had taken for him to say it.

"Riki..." you breathed.

"You don't have to carry the weight of the world by yourself anymore," he whispered, leaning down until his forehead gently rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Let me do it. Let me love you."

The last remnants of your iron-clad defense completely crumbled. With a soft, breathless sob, you nodded, your hands shifting to wrap tightly around his neck as Riki let out a low, relieved sigh, his arms locking securely around your waist as he lifted you up against the counter, sealing his confession with a deep, desperately sweet kiss.

Dating Riki felt like stepping out of a freezing rainstorm and straight into the warmth of a hearth. He was so uncharacteristically soft with you, as if the fierce, quiet roommate who once guarded his space had completely melted the moment you let him in.

On a lazy Sunday morning, the golden July sun filtered through the sheer curtains of his bedroom, painting the white sheets in warm, amber light. You were tangled in the blankets, only half-awake, when you felt the mattress shift.

Riki crawled back into bed, smelling faintly of the coffee he had just brewed. He didn't say a word. He just slid his long arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his bare chest, his face burying into the crook of your neck with a soft, content hum.

"Riki," you murmured sleepily, a small smile tugging at your lips. "You're warm."

"Good," he whispered, his voice gravelly and thick with sleep.

He began to trail slow, soft kisses along your shoulder blade, his lips warm and dry against your bare skin. He moved up to your neck, his kisses growing sweeter, more deliberate, lingering over the sensitive skin beneath your ear until a soft gasp escaped your lips. He turned you gently in his arms so you were facing him, his dark, cat-like eyes gazing down at you with an adoration so intense it made your chest ache.

"I love you," Niki murmured, leaning down to press a soft, slow kiss to your lips. It tasted like sweet cream and coffee. He pulled back just a fraction, his thumbs gently sweeping across your cheekbones, before he began to rain tiny, fluttering kisses all over your face—your forehead, the tip of your nose, the corners of your eyes, your jaw.

You giggled, trying to pull the blanket over your face, but he playfully pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, his grip incredibly gentle but unyielding.

"Let me look at you," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips as he kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue tangling with yours in a lazy, intoxicating heat. His free hand slid down to rest flat against your stomach, warm and anchoring, holding you close as if you were the only solid thing in his entire universe.

You felt completely cherished. Safe. Whole. You truly believed, in that golden room, that nothing could ever touch you as long as you were in his arms.

Dating Riki was a dream you never wanted to wake up from. He was the most attentive, fiercely loving partner you could have ever imagined. He made it his personal mission to dismantle your hyper-independence piece by piece. He carried your bags, packed your lunches before you left for work, and held you every single time the sky darkened with rain. For three months, you knew what it felt like to be completely cherished.

But by mid-July, something shifted. And this time, it wasn't a mental barrier. It was your body.

It started with an overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix. You would wake up after eight hours of rest feeling like you hadn't slept in days. Then came the mysterious, dark bruises blooming across your shins and arms—bruises you couldn't remember getting. But the most terrifying symptom was the nosebleeds. They came out of nowhere—while you were sitting at your desk at work, or quietly watching TV. Sudden, heavy gushes of crimson that took forever to clot.

You tried to brush it off as severe anemia or stress, but deep down, a cold, instinctual dread was settling into your gut.

On a rainy Tuesday morning while Riki was out at a client site, you finally went to a clinic near your office for a comprehensive blood panel. The doctor had looked concerned by your pale complexion and the visible petechiae—tiny red spots—forming on your skin, promising to call you the moment the results came in.

Two days later, your phone rang during your lunch break. It was the clinic. The doctor's voice was tightly controlled, stripped of all casual pleasantry. “You need to come into the hospital immediately. Bring a family member.”

You went alone. Because even now, faced with an ominous medical emergency, your first instinct was to shield Riki from the panic.

You sat in the sterile, white oncology consultation room, the hum of the air conditioning sounding incredibly loud in the silence. Dr. Choi, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, sat across from you, holding a thick manila folder.

"I'm not going to sugarcoat this," Dr. Choi said softly, leaning forward. "Your blood work showed an extremely high white blood cell count, but those cells are abnormal. They are blasts. Your red blood cells and platelets are dangerously low."

"What does that mean?" you whispered, your hands clamping tightly in your lap to hide how violently they were trembling.

"You have Acute Myeloid Leukemia," Dr. Choi said, the words falling like lead weights into the quiet room. "It is an aggressive cancer of the blood and bone marrow. It's already in an advanced stage, which explains the constant nosebleeds and severe bruising."

The world completely froze. The color drained from your face, your vision blurring as your brain tried to process the words. Leukemia. Cancer.

"We can try aggressive chemotherapy," Dr. Choi continued, her voice sounding far away, as if she were speaking through water. "But because of how rapidly it has progressed, and some genetic markers we found... the survival rate is extremely low. I need to be honest with you. It is highly unlikely you will survive the year. We are looking at palliative care to manage your symptoms and give you comfort."

A cold, suffocating terror wrapped around your throat. You didn't cry. You didn't scream. Your mind immediately went to a single, devastating thought: Riki.

You thought about his bright, beautiful smile when he looked at you. You thought about his architecture career, his dreams, and how incredibly happy he had been since you started dating. If he found out you were dying, it would destroy him. He would throw away his career to sit by your hospital bed. He would become a caretaker for a ghost. You were terrified that the weight of your illness would make him look at you with pity, or worse, that he would realize he couldn't handle it and break up with you to escape the grief.

I want to stay with him, your heart screamed, a desperate, selfish agony tearing through you. I just want to be his normal girlfriend for a little bit longer. I don't want to be a burden.

"Please," you choked out, looking up at the doctor with wild, begging eyes. "Don't tell anyone. Don't write anything to my emergency contacts yet. I need... I need time."

When you finally unlocked the apartment door after leaving the hospital, the scent of the home you shared with Niki hit you like a physical blow. You stood in the entryway, your knees trembling so violently you had to grip the wall to keep from collapsing.

Acute Myeloid Leukemia. The words felt like jagged glass scraping against the inside of your skull. Highly unlikely you will survive the year.

"Sweetheart? Is that you?"

Niki’s voice echoed from the living room, bright and happy. He jogged into the hallway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, a vibrant, beautiful smile lighting up his face. "You're home early! I was just starting on that curry you like—"

He stopped. His smile faltered, his sharp eyes instantly taking in your hollow face, your pale lips, and the sheer, paralyzed terror in your eyes.

"Hey," Niki’s voice dropped, his brow furrowing as he stepped closer, reaching out to cup your face. "What's wrong? You're shaking. Are you sick?"

The touch of his warm hands—the very hands that had mapped your body with sweet kisses just weeks prior—was the absolute breaking point.

A choked, agonizing sob ripped from your throat. You didn't just cry; you shattered. You buried your face into his chest, clutching his t-shirt with a white-knuckled, desperate grip, weeping so violently that your entire frame convulsed. The sheer, suffocating grief of knowing you were going to have to leave him, that you would never grow old with him, that this beautiful boy was going to watch you rot, tore your soul apart.

"Riki... Riki, please..." you wailed, the sound raw and completely broken, echoing off the narrow walls of the hallway.

Niki went entirely pale, a sudden, primal panic freezing his blood. He had never heard you make a sound like that—it was the sound of someone grieving their own life. He wrapped his arms around you, lifting you slightly off your feet as he sank down onto the hallway floor, holding you tightly in his lap as you sobbed against his collarbone.

"I'm here, I'm here, baby, please tell me what happened," Niki begged, his own eyes welling with tears just from the sheer agony of your voice. He rocked you back and forth on the floor, his hands frantically stroking your hair, his heart hammering wildly against your cheek. "Did someone hurt you? Did something happen at work? Talk to me, sweetheart, please, you're scaring me..."

But you couldn't tell him. You just clutched him tighter, your tears soaking through his shirt, swallowing the truth until your throat burned with the taste of copper. You let him hold you, weeping for the future you would never have, while Niki held you in the dark hallway, completely unaware that he was already holding a ghost.

Chapter 5: Cracks in the Porcelain

Hiding a death sentence in a shared two-bedroom apartment was a special kind of torture. For the first few weeks, you managed the impossible through sheer, desperate willpower. You bought heavy-duty concealer to hide the ghost-pale tint of your skin and the dark, violent purple bruises that were now spreading across your collarbones and arms. You wore long sleeves despite the stifling August heat, blaming it on the aggressive office air conditioning.

But your body was fighting a losing war, and the cracks in your porcelain facade were beginning to splinter wide open.

The fatigue wasn't just a heavy weight anymore; it was a physical paralysis. Every step felt like walking through deep, wet cement. Your breath would catch in your throat after merely walking up the short flight of stairs to the apartment, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs as your low red blood cell count struggled to carry oxygen through your veins.

And then, there were the nosebleeds. They were no longer sporadic warnings; they were an everyday reality.

It happened on a Friday evening. Riki had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, humming happily to himself while cooking an elaborate pasta dinner to celebrate his latest architectural design being approved by the city board. The rich, savory scent of garlic and basil filled the warm apartment, a beautiful, domestic contrast to the cold rot eating you alive from the inside out.

"Sweetheart, dinner's ready!" Riki called out, his voice bright and full of life from the kitchen.

You rose slowly from the living room couch, a sudden, violent wave of vertigo hitting you the moment you stood up. The room tilted dangerously, the edges of your vision blurring into a terrifying, static black. You gripped the armrest of the couch, freezing until the world stabilized, forcing a bright, artificial smile onto your face as you walked into the dining area.

"Smells amazing, Riki," you murmured, sitting down across from him.

Riki beamed, immediately plating a portion for you. "I used the specific white wine you like for the sauce. You've been working so hard lately, you look like you haven't been eating enough. I want you to finish the whole plate, okay?"

"I will," you lied softly, picking up your fork.

But as you leaned forward over the table, a sudden, familiar warmth bloomed inside your nasal cavity. Before you could even register the sensation, a heavy, dark crimson drop hit the pristine white ceramic of your dinner plate, splattering directly into the center of the pasta.

Then another. And another.

Your breath hitched in pure panic. You instantly clapped your hand over your nose, but the flow was too heavy, the blood instantly leaking through your fingers, bright red and terrifying under the warm dining room lights.

"Oh my god," Riki gasped, his fork clattering loudly against his plate as his chair screeched backward against the floorboards. In a second, he was across the table, dropping to his knees beside your chair, his face completely pale with shock. "Hey—hey, look at me. Lean forward, don't tilt your head back. What happened?"

"I'm fine, it's just—it's just the dry summer air," you choked out, your voice muffled behind your bloody palm as you frantically reached for the napkin holder. Your heart was racing so fast you could barely breathe, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead. "It happens all the time at the office, Riki, really. I just need to go to the bathroom."

"This isn't just a normal nosebleed, it won't stop," Riki said, his voice rising into a sharp, panicked register as he grabbed a fistful of paper towels, gently pressing them against your nose. His fingers were shaking violently. As he looked closer at your face, away from the blood, his sharp eyes caught the dark circles beneath your concealer, the alarming, translucent pallor of your skin, and the tiny red petechiae spots dusting your neck.

His breath caught. Suspicion, sharp and terrifyingly alert, flashed across his features. "You're freezing. Why are you sweating? Why are you so pale?"

"Riki, please, let me go to the bathroom," you begged, tears of pure frustration and fear finally spilling over your lashes, mixing with the blood on your skin. You pushed his hands away with what little strength you had left, scrambling out of the chair and rushing down the hallway, slamming the bathroom door shut and locking it behind you.

Riki stood frozen in the dining room, his hands caked in your blood, staring at the ruined dinner plate. The pieces of the last month—the long sleeves in August, the constant fatigue, the way you flinched whenever he touched your ribs—suddenly began to align into a horrific, undeniable picture. You weren't stressed. You weren't tired.

You were slipping away from him.

The breaking point arrived three days later, stripping away the last remaining illusions of control.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and a sudden, violent end-of-summer thunderstorm had rolled over the city, casting the apartment into a deep, oppressive gray darkness. The thunder cracked loudly outside, the heavy booms vibrating through the glass windows, but for the first time in your life, you didn't care about the storm. The internal terror in your chest had completely eclipsed your fear of the thunder.

You had tried to walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water while Riki was in his bedroom. You didn't even make it past the threshold.

A sudden, catastrophic wave of dizziness didn't just blur your vision—it completely cut the strings to your limbs. Your knees buckled beneath you without warning, the glass cup slipping from your hand and shattering across the hardwood floorboards as your body collapsed into the dark hallway, your head hitting the wall with a dull, heavy thud.

"Hey! No, no, no!"

A frantic, terrified shout echoed from down the hall. A split second later, Riki was sliding onto his knees beside you in the dark. He didn't care about the shattered glass piercing his skin; his massive, trembling arms instantly hooked under your back and knees, lifting your limp, semi-conscious body off the floor and carrying you into the living room, laying you gently onto the couch.

"Open your eyes, please, sweetheart, open your eyes," Riki begged, his voice cracking completely into a raw, broken sob. He was frantic, his large hands cupping your face, his thumbs desperately wiping away the cold sweat on your forehead. "I'm calling an ambulance. I don't care what you say anymore, we're going to the hospital right now—"

"Riki... no," you whispered hoarsely, your hand weakly reaching up, your fingers clutching the fabric of his black hoodie with a desperate, failing strength. Your vision was slowly returning, focusing on his beautiful, sharp face, which was entirely thoroughly ruined by tears, his chest heaving with an absolute panic. "Don't call them. Please. It won't... it won't help."

Riki froze, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, his eyes wide and dilated with a sudden, suffocating dread. "What do you mean it won't help? You just fainted! You're bleeding from your nose again, you're white as a sheet—what are you keeping from me?!"

A loud, explosive crack of thunder shook the apartment, illuminating the room in a flash of stark, white light. In that flash, you looked at the boy who had carried your heavy bags, who had held you through the dark nights, who had promised to carry the weight of the world for you. And you realized the truth was going to kill him anyway.

"I have leukemia," you choked out, the words finally breaking free from your chest in a ragged, heart-wrenching sob.

The silence that followed within the apartment was louder than the thunder outside. Riki’s phone slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly onto the carpet. His entire body went completely, terrifyingly rigid.

"What?" he breathed, the word barely a whisper, a tiny, fragile sound that tore from his throat. "What did you just say?"

"I have leukemia, Riki," you sobbed, burying your face in your hands as the dam finally burst, months of hidden agony pouring out of you. "The doctor told me a month ago. It's advanced... it's aggressive. I'm not... I'm not going to survive the year. The survival rate is too low."

Riki stared at you, his mind completely short-circuiting, refusing to process the words. "No. No, you're lying. You're making it up. We can get treatment, we can find a better doctor, I'll pay for whatever it takes—"

"There is no treatment that can fix this, Riki!" you cried out, reaching forward to grab his hands, forcing him to look at your purple, bruised wrists. "Look at me! I'm dying! I'm already dying!"

The raw, brutal reality of your words finally smashed through his denial. A dark, devastating look of absolute horror crossed Riki's face, his chest heaving as a strangled, agonizing gasp tore from his lungs. He didn't pull away. He dropped his head onto your shoulder, his broad shoulders shaking violently as he let out a loud, undone groan of pure, unadulterated grief that rattled against your collarbone.

He clutched your body against his chest with a terrifying, bruising intensity, his arms locking around your waist like iron bands, as if he could physically hold your soul inside your body through sheer force of will.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Riki wept openly, his face burying into the crook of your neck, his hot tears soaking through his shirt. He was an absolute, crying mess, his voice a gravelly, broken rasp. "Why would you keep this from me? Did you think I wouldn't care? Did you think I would leave you?!"

"I was scared!" you screamed softly through your own tears, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him as close as humanly possible. "I was so scared you would break up with me because I was broken! I didn't want to be a burden to your career, to your life... I didn't want you to look at me and only see a ghost! I just wanted to be your normal girlfriend for a little bit longer... I wanted to stay with you..."

"You are not a burden!" Riki roared softly against your skin, his grip tightening until you could feel the tight, frantic thrum of his heartbeat. He lifted his head, his face completely wet with tears, his bloodshot eyes burning into yours with a fierce, unyielding intensity that made it impossible to look away. "I don't care about my career! I don't care about the future if you're not in it! I love you! I chose to carry your weight the night I confessed to you, and I am not letting you go now!"

He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a deep, devastatingly sad, and fiercely possessive kiss that tasted like salt and pure heartbreak. It was a kiss that poured every ounce of his soul into yours, a desperate attempt to fight the inevitable.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed flat against yours, his long fingers gently framing your face, wiping away your tears even as his own continued to fall.

"We are going to fight this," Riki whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling but laced with a sudden, unyielding steel. "And if we can't win... then I am going to hold your hand through every single second of it. I'm not leaving your side. You don't have to be independent anymore, sweetheart. Let me carry you to the very end."

You looked into his eyes, seeing the boy who had turned your lonely, self-reliant world completely upside down with nothing but a shared apartment ad and a sweet, responsible heart. The fear of being a burden completely dissolved, replaced by a profound, bittersweet peace.

You didn't have to face the dark alone anymore. As the thunderstorm continued to rage outside, shaking the city walls, you curled tightly into Riki's lap, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart, completely safe in the arms of the boy who would love you for the rest of your forever.