˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ D-kin ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

Her slippers scraped against the pavement, cotton pajama pants flapping around her ankles. "It’s one AM," she muttered, rubbing at an eye with the heel of her palm. "School tomorrow." The protest sounded weak even to her. Mikey just tilted his head, the smirk widening as he tossed her his spare helmet—the one with the faded sticker of a grinning skull she’d always secretly liked.

The engine snarled awake beneath them before she could buckle the chin strap properly. His laugh vibrated through her chest as they peeled away from the curb, her fingers instinctively digging into the sides of his jacket. Tokyo blurred into streaks of neon and shadow, the wind stealing her breath as they wove between taxis and delivery trucks with inches to spare. She should’ve been terrified. So why was her pulse singing?

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Behind the bushes at fourteen, she’d been a mess of scraped knees and snot, hiding from some petty middle school drama. Mikey had vaulted the fence with a juice box in hand—straw already punctured—and plopped down beside her like they’d had plans all along. "Here," he’d said, pressing the cold carton into her palm. "Sweet things fix everything." The lie was so bald-faced she’d hiccuped a laugh through her tears.

It was Mikey, always been Mikey. Since meeting him at the ripe age of fourteen, crying behind the bushes. He just stared down at her. Lollipop in mouth just like how she always saw him with—something artificially cherry-flavored and probably stolen from a convenience store, the wrapper crinkling between his fingers as he studied her like she was a math problem he couldn’t quite solve. Back then, she’d expected pity. Instead, he’d yanked her up by the elbow with a "C’mon, loser," and dragged her to the arcade where they spent hours beating up pixelated thugs until her palms stung and her throat hurt from laughing.

He talked—not the kind of talking people did to fill silence, but the reckless, unfiltered kind that spilled out like he’d forgotten how to hold anything back. About his grandpa’s stupid rules, his brother’s obsession with protein shakes, how he hated the way shoelaces felt when they got wet. And she talked back. About her dad’s terrible cologne, the way her science teacher pronounced "photosynthesis" like it had six extra syllables, how she secretly loved those cheap melon sodas even though they tasted like bubblegum and cancerous.

The gang adopted her faster than she could blink. Draken rolled his eyes when Mikey slung an arm around her shoulders like she was just another extension of him.

Hinata and Emma would drag her to the riverbank with stolen beers and bags of konbini snacks, their laughter echoing as they dared each other to dip toes in the freezing river water.

One thing she absolutely hated was the gang fights. She would’ve thought it through, hanging out with delinquents if they weren’t so fun—if Mikey’s smile didn’t crack wider whenever she landed a decent punch during their impromptu sparring sessions behind the bike shed.

But after that first time she saw him take a crowbar to the ribs and just grin, she’d thrown up in a back alley just at the sheer sound it made and cried so hard her nose bled. Mikey found her curled behind a dumpster, his knuckles still split, blood drying in the creases of his palms.

He didn’t laugh. Just crouched down, pressing his forehead to hers, their breathing syncing until hers slowed. "I’ll be okay," he murmured, voice rough like gravel. "Promise." The lie tasted like the strawberry milk he bought her afterward—cloying and sweet, but she drank it anyway. ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ Baji’s funeral was rain-soaked and silent. Mikey stood statue-still under the black umbrella, fingers curled so tight around the handle she thought it might snap. When she reached for him, he flinched—just once—before letting her tuck herself against his side. The scent of damp earth clung to everything, and somewhere behind them, Draken swore under his breath, kicking a puddle hard enough to splash his own shins.

Emma’s death was worse. There were no fists to throw, no rival gang to burn down for it. Just a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and the way Mikey’s breathing hitched when he pressed his forehead to the cold metal railing of her bed. She found him afterward in the stairwell, methodically crushing a vending machine coffee can between his palms. He didn’t cry until she pried his fingers open, the sharp edges leaving crescent indents in his skin. "You’re bleeding," she whispered. Mikey stared at their tangled hands like he’d forgotten what blood looked like outside a fight. People close to them began to die or disappear like nothing happened, each time it desensitized her. Mikey was already used to it.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ Bonten rose from the wreckage like a car fire—ugly, inevitable, the gasoline smell clinging to Mikey’s jacket when he came home at dawn. She stopped asking where he went. The answers were in the way his knuckles never fully healed anymore, the unfamiliar weight of a gun tucked under their shared pillows. Once, she woke to him scrubbing at his hands in the sink with such violence the water ran pink. He caught her reflection in the mirror and went very still. "Don’t," he said, before she could speak. The faucet dripped between them like a metronome.

She sighed, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades, arms looping around his waist. His ribs felt sharper under her palms than they had last month. Mikey exhaled through his nose, his grip on the sink easing just enough for her to feel the tremble in his fingers. The scent of expensive soap and iron filled her throat. Outside, Tokyo’s skyline blinked indifferently through their grimy bathroom window. "You’re cold," she murmured into his spine. A lie. He burned fever-hot these days, like his body couldn’t decide whether to self-destruct or ignite.

He just scrubbed away. The water turned rust-brown where it spiraled down the drain. His reflection in the mirror was a stranger—eyes flat black, jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars. She watched him catalog his own face like he was checking for damage. The third finger on his left hand wouldn’t straighten all the way anymore; an old fracture healed wrong. He flexed it now, testing the limits, before dunking his hands back under the faucet. "Go back to sleep," he said, voice scraped raw. Another lie. Neither of them had slept properly since the night he came home with someone else’s blood flecked across his eyelashes.

She peeled herself off his back with deliberate slowness, fingertips dragging down the ladder of his ribs. The scar tissue under his shoulder blade—that one was from Baji, back when they were dumb kids playing at being tough—felt raised and knotted under her touch. Her voice was syrup-thick when she leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Only if you come to bed." It came out less seductive than she’d hoped; more exhausted, more desperate. The attempt still made his shoulders hitch—a minute flinch she wouldn’t have caught if she wasn’t molded against him.

This time he followed. Not gracefully—he flicked the bathroom light off with unnecessary force, sending shadows lunging across the peeling wallpaper—but he followed. The mattress groaned under his weight, springs poking through the fabric like accusatory fingers. He kept his back to her, spine a tense curve in the dark. She counted the spaces between his breaths—one, two, three—before pressing her palm between his scapulae. His skin tasted like salt and gunpowder when she pressed her mouth to the knob of his seventh vertebra.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ Mikey exhaled through his nose, a slow, controlled thing. Outside, a neon sign flickered arrhythmically, painting stripes of garish pink across his ribcage. She traced them with her fingernail, feeling the way his muscles twitched under the touch. "Stop," he muttered, but his hand caught hers when she started to pull away, fingers interlacing with bruising tightness. His pulse thudded against her wrist—rabbit-quick, despite the lethargy in his voice.

The ceiling fan wobbled on its axis, casting erratic shadows that made his face look hollowed-out in the dark. He let go of her hand abruptly, rolling onto his back with a creak of protesting springs. Beside him, she watched the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.

"Ridiculous," she scoffed. The word landed between them like a dare. The mattress shifted as she turned her back to him, cotton sheets sticking to the sweat at the small of her back. Behind her, Mikey went preternaturally still—the way he did right before a fight, when his whole body coiled down to its barest essentials.

She counted the seconds by the drip of their leaky faucet in the bathroom. Twelve. Thirteen. The neon glow from the ramen shop across the street painted stripes over the peeling wallpaper, catching on the edge of his shoulder where he hadn't moved an inch.

The springs creaked when she swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold linoleum. "Absolutely fucking ridiculous, Manjiro,"

she muttered into the dark, fingers curling into the mattress edge. Behind her, Mikey inhaled sharply—like he'd been holding his breath since she turned away.

His shadow loomed against the wall as he sat up abruptly, the motion sending a stale breeze wafting over her shoulders. "What do you want," he rasped. Not a question—an accusation, jagged-edged and raw.

She turned just enough to catch the way his fingers dug into his own thighs through threadbare sweatpants, tendons standing out like cables. "You," she repeated, watching his pupils swallow the last slivers of silver from the streetlights outside.

Mikey barked out a laugh that sounded more like a choke, tipping his head back against the wall hard enough to rattle the cheap frame. "That's new," he mused, thumb dragging over the fresh split in his bottom lip—a habit when he was calculating.

She huffed, dragging a hand through her tangled hair. The apartment smelled like stale takeout and gun oil despite her scrubbing every surface raw yesterday.

His favorite beef bowl congealed untouched in the fridge for the third night straight, the fat separating into greasy islands. Even the laundry she'd folded with military precision was still stacked untouched on the dresser, his wrinkled shirts mocking her from the pile.

She didn't hear him move—just registered the sudden heat against her spine an instant before his arms banded around her ribs like live wires. The scent of him flooded her nostrils as his chin hooked over her shoulder.

Mikey inhaled sharply against her collarbone, lips brushing the thrumming pulse point beneath her jaw. He always reminded her of strawberry for some reason —that incongruous sweetness that clung to him no matter how deep he sank into Bonten's underworld.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The scent of sex mixed with the sharp tang of sweat as he rolled off her, forearm draped over his eyes. His ribs heaved under the fading adrenaline, fingers twitching against the sweat-damp sheets like he was counting bullets instead of breaths.

She shifted against the mattress, acutely aware of the sticky mess between her thighs—his, not hers—and the way her pulse still fluttered wildly at her throat. The realization hit like a backdraft: she hadn’t come. Not once. Yet the smug warmth of him pooling low in her gut burned brighter than any orgasm ever had. Proof. Tangible, visceral proof that she could still unravel him, could still make his hands shake when they fumbled with her waistband.

By the third week, she started leaving the bathroom light on—just enough illumination to catch the flecks of blood on his collar when he stumbled in at 4 AM. Sometimes, she swore she could smell gasoline and gunpowder on his knuckles before he even reached for her. He’d always been tactile, but now his touch had a feverish desperation—like he needed the press of her skin to remember what human warmth felt like. The way his fingertips dug bruises into her hips after midnight suggested he still knew how to feel something. Just not how to stop.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Weeks later, he was still the same—but worse. The wads of cash left crumpled in his jacket pockets like forgotten receipts grew thicker, the bills crisp with that telltale chemical smell that meant they'd gone through Bonten's laundering process. She found them when fishing for loose change to buy her favorite bubblegum, the edges stiff with dried blood she pretended not to see. Mikey stayed out longer now, returning only when Tokyo's neon signs flickered off one by one, his motorcycle growling into their shitty apartment complex's parking lot like a wounded animal.

The morning sickness hit her like a truck. She barely made it to the sink before doubling over, bile burning her throat as she spat into the rust-stained porcelain. The phone pressed between her shoulder and ear felt like an anvil. "Seriously, I don't know what to do..." Her voice cracked on the last syllable, fingers trembling around the edge of the sink. Through the grimy bathroom window, she could see Mikey's bike—chrome gleaming under the weak morning sun, the helmet with the stupid skull sticker dangling from the handlebars like a taunt.

The pregnancy test sat on the toilet tank like a grenade with the pin pulled. Two pink lines. She'd checked three times—once when she first woke up with her stomach churning, again after chugging tap water until her bladder ached, a third time just to watch those damning lines reappear with cruel efficiency. The plastic wrapper crinkled in her fist when she crushed it, the sound absurdly loud in the suffocating silence. Outside, a motorcycle engine roared to life—Mikey, always Mikey, revving the throttle like he could outrun the sunrise.

She slid down the bathroom wall until her knees hit the linoleum, the cold tile biting through her pajama pants. The fourth test—the one she'd bought at a konbini three blocks away, paid for with coins fished from the bottom of her bag—stared up at her from the floor. Positive. The sob tore out of her throat raw and jagged, fingers scrambling to muffle the sound before it escaped under the door. Mikey couldn't know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The thought sent another wave of nausea rolling through her, bile stinging the back of her teeth.

The memory of his hands—calloused palms dragging up her thighs that first time, the way he'd paused with his lips hovering over hers like he was waiting for permission—flashed behind her eyelids. She'd been so fucking grateful he'd wanted her at all, drunk on the novelty of his touch after months of watching him orbit her like a dying star. Protection had been the last thing on her mind when he'd finally pressed her into the mattress, his breath hot against her neck as he whispered something that might've been her name or a prayer.

Now she curled tighter around the toilet bowl, arms wrapped protectively over her stomach. The bathroom door rattled—Mikey knocking with his usual impatience—before the knob twisted under his grip. She barely had time to kick the pregnancy test under the sink before he shouldered his way in, smelling like cigarette smoke and something metallic. His gaze skipped over her crumpled form on the floor, landing instead on the toothpaste smeared across the mirror. "You good?" he asked, already turning away to rifle through the medicine cabinet. The question tasted like ashes.

She swallowed the bitter tang rising in her throat and forced a laugh. "Uh yeah. Just food poisoning." The lie settled between them like a brick wall. Mikey paused mid-reach for the Pepto-Bismol, his reflection flickering in the grimy mirror. For a heartbeat, she swore his eyes dropped to where her fingers dug into her abdomen—but then he tossed the bottle at her lap with a shrug.

"Why are you here?" she blurted, catching the medicine clumsily. The plastic rattled like bones in her grip. "Didn't you have some... meeting?" The word tasted wrong—too clean for whatever midnight deals he'd been cutting with Bonten's underbelly. Mikey's shoulders tensed under his jacket, the movement sending a waft of gun oil and burnt rubber through the cramped bathroom.

His reflection smirked in the grimy mirror, all teeth and dead eyes. "Meetings in an hour." He leaned against the sink, deliberately crowding her space until her knees pressed against the tiles. "You look like shit." The observation came out rough, but his fingers were feather-light when they brushed her damp bangs off her forehead.

The sink pipes groaned when she flushed the toilet, the sound drowning out the plastic crinkle as she kicked the pregnancy test further into the shadows. "Gee, thanks." Her laugh tasted like bile and strawberry toothpaste. Mikey's gaze dropped to the medicine bottle trembling in her grip.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

He didn't move—just braced both palms against the sink on either side of her, caging her in without touching. The material of his jacket creaked. "Right, I'll get going now," he murmured, but his knees stayed planted against her thighs. His breath smelled like nicotine and the spearmint gum he chewed to cover it.

She waited until the apartment door clicked shut—until the roar of his bike faded into Tokyo's morning traffic—before fishing the crumpled napkin from her pajama pocket. The number was still legible despite the coffee stains, the ink slightly smudged from where she'd traced it with her thumb all night.

The phone barely rang twice before her mother's voice—sharp with sleep and something like hope—cut through the static. "Hello?”

She curled tighter around herself, knees pressing into the linoleum’s chill, the words clotting in her throat. “Mama,” she whispered, and it came out sounding like she was eight again, scraped knees bleeding through her tights after falling.

Her mother’s sharp inhale crackled through the receiver. “Are you hurt?” The question was a blade—clean, practiced, honed from years of picking up the pieces Mikey left in his wake.

The confession tumbled out in jagged pieces: the nausea, the tests, the way Mikey’s jacket smelled like metal either from the barrel of a gun or the or the iron from someone’s blood when he hugged her. Outside, a motorcycle engine growled three floors down—too early to be him, but her fingers still clenched around the phone.

Her mother exhaled—slow, measured—before dropping the bombshell with terrifying calm. "Your cousin has a spare house in Kagoshima. I’ll talk to him." The line crackled with the weight of unsaid things—

—like how they'd need fake passports, how Mikey's network stretched across prefectures, how Bonten owned customs officials at every major port. But for the first time since those pink lines appeared, her ribs expanded around something other than panic. Hope, warm and syrupy, pooled under her sternum. It was going to be her and the baby. Just them. The bathroom tiles dug into her kneecaps as she pressed a hand to her stomach, imagining tiny fingers curling around hers beneath the skin.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

She played her part flawlessly—leaving lipstick smudges on Mikey's coffee cups, draping herself over his shoulders when he checked his burner phone, laughing too loud at his deadpan jokes. The performance was almost convincing enough to fool herself. At night, she memorized the topography of his knuckles against her cheek, the way his breathing hitched when she traced the fresh scar above his hipbone. Every touch felt like theft. Every kiss tasted like goodbye.

The men in the kitchen froze mid-conversation when she shuffled in, their eyes flickering from her disheveled hair to the bruises peeking above her robe's collar. One of them—Kakucho, maybe—had the decency to look away. Mikey didn't. He watched her with that eerie stillness, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, ash collecting on the countertop like snow. "Go back to bed," he murmured.

She ignored him, padding across the sticky linoleum toward the fridge. "What's going on?" she asked softly, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. The cold milk carton trembled in her grip when she pulled it out. "Why are they here?"

Mikey exhaled smoke through his nose, his reflection warped in the greasy microwave door. "I'm going to be away for a while." The men exchanged glances behind him—somewhere between wary and bored. "Heading west." He took another drag, the cherry flaring briefly in the dim kitchen light. "Business in Osaka."

Her ears perked up—this was the perfect chance. She had to cover her relief with a pout she knew would piss him off. "Again?" she whined, deliberately rubbing sleep from her eyes like she didn't notice the duffel bag stuffed with cash by the door. "You just got back." She let her robe slip off one shoulder—an old trick—and watched his jaw tighten when one of his men cleared their throat.

Kakucho shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between them before muttering, "Boss, well uh—we'll be in the car." The others filed out with the shuffling haste of men who'd seen this routine too many times, their boots scuffing against the threshold like they were fleeing a crime scene. Mikey didn't acknowledge their exit, just ground his cigarette into a chipped saucer with unnecessary force. The silence stretched like a wire between them.

"Two weeks," he finally said, thumb brushing the fresh scab on his knuckle—the one she'd watched him split open against some faceless rival's teeth three nights prior. His gaze flicked to the milk carton trembling in her grip, then away just as fast. "Maybe three."

The hug came sudden—Mikey hauling her against his chest with enough force to slosh milk down her thigh. Cold seeped through her pajama pants as his fingers dug into the small of her back, his chin hooking over her shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of her collarbones through sheer pressure. She inhaled sharply—gunpowder, nicotine, that damn strawberry shampoo he'd been using since middle school—and knew. Knew by the way his pulse rabbited against her temple, by the damp heat of his exhale against her neck. This was the last time.

The door clicked shut at 11:47AM. She counted the seconds by the drip of their leaky faucet—twelve, thirteen—before peeling herself off the fridge where he'd left her.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Her fingers shook when she dialed the number her cousin had texted, the burner phone's plastic casing slick with sweat. "The white van with the dented fender," the driver grunted after two rings, his voice gravel-road rough. "I’ll be outside in five." The line went dead before she could even respond.

The duffel bag smelled like mildew when she yanked it from under the bed—the same one Mikey had tossed there after their last disastrous move, still streaked with mud from the rainy night he'd carried her over the threshold laughing. She stuffed it with essentials first: passports, cash, the ratty stuffed bear he'd won for her at a festival years ago. Her hands moved mechanically, stuffing jeans and tank tops between the gaps like she was packing a wound.

The fifth suitcase nearly toppled when she dragged it down the stairs, wheels catching on the cracked concrete. Through the grimy windows, she spotted the van idling across the street—white with a dented fender just like promised, exhaust curling into the midday heat. A middle aged man in a baseball cap leaned against the hood, typing with one hand while the other drummed against his thigh in a rhythm that matched her pounding pulse.

"Your cousin's friend from law school," the driver explained as he loaded her bags, tossing the duffel onto the passenger seat like it weighed nothing. His knuckles bore faded ink—old gang tattoos blurred by time or laser removal—and the way he glanced at her stomach before slamming the trunk shut suggested he knew more than he'd been told. "Helped him beat an assault charge back in '87." The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever else he might've said about courtroom favors or underworld connections.

She flattened a palm over the barely-there swell beneath her sweatshirt, pressing until she could feel the pulse point in her wrist thrum against taut skin. The movement stirred the scent of Mikey's cologne clinging to the fabric—something citrus-sharp that shouldn't have survived three washings but clung stubbornly anyway, like his fingerprints on her hips or the phantom pressure of his teeth against her neck. The van hit a pothole, jostling her sideways into the door as Kagoshima's city limits blurred past in a streak of convenience stores and dying cherry blossoms.

The driver's cigarette smoke curled around the rearview mirror when he glanced back at her, his eyes lingering on the way her fingers knotted in the fabric over her stomach. "You're sure about this?" he asked, not unkindly, tapping ash out the window with a practiced flick. She didn't answer—just watched the neon signs bleed into farmland through smudged glass, counting telephone poles until her throat stopped burning.

Somewhere past Nagoya, the van's engine developed a hiccup that shook the seats every few kilometers. The driver swore under his breath each time, his grip tightening on the wheel like he could strangle the vehicle into submission. She pressed her forehead to the cool window and imagined Mikey's bike breaking down on some rain-slicked Osaka backstreet—him kicking the chrome fender in frustration, his white knuckles around a burner phone as he tried her disconnected number again and again.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The house smelled unfamiliar, the sliding door sticking halfway when she tried to air it out. Her cousin had left groceries—instant ramen, eggs, a carton of milk with three days left before expiration—and a note tucked under the tea kettle: "Don't answer the door after dark." She traced the letters with her thumb, the paper thin as onion skin, and wondered how many favors her mother had cashed in to secure this much silence.

Her stomach swelled faster than she anticipated, stretching the seams of her cousin's old sweatshirts until the fabric strained across her ribs. The nearest clinic was a forty-minute drive on winding mountain roads, and her cousin's ancient Toyota rattled like a dying animal whenever he took her for checkups. He'd grip the wheel tighter with each pothole, muttering apologies when the jostling made her clutch—his knuckles whitening like he expected Bonten's black cars to materialize around every blind curve.

Her cousin broke the silence one muggy afternoon as she sorted through donated baby clothes, his voice cracking like dry kindling: "He talked to me today." The admission hung between them, thick as the July humidity.

Manjiro? She didn't need to ask—the way her hands froze mid-fold around a tiny onesie said everything. Her cousin nodded, fingers drumming the scratched kitchen table where Mikey's old gang used to play cards. "They've searched everywhere," he muttered, eyes darting to the newspaper left open on the counter—its grainy photo of a Tokyo warehouse fire circled in red. "Told them I don't know anything."

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Mikey's business trip had indeed gone to hell—spectacularly so. The Osaka safehouse explosion made national news, though the reporters called it a gas leak.

The first few nights, he'd called from payphones with coins stolen from dead men's pockets, listening to her old voicemail recording—that stupidly cheerful "Leave a message after the beep!"—until the line cut off. By week two, he assumed she was punishing him for the extended absence, ignoring his calls out of spite while she rearranged their apartment for the umpteenth time.

The silence turned rancid around day nineteen, festering beneath his ribs like a gut wound left untreated. He came home to find her favorite mug still hanging from its hook, the chipped rim stained with her favorite lipstick he could've sworn wasn't there when he left. The realization hit like a sucker punch: she hadn't touched it in weeks. His fingers trembled around the ceramic handle—cold, untouched—before sending it shattering against the wall where their futon used to be.

He tore through the house with the frantic energy of a man dismantling a bomb, upturning couch cushions and clawing at the closet floorboards like she might be folded between the floor slats.

The neighbors reported hearing glass breaking—then silence, then the distinct sound of retching into the kitchen sink at 3AM.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

By dawn, Mikey's men found him sitting cross-legged in the wreckage of what used to be their bedroom, flipping through her abandoned sketchbook with methodical precision. Page after page of half-finished drawings—his profile smudged in charcoal, his hands rendered in ballpoint pen digging into her hips—until the paper gave way to blank sheets. "Boss," Kakucho started, then shut his mouth when Mikey looked up at him.

Her favorite hair tie still dangled from the doorknob where she'd left it three weeks ago, the elastic stretched beyond recognition from when he'd compulsively twisted it around his fingers each night. Now it snapped between his knuckles with a sound like a gunshot. "They took her," he said to no one in particular, thumbing the frayed ends of the elastic. His reflection in the broken mirror above the dresser looked hollowed out—cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, pupils blown wide with something darker than grief. "The only thing left keeping me whole."

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Three years went by. She often thinks about the day her daughter was born. She was alone in the hospital room.

The morning light streamed through the blinds in sharp angles, carving geometric shadows across the hospital floor. She remembers clutching the railing of the bed so tightly that her knuckles turned white, the pain radiating through her body in waves, like the tide coming in and out. There was no one to hold her hand—no frantic calls to Mikey, no panicked messages to old friends. Just her, the nurses, and the rhythmic beeping of the fetal monitor. When they placed her daughter in her arms, tiny and pink and squalling, she felt something inside her break and mend all at once.

Misa babbled nonsense in the backseat of the car now, kicking her tiny feet against the booster seat with the same restless energy Mikey used to have—always moving, always needing to be somewhere. The resemblance was uncanny, from the way her dark eyes sparkled with mischief to the slight furrow of her brow when she was deep in thought.

It was both a comfort and a knife to the gut. Some nights, when the loneliness pressed in too hard, she’d pull out her phone and hover her thumb over Mikey’s old number, her breath hitching in her chest. But then Misa would stir in her sleep, mumbling incoherently, or call out in that sleepy, trusting voice—Mam?—and the moment would pass, leaving her with nothing but the ghost of his absence.

That afternoon, the park was bathed in golden light, the kind that made everything look softer, kinder. Misa’s tiny hand was warm and sticky in hers, gripping with all the trust in the world as she chattered endlessly about the "big kid slide" and the "purple flowers" and the "bird that stole her snack." Y/n nodded along, half-listening, half-drowning in the surreal normalcy of it—picking her daughter up from daycare, walking home through the park, pretending their lives weren’t built on a lie. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of textbooks digging into her shoulder, when she heard it: five photo clicks, one after the other, rapid-fire and unmistakable.

Her gaze snapped up—instinct honed by years of survival—just in time to catch the tail end of movement behind the ginkgo tree. A young man, early twenties maybe, with an unassuming face and a hoodie pulled low. Not dangerous at first glance—until she spotted the ink curling up his wrist, dark as spilled ink, disappearing into his sleeve. A bonten tattoo.

And then before she could take another step, he sped off, his sneakers kicking up gravel as he bolted toward a waiting black sedan idling near the playground exit.

She squeezed Misa's hand tighter, her pulse hammering against the fragile bones of her wrist—too hard.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The entire weekend was spent in a haze of paranoia, jumping at every creak of the house’s old pipes, every scrape of branches against the kitchen window. She slept with a knife under her pillow and Misa curled against her chest, listening for the telltale rumble of motorcycle engines that never came.

Monday morning brought no relief—just the same stiff-necked tension as she buttoned Misa’s overalls, fingers trembling against the tiny fabric straps. The knock came just as she was twisting her wet hair into a bun, three sharp raps that made the kids toothpaste slip from her grip and splatter across the sink. Misa giggled at the mess, oblivious, while her pulse jackhammered against her ribs.

"Go upstairs and stay there," she whispered, pressing a kiss to her daughter's forehead—too quick, too desperate—before nudging her toward the steps. Misa hesitated, eyes widening at her tone, but obeyed with the solemn nod of a child who knew when playtime was over. The knife handle dug into her palm as she backed toward the door, its weight both familiar and foreign, the blade glinting in the sliver of sunlight cutting through the curtains.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The chain rattled when she slid it loose—one link, then another—her breath hitching as she eased the door open just enough to see the silhouette haloed in morning light.

There he was. Thinner, darker circles around his darker eyes. His hair was short and chopped off, uneven at the nape like he'd taken shears to it himself in some motel mirror. Three years had carved new hollows beneath his cheekbones, sharpened the line of his jaw, but the way he held himself—that predatory stillness, coiled like a spring—was undeniably Mikey. His knuckles hovered inches from the wood, frozen mid-knock, rolled sleeves she didn't recognize.

The scent of him hit her like a physical blow—gunpowder and the sharp bite of unfamiliar cologne, undercut by something achingly familiar, something that still lived in the back of her throat after all this time.

She didn’t realize she’d dropped the knife until it clattered against the tile, the sound muffled by the sudden rush of blood in her ears. The door swung open completely on its own, as if her body had decided before her mind could catch up.

The hug was desperate—his arms banded around her ribs with bruising force, her fingers twisting into the unfamiliar fabric of his jacket, his heartbeat hammering against her collarbone like a trapped bird. The smell of him was wrong—some sharp, unfamiliar cologne layered over gunpowder—but the way his breath hitched when she buried her face in his neck was achingly, terrifyingly the same.

Misa’s high-pitched "Ma?" from the staircase shattered the moment like glass. Mikey went rigid against her, his hands spasming against her back before slowly, deliberately pulling away. His gaze flicked over her shoulder—landing on the tiny figure clutching the banister with wide, curious eyes—and the raw horror in his expression mirrored her own.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

"You came." The words slipped out before she could stop them, breathless and raw. Her sneakers skidded against the pavement as she crossed the distance between them in three strides, arms locking around his waist like she could fuse them together through sheer force.

Izana stiffened, his cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers. The burned-out streetlamp overhead flickered, casting jagged shadows across the sharp lines of his face. "Uh—yeah. Why wouldn’t I?" His voice hitched somewhere between irritation and something softer, his free hand hovering awkwardly before patting her shoulder twice. Like he was swatting a fly.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, pressing tighter against him. His jacket smelled like smoke and gasoline, with something metallic underneath—probably the switchblade he never went anywhere without. Her fingers dug into the fabric. "Because you always do," she muttered, quieter now. "Like last week when you stood me up at the arcade. And the time before that, when you—"

Izana clicked his tongue and jerked his chin toward the alley’s dark mouth, where a rusted chain-link fence rattled in the wind. "I told you, I was busy. You know how it is." He took a long drag, the cherry flaring bright enough to illuminate the scar cutting through his eyebrow. A pause, then he flicked the cigarette into the snow, where it hissed and died in a wet, gray smear. "But I’m here now, aren’t I?"

Y/N’s fingers twitched toward his face before she caught herself. "Shit, Zana—that’s a nasty scar," she breathed, her voice cracking halfway through. The wound was fresh, still pink and puckered, trailing down his temple like a jagged lightning bolt. She could smell the faint tang of antiseptic under the smoke, bitter and medicinal.

Izana tilted his head away, his sneakers scuffing against the cracked concrete as he started walking. "Eh. It’s nothing." He shrugged, too casual, too practiced, but his jaw clenched when her fingertips grazed his sleeve. The alley swallowed them whole, shadows licking at their ankles like hungry strays.

Y/N ducked in front of him, forcing him to stop. "So how come you’re so busy?" Her voice was sharp, but her fingers curled loose around his wrist, thumb pressing against the raised veins. "Too good for me?" She said it like a joke, but something bitter lined the edges. The wind snatched her breath away, turning it into a ghost between them.

Izana’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, more like he’d bitten into something sour. "Ain’t that the question," he muttered, low enough she had to lean in. His breath smelled like tobacco and winter, warm against her cheek. Then, softer, almost lost in the howl of the wind: "Y/N." Just her name, rough and worn smooth at the edges, like he’d been turning it over in his mouth all night.

She huffed, rolling her eyes. "Izana," she mocked back, pitching her voice lower, rougher, until it was a near-perfect imitation of his.

He just sighed and grabbed her hand, fingers rough and warm against hers, hoping the contact was enough to satisfy her. The pads of his fingers were calloused, jagged edges scraping against her skin—like he’d been clenching his fists too tight for too long. Y/N’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she curled her fingers tighter around his.

The bench was cold beneath them, flecked with peeling paint and the faintest dusting of snow. Izana slumped down, stretching his legs out in front of him, boots scuffing against the pavement. He tilted his head back, staring at the flickering streetlamp like it held some answer he couldn’t find. Y/N sat beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together, the heat between them sharp against the biting wind.

"I…I’m sorry I stood you up." The words came out rough, like he’d dragged them over gravel. He swallowed hard, jaw working before he forced out the rest. "I’ve been busy with the gang…and all." A muscle in his cheek jumped. "Still, I should make more time for you." It sounded like an admission, something pried loose from deep inside—ugly and raw.

Y/N’s breath caught. The hope flared hot and sudden, curling in her chest like smoke. She turned her face toward his, searching the sharp angles of his profile—the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones in the flickering light. His fingers tightened around hers, almost painful.

Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, finally turning to look at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his thumb traced a slow circle over her knuckles—the barest admission. "And I guess I’m serious about you," he muttered, voice rough as gravel. The words hung between them, almost drowned out by the distant wail of a police siren.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Y/N’s pulse stuttered. She leaned in, close enough to count the faint scars along his jawline, close enough to taste the nicotine on his breath. "Serious enough to leave?" she whispered. The question hovered, fragile as the ice crystals forming on the bench beneath them.

Izana frowned. Leave? He looked around—at the graffiti-streaked walls, the busted streetlight flickering like a dying heartbeat, the empty lot where he gave her her first cigarette after she begged him for one. Leave where? His grip on her hand went slack for a second, fingers twitching like he was already reaching for something she couldn’t see. "The fuck you mean?" he rasped, but there was no heat in it—just the jagged edge of something unraveling.

Y/N swallowed hard and leaned closer, until their foreheads nearly touched. The wind howled through the alley, tearing at their clothes, but she barely felt it. "You know what I mean," she said, softer now, pressing her thumb into the pulse point of his wrist—fast, too fast. "Not you alone. I mean—" Her breath hitched, and she squeezed his hand tighter. "Leave with me."

Izana blinked, slow, like he was processing her words through syrup. His exhale curled between them, white and fleeting. "Like marry you?" he asked, voice flat, but his fingers flexed against hers like he was testing the shape of the words in his mouth.

"No, not marry me." Y/N scoffed, but her ears burned. She flicked her thumb against his pulse point again—too quick, too alive. "Just… sounds fucking stupid but—" She swallowed, her throat clicking. "You know, run away with me?" The words tumbled out half-formed, raw as a fresh scrape.

Izana stared at her—dead-eyed, unreadable—before his lips twitched. Then he started laughing, shoulders shaking with it, sharp and sudden like a misfiring engine. He shook his head, the motion rough enough to dislodge snow from his hair. "Oh, the look on your face, y/n…" He exhaled, still grinning, reaching into his jacket for another cigarette. "It’s adorable, really." The lighter clicked, flame carving shadows into the hollows of his cheeks.

Y/N recoiled like she'd been slapped. "See? I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously!" She shoved at his shoulder—hard—but he barely budged, still chuckling as he exhaled smoke through his nose. Her chest burned, raw and hollow, nails biting crescents into her palms. "Fuck you," she spat, voice cracking. "You think this is funny?"

Izana's grin faltered. He watched her through the haze, cigarette dangling between his fingers, the amusement draining from his face as she stood abruptly, snow crunching under her boots. "Look," he murmured, catching her wrist before she could storm off, thumb pressing into the frantic flutter of her pulse. "I don’t know why you’re getting all worked up." His voice was softer now, rough at the edges like worn leather, and his grip wasn’t tight—just enough to keep her there.

"Because I hate this stupid fucking place!" Y/N wrenched her arm free, voice cracking against the brick walls. "Bunch of fucking assholes!" She kicked at a crumpled soda can, sending it skittering across the ice with a metallic clatter. Her breath came in sharp bursts, fogging the air between them. "You don’t get it—every goddamn day, it’s the same shit. The gang, your stupid turf wars, lying to my face about where you’ve been—"

Izana blinked, slow, deliberate, like he was deciphering code. "Wait," he interrupted, voice low and rough. "So this is about me?" His cigarette hovered forgotten between his fingers, ash crumbling onto his boot.

Y/N's breath hitched—sharp, wet—before she spun away, pressing the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. "Fuck," she muttered, voice cracking down the middle. The streetlamp flickered again, casting her shadow long and jagged against the graffiti-smeared wall. "Yeah, Izana, it’s about you." Her shoulders hunched, like she was bracing for impact. "You say you’re serious—you say you’re sorry—" A ragged inhale. "Bullshit."

She took off without waiting for his reply, boots crunching through slush and broken glass. The alley blurred at the edges—fuck, she wasn’t crying—but her ribs ached like she’d swallowed shrapnel. Behind her, Izana swore under his breath, the bench screeching as he shoved to his feet. "Y/N—" His voice was closer now, rough with something she couldn’t name.

A hand closed around her elbow, dragging her back so hard her shoulder blades hit his chest. His breath was hot against her temple, uneven. "Stop." His thumb dug into the soft skin of her inner arm—not painful, just urgent. "Just—fuck—without the screaming," he rasped, voice cracking on the last word. "Tell me what you mean."

She swallowed, throat clicking. The wind bit at her damp cheeks, but she didn't pull away. "There’s more for us," she whispered, the words barely audible over the distant wail of a train whistle. Izana's grip loosened slightly, fingers twitching against her sleeve like he wanted to let go but couldn't. "We can be more." Her voice was steadier now, edged with a quiet ferocity that made his breath hitch. "You’re like the only person I’ve ever talked to—really talked to—and honestly I…" A pause, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "I want something more out of this."

Izana let out a slow breath, nose brushing against the shell of her ear—close enough that she could feel the shudder that ran through him. "More," he repeated, voice dull, like he was tasting the shape of it for the first time. It wasn’t a question. His fingers tightened again, pressing crescent moons into her skin. "You’re fucking insane," he muttered, but his lips grazed her temple—accidental, or maybe not.

Y/N just looked up at him, tears pricking her eyes, cold air turning the moisture to icy pinpricks before they could fall. His hair matched the snow behind him—that same stark, unnatural white, catching the weak light like frosted wire. And his eyes—those fucking eyes—were special in the worst way: pupils blown too wide, swallowing the orchid until there was nothing left but a ring of bruised color. She wrenched free, shoving him back hard enough to make him stagger.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

She didn’t wait to see if he followed. The soles of her boots slapped against wet pavement, slipping once on black ice before she caught herself and kept running. The ache in her chest wasn’t just anger—it was something sicker, something rotting. She’d hoped, hadn’t she? Stupid. Behind her, the scrape of boots on concrete stopped. He didn’t follow.

Her apartment door swung shut with a bang that rattled the cheap frame. The bedsprings groaned under her weight as she collapsed face-first onto the mattress, fingers twisting into the threadbare sheets. The tears came hot and ugly, stinging her cheeks—she wiped furiously at them, smearing snot and salt across her skin. Fuck him. Fuck his stupid laugh, his rough hands, the way he’d looked at her like she was speaking in tongues when she asked him to leave with her. She’d known better than to trust a delinquent’s promises.

The streetlight outside her window flickered, casting jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Y/N rolled onto her back, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes until colors burst behind her lids. Her friends’ voices echoed in her skull—warnings about boys who swore they were different, who swore they’d change, only to vanish when things got messy. She’d rolled her eyes at them, smug in the certainty that Izana wasn’t like that. Stupid.

Morning came too soon, gray and bitter through the blinds. She pulled her uniform jacket tighter, knuckles brushing against the cigarette burn on the sleeve—his, from weeks ago, when he’d tugged her too close and the ember had caught. The burn had left a hole, edges curled inward like a hungry mouth. She shoved her hands into her pockets and walked faster.

The school day blurred—teachers’ voices droned behind her like distant radio static, friends’ laughter splintering against her ears like glass. Someone nudged her shoulder at lunch, teasing about the circles under her eyes. Y/N forced a grin, bit into her sandwich too hard, and pretended like the whole thing didn’t taste like ash. The bell rang. She walked home slow, dragging her boots through the slush just to hear it crunch.

And then she saw it—his bike, chrome gleaming dull under the flat afternoon light, parked haphazardly in front of her apartment building like he’d thrown the kickstand down mid-stride. The sight alone punched the breath from her lungs. But it wasn’t just the bike that froze her—it was Izana himself, slumped against the wall beside her front door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. No gang colors, no leather jacket, just a thin black hoodie and ripped jeans. He looked… smaller somehow, stripped of his usual armor, hair unstyled and falling into his eyes.

She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, heart hammering against her ribs. Izana looked up at the sound of her footsteps, his expression raw, unguarded—nothing like the sharp-edged smirk he wore like a second skin. His lips parted, but nothing came out; instead, he just pushed off the wall, slow, deliberate, like he was afraid any sudden movement might make her bolt. The silence between them was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the distant wail of a train whistle.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Y/N clenched her fists, nails digging half-moons into her palms. "Why are you here?" she hissed, voice trembling with something too jagged to be anger alone. "How many times do I have to tell you that my parents—"

"Yeah yeah. Your parents are strict and all that shit." Izana waved a hand dismissively, his usual smirk absent. He exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping like the words were dragging him down. "Listen, I thought about what you said." His voice was low, rough, stripped of its usual bravado—just raw syllables hanging between them.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping one loose before tossing the pack aside like it was suddenly useless. "I’ve got an extra helmet," he muttered, nodding toward the bike, his fingers flexing around the cigarette like he wasn’t sure what to do with it now that he had it. "My friend owns this shitty little beach house. Told me I could use it if I want." His eyes flicked up to hers, dark and unreadable. "So… yeah."

Y/N’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the straps of her bag until the cheap plastic dug into her palms. The wind howled down the street, carrying the scent of snow and gasoline, and for a second, she wondered if she’d imagined the words. "You’re joking," she said flatly, but her pulse was wild, erratic—like a cornered thing.

Izana tilted his head, cigarette dangling between his lips, unlit. "Do I look like I’m joking?" His voice was rough, sandpaper-soft, but his eyes—those fucking eyes—were wide, almost pleading in a way she’d never seen before. He gestured vaguely toward the bike, the extra helmet balanced precariously on the seat. "It’s got a heater. Probably."

Y/N swallowed hard, throat clicking. The apartment behind him loomed like a prison—her mother’s shrill voice still ringing in her ears from this morning’s fight about whatever the fuck, about responsibility, about how she was throwing her life away. Her fingers trembled. Twenty in three months, and what did she have? A shoebox room, all the shit she should’ve but never got to experience as a teen haunting her and Izana’s stupid, beautiful face waiting like a dare.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "So what do I do—pack a bag?" Her voice cracked on the last word, half-laugh, half-sob. The absurdity of it hit her like a punch—how many times had she fantasized about this exact moment? The running away, the reckless abandon, the way his hands would feel under her shirt—but now that it was here, her legs wouldn’t move.

Izana shrugged, flicking the cigarette away unlit. "The biggest one you got. Pack multiple—I’ve got room." His fingers twitched toward his pocket again, like he wanted another smoke but knew better. Instead, he jerked his chin toward her apartment. "Fifteen minutes," he said, voice low. "Or I leave without you."

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She shoved past him and threw open the door—her mother’s screech from the kitchen barely registered—and bolted straight for her room. She grabbed the duffel bag stuffed in her closet, dumping textbooks onto the floor with a thud. The zipper screamed as she yanked it open, and then she was shoving clothes inside—jeans, sweaters, underwear still warm from the dryer—in messy handfuls. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it wanted out.

The bathroom was next. She knocked over a bottle of perfume—her mother’s favorite, some floral shit—and watched it spill across the countertop with a sick satisfaction. Razor. Toothbrush. The half-used tube of strawberry lip gloss Izana had once smirked at before kissing it off her mouth. She stuffed it all in, along with the crumpled bills from her emergency jar The duffel bulged, straining at the seams.

Izana was straddling the bike now, engine idling, the extra helmet dangling from his grip. Snowflakes caught in his lashes, melted instantly where they landed on the scar above his eyebrow. He didn’t smile. Just held out the helmet.

She tossed the duffel at him—hard—but he caught it one-handed, fingers curling tight around the canvas like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact weight. The duffel looked stupid slung across his chest, bulging with the jagged shapes of her desperation, but he didn’t even glance down at it. Just jerked his chin toward the seat behind him.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Y/N hesitated—heart hammering, knuckles white around the helmet strap—before swinging her leg over the bike. The vinyl seat was icy through her skirt, the metal frame vibrating under her thighs like something alive. Izana twisted his wrist, throttle roaring to life beneath them, and she barely had time to loop her arms around his waist before they lurched forward.

The city blurred past—streets she’d walked her whole life shrinking into smears of neon and concrete, the wind howling in her ears until it drowned out everything but the pulse of the engine and the heat of Izana’s back against her chest. She pressed closer, nose buried in the worn fabric of his hoodie, inhaling gasoline and snow and the sharp musk of his skin. His muscles tensed under her grip as they leaned into a turn, the bike tilting dangerously close to the asphalt, but she didn’t flinch. Five minutes? Fifty? Time dissolved into the hum of tires on wet pavement, the occasional brush of his thumb over her wrist where it gripped his stomach—small, secret reassuances.

Then the ocean hit her like a slap—salt and rotting seaweed, the metallic tang of storm-churned waves crashing against jagged rocks. The beach house crouched at the end of a cracked, weed-choked driveway, its peeling blue siding bleached gray by years of sun and salt spray. The porch sagged drunkenly to one side, littered with crushed beer cans and the charred remains of a bonfire pit. One shutter hung by a single nail, clattering in the wind like a broken bone.

Izana killed the engine, and the sudden silence rang in her ears. The cold sank into her bones—deeper than winter, deeper than the wind howling off the water—as he dismounted with a grunt, tossing the duffel onto the warped steps. "Fuck," he muttered, breath curling white between them. "It's colder than I thought." His fingers trembled slightly as he fumbled with the rusted lockbox where the key was supposed to be, swearing under his breath when it yielded nothing but a spider's nest.

Y/N exhaled sharply, watching her breath plume in the air. The keyhole was crusted with salt, the knob loose in its socket, and Izana's frustration bled into the way he jammed his shoulder against the door—once, twice—before it groaned open with a splintering crack. The darkness inside yawned, smelling of mildew and stale beer. He hesitated on the threshold, fingers tightening around the broken knob like he was reconsidering.

"Tadaa!" he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm as he gestured grandly into the gloom, the wind whipping his hoodie into frantic flutters. "Isn't it fucking great." The words were jagged, but his grin was sharp, half-hidden by the shadows creeping over his face. Behind them, the surf roared, relentless.

The house smelled like old cigarettes and the ghost of spilled bourbon—nothing like the crisp salt air outside. The floorboards groaned underfoot, sticky under her shoes in places where beer had dried into tacky puddles. A single moth-eaten armchair slumped in the corner, its stuffing erupting like grey innards, and the kitchenette was just a hot plate and a mini-fridge crusted with something unidentifiable. The whole place felt like the carcass of a party that had died violently years ago, the walls still vibrating with the echoes of someone else's bad decisions.

Y/N dragged the duffel toward the bedroom—if you could call it that. The mattress was bare, its stained surface cratered from years of neglect, and the single grimy window let in just enough light to highlight the dust motes swirling like plankton in murky water. She bit her lip, peeling off her jacket to use as a makeshift dust rag, scrubbing at the sill until the fabric came away gray. It was stupid, this compulsion to clean—like polishing a sinking ship—but she needed to do something with her hands before they started shaking again.

Izana appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim hallway bulb, holding out a battered suitcase with a jagged gash along one side. "Brought a couple blankets," he muttered, flexing his fingers where the broken handle had bitten into his palm. They were the cheap kind—thin polyester with fraying edges—but he shook them out with exaggerated care, draping one over the bed like it was fucking satin. "Better than nothing," he added gruffly, avoiding her eyes as he tossed the second blanket at her feet.

Y/N caught it mid-air, fingertips grazing the scratchy fabric. The question burned behind her teeth—how many nights would they huddle under these ratty squares, listening to the sea gnaw at the cliffs outside?—but the way Izana's shoulders tensed told her he didn't have an answer. Or didn't want to give one. She pressed her lips together, watching him jam the broken suitcase against the door to keep it shut, his movements sharp with a restless energy that made the cramped room feel even smaller.

The drawers stuck when she yanked them open, their warped wood screeching protest as she dumped armfuls of clothes inside. The vanity mirror was clouded with grime, reflecting her fractured image back in streaks—dark circles under her eyes, hair wild from the ride, lips chapped raw from biting them. She swiped at the glass with her sleeve, smearing the filth into greasy arcs. "A week?" she ventured, voice too loud in the hollow space between them. The strawberry lip gloss clattered onto the chipped surface, rolling toward the edge before she caught it. "Or just until your gang stops looking?"

Izana’s fingers paused on the zipper of his hoodie, knuckles whitening. The wind howled through a crack in the window frame, fluttering the thin curtain like a ghost’s breath. "It’s not about the gang, y/n." His voice was low, rougher than the sea outside. He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the pulse jumping in his throat, the way his eyelashes cast spidery shadows down his cheeks when he blinked. "It’s about you." His breath hitched—barely there, but she caught it. "And us."

She froze, fingers curling into the blanket’s frayed edge. The heater groaned to life somewhere deeper in the house, pipes rattling like old bones, but the cold in the room had nothing to do with the temperature. Izana’s gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then flicked away as he turned toward the door. "I’ll go fix the heating," he muttered, already halfway out. "You get comfortable." The suitcase-blocked door creaked as he shoved past it, leaving her with the sound of his retreating footsteps and the too-loud thud of her own heart.

Y/N exhaled sharply, kneeling beside the battered suitcase—his—and flipping the latches with trembling fingers. The hinges groaned open to reveal a mess of folded shirts and crumpled jeans, half-stuffed around a chipped ashtray and a dog-eared paperback. She lifted a sweatshirt, holding it up to the dim light; the fabric smelled like gasoline and Izana’s cheap cologne, sleeves frayed at the cuffs from where he’d chewed them absentmindedly. A stray bullet casing rolled out from between the folds, clattering onto the floorboards. She stared at it, throat tightening.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Without thinking, she grabbed a fistful of his socks—mismatched, all black, his boxers and white wife beaters—and stuffed them into the bottom drawer beside her own underwear and night clothes. The act felt stupidly intimate, like she was carving out space for him in this rotting house, in her life. His toothbrush clattered into the cracked plastic cup next to hers, handles knocking together like they were conspiring. The bathroom mirror reflected the pair back at her—his bristles splayed from being jammed into his pocket, hers still pristine with its pink cap. Something hot and jagged lodged behind her ribs.

Y/N dumped the suitcase upside down—sending stray guitar picks and crumpled receipts fluttering to the floor—and froze. At the bottom, half-hidden beneath a torn concert ticket, sat a lime green iPod nano, its scratched surface sticky with old soda residue.

The bullets came first—three of them, rolling across the warped floorboards with a dull clatter before she caught one between her fingers.

Then came the iPod, its lime-green surface flashing as it tumbled from the suitcase, landing with a plastic thud near her knee. The condoms followed—a half-crushed strip of Trojans still in their foil wrappers, the expiration date barely visible under the dust. Y/N stared at them, pulse hammering against her ribs, before snatching them up so fast the air hissed between her fingers.

The memory hit like a backdraft—his room smelling of sweat and damp laundry, Izana's teeth catching her earlobe as his fingers fumbled with the wrapper, both of them too frantic to be graceful. That first disastrous attempt flashed hot behind her eyelids: his frustrated groan vibrating against her inner thigh, the unforgiving stretch that had left them panting and sore-fingered, his muttered "fuck" against her collarbone when she'd winced. They'd laughed afterward, shaky with adrenaline and failure, mouths sticky with each other's spit.

Now, her fingers trembled around the condoms, the foil crinkling ominously in her grip. The iPod's cracked screen blinked up at her like an accusation—she'd spent weeks after that night scrubbing her thighs raw in the shower, jumping at shadows whenever she crossed paths with any of Izana's gang members, terrified they'd smell his fingerprints on her skin. Even now, her pulse stuttered at the phantom sensation of his hands gripping her hips too tight, pulling her onto his lap with that stupid smirk like he knew exactly how wrecked she'd been.

She exhaled sharply through her nose and chucked the strip of Trojans onto the left nightstand—his side—where they landed with a soft tap against the warped wood next to his half-empty bottle of Axe body spray. The iPod clattered onto the right one, her side, beside the tube of stolen strawberry lip gloss. There. Boundaries drawn. Lines in the sand. No more desperate fumbling in alleyways or hurried trysts in unlocked storage rooms—if they were doing this, they were doing it right.

The heater finally wheezed to life somewhere in the walls, sending a shudder through the ancient pipes. A gust of warm air swirled the dust motes into frantic spirals above the bed. Y/N stared at the condoms, teeth digging into her bottom lip until copper bloomed on her tongue. She could already picture the way his fingers would curl around the wrapper—slow, deliberate, those calluses catching on the foil—and the thought alone sent a hot pulse between her thighs. Stupid. She grabbed a stray sock and flung it at the nightstand like it offended her. It missed, of course.

Footsteps creaked in the hallway—too heavy to be anything but his. Izana lingered in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, grease smeared across his knuckles from fiddling with the heater. His gaze flicked from the scattered contents of his suitcase to her flushed cheeks, then to the Trojans gleaming mockingly on his nightstand. A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. "What’re you doing?" he drawled, voice soft with amusement.

Y/N startled, nearly knocking over the cracked plastic cup holding their toothbrushes. "Shit! U-uh just putting away our stuff," she stammered, shoving a crumpled t-shirt back into the drawer with unnecessary force. His socks were still tangled in her fingers—one black, one navy, the elastic worn loose from being tugged off in haste too many times.

Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders rolling under his damp hoodie. "Heaters fixed," he muttered, wiping greasy hands on his jeans before realizing they were just smearing the stains deeper. "We should, uh, be set for the night." His voice sounded odd—too tight, like he'd swallowed something bitter. The words hung between them, stiff and awkward as the unfamiliar space.

Y/N snatched her sleep tee off the bed, fabric slipping through her fingers twice before she got a proper grip. "I'm gonna go… um, change," she blurted, already sidestepping toward the bathroom. The door groaned shut behind her, latch clicking with finality. The mirror reflected her rapid pulse in the hollow of her throat, the way her fingers trembled as they yanked her sweater over her head. Cold air hit her exposed stomach, raising goosebumps despite the heater's distant rumble.

Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, peeling his damp hoodie off in one rough motion. The fabric caught on his elbow—still tender from last week's fight—and he swore, tossing it toward the corner where it landed with a wet slap. His fingers hesitated at the hem of his shirt before dragging it up, revealing the jagged scar above his ribs where Y/N's name would be tattooed if he believed in permanence. The joggers hung low on his hips as he knelt to rummage for socks, fingers brushing the condoms instead. The foil crinkled under his touch, warm from her grip.

He just blinked and knocked on the door—three sharp raps that rattled the flimsy wood—before realizing how stupid it was to knock on his own damn bathroom door. His knuckles hovered mid-air, pulse too fast for the soft "Yeah?" muffled through the plywood. The sink squeaked off, water dripping into the rust-stained basin. He could picture her there, bare legs against the cracked linoleum, sleepshirt clinging to the damp hollow between her shoulder blades where she'd scrubbed too hard.

"Get out," he rasped, pressing his forehead against the doorframe as the scent of spearmint toothpaste leaked under the gap. "I need to brush my teeth." The lie tasted stale—his toothbrush was still jammed in his backpack by the bed, forgotten in their frantic unpacking. But he needed an excuse, any excuse, to see her emerge flushed from the steam, to catch the way her sleepshirt rode up when she stretched to grab the towel.

The door creaked open before he could retreat. Y/N stood there with damp tendrils of hair clinging to her neck, lips shiny from the lip gloss she’d reapplied out of habit. His gaze snagged on the smear of pink at the corner of her mouth. "Your turn," she murmured, stepping past him with deliberate slowness, her bare arm brushing his chest—warm, damp, smelling of generic hotel soap and something faintly sweet.

She just sighed and plopped down on the bed, the ancient springs groaning under her weight as she flopped backward, limbs splayed like she’d been dropped from a great height. The hem of her sleepshirt rode up, revealing the sharp jut of her hipbone and the faded stretch marks along her inner thigh—proof of a body that had grown too fast in all the wrong places. The ceiling above her was water-stained in the shape of a screaming face, peeling plaster threatening to collapse if someone breathed too hard.

Izana emerged from the bathroom with his toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth, foam dripping down his chin as he surveyed the wreckage of their temporary lives—her duffel gaping open like a gutted fish, his socks strewn across the floor like roadkill. "Jesus fucking Christ, Izana," she yelled from the bed, voice cracking on his name as she flung an arm over her eyes. "We have to find an apartment or something!" The last word dissolved into a groan as a chunk of plaster chose that moment to land on her stomach with a soft thud.

He spat into the sink—missing spectacularly—and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, watching her pick plaster crumbs off her shirt with an expression caught between exhaustion and something hotter. "You wanna test the bedsprings before we commit to property damage?”

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

She kicked out blindly, bare heel connecting with his thigh. “Fuck are you talking about?” The mattress groaned when he caught her ankle, calloused thumb pressing into the delicate tendon as he dragged her toward the edge. His knees hit the floorboards with a thud that shook the nightstand, sending the condoms skittering closer to the edge.

Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, breath warm where it ghosted over her inner thigh. “You put ‘em right where I’d see ‘em.” His teeth grazed the stretch marks she hated, blunt and punishing. “Like you wanted me to.” The accusation vibrated against her skin, his grip tightening when she tried to twist away.

Y/N’s breath hitched—too loud in the hollow quiet between them. She’d shoved them on the nightstand like a challenge, like she wasn’t still half-convinced this would end with another round of frustrated fumbling and bitten-off curses. “No, no. I didn’t—” Her protest dissolved into a gasp when his thumb hooked under the waistband of her panties, dragging them down just enough to expose the flutter of her pulse. “I don’t know where you’d usually put them so I—”

Izana’s laugh was dark, vibrating against her skin as he pressed a kiss to the crease of her thigh. “Bullshit.” His tongue darted out, tracing his hand along her sides, and something hot and shameful coiled low in her gut. The foil crinkled when he snatched the condom packet, tearing one off with his teeth like he’d done it a thousand times. Maybe he had. The wrapper gleamed in the dim light as he rolled it between his fingers, watching her chest rise and fall too fast. “You wanted me to see.”

Y/N swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the scratchy blanket as he hovered over her, knees bracketing her hips. His gaze burned—not playful, not teasing, just raw and hungry in a way that made her pulse stutter. The condom landed on her stomach with a soft tap, cold against her overheated skin. “Do you wanna do this or—” His voice cracked, rough as the waves outside, “—or are we gonna keep pretending?”

She exhaled sharply—half a sob, half something worse—and turned her face toward the water-stained wall. Nodded once. Hard. The mattress groaned as Izana shifted, his exhale ruffling her hair when he leaned down to press his forehead against her shoulder. His fingers trembled against her hipbone as he tugged her panties down.

"Wait." Y/N shoved up onto her elbows, heartbeat slamming against her ribs. The condom slipped from her stomach onto the sheets. "I wanna be on top." She darted out from under him before he could protest, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. Her fingers shook as she snatched the foil packet, ripping it open with her teeth. The latex smelled bitter, unfamiliar in her hands as she rolled it down his length—too slow, too clumsy—but Izana didn't laugh even though he wanted to. His hips jerked when her thumb brushed the tip, a punched-out breath escaping through clenched teeth.

"Are you sure—" He caught her wrist, fingers tight enough to bruise. His pulse jumped under her fingertips. "Since you're not as exper—"

"Yes." She pressed the word into his collarbone, teeth scraping skin. The condom stretched tight when she rolled it down—too tight—but she didn't stop until it hugged his base, her knuckles brushing wiry hair. Her knees dug into the mattress as she straddled him properly, heat pooling where their bodies barely touched. "I'm sure."

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The shirt came off in one sharp motion—cotton catching on her elbows before she shoved it away, not daring to meet his gaze. Goosebumps prickled across her bare stomach, pebbling her nipples in the damp air. His breath hitched when she rocked forward.

She sank down with a gasp—too fast, too much—her inner thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips. The stretch burned, sharper than she remembered, her muscles clenching reflexively around him. Izana’s fingers dug into the soft flesh above her knees, blunt nails leaving crescent indents as she bottomed out. A ragged sound tore from his throat when she twitched—her involuntary flinch from the unfamiliar fullness—but he didn’t move.

His gaze tracked her every hitch of breath, every flutter of her lashes, like she was some chemical reaction he couldn’t predict. The wood paneling bit into his shoulder blades where he’d been shoved against the headboard, but the discomfort barely registered—not with her heat strangling him, slick and tight in a way that made his pulse stammer. She shifted experimentally, her thighs quivering as she lifted herself halfway up before sinking again, slower this time.

"Ah—Izana…" His name fractured against her lips, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slick chest. He barely recognized his own groan, rough and punched-out, when she rolled her hips in a tentative circle. The friction sparked hot up his spine, his hands jerking from her knees to her waist, fingertips pressing into the soft give of her skin until he was sure she’d bruise.

She whimpered—high and desperate—leaning forward to brace her palms against the headboard, strands of hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. The shift in angle made her gasp, her back arching sharply as her thighs trembled. He could feel her pulse thudding where she clenched around him, her breath coming in short, wet bursts against his collarbone.

Izana’s grip slid up to her ribs, thumbs pressing into the soft underside of her breasts. “Go fucking faster,” he growled, voice wrecked—nothing like the mocking drawl he used on the streets. His hips jerked up to meet her next slow grind, forcing a choked cry from her throat. The mattress springs screamed in protest as she obeyed, her movements turning jagged and uneven, her nails scraping grooves into the peeling head board.

She was babbling—half-formed pleas and broken syllables—as sweat slicked the space between their bodies. “I wa—I wanna d-ah-do it!” The confession tore loose between gasps, her hips stuttering as she chased the friction. The words weren’t coherent, weren’t even fully formed, but he understood—the raw need in her voice, the way her thighs shook with the effort of keeping rhythm.

Izana barked a laugh—sharp, ragged—as his fingers dug deeper into her waist. “Do what?!” he mocked, voice hoarse with strain. His thumbs dragged rough circles against her ribs, pushing her to the brink of oversensitivity. “Use your fucking words, sweetie.” But the taunt lacked its usual bite—his breath coming in uneven bursts against her throat, hips jerking up to meet her erratic movements.

She tried to hold his hips down by pressing on his stomach—palm flat against the scar tissue above his navel—but his abdominal muscles flexed violently under her touch, twisting away from her attempt at control. Instead of pinning him, her fingers slipped across sweat-slick skin, nails catching on the ridge of his hipbone as she lost balance.

Izana's hands shot up to catch her wrists—too fast, too rough—slamming them against the headboard with a crack that shook loose more plaster. The sudden impact made her gasp, her legs tightening around him reflexively, pulling him deeper with a wet sound that had his teeth baring in a silent snarl. But she didn't let go—just dug her nails into his rough jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows beneath his cheekbones until his head stayed exactly where she wanted it.

The drag of him inside her was slower now—achingly deliberate—as she rolled her hips in tight circles, reveling in the way his breath hitched when she clenched around him. His pupils swallowed the last flecks of violet in his irises, his lips parting around a silent curse as his grip on her wrists loosened. "Fuck, just—" His voice fractured, hips twitching helplessly beneath her as she leaned forward to bite his earlobe—hard—her tongue swiping over the sting before she pulled away.

The scent of their sweat mingled with the salt-rusted air, the distant crash of waves punctuating each ragged exhale. She dragged her nails down his chest, watching the red welts rise in their wake, his muscles jumping under her touch like a live wire. His hands found her hips again—not guiding, just holding—as she lifted herself almost entirely off him before dropping back down with a wet slap that echoed off the rotting walls. The sound alone nearly undid him, his thighs trembling beneath her.

"I-I'm close," Izana choked out, voice shattered beyond recognition—finally the one moaning, writhing, unraveling beneath her instead of the other way around. His eyelids fluttered, lashes casting shadows on his flushed cheeks as he fought to keep them open—to watch her fall apart even as he teetered on the edge. His fingers flexed against her skin, blunt nails biting crescents into the soft flesh of her waist. "Fuck—fuck, don't stop—"

She felt hers approaching too, the coil in her belly tightening unbearably, and let out a sharp cry—louder than intended, louder than she'd ever dared—as she dragged her hands up his throat. Her thumbs pressed into the hollow of his Adam's apple, her fingers wrapping around the column of his neck, squeezing just enough to feel his pulse hammering against her grip. His breath hitched, lips parting around a silent gasp, but he didn't push her away—just tilted his head back further, baring his throat in shameless surrender.

The tension snapped—her muscles clamping around him like a vise, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through her as his hips jerked once, twice—then stilled. His groan was ragged against her palm, his fingers digging bruises into her hips as he followed her over the edge, his release shuddering through him in hot pulses beneath the condom's thin barrier. Y/N slumped forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder as she gasped for air, her limbs trembling with exhaustion and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Izana's hands slid up to her wrists, fingers wrapping around hers where they still loosely encircled his throat. His breath was hot against her knuckles as he pressed a rough, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Fuck… you…" he panted, voice wrecked and hoarse, his lips brushing against her pulse point. "You choked me." The accusation lacked any real bite, his fingers tightening around hers in silent approval even as he said it.

She just giggled—quietly at first, then louder when his brows furrowed in exhausted confusion—and slid down his torso until her face hovered just above his softening cock. The latex clung stubbornly to his skin when she pinched the base and rolled it down slowly, watching thick ropes of cum ooze out onto his stomach with fascinated curiosity. Her tongue darted out before she could second-guess herself—just a quick swipe across the tip—salty and bitter and unexpectedly addictive. His hips jerked violently beneath her, his thighs tensing as a ragged groan ripped from his throat.

Izana’s hands flew to her shoulders—half to push her away, half to drag her closer—as she licked another stripe up the underside where the condom had stretched tightest. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging hard enough to make her gasp when she took him into her mouth—just the tip at first, lips stretched tight around the head—before sinking down further until her nose bumped his pelvis. His breath hitched—a sharp, punched-out sound—when her tongue probed experimentally at his slit, tasting the remnants of his release mixed with the lingering latex tang.

The mattress creaked as he twisted violently beneath her, his hips stuttering upward before he forcibly stilled them. “St-stop—” His voice cracked on the word, fingers tightening in her hair until her scalp burned, “—you’re gonna fucking kill me.” But she didn’t stop—just hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder, humming when his thighs trembled against her ribs. His groan cracked into a whine as she pulled off with a wet pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before collapsing onto his chest, their sweat-slick skin sticking together instantly.♡

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The pipes groaned as Mikey twisted the faucet shut, steam clinging to his bathroom mirror. Water dripped from his black hair onto bare shoulders, tracing down his neck. He’d forgotten a towel again…

Y/n was elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing a stubborn spot off a dinner plate. A low hum vibrated in her throat—some half-remembered lullaby Emma had sung to her newborn baby Miori earlier that afternoon. The melody was soft, almost lost beneath the clink of porcelain and rush of tap water. Her fingers moved automatically, thoughts still lingering on the tiny fingers that had gripped hers so fiercely.

"Y/n! Can you hand me a towel? I forgot to bring one!" Mikey's voice echoed down the hallway, rough-edged and playful. The sound made Y/n's spine prickle—not just the suddenness of it, but the warm familiarity. She could almost see his reflection in the misted bathroom mirror, droplets tracing his jawline. He hadn't changed much since they'd married three years ago—still leanly muscled from racing, eyes glinting with mischief—but lately, a strange intensity simmered beneath it. Ever since they'd visited Emma and Draken, and Mikey had held baby Miori… Y/n sighed softly. "Just give me a sec, Jiro!" she called back, rinsing soap bubbles off her hands.

She grabbed the worn navy towel hanging by the sink—an oversized thing Mikey favored—and padded toward the bathroom doorway. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of cedarwood shampoo and Mikey himself. His silhouette shifted behind the fogged glass panel: shoulders flexing as he combed wet hair away from his face. "Thanks," he murmured, voice deeper now as the door cracked open. Y/n froze mid-step. The dim hallway light spilled past her, catching the curve of his hipbone, the damp trail of water disappearing beneath the towel carelessly knotted low on his hips. Her breath caught. The flicker in his eyes wasn't gratitude—it was raw, possessive heat.

"You’re staring," he stated, not moving from the doorway. One brow arched, daring her. A droplet traced the ridge of his collarbone and plunged downward. Y/n swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the towel’s terrycloth. She hadn’t realized how deathly quiet the apartment had become—no clinking dishes, no humming pipes—only the frantic rhythm of her own pulse pounding in her ears. The soap scent on her skin felt suddenly childish compared to the musk clinging to him.

"Oh sorry…" she stammered, thrusting the towel forward blindly. "I-I’ll be down in the kitchen if you n-need anything…" She forced her eyes away from the hypnotic line of his hipbone, the suggestive slant of the towel knot. The cold tiles bit into her bare feet as she scrambled backward, her retreat jerky, uneven. Every instinct screamed to flee before he saw the flush spreading down her neck. The unfinished dishes waited, a mundane shield against this scalding intimacy.

"Alrighty…" Mikey muttered low, almost to himself, as he caught the towel mid-air. He didn't wrap it immediately. Instead, he deliberately dragged the rough terrycloth across one pectoral, then the other, the friction leaving faint pink streaks on his damp skin.

Y/n fled back to the sink, plunging her hands into the lukewarm, soap-scummed water. The clatter of plates resumed — louder, clumsier than before. Her focus shifted inward: the memory of baby Miori’s tiny snuffling breaths against her shoulder, the impossibly soft weight cradled in her arms.

Mikey cleared his throat—a rough, purposeful sound that sliced through the humid air like a knife through steam. It wasn't a casual noise, but a deliberate punctuation mark that made Y/n flinch. She kept her back turned, scrubbing furiously at a plate long since clean. Water sloshed over the rim as her knuckles whitened.

"Dunno why you ran off like that," Mikey murmured, his voice a low vibration that traveled across the tiles. He leaned against the doorframe, the towel still loose around his hips. "Like you don't see me naked almost every other day…" The observation hung there, weighted with something beyond teasing—an unspoken challenge wrapped in velvet.

Y/n froze, sponge clenched tight. Her knuckles pressed against porcelain. "Didn't… didn't run," she managed, voice thin as steam. The faucet dripped once. Twice. Each drop echoed like a clock ticking too loud.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Mikey shifted. His bare foot slapped softly against wet tile. "Then why're you scrubbing that plate raw?" The towel's loose knot shifted dangerously low as he leaned forward. Cedarwood and chlorine—his racing team’s locker room scent—swirled with the humid steam drifting past her. She felt it prickle her neck before she heard his next words, barely above a whisper: "Was thinkin' 'bout Miori’s little face today. How it puckered when she cried."

The sponge slipped from Y/n’s grip. It hit the water with a wet slap. Her hands trembled—not from cold, but from the phantom weight of that fragile newborn skull against her palm earlier. Mikey’s sigh ghosted over her shoulder blade. Close. Too close. "Spent half the drive home imaginin'…" His calloused thumb brushed her spine through her thin cotton shirt. A shiver tore through her.

"Imagining what?" The question rasped out. She didn’t dare turn. Steam curled around them, thick with cedarwood and the sharp bite of soap scum. His breath hitched. She felt it—a tremor vibrating into her skin where his fingertips still rested.

"You know…" Mikey murmured, voice impossibly low and rough against her ear. His other hand slid around her waist, pulling her back flush against the damp heat radiating from his bare chest. The towel knot dug into her spine. "Imagining you… all round with my baby." The words weren't whispered; they were deliberate, carved into the humid air. His hand flattened possessively against her lower belly, fingers splaying wide as if testing the soft curve beneath her shirt. She felt the solid press of his hips behind her, the hard proof of his building fever. "Carrying it." The hand on her belly slid lower, knuckles grazing the waistband of her sleep shorts. "Growing it."

"M-manjiro…" Y/n choked out, the name catching on a gasp as he buried his face against the frantic pulse point beneath her jaw. His lips weren't gentle. They were hot, insistent, branding a path up the straining tendon of her neck. Each kiss felt like a brand—wet, claiming, punctuated by the scrape of teeth against her overheated skin. Her head fell back instinctively, hitting his shoulder as his exploring hand dipped lower still. Her knuckles were white on the sink's edge, the forgotten plate submerged in greasy water forgotten. "A-a baby's… a big responsibility…" The protest was weak, half-strangled, lost beneath the slick sounds of his mouth on her throat and the thundering echo of her own heartbeat. She trembled, caught between the cool steel of the sink against her palms and the inferno at her back. His fingers hooked into the band of her shorts, tugging insistently downward.

"Responsibility?" Mikey rasped, breath searing her ear. His palm pressed flat against her lower belly, fingers spreading wide like he was tracing the phantom swell he craved. "Imagine it…" He rocked his hips against her, a deliberate grind that made her gasp and arch against him. The rough towel rasped against her spine, the knot biting into flesh. "Right here…" His thumb circled lazy, possessive arcs over her softness, dipping dangerously low beneath her shorts. "All tight skin… stretchin'…" His voice dropped to a ragged whisper, thick with lust and longing. "…curves everywhere… hips wide enough for me to hold onto…" He punctuated each word with another slow, grinding thrust against her backside, his bulge a hard ridge beneath the towel. She could feel the damp heat of him seeping through the thin cotton of her shirt, smell the cedarwood and clean sweat mingling with the steam. His hand slid up, cupping her breast through the fabric, squeezing roughly. "…and tits… god, swollen heavy… aching, fuckin' leaking…" He pinched her nipple sharply through the cloth, pulling a sharp cry from her lips.

Suddenly, his wet hands plunged into the soapy sink water beside hers, fingers wrapping like steel bands around her wrists before she could brace. He hauled her arms up violently, water sluicing off her skin in heavy streams. Porcelain clattered violently against porcelain as plates shifted beneath the surface. "Enough scrubbin'…" he growled, voice thick and low. With a single powerful wrench, he spun her bodily around, slamming her back against the wet countertop.

Shock froze her protest in her throat. "Jiro, we can't just have a baby right now! You're… you're being rash!" The words tumbled out, frantic and breathless. "Let's just talk about fi-" Her plea choked off into a sharp gasp as his fingers hooked savagely into the waistband of her thin sleep shorts. He didn't hesitate. With a harsh jerk, he ripped them down her hips in one fluid motion, the fabric catching around her thighs like a flimsy barrier.

"No panties huh…" The words weren't spoken; they were a low, triumphant rumble vibrating against the shell of her ear, thick with satisfaction. His gaze didn't lift to hers. Instead, it burned a possessive trail down her exposed body, lingering on the smooth skin between her thighs. She felt the scrutiny like a physical touch, hotter than the steam clinging.

Before Y/n could stutter a defense about laundry day, Mikey's hands clamped onto her hips—wet calloused palms biting into soft flesh—and he hoisted her bodily onto the slick countertop.

Dirty dishes scattered violently: a greasy frying pan clattering to the floor, a coffee cup spinning wildly before shattering against tile, soapy water sloshing over chicken-stained plates forgotten mid-scrub. The chaos mirrored the frantic pulse pounding behind Y/n’s ribs as Mikey stepped flush between her thighs. Cedarwood shampoo and chlorine filled her lungs when he growled, "Now," and released his towel—the navy fabric pooling silently at his feet. Steam curled around his bare silhouette, catching the rigid lines of his arousal in the humid air. She tasted panic—metallic and sharp—as her palms slid backward on the wet granite, knocking over a forgotten bowl of congealed ramen broth.

"Fuck, Jiro!" Her voice cracked, sharp against the drumming of her own heart. She recoiled instinctively, heels digging into the cupboard door below. "Can't we at least do it upstairs? It's filthy here!" Her gaze flickered to the spilled broth oozing toward her bare thigh, the slick grit of old food scraps under her knuckles. The kitchen smelled suddenly overwhelming: stale grease, sour milk from an unrinsed glass, the heady musk of Mikey's damp skin heating the air. She jerked her leg away just as the viscous liquid touched her skin. "The counter's soaked, there’s broken glass everywhere, and I… I literally just cleaned the floors!" The protest felt pathetic, thin, drowned out by sheer proximity. His hips pinned hers against the cold granite edge, trapping her trembling legs wide open. She felt the slickness between her own thighs—a traitorous, undeniable heat—mingling with the damp chill seeping through her thin shirt.

"So what?" Mikey growled, the sound vibrating against her throat where his teeth had grazed moments before. He kicked aside the sodden towel at his feet, grinding his bare sole deliberately into spilled noodles and shattered porcelain. A sharp crunch echoed underfoot. "We've fucked on worse." His calloused palm slid up her inner thigh—rough against her sensitive skin—pushing her bent leg higher against his hipbone. The movement shifted her hips forward, exposing her completely. Cold granite bit into her spine. "Remember Shinichiro’s filthy shop mattress?" His thumb traced her slick folds—not exploratory, but possessive—measuring her wetness before entering his middle finger inside without preamble. Her gasp choked off into a ragged whimper as he curled that wicked finger deep, stretching her. "Grease stains thicker than your fingers." He added a second digit, scissoring brutally. "Springs busted." He twisted his wrist, knuckles grinding against her swollen clit. "Smelled like stale engine oil and cheap cigarettes." He leaned close, his breath hot and wet against her ear as he pumped his fingers relentlessly. "You screamed loud enough to drown out the trains."

The protest died in her throat—a strangled sound swallowed by the steam and the slick, rhythmic noise of his fingers working her. Her head thrashed back against the water-stained cupboard door. "W-wasn’t screaming…" she gasped out, nails scraping uselessly at his slick forearm as he pinned her leg open wider.

"Wasn’t screaming?" Mikey’s laugh was a low, mocking rumble against her damp shoulder. He leaned in, breath hot and damp on her ear, his voice dropping into a breathy, exaggerated falsetto. "You were like—" He mimicked her, a high-pitched, shuddering gasp cracking through his throat. "'Jiro! Oh fuck, Jiro! Right there!'" His imitation was grotesquely accurate, capturing the desperate hitch in her breath. His fingers twisted deeper inside her, curling to brush that sweet, dizzying spot that made her hips jerk violently off the counter. "Sounded like a kitten caught in a blender. Fucking pathetic."

Y/n choked on air, mortification burning hotter than desire. Her cheeks flamed crimson as she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to look at the raw triumph gleaming in his eyes. She felt utterly exposed—not just physically, spread open on the grimy countertop amidst spilled broth and shattered glass, but stripped bare by that mocking mimicry.

"Now… dear," Mikey murmured, the sudden shift from mocking to dangerously soft slicing through the humid tension. He withdrew his brutal fingers slowly, slickness glistening in the harsh overhead light. His calloused thumb brushed her cheekbone, forcing her teary gaze back to meet his. "That's no way to talk to the future mother of my children, hm?" His dark eyes held hers, intense and unwavering, noticing the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath her jaw, the way she looked away flustered, breath catching in little hitches. He leaned in, pressing a shockingly tender kiss to her trembling lips—soft, lingering, a stark contrast to the possessive grip still pinning her thigh against his hipbone.

"I love you so much…" The words spilled out raspy, rough-edged, yet surprisingly vulnerable. His gaze dropped momentarily to her damp shirt clinging to her heaving chest. "…dunno what I'd do without you." His voice thickened, the arrogance momentarily dissolved. It wasn't a whisper; it was a raw admission carved into the steam-filled air between them. He felt her shudder beneath him, sensed the shift in her breathing—the panic momentarily stalled.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Then, slowly, deliberately, Y/n lifted her trembling arm. Water droplets traced paths down her elbow. Her fingers tangled into the still-damp strands of his black hair at his nape. It wasn't a gentle touch; it was a firm anchor, pulling him closer, forcing his face inches from hers. "Oh, Manjiro…" The name escaped on a breathless sigh, thick with a blend of exasperation, surrender, and a desperate affection that cut deeper than any blade. Her nails dug lightly into his scalp, a silent command amidst the chaos of spilled broth and broken crockery. Her eyes locked onto his, wide and dark, reflecting the harsh overhead light and the frantic heat simmering beneath the surface. "Shut up… and do it…"

A slow, predatory grin spread across Mikey's face. It wasn't just amusement; it was pure, unfiltered triumph, sharp and possessive. The tenderness of moments before evaporated, replaced by an electric charge that crackled in the humid air. His gaze locked onto hers, holding her submission, savoring it. Without breaking eye contact, his hands slid from her hips down the outside of her trembling thighs. His palms were rough, calloused from years gripping handlebars, contrasting violently with the soft skin beneath. He pushed firmly, spreading her legs wider against the cold granite countertop. Her breath hitched sharply at the sudden, vulnerable exposure. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, forcing her thighs apart until the muscles strained, opening her completely to his hungry gaze and the imminent invasion. Steam clung to their skin, the scent of cedarwood now mingling with the sharp tang of her arousal and the stale remnants of dinner.

He leaned forward, his damp chest brushing against her thin shirt. The heat radiating from him was immense, a furnace against her cooler skin. His arousal pressed hot and hard against her inner thigh, a blunt, demanding promise. At first, he teased her entrance with the slick head of his cock, a slow, maddening glide through her wetness, tracing her folds without penetrating. His eyes never left hers, watching every flicker of anticipation, every involuntary twitch of her muscles. Then, with a low groan that vibrated deep in his chest, he pushed forward. Not violently, but with undeniable, relentless firmness. The initial stretch was intense, a deep, burning pressure as he breached her, inch by deliberate inch.

He buried himself to the hilt in one smooth, claiming thrust, forcing a sharp gasp from Y/n. Her fingers tightened painfully in his hair, anchoring herself against the overwhelming fullness, the shock of sensation—cold granite biting into her spine, hot granite hardness filling her core. Mikey froze for a heartbeat, savoring the tight clench of her around him, the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb still resting on her jaw. Steam condensed on his skin, mingling with a fine sheen of sweat already gathering on his brow. The kitchen air was thick with the scent of their mingled arousal, spilled food, and the damp remnants of his shower. His breath hitched, ragged and hot against her lips.

"Fuck… fuck, Y/n," he groaned, the sound scraping against his throat like gravel. He pulled back slowly, deliberately, dragging friction that sparked whimpers low in her throat, before driving back in with possessive force. His hips snapped forward again, pressing her deeper into the counter's unforgiving edge. His gaze dropped from her wide, dazed eyes, trailing down her flushed neck, over the damp shirt clinging to her trembling chest. A faint, familiar pattern caught his eye—a small, innocuous calendar magnet clinging crookedly to the fridge door beside her head. His rhythm faltered for a fraction of a second, a predatory grin twisting his lips as he recognized the small red circle pencilled around today’s date. "Saw you were ovulating on the calendar…" The words weren't tender; they were a low, guttural growl punctuated by another hard thrust that stole her breath.

Y/n’s moan tore free, sharp and ragged against his throat where his pulse hammered wildly. It wasn’t just pleasure—it was a surrender, thick with hopeful desperation. Her hips arched off the filthy countertop to meet his next savage thrust.

"Fuck, yeah…," Mikey snarled, his gaze locked onto her flushed face, the triumph blazing hotter than the overhead bulb. His hips pistoned relentlessly, the wet slap of skin echoing off the tiles amidst the chaos of shattered dishes. "Deep…fill you up." Another brutal snap forward slammed her spine into the granite. "Get you swollen… heavy…" His thumb found her clit, rubbing rough circles that stole her breath. "Hopefully we’ll get you pregnant on the first try, huh?" The growled words vibrated against her sweat-slicked temple, possessive and raw.

Y/n couldn’t take it anymore. The visceral hunger in his voice, the crude promise vibrating against her skin—it overwhelmed her. Panic flared alongside the coil tightening low in her belly. Her hand shot up instinctively, palm smacking hard against his mouth, muffling the next filthy vow. Fingers splayed wide, digging into the line of his jaw, pressing his lips shut against further declarations. Her nails bit into his cheekbone. "Shut up, Manjiro!" she gasped out, voice a ragged mix of desperation and command. Her hips bucked involuntarily against his thrusts, undermining her own order.

But it was too late. His groan vibrated against her palm, wet and muffled, yet somehow louder than the slick slap of their bodies. The sensation—his lips moving against her skin, the scrape of his teeth beneath her fingers—was the tipping point. The coil snapped. Her hips jerked forward against his, meeting his next thrust with frantic urgency, then jerked backwards, rolling against him in a sharp, seeking arch. It was instinct, primal and unthinking—her body riding the wave of his relentless pistoning hips, grinding backwards against the solid heat of him as she chased the cresting pressure. Her throat seized. The sound that escaped wasn’t a moan; it was a choked, guttural cry ripped from deep within, echoing off the grease-stained tiles as her vision fragmented into white sparks. Every muscle clenched, locking around him impossibly tight.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Her thighs clamped violently around his hips, trapping him deep as she shuddered through the peak. Her spine bowed sharply against the counter’s edge, muscles straining to the point of trembling. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—could only feel the overwhelming pulse radiating from her core, spreading outward in fierce, uncontrollable waves. Her fingers spasmed tighter against his jaw, nails digging furrows into his damp skin, pinning his face against her palm even as her hips pressed back harder, grinding against him, milking every convulsive pulse. Broken plates dug into her back, forgotten beneath the roar in her ears and the frantic hammering of her own heart. The scent of sweat and sex and spilled broth filled her lungs, thick and suffocating. Tears blurred her vision—not sorrow, but sheer sensory overload, the raw intensity of release igniting every nerve ending.

Mikey ripped her hand away from his mouth, teeth grazing her knuckles as he crushed her against the countertop. His hips bucked once—a brutal, uncontrolled thrust—before freezing deep inside her. A low groan tore from his throat, raw and shuddering, as he buried his face against the frantic pulse in her neck. His arms locked around her waist like steel bands, hauling her impossibly closer until her ribs protested. She felt him throb, thick and urgent, spilling hot against her inner muscles with each ragged pulse. His breath hitched against her skin—wet, open-mouthed gasps—as he pressed his brow hard against her collarbone, hips grinding instinctively deeper as he rode out his own climax. Steam curled around them, heavy with the musk of their mingled sweat and the sharp tang of his release.

Y/n slumped against him, boneless and trembling, her own aftershocks still rippling through her veins. Every breath felt raw, scraped from her lungs. The cool granite beneath her thighs contrasted violently with the scorching heat radiating where their bodies were welded together—slick with sweat, and something thicker. Mikey didn’t move. His weight pressed her into the counter’s unforgiving edge, his breathing still ragged gusts against her damp shoulder. His fingers traced lazy, possessive circles over the small of her back beneath her shirt. "Fuck…" he rasped finally, voice thick and shattered. "Manjiro…" The name escaped her on a sigh, barely audible, soaked in bone-deep exhaustion and a stunned, spreading warmth low in her belly. "Felt… so… good…" The admission was a fragmented whisper against his damp hair, her fingers trembling as they tangled weakly in the strands at his nape.

He just breathed her in—cedarwood shampoo tangled with the sweet musk of her skin, the sharp copper tang of blood from his cheek where her nails had dug deep, and underneath it all, the potent, unmistakable scent of sex and hope. His thoughts weren't coherent—just flashes: her flushed skin under harsh light, the choked desperation of her cry echoing louder than shattered porcelain, the yielding softness beneath him holding his seed. Later, he thought hazily, picturing her stomach swelling under his hands, round and heavy with his child. Soon. The image burned brighter than the ache in his hips or the sting on his jaw. He nuzzled deeper into the curve of her neck, inhaling slowly, dragging the scent deep into his lungs.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head. His gaze wasn't tender; it was scorching. It traced the tear tracks drying on her cheeks, the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath the delicate skin of her throat, the tremble still vibrating through her slack jaw. Below, his softening cock twitched against her thigh, still buried deep within her heat, stirring back to life against the slickness coating her inner thighs. A predatory stillness settled over him, sharper than before. His thumb brushed her swollen lower lip—a silent question etched into the rough pad of his calloused skin. "Round two?" The words weren't spoken; they were a thick, guttural rumble vibrating against her damp collarbone, low enough to feel deep in her bones.♡

Things I don't write: .𖥔 ݁ ˖Exterme kinks (for exempel scat play, incest, piss, etc.) .𖥔 ݁ ˖Smut without a storyline (i like a dynamic/scenario before the smut bit so i guess smut without plot is kind of difficult for me to write) .𖥔 ݁ ˖No ageplay .𖥔 ݁ ˖No underaged characters (only of age or aged up versions)

Things I can write for but I'll maybe struggle with: .𖥔 ݁ ˖Violent themes (yandere, dubcon, guns, drugs, mild torture) .𖥔 ݁ ˖Female characters x reader (ive never written a fanfic with female characters but i could try) .𖥔 ݁ ˖Male/gn reader (ive only written for f!reader but i could try) .𖥔 ݁ ˖Really big age gaps (if its like an acceptble age gap then sure) .𖥔 ݁ ˖Daddy/mommy kink .𖥔 ݁ ˖I'm not really good at writing headcannons or drabbles

Things I absolutely can write for: .𖥔 ݁ ˖Smut, angst, comfort, romance, honestly any genre any dynamic .𖥔 ݁ ˖I can write for pretty much any kink as long its not the ones i don't write .𖥔 ݁ ˖Sub/dom dynamic .𖥔 ݁ ˖slow-burn!! i love a good slow burn .𖥔 ݁ ˖safe sex, consent .𖥔 ݁ ˖Mental health themes

DNI: minors (especially when it comes to my smut fics and suggestive content, i can't control who reads my fics but they are meant for adults), bigots, racsist, homphobes, zionists, MAGA's

If you are requesting, please tell me: .𖥔 ݁ ˖ What gender you want reader/y/n to be .𖥔 ݁ ˖A prompt is very helpful, the more detailed the better, but if it's simple that's perfectly fine too .𖥔 ݁ ˖You can message me or preferbly use my ask box .𖥔 ݁ ˖Any specific arc, era, or version is much welcomed but it's not a must .𖥔 ݁ ˖Also I just wanna say I absolutely love adding lyric quotes to my fics, as you can see, so if you want a specific lyric quote i'll add it, if not i'll add my own

.𖥔 ݁ ˖Please don't hesitate to request, it's very helpful to me since i'm constantly stuck in writers block and my mind goes blank when i try to come up with something .𖥔 ݁ ˖Also it's fine if you spam my ask box or pm, if you wanna chat or ask me anything i'm down to reply, i love talking to people .𖥔 ݁ ˖Please be patient with me since I have school and other things keeping me busy, it doesn't mean i've forgotten about your request it just means i'm busy .𖥔 ݁ ˖I write mostly on weekends if i'm not busy

I'm gonna eventually make a post where i keep track of all the request i'll fulfill, anyways that's all! Bye-bye, lovely people!!

♡Tokyo rev: Ran Haitani

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ He finally had her. Takashi Mitsuya

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ TAKA♡ Draken ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Bourbon Shion Madarame ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ The party. Hanma Shuji ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Cherry poppin' Manjiro "Mikey" Sano ╰┈➤ˎˊBaby Fever It's always been you. Izana Kurokawa ╰┈➤ˎˊRunaway

Gangsters (all of them) Red blush I love love love the color green Video games: gta series, acnh, rdr2, sally face, fnaf series, franbow, omori, parappa the rapper, online dress up games, etc Films: Possession 1981, There will be blood 2007, May 2002, Come and see 1985, Pearl 2022 Young Al Pacino in distress Fashion and accessories: baby doll dresses, colored tights, mary janes, grillz/tooth gems, gold jewlery Long hair on men Criminology Farm animals Ragdoll kittens Noel Gallaghers 2000's era The sopranos Cherry and green apple flavored candy Violence in media All of the gorillaz members Serial Experiments Lain Damon Albarn Disturbing and scary videos Nice girls The morute aesthetic green characters I LOVE LIZZY GRANT anyways i love u too

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The apartment smelled like wet concrete and cheap air freshener—chemical lemon masking something worse. She’d picked the place precisely because no one in their right mind would live there longer than a month. The walls were thin enough to hear every argument two doors down, and the shower only ran cold after midnight. Perfect. She cranked the volume on her speakers until the bass vibrated through her ribs, watching the peeling wallpaper shudder in time.

Next door, Kisaki Tetta was yelling again. His voice cracked mid-sentence, furious, followed by the sound of a chair skidding across linoleum. She pressed her ear to the wall, grinning as his lackeys scrambled to placate him—something about "Hanma" and "deadline" and "who the fuck authorized this?" A gang, probably. She wasn’t stupid. and Kisaki’s plans were sloppy, loud, and deliciously predictable. Like clockwork, his meetings dissolved into threats by 9 PM.

Then came the knock. Not on her door—on the wall. Three deliberate thumps, shaking dust from the ceiling. She froze. That wasn’t Kisaki’s rhythm. The wallpaper split further as another knock landed, then silence. She exhaled sharply through her nose. Hanma. That name. It slithered through Kisaki’s rants every Thursday night, hissed between teeth like a curse or a prayer. She’d pictured him a hundred ways: a scarred brute, a grinning liar, maybe just another suit with shaky hands.

Her fingers hovered over the speaker volume, but she cranked it higher instead. "FUCK OFF!" she yelled over the distortion, voice raw. The bassline pulsed against her throat. Something moved outside—not footsteps, but the creak of leather, slow. The doorknob turned. Locked. Then came laughter, low and unhurried, vibrating through the doorframe. "Cute," drawled a voice she’d never heard but instantly recognized.

She killed the music. Silence pooled in her ears. The peeling wallpaper fluttered as someone leaned against the other side, the drywall bowing slightly under their weight. "You listen well," Hanma continued, conversational, like they were discussing the weather. "Kisaki’s losing his fucking mind." A cigarette lighter clicked. She smelled smoke curling through the cracks. "Wanna know why?"

Her fingers twitched toward the deadbolt. Curiosity warred with the instinct to grab the kitchen knife taped under her coffee table. "Why the fuck are you outside my door?" she demanded, jerking it open before she could reconsider.

Hanma Shuji lounged against the doorframe, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette. His smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough for her to catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes as they raked over her. "Oh," he exhaled, smoke curling from his lips. "Well. Hi there." His grin returned, wider now, like he’d stumbled onto something far more interesting than Kisaki’s meltdown.

She crossed her arms, hip jutting against the splintered doorframe. "You gonna answer my question?" The hallway reeked of mildew and his cigarette. His shirts collar was stretched, revealing a sliver of collarbone, the back of his hands tattooed. She forced herself to meet his eyes instead. "Or did you just come to stare?"

"My mistake," Hanma chuckled, tapping ash onto the carpet. His gaze lingered on her bitten-down nails, the fading bruise above her knee. "Thought you'd be taller." He took a slow drag, exhaling sideways. "But yeah—turn that shit down." He gestured lazily toward her speakers with his cigarette.

She slammed the door, splinters flying. The lock clicked. Silence. Then his muffled laugh through the wood, darkly amused. "Real mature." His shadow shifted under the doorframe—leather boots scraping concrete.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

He kept appearing. Leaning against the fire escape at 3 AM, cigarette cherry bobbing as he watched the alley below. Perched on Kisaki’s windowsill like some deranged gargoyle, swinging his legs while the his best friend screamed into a phone. Once, she caught him staring up at her fourth-floor window from the sidewalk, hands in pockets, grin sharp enough to cut glass.

She started dreaming about his hands—the way his fingers curled around his cigarette, the tendons flexing when he flicked ash off his sleeve. Woke up sweating, thighs pressed together, furious at herself. It wasn’t attraction. It was morbid fascination, like watching a car crash in slow motion.

She needed fresh air. The clock blinked 8:03 PM. She kicked off the tangled sheets and grabbed her jacket, fingers shaking as she zipped it up. The apartment smelled like stale smoke and her own panic.

Outside, she didn’t bother looking around—just leaned against the building, letting the brick dig into her spine.

“So you do leave your house.” Hanma’s voice cut through the alley’s hum like a switchblade. She flinched hard enough to smack her elbow against the wall. “Jesus—fuck you scared me—” she hissed, whirling to find him crouched on the dumpster lid, forearms balanced on his knees. His grin was all teeth in the flickering streetlight.

“What the fuck are you doing down here?” she managed to say, heartbeat punching her ribs. He exhaled a slow plume of smoke, watching it curl toward the sky. “He kicked me out,” Hanma shrugged, flicking ash onto the pavement. “Got mad at me.”

She snorted despite herself. “Yeah, he’s always mad, isn’t he?” Her chuckle was soft, involuntary—something about Hanma’s lazy shrug, like Kisaki’s fury was just another Tuesday. The streetlight buzzed overhead, casting his lashes in shadows as he tilted his head.

Hanma tapped his cigarette, watching the embers scatter. “You know,” he mused, voice low, “he thinks you’re listening in.” Her pulse stuttered. His grin widened.

She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, fingers brushing the cold metal of her keys. “Listening in?” she echoed, forcing a scoff. “You’ve seen the walls in this place. Me and Kisaki are basically roommates.”

Hanma chuckled, rolling the cigarette between his fingers before bringing it back to his lips. “Yeah guess so,” he murmured, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes flicked to hers, and there was something unreadable there—amusement, maybe, or the ghost of something sharper. “Still. Kinda funny, isn’t it? You, tucked up against the drywall, catching every little secret.” He leaned forward slightly, the dumpster creaking under his weight. “Bet you know more than you let on.”

She just hums. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks, exhaling smoke through his nose, watching her reaction like a scientist observing a lab rat. The streetlight flickers again, casting his face in jagged shadows.

"No. Never had one really…why?" She narrows her eyes, shifting her weight. The question throws her—too personal, too pointed. Her fingers dig into her jacket pockets until the fabric strains. "Weird fucking thing to ask a stranger in an alley."

Hanma exhales sharply through his nose—almost a laugh—and crushes his cigarette under his boot. "You’re no stranger," he murmurs, stepping off the dumpster with a thud that echoes between the brick walls. "Asking ‘cause this isn’t a safe place for lonely girls." He’s closer now, close enough for her to catch the scent of leather and nicotine clinging to his collar. His gaze drops to her mouth, lingering just a second too long. "But you already know that, don’t you?"

She doesn’t respond to that. "So you’ve seriously never had a boyfriend. I find that hard to believe." His voice is lighter now, teasing, but his fingers flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach out.

"Believe whatever you want," she snaps, but her breath hitches when he steps closer—close enough that the toe of his boot nudges hers. The alley suddenly feels narrower, the brick at her back colder. "Like I said, weird fucking question"

Hanma just hums, fishing another cigarette from his pocket. The lighter's flare illuminates the smirk playing at his lips. "Here," he says abruptly, pressing the cigarette between her fingers before she can protest. His thumb brushes her knuckle, calloused and warm. "Call me when you get tired of listening through walls." He drops a crumpled receipt into her palm, numbers scrawled in hasty ink. Then he's gone, boots echoing down the alley until the darkness swallows him whole.

She didn't call. Not when her neighbor's sobs seeped through the vents at 2 AM, not when Kisaki's voice rose to a fever pitch about shipments gone wrong. The receipt lived taped to her fridge like some morbid art piece, numbers blurring from steam every time she boiled water for ramen.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

But three weeks later, she jolted awake at 3:17 AM with her thighs slick and her sheets twisted around her waist, Hanma’s name still clinging to the back of her teeth. The dream had been too vivid—his mouth on her neck, his fingers hooking under the waistband of her underwear—and now the apartment’s winter chill couldn’t touch the heat crawling up her spine. She kicked off the damp sheets, pressing her forehead against the frosted windowpane, breath fogging the glass.

The alley below was empty except for a stray cat picking through garbage. She exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers tapping against the cold sill. Pathetic. She ripped the receipt off the fridge, the tape tearing flecks of paint with it. The numbers were smudged but still legible. Her thumb hovered over her phone’s cracked screen, pulse thudding in her throat.

"Yeah?" Hanma answered on the second ring, voice rough with sleep—or maybe she’d woken him mid-fuck. The thought curled hot in her stomach. Static crackled between them. She could practically hear him smirking through the silence. "Who’s this?" he drawled. A lighter clicked. She pictured him sprawled across some shitty mattress, cigarette dangling from his lips, tattoos stark in the dim light of a streetlamp.

"Uh…it’s me," she muttered, gripping the phone tighter. The words tasted stupid in her mouth. "Wanted to ask if you wanted to hang out or something." Her pulse hammered against her ribs. Somewhere below her window, a bottle shattered against pavement. Hanma exhaled—a long, slow drag of smoke—before chuckling low in his throat. "Hang out," he repeated, savoring the syllables like they were some inside joke.

The silence stretched taut between them. She clenched her teeth, debating whether to hang up when his mattress creaked—loud, deliberate. "At three in the morning?" His voice dripped with amusement. She heard the rustle of fabric, the whisper of skin against sheets. "You know what people usually mean when they say that, right?" His tone curled around her, warm and dangerous. A flush crawled up her neck.

She pressed her forehead harder against the window, the glass biting into her skin. "I’m not—that’s not—" Her breath fogged the pane in uneven bursts. Another creak, closer now. His exhale crackled through the receiver, smoke and static. "Then why’d you call?" The question was a challenge, wrapped in velvet.

She swallowed around the dryness in her throat. "Because Kisaki’s been screaming about severed fingers for an hour," she blurted. The lie tasted thin. Hanma laughed—soft, disbelieving—and she imagined his teeth catching his lower lip. "Uh-huh," he murmured. A lighter clicked again. "And you thought I’d help? Sweetheart, I’m the one who delivered them." The mattress creaked ominously.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. The stray cat below had frozen mid-step, ears pricked toward her window. "W-well, I just wanted to talk okay!?" she snapped, voice cracking like a teenager’s. Hanma exhaled sharply—almost a sigh—before the line went silent for three agonizing seconds. Then: "Door’s unlocked," he said, so casually it took her a moment to process. "Apartment 4B." The call died with a soft click.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

She stood there clutching her phone until the screen dimmed, staring at her own warped reflection in the glass. The pressure in her chest wasn’t panic—it was something older, heavier, like a stone sinking through honey. She turned on the shower faucet so hard the pipes groaned, stripping off her sweat-damp shirt with a sharp yank. The water scalded her shoulders pink, but she barely felt it. When was the last time she’d actually hung out with someone? Her best friend had canceled last month for a date, and her cousin was always buried in hospital shifts now. Her shampoo bottle was crusted shut.

The alley was slick with rain when she stepped outside, the fire escape dripping like a broken faucet. She hadn’t bothered with makeup—just tugged on a stolen hoodie and finger-combed her hair into something resembling order. Her socks were already soaked through by the time she reached 4B’s landing, her breath coming too fast. The door was slightly ajar, just like he’d said. A sliver of yellow light cut across the hallway’s peeling linoleum. She nudged it open with her knee, pulse hammering in her wrists.

Hanma was sprawled across a ratty couch, one arm slung over his eyes, the other dangling a cigarette over an overflowing ashtray. The apartment smelled like stale beer and wet leather. A single lamp cast long shadows across his collarbones, the tattoos on his knuckles shifting as he flexed his fingers. "Took you long enough," he drawled, not bothering to lift his arm. His shirt was rumpled, riding up to reveal a strip of skin above his waistband. She swallowed hard.

He sat up and patted the spot next to him, the couch springs groaning in protest. The gesture was casual, like he was inviting her to share a bag of chips, not perch on the edge of his disaster of a life. His grin was lazy, but his eyes tracked her every movement—the way her fingers twitched at her sides, the nervous swallow she couldn’t suppress. "Relax," he murmured, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "Not gonna bite. Unless you ask."

She scoffed, but her pulse kicked up another notch. "Real funny," she muttered, plopping herself down next to him—leaving a careful six inches between them. Hanma stretched his legs out, his knee brushing hers. She didn’t pull away.

The apartment was a disaster. Empty beer bottles lined the windowsill like trophies, and a half-eaten pizza box was wedged under the coffee table, grease seeping into the carpet. The TV flickered silently with some late-night infomercial, casting eerie blue light across Hanma’s sharp features. His fingers drummed against his thigh—slow, rhythmic, like he was counting down the seconds until she cracked.

“You’re very desperate, you.” He finally broke the silence, pulling out a cigarette and rolling it between his fingers before lighting it. The flame illuminated the smirk playing at his lips. “Calling me at 3 AM, showing up soaking wet—” His gaze dragged down her damp hoodie, lingering on her bare legs beneath the hem.

She stiffened. The way he said ‘soaking wet’ didn’t feel like he meant the rain. “Dunno,” she muttered, picking at a loose thread on the couch. “I’m just bored, Hanma. Nothing wrong with being bored…?” The sentence came out clumsy, half-formed. She didn’t know how to articulate the restless energy coiling in her gut—how the dream still clung to her skin like sweat.

Hanma’s smirk softened at the edges, something almost contemplative flickering behind his eyes. He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, watching the embers scatter. “Please—call me Shuji,” he said, quieter than she’d ever heard him. His knee pressed more firmly against hers, warm through the thin fabric of her sweatpants. “You know, at first I didn’t believe it for one second. The ‘you’ve been single your whole life’ thing.” His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist—just once, fleeting. “But now…”

She kicked him in the shin, hard enough to make him grunt. “Still on about that? Yeah, I’ve never been in a relationship. Yeah, I’ve never had sex. So fucking what.” The words tasted bitter, like old coffee grounds.

Hanma—no, Shuji—just grinned wider, his fingers trailing up her arm to pluck at the damp hoodie sleeve. “So fucking what,” he echoed, voice lilting with amusement. “That’s adorable.” His thumb grazed the soft skin of her inner elbow, and she realized with a jolt that he was counting her pulse.

She yanked her arm back, but her breath hitched when he leaned in, close enough that she could taste the nicotine on his exhale. “I’m a bit sick of it, to be honest.” The words slipped out before she could bite them back, raw and unguarded. His grin turned predatory, slow and satisfied. She’d handed him the knife, and he knew exactly where to twist it.

His fingers tangled in the damp fabric of her hoodie, tugging her forward until their knees knocked together. “And?” Shuji prompted, voice dropping lower.

"A-and?" she repeated, hating how the stutter betrayed her. His exhale was warm against her cheek, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

Shuji's grin sharpened. "And you want to get fucked." The words weren't a question—they were a verdict, delivered with the same lazy certainty as his smoke rings. His free hand slid up her thigh, calluses catching on the fabric of her sweatpants. "That's why you called." His thumb pressed into the soft flesh above her knee, just shy of where the dream had left her aching.

She opened her mouth—to protest, to lie—but he cut her off with a sharp "Shh," pressing two fingers against her lips. The taste of tobacco and salt flooded her mouth. His smirk softened into something almost gentle as he stood, pulling her up with him by the wrist. "C'mere," he murmured, leading her toward the bedroom without waiting for confirmation. The hallway walls were paper-thin too, swaying slightly when she stumbled against him.

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Shuji parked her on the edge of the mattress with a firm hand on her shoulder, then stepped back to loom over her, peeling off his shirt with deliberate slowness. The dim light caught the ripple of old scars across his ribs, the ink twisting over his collarbones. "Do you want to fuck?" he asked again, voice rough but impossibly clear—no tease, no games this time. Just the question, hanging between them like smoke.

She dug her fingers into the mattress, the springs groaning under her weight. "When you put it like that—" Her voice cracked, the words tangling with the memory of his hands in her dream. Shuji exhaled sharply through his nose, crouching until their faces were level. His palm settled hot against her throat, thumb nudging her chin up. "Answer me," he demanded, fingers flexing. "Yes or no?"

Her sigh shuddered out of her, shoulders slumping as she nodded. "Yes, but—" The protest died when his grip tightened, her pulse hammering against his fingertips. "I haven’t prepared or anything, I—" Shuji shushed her again with a rough press of his thumb against her lips. "I’ll take care of it," he murmured, already peeling her sweatpants down her thighs with his free hand. The cold air hit her skin first, then the heat of his palm sliding up the inside of her leg. "All of it."

He stripped off the rest of his clothes with practiced efficiency—no fanfare, just the whisper of fabric hitting the floor and the creak of the mattress as he knelt over her. The streetlight through the blinds painted stripes across his collarbones, his ribs, the dark trail of hair leading down. His hands were everywhere at once—tilting her chin up, skimming her waist, skating over her hips—until he finally cupped her face, his thumbs dragging slow circles under her jaw. "Kiss me," he ordered, voice rough but impossibly soft, like he was giving her permission to break something between them.

She closed the distance before she could second-guess it, pressing her mouth to his with too much teeth, not enough finesse. His lips parted under hers, warm and yielding, but when she pulled back, he just laughed—a low, rasping sound that vibrated through her ribs. "Fuck. That fucking sucked, y/n," he teased, but his fingers curled into her hair, tugging her closer like he wanted her to try again. The flush crawling up her neck had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way his grin turned molten when she bit his lower lip in retaliation.

He backed her up toward the headboard with slow, deliberate presses of his hips, knees bracketing her thighs as he crawled over her like something feral. The mattress groaned under their combined weight, springs protesting as she sank deeper into the thin mattress. His breath hitched when she dragged her nails down his ribs—not hard enough to mark, but enough to make his muscles jump under her fingertips. "Easy," he warned, though his voice was wrecked already, rough around the edges like he'd been the one screaming into pillows all night. His hands found her wrists, pinning them above her head with effortless strength. "You're gonna ruin this for yourself."

She whimpered—half frustration, half something else entirely—when his teeth grazed her pulse point, sharp enough to sting but not enough to break skin. His knee nudged her legs apart with lazy insistence, the rough denim of his discarded jeans still tangled around his ankle scraping against her inner thigh. "Shuji—" His name dissolved into a gasp when his free hand slid between them, fingers dipping lower with agonizing slowness. "I told you," he murmured against her throat, the vibration of his voice sending heat pooling low in her stomach, "it doesn't work like that." His thumb circled her clit with practiced precision, just once—just enough to make her back arch off the mattress—before retreating entirely.

"Fuck—" Her hips jerked forward, seeking friction against empty air, but his chuckle cut through her frustration, dark and pleased. "Patience," he chided, though his own breathing had gone uneven, his grip on her wrists tightening fractionally. His fingers traced the wetness smeared across her inner thigh, gathering it slowly before pressing one into her with a curl that had her toes digging into the sheets. "There. That’s it." The praise was gruff, almost reluctant, but his pupils swallowed his irises whole when her hips lifted to meet his hand.

His second finger joined the first with a slow twist that made her breath hitch, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against her clit as he worked her open. "See?" His lips brushed the shell of her ear, the words thick with something dangerously close to tenderness. "Just relax…I’ll stretch you out easily then." The promise coiled hot in her stomach—half threat, half reassurance—as his fingers crooked deeper, dragging a whine from her throat. The stretch burned in the best way, his knuckles pressing against sensitive flesh with every deliberate stroke.

Then his mouth was on her, hot and wet against her ribs, trailing down her stomach in slow, open-mouthed kisses that left her skin tingling. His breath ghosted over her hipbone before his tongue flicked against the crease of her thigh—once, twice—just to feel her tremble. "Shuji—" His name shattered into a moan when his lips finally closed over her clit, sucking gently before swirling his tongue in tight circles. The wet heat of his mouth was dizzying, his fingers still working inside her in counterpoint to each flick of his tongue.

She braced herself—palms flattening against the mattress, thighs tensing—but it wasn’t enough. The orgasm hit her like a live wire, sharp and sudden, her back arching off the bed as she gasped his name. White-hot pleasure crackled through her nerves, lighting up every inch of her skin until she was shaking with it, her fingers tangled in his hair without realizing she’d reached for him. It was stronger than any orgasm she’d ever given herself—maybe because it was his mouth on her, his fingers curling just right—or maybe because she’d never let anyone close enough to wreck her like this before.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Shuji grinned against her thigh as she trembled, pressing open-mouthed kisses up her abdomen—slow, deliberate—giving her no time to recover before his lips found the hollow beneath her ribs. "Fuck, you’re so delicious," he murmured against her skin, the words vibrating through her bones as he traced the curve of her breast with his teeth. His tongue flicked over her nipple, just once, just to feel her gasp—then again, harder—until she was arching into his mouth with a broken noise that would have embarrassed her if she could think past the static in her head.

His fingers curled tighter in her hair, tugging just enough to sting when she tried to sit up. "Shuji—w-wait," she managed, voice cracking as his hips settled between her thighs, the hot length of him pressing against her without preamble. "Condom—" The word dissolved into a whine when he rolled his hips, the friction sending sparks up her spine. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his smirk faltering for half a second before he leaned down to nip at her earlobe. "Got it," he muttered, reaching blindly toward the nightstand—knocking over an empty beer bottle in the process—before fumbling a foil packet from the drawer.

The condom crinkled between his fingers as he rolled it on, his breath hitching when she tentatively wrapped her fingers around him. "Fuck—" His hips jerked into her touch involuntarily, his grip tightening on her thigh when she experimentally stroked him once, twice, just to feel the way his muscles jumped under her fingertips. He caught her wrist before she could continue, pinning it above her head with a low growl. "Don't," he warned, voice ragged—less a command and more a plea—as he lined himself up. "I’m in control…"

She barely had time to nod before he pressed into her—slow at first, achingly slow—then all at once, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that vibrated through her ribs. "Fuck—" His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breath hot against her collarbone as he stilled inside her, trembling with the effort of holding back. She could feel every inch of him—the stretch, the heat, the way her body clenched around him instinctively—and when she whimpered, it wasn't from pain, maybe a little, but from the overwhelming fullness of him, the way he filled her so completely she couldn't think past it.

"So fucking…tight and wet…" he moaned against her skin, the words slurred with pleasure as he rolled his hips experimentally, dragging another gasp from her throat. His hands slid under her thighs, hiking her legs higher around his waist, tilting her pelvis until the angle had her seeing stars. "Shuji—" His name dissolved into a broken sob when he pulled out almost entirely, only to thrust back in with a snap of his hips that stole her breath. "Look at you," he rasped, his grip bruising on her hips as he set a punishing rhythm, each stroke punching a moan from her lips. "Taking me so well…"

Her nails raked down his back, leaving angry red trails in their wake as she arched into him, her thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up. The stretch burned in the best way, the friction igniting every nerve ending until she was writhing beneath him, her heels digging into the small of his back. "Faster—" The plea tumbled from her lips before she could stop it, her voice ragged with need. Shuji chuckled darkly, his breath hot against her ear as he obliged, his pace turning brutal, the slap of skin echoing off the peeling wallpaper. "Greedy," he taunted, but his voice was wrecked, his rhythm stuttering when she clenched around him on purpose this time.

He moaned at the feeling, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Stop squeezing me so tight, doll, fuck!" The words were half-growled, half-groaned, his fingers biting into her hips hard enough to leave bruises. His control was unraveling—she could see it in the way his pupils swallowed his irises, in the sweat beading along his collarbones, in the ragged hitch of his breath when she tightened around him again. "You—" His voice cracked, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate. "You're gonna make me—"

She dug her fingers into his shoulders, nails scraping over damp skin as she arched into him. The drag of his cock inside her was unbearable now, the friction sending sparks up her spine with every snap of his hips. His fingers pressed harder against her clit—too much, not enough—and she choked on a sob when the pressure crested suddenly, white-hot pleasure ripping through her so violently her vision blurred.

Shuji swore—filthy, broken—his rhythm faltering as she clenched around him. His hips jerked erratically, his breath coming in ragged gasps against her throat. "Fuck—gonna—" The warning was barely coherent, his fingers digging into her thigh hard enough to leave marks as he spilled inside the rubber with a groan that sounded punched out of him. He collapsed against her, his sweat-slick chest heaving against hers, his lips brushing her collarbone in something dangerously close to tenderness.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

For a long moment, the only sound was their panting breaths and the distant drip of the fire escape outside. Then Shuji shifted, rolling onto his back with a grunt, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like he'd just survived a war. His ribs rose and fell rapidly beneath the ink swirling across his skin. "Fuck," he muttered again, voice hoarse—not smug now, just dazed. His fingers found hers on the mattress, tangling briefly before he let go like he hadn't meant to do it.

He peeled the condom off carelessly, tying it with a practiced twist before chucking it vaguely toward the trash can—missing spectacularly. It landed with a wet plop on the carpet somewhere near the beer bottles. He didn't seem to notice. Or care. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing against the sweat-damp column of his neck. "That," he announced to the ceiling, "was not what I expected."

She stared at the water stain above his bed, limbs still trembling, mouth still dry. The words wouldn't come—not when her pulse was still hammering in her throat, not when her thighs were still clenched around nothing, still remembering the brutal stretch of him. Shuji rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand to study her with lazy amusement. His smirk was all teeth. "Can't even speak now, can you."

She shook her head slowly—not in denial, just in overwhelmed surrender—as he reached past her for the mangled pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. He shook one loose with a flick of his wrist, the filter tapping against her lower lip before she could protest. "Here," he murmured, already lighting his own with the same match, the flame jumping between them. "You look like you need it more than I do." The smoke curled from his lips as he watched her fumble with the lighter, his grin widening when she coughed on the first drag.

His fingers closed over hers, adjusting her grip with exaggerated patience. "No, dipshit—like this." He guided her hand up, tilting the cigarette at the angle he preferred. His thumb brushed her lower lip when he adjusted the position, lingering a second too long. "Don't inhale yet. Just taste it." His voice was rougher than usual, the words sticking in his throat like he was fighting not to laugh at her. But there was something else there too—an unfamiliar warmth beneath the teasing, like he enjoyed this part almost as much as what came before. ♡

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Shion leaned against the sticky bar counter, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against a half-empty beer bottle. The party noise buzzed around him—laughter, shouting, the thump of bass bleeding through the walls—but his attention kept snagging on the girl near the kitchen doorway. Y/N. Her hair was different now, her posture sharper than he remembered, like she'd shed the softness he used to know.

Across the room, one of his buddies elbowed another, nodding toward Y/N’s group. "Them," he said, grinning. "Bet they’re all fucking prudes." Shion smirked, pushing off the bar. "Nah," he drawled, loud enough for the words to carry, "just one of 'em’s got a stick up her ass." His gaze locked onto Y/N as her shoulders tensed—just a fraction—before she turned, slow and deliberate, to meet his stare.

Her friends stiffened beside her, but Y/N just tilted her head, lips curling in a lazy, knowing smile. "Sounds like someone’s still bitter," she called back, voice slicing through the din. The guys around Shion erupted into laughter, egging him on, but he felt his jaw tighten. She hadn’t changed that much—still quick with her tongue, still making him feel like the punchline.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

By midnight, the party had blurred into a mess of spilled drinks and half-hearted dancing, and somehow, Shion’s friends had migrated toward Y/N’s group like magnets. He watched from the edge of the crowd as one of his buddies leaned too close to her friend, slurring something about wasted potential. Y/N’s fingers twitched around her cup, but she didn’t rise to it. Instead, she caught Shion staring again and raised an eyebrow, daring him to say something smarter this time.

His throat went dry. He hated that she could still do this—make his pulse stutter with just a look. Fuck it. He grabbed another beer and forced himself into the fray, bumping shoulders with his friends like nothing had happened. "Oi, Mad’," one of them jeered, "you just gonna stand there? C’mere." He laughed—too loud—and let himself be pulled into their circle, but the back of his neck burned like her gaze was still pinned there.

Y/N rolled her eyes, turning back to her own drink, but something about the way she shifted her weight screamed irritation. Shion remembered that, too—the way her spine would go rigid when she was pissed but refusing to let it show. He wondered how she’d react if he walked over and yanked her hair like he used to, just to see her snap. His fingers flexed around the bottle. Not a smart fucking idea.

Instead, he leaned into the nearest guy’s ear and pitched his voice loud enough to carry. "Y’know, I fucked her once," he announced, grinning when heads swiveled his way. "She was all desperate about it—begged me to stay after. Like, damn, take a hint." Saying it tasted sour, but the laughter it sparked was worth it—until he caught Y/N’s face in his peripheral. Her lips parted, just for a second, before she scoffed.

"Says the guy who always fucking cried when he came," she shot back, tipping her drink toward him. The words landed like a grenade—silence rippled outward as Shion’s friends gaped, then erupted into howls. His ears burned. He’d forgotten how mercilessly she could dismantle him with the truth, how effortlessly she could turn his bullshit against him.

The crowd’s laughter twisted into something sharper, feeding off the tension between them. Shion’s grip on his bottle tightened until his knuckles ached. "Yeah?" He stepped forward, voice dropping low enough that only she’d catch the venom. "Least I wasn’t the one begging for it back after you cut me off. What was it again—‘focus on your future’?" He mimicked her voice with a sneer, watching her lips press into a thin line. "So much for focusing on yourself, you look like you’ve been starving for it."

Y/N’s laugh was sharp, brittle as shattered glass. "Oh, please," she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "If I wanted pathetic, I’d just—"

Shion didn’t let her finish. He stepped in close, close enough to smell the cheap vodka on her breath, close enough to see the flicker of something raw in her eyes before she steeled herself. "Funny," he murmured, voice thick with malice. "Because last I checked, you were the one who couldn’t fucking handle being alone." Her breath hitched—just once—but it was enough. He smirked. "You know what your problem is? Hey everyone! Since this fucking bitch-"

"—Yo, Mad', chill the fuck out," one of his friends hissed, grabbing Shion’s wrist before he could finish his sentence. Another clapped a hand over his shoulder, leaning in with a nervous chuckle. "Not worth it, man. Let’s get another drink." The laughter around them had died into something uneasy, half the crowd glancing between Shion and Y/N like they were waiting for blood. Shion jerked his arm free, but the interruption had already fractured his momentum—his words hung in the air, unfinished, poison dripping from the edges.

Y/N watched him struggle for control, her expression unreadable. Then she stepped forward, close enough that her next words were for him alone. "You wanna know what my problem is?" Her voice was soft, almost tender, like she was pitying him. "I outgrew you." The words landed like a knife between his ribs, precise and devastating. "And you’re still here, choking on it." His breath stuttered. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t need to—the truth of it was worse than any insult she could’ve screamed.

Because it was true. The first time they’d slept together, he’d cried after, furious at himself for how desperately he’d clung to her, how small and stupid he’d felt when she smoothed his hair back like he was some kid who didn’t know better. And she had known better—always had. While he’d been posturing, trying to mimic the older guys he idolized, she’d been the one actually thinking ahead, packing condoms when he forgot, rolling her eyes at his bravado but never calling him out on it until he pushed too far. Like now.

And he had pushed. And now he was walking away, shoulders hunched like he’d already lost—which he had. Y/N watched him go, the hollow ache in her chest familiar as an old bruise. His friends followed, tossing half-assed apologies over their shoulders like they didn’t matter, and she let them. But Shion paused at the hallway, just for a second, fingers flexing at his sides like he was fighting the urge to turn around. She wondered if he still bit his tongue when he was angry, if he still ran hot and reckless until someone yanked him back.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The music pulsed around her, too loud suddenly, the smell of sweat and spilled beer thick in her throat. Her friends were talking—asking if she was okay, if she wanted to leave—but their voices blurred into static. Because she remembered the first time she’d seen him cry, sixteen and furious at the world, how he’d scrubbed at his face like he was ashamed of it. She’d kissed him then, impulsive and stupid, and he’d clung to her like she was the only real thing in his shitty life. And now here they were, years later, still tearing each other apart because neither of them knew how to stop.

Five minutes. She counted them in the uneven throb of the bassline, in the way her nails dug half-moons into her palms. Then she stood, tossing a careless "bathroom" over her shoulder before weaving through the crowd. The hallway was dim, the air cooler where the party noise dulled to a murmur. She didn’t look back—didn’t need to—because she could feel it, the way his attention trailed after her like a physical touch.

The lock clicked shut behind her, and she exhaled sharply, perching on the closed toilet lid. The mirror reflected a version of herself she barely recognized: smudged eyeliner, lips parted like she wanted to say something cruel. Or fucking beg. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. Ruthless? Disrespectful? That was Shion, alright—still swinging fists at everything that scared him, still pretending he didn’t care when his hands shook. But the worst part wasn’t his words. It was the way her body had reacted—the traitorous heat pooling low when he’d crowded her, when his breath hitched like he wanted to bite more than just insults out of her.

Outside, footsteps scuffed against the tile. Then silence. Too heavy to be anyone else. Y/N didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until the door handle rattled—once, twice—before the lock gave with a sharp click. Shion filled the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light from the hall, his chest rising too fast. No smirk. No jokes. Just raw, unfiltered fury. "You think you’re so fucking clever," he said, voice rough. "Running your mouth like you don’t remember how it feels."

She didn’t flinch. "Get the fuck out before I embarrass you even more." The words tasted like gasoline—she could practically smell the spark before it caught. His laugh was jagged, humorless. "Embarrass me?" He stepped inside, toeing the door shut behind him. "You’re the one shaking." She wasn’t, not until he said it, not until she felt the tremble in her own fingers pressed against the sink edge. His gaze tracked the movement like a predator. "Still lie when you’re scared, huh?"

Y/N curled her lip. "Scared? Of you?" She shoved off the sink, crowding into his space so fast he had to tilt his chin up to hold her stare. "You’re nothing." His nostrils flared, the vein in his temple pulsing. "Then why’re your tits heaving like that?" She wanted to knee him in the groin. Wanted to claw that smirk off his face. But his breath was hot and uneven, his pupils blown wide, and god, she fucking hated how her body remembered—how her thighs tightened at the husk in his voice.

"Go fuck yourself," she spat, but he was already moving, backing her into the wall with a thud that rattled the mirror. His hands clamped over her wrists, pinning them above her head. "Nah," he breathed against her mouth, "you’re gonna do it for me." The words curled around her like smoke, thick with the promise of ruin. She jerked her knee up, but he caught it with his thigh, grinding against her so hard she felt the ridge of his cock through his jeans. "That’s it," he goaded, voice dropping to a growl, "fight me. Bet you’ll come faster."

The knock came like a gunshot—three sharp raps against the door. "Y/N?" Her friend’s voice, muffled but urgent. "You good in there?" Shion froze, his breath hot on her neck, his grip tightening like he was debating whether to let her answer. Y/N swallowed the moan building in her throat.

She opened her mouth—to scream, to lie—but Shion’s thumb brushed her pulse point, slow and deliberate. His smirk was gone, replaced by something darker, something that made her stomach flip. "Tell her you’re fine," he murmured, lips grazing her ear. His teeth nipped the lobe. "Unless you want an audience."

Y/N’s breath hitched. "Fuck you," she whispered, but her voice wavered. The door rattled again. "I’m fine," she called out, sharper than she meant to. "Just—give me a minute." Silence. Then footsteps retreating.

Shion exhaled through his nose, pressing his forehead against hers. "See?" His voice was rough, but his grip loosened—just enough for her to feel the tremor in his fingers. "You still know how to lie." His knee nudged hers apart, and she didn’t stop him. The bathroom light flickered overhead, casting shadows that made his expression unreadable. Or maybe she just didn’t want to read it.

He tilted her chin up with his free hand, thumb dragging over her bottom lip. "Listen," he said, low and deadly calm. "You’re gonna walk out there and apologize for fucking embarrassing me like that." His fingers tightened briefly, reminding her of his hold. "You know how much those guys mean to me." The words were brittle, like he was admitting something ugly.

Y/N laughed, the sound wet and ragged. "Mean to you?" She twisted her wrists against his grip, relishing the sting of friction. "You just used them as props to puff up your fucking ego." His nostrils flared—there it was, the rage he could never quite hide. She leaned in, teeth grazing his earlobe. "You’re such a fucking pussy. Always wanting validation from boys who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire."

That broke him. Shion slammed her harder into the wall, the impact rattling her teeth. "God fucking damn it, Y/N, stop fucking doing this" His voice cracked like shattered porcelain—raw, uneven, slipping into that fractured register she knew too well. No tears fell this time, but she recognized the tremor in his jaw, the way his breath hitched like he was swallowing glass.

His grip tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her wrists—hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make her gasp—but the moment the sound escaped her lips, he froze. His pupils dilated impossibly wider, drinking her in like she was the only thing left in the room worth seeing. Then his mouth crashed down onto hers, biting, relentless, stealing the breath from her lungs as if he wanted to consume her whole. She tasted iron—either from her lip splitting or his—and the metallic tang only fueled the fire licking up her spine.

But then his lips softened—just slightly—slowing into something devastatingly familiar. The way he used to kiss her in stolen moments between classes, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. Y/N whimpered—half-protest, half-plea—her fingers twisting uselessly against his hold. "Fuck… don’t," she whispered against his lips, voice breaking. "Don’t kiss me like that." Because she remembered. Remembered how it felt when he kissed her like she was something precious, like he wasn’t just marking territory but worshipping it. And that was worse than anything else he could do to her.

Shion pulled back just enough to smirk, his breath ragged. "Regret it yet?" he taunted, grinding his hips against hers in a slow, filthy roll. The friction dragged a moan from her throat before she could choke it back. His grin widened. "Yeah. Thought so.”

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The sink’s porcelain bit into Y/N’s palms as he yanked her hips back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. The mirror rattled with each thrust, their reflection fracturing—her lips parted around a gasp, his teeth bared like a feral thing. Cold metal pressed against her cheek, her breath fogging the glass as he fucked her harder, deeper, like he was trying to carve himself into her bones.

She remembered the first time—his clumsy thrusts, the way he’d trembled afterward, whispering apologies into her collarbone. Now his cock stretched her mercilessly, the drag of him almost too much, the stretch bordering on pain. His body was different too—broader shoulders, rougher hands—and when he wrapped an arm around her throat, she felt the power coiled in his muscles, the threat in his grip.

Shion bit down on her shoulder, growling when she arched against him. "Still tight as fuck," he rasped, voice thick with something like awe. The words shouldn’t have made her clench around him, but they did—her body betraying her, remembering every filthy thing he’d ever whispered in the dark. His breath hitched, fingers spasming against her hip. "Fuck, you—you feel even better than I remembered." The admission slipped out raw, unguarded, and she hated how it made her throat burn.

Behind her, she felt the smirk she couldn’t see—the arrogant tilt of his lips against her nape as he slowed his thrusts to a torturous grind. "Bet you thought about this," he murmured, dragging his tongue up her spine. "Bet you fucking touched yourself pretending it was me." She gasped when his fingers slid between her legs, rubbing rough circles that had her thighs shaking. "Admit it." His teeth scraped her ear. "Admit you missed me."

Y/N clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction—until his thumb pressed down hard, sending sparks shooting up her spine. A broken moan tore free, and Shion laughed low in his throat, triumphant. "Knew it," he breathed, nipping her earlobe. "Bet you were rubbing your pussy like this"—his fingers mimicked the motion—"thinking about how bad you wanted me to wreck you again." She hated how her hips jerked into his touch, how her body burned with the truth he’d dragged out of her.

The memories surfaced like bile—how he’d mock her in front of his friends back in high school, calling her frigid when she refused to sneak into the janitor’s closet with him, laughing when she tripped in the hallways. But then he’d pull her behind the school gates after class, pin her against the chain-link fence, and murmur, "You’re so fucking pretty when you’re mad," before kissing her stupid. The duality had driven her insane—the way he’d humiliate her in daylight only to worship her in shadows. And now here he was, doing it again—his fingers slick with her arousal while his words cut just as deep.

Shion’s hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering as he choked out, "Fuck, fuck—" before slamming into her one last time, his groan muffled against her shoulder. The warmth flooding her was familiar too, that stupid little noise he made when he came—half-growl, half-whimper—like even his body couldn’t decide if he was a predator or prey. Y/N wanted to laugh, to scream, to claw his eyes out for how predictable he was, how easily he gave in to her even while pretending he owned her.

But then she felt it—her own thighs clenching around nothing, her stomach tightening with a wave of heat that crested too fast, too violently, as if her body had been waiting for this betrayal all along. A strangled sound escaped her lips, her nails scraping against the sink as pleasure ripped through her, ruthless and unrelenting. She hated it—hated how her hips rocked back against him greedily, how her cunt pulsed around his cock like it was thanking him.

Shion’s laugh was rough with satisfaction, his teeth dragging down the nape of her neck. “Yeah, that’s right,” he muttered, voice slurred with exhaustion and victory. “Knew you’d come for me by the end of tonight.” His fingers slid between her legs again, collecting the slick mess he’d left behind before pressing two fingers against her parted lips. “Taste it,” he demanded, and she did—bit down hard enough to make him hiss, her tongue swirling around his fingers just to watch his pupils dilate.

Outside, the party had dulled to a distant throb of bass and slurred voices, but the bathroom still smelled like them—salt and sweat and the acrid tang of vodka. Y/N’s legs trembled as she slumped against the wall, the cold tiles biting into her overheated skin. Shion exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against hers as he caught his breath. His fingers twitched against her waist like he wasn’t sure whether to push her away or pull her closer.

"Dirty fucking girl," he muttered, voice hoarse. The words weren’t an insult—not really. They curled around her like smoke, thick with something she didn’t want to name. His thumb swiped lazily over her hipbone, smearing the mess he’d left there. "You take it so good." The praise tasted bitter, but her body arched into it anyway, her traitorous pulse skipping when he chuckled. "Look at you," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of her ear. "Still fucking mine."

Y/N shoved his chest—hard—forcing space between them. "Keep dreaming," she spat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand like she could erase the taste of him. "Just because I let you fuck me doesn’t mean shit." His grin faltered for half a second, just long enough for her to twist the knife. "You still came first," she reminded him, flicking her gaze pointedly downward. "Like always." ♡

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The wrench slipped for the third time, slicing Draken’s knuckles open. He sucked in a sharp breath, tossing the tool onto the greasy shop floor with a clatter. "Damn piece of—"

The garage door screeched upward, flooding the dim space with blinding afternoon light. A figure stumbled in, tripping over the threshold, arms flailing like a cartoon. "Hiya! I’m sorry I’m late," the girl panted, shoving a tangled mess of hair out of her face. "Jesus Christ, it’s so hard catching the bus." She smelled like cheap body spray and the stale heat of public transit.

Draken didn’t turn around. He pressed a shop rag against his bleeding hand, shoulders rigid. "You were supposed to be here two hours ago," he muttered, voice low and rough. The words weren’t sharp—just weary, like a man who’d long since stopped expecting anything different.

Y/n dropped her bag onto the rickety chair by the tool bench, the clatter of loose lip balms and crumpled receipts spilling out as she dug through it. "Yeah, well," she sighed, pulling out a cracked phone charger and a half-eaten Nesquik bar, "it’s so hard waking up this early. Like, I’m usually up at three, but now I have to be up at nine? And I have to go to bed early—zero alone time for myself, y’know?" She didn’t wait for an answer, just kept talking, voice bouncing off the oil-stained walls.

Draken exhaled sharply through his nose, still facing the bike’s exposed engine. The rag on his hand was soaking through, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the sharp oil fumes. He didn’t rise to her bait. "Clock in," he said flatly, nodding toward the dusty punch card machine in the corner. "You haven’t been here enough to get fired yet."

She rolled her eyes but sauntered over, hips swaying a little too deliberately in her cutoff shorts. The machine whirred as she slammed her card in. "I mean, you totally get it, don’t you, Kenny?" she said, voice dripping with faux sympathy. "That wife of yours—Emma, right?—and God, that kid." She leaned against the tool bench, picking at her chipped nail polish. "The kid's cute or whatever, but cries a lot, no?" Her grin was sharp, predatory. "Must be exhausting, coming home to that every night."

Draken’s hands stilled on the bike’s engine, knuckles white around a bolt. The shop rag slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a wet slap. He didn’t turn. Didn’t react—except for the slow, controlled breath he dragged in through his nose. "Y/n," he said, voice low, "your brother asked me to do this. So either clock in and grab a goddamn mop, or get out."

She let out a laugh, high and brittle, like shattered glass. "Ohhh, I’m sorry?" Her fingers trailed along the edge of the tool bench, nails scraping against rusted metal. "Did I strike a nerve?" She tilted her head, watching the way his shoulders tensed beneath his grease-stained shirt.

He didn’t dignify her with a response. Just grabbed the wrench off the floor and went back to work, the clang of metal echoing louder than necessary. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside and the occasional drip of oil from the bike’s engine onto the concrete below.

Y/n sighed dramatically, tossing her hands up. "Fine, fine, I’ll go, I’ll go," she said, voice dripping with exaggerated reluctance, like she was doing him some grand favor. She sauntered over to the punch clock, hips swaying in that deliberate way she knew made his jaw tighten—though he refused to look. The machine whirred as she slammed her card in again, harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the tense air.

Draken kept his focus on the bike’s engine, tightening bolts with more force than needed, his grip leaving no room for mistakes. He could practically feel her gaze burning into his back, the weight of it like the oppressive summer heat pressing down on him. She reminded him of Emma—back when they were teenagers, before responsibilities and diapers and sleepless nights. Emma had been brash, too, all sharp edges and careless confidence. But Emma had grown up.

Y/n was still stuck in that reckless limbo, fresh out of high school, her brother’s desperation clinging to her like perfume. He’d begged Draken to take her in—“Just give her a job, man, she’s gotta learn somehow,”—as if a grease-stained garage could fix whatever was broken in her. Draken had seen the way her brother’s shoulders sagged when she wasn’t looking, exhausted by the weight of her aimlessness. The apartment he’d rented for her was barely more than a shoebox, walls thin enough to hear her pacing at 3 AM, music thumping through the floorboards.

Then she’d shown up late on her first day, tripping over the threshold, her eyes catching his for half a second too long as he wiped his hands on a rag. Something in her expression had shifted—like she’d expected another dead-end job handed to her out of pity, but instead found him rolling up his sleeves to tighten a carburetor, forearms flexing under the dim garage lights. Her lip had twitched, halfway between a smirk and something else entirely. Draken knew that look.

Now she was perched on the stool by the workbench, lazily polishing a set of new wrenches with a grease-blackened rag. The rhythmic squeak of metal against cloth filled the quiet garage, punctuated by the occasional sigh as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. Her fingers moved slow, deliberate, dragging the rag over the chrome with unnecessary pressure—purposefully making the task last longer than it needed to. Draken caught himself watching the motion from the corner of his eye, the way her fingertips lingered on the curve of each tool before moving to the next. He tightened his grip on the bike’s throttle cable.

"You’ve been polishing that wrench for almost thirty minutes now," he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. The words came out sharper than intended, edged with something he didn’t want to name.

Y/n paused mid-swipe, her fingers curled around the handle. She turned her head just enough to catch his reflection in the chrome surface—his broad back hunched over the bike, grease smeared across his forearms like war paint. A slow grin spread across her lips. "So you have been watching me," she purred, dragging the rag down the tool’s shaft with exaggerated slowness. "Hmm. Cute."

Draken’s jaw flexed. He tightened the throttle cable with a sharp jerk, the bolt squealing in protest. "I’m fucking serious. Those are new tools—you don’t need to be polishing them." The words rumbled low, a warning. "Besides, you were up to this shit yesterday. And the day before that." He finally turned, wiping his hands on his stained jeans, eyes dark under the garage’s flickering fluorescents. "Maybe pick up a fucking mop."

Y/n’s grip tightened around the wrench. Her nails dug into the rag, knuckles paling. "You’re so goddamn condescending, I don’t even wanna fucking work here..!" The words exploded out of her—half-shout, half-snarl—but her voice cracked on the last syllable, betraying the anger for something else entirely.

Draken exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You think I didn’t notice?" His voice was low, rough. "That old guy—the one who used to work the night shift? He’d been here fifteen years. Your brother pulled every favor he had just for this." He stepped closer, the scent of motor oil and sweat clinging to him. "And you show up late. Every goddamn day."

Y/n threw the wrench down, chrome clattering against the concrete. "Then why don’t you just fucking fire me!" She stormed out, the garage door rattling violently in its tracks as she shoved it open. The afternoon sun blinded her momentarily, but she didn’t stop—just kept walking, her breath coming in short, furious bursts. She didn’t look back, didn’t see the way Draken’s hands clenched at his sides, fingers digging into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks.

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He just stood there breathing in and out. And continued on with his work. The bike’s throttle cable needed adjusting, the bolts tightened. Methodical. Familiar. His hands moved on autopilot, grease smearing across his knuckles, the sting of the cut long forgotten. The garage felt heavier without her there—thick with oil fumes and the ghost of her cheap perfume clinging to the air. The wrench she’d thrown lay abandoned near the door, chrome glinting accusingly under the fluorescents.

Two days passed. The space where Y/n’s bag usually slumped against the chair remained empty, save for the faint outline of dust where it had been. Draken didn’t mention it. Neither did Emma, though she noticed the way he lingered by the shop’s grimy window when he thought she wasn’t looking, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.

Then his phone rang—a shrill, insistent bleat that shattered the quiet of their bedroom at 2:03 AM. Emma stirred beside him, hair mussed from sleep, as Draken fumbled for the device, the screen casting a harsh blue glow across his face. Y/n’s brother’s name flashed like a warning. He exhaled through his nose before answering, voice graveled with exhaustion. "Yeah?"

There was a pause—long enough for Draken to register the background noise of a dive bar, glasses clinking, laughter too loud to be genuine. "Hey, Ken," her brother finally said, the words slightly slurred, tension coiling beneath them like a live wire. "Got a minute?"

Draken swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the cold floorboards. Emma mumbled something incoherent into her pillow, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. He rubbed a hand down his face, the scrape of stubble rough against his palm. "It’s two in the fucking morning," he muttered, voice low.

The line crackled with static, the distant clink of ice cubes settling in a glass. Y/n’s brother exhaled sharply. "Yeah—I know. But she hasn’t been answering my calls for two days now." The words were too casual, like he was commenting on the weather and not the fact his sister had vanished into Tokyo’s neon sprawl.

Draken’s fingers tightened around the phone. "She hasn’t been at work," he said, voice flat. The admission tasted bitter—like he’d somehow failed at something he hadn’t even signed up for.

Her brother laughed—a jagged, hollow sound. "Jesus Christ, this girl," he muttered, the words half-drowned by the bar’s din. "I leave the fucking city, she can barely breathe on her own." A glass clinked sharply in the background, followed by a hissed curse. "I’m sorry, Ken… thank you for helping me. I… I’ll visit you when I’m back from Osaka." The line went dead before Draken could respond, leaving him staring at the darkened screen, the ghost of that apology hanging in the air like smoke.

He kissed his teeth and tossed the phone onto the nightstand. The sheets rustled as he lay back down, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Emma shifted beside him, her breath steady and deep, her warmth pressing against his side. But his thoughts slithered back to Y/n—her fingers tracing chrome tools slower than necessary, the way her shorts rode up when she bent over to grab a dropped bolt. His jaw clenched. He shouldn't care. Not when Emma’s scent—vanilla lotion and baby shampoo—still clung to the pillow case.

His arm slid around Emma’s waist, pulling her closer. She sighed in her sleep, nestling against his chest without waking. Draken buried his face in her hair, breathing her in like a drowning man gasping for air. His fingers traced the familiar curve of her hip under the thin fabric of her nightgown, reminding himself of the stretch marks from childbirth, the way she still winced sometimes when she picked up their kid. Real. Solid. His. But the ghost of Y/n’s laugh—sharp and mocking—echoed in the back of his skull anyway.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The garage clock ticked louder than usual that afternoon, its second hand jerking forward with agonizing slowness. Draken wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, grease streaking across his forehead. He kept glancing at the door, half-expecting—half-hoping—it would screech open any second. But the hinges stayed silent, rusted in place by the oppressive June humidity. The wrench Y/n had thrown lay untouched where it’d fallen, chrome dulled beneath a thin film of dust. He kicked it under the work bench.

By the time the shop closed, Draken was pacing the grease-stained floor like a caged animal. He snatched up the employee file he’d shoved to the back of the drawer—Y/n’s messy scrawl filled out the address section with crooked lettering and a stain that smelled faintly of bubblegum. The apartment complex was a twenty-minute bike ride away, nestled in a part of town where the streetlights flickered like dying fireflies. He didn’t text Emma. Didn’t call. Just revved the engine louder than necessary, as if the growl of pistons could drown out the unease coiling in his gut.

The stairwell reeked of mildew and stale cigarette smoke, the fluorescent bulb on the third floor buzzing erratically. Draken’s knuckles hovered inches from Y/n’s door—chipped red paint, a sticker half-peeled off that read ‘GO AWAY’ in bubbly font. He could hear music thumping through the thin walls, bass vibrating the floorboards beneath his boots. Then—glass shattering. A muffled curse. His fist connected with the door before he could stop himself, the impact rattling the frame. "Open up," he growled, voice rough enough to scrape paint.

She swung it open. Her hair was up, face clear and glowing from whatever product she used, and she was in a pajama set that matched the shade of her cheeks. She looked peaceful—except for the shattered tumbler at her feet, amber liquid pooling between her bare toes. "Oh," she breathed, blinking up at him like he was a hallucination. The scent of bourbon clung to her exhale. "Kenny." Her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip, slow and deliberate. The pajama shorts rode up her thighs as she shifted her weight, fabric straining against the curve of her hips.

Draken’s jaw locked. The apartment behind her was a disaster—clothes strewn across the couch, takeout containers stacked precariously on the coffee table—but somehow, impossibly, she looked put together. Her gaze flicked down to his grease-stained shirt, lingering on the way the fabric stretched across his chest. "Should’ve told me you were gonna pay me a visit," she murmured, voice husky with something that wasn’t quite amusement. "Would’ve cleaned up." Her fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt, lifting it just enough to expose a sliver of bare stomach. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to shove past her. "Your brother called," he muttered instead, eyes scanning the dimly lit apartment. A kettle whistled faintly from the kitchenette, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. The scent of chamomile mixed with bourbon—an unsettling combination. "Said you weren’t answering your phone." His fingers flexed at his sides, itching to grab her, shake her, demand to know why she’d vanished. But he didn’t move.

Y/n leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms beneath her chest in a way that made her shirt ride up further. "Aw, were you worried?" she teased, lips quirking into a smirk as she stepped aside. "Come inside. I made tea."

Draken hesitated—his boots planted stubbornly on the threshold—but the scent of chamomile curled around him, dragging him forward like a fish hooked through the ribs. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the cluttered warmth of her apartment. The music had been turned down to a low hum, bass vibrating through the soles of his shoes like a pulse.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Y/n gestured vaguely toward the couch—a two-seater draped in fluffy pink blankets, wedged between a retro TV and a leaning tower of laundry. "It’s a bit small," she murmured, fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt again. "But you can sit there." The invitation hung between them, weighted and deliberate. The bourbon puddled at her toes reflected the dim lamplight, casting fractured gold across her bare ankles.

She came back with two mugs—one chipped at the rim, the other pristine—steam curling into the already humid air. "Chamomile," she said, pressing the chipped one into his hands. Her fingers lingered against his knuckles for a heartbeat too long, skin warm where the grease hadn’t crusted over. The scent of bergamot mixed with chamomile, cloying and sweet. Her knees pressed against his thigh as she settled beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her bare skin. The tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim when she crossed her legs, pajama shorts riding up higher.

Draken set the mug down on the coffee table—next to a half-empty bottle of bourbon—without drinking. "He said you weren’t answering," he repeated, voice rougher than he intended. The couch groaned under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight enough to ache. "Thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere." The lie tasted bitter. Her brother hadn’t said that—hadn’t needed to. The implication had been clear enough in the way his voice cracked halfway through the city’s name.

Y/n snorted, tossing her head back against the cushions. "God, I wish he’d just let me fucking be, you know?" Her fingers drummed against her thigh, restless. The pajama fabric slid higher with each agitated movement. "Every single day—‘Did you eat? Did you sleep? Did you—’ like I’m some fucking toddler." She snatched up the bourbon bottle, tipping it toward her mug with a careless slosh. The chamomile darkened, swirling like poison. "I keep telling him I’m grateful he’s paying my rent, but he was the one that kicked me out." Her laugh was sharp, brittle.

Draken’s fingers tightened around the mug. The porcelain was hot enough to burn, but he didn’t pull away. "He didn’t kick you out," he said, voice low. "He got you an apartment." The words tasted like ash. He shouldn’t be here—shouldn’t be listening to this—but the couch groaned beneath him, sinking deeper under their combined weight. The bourbon-soaked chamomile scent clung to his throat.

Y/n’s fingers curled into fists around her mug, knuckles whitening. "And do you know why?" Her voice was venomous, cracking on the edges like broken glass. "It’s 'cause of his bitchy fucking girlfriend. Complaining and complaining and whining and bitching—" She slammed the mug down, tea sloshing over the rim, pooling on the coffee table like spilled blood. "I just wish I could fucking chop her head off!" The words tore out of her, raw and jagged. "And my brother—under this love-sick spell and for what? For some pussy?" She laughed, high and manic, nails digging into her thighs.

Draken’s jaw tightened. He could see it now—the way her chest heaved, the flush creeping up her neck, how her pajama top clung to her collarbones with sweat. The air smelled sour with bourbon and rage. "You’re drunk," he muttered, voice rough. But she wasn’t. Not completely. There was something sharper beneath the slur, something calculated in the way she leaned in, her breath hot against his ear.

Y/n’s fingers dug into the couch cushions, nails scraping fabric. "You’d hate it too," she hissed, voice dropping to a whisper that skittered down his spine. "If some stranger moved into your place—took your spot at the table, fucked your brother in your childhood bed—" Her knee pressed harder against his thigh, a silent challenge. The chamomile mug tipped over, tea bleeding into the wood grain like a confession.

Draken’s fingers twitched—toward her throat, her wrist, anywhere to shut her up—but she caught his hand before he could pull away, her grip unnervingly steady despite the tremor in her voice. "What," she breathed, lips brushing his knuckles, "he asked you to check on me?" Her thumb traced the grease-stained crescent of his nail, slow and deliberate. The bourbon on her tongue smelled sweet, cloying. "Or did you come here yourself?"

The admission clawed its way up his throat before he could stop it. "I’m sorry I yelled at you," he muttered, barely audible over the hum of her apartment’s faulty AC. His hand flexed in hers, calluses catching on her softer skin. "Shouldn’t have said all that shit." The lie tasted like chamomile and regret—her knee still pressed against his thigh, a brand through denim.

Y/n exhaled through her nose, slow and deliberate, lips quirking at the corners. "It’s alright, Kenny," she murmured, thumb stroking the pulse point of his wrist. Her other hand lifted, fingertips ghosting over the grease smeared along his jaw—a mechanic’s war paint. "Thank you for apologizing." The words dripped honey-sweet, but her nails dug crescent moons into his palm. "Means a lot." The unspoken liar hung between them like the bourbon-soaked steam rising from their abandoned mugs.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Draken swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against the sudden tightness in his throat. He could smell her—cheap strawberry shampoo, chamomile gone bitter, the salt-sweet tang of sweat where her pajama top gaped at the collar. Her fingertips traced the line of his stubble, pausing at the corner of his mouth. His breath hitched when she dragged her eyes down to his lips and back up to his eyes, pupils blown wide despite the lamplight. The air between them crackled, thick with chamomile and something far more dangerous.

She leaned in first—just barely, a whisper of movement—but it was enough. His hand tightened around hers, pulling her closer before he could stop himself. Her breath ghosted over his mouth, warm with bourbon and the phantom taste of regret. He could still turn away. Could still hear Emma’s laugh echoing in the back of his skull, the baby’s cries from down the hall. But then Y/n’s teeth scraped his bottom lip, and the last thread of restraint snapped.

The couch groaned beneath them as he lifted her into his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, the fabric of her pajamas impossibly thin. Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as she ground against him, the heat between them stifling. The scent of chamomile and motor oil mingled in the sweat-slick space where their foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged. "Fuck," she gasped, arching into him as his teeth found the pulse point of her throat. The word sounded like surrender—or maybe a challenge.

Draken’s hands tightened on her waist, fingers digging into soft skin beneath the bunched fabric of her shirt. He could taste the bourbon still clinging to her tongue, sweet and poisonous, drowning out the memory of Emma’s vanilla lip balm. She whimpered when he bit down—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her hips jerk against his, the friction unbearable. Her fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, knuckles brushing against the strained denim beneath. The metal clicked open like a gun cocking.

He caught her wrist before she could slide the leather free, pinning it against the armrest with a force that made her gasp. His other hand yanked the belt loose himself, the sound of leather sliding through loops deafening in the charged silence. Y/n’s breath hitched, watching the way his knuckles flexed as he tugged it free—slow, deliberate—before letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Her pulse rabbited under his grip, throat working around a swallow when his thumb pressed into the fragile bones of her wrist. "Kenny—"

"Fuck—we can’t do it here," Draken growled against her throat, the couch’s cheap springs shrieking under their combined weight. His fingers bit into her hips as she rocked against him, the friction maddening through layers of fabric. "Where’s your bed?" The words came out ragged, more demand than question, his grip tightening when she arched into him with a breathless laugh.

"On your left…the futon," Y/n gasped, nodding toward the corner where a crumpled nest of blankets lay half-folded, sheets tangled from restless nights. The dim glow of streetlights bled through the thin curtains, casting striped shadows across the disheveled bedding—a mess of tossed pillows and the faint indentation of her body still pressed into the mattress. Draken didn’t hesitate. He hauled her up, her legs locking around his waist as he carried her the few stumbling steps, their mouths crashing together in a clash of teeth and bourbon.

Her fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, nails scraping his stomach as she tried to shove the fabric up. Draken caught her wrists, wrenching them away with a roughness that made her gasp—not in protest, but in something hotter, darker. He released her just long enough to drag the shirt over his head himself, the fabric catching briefly on his chin before he tossed it aside. The air between them crackled with the sudden exposure of skin—his chest heaving, sweat glistening along the ridges of old scars and fresh grease smudges. Y/n’s breath hitched, gaze raking over him with a hunger that bordered on reverence.

"Fuck," she whispered, fingers hovering over the swell of his pectorals like she was afraid to touch. Her throat worked around a swallow. "I’ve… never been with a guy like you." The confession spilled out raw, unguarded—her usual smirk dissolving into something almost vulnerable. Draken’s stomach clenched at the admission, her words igniting something primal in the pit of his belly. He knew what she meant—not just his build, not just the ink curling over his ribs—but the way he carried himself, the unspoken violence coiled beneath every movement.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

His hands found the hem of her pajama top, yanking it over her head in one rough motion before she could finish her sentence. The fabric caught on her wrists, tangled briefly in her hair, and then she was bare before him—skin flushed pink, the faintest tremor running through her shoulders as his gaze dragged down her torso. Draken exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening on her waist as he hauled her closer, her bare breasts brushing against his chest. The contact sent a shudder through them both, her nails scraping his shoulders as she arched into him.

She gasped when his teeth grazed her collarbone, her hips jerking forward instinctively. "Please," she breathed, the word cracking halfway through—less a plea than a dare. Draken’s hands slid lower, rough palms scraping the sensitive skin beneath her ribs, down to the waistband of her shorts. He hooked his fingers into the fabric, wrenching them down her thighs with a single sharp tug. The elastic snapped against her skin, leaving red marks in its wake as the shorts pooled at her ankles.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tight enough to sting as he lowered her onto the futon. The thin mattress sagged beneath their combined weight, springs groaning in protest. Draken hovered over her, his shadow swallowing her whole—the dim light catching the sweat-slick planes of his chest, the way his jaw clenched when she hooked a leg around his waist. She watched him—really watched him—the way his pupils swallowed the amber of his irises, the way his breath hitched when she dug her heel into the small of his back. No hesitation. No guilt. Like Emma didn’t mean a damn thing in this moment.

"Kenny…" she whispered, her voice ragged, hips canting up against his straining zipper. "I wanna ride you." The words spilled out raw, unfiltered—her hands sliding down his torso to fumble with his belt again, fingers trembling with something that wasn’t fear. Draken caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, his other dragging down her thigh to hook behind her knee. He hauled her leg higher, spreading her wider, his calloused fingers branding her skin.

"No. Fuck no." His voice was gravel, low and dangerous, the kind of tone that should’ve sent her scrambling. Instead, she arched into him, a broken noise escaping her throat when his thumb brushed the soaked fabric between her thighs. "You don’t get to call the shots here." The words weren’t a warning—they were a promise. Her breath hitched as he leaned down, lips skimming the shell of her ear. "You don’t get to disappear for days, then come back and think you’re in fucking control."

Her pulse fluttered under his grip, her nails biting into his palm where he held her wrists pinned. The streetlight bled through the curtains, painting stripes across the sweat-slick dip of her waist, the rise of her chest. "Was only two," she muttered, already dumb with it—the heat, the pressure, the way his teeth dragged along her jugular. Her hips jerked when his free hand hooked into the waistband of her underwear, tearing the fragile fabric with a sharp rip. The sound hung between them, filthy and final.

Draken’s breath seared against her collarbone, lips tracing the frantic jump of her pulse. "Say it," he growled, fingers tightening where they gripped her thigh—hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make her whimper. "Say you won’t disappear again." His thumb swiped through the slick heat between her legs, rough enough to make her back arch off the mattress. The accusation in his voice tangled with something darker, something desperate.

Y/n’s laugh fractured into a gasp when his teeth sank into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. "Why does it matter?" she taunted, voice trembling despite the smirk curling her lips. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles white. "You got a wife—got a kid—" The words dissolved into a moan as his tongue replaced his thumb, dragging a slow, torturous stripe up her core. Her hips jerked involuntarily, seeking friction that wasn’t there.

Draken pulled back just enough to watch her squirm, his breath hot against her damp skin. "Oh, now it fucking matters?" he growled, grip tightening on her waist to still her desperate movements. His smirk was sharp enough to cut. "When you got me where you wanted?" His thumb circled her clit with deliberate, mocking slowness—just enough pressure to make her gasp, not enough to let her come.

Y/n's fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails biting through grease and sweat. "Bullshit—you'll go home to her tonight," she panted, voice cracking as his free hand yanked his belt loose completely. The leather hissed through the loops like a snake shedding skin. "Kiss your baby's forehead, fuck your wife like none of this happened—" Her words dissolved into a whimper when he gripped himself, stroking once, twice, the head slick with precum glistening in the dim light.

Draken exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around her thigh. "Yeah," he admitted roughly, aligning himself at her entrance without pushing in. The tip caught on her heat, teasing. "And I'll forget all about you." The lie tasted like chamomile and motor oil—her scent already seeping into his pores, her gasp ringing in his ears louder than Emma's voice ever could. He watched the way her throat worked around a swallow, the way her pupils swallowed her irises whole.

Y/n's laugh was breathless, jagged at the edges. "Liar," she whispered, hips canting up to meet him—only for him to pull back just enough to deny her. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, fabric straining under her grip. "You'll remember this every time you change a fucking tire." Her voice cracked on the last word as he finally thrust into her, one brutal snap of his hips that punched the air from her lungs. The futon creaked violently beneath them, the sound swallowed by her choked moan.

He was so big—stretching her in a way that bordered on pain, the burn of it sharp enough to make her toes curl. Draken groaned through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into the meat of her thigh hard enough to bruise. "Fuck," he gritted out, the single syllable rough with restraint. His hips rolled experimentally, dragging himself almost all the way out before slamming back in—deep enough to make her see stars behind her eyelids. The rhythm was punishing from the start, each thrust jolting her up the mattress until her shoulders hit the headboard.

Y/n gasped, her fingernails scraping against his scalp as she dragged his mouth back to hers—all teeth and tongue and bourbon-bitter desperation. She arched into him, meeting each snap of his hips with a roll of her own, the slap of skin echoing off the bare walls. The futon creaked violently beneath them, protesting every movement, but she didn't care—couldn't care—not when he was filling her so completely, not when his sweat dripped onto her collarbones like rain.

Draken groaned against her throat, the sound raw and unfamiliar even to his own ears. Emma—Emma was soft sighs and whispered endearments, slow kisses and careful touches meant to cradle, not consume. This was different—frenzied, filthy—her thighs clamping around his waist like a vise, her teeth sinking into his shoulder hard enough to bruise. The pain sparked something feral in his gut, his hips stuttering as she clenched around him, tight enough to steal his breath.

The futon groaned beneath them, their sweat-slick skin sticking to the wrinkled sheets. It was unnervingly domestic—her fingers carding through his hair when he caught his breath between thrusts, his lips brushing her temple as she arched beneath him—like they'd done this a thousand times before. Like this bed was theirs, like the morning light would find them tangled together with no guilt, no lies. The illusion shattered when Y/n suddenly dug her nails into his back and hissed, "Harder, Kenny—or are you too fucking old for this?" Her grin was sharp, mocking—nothing like Emma's sleepy smiles.

Draken snarled, flipping her onto her stomach with a rough jerk of his hips, her gasp muffled by the pillow. He pinned her wrist between her shoulder blades, the angle brutal as he drove into her deeper—no finesse, no tenderness, just raw friction that burned. The sound she made was half-sob, half-laugh, her free hand scrabbling at the sheets as he bent over her, teeth grazing her earlobe. "Old enough to know you're fucking begging for it," he growled, the words vibrating against her sweat-slick spine.

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Her rhythm fractured completely, hips jerking erratically—no control, no teasing, just desperate hunger. The futon groaned under their combined weight, springs protesting as he hauled her up onto her knees, her back arched like a bowstring. His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking just hard enough to make her gasp, the sting mingling with the relentless drag of him inside her. She could feel the moment he snapped—his breath hitching, grip tightening—before his pace turned punishing, each thrust knocking a broken noise from her throat.

"Fuck—Kenny, I'm close—" The words spilled out in a shattered whisper, her fingers clawing at the sweat-slick sheets beneath her. His answering groan vibrated against her spine, one arm wrapping around her waist to pull her flush against him, his other hand sliding down to circle her clit with rough precision. The dual sensation—him filling her to the hilt, his calloused fingers working her oversensitive flesh—sent white-hot sparks skittering up her thighs. She choked on his name, her vision blurring at the edges as her body coiled tight.

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Every snap of his hips was a brutal punctuation mark, each thrust dragging her higher until her breath came in ragged, punched-out gasps. His grip on her hipbone would leave fingerprints, but she welcomed the ache—wanted the bruises as proof this wasn’t some whiskey-soaked fantasy. His rhythm stuttered, the wet slap of skin growing erratic, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he chased his high with single-minded focus. The air smelled of sex and sweat and something darker—regret or recklessness, she couldn’t tell.

When the climax hit him, it was with a hoarse groan that sounded more like pain than pleasure, his body locking up behind her as he buried himself to the hilt one final time. Y/n arched back against him, her own release cresting just as he wrenched himself out with a violence that startled her—like touching her a second longer would scorch him. The sudden emptiness was a shock, cool air replacing the heat of him as he jerked away, his breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts.

Hot stripes painted her stomach, each erratic pulse marking her skin with viscous streaks that gleamed under the dim streetlight. She watched his face—jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut—as if he could erase the moment simply by refusing to see it. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the wet sound of his hand working himself through the last trembling aftershocks, his knuckles brushing her hipbone with accidental intimacy.

It wasn’t until he stumbled backward—his knees hitting the edge of her discarded shorts—that she realized she’d collapsed onto her forearms, cheek pressed to the sweat-damp sheets. Her thighs trembled violently, muscles liquid and useless. She couldn’t move if she wanted to; could only blink up at him through the haze of her own release, vision tunneling around the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The belt buckle gleamed on the floor between them like a dropped weapon.

"Didn’t think I could get fucked this good," she rasped, voice wrecked, tongue thick with the aftertaste of bourbon and him. Her laugh was a breathless, jagged thing, nails digging into the sheets as she pushed herself onto shaky elbows. "I’ll give you that." The words landed too sharp, too raw—a challenge wrapped in surrender. Draken’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was resisting the urge to wipe her scent off his skin. The streetlight caught the sweat beading along his collarbone, the way his chest rose and fell like he’d just finished a fight.

Y/n lunged before he could step away—all wiry strength and bourbon-loosened limbs—her fingers tangling in his belt loop to yank him down beside her. The futon groaned under their combined weight, springs protesting as she rolled half atop him, her bare thigh draping over his hip. She pressed her face into the hollow of his throat, inhaling deep—motor oil, salt, the faintest trace of Emma’s floral detergent clinging to his skin beneath it all. Her teeth found his pulse point, not biting, not yet—just resting there, a silent threat. "You smell like me now," she murmured, lips brushing his Adam’s apple. Her knee nudged between his thighs, insistent. "Bet she’ll notice."

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Draken’s exhale shuddered through him, hands hovering at her waist—not pushing away, not pulling closer—just trembling there, caught between instinct and guilt. The air smelled of sex and spilled bourbon, Y/n’s shampoo mixed with the musk of their sweat. He stared at the water stain on her ceiling, the shape of it blurring as his vision tunneled. His fingers twitched against her ribs, recalling the give of her flesh beneath his grip, the way her breath hitched when he’d pinned her wrists. Something dark and hungry uncoiled in his gut at the memory.

Her small breaths lulled him to sleep. The warmth of her sprawled half on top of him was suffocating, yet he couldn’t bring himself to shove her off. The weight of her leg over his, the way her fingers curled possessively into the waistband of his jeans—it should’ve repulsed him. Instead, it anchored him, the steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with his own exhaustion. The streetlight bled through the curtains, painting stripes across her bare shoulder, the curve of her spine. He traced them with his gaze, counting them like seconds until dawn.

The headache came first. Then the stiffness in his neck, the ache in his lower back—the kind that screamed old injuries and shitty futons. Draken blinked against the gray morning light, his tongue thick with the stale aftertaste of bourbon and regret. Her scent clung to him—that cheap floral shampoo undercut by something muskier, something unmistakably her. He wasn’t in the mood—not for this, not for the way her thigh slid against his as she stirred, not for the slow, sleepy smile curving her lips when she found him awake.

"Hi, Ken," she murmured, voice raspy with sleep and last night’s screamed obscenities. Her fingers ghosted down his chest, tracing the scratches she’d left there—red and angry like brands. Draken caught her wrist mid-stroke, yanking it away with more force than necessary. She gasped, thighs tightening around his waist instinctively—as if her body remembered before her brain did. He ignored the pang low in his gut at the friction, rolling her off him with a jerk of his hips that sent her sprawling into the rumpled sheets.

His shirt lay crumpled beside her torn underwear, the pink lace stark against his grease-stained cotton. The sight hit him like a punch—garish proof of what they’d done tangled with the mundane evidence of who he was supposed to be. He snatched the fabric up, the movement too sharp, too desperate.

Y/n propped herself on one elbow, watching him dress with hooded eyes. The sheets pooled at her waist, her torso littered with marks that mirrored his own. “Guess I’ll see you back at work, boss,” she drawled, dragging a fingertip along the bite mark on her collarbone. The words curled like smoke between them—equal parts promise and provocation.

Draken didn’t answer. The belt buckle clinked as he cinched it tight, his fingers remembering the leather’s slide against her thighs. The elevator ride down smelled of stale takeout and bleach. His reflection in the scratched metal doors was a stranger—

—and then suddenly he was home, standing in his own hallway, Emma’s perfume clinging to the air like an accusation. The baby monitor hummed static. He rubbed his knuckles over his mouth, tasting copper where she’d bitten him. The bathroom light flickered when he flicked the switch. The sink ran cold as he scrubbed, soap foaming pink where her nail marks welted his wrists. The water couldn’t touch the grease under his nails.

Emma stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her robe, her shadow stretching long across the tiles. "I can’t fucking believe you, Ken," she whispered, voice shredded from crying. The baby whimpered down the hall. He knew how to calm her—knew the exact pressure to rub her back, the way to murmur against her temple until her breathing evened. But his hands still smelled like Y/n’s sweat. He turned the faucet hotter. ♡

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The knock echoed louder than she expected. Y/N pulled her hand back like the wood had burned her, staring at the chipped paint on the doorframe where Rindou had accidentally slammed it too hard last summer.

Inside, the house smelled like leather and something faintly metallic—gun oil, maybe, though she’d never asked. Her throat tightened when she heard footsteps, but they were too heavy to be Rindou’s. Ran leaned against the doorframe, shirtless, one eyebrow raised. "He’s not here," he said, like it was an observation, not a warning.

She swallowed hard. His presence filled the hallway, all coiled muscle and quiet intensity. "I just came to collect my things," she managed, gripping the strap of her bag until her knuckles whitened. "If that’s okay." The words sounded small, even to her. Ran didn’t move, just studied her with those unsettling violet eyes, like he was deciding whether to let her in or slam the door shut.

The silence stretched too long. She shifted her weight, hyperaware of the way his gaze tracked the movement. She’d never talked to Ran alone before—not really. Even when she’d been with Rindou, Ran had always lingered just outside their orbit, a shadow with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Now, without Rindou as a buffer, she felt exposed, like prey under a predator’s scrutiny.

“Come in,” he finally said, stepping aside just enough to let her pass. The invitation wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t hostile either—more like a test. She hesitated, then slipped past him, her shoulder brushing his bare chest. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through her. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and she caught the scent of sweat and something darker, something she couldn’t name.

The room was exactly as she remembered, down to the pile of laundry in the corner and the faint smell of weed clinging to the sheets. Rindou’s bed was unmade, the pillow still dented from where he’d slept. Y/N clenched her jaw, refusing to let the memories surface. She moved mechanically, grabbing her hairbrush from the nightstand, the sweater she’d left draped over the chair. Every movement felt too loud in the silence, her breath hitching when Ran leaned against the dresser behind her, arms crossed.

"So, Y/N," he said, voice low, almost conversational. "How’ve you been holding up?" The question wasn’t gentle—it was a challenge, like he already knew the answer. She could feel his eyes on her back, tracing the tension in her shoulders. The air thickened between them, heavy with things unsaid.

She swallowed, fingers curling around the soft fabric of her sweater. "You know it’s hard," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "But I’m surviving." The words tasted bitter, like she was confessing to a crime. She expected him to laugh—to scoff at her weakness—but instead, she heard him exhale, slow and deliberate.

Ran pushed off the dresser, moving closer. "Rin’s been off lately," he murmured, almost to himself. "Quieter than usual." The way he said it made her ears perk up—not out of concern, but because she recognized the edge in his voice, the same one Rindou got when he was circling something dangerous.

She folded the sweater into her bag too neatly, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, well. He wasn’t quiet when he told me it was over," she muttered. The memory surged back—Rindou’s cold dismissal, his hands shoved in his pockets like she wasn’t worth the effort of pulling them out. Ran let out a soft huff, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

"You’re a good kid, Y/N," he said, reaching past her to pluck a stray hair tie from the nightstand. He twirled it around his fingers, the elastic snapping taut. "I’m sure some guy’ll come along. Treat you right." The words should’ve been comforting, but the way his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist as he handed the tie back made her pulse stutter.

She didn’t respond. She grabbed her skirt from Rindou’s closet, the fabric still faintly smelling of his cologne. Her hands shook as she folded it, pressing the pleats too hard—like she could smooth out the creases Rindou had left in her life. Ran’s reflection watched her from the mirror across the room, his expression unreadable.

“You think that’s what I want?” she finally said, voice thick. The question hung between them, raw and jagged. Ran didn’t answer immediately, just tilted his head slightly, watching her like she was a puzzle he’d only just noticed.

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She tossed the skirt into her bag with more force than necessary. “You don’t know shit about what I want.” The words tasted like defiance, but her hands betrayed her, fumbling with the zipper. Ran exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was savoring the tension. “Yeah?” He took a step closer, crowding her against the dresser. “Then tell me.” His breath ghosted over her ear—warm, tinged with nicotine. “What do you want, Y/N?”

The proximity should’ve made her shrink back, but instead, heat prickled under her skin. She turned sharply, meeting his gaze head-on. “Not pity,” she snapped. His lips curled, not quite a smile—more like he’d caught her in a lie. “Who said anything about pity?” His thumb brushed the hinge of her jaw, calloused and deliberate. The touch was electric, startling her into stillness.

“It’s so obvious you’re pitying me,” she muttered, but her voice wavered. His thumb stilled, pressing just hard enough to make her gasp. “Okay,” Ran murmured, leaning in until his nose grazed her temple. “Maybe I do pity you.”

The admission shouldn’t have stung—not after everything—but it did. She jerked her head away, only for his hand to slide into her hair, fingers tightening just shy of painful. “But not because you got dumped,” he continued, voice dropping to a growl. “Because you’re still hung up on the wrong fucking brother.”

Her breath hitched. The words slithered between her ribs, sharp and venomous. “Ran, what the fuck are you talking about?” she spat, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. His grip tightened, tilting her head back until all she could see was the violet of his eyes, dark with something she couldn’t name.

“Rin likes them loud,” he mused, thumb tracing the frantic pulse in her throat. “Bright. Annoying.” A humorless chuckle escaped him. “You—quiet, fucking careful—you were always mine.” The claim reverberated through her, igniting a wildfire under her skin. She tried to shove him back, but he caught her wrist, pinning it against the dresser with a clatter of cosmetics.

Her knee jerked up instinctively—Ran blocked it with his thigh, pressing her harder into the wood. “You guys were a weird fucking pair,” he muttered against her temple, breath scorching. “Like watching a tiger play house with a rabbit.” The analogy was cruel, but it cracked her open, exposing the raw truth she’d buried: Rindou had devoured her in chunks, never noticing she was already half-gone.

Ran’s teeth grazed her earlobe, sharp enough to sting. “He doesn’t know what to do with a girl like you.” The words dripped with condescension. “And every time you fucked, I could tell.” Her stomach twisted.

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"You heard us…?" The realization punched through her, hot and humiliating. The thin walls of the house, the way Ran’s bedroom shared one with Rindou’s—God, he’d heard everything.

Ran’s grin was all teeth. "Every fucking time." He dragged his tongue along the shell of her ear, voice dropping to a whisper. "You’d moan like it hurt—too high, too sweet. Fake as hell." His free hand slid down her side, rough fingers catching on the hem of her shirt. "But I liked it anyway."

She stiffened, breath stuttering. All those nights, all those sounds—he'd been listening, cataloguing her failures like a scientist dissecting a flawed experiment. "You liked them?" she asked, genuinely curious despite the humiliation coiling in her gut. "Really?"

Ran breathed out in a chuckle, low and dark, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Oh, Y/N," he murmured, voice dripping with something between amusement and cruelty. "You think I cared about the sounds?" His fingers tightened in her hair, tilting her head back further. "I liked knowing you were lying."

Her pulse hammered against his thumb where it pressed into her throat, betraying her. "So you didn’t like the way that I sounded?" she shot back, voice cracking halfway through.

Ran exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip shifting lower to trace the column of her neck. "Y/N," he murmured, lips grazing her jaw, "I don’t know what you really sounded like." The confession hung between them, heavy with implication—he’d only ever heard her performance, the hollow echoes she’d crafted for Rindou’s benefit. His teeth scraped her skin, testing, like he was daring her to prove him wrong.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders on instinct, fingers digging into the hard planes of muscle there—not pushing him away, not pulling him closer. Just holding on, like she was caught in the riptide of his words. His breath hitched when her nails scraped his back, the sound raw and unguarded. It was the first real reaction she’d ever pulled from him, and it sent a thrill through her.

Ran pulled back just enough to smirk down at her. “So,” he drawled, thumb hooking into the waistband of her jeans, “where does Rin keep his condoms?” The question was crude, deliberate, designed to make her flinch. Instead, she let out a shaky breath, staring up at him. “Top drawer,” she admitted softly, nodding toward the nightstand. “Left side.”

Ran didn’t move, just watched her with those predatory eyes, waiting. “Ran,” she whispered, fingers flexing against his shoulders, “I don’t think we can do this… I still love Rin. I shouldn’t be fucking his brother.”

His laugh was rough, rolling over her skin like gravel. “Y/N, you’re being neglected.” His hand slid down her spine, pressing her flush against him—so close she could feel every ridge of muscle, every hitch of his breath. “I know my brother. He’s not very experienced with stuff like this… sweet girls like you.” The words were silk-wrapped venom. “You ever really come with him?”

She shuddered, fingers tightening in his hair. “Yes, I have,” she said, too quickly. His smirk widened, sharp enough to cut. “Listen, I’m flattered you think I’m a sweet girl,” she breathed, “but don’t you feel shameful? It’s your brother—I don’t want to break that bond.” The protest sounded weak even to her own ears, drowned out by the hammering of her pulse where his thumb traced circles on her hip bone.

Ran leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “He won’t find out.” His voice was rough, edged with something darker. “And if he does—” His teeth grazed her earlobe, sharp enough to make her gasp. “—he’ll have to learn that he can’t go around neglecting girls.” The threat hung between them, thrilling and terrible.

She gave in—not with teeth and desperation like she had with Rindou, but with something softer, slower. Ran kissed like he fought: deliberate, calculated, each movement designed to dismantle her defenses. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing rather than demanding, and she opened for him with a shudder. It wasn’t sweetness—not really—but the contrast was dizzying, the way he could make surrender feel like victory.

Her back hit the mattress with a muffled thump, Ran’s weight settling between her thighs like he belonged there. His fingers worked the button of her jeans with practiced ease, the drag of denim against her skin almost painful in its slowness. She arched into the touch, gasping when his palm slid under the waistband of her panties—not tentative, not curious, but assured, like he already knew every inch of her. “Wait,” she breathed, but her hips canted up anyway, betraying her.

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Ran paused, fingers flexing against the damp fabric. “Problem?” His voice was rough, but his eyes were sharp, watching her like he could see the war raging behind her ribs. She swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the sheets—Rindou’s sheets—the same ones they’d fucked on countless times before. The realization hit like a bucket of ice water: she could still smell him here, his cologne clinging to the pillowcases. “Not here,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Anywhere but here.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate, before dragging his tongue along the inside of her thigh. The contact burned, his lips pressing into the sensitive skin with a tenderness that contradicted everything she knew about him. “Ran—” His name cracked halfway out of her throat when his teeth grazed the same spot, sharp enough to make her jolt. “Relax,” he murmured against her skin, the vibration making her thighs tremble. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Her breath hitched when he hooked his fingers into the lace of her panties, sliding them down in one fluid motion. The air was cold against her exposed skin, but his hands were hotter—rough palms tracing the curve of her hips before settling beneath her thighs. He spread her open with an almost clinical precision, his exhale warm against her center. The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the taste of her hesitation.

Ran moaned quietly into her clit—a soft, breathy sound that trembled against her skin. Unlike Rindou, who had always rushed through this part with the same impatient energy he applied to everything, Ran took his time. His tongue circled her in lazy, practiced arcs while his knuckles brushed her inner thighs, coaxing her legs wider apart. She gasped when his nose bumped her clit, the sensation sharper than expected—not pain, but something dangerously close to it. "You okay?" he murmured against her, lips slick with her arousal. The question was perfunctory, but the pause in his rhythm wasn’t; he waited for her shaky nod before continuing.

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, fingers twisting in the sheets as he worked her over with a patience that bordered on cruel. Every flick of his tongue sent sparks up her spine, her hips jerking involuntarily when he sucked lightly at her clit. The sound she made then—high and desperate—startled her. It wasn’t the practiced moan she’d perfected for Rindou’s benefit; this was raw, unfiltered, embarrassingly real. Ran chuckled against her, the vibration making her shudder. "There she is," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "That’s the sound I wanted."

His hands—soft in a way she hadn’t expected—traced idle patterns on her inner thighs, calloused fingertips ghosting over the sensitive skin just shy of where she needed him most. When he buried his face deeper, his hair tangled against her thigh, brushing the damp skin there in a way that made her twitch. The contrast was maddening: the rough scrape of his stubble against her, the feather-light drag of his fingers, the dark strands of his hair catching on her sweat-slicked skin. She whimpered, thighs trembling around his head, her nails biting into her own palms.

Ran pulled back just enough to smirk up at her, his lips glistening with her slick. “Fuck,” he murmured, thumb circling her clit with agonizing slowness. “Look at you—already shaking.” His voice was rough, darker than she’d ever heard it, and the sound alone sent another wave of heat pooling low in her stomach. She gasped when his fingers slid inside her, curling in a way that made her back arch off the mattress. “Ran—!” His name ripped from her throat, ragged and desperate, nothing like the controlled sounds she’d practiced for Rindou.

It shocked her—how easily he unraveled her. How one deft twist of his fingers could drag a sob from her chest, how his smirk widened when she came apart under his touch. She’d spent months molding herself into Rindou’s idea of perfect, smoothing out her edges until she fit neatly into the hollow of his hands. But Ran didn’t want her polished—he wanted her raw, trembling, gasping his name like a prayer. His fingers crooked inside her, pressing against something that made her vision blur. “There you go,” he purred, watching her fall apart with something akin to reverence. “That’s it.”

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When he finally withdrew—slow, deliberate—she whined at the loss. He opened Rindou’s drawer and reached over for the condom pack, the foil crinkling in his grip. “How do you want me?” The question wasn’t gentle—it was a challenge, his violet eyes dark with promise. Without waiting for her answer, he hooked his thumbs into his black joggers, shoving them down his hips. The lack of underwear wasn’t a surprise—nothing about Ran was coy—but the sight of him, fully hard and leaking against his stomach, punched the air from her lungs. He tore the condom open with his teeth, the plastic splitting with a sharp snap.

She stared, transfixed, as he rolled it down his length with practiced ease. His cock was roughly about two-three inches longer Rindou’s—she would’ve recognized the measurement anywhere—but thicker, the veins more pronounced under taut skin. The tip was darker, flushed almost purple where pre-cum beaded at the slit. “What do you mean…?” she uttered, distracted by the sight of him, her mouth watering despite herself. Ran smirked, palming himself lazily. “On top of you? Behind you? Under you?” Each option dripped with implication, his voice roughened by want. “How.”

Y/N swallowed hard, eyes flickering to the mirror across the room. The angle would be perfect—the reflection would capture everything. Her pulse stuttered at the realization: Rindou’s mirror, Ran’s hands on her, the wrecked flush of her skin. The thought sent liquid heat pooling between her thighs. “Behind,” she murmured, turning onto her stomach before she could second-guess herself. The sheets smelled like Rindou’s detergent, crisp and familiar, but the weight of Ran settling over her was entirely new—his knees bracketing her hips, his chest pressing against her back.

She gasped when his cock brushed her entrance, hot and insistent, the latex catching slightly against her damp skin. He paused there, teasing, his grip tightening on her ass as he angled her hips up. “Relax,” he murmured against the nape of her neck, the words vibrating through her. His breath was ragged, betraying the control he clung to—just barely. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, spreading her wider as he pushed in with one slow, unrelenting thrust. The stretch burned in the best way, her body yielding inch by inch until he was fully seated inside her.

Ran groaned, low and guttural, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades. His balls rested against her clit with each shallow rock of his hips, the contact electric—just enough pressure to make her gasp but not enough to tip her over. She arched back into him instinctively, seeking more friction, more him, and he chuckled darkly.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

His hands slid around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over her stomach—not guiding, not forcing, just anchoring her. “Take what you can handle,” he rasped, the words rough against her spine. The encouragement sent heat pooling low in her belly; she could feel him watching every stuttered breath, every minute tremble of her thighs as she adjusted to the stretch. His cock twitched inside her when she rolled her hips, the drag slow and maddening.

Y/N bit her lip, rocking back onto him with careful precision, letting the head of his cock catch deliciously against that sensitive spot deep inside her. She couldn’t take him fully—not yet—but the shallow thrusts sent sparks skittering up her spine, each movement deliberate, controlled. Ran exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening fractionally. “Fuck,” he muttered, hips jerking involuntarily when she angled herself just right. “Like that.”

She groaned, pushing her face into the sheets—partly to muffle the sounds threatening to spill from her lips, partly because the scent of Rindou’s detergent was suddenly overwhelming. Ran took it as surrender, his chuckle vibrating against her spine as he pressed her deeper into the mattress. “That’s it,” he murmured, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. “No more pretending.” His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

She choked on a moan, back arching as he filled her completely, the stretch bordering on pain. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles whitening, but Ran merely hummed approvingly—as if he’d been waiting for this exact reaction. “There she is,” he growled, pulling back only to slam into her again, the force knocking her breathless. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, his rhythm relentless.

The sweetness from before was gone, replaced by something darker, more carnal. Each thrust sent his balls slapping against her oversensitive clit, the dual stimulation almost too much—pain and pleasure blurring into one dizzying sensation. She gasped when he angled his hips just right, the thick head of his cock grinding against that spot inside her that made her vision blur. “Ran—!” His name shattered into a sob as her thighs trembled, her body tightening around him involuntarily.

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Ran growled low in his throat, fingers digging into the backs of her knees as he wrenched her legs over his shoulders in one rough motion. The stretch burned, the new angle forcing him even deeper, her body yielding with a slick, obscene noise. “Fuck, I need to see you,” he gritted out, his pupils blown black with want. The shift in position had her pinned completely, her hips canted up at a brutal angle that left her gasping for air. His hand fisted in her hair, forcing her to meet his gaze as he snapped his hips forward again—harder this time, his smirk widening at her punched-out moan.

She couldn’t hold back the sounds now—they spilled from her lips unchecked, raw and ragged, each thrust punching another gasp from her chest. Ran watched her with rapt fascination, his grip tightening as her thighs trembled around his waist. “That’s it,” he panted, his rhythm stuttering as she clenched around him. “Let me fucking hear you, darling.” His thumb found her clit, pressing down in rough circles, and she sobbed, her nails scrabbling uselessly against the sheets. The pleasure coiled tight in her belly, molten and unbearable, every nerve ending alight.

The front door clicked open downstairs—subtle, distant. Ran’s head snapped up, his smirk widening as he recognized the familiar cadence of footsteps on the hardwood. She was too lost in sensation to notice, her back arching beautifully as he drove into her harder, deeper, the bedframe creaking under their combined weight. His breath hitched when she keened, her body fluttering around him in warning. “Fuck, you’re close aren’t you,” he rasped, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. “Go on, then. Cum for me.”

She shattered with a muffled cry, her thighs clamping around his waist as pleasure ripped through her. The bedroom door swung open just as Ran’s hips stuttered, his groan low and guttural against her sweat-slicked skin. Rindou stood frozen in the doorway, his grip slack on the doorknob, eyes wide with disbelief. The silence that followed was deafening—broken only by Y/N’s ragged breathing and the slick sound of Ran pulling out. He didn’t bother covering them, just met his brother’s stare head-on, his expression daring Rindou to react.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Ran’s fingers slid from her jaw to her throat, his thumb pressing lightly against her pulse as if to remind her who she belonged to now. Y/N couldn’t look away from Rindou’s shattered expression, his lips parting soundlessly before twisting into something raw and ugly. The crumpled condom wrapper on the nightstand caught the light, its crinkled foil glinting mockingly between them.

She just blinked at him, horrified. “Rin, I—” The door slammed before she could finish, the force rattling the mirror on the wall. Ran exhaled through his nose, almost bored, his grip tightening possessively around her waist as she scrambled to pull the sheets up over herself. “You knew,” she whispered, nails digging into his forearm. “You fucking knew he was home.”