soleia 🌟

It’s late morning, light slanting in through the windows at that angle that makes dust visible, the kind of day where nothing feels urgent enough to rush. Kimiko is sitting cross-legged on the living room rug with her blocks, a stuffed rabbit missing one ear clutched to her chest. She’s not really building anything so much as arranging and rearranging them, testing gravity with the calm focus of a tiny scientist. Sae is at the table with his laptop, one leg stretched out, foot hooked around the chair like he’s anchoring himself there.

Rin and Yoichi make the mistake of standing too close together near the kitchen counter, their conversation low, familiar, unguarded. Rin leans in without thinking, quick and habitual, a brief kiss pressed to Yoichi’s mouth like punctuation at the end of a sentence they’ve spoken a thousand times before.

You’re rinsing fruit at the sink when it happens, so you hear it more than you see it, but you know the way Rin leans in without ceremony, without checking the room, because that’s what happens when you’ve loved someone long enough that it stops feeling like a performance.

It’s a peck. It’s nothing.

Kimiko looks up anyway.

Her head tilts, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowing like she’s zooming in on something very important. She watches them for a second too long, gaze flicking between mouths and faces, then she pulls a face so exaggerated it borders on theatrical.

“Ew,” she announces, loud enough to carry. “Mommy.”

You turn.

“Rin and Uncle Ichi are kissing.”

The kitchen goes quiet in the way rooms do when adults realise a child has noticed something and no one knows yet who’s supposed to explain it.

Rin, instead of being normal, snorts and leans back against the counter. “Yeah, well, your daddy used to eat your mommy’s face.”

Sae looks up so fast his chair scrapes.

“What,” he says flatly.

Kimiko’s mouth opens.

“Daddy ate mommy?”

You dry your hands on a towel, heart already sunken to your stomach. “Metaphorically.”

She turns to you immediately, eyes wide. “Meta-four-ically?”

“Yes, baby.”

She repeats it under her breath, testing the shape of the word. “Meta..fou…ri…cally.”

Then she looks back at Sae, then at Rin, then at Yoichi, who have all gone very still.

“…What’s that?”

Yoichi tries to hold back a laugh so hard he has to sit down.

Rin mutters something under his breath, smiling despite himself.

Sae pinches the bridge of his nose and says something in Spanish that you’re pretty sure isn’t child-appropriate.

You crouch down in front of Kimiko, meeting her eye level. “It means nobody was eaten. Daddy just really liked Mommy.”

She considers this. Then, satisfied enough, she nods and goes back to her blocks like she didn’t just destabilise the entire room.

Sae’s office is usually off-limits, a quiet place with too many sharp corners and things Kimiko is not supposed to touch, which makes it infinitely more alluring—exactly the reason why Kimiko watches it like a dragon watches a hoard.

Rin notices.

He crouches down beside her, with the conspiratorial air of a man about to cause problems and slides a glossy photo into her hands.

“Hey Kimi. Go and give this to your dad,” he says, far too sweetly. “Tell him it’s an old friend.”

Kimiko grips the photo with both hands and nods, solemn, mission accepted.

She toddles down the hall, socks slipping on the floor, and pushes the door open with both hands. She steps inside like she owns the place, which she does, because everything Sae owns belongs to her in spirit if not legally.

Sae is at his desk, focused, jaw tight in that way it gets when he’s thinking too hard, and he startles when she pokes his thigh with one chubby finger.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” His voice softens instantly, irritation evaporating like it mever existed.

She holds the picture up to his chest. “This.”

It’s Bunny. Clean smile, smug posture, everything about him irritating even in still image.

Sae stares at it for too long before schooling his expression, mouth flattening as he looks back at her. “What’s this, baby?”

“Uncle Rin said he’s an old friend,” she says carefully. “Is he not?”

There is a pause that contains multitudes.

“Friend,” Sae says finally. “Yeah. Sure.”

From the hallway, Rin is grinning like he might actually die of satisfaction.

Leaving Kimiko alone with Ryusei feels like a risk assessment you fail on purpose, mostly because she adores him and he adores her with the unhinged enthusiasm of someone who should not be trusted but somehow is.

You come back to find her standing on the coffee table, chin lifted, lips absolutely destroyed by your lipstick, colour smeared across her mouth and cheeks like war paint. Shidou is crouching in front of her, camera out, losing his mind.

“Hold that pose! Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”

She beams, hands on her hips, confidence through the roof.

He takes photo after photo, laughing between shots, hyping her up like she’s headlining a show.

You sigh, but there’s no real heat in it. Kimiko hops down and runs to you, leaving a faint smear on your shirt when she hugs you.

“Uncle Ryu let me.”

“I can see that,” you mutter.

Ryusei doesn’t even pretend to be sorry.

Kimiko hasn’t quite learned sarcasm yet, which makes everything infinitely more dangerous.

Sae mutters something offhandedly one afternoon after she sneaks up behind him and makes him jump hard enough to swear (internally), heart actually racing, eyes sharp with adrenaline.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

She laughs, eyes sparkling, way too proud of herself for scaring Sae.

“Don’t do that,” he says, then adds, quieter, “Do that to Rin next time.”

Rin comes over that evening, unsuspecting, shoes barely off before she appears behind him like a summoned spirit and yells at the top of her lungs. “BOO!”

He squeaks, high-pitched, undignified.

Sae watches from the doorway, arms crossed, lips curling just slightly, chest swelling with unmistakable pride.

“That’s my girl.”

Kimiko giggles.

Compared to Ryusei, Yoichi tries so hard. You know this. He takes babysitting seriously, like it’s a test he’s determined to pass.

He’s careful, attentive, always checking in, always asking if she’s okay, if she needs anything.

Which is why when he drops a pan in the kitchen and blurts out “Shit!—“ he freezes immediately, eyes darting to Kimiko, hands clapped over his mouth.

“You didn’t hear that from me,” he whispers.

Later, they’re curled up on the couch watching Cars, Kimiko tucked under his arm, when the glass of water wobbles on the coffee table after he accidentally poked it with his foot, about to fall. Yoichi lunges, and successfully catches it mid-air with a panicked “Woahoahoahoah.”

“Shit!” Kimiko yells, delighted.

Yoichi goes completely still.

Your phone buzzes a minute later.

Yoichi 🤍

Hey. Please don’t kill me.

Just this once. You deserve it, you try to tell yourself.

Work’s been the death of you lately—but when has it not been? Clients with sharp tongues and no gratitude. Hours upon hours of extra work piling up because too many people called in sick. Deadlines. Presentations.

You can’t remember the last time you had a proper night’s sleep.

Or an actual meal.

Add pent-up sexual frustration to the list too.

You’ve been at it for what feels like ages, chasing a proper release. Just wanting to relax. To feel good for once.

You’ve tried everything.

A finger inside, pumping in and out. One more. Then another. Rubbing slow, firm circles on your clit with your other hand.

Slower.

Faster.

More foreplay. Teasing. Grinding.

Nothing works.

Is this what stress really does to you?

Please. I want to cum. Please. Please.

Your fingers piston in and out, desperate and messy, soft squelches echoing through the room.

Cum. Cum. Cum

You grab the sheets, bunching the fabric in your fists, biting down to muffle the raw whine you can’t hold back.

Focus.

Think of something. Anything.

Just get this over with.

You try.

God, you try.

But it doesn’t help that your mind is screaming one name.

Sae.

Your roommate.

The man who took ages to let his guard down, to let you in even a little.

His big hands.

Pretty fingers.

The veins in his forearms that show every time he flexes.

Muscles sculpted like a Greek god.

Messy auburn hair in the mornings, bangs hanging into his eye—a sight only you get to see.

And those eyes.

Teal.

The ones that flick up and down your body when he thinks you’re too distracted to notice. The ones that lock onto yours every time you challenge him, push him, try to get his unbothered persona to crack. To break.

You’re too lost in the fantasy to feel embarrassed by how much wetter you’ve gotten at the thought of him. How your slick oozes out, making a filthy mess between your legs. How much faster your fingers move.

So close.

So fucking close.

“S-Sae…” you whimper into the quiet room.

A sound cuts through the haze. Faint. Distant. Like something tapping against wood.

You don’t register it. Your head is buried too deep in the pillow, fingers working faster, breaths coming out in uneven little gasps.

There it is again.

A soft knock.

You mistake it for the headboard bumping the wall.

Your thighs twitch. Your hips lift. Your mind is drowning in sensation, too fogged to care about anything outside the room.

Another knock.

Louder.

Your only response is a broken whimper swallowed by the sheets.

The floor outside your room creaks.

Old wood shifting. A quiet, rhythmic weight moving across it.

You don’t hear that either.

You’re too busy chasing the tightening coil in your stomach. The pleasure too close, too consuming.

“Mfhhh, Sae!”

The handle clicks.

The door whips open.

Sae stands there, chest bare, hair damp, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He isn’t just looking at you—he’s looking through you. Into you.

His hand grips the doorframe tight. Barely controlled.

Embarrassment crashes over you like a flood. You yank the sheets over your exposed lower body.

Fuck. Did I say his name out loud?

“Sae—I’m sorry it’s—“

His head drops down, a low growl rumbling through his chest.

“Shut up.”

He starts walking towards you.

Instinctively, you pull the sheets higher, fear tangling with want.

He looks too good.

Too real.

“I’m so sorry. Wait, what are you—“

He yanks the fabric down.

His eyes take in the mess between your thighs. Your uneven breathing. The way you’re staring up at him with an expression he’s never seen before.

Fear.

Embarrassment.

Need.

“You’re not the only one who lives here, you know.”