paradise @instant-delusions - Tumblr Blog

Oct 16, 2025

what are we, again?

18+ SMUT! sanemi shinazugawa x reader (w.c: 25.9k)

tags: slow burn, angst, nsfw, smut, p in v, unprotected, bratty reader, hard to get trope, fucking, raw, dog, sex lol synopsis: you're not getting a synopsis. enjoy slow burn RN!!! notes: i am literally obsessed w/ this story. i stayed up for 2 days writing this. oh my god. writing utensil in the hands of a jester.

the light from your phone glows soft against your face, the only thing moving in the room besides the flicker of the fight on tv. sanemi’s sprawled on the couch beside you, one arm thrown over the backrest, the other gripping a can of beer that’s probably gone warm by now. you’ve been swiping for twenty minutes straight, giggling under your breath, legs lazily draped over his lap like you own the place—WHICH YOU DO.

“what about this one?” you say, tilting your phone toward him. there’s a picture of some guy at the beach, abs flexed like he’s auditioning for a thirst trap competition.

sanemi doesn’t even glance at it. “looks like he moisturizes too much,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the tv. the crowd roars; he doesn’t blink.

you hum. “so? hygiene’s important, y’know.”

he snorts, leans forward just enough to grab the remote and turn the volume up. “yeah, if you’re dating a goddamn commercial.” you roll your eyes, scrolling again, pretending you don’t see the way his jaw’s working. “you’re so picky for someone who’s single, nemi.”

he tenses when you say his nickname, quick glance cutting your way. “not picky. i just—” he gestures vaguely at your phone. “don’t get why you waste your time on idiots who look like they’d cry if their protein shake spills.”

you laugh, tapping the screen again. “then who should i be wasting my time on?” and that’s the thing about him. he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even look at you. just takes a long swig of his beer, the muscle in his jaw ticking, the tv light flashing across his face.

“not those assholes,” he says finally, quiet enough that you almost miss it. you grin, stretching your legs, brushing your feet against his thigh. “so who, then?”

he shifts, grabs the remote again. “watch the fight,” he says, voice low. you smirk, tilting your head. “you’re jealous.” his eyes flick toward you—sharp, unreadable—and then back to the tv. “in your dreams, princess.” but his grip on the beer can is just a little too tight.

you tilt your head toward him, still swiping, voice lilting with mischief. “you know beer isn’t good for you, right?” he doesn’t even look away from the screen. “yeah? neither’s wasting your time on tinder clowns, but here we are.”

you gasp, dramatic, pressing a hand to your chest. “nemi, stop being so mean to me.”

he grins at that, finally looking at you. that sharp, stupid grin that never quite reaches his eyes when he’s trying too hard not to show how soft he feels. “mean? that’s rich. you been ignoring me for the last half hour to flirt with men who probably can’t spell their own names.”

you stretch, feet nudging his thigh again, your smirk matching his. “i wasn’t flirting. just… evaluating.” — “yeah? evaluating what? which one’s gonna break your heart faster?”

you roll your eyes, laughing. “you’re insufferable.” he leans back, one arm still slung behind you, voice dropping lower. “and you like it.” the words hang there, heavier than he meant them to be. the crowd on tv cheers, the commentator shouting over the roar, but neither of you move.

you hum, soft and teasing. “maybe i do.” and for a second, he just stares. eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up like he regrets it instantly. he clears his throat, turns back toward the tv. “you’re hopeless.”

you smile into your drink, small and knowing. “guess that makes two of us.”

you wait for the next sip of his beer before you say it. wait until he’s just started to lift the can to his lips, all distracted and grumbly and pretending not to watch the way your tank top slides down your shoulder. then you strike.

“for the record,” you say, casually, like you’re still talking about the weather, “i was evaluating who could break my back in bed the best.”

his sip stops halfway. he chokes. splutters. coughs once, hard, the can thudding to the coffee table as he glares at you like you just declared war. you just grin. slow. all teeth. and wink. “you’re not funny,” he rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“i’m hilarious,” you hum, sinking deeper into the cushions, stretching like a cat, all long lines and lazy smugness. “but go ahead. keep pretending it doesn’t bother you.”

he shifts beside you, shoulders tense, jaw locked. his knee bumps yours when he adjusts, not entirely by accident. “you think any of those guys could even handle you?”

you glance at him. “nope. that’s why i was hoping someone might volunteer to show me what i’m missing.”

he stills. you watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. the way his fingers flex once against the cushion. “don’t play with me,” he mutters, voice like gravel and warning and something else you can’t name yet.

you smile, soft now. quieter. “who says i’m playing?”

and just like that, the silence between you stretches taut. no laughter. no flirting. just the slow thud of his pulse in his neck, and the way he’s finally looking at you like he’s trying to decide whether to ruin everything or say screw it and ruin you instead.

the notification pings soft between you, that little chime cutting through the low thrum of the tv. you glance down at your phone, grin curling slow.

“oh,” you murmur, thumb brushing the screen, “new match.”

sanemi doesn’t look right away. but he hears the tone, the way your voice tips at the end, and glances anyway. one look at your screen and his entire face changes.

“what the fuck—” he leans closer, squinting. “gyomei? gyomei?? what the hell is a monk doing on tinder?!”

you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “guess he’s looking for love like the rest of us.”

“he’s a..” sanemi says, like that explains everything. his eyebrows are doing a full gymnastics routine. “he’s too— i don’t know—holy for this crap.”

you hum, tapping your finger against the phone thoughtfully. “so you’re saying he’s out of my league?” his head snaps toward you so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t pull something. “that’s not what i said.”

“hmm. sounds like it.” you grin, clicking the heart without hesitation. “well, too late now.”

“you didn’t—” “i did.”

his jaw tightens, the muscle in it jumping. “you’re unbelievable.” you tuck your phone to your chest, tilting your head. “what, jealous of a match?”

“jealous?” he scoffs, but it sounds thin, brittle around the edges. “of some monk who probably meditates before sending a text? yeah, right.”

you lean in, your smile gone soft and daring. “so you wouldn’t care if i went out with him?”

he goes still. absolutely still. then, quietly, teeth clenched—

“you’re not gonna.”

and you laugh, sweet and taunting, pretending to swipe again while his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to snatch your phone away.

you open instagram like a bored habit and there he is right at the front, red ring around his icon practically pulsing. you tap and it’s him in the gym mirror, shirt off, sweat gleaming down the cut of his stomach, towel slung careless over his shoulder, knuckles bandaged. the caption is something criminally unserious like focus up with a sparkle emoji and you actually laugh, head tipped back against the couch.

you slide up before you can talk yourself out of it.

nice shoulders, shame about the personality.

the typing bubble pops up immediately, disappears, pops up again like he’s arguing with his own thumbs. then:

that mouth of yours really came on here to talk to me before breakfast

you grin, already ruthless.

be honest, you posted this for me. i see the thirst in your little vein

there’s a beat. a picture comes through, taken lower, closer, his hipbone peeking, water bottle against his thigh, the shadow of a smile in the mirror behind the flash. then his message lands:

calm down, menace. go ask your new boyfriend gyomei to like your little jokes

you snort out loud.

don’t be jealous, it’s unflattering on a man who moisturizes with motor oil

instant reply.

bold talk from a gremlin with a 5’2 wingspan

you gasp like it’s real. fingers fly.

that’s not even right. also your form on those curls was mid at best, get a spotter grandpa

he sends a voice note, the kind he only sends when he’s a little out of breath, low and scratchy in your ear. you hear the clink of weights and the faint echo of the gym, his laugh under it, rough. “you stalking my form now, short stack? that’s cute. save your critiques for the monks you’re courting.”

your smile gets mean and sweet at once.

you keep bringing him up, if you’re that curious maybe i’ll invite you to the wedding

“over my dead body.” another voice note, closer, you picture him leaning on the mirror, hand on his thigh, eyes slit low like he’s squinting at his own reflection. “and stop looking at my story like that.”

like what, you type, feigning innocent.

“like you want to bite.”

your legs pull up under you on instinct, blanket trapped in your fists, the way he says it sinks hot in your lungs. you angle for blood.

i do, i’m just deciding where to start

silence, then the little bubble stutters again. he sends a photo instead of an answer, not as revealing as it could be, somehow worse, a close crop of his throat and the line down his chest where sweat slicks into the valley, the caption typed lazy across the bottom. try me, coward.

you grin into your phone, wicked.

coward? okay then, flex again for the camera old man, make it worth my time

“you’re insufferable.” another voice note, and you can hear the smile he’s trying to choke down. “and you like it. don’t skip the part where you say you like it.”

your thumb hovers, indecisive, then you send a heart just to make him flinch, follow it with:

hit me with your best, nemi. impress me.

the dots appear. stop. appear again. your screen lights with an incoming call, his name bright and familiar, and when you swipe up he’s already flipped to the front camera, still shirtless, breath a little fast, grin all teeth and trouble as he lifts the phone enough to make your mouth go a little dry, the gym noise a soft band of sound around his voice when he says your name like he’s cussing and thanking someone in the same breath, like he’s about to ask what you’re doing later and if you’re still talking to monks or if you’re ready to be a nightmare exclusively on his time

you’re walking the produce aisle like it’s a runway, basket on your arm, sanemi half a step behind you with his hands stuffed in his hoodie like your personal homeless stray who decided he lives here now. he keeps bumping the back of your heel with the cart he insisted on grabbing, just to hear you yelp and glare at him. he grins every time.

“what about pasta,” you say, reaching for a box like you didn’t just grab the prettiest color. “cacio e pepe, easy, cute.”

he makes a face so offended, “box pasta and powdered cheese, that what you feeding your monk boyfriend.”

“he’s not my boyfriend,” you hum, dropping the pasta in the cart anyway. “and it’s not powdered. it’s aged.”

“aged my ass,” he mutters, picking the box back up to read the label like he’s conducting a crime scene sweep. he puts it down and reaches past you for a semolina brand you did not ask for. “this one doesn’t suck.”

you pivot to tomatoes, pop one from the vine to smell it, bright and green at the stem. he watches the way you do it like you just grew a second head. “you gonna sniff the basil too or you just pretending to know what you’re doing.”

“i know what i’m doing,” you say, which is funny because you promptly grab the saddest jar of marinara on the shelf. his hand snaps out, taps your wrist.

“absolutely not.”

“it’s convenient.”

“it’s sugar and shame.”

you stare him down, then toss it in the cart on purpose. he plucks it back out with a scoff and replaces it with whole peeled san marzano. “if you’re gonna corrupt your insides, at least do it with good ingredients.”

you wander to the meat section and point like a game show host. “chicken, steak, or something ground. decide your protein, sir judge a lot.”

he eyes the options, “that steak is too thin, that chicken is dry just from looking at it, and ground turkey is a cry for help.” he reaches into the case, picks a thick cut with practiced fingers, checks the marbling. “this. salt, pepper, pan hot. don’t touch it until it tells you to.”

“gordon ramsey?”

he rolls his eyes and adds a carton of eggs like an afterthought. you lift a brow. “midnight omelets,” he says, not looking at you. “in case your fancy noodles fail.”

you float toward the bakery, fingertips brushing glossy brioche. “bread is dessert that never learned self control.” he still grabs a loaf and throws it in the cart. “for sopping. you’re not wasting the juice.”

“don’t say that word, ‘nemi.”

“sopping.”

you detour for greens, start toward the bagged salad like a heathen, and he herds you by the hip with the cart, gentle and bossy. “we’re not eating plastic leaves. pick romaine that doesn’t look like shit.” he hands you a head that is crisp and smugly alive.

you add lemons, garlic, a fat bunch of parsley because it looks romantic in the basket. he’s trailing so close the heat of him whispers the back of your neck. every time you stop, he stops a breath from your shoulder. every time you move, he moves with you like gravity.

“wine,” you say, pointing.

“you’ll pick the label with the prettiest animal,” he says, already reaching for a bottle that looks more his style, “this one won’t fight the food.”

“so you are jealous,” you sing, and his eye twitches.

“of fermented grapes?” he deadpans. “yep. real rivalry going.”

you catch him sneaking a look at your phone in the crook of your elbow. his mouth goes flat. “if gyomei sends you a recipe recommendation, i’m blocking him from your contacts.”

“he sent a prayer hands emoji,” you say, delighted. “i think he’s rooting for me.”

“great,” he says, grabbing a pepper grinder the size of a bat. “you can ask him to season your steak through telepathy.”

at checkout he insists on bagging, rough hands careful with the eggs, careful with the tomatoes, careful with the bottle you know he picked so you’d like it. he tucks the herbs on top like a bouquet and pretends he really didn’t try to just lamely impress you.

outside, the evening is soft and gold and he falls in beside you, two bags on one forearm like it weighs nothing, your shoulder brushing his on the walk to the car while you argue about cast iron versus nonstick and whether you’re allowed to add chili flakes without him throwing a fit.

the bakery’s door chimes when you push it open, the kind of sound that already smells like sugar. the air inside is warm, heavy with butter and vanilla, cinnamon hiding somewhere in the back. you catch sight of her right away—mrs. yamada, her gray hair in a tidy bun, her apron dusted white. she looks up from behind the counter and her whole face lights.

“oh, it’s my favorite girl,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel. “and you brought your boyfriend!”

you don’t even have time to respond before sanemi’s brow goes up. his head turns toward you like he’s waiting for a correction, a flicker of something sharp and smug beneath the surface. like what’s your response for this one?

you laugh, bright and easy, waving your hands. “oh no, mrs. yamada, he’s like a brother to me.” in the distance you could hear glass shattering.

brother?!

the words barely leave your mouth before you feel it—the way the air behind you changes. he goes still. completely still.

mrs. yamada claps her hands together, unbothered. “oh! how sweet. you two bicker like siblings anyway.” she winks and bustles toward the pastry case, muttering about red bean buns, already pulling tongs.

you turn just enough to glance at him. his jaw’s tight, that tick again, the one you love to draw out.

“what?” you ask, grin creeping.

“brother?” he says it quiet. flat. like the word itself has insulted him.

you pick up a tray, light as ever. “yeah, brother. you’re always yelling at me to eat properly, scolding me for dating, telling me what to do—sounds pretty…. brotherly.”

he stares at you for a long moment, then exhales through his nose, low and rough. “yeah, you’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”

“what? it’s not an insult.”

he leans in then, slow, voice pitched just for you. “you ever call me that again in public, and i’m takin’ that bun right outta your mouth.”

your fingers pause over a sweet roll, eyes flicking up, pulse skipping. “you wouldn’t dare.”

he tilts his head, that wolfish smile curving. “try me.”

mrs. yamada turns back, handing over a neat little box tied with string, humming softly. you take it, thank her, and when you turn to leave, he’s already holding the door open for you, mouth set in that infuriating half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

outside, the air’s cooler, but his mood’s gone molten. “brother,” he mutters again, shaking his head. “you just love testin’ me, don’t you?”

you hum, skipping a step ahead, the pastry box swinging from your hand. “maybe i do.”

his hand finds your waist before you can take another step, firm, fingers pressing into the fabric just enough to make you catch your breath. “then don’t act surprised when i start playin’ too,” he says, quiet and low, and lets go before you can answer, walking ahead like nothing happened, like your pulse isn’t still fluttering against the place his hand just was.

he keys the ignition and growls at you to buckle up. you loop your seatbelt, already hunting through your phone. the second you claim the aux, bubble-bright synth fills the cab, sugary vocals skipping over the beat. sanemi winces.

“turn that off,” he says, fingers drumming on the wheel, knuckles pale.

“relax, brother,” you croon, savoring the spark in his eyes when you use the word. the volume nudges higher. the bass rattles the cup holders.

he mutters something about crimes against music and pulls out of the lot. streetlights smear across the windshield, gold on wet asphalt. you hum along, bite into the bun mrs. yamada wrapped for you: flaky shell, sweet white cream rushing over your tongue. perfect.

then the asphalt dips. the truck lurches. your elbow bumps the door and the bun smacks a fat dollop of cream straight onto your cheek. a splatter kisses the corner of your mouth, another dotting the curve of your jaw.

sanemi’s eyes flick sideways. linger. linger too long. the traffic light ahead blooms red.

you swipe a thumb across your cheek, lick the sugar clean. “eyes on the road, nemi.” your voice turns to pure mischief. “or were you admiring the view?”

his jaw works. “fuck off.” but he still hasn’t looked away. the red light halos the sharp line of his profile, the way his throat bobs when you suck cream from the pad of your finger.

“want a taste?” you offer the last bite, waving it under his nose. the light flips green; tires squeal as he punches the gas, your laughter tumbling with the pop song’s glittering chorus.

“keep that shit to yourself,” he snaps, but the flush cresting his ears and face glow hotter than the dashboard LEDs. you smirk, sink your teeth into pastry, let the cream ooze slow while the city slides by.

he clears his throat halfway through a chorus, knuckles tight on the wheel. “i need a plus one,” he says, like it’s nothing. “there’s an event. friend of mine’s throwing it. you’re coming.”

you snort into what’s left of your bun. “no, i’m not.”

his head jerks. “yes, you are.”

“no,” you sing, twisting the volume higher just to be a menace. “i hate those stuffy things. shoes that hurt. small talk that makes me want to chew glass.”

“it’s not stuffy….kinda” he argues, even though you know it absolutely is. “there’s an open bar. there’s food you’ll like. and i’m not showing up alone so you’re coming.”

you peep at him over the glow of your phone. “ask one of your gym girls.”

his jaw flexes. “i don’t want one of them.”

“aww,” you coo, dangerous sweet. “so you want me.”

i do, he exhales through his nose like he’s counting to ten. a red light paints his face. “i need you to do this. new suit. stupid theme. networking. i’m not making small talk sober and alone.”

you drag out the pause on purpose. “still no.”

he throws a small fit, the kind that lives in his shoulders and his hands. taps the wheel. mutters. changes lanes like he is punishing the asphalt. “you owe me,” he tries. “i fixed your sink. i carried your couch up three flights. i watch what you eat.i stood in a grocery aisle for twenty minutes while you chose pasta with your eyes. i have suffered.”

you grin slow. “dramatic.”

“yes,” he bites back, quick. “now say yes.”

you pretend to think. eyes on the window, city lights sliding syrupy and gold. “i guess i could be persuaded.”

his gaze flickers over. hopeful, sharp. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, and then twist the knife, lazy. “because i would never miss a chance to meet your hot friends. maybe they can take me home after.”

the silence sharpens. both hands clamp on the wheel. the tendons in his forearms pop. you watch the way he breathes slow, like he has to remember how.

“nobody is taking you anywhere,” he says finally, voice low and very steady. “you’re leaving with me.”

you lick cream from your thumb just to be cruel. “we’ll see.”

“no,” he says, firmer. “we won’t.”

the light flips green. he rolls forward, eyes forward, ears a little red now. you can feel the stubborn in the air like heat off a grill.

“what’s the dress code,” you ask, all innocence.

“black tie,” he says. “do not show up in those sparkly shoes. heels. the black dress. the one that makes me want to pick a fight with a wall.”

“you noticed that dress,” you murmur, pleased.

“everyone noticed,” he mutters, and then louder, like he can outshout his own admission, “be ready at seven. i’m knocking at 6:59. do not make me drag you out.”

“oh, i’m making you,” you say, sugary, and his hand twitches on the signal like he might miss the turn if you keep talking like that.

his phone buzzes on the console. you glance at the name. giyu. he flips it over, like it pissed him off, “and tell your monk to stop sending you emojis.”

“prayer hands is supportive,” you say. “he believes in me.”

“i believe in stopping this conversation,” he grinds out. “text me your size. i’m getting you a wrap. and earrings. you’re not wearing those cheap ones that turn your ears green.”

“so you are jealous,” you hum.

“i am prepared,” he says, which is funny because he looks anything but. “eat your bun. turn down this nightmare music. and text me yes so i can send you the details.”

you type a single heart and the word fine, dot dot dot, and then, because you live to watch him unspool, you add can’t wait to meet the hot ones with a winky face, and he pulls to the curb outside your place with a brake that says he is one second from climbing out and coming around to tell you with his mouth what no means, and when you unclip your seatbelt he leans in just a fraction, soft heat in the cab, voice rough.

“7,” he repeats. “don’t make me come get you.”

you slide out with your box of pastries and the softest laugh, call over your shoulder that you’ll be an angel, promise, and he mutters liar while you walk backward toward your door, his headlights painting your legs, his eyes on your mouth like he already knows what shade you’ll wear to the ball and exactly how long he’s going to stare at it while you pick your wrap and answer texts you shouldn’t be answering at all

you dress slow just to be evil about it. the black dress slides over your hips, satin catching the light where it clings. the push up bra does exactly what you bought it to do, tipping you up and together so the neckline looks dangerous and soft at the same time. you fasten the necklace last, a thin line of metal that drips from your throat all the way to your sternum, an arrow that says look here and keep looking. heels on. perfume at your pulse. gloss that makes your mouth look bitten.

he knocks at 6:59 like he promised. you open.

sanemi in a suit is a problem you are not morally prepared for. jacket fitted clean across his shoulders, shirt open one button lower than it should be so his collarbone teases you, tie loosened like he got annoyed trying to make it perfect. he’s all sharp edges with nowhere to put his hands. then he sees you.

the first look hits like a punch. his eyes catch on the line of the necklace and do not move. you watch his pupils kick wide. the second look is lower and meaner and something else, like he wants to curse and pray at the same time but refuses to give you the satisfaction of either. he remembers how to breathe and then promptly forgets again.

“go change,” he says, hoarse.

you tip your chin, innocent. “no.”

he swallows. tries to glare. fails. “you’re not leaving the house like that.”

“i am,” you say, picking up your clutch. “with you. be nice.”

he stands there a full two seconds, fighting god and himself, then exhales like he just lost. he thrusts a small bag at you. “wrap. earrings. put them on.”

you peek inside, grin. the earrings are simple and expensive. the wrap is soft, heavier than it looks. “you got me presents. romantic.”

“i got you armor,” he mutters. then, softer, “turn.”

you do. he steps in close to fasten the earrings, fingers steady even though you can feel the heat of his palm where it braces your jaw. he smells like subtle cologne and something darker that lives in his collar. he moves to lay the wrap over your shoulders and hesitates at your nape, thumb barely skimming the chain where it meets your skin. the touch is nothing. your body treats it like everything.

“nemi,” you say, sweet. “eyes are up here.” his gaze drags up slow like it costs him. “do not start with me tonight.”

“who started it when he told me to wear the black dress that makes him want to punch drywall,” you say, turning to face him. “hm?”

his mouth flattens. his cheeks are pink. “we are late.”

in the elevator he stands at your back, a full breath closer than polite, one hand braced above you on the rail like he can block the world with his arm if he has to. the doors open and he guides you out with a palm at your lower spine, not pushing, just there, anchoring.

you reach for the aux out of habit the second you slide into his truck. he swats your hand away, starts the engine, stares through the windshield like it will save him from you. “no pop. my brain cannot take chords that sound like glitter.”

you hum and queue a chorus anyway, low enough to make him sigh but not reach for the volume. city lights skim over the inside of the cab. at the next red he looks again. the necklace catches the dash glow and paints your sternum in a thin line of silver. his jaw flexes.

“you look unreal,” he says finally, like a confession.

“you should tell your friends so they know to be nice to me,” you say. “and to ask for my number.”

he laughs once, ugly and soft. “nobody is asking you for shit.”

your phone buzzes in your lap. you angle it so you can see and so he can see you see. a preview from gyomei sits there like a stone in a pond. hope your evening is lovely. take care. you send back a heart because you like watching sanemi pretend nothing moves him.

“text him again and i’m taking your phone,” he says.

“you can try,” you say, crossing your legs. the hem slides higher. he notices and immediately refuses to acknowledge that he noticed.

the venue eats the block when you pull up. glass and stone. warm light spilling across the sidewalk. he parks like a man preparing for war, kills the engine, rests his hands on the wheel for a second. then he turns to you and the pose shifts from careful to feral, something in him leaning forward like gravity got meaner.

“you stay with me,” he says, quiet. “if you need anything you look at me. not anyone else. not tonight.”

you smile. “clingy.”

“prepared,” he says, and gets out. he comes around, opens your door, offers his hand like he is a gentleman and not the same man who threatens to take pastries out of your mouth when you call him brother. his palm is warm. you step down, and his eyes dip one more time to where the necklace ends and you swear he flinches.

inside, the lobby is all polished stone and soft chatter. he checks you in with your name on his tongue like he is not used to saying it out loud. he sets the wrap more snug around your shoulders even though you try to shrug it off. he leans in to your ear. “be good.”

“define good,” you murmur, and he breathes out hard, one corner of his mouth betraying him.

you feel the turn of the room before you see it. a friend of his clocks you both from across the floor and comes over, tall, handsome, smile wide, tie undone, the kind of charisma that belongs on stages. sanemi’s hand tightens on your waist as the other man says your name like he wants a piece of you, eyes dropping to your necklace with appreciation that is not subtle at all, and your own smile goes bright and sunny as you say hello and watch sanemi try to decide whether to introduce you or set the entire building on fire while a server drifts by with champagne flutes that you take out of spite and because you like bubbles on your tongue, and a string quartet in the corner slips into something lush while the room starts to swell with more bodies and more heat and more eyes that find you and then find him and linger, the night just beginning to tip forward into a story you plan to make very difficult for him to survive without losing his mind at least once

sanemi’s hand has been at your waist since you walked in, warm and heavy, grounding and possessive in a way he won’t admit out loud.

but you’ve made an art out of escaping him.

he gets caught in conversation—something about work, or fighting, or whatever men with too much ego talk about—and you use the moment to slip from his grasp, light as a ghost.

you wander, half bored, half watching. the skirt of your dress flares as you walk, catching whispers of light. and then you see her.

kanae.

she’s stunning, of course. all delicate shoulders and petal-pink lipstick, the kind of woman who glows without trying. beside her stands her boyfriend—douma, tall and glassy-eyed, grin like a blade dipped in sugar. they look like a painting together.

you don’t even mean to smile, but you do. you smooth your hair, straighten the strap of your dress, and make your way toward them with the kind of grace that’s part confidence, part mischief.

“hi,” you chirp, voice sugar-sweet. “i don’t think we’ve met. i’m sanemi’s plus one.”

kanae turns, polite surprise in her face. “oh! hello. it’s nice to meet you. i’m kanae, and this is my boyfriend, douma.”

“boyfriend,” you echo, soft laugh slipping out. “right. i’ve heard so much about you.”

she tilts her head, curious. “all good things, i hope?”

“depends who you ask.” your grin is effortless. “but honestly, i see what the fuss was about. you’re even prettier in person.”

she flushes a little, smiling modestly. douma laughs under his breath, a sound that’s too smooth to be harmless. “and you,” he says, “must be the reason sanemi hasn’t looked away from this corner in the last two minutes.”

you glance over your shoulder—and sure enough, he’s watching.

arms crossed. jaw locked. eyes dark and narrow, cutting through the crowd like smoke.

you can feel it, even from across the room—the coil of irritation under his skin, the weight of every thought he’s trying not to have.

you bite back a giggle. fail miserably.

“he’s just shy,” you say innocently, then lean a little closer to kanae, conspiratorial. “or maybe he just doesn’t like seeing his ex-crush in the same room as his current date.”

kanae blinks. “ex-crush?”

“oh, didn’t he tell you?” you say, smile too wide. “never mind. i’m sure it was ages ago.”

douma laughs again, low and knowing, eyes flicking toward sanemi. “you’re quite the little troublemaker.”

you shrug, sipping champagne. “depends who you ask.”

across the room, sanemi’s already moving. the kind of stride that cuts clean through the chatter. you can practically feel the heat of his stare crawling up your neck.

and you—terrible, delighted you—just tilt your glass, watch the bubbles catch the light, and murmur to kanae, “uh oh. i think i’m in trouble.”

she blinks again, soft voice uncertain. “did you… do something?”

“not yet,” you say, smiling, eyes locked on sanemi as he closes in. “but i’m about to.”

he reaches you before you can finish your champagne. one big hand closes around your wrist, not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. “we’re leaving,” he says, voice too low to argue with.

the room hums on around you—music, laughter, heels clicking—but all you can feel is the heat of his palm and the crackle of whatever storm he’s swallowing down. he steers you through the corridor that leads to the back terrace, every line of him tight and vibrating. the door shuts behind you, soft click swallowed by the hush of night.

“what the hell was that?” he says, facing you now.

you blink, all wide eyes and false innocence. “what was what?”

“don’t play dumb.” his jaw jumps. “what did you tell kanae.”

you lean against the rail, tilt your head just a little. “only the truth.”

he takes a step closer. “which is?”

you smile, lazy, like you’re testing the edge of a knife. “that you used to have a crush on her.”

his eyes go wide for a beat—shock, then irritation, then something darker. “you actually told her that?”

you shrug. “she deserved to know.”

“she’s got a boyfriend,” he grits out. “why would you—” he cuts himself off, drags a hand down his face. “you can’t just— christ, you never think before you open your mouth.”

the sting hits harder than it should. you cross your arms, chin lifting. “it’s not like i said you still like her.”

“you shouldn’t have said anything at all.” he turns away, looking out at the city lights. “you don’t get it, do you? she and i— that was years ago. and now i gotta deal with that smug bastard she brought thinking i’m still hung up on her.”

you blink at him, trying not to flinch. “why are you so mad?”

“because you—” he stops, exhale sharp. “you just don’t know when to quit. always pushing. always teasing until you hit something you shouldn’t.”

you fold your hands around the edge of the rail, press cold metal into your palms. “you were fine when i teased you. what changed?”

he looks at you then, eyes cutting through the dark. “you made me look like an idiot.”

silence. long, thick.

you try to smile it off, but it doesn’t stick. “you didn’t seem to care what anyone thought before.”

“yeah, well,” he says, quieter now, “maybe i started to.”

his words hang there between you, fragile and half-meant, and for once you don’t know whether to laugh or to apologize, so you just stand there, heart beating too loud, wondering when teasing stopped feeling so safe.

you lift your chin and meet him with something meaner. “oh, please,” you say, rolling your eyes like it doesn’t hurt. “you’re acting like i ruined your reputation or something.”

he opens his mouth but you cut him off, the words spilling faster now, slick with anger. “it’s not like you were flirting with me in front of her or anything. i was just making conversation. you didn’t need to drag me out here like i kicked your dog.”

he blinks, startled, but you’re already moving past him, reaching for your phone. “whatever. i’m done talking about it. i’ve got more men to scout after anyway.”

his head jerks up. “what?”

you wave your phone at him, flashing the screen like a trophy. “managed to get a few numbers already. ball’s full of possibilities.” your smile is syrupy sweet, the kind that hides the ache sitting behind your chest. “maybe one of them will actually like my teasing.”

for a second, he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. the city hums below, soft and golden, and he just stares at you with that awful stillness that always comes before the storm.

“you’re lying,” he says finally, voice low.

you arch a brow. “what, can’t handle a little competition?”

his tongue darts against his teeth, jaw working. “competition?” he echoes. “i don’t compete.”

“no, you just scold,” you snap back. “and sulk. and act like you don’t care while glaring at anyone who looks at me for more than three seconds.”

the words hang there, too bare. you swallow and look away, thumb swiping at your phone though you’re not really seeing anything. “don’t worry, nemi. you can have your pride, and i’ll have my—”

“don’t,” he cuts in, a step closer now, voice taut. “don’t finish that sentence.”

“why not?” you fire back, still not looking at him. “afraid i’ll hurt your feelings?”

“because you didn’t get anyone’s number,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s reminding both of you of something that shouldn’t matter this much. “you just want me to think you did.”

your breath catches, fingers stilling against the screen. “so what if i did?”

he laughs once, bitter, rough around the edges. “then i’d still be standing right here. because you can say what you want, but you’re not walking out of this room with anyone else.”

the air between you folds in on itself, heavy and hot. you force a laugh, small and trembling. “you’re … crazy.”

“yeah,” he says, stepping closer, eyes dark, voice a scrape of want and frustration. “and you love it.”

the distance shrinks to a heartbeat. you can smell him again— cologne, anger, the faint trace of your own perfume clinging to his jacket. you’re not sure who moves first, but his hand is suddenly at your hip, fingers curling just enough to make you shiver, and he’s looking at you like you’re the thing he swore not to want and lost that battle ages ago.

you step back from sanemi, heart hammering, that mixture of spite and thrill bubbling hot in your chest. he’s watching you, mouth a flat line, eyes sharp, and that’s what makes you do it.

you slip out of the terrace, slip back into the blur of the ballroom. soft light, laughter, clink of glasses—everything glows a little too bright. you scan the room and pick the first stranger who looks kind enough not to take you too seriously. tall, dark hair, pleasant smile.

you drift his way with the kind of confidence that feels borrowed. he notices you immediately—how could he not—and smiles.

“hi,” you say, sweet, a little breathless. “i just wanted to tell you that you might be the most handsome man i’ve seen tonight.”

his laugh is surprised, not cocky. “that so?”

“mm.” you nod, all sugar. “absolutely.”

he reaches for his pocket, still smiling. “then i guess you should have my number. just in case you change your mind tomorrow.”

you hold your phone out. he types. the exchange takes seconds, light and harmless, your heart still beating like it’s a crime.

“thanks,” you say, voice soft. “you’ve made my night.”

he grins, says something polite, and you’re already walking away, phone warm in your hand, a small proof of something you don’t even believe in.

when you look up, sanemi’s there. still in the same place. hands in his pockets. watching.

he doesn’t say a word when you stop in front of him, just looks from you to the phone to the stranger across the room. his jaw ticks. you tilt your head, smile too wide. “what?” you ask. “you told me not to lie about it.”

“you called him the most handsome man,” he says, low, like he can’t quite believe you.

“i did.” you hum, pocketing your phone. “you can’t argue with facts, nemi.”

his laugh is short and ugly. “facts. right.” he steps closer, enough that you have to look up, his voice rough at the edges. “you like making me crazy that much?”

you grin, pretending your pulse isn’t fucked. “it’s my favorite hobby.”

he stares at you for a long, unbearable second. then his hand finds your wrist again—careful, not pulling this time, just holding, his thumb sliding once over your pulse.

“congratulations,” he says finally, low enough to barely hear. “you found the handsomest man in the room.”

you smirk. “thank you—”

“but he’s not him,” he cuts in, eyes holding yours. “and you know it.”

you blink, the words catching on your breath. the air between you is all heat and gravity again, the noise of the ballroom fading until it’s just him and the space you haven’t decided to close yet.

you tilt your head, that teasing curl already finding your mouth. “oh yeah?” you murmur, voice honey-thick. “if he’s not the handsomest man in the room, then who is, nemi?”

he doesn’t hesitate this time. his voice comes out low, steady, all gravel and pride. “me.”

you blink at him once. twice. the corner of your mouth twitches up slow. “you?”

“you heard me,” he says, chin lifting just a little, that same impossible confidence threading through the heat of his words. “go ahead. argue.”

you laugh—bright, delighted, a little breathless. “in your dreams, nemi,” you say, eyes sparkling as you take a deliberate step closer. “you are attractively challenged.”

his jaw drops, and for a second, the air between you goes quiet before he huffs out a laugh—real, sharp, teeth flashing. “what?”

you grin wider. “you heard me.”

he drags a hand down his face, the smile tugging despite himself. “you’re outta your fuckin’ mind with that one.” he mutters, but his eyes are soft now, that mix of frustration and something warmer that keeps sneaking through no matter how hard he fights it.

you shrug, brushing past him just enough for your shoulder to graze his. “buuut you like it,” you throw over your shoulder.

he catches your wrist before you can take another step, fingers curling gentle this time. “yeah,” he says, quieter now, close enough that you feel it more than hear it. “i really do.”

the laughter and the music swell around you again, but he doesn’t let go right away. you stand there in that half-lit corner, your pulse thudding against his thumb. you shake your wrist loose with a soft little scoff, the kind that says you’re not touching whatever weird mood he’s in. he mutters something under his breath as you walk back toward the light and chatter, and you pretend not to hear it.

the rest of the night smooths itself out. you dance when someone tugs you into the crowd. you eat too many hors d’oeuvres, drink champagne until your laugh gets loose again. sanemi hovers, never too far, a shadow orbiting your radius, but you keep him out of arm’s reach. when you catch his eyes across the room, you lift your glass and grin like nothing in the world is wrong.

by the time you’re in his truck again, the city’s gone quiet, all sodium glow and empty streets. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming restless against his thigh. the radio hums low between you. it’s comfortable, almost—just the sound of the tires and the air conditioner and the small space you’re pretending isn’t full of things unsaid.

he drops you off out front, headlights washing your legs pale in the dark. you thank him like. he just nods, gaze somewhere near your shoes, mutters “night,” and pulls away before you can wave.

inside, your apartment feels too still, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breathing. you kick off your heels, toss your clutch on the couch, collapse beside it with your phone in hand. a little smirk curves your mouth before you’ve even opened messages.

you scroll until you find the number from the man at the ball. type fast, thumbs moving on muscle memory.

you: hey, tonight was fun. hope to see you again sometime :)

you hit send, toss the phone onto the cushion, and stretch. outside, a car passes, tires whispering over asphalt. the air smells faintly of perfume and the sweet bread you brought home from the bakery.

somewhere across town, sanemi’s probably pacing his living room, still in that half-undone suit, cursing himself for caring. you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. that you had a good night. that you’re not waiting for the vibration of a text back or for his name to flash on your screen.

and when the phone lights, soft and unexpected, you can’t quite help the small, knowing smile that follows.

the week that follows turns into a blur of outfits and bad lighting and half-interesting conversation. you make a game of it—dates like checkpoints, stories to tell later. sanemi finds out because you tell him, of course. because you love watching him pretend not to care.

the first guy takes you to a rooftop bar, the kind with too many lights and not enough personality. he talks about crypto and his gym split. he has nice arms and no follow-through. you text your best friend a review after:

6/10. good lighting, mid conversation, smelled like axe and capitalism.

sanemi texts back in under a minute:

you’re kidding. axe and capitalism? stop dating idiots.

the second one takes you to a ramen place. he slurps too loud but makes you laugh once—real, sharp. you tell sanemi over takeout the next day, just to see him flinch.

“he said my laugh was cute,” you say, smiling into your noodles. he doesn’t look up. “he sounds blind.”

you send him the formal review later: 8/10. slurped like a vacuum cleaner but at least listened.

his reply: you’re losing your standards. get a hobby.

by the third date you’re in full chaos mode. a museum, quiet and gold, the guy polite and boring in equal measure. you text the rating before you even get home: 5/10. educated, boring, kissed like a man who studied geometry for funsies.

sanemi’s answer comes five seconds later: stop using tinder. i’m begging.

you don’t.

there’s a coffee date. a dinner date. one short walk in the park that ends with you pretending to check your phone just to escape. each review is a new jab, and each time his responses get shorter, tighter, rougher.

why are you telling me this

do you want me to lose my mind

this is not funny anymore

you tell yourself he’s just being protective. you tell yourself he’s always like this. you tell yourself you don’t notice how he’s started showing up at your place more often, how his texts hit midnight, short and sharp.

on friday, you come home from your latest date—a man who looked good on paper and nowhere else—and find him waiting on your steps. hands in his jacket, jaw set.

“how was it,” he asks, voice low.

you smile, too bright. “oh, you know. 7/10. good smile, boring taste in wine. might see him again.”

he stares at you for a long moment, the muscle in his cheek ticking. “don’t,” he says finally.

you tilt your head, all false innocence. “don’t what?”

“don’t go,” he says, quieter now. “don’t keep going on these stupid dates just to tell me about them.”

you blink, heartbeat quickening. “who says i’m doing it for you?”

his laugh is sharp, no humor in it. “because you never shut up about them otherwise.”

you take a step forward. “maybe i just want someone who doesn’t look at me like i’m a bad idea.”

he looks up then, really looks, and it’s all teeth and ache. “then stop going out with men who aren’t me.”

the words hang there, a rough confession wrapped in anger, the kind you can’t take back. you stare at him, the night pressing close, the air gone electric again.

you could laugh. you could kiss him. you could run.

you just breathe, soft and shaky, like the story’s about to tilt either way. you blink at him, slow, brain still trying to catch up. “what?” it comes out half a whisper, half disbelief, the kind of word you say when your body refuses to process what your ears just heard.

sanemi exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. runs a hand through his hair, mussing it worse. he looks everywhere but at you—the streetlight, the sidewalk, the cracks in the concrete—before finally meeting your eyes.

“shit,” he mutters. “i didn’t mean— no, i did mean it, just not like that.”

you frown. “what the hell does that mean, nemi?”

he swallows, shoulders tight. “i’m not good at this. you know that. i don’t—” he gestures vaguely between you. “whatever this is, i don’t know how to say it without sounding like a jackass.”

you cross your arms, voice small but steady. “try.”

he drags a hand down his face. “you’re driving me insane. i don’t even know when it started. one second we were just—” he waves his hand, helpless— “you being annoying, me telling you off. normal. and then all of a sudden, every time i see you with someone else, i feel like i’m gonna break something.”

you just stare. no snark this time. no grin.

he keeps going, quieter now, like the words have been sitting behind his teeth for too long. “i hate hearing about those dates. i hate the reviews. i hate that you come back and tell me what you like and what you didn’t like about them, because all i can think is that it should’ve been me.”

your breath catches.

he laughs once, dry. “and i know how that sounds. i know i act like a dick half the time. i just—” he hesitates, looks down. “you’re it for me, alright? and i’m too stubborn to figure out how to say that without screwing it up.”

for a long, stretched heartbeat, neither of you moves. the streetlight hums faintly. somewhere down the block, a car door slams.

you take one small step forward, voice soft. “you’re saying this now?”

he looks up, eyes a little wild. “yeah, well, apparently watching you flirt your way through half the city was the only way i’d get my head outta my ass.”

you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob. “you’re unbelievable.”

“yeah,” he says, and there’s that crooked half-smile again, the one that’s all apology and longing. “but you like it.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s softer this time. “god help me, i really might.”

he lets out a breath like he’s been underwater, and it fogs in the night air between you, close enough to touch.

you can’t help it—you start laughing. it bubbles up before you can swallow it down, high and bright and a little nervous, because his face is so damn serious.

“this is funny,” you say between breaths, shaking your head. “you—this— whatever you’re doing right now, it’s a funny joke. ten out of ten, nemi. really sold it with the tortured tone.”

he just stares, jaw tight, brows drawn like you just punched him instead of laughed.

you take a step back, still half-smiling. “but i’m not in the mood for jokes tonight, okay? it’s been a long week.” you turn, start toward the door, rummaging through your bag for your keys.

he moves quick. his hand catches your wrist again, not rough, just firm, the way he always does when he’s trying to keep you from disappearing.

“hey,” he says, quiet but solid, right behind you.

you twist a little, the laugh still on your mouth, gentler now. “nemi, stop being weird. you’re freaking me out.”

his thumb drags once against your pulse. “i’m not joking,” he says, voice low, the words sticking like heat. “you think i’d make something like this a joke?”

you try to pull free, half-hearted, still smiling even as your chest tightens. “well you sound insane right now, so maybe.”

he sighs, shoulders slumping. “you laugh every time i try to be serious. every. single. damn. time.”

“because you’re you,” you say, giggling again, softer, like maybe you can keep things from tilting. “and you’re never serious. you make fun of my cooking, my music, my—everything. now suddenly you’re out here confessing under a streetlight like some rom-com reject? come on.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t laugh, just watches you. the silence stretches, heavy. your smile falters a little, but you still tug on your hand, murmuring, “let me go, nemi. you’re being weird.”

he does, slowly, fingers slipping away. you step back, your laugh catching on something that feels too real, too close.

“goodnight, sanemi,” you say finally, still half laughing as you turn toward your living room. you don’t look back, not right away, not even when he mutters your name under his breath, the sound threading through the quiet like he’s not sure if he wants you to hear it or if he just can’t stop saying it at all.

the rhythm slides back in like nothing ever happened. like that night didn’t hang in the air between you for days afterward, heavy and awkward and strange.

he still texts before he comes over. still raids your fridge like he pays rent. still drops his shoes at the door with a sigh.

but now there’s this new quiet.

you notice it that friday, sprawled together on the couch, your favorite show flashing in the dim. usually he’d be heckling the dialogue, making stupid comments about the characters, snorting every time someone cried. tonight, though, he’s still. too still. one arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers drumming slow against the fabric.

you glance over. “you good?” he looks away from the tv, mouth tipping up just a little. “yeah. why?”

“you’re quiet.” he shrugs. “watching.”

you raise a brow. “you never just watch. you always talk over it and make me threaten your life.” he huffs out a small laugh, not quite meeting your eyes. “maybe i’m trying to be less annoying.”

you smirk. “weird resolution, but sure.”

he goes back to staring at the screen, except you can tell he’s not actually watching. he’s listening—to you, to the way you laugh at the same scenes, to the soft sound of your chips crunching, to every damn breath.

halfway through the episode, you toss a pillow at him. “what’s your deal? you’re acting like a cat that got yelled at.”

he catches it, presses it against his chest. “just tired, i guess.”

you squint, suspicious but too lazy to dig. “tired sanemi is a rare and beautiful creature. should i take a picture?”

he smiles faintly. “nah. i’ll ruin it if i move.”

so you let it go. keep watching. the glow from the tv flickers across the both of you—your hand halfway to the popcorn bowl, his eyes catching on it and then darting back to the screen.

a quiet kind of warmth settles in. the kind you don’t want to name, because naming it would make it real.

and when the episode ends, he doesn’t jump up to leave. just leans his head back against the couch, eyes soft, voice low. “play another?”

you nod, pretending not to notice the way he’s sitting a little closer than usual, his arm brushing the side of your shoulder, or how his breathing slows to match yours when the next episode starts. you pull your blanket tighter around your shoulders, curling into the corner of the couch. the air conditioning hums, colder than you remembered. you glance over at him—arms now loose across his chest, eyes half on the screen, the glow from the tv making the lines of his face look softer somehow.

you shiver once, dramatic, just for the bit. “ugh. freezing.”

he glances over. “want me to turn it down?”

“nah,” you say, voice sing-song and teasing. “unless you’re offering to cuddle me, i guess i’ll suffer.”

you mean it as a joke—really, you do—but he doesn’t blink. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t call you a brat like he usually would. he just says, low and easy, “yeah. sure.”

the room goes very still.

you blink. “what?”

“you said you’re cold,” he says, matter-of-fact, eyes still half on the tv. “come here.”

and just like that, your mouth goes dry.

“you’re—” you laugh, nervous. “you’re actually serious?”

he turns his head toward you finally, one eyebrow raised, that calm steady look that makes your stomach drop. “yeah. unless you were lying.”

“i—no, i—” you stutter, fumbling with the edge of your blanket like it might save you. “fine.”

you scoot closer, awkward at first. his arm shifts automatically, making space for you, and then it’s done—you’re tucked against him, shoulder pressed to his chest, the slow, steady sound of his heartbeat replacing the noise of your thoughts.

he’s warm. too warm.

you mumble, half into his shirt, “you’re like a space heater.”

he chuckles, low and quiet, his breath brushing the top of your head. “and you’re dramatic.”

“shut up,” you say, but it’s soft, lazy. his arm settles around you, fingers resting lightly at your side.

you tell yourself you’re only doing this because you’re cold. that it doesn’t mean anything. but then you feel him breathe out, slow and careful, like he’s afraid to move too much and ruin it.

“better?” he asks, voice rough.

“yeah,” you whisper.

the next laugh track from the tv rolls over you both, and for once, you don’t even hear it.

the warmth settles into something easy. your body molds against his like you’ve done this before a hundred times, and maybe you have—in dreams, in half-jokes, in the space between “i don’t care” and “don’t go.”

you start talking again halfway through the next episode, voice soft in the low-lit room.

“you’d be him, y’know,” you say, pointing at the screen. “grumpy, mean, secretly emotional.”

sanemi snorts. “you’re saying i’d die in a trench while yelling about honor?”

“exactly,” you grin. “except instead of dying, you’d just wake up angry and make it everyone else’s problem.”

“and you’d be the one who gets possessed by an ancient crystal and makes it worse for everyone else. cause you’re stupid.”

“rude.”

“it’s true.”

you swat his chest and wriggle out from under his arm, standing to stretch. “i’m getting water. don’t finish the episode without me.”

“wasn’t planning to,” he mutters, eyes following you.

you’re halfway across the room, blanket trailing behind you, when it happens.

smack.

you yelp, spinning around, hand flying to your hip. “what the hell, sanemi?”

he’s lounging back, one arm behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “what?”

“you smacked my ass.”

he shrugs, lazy. “ain’t the first time. won’t be the last.”

you gape at him. “excuse me?”

he lifts his brows, deadpan. “there was a fly.”

“a fly?”

“big one,” he says. “real mean. dangerous.”

“oh my god,” you mutter, turning back toward the kitchen, ears burning even though you’re trying to look unaffected.

behind you, you hear him chuckle to himself, voice low—almost fond. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

you don’t answer, but the grin curling your mouth betrays you, even as you open the fridge and glare into it.

water retrieved, dignity somewhat intact, you head back to the couch—only to pause behind him, lean in close, and whisper:

“hope you’re ready to die in a trench, soldier.”

he snorts so loud he nearly chokes, and the two of you dissolve into a fresh round of bickering just as the episode picks up again, your shoulder pressing back into his like you never left.

the next few days settle into that easy orbit you and sanemi do so well. grocery runs. you stealing his hoodie and pretending you did not. him pretending he did not notice and then stealing it back out of your laundry basket. shows on the couch. late night food runs. you keep your phone flipped face down, no more play by plays, no more stupid little reviews. he acts normal, mostly. he slants looks at your phone anyway.

then it happens. gyomei. a quiet wine bar with low lamps and a piano that never drowns you out. he pulls your chair in with one hand like it weighs nothing. asks what you like to eat and actually listens. his laugh is warm in his chest. he touches your wrist when the server drops the check, gentle like a question. he walks you to your car and stands a half step back so you do not feel crowded. you get home glowing, fingertips buzzing like you stuck them into a light socket, the good kind.

you cave. you text nemi.

you: just got home

you: date was… yeah

his reply lands in under fifteen seconds.

nemi: define yeah

you chew your lip, then type the truth.

you: ten out of ten. perfect gentleman. kind eyes. big hands. i like him

dot dot dot. then nothing. then your doorbell rings.

he is on your stoop in a t shirt, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular. you let him in because you always do. he toes off his shoes like he lives here, because he sort of does, and stands in your kitchen with his arms crossed like he is trying not to grab anything and break it.

“so,” you say, leaning into the counter, still a little breathless from your own happiness. “gyomei.”

“yeah.” his mouth barely moves. “i heard.” you smile small. “i told you.”

“you did.” he stares at your fridge magnet like it owes him money. “can’t see him dating a hoe.”

your laugh bursts out, loud and offended and fake wounded all at once. “that is so mean. what the hell, sanemi.”

he lifts a shoulder, eyes still on the magnet. “takes one to know one.”

“wow,” you say, hand to your chest, milking it. “slut shamed by my personal homeless stray. tragic.”

his gaze finally cuts to you, sharp and hot. “you put on that black dress and go around collecting phone numbers like trading cards and i am the problem.”

you fold your arms, chin up. “you hit on half the city with your shirt off and want a medal.”

“that is fitness,” he says, dead serious. “different category.”

you snort. “you tried to fight my necklace with a wrap.”

“your necklace was starting a problem,” he mutters. “and now you’re giddy over a monk with forearms.”

“do not reduce him to forearms,” you say, though you are thinking about them. “it was nice, nemi. it felt nice to be liked.”

that lands. the line of his mouth falters. he rubs a palm over his face and sighs like something heavy got set down inside his chest. “i like you.”

you shake your head, a little smile you cannot help. “jokes are closed for the evening.”

“not joking.” his voice drops, rough. “i know i say it like a dick. i know i don’t say it right. i still like you.”

you move around him to the sink for a glass, the air close with the warmth that always lives between you. his eyes follow the line of your shoulder like he is tethered to it. you fill your cup, sip, stall. “gyomei wants to see me again.”

“bet he does,” he says, quiet. “bet he tells you you’re beautiful with both hands in his prayer beads like a saint.”

“maybe,” you murmur, leaning on the counter, meeting his stare. “maybe he will.”

nemi’s throat works. he steps closer, not touching, just a new temperature in the room. “and you’ll go.”

“maybe i will,” you say again, soft. “unless you have something better to offer than calling me a hoe on my own tile.”

his laugh is ugly and low, his ears a little pink. “you liked it.”

“only because you looked like you wanted to bite your tongue in half after,” you say, smile curving mean and fond at once.

he crowds a breath closer, palms braced on the counter beside your hips. he smells like soap and the night air. his lashes cast little shadows under the kitchen light. “say you’re not going,” he says, not quite a plea. “say you will stay. right now.”

your phone buzzes where you left it on the table, a new message lighting the screen, your name and a good night tucked inside it, and sanemi’s eyes flick that way then snap back to you like he refuses to give the text any oxygen, like he can keep it from existing if he does not look twice.

his palms flatten on either side of your hips, the laminate squeaking under his weight as he bends, breath warm against the hollow of your throat. the kitchen light flickers across the sharp cut of his jaw, across your necklace where it pools like liquid silver between your breasts. his eyes drag slow from the shine of it to your mouth, back up, as if strategizing all the places he plans to bruise with attention.

you lift your brows, pretend you do not feel your pulse thrum against the thin chain. “you lost, nemi? the fridge is the other way.”

he huffs a laugh that barely breaks the tension, pupils wide, voice rough at the edges. “i’m right where i need to be. say you’re done with him.”

you toy with the pendant, sliding it back and forth over the swell of your push-up, letting his gaze follow. “i’m not in the habit of taking orders from strays.”

his fingers curl against the counter, white-knuckled. he leans closer, so close your knees brush his legs, so close you can taste the mint on his breath. “call me a stray again, see what happens.”

“stray.” you breathe the word like a dare, let it glide over his lower lip. his nostrils flare, one hand lifting, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, soft, at odds with the tension in his shoulders. he ghosts lower, thumb grazing the sticky spot at your collarbone where perfume meets sweat, where your heartbeat drums so loud you know he hears.

your phone buzzes on the table behind him, another polite ping from gyomei. sanemi’s gaze snaps past you, then back, fiercer now. “answer it,” he murmurs, teeth flashing, “and i’ll take that pretty necklace as payment for my patience.”

your laughter is shaky, half thrill, half warning. “bold of you to assume i’d let you touch it.”

his brows rise, a slow predatory grin tipping the balance. “bold of you to think you could stop me.”

you slide a hand up his chest, feel the muscle jump beneath thin cotton, tug the open collar until his breath stutters. “might be fun to try.”

he dips, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice a scrape of heat. “thought you liked ten-out-of-tens. what happens when eleven is standing right in front of you?”

you turn your face, noses almost touching, your smile all teeth and promise. “guess i’ll need a better rating system.”

his answering hum vibrates through his chest to yours, hand finally settling at your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top. you exhale, catch his wrist before it climbs higher, but you do not push him away. his pulse thuds under your thumb, fast, eager.

the phone buzzes again, insistent. neither of you moves toward it. outside, a car passes, headlights sweeping through the blinds, washing both your faces in silver stripes. the moment stretches, taut as wire, waiting to snap.

his breath is right there, heavy and hot and the air between you stretched so thin it could tear, but you move first. you duck under his arm in a rush of perfume and laughter, slip out from between his body and the counter before he can catch you.

“hey—” he starts, reaching.

you’re already out of reach, giggling, bare feet quick on the tile. the phone glows and you snatch it up like a prize, thumb swiping before he can protest. “what’s the worst that could happen, right?” you sing, teasing in your voice.

he leans against the counter behind you, breathing out hard, watching you with that half-frustrated, half-hungry look he wears too easily.

“you’re a fucking menace,” he mutters.

“you started it,” you say without looking up, scrolling through the messages. gyomei’s words are simple, gentle: i enjoyed seeing you tonight. you looked lovely. i’d like to take you somewhere quieter next time, if you’d like that.

you smile, soft. “see? gentleman.”

sanemi snorts. “yeah, all saints till they aren’t.”

you turn toward him, back pressed to the edge of the table, grin still playing around your mouth. “you sound jealous again.”

he rolls his eyes, pushes off the counter, moving slow this time. “nah. just wondering how long it’s gonna take you to figure out you like trouble better.”

you laugh, holding the phone out of his reach as he steps closer. “trouble smells like motor oil and lies.”

he smirks. “and yet you’re still standing here.”

you lift your phone higher, giddy, light catching on the chain that hangs between your collarbones. “i might be.”

he stops just short of you, enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him, eyes dropping to your mouth, then to the little screen that still glows in your hand. “so what’s the message say, then?”

you glance down, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “wouldn’t you like to know.”he huffs a quiet laugh, shakes his head. “one day you’re gonna run out of room to run, you know that?”

“maybe,” you say, smiling at the text, at the way his reflection shivers faintly in the glass of the window behind him. “but not tonight.”

you type back, quick: i’d like that. when? and hit send before he can see.

you hook a finger in his collar and tug him from the hallway into your room, the soft laugh in your throat barely hiding the thrum in your pulse. “you staying over?”

he drops onto your mattress like he owns it, knees spread, eyes dark. “yeah. might as well keep you out of trouble.”

“please.” you grin, sliding open the closet. “help me pick something that’ll behave.”

first you shrug on the knit midi, neckline polite, hem grazing shin. you step out, sway your hips. he tips his head, lazy. “church bake sale.”

you peel it off right there, toss it aside. next a floral sweetheart—puff sleeves, ribbons, hopes and dreams. you spin once. he clicks his tongue. “honor roll ceremony. needs pearls.”

you laugh, already unzipping, the floral puddling at your feet. black jersey slip follows, scooped low, grazing mid-thigh. you walk to the foot of the bed, let the chain between your breasts glitter under the lamp. his gaze drags slow, mouth parting.

“sit,” he says, voice sand-rough.

you perch on his thigh. he tugs the hem lower, knuckles brushing the crease where fabric meets skin. heat flickers under your ribs. he tests the dress like it’s a fuse, slides one fingertip up until your inhale hitches, then snaps the elastic seam and shakes his head. “too much.”

“you’re the one lighting matches,” you murmur, pulse racing.

next comes the red silk. bias-cut, backless. you step out and everything in him goes still, like prey scenting a trap. he stands, walks a circle around you, fingertips skimming the dip of your spine, never quite giving the pressure you want. “spin slower.”

you do and the slit opens, high, higher. his hand cups your outer thigh, heat blooming up your side. “wear this and i will break every polite bone in my body,” he says, breath against your neck.

“sounds fun,” you whisper, but you’re already reaching for the hanger he hasn’t seen.

black halter, satin, knotted at your nape, slit cut mean. you shimmy in, leave the zipper half undone. “zip me?” you ask, hands braced on the wall.

he steps in close, palms sliding up under the loose back until they rest at your ribs, thumbs brushing the swell beneath your bra. his mouth grazes the shell of your ear. “holding you together might be my new hobby.”

goosebumps rises along your arms. he pulls the zipper slow, teeth scraping fabric, lips ghosting down your spine as the dress closes. when he finishes, he stays there, breath hot through the silk, hands framing your hips.

“walk,” he murmurs, stepping back.

you turn, take two slow strides. fabric parts, flashing thigh, the chain dancing at your sternum. his eyes track every sway, hunger slick in the low light.

“this one,” he says, voice almost ruined. “but only if you swear those legs come home wrapped around my waist.”

you bite a smile, tug the chain, and reach for the gloss. his gaze follows the wand to your mouth. “help me with earrings?”

he closes the distance, fingers brushing your jaw as he hooks the studs in place, mouth a breath from yours, scent stirring heat low in your belly. your phone buzzes across the room—gyomei, probably—and neither of you flinch. his thumb drags over your bottom lip, glossy, slick.

“if you leave in that,” he murmurs, tasting the flavor off his thumb, “don’t expect me to stay on my side of the halo when you get back.”

you smile, heart hammering, slip into your heels. “then polish your halo now, nemi. i have picked my fit.”

he’s leaning against the doorframe when you reach behind you and pull the zipper down, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. the halter slips away from your shoulders, satin sighing as it slides to your ankles. you bend to scoop it up, hang it over the closet door, start sorting through hangers, the small clack of metal and fabric filling the air.

his eyes stay on you, heavy. you can feel them moving, tracing skin, following the slow stretch of your arm when you reach high for another hanger. the room smells faintly of your perfume, of soap and the soft hum of the air conditioning.

you glance over your shoulder, half-smile curling. “what’s your problem this time, nemi?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his mouth works like he’s chewing on something he can’t spit out.

you step closer, still holding the dress. “what?” you ask again, teasing. “cat got your tongue? or are you going to give me another lecture about how i’m supposed to act on my date?”

he exhales through his nose, looks away, looks back. “it’s not a lecture.” his voice is rough, lower than usual. “just didn’t know you’d start doing wardrobe changes in front of me like i wasn’t even here.”

you laugh, light and sharp. “you’ve seen worse.”

“that’s the problem,” he says.

you raise a brow. “because i’m leaving to meet someone who actually wants to see me naked?”

his gaze flicks to the floor, then back up. “because i keep forgetting i’m not supposed to look.”

the words land between you, simple, hot. you swallow and hang the last hanger, fingers trembling just enough to betray you. you turn toward him, the question still half-formed on your tongue when he pushes off the doorframe, shoulders tight, the air between you thick with everything you keep pretending not to notice.

the tension breaks like it always does with the two of you—sharp, sudden, and ridiculous. later, maybe you’ll think about the way he looked at you near the closet. maybe you’ll replay the way his voice dipped when he said i keep forgetting i’m not supposed to look.

but for now, you’re back on the couch, legs curled under you, wrapped in a blanket and some unspoken agreement to pretend like none of it happened. the episode is halfway through, and he hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. his arm is along the back of the couch again, warm behind your neck, pinky brushing your shoulder like it means nothing.

you shift closer, innocent at first.

then your fingers twitch at his ribs.

“don’t,” he warns, voice low. you grin. “what?”

“don’t start.”

you do.

he jerks once, the sound he makes halfway between a grunt and a laugh, swatting at your hand. “quit it.”

“make me.”

you dive in again, both hands now, fingers digging into the sensitive spot just under his ribs and he jolts, actually laughs, loud and startled.

“fuck,” he wheezes, trying to twist away, but you’re already crawling over him, straddling his hips, blanket falling off your shoulders as you pin his arms with your knees and go in for the kill.

“say you surrender,” you sing, fingers relentless.

he’s squirming, breath coming hard, actual laughter shaking his chest—deep and wild, a sound you rarely hear from him. “you little— stop—*”

you hit the spot again and he curses, tries to grab your wrists. “okay, okay, you’re done—”

“not until you admit i’m stronger than you.”

he barks a laugh. “not in this fuckin’ life.”

you’re both breathless now, hair messy, tangled in each other. his grip finds your waist, fingers flexing once, and then—

flip.

he surges up, muscles rippling beneath your legs, and in one clean motion, pins you under him. your back hits the cushions, a huff escaping your lungs as he settles between your knees, one hand catching your wrists above your head.

you’re grinning, chest rising fast. “you cheated.”

he leans in, voice smug and wrecked with leftover laughter. “you picked the wrong guy.”

you try to twist, but his free hand finds your side and tickles.

you squeal, immediately kicking, breath hiccupping into laughter as he gets you right under your ribs, under your arm, where he knows you’re weak.

“nemi—! stop—!”

“oh no,” he says, mock serious, “we’re committed now.”

you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, squirming under him with your legs still wrapped tight around his hips, both of you a mess of tangled limbs and flushed cheeks and breathless curses.

he stops suddenly, both hands braced beside your head, breath coming fast. the air stills.

you’re still under him, laughing dying down, but the quiet creeps in as his eyes lock onto yours, your thighs locked around his waist, his breath brushing your cheek.

you’re both holding too still.

too close.

you blink up at him, chest rising. his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and he doesn’t move away. not yet. not even a little.

you yawn, the sound breaking the quiet. “okay,” you mumble, still half-laughing, “i’m tired. get off me, nemi.”

he doesn’t budge. one corner of his mouth tips up, breath still rough from laughing. “no.”

you squint at him, voice slurring a little with amusement and exhaustion. “no?”

“you started this,” he says, settling his weight just enough to make you squirm.

you groan, half-dramatic. “you’re heavy.”

“good,” he says, smug. “maybe you’ll learn.”

you stare up at him for a beat, then your hands dart up fast, fingers digging under his ribs again.

he jerks like you hit a live wire. “don’t—” he wheezes, already laughing again.

“get off!” you say between giggles, your hands finding every sensitive spot you discovered earlier.

he tries to block you, twists to the side, laughter shaking his chest again. “you’re—impossible—”

“say it!” you insist, still tickling, breathless now, both of you dissolving into laughter that fills the whole room.

he rolls, trying to trap your wrists, both of you a tangle of limbs and blanket and half-hearted curses. he manages to catch one of your hands, then the other, holding them tight. “you’re gonna regret that,” he says, eyes bright, grin breaking across his face.

“yeah?” you say, breath hitching, hair a mess, cheeks warm. “prove it.”

he laughs again, the sound low and rough, still breathless, and for a second the air between you softens—still bright from laughter, but slower now, the kind of warmth that lives under everything you keep pretending isn’t there.

you’re still grinning, eyes half-lidded. “get off me, nemi,” you say again, voice quieter this time.

he shakes his head, resting his forehead against the couch cushion beside your ear. “no,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “not until you promise you’re done tickling.”

you smile, the kind of tired, small smile that feels too real. “fine. i promise.”

he hums, releases your wrists, and finally rolls off, both of you breathless and wrecked with leftover laughter. you pull the blanket up and he stretches out beside you like he’s been there forever, still muttering about how you cheat, your laugh fading into a soft hum that fills the quiet.

you tuck the blanket around yourself, still catching your breath, the last of the laughter curling soft in your chest. the tv’s gone to a low hum, flickering blues across the room. he’s sprawled beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing even again.

you shift, glance at him sideways. “so,” you murmur, voice a little hoarse from laughing, “where do you want to sleep, nemi? my bed or the couch?”

he slides his arm down just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “that a real question?”

“it’s called being polite.” you stretch your legs out, bump his knee. “guest choice.” he huffs a quiet laugh. “you think i’m fitting on the couch? the thing’s built for barbie dolls.”

“then the floor?” you tease.

he sits up a little, scrubbing a hand through his hair, grin crooked. “you’d like that, wouldn’t you. me on the floor, you up in the fancy bed.”

“maybe,” you say, leaning your head against the cushion. “you snore.”

“lies.” he yawns, long and low. “you drool.”

you laugh, flicking his arm. “so what, bed then?”

he looks toward the hallway, then back at you. “bed,” he says finally, tone easy, like it’s obvious. “but i’m staying on top of the blanket. you can have your side, princess.”

you roll your eyes, push yourself up, and the two of you shuffle down the hall in comfortable silence. he kicks off his shirt before sliding in, muttering something about how your comforter weighs too much, and you slide under it on your side, facing the window.

the room goes quiet except for the faint sound of traffic outside. his arm brushes your shoulder once, accidental, then stays still.

“you good?” he asks softly.

“yeah.” you breathe out a small laugh. “you?”

“yeah,” he says again, already half-gone to sleep.

you smile into the dark, eyes closing, the warmth of him bleeding through the blanket between you.

morning leaks through the blinds in thin stripes, warm against your cheek. you blink, stretch, the sheets soft around your legs, and turn your head without thinking.

he’s there. sprawled on his back, hair a mess, one arm thrown over the pillow you didn’t end up using. his mouth is slack, the faintest curve of a snore ghosting out when he exhales.

you stare for a second too long. the light hits him unfairly, catches on the white line of a scar by his temple, softens the hard edges he wears all day.

for a heartbeat, you think, he looks—

then you stop yourself.

what the hell am i doing admiring this stray’s face.

you laugh under your breath, quiet so you don’t wake him, and slip out of bed. the floor is cool under your feet, the air smells faintly of him and sleep. you pad to the kitchen, flick the stove on, and start pulling things out of the fridge—eggs, bread, whatever you can find.

the sizzle of the pan fills the quiet. you hum to yourself, still grinning at how ridiculous it all feels. every now and then you glance toward the hallway, half expecting him to appear, half hoping he stays asleep long enough for you to finish.

you pour the eggs in, watch them bloom yellow in the pan. it’s domestic in a way that makes your chest tighten and you shake your head, muttering, “this is so stupid,” but you keep cooking anyway.

you’re sliding the last bit of eggs off the pan when you hear it—low, half-awake grumbling from down the hall. it’s the sound he makes every time he realizes he’s not in his own bed, something between confusion and complaint. you snort under your breath and reach for another plate.

he’s going to need more than you, always does. you pile an extra egg, two more slices of toast, the end of the bacon. protein for the musclehead, you think, grinning.

the floorboards creak and you glance over your shoulder.

he’s standing in the doorway, hair sticking up in every direction, squinting against the light. underwear only. broad shoulders, chest marked with old scars, stomach cut into muscle that moves like it was carved by a god. he rubs the back of his neck, still blinking sleep out of his eyes.

for a second you just stare.

your brain short-circuits into a loop of holy shits, before it remembers itself. you cough, turn back to the counter, fumble with the spatula like it’s suddenly fascinating.

“morning,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough.

“uh-huh,” you manage, still facing the stove. “you hungry?” he pads closer, the air shifting warmer. “smells good.”

“made you extra,” you say, trying to sound normal. “bodybuilder metabolism and all that.” he snorts, leaning on the counter beside you. “so you admit i look good?”

you risk a glance up—bad idea. he’s grinning, that sleepy-smug kind of grin that makes the scar near his mouth pull just right. your eyes dart away again.

“i admit nothing,” you mumble, as you carry the plates to the couch, mugs of coffee balanced between your fingers, and drop onto the cushion beside him. the tv’s off; the only sound is the soft hum of the city outside.

he chuckles, low in his chest. “sure.” he picks up the fork, starts eating like he hasn’t in days. you follow suit, trying not to notice the way his abs tighten every time he reaches for the salt, or how the morning light cuts a golden edge over his skin.

“you’re staring,” he says without looking up. “i’m thinking,” you correct, deadpan. “about how i let a half-naked stray into my kitchen.”

he laughs, the sound warm and easy. “and yet you keep feeding me.” you roll your eyes, hiding the small smile that threatens to give you away. “yeah, yeah. eat your breakfast.”

you nudge his knee with yours. “so what’s the plan today, nemi?”

he takes a swallow of coffee before answering, voice still rough with sleep. “got a client this afternoon. should only take a couple hours.”

you perk up, a grin sliding across your face. “finally. my stray’s actually going home.” he shoots you a look over the rim of his mug. “real funny.”

you laugh, kicking his shin lightly. “hey, someone’s gotta remind you you’re a guest and not a squatter.” he shrugs, leaning back into the couch. “if you stop feeding me, i might remember that.”

“never gonna happen,” you say, waving him off, setting your empty plate on the table.

he glances sideways at you, smirking. “that an invitation or a threat?”

“both,” you say, then yawn and stretch, settling deeper into the cushions. “come back after your thing, though.”

he pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “why?”

“so we can, i don’t know—finish the show, make dinner, do whatever.” you wave a hand, like it’s no big deal, but the words sound too easy, too familiar. “you know. continue our day.”

his eyes flick to you, unreadable for a second. “our day?” he repeats, slow, like he’s tasting the phrase.

you feel the heat crawl up your neck. “don’t.. say it like that. you make it sound—”

“domestic?” he supplies, that smug half-grin back again. “gross,” you say quickly, kicking him again.

he laughs, low and real this time,. “fine. i’ll come back.” — “good,” you say, looking anywhere but at him.

he leans in just a little, voice dropping. “didn’t sound like a request, by the way.” you roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “shut up and finish your eggs.”

he does, still grinning, while the two of you sit in the easy quiet that always fills the room after the teasing’s run out, warm and stupidly comfortable in a way neither of you bothers to question.

later

you had decided to take a bath while he was gone. steam clings to the edges of the mirror, softening your reflection to a blur. you sink deeper into the water, stretching your legs, bubbles brushing your skin. the bath is hot, bordering on scalding, and you let your head tip back, eyes half-closed, letting the quiet soak in.

it never lasts. not when your brain is always busy, always circling back to him.

sanemi, with his impossible arms and that stubborn scowl. the way he makes your life a mess—tracking metaphoric mud in, picking fights, eating you out of house and home. but god, he’s hot. you picture the line of muscle along his stomach, the cut of his jaw, that laugh when you tickle him just right. and then you roll your eyes at yourself, sinking a little lower until the water almost covers your ears. he’s a hindrance, you think. a stray, a pest. you can’t get anything done when he’s around, he eats all your leftovers, he leaves his shirts on your floor. you’re an adult, you don’t need someone orbiting your world just because he makes you laugh until your ribs ache and sometimes, at night, looks at you like he wants to ruin your whole universe.

your hand drifts lower, lazy, skimming bubbles and slick skin. you reach for your toy, lips parting with anticipation as you sink deeper, letting yourself forget everything but sensation. the hum is low, sweet between your thighs. you gasp, head falling back against the tile, hips shifting with each pulse. the head of your wand hitting just right, the steam, the sound, the memory of sanemi’s hands on you—everything collides.

you get louder than you mean to, breathy moans echoing off tile. every sound sharper, every wave hotter, your body curling as you chase the edge until you finally break, shuddering in the water, back arching, bubbles scattering.

you blink, heart pounding, chest heaving, heat painting your skin.

it’s only then that you notice the faint static sound—soft, familiar, like voices muffled through a wall.

the tv. the living room.

you freeze, blood running cold. oh fuck.

he’s here. the question burrows deep and mean into your chest—how long has he been here?

the thought tangles through your body, your breath catching for a different reason as you stare at the bathroom door, the reality of your stray somewhere just on the other side, and the echo of your own voice still ringing in your ears.

you wrap yourself in the biggest towel you can find, tucking it tight under your arms, your skin still flushed from the heat and something else you don’t want to name. you listen at the door for a second, heart drumming hard, but all you hear is the sound of the tv and a crinkling bag—takeout, probably. your stomach twists.

you open the door slow, steam swirling out around your ankles, and step into the hallway. sanemi is sprawled on the couch, a takeout bag open on the table, chopsticks already working on a container of noodles. he glances up, eyes dragging over you, towel and bare shoulders and wet hair dripping down your collarbone. his mouth curls into a slow, knowing grin.

“nice towel,” he says, voice lazy and full of trouble. “bath treat you good?” you blink, playing dumb. “just needed to relax.” he hums, eyes gleaming, leans back with all the smug confidence of a man who knows exactly what he heard. “yeah? sounded like you were fighting for your life in there.”

you flush hot, tug the towel higher. “door’s thin, you know.” he pops a noodle into his mouth, chewing slow, gaze never leaving yours. “didn’t realize a bath could make someone so…vocal.”

you shoot him a glare, cheeks on fire. “keep talking and you’re eating in the hall.”

he grins wider, tapping his chopsticks against the lid. “that an invitation or a threat?”

“shut up, nemi,” you mutter, but you can’t quite keep the laughter out of your voice.

he just winks, tosses a fortune cookie onto your plate, and pats the spot beside him. “c’mon, towel girl. food’s getting cold.”

you roll your eyes, but the heat in your chest lingers as you cross the room, sinking beside him on the couch, towel and all, the faint echo of your own voice mingling with the sound of his low, satisfied laughter.

it’s late, that soft kind of quiet where you should be doing anything else but scrolling. the light from your phone paints your thighs blue. you’re in the kitchen, still in shorts, hair half-up, coffee cooling on the counter. the moon through the window makes everything silver, including the curve of your back when you lean forward to reach for the mug.

you take the photo without thinking — reflection in the glass, the sweep of your legs, nothing too much, just enough. caption: late night caffeine crisis.

you post it. forget about it.

it takes him seven minutes.

a notification slides up: nemi replied to your story.

what the hell are you doing posting that at this hour.

you grin, thumb already moving. drinking coffee, obviously.

a pause. the typing bubble appears, disappears, returns.

you know what i mean.

no clue, you reply, sweet. elaborate?

that picture.

you don’t like it?

that’s not the point.

then what is?

this time, a photo comes through — your post screenshotted, his cursor circled around the curve of your backside, followed by his message: delete it before someone else sees what’s mine to complain about.

you laugh out loud, half-shocked, half-thrilled. possessive much?

realistic, he shoots back. you knew what you were doing when you took that angle.

what angle? you type, pretending innocence, biting your lip.

the one that’s going to get me in trouble, he answers.

you send him a winking emoji, close your phone, and take another slow sip of coffee, warmth curling low in your stomach as you think about how easy it is to wind him up without even trying.

when he tells you, it’s casual — tossed out between bites of takeout. “housewarming thing this weekend,” he says, like it’s an errand. “kanae and douma. you’re coming.”

you almost drop your utensil. “kanae? as in your kanae?” he sighs. “not my kanae.”

“uh-huh,” you hum, already smirking. “the kanae who makes you go all quiet when she walks into a room? the kanae you crushed on in, what, 2015?” he rolls his eyes. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet you invited me,” you sing, leaning back. “should i wear something pretty? or something that’ll make her nervous?”

“don’t start,” he warns, but the twitch in his jaw gives him away. “oh, i’m starting.” you lean your chin on your hand, watching him with a grin that could kill. “what if she thinks we’re dating? should i hold your hand? sit in your lap? ooh, should i call you babe?”

“don’t even—”

“babe,” you interrupt, dragging the word out, tasting it.

he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “you’re going to make this a nightmare.”

“i’m going to make it memorable,” you correct, eyes gleaming. “besides, aren’t you curious what she’ll say when she sees me on your arm?” he glances at you then, and for a second, something shifts in his expression — that tight, quiet thing he never admits to. “you’re something,” he says finally then looks away, fighting a smile. “just—don’t cause a scene.”

“me? never.” “—you,” he says, dead serious. “exactly you.”

you sip your drink, already thinking about outfits, already picturing the party — kanae’s perfect smile, douma’s too-friendly eyes, and sanemi somewhere behind you, trying not to combust while you make sure everyone remembers that you clean up beautifully.

the drive over is all small talk and static. you’re in something soft, easy—linen that falls just right, sleeves rolled to your elbows, a neckline that dips enough to catch the evening light. he doesn’t say anything about it, but you catch him looking once at a stoplight, jaw tight, eyes flicking back to the road too fast.

kanae’s place glows warm when you walk in, laughter spilling through the open door. she’s already there waiting, bright and perfect, her hair pulled up in that careless way that never looks careless. you hug her—she smells like peonies and summer wine—and she smiles like she means it, squeezes your hand. “i’m so glad you came,” she says, and you nod, mean it, but your eyes flick past her before you can help it.

sanemi’s by the kitchen counter with douma, already caught in one of those too-loud exchanges. when kanae calls to him, he turns, and you see it—his whole face softening for half a second. not romantic, maybe, but gentle in a way that guts you.

something in your chest tightens. ridiculous, really. you laugh at yourself under your breath, brush a hand over your hair. it’s nothing. you knew this. it’s always been this.

kanae pulls you into the group, introducing you to people you half-recognize. you smile, chat, sip whatever’s handed to you. sanemi keeps orbiting close, close enough that you can feel him there even when he’s talking to someone else, close enough that you can see his eyes slide toward kanae when she laughs.

you shouldn’t care. you don’t, you tell yourself. you’re just here to tease him, to play the game you both built. but it’s hard to make a joke when your heart’s doing that awful squeeze, when the part of you that loves being around him suddenly hates the idea of him looking at anyone else like that.

you lift your drink, force a grin, and find your voice. “so,” you say lightly, leaning toward him when he finally drifts back to you, “you gonna tell her how much you missed her, or should i?”

he gives you a look—half a glare, half a plea not to start—and you swallow the sting under your tongue, hide it behind your smile.

the sound of the door opening cuts through the low hum of chatter and laughter, and you turn instinctively, your smile already polite. then you see him.

gyomei. taller than you remembered, shoulders filling the doorway, warmth following him in like he brought the sunlight with him. he smiles when his eyes find yours—soft, genuine, that same calm gravity that drew you in the first time.

you feel the heat climb up your neck before you can stop it. a quiet, traitorous flutter under your ribs. you set your glass down and start toward him, smoothing your shirt like it matters. “hey,” you say, the word coming out lighter than you meant. “you made it.”

“of course,” he says, voice low and gentle. “i wasn’t going to miss seeing everyone. you look…” he trails off for half a beat, eyes kind, “…well.”

you laugh under your breath, brushing a strand of hair back. “so do you.”

the room seems to fade a little at the edges—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the sound of kanae’s laughter drifting from the kitchen. for a heartbeat it’s just you and him standing by the door, the faint scent of rain still clinging to his coat, the warmth of his hand when he shakes yours lingering a second too long.

from across the room, you can feel sanemi’s gaze. heavy, sharp, unreadable.

you don’t look right away. you keep your eyes on gyomei, ask him something about how he’s been, how work’s treating him, but your pulse won’t settle. because even while you’re smiling, part of you can sense it—the weight of that stare from the other side of the party, the quiet thrum of someone who suddenly doesn’t find this game funny anymore.

you wait until the chatter thickens again, until kanae and douma are laughing about something by the bar, and then you tug gently at gyomei’s sleeve. “hey,” you murmur, “can we talk outside for a second?”

he follows you to the quiet edge of the garden, where the air smells like mint and damp stone. soft music drifts out through the open windows. you twist your fingers together, feeling clumsy under his steady calm.

“i just wanted to say,” you start, words tumbling, “i’m really sorry if i gave you the wrong idea. i didn’t mean to lead you on or make it weird. you’re… really good company. i just—” he watches you with that patient half-smile, the one that makes you feel both safe and seen. “you’re interested in someone else,” he finishes gently.

your breath catches. “yeah.” you laugh quietly, awkward. “guess it’s obvious?”

“not really,” he says, shaking his head, “but it makes sense.” he pauses, gaze soft. “sanemi?” you blink. “oh?” your voice goes higher than you mean. “how’d you deduce that?”

his smile widens, the edges kind. “he talks about you a lot,” he says simply. “even when he’s pretending not to.” the words hit you like a slow sunrise—warm, creeping under your skin. you look away, laugh under your breath. “does he now?”

“he does,” gyomei says, hands folded in his pockets. “it’s usually in the form of complaints, but he talks about you all the same. since you became friends.”

you shake your head, smiling at the ground. “that sounds like him.” he nods once. “he’s the only one i’ve seen glare at his phone like it insulted him.”

you both laugh softly, the sound easy. he pats your shoulder, a quiet benediction. “it’s alright,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.”

“thank you for being kind about it.” he nods again, eyes warm. “be kind to yourself too,” he says, then glances toward the house. “he’s inside, you know.”

you circle the edge of the living room, glass in hand, half-searching, half-trying to steady the beat in your chest. the crowd’s thinned a little—people scattered between the patio and the kitchen—but you hear him before you see him.

his voice, lower than usual, roughened to something careful. “—just wanted to say sorry,” he’s saying. “for her being weird at the last thing. she didn’t mean it. she’s just—”

you stop near the archway, hidden by the plant kanae’s sister probably gave her, the soft thread of her voice following. “it’s alright, sanemi. i thought it was… kind of sweet, actually.”

your breath catches. “sweet?” he echoes, startled, the sound of a laugh that doesn’t know where to go.

“you always were easy to read,” she says, voice gentle. “i knew you liked me back then.”

you can almost hear the silence between them—heavy, full of old nerves. he clears his throat, words tripping. “yeah, i—uh—yeah. i did. i mean, who wouldn’t, right?”

she laughs softly, the sound of it twisting something small in your chest. “you were always so honest, sanemi. i liked you, too. but… you know how things turned out.”

“douma,” he says quietly.

“yeah.” her voice warms with something soft and final. “he makes me happy. he really does.”

“good,” sanemi says after a long moment, and it’s quiet, unconvincing.

you stand there for another breath you don’t mean to take, staring at the doorway, the edges of the world blurring. you don’t know if you’re more relieved that she said in the past or more stung by the part of him that still sounds 2015, still standing under her window with all that clumsy wanting.

you swallow, fix your expression into something neutral, and step forward into the room like you didn’t hear a thing, smile already ghosting back onto your face. you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. that it’s ancient history, that what you overheard was just two people closing a door that should’ve been shut years ago. but your chest aches anyway, that stupid tight ache that creeps in under your chest when you’re not paying attention. you can feel it swelling, heavy, stubborn. you press your nails into your palm and keep walking.

the noise of the party folds around you again—music, laughter, clinking glasses. kanae catches your eye, smiles like nothing’s out of place, and you smile back, too wide, too practiced. sanemi joins you after a while, his hand ghosting against your elbow when he brushes past, and you swear you can still hear her voice echoing under his.

you drink more than you mean to. laugh when you should. talk about nothing with people you barely know, pretending your stomach isn’t knotted, pretending you don’t notice the way he glances at you like he’s trying to read something in your silence.

eventually it’s late enough to leave. the drive back is a blur of streetlights and shallow music. he keeps looking over, opens his mouth once or twice, doesn’t speak.

you stare out the window, jaw tight, grinding your teeth so hard your temples ache. the city slips by in streaks of gold and gray, and the words you won’t say sit heavy on your tongue: why does it even matter? why does it feel like this? you rest your head against the glass, pretending you’re tired. he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, quiet.

the space between you hums with all the things you won’t admit, and the only sound that fills it is the low growl of the engine, carrying you both home through the thick, unspoken quiet.

you unlock the door to your place, the lights still half-on, the air too still. your shoes come off in slow, dragging movements. “’night,” you mumble, not looking at him. he nods, or maybe he doesn’t—you don’t check.

the floor creak under your weight. once the bedroom door clicks shut behind you, you let out a sigh that sounds too much like a groan, pressing your forehead to the wood for a beat before pushing away. your reflection in the dark window looks like someone else; your eyes are glossy, your smile gone.

you’re halfway to unzipping your dress when the knock comes. three soft raps, unsure.

you freeze, then roll your eyes at the ceiling. “what,” you call, flat, trying to keep your voice even. “you okay?” his voice filters through, rough, cautious.

you stare at the knob, throat tight. “yeah,” you say after a second, too quick. “just drunk out of my mind, i think.”

there’s a pause. the sound of him shifting his weight outside. “you don’t sound drunk,” he says quietly.

“that’s ‘cause i’m very, very functional,” you shoot back, forcing a laugh that sounds more like air leaving a balloon. “go home, nemi.”

you can almost hear him thinking on the other side, the small scrape of his thumb against the doorframe. then, softly, “right. night, then.”

his footsteps retreat down the hall, slow.

you exhale, lean back against the door until your knees hit the carpet. “drunk,” you whisper to yourself, the lie echoing small in the quiet. the hum of the street outside fills the space he leaves behind, and you sit there listening to it until it’s the only thing that keeps your chest from shaking.

the next few days slide by the way ordinary days always do: alarm, shower, coffee. work. errands, noise, the sun on your back. you smile when you should, laugh when people expect it. from the outside, everything looks fine—normal even.

inside, that small ache sits quiet under your chest again, a dull weight you keep busy enough to ignore. you work later than usual. you take longer routes home. you tell yourself it’s just the aftermath of too much wine and a night that hit too many nerves.

sanemi texts like he always does.

you alive?

you eat yet?

show me you’re not dead.

you keep your replies light. busy. errands. maybe later.

he calls once; you let it ring out, thumb hovering over decline until it stops. when he drops by unannounced, you answer the door with a towel on your head and some half-truth about a deadline, about being exhausted, about not wanting him to catch whatever “cold” you swear you’re fighting off.

he squints at you, unimpressed. “since when do you get sick?”

“since i started talking to you,” you shoot back with a grin that doesn’t reach your eyes. he narrows his, but lets it go. “fine. i’ll bring soup tomorrow.”

“no, really—”

“too late. see you then.”

he leaves before you can argue more, and you shut the door, lean against it, breathing out a curse under your breath.

by the third day, the questions get sharper.

“you’ve been weird lately.”

“something happen?”

“you mad at me or just forget how to text?”

you smile each time, the kind of practiced, easy smile that’s saved you from a hundred awkward conversations before. “nah. just tired, nemi.” but he isn’t buying it anymore. you see it in the set of his jaw, the way his messages get shorter, the way he lingers near your door a little too long when he drops something off.

you keep dodging anyway. because every time he looks at you with those eyes—worried, confused, a little too open—you feel that same ache twist deeper, sharper, like it’s asking you to say something you don’t have the courage to name.

you’re halfway through pretending to nap on the couch when the lock clicks. your eyes snap open just in time to see the door swing wide, the faint jingle of his keychain hitting the doorknob.

you sit up fast, blanket sliding off your legs. “what the—nemi!”

he stands in the doorway holding a plastic bag that smells like dinner, brows furrowed, eyes scanning you head to toe. no fever, no cough, no blanket fort of tissues. just you, alive and annoyed.

“so,” he says, voice low, “you lied.” you roll your eyes, reaching for your phone. “you can’t just break in, you psycho.” — “spare.key.” he shoots back, stepping inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “you gave it to me.”

“yeah, for emergencies, not for whatever this is.”

“this is an emergency,” he says, dropping the bag on the counter. “you disappearing for a week and feeding me bullshit about being sick.”

you cross your arms. “i wasn’t feeling great.” “ —bullshit.” his voice sharpens. “you look fine.”

“thanks for the compliment,” you snap. “don’t twist it.”

“then stop acting like my parole officer.” “ —then stop acting like you don’t know why i’m pissed off.” the words hang between you, sharp and heavy. the silence after is worse—filled with all the things you’re both avoiding.

you sigh, push to your feet, glare at him. “i don’t need you barging in here like you own the place, nemi. you’re not my boyfriend.”

for a second, he just stares at you, the words hitting harder than either of you expect. his jaw flexes, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, and that flicker of hurt flashes in his eyes before it sharpens into something meaner, something to hide behind.

“yeah,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “no shit.” he laughs once, short and humorless. “trust me, sweetheart, if i was, you wouldn’t be scrollin’ tinder in the first place.”

he runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, too restless to stand still, then turns back to you, eyes glinting under the kitchen light. “but you sure as hell don’t act like i’m not,” he adds, quieter, the words landing heavy between you again.

you open your mouth to answer, but he’s already looking away, shaking his head like he’s trying to swallow whatever else he was about to say. “yeah,” he mutters, half to himself, “i’m not your boyfriend. got it.”

the air crackles, both of you standing too close now, breath fast, anger curling under something else entirely.

his jaw works, voice quieter now, tight. “then tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

you look away, heart beating too fast, throat tight. “i’m just tired, nemi.”

“of me?” you flinch before you can stop it, and his eyes soften for half a second, all that frustration bending into something like more hurt.

you bite your lip, reach for your coffee cup just to have something to do with your hands. “go home, nemi.” he exhales, long and rough, the sound full of things he doesn’t say. “fine,” he mutters, grabbing his bag from the counter.

you don’t look up until the door clicks behind him, and even then, your chest aches worse than when he walked in.

a week buys you nothing. you keep moving through it anyway. work. laundry. a playlist that skips every song that sounds like him. you answer texts late. you turn your phone face down. when he calls, you stare at his name until it stops ringing.

the lock turns. you sit up too fast on the couch, blanket sliding to your ankles. “nemi, i swear to god.”

he shuts the door with his heel and tosses his keys on the counter like a gauntlet. shirt clinging from the cold, jaw set ugly, eyes gone dark. there’s food again, but he doesn’t even look at it. it crinkles in his grip like a neck he wants to wring.

“a week,” he says, voice low. “you give me silence for a week and think i’m just gonna sit with my thumbs up my ass.” you roll your eyes because if you don’t, you’ll break. “you can’t keep using my spare like it’s a hall pass.”

“you gave it to me!” he snaps. “you said use it if i ever needed to. i need to!”

“for what. to argue in my living room?”

“to see you,” he throws back, louder now. “to figure out why you’re ghosting me like i didn’t just spend months glued to your hip.”

your laugh comes out thin. “maybe i wanted space.” he steps in, heat rolling off him. “you wanted distance and you didn’t say from what. from me or from the truth.”

you square your shoulders. “don’t try to therapy me.”

“then talk to me.”

“i am talking.”

“you’re hiding,” he says, and something in his voice frays. “you think i don’t notice the way you duck my calls. the way you text like an intern. the way you breathe like you’re trying not to be heard in your own apartment.”

you look at the far wall like it might offer mercy. “go home, nemi.”

he laughs, harsh. “no.”

“you don’t get to say no.”

“i do when it’s about us.”

“there is no us,” you fire back, and it hits both of you like a slap.

he goes very still. then, softer, deadly steady, “why did that feel like a lie when you said it.” your mouth opens. shuts. you move to the kitchen just to move, palm flat on the cool counter. he follows, slower now, hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging himself in as much as you.

“you wanna be honest?” you say, too bright. “fine. i heard you and kanae.”

the words land. his eyes flicker. “when?”

“housewarming. hallway. you apologized for me. she said she knew. she liked you too. past tense. happy with douma.” you swallow. “and my stupid chest did a thing i didn’t know it could do.”

he flinches like the truth has teeth. “you were there.”

“i left,” you lie, because you didn’t. you listened. “it shouldn’t matter. it was years ago. but you looked at her and i felt small. and i hate feeling small.”

his throat works. he steps closer, careful, crowding without touching. “i was closing a door.”

“looked open from where i stood.”

“you weren’t standing anywhere,” he says, gentle and furious at once. “you were hiding behind a plant making yourself bleed on a story that ended before it started. i liked her. yes. i was young and stupid and she was kind. that’s it.”

“you went soft when she laughed.”

“i go soft when you breathe,” he says, and the room tilts. you stare at him. he doesn’t blink. “i apologized for you,” he adds, quieter now, “because you’re mine to defend even when you say you’re not.”

your laugh cracks. “there it is. the possessive. you don’t even want me, you want to guard a door.”

his jaw knots. “i want you like a problem i can’t stop solving. i want you like a habit i don’t want to quit. i want you in my hoodie and in my bed and in my bad moods and in my good ones and at my stupid table eating the stupid eggs you pretend you don’t love.” he inhales, rough. “i don’t want to be your damn ‘stray’. i want to be your man.”

your heart climbs into your mouth and kicks there. “you’re late.”

“i’m here,” he says. “and i’m not leaving because you’re scared.” you push at his chest because it’s easier than saying yes, “don’t tell me what i am.”

he catches your wrists, not hard, just anchoring. “then tell me what you are.”

“annoyed,” you bite out. “tired. confused.”

“and jealous,” he says.

you glare. “of who.” — “of a ghost that never learned your name.”

you look away, blinking hard because heat is licking at your eyes and you refuse to let it fall. “you don’t get to make me feel crazy for feeling anything.”

“i’m not,” he says, harsh, and then softer, “i’m telling you i feel it too. every time you text another review. every time you look past me. every time i hear bathwater and a noise i want to be the reason for.”

“nemi,” you warn, voice shaky. “choose me,” he says, and it’s not pretty at all. “i know that sounds greedy. i know i don’t say things right. but choose me and i will spend every day trying to deserve you.”

silence. the kind that buzzes. the kind that stretches tight and hot.

you pull your wrists free. he lets you. your fingers find the chain at your sternum and toy with it just to have something to do. his eyes track the movement.

“what if you break me,” you whisper. “then i’ll fix what i broke,” he says, simple and brutal. “and if you break me, then you’ll fix what you broke.”

you laugh, a helpless sound. “you’re a disaster.” — “so are you,” he says, and one corner of his mouth tips up like he can’t help it. “we already match.”

he reaches past you and kills the kitchen light. the apartment falls into that soft, blue hour dark. the distance between you feels smaller here. his voice drops into it.

“tell me to go and i will. tell me to stay and i will. just stop pretending you don’t care either way.” your phone buzzes on the counter. you don’t look. he doesn’t either. he’s waiting, shoulders squared like a man bracing for a hit, hands empty like he’s finally learned not to grab.

you breathe, slow. the ache in your chest shifts, not gone, but different. you can taste the next choice on your tongue, stupid and sweet, the kind of risk that feels like standing at the edge of a pool in summer, heat at your back, water waiting.

you lift your chin. he leans in a fraction, caught there, eyes on your mouth. the takeout bag sighs again in the quiet, the promise of something warm cooling by the minute while the space between you goes electric and holdable, the whole room perched on what you say next.

you look at him like you’re searing the moment into your skin—like every inch of him matters, every shadow and line and scar, all at once. it’s the kind of stare that makes your cheeks burn. the kind of stare that pins him to the spot, makes his next breath stutter loud in the dark.

he doesn’t ask for permission. his hand finds your waist, palm broad and sure, pulling you flush against him. you yelp, half-surprised, half-shy, your fingers caught between the two of you. the sudden heat of his body short-circuits whatever protest you almost had.

your blush goes up to your ears. “sanemi—” his grip firms, but not rough, just anchoring. “look at me.”

you try, but your eyes flick away—first to the countertop, then to the takeout, then to the slice of streetlight leaking in at the edge of the blinds. his other hand tips your chin, thumb ghosting the line of your jaw. “look at me,” he repeats, softer this time.

you do for a second, then the nerves trip you up, eyes darting down to his mouth, away to his collarbone, anywhere but the storm in his gaze. he laughs, low and almost fond, breath brushing your cheek. “thought you were the bold one,” he teases.

you grumble, not trusting your voice. “i usually am.” his smile is small, patient. “scared?”

“yes,” you admit, voice trembling. his forehead drops to yours, breath slow and warm. “me too,” he confesses, so quiet only you can hear it.

your hands wind into his shirt just to steady yourself. he noses along your jaw, soft, as if you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to touch. every time you look away, he follows, keeps tilting your face back to him until you’re forced to meet his eyes—bright, hungry, gentle, all at once.

“stay,” he murmurs, not a command, not a plea—just a hope laid bare. your chest aches in that new, dizzy way. you bite your lip, nodding, heart thudding wild beneath his touch.

the street outside is silent. your kitchen has never felt so small, or so infinite. in this light, neither of you look away. your nerves crack just enough for you to joke, voice breathless and shaky. “well, i’m staying—obviously. it’s my apartment.”

he grins, sharp and hungry. “smartass,” he mutters, and before you can protest, his hands slide lower, grip sure around your hips.

he lifts you like you weigh nothing, your feet leaving the floor, a surprised yelp spilling out of you as your hands grab at his shoulders for balance. you twist in his arms, laughing now, the nerves turning electric as he carries you down the hallway, bumping the doorframe with his elbow like you’re both drunk on the moment.

“nemi—put me down—” he just shakes his head, the smile never leaving his lips, “not a chance.”

the bedroom is dim and quiet, sheets half-made, pillows tossed. he lays back on the bed with you sprawled on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands pressed to his chest for balance.

he lets you settle, his palms finding your thighs, holding you there. “see?” he says, voice low, gaze bright. “told you i wasn’t leaving.”

your cheeks burn, your heart racing as you shift on top of him, feeling the way his muscles tense and relax beneath your touch. “yeah, well,” you breathe, your voice softer, “guess you’re my problem now.”

he laughs, hands tightening, like he means to keep you here forever. “always have been,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, “and you’re mine.”

the weight of everything unspoken settles between you—hot, alive, dizzy with promise. the sheets shift beneath you as you both settle, still a little tangled, still laughing in the hush between words. his hands curve around your thighs, steady and warm, but the wildest part is how gentle his eyes are. they move over your face—your flushed cheeks, your bitten lip, the shimmer at the corners of your eyes from laughter or nerves, he can’t tell.

you hold his gaze, knees braced on either side of his hips, breath slowing, all the noise of the world slipping away until it’s just him and you and the blue-dark hush of your room. his thumb traces a lazy circle at the dip of your waist. “look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low, almost shy. “never figured i’d get this lucky.” his eyes dip to your mouth, then back to your eyes, linger there like it’s the only place he wants to be.

your heart is a frantic thing in your chest. “you’re so sappy,” you whisper, but there’s no bite to it. he shakes his head, mouth curving, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen. “nah. not sappy. just… honest.” he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, bringing you closer until your noses almost touch. “i love you,” he says, no theatrics, no smirk—just plain, like it’s the only true thing left in the world. “been in love with you since you made fun of me at that awful ramen place. probably before that.”

you blink, stunned by how steady his voice is. the air feels thick, charged. your hand finds his jaw, thumb tracing the sharp line. his eyes flutter half-closed at the touch. he swallows, jaw tight, but his eyes never leave yours. “it’s always been you. even when i didn’t want it to be. even when it was easier to call you trouble and pretend i didn’t mean it.”

you stare at him, everything in you swelling, soft and sharp at once, hope and terror braided together. for once, you can’t find a joke to break the tension. you just look at him, letting yourself be seen, letting him see you right back.

your voice is a whisper when it finally comes. “say it again.”

his thumb brushes your cheek, and he smiles like you put the stars in the sky. “i love you,” he says again, and it feels like the only thing that matters.

your breath catches. the world shrinks to the press of his hands at your waist and the way his eyes hold you steady. you lean down, slow and trembling, letting your forehead touch his for a second, letting yourself breathe him in—warmth, a hint of that familiar trouble.

then you kiss him.

it starts soft, just the gentle meeting of lips, his mouth slow against yours, as if you’re both afraid to break it. but there’s years behind it, years of tension and longing and missed chances, so it deepens without you even thinking—his hand finding the small of your back, drawing you closer, your fingers sliding into his hair.

the air between you sparks, every tiny shift dragging a low hum from his chest. he tastes like a promise, like everything you didn’t let yourself hope for. he kisses you again, open-mouthed, hungry in a way that still feels careful, still feels like he’s trying to remember every second. your hips rock down into his, and the way his hands tighten at your waist says he feels it too. his tongue teases at your lip, slow and coaxing, and your hands slide to his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

you break for air, both of you panting, your foreheads pressed together, laughter bubbling up because you can’t help it. he’s grinning, eyes wild and soft all at once, breathless as he murmurs, “god, you’re trouble.”

“you love it,” you whisper back, voice shaking with the sweetness and the want.

he kisses you again, deeper this time, and every inch of your skin feels awake, hungry, like there’s nothing else in the world but the heat building between you—sweet, lovely, and so electric you think you’ll never want anything else.

he kisses you until your lips tingle, until you’re dizzy with the heat of it, the sheer weight of wanting. then, in a rush of motion, he flips you both—his body over yours, caging you in with a knee on either side, hands braced on either side of your head.

you gasp, breathless, your legs falling open to make room for him, and your hands fist in his shirt. “nemi—” you whisper, the sound nearly a plea, sweet and shaky in the dark. his grin turns wicked, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you, hungry and smug all at once. “oh, you sound better than i thought you would,” he says, voice rough, like gravel dragged through honey.

your cheeks burn. “shut up.”

he just chuckles, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot beneath your ear that makes your breath stutter again. “nah, i like this,” he teases, lips trailing down your neck, “—wanna hear you say my name again.”

your fingers curl in his hair, tugging gently, but he doesn’t let up—just presses closer, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

then his voice drops, a wicked glint in it: “so, about that… noise in the bathtub the other night.”

your whole body tenses. you blink, words caught in your throat, heat climbing up the back of your neck. “i—I don’t—” he laughs, low and sharp, delighted by your stuttering. “oh, you’re cute when you lie,” he whispers, mouth at your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “thought you were a lot louder than that.” your face is on fire, embarrassment tangled with the ache he’s building in your stomach. “sanemi—” you protest, voice cracking, but he just grins wider, fingers teasing down your side, catching on your shirt.

“yeah?” he prompts, mischief thick in his voice. “gonna tell me what you were thinking about in there?” you squirm, both mortified and aching, and he kisses your jaw again, softer, slower, letting his laughter melt into something sweet. “don’t worry,” he breathes, “you can show me later. i wanna see how loud you can get for real.”

his words settle into your skin, and all you can do is pull him back down to you, desperate to drown in him and the heat blooming between you—lost in a night that feels like it’s finally, finally yours. his mouth is hot and slow at your throat, the air charged between you, laughter and want tangled up in every heartbeat. you gasp his name, hands threading through his hair, his body heavy and grounding over yours.

in between kisses, voice shaky, you whisper against his jaw, “i was thinking about you, you know. in the bath.”

he goes still for half a beat, groans into the pillow next to your head, the sound wrecked, hot, and so raw it makes your breath stutter. his hips press closer, the weight of him settling heavy and hungry.

you giggle, catching your breath, your hands sliding up his back. “are you okay?” you tease, grinning into the space beside his ear. he lifts his head, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, that crooked, almost desperate smile on his lips. “yeah,” he rasps, voice thick, “just—fuck—hearing you say it just made me harder.”

his hand slides up your thigh, grip tightening. “you’re not allowed to confess shit like that when i’m already losing my mind.” you lean up, kiss him slow, your smile pressed into his mouth. “maybe i want to see what happens when you lose it.”

he laughs, half a growl, half a plea, and buries his face at your neck, breath coming fast as he mutters, “keep talking like that and you’re never leaving this bed.”

you shiver, wrapping your legs tighter around him, your body arching up into his as the laughter dissolves into something thick and wanting, the air in the room going sweet and hungry and desperate for everything you’ve been holding back.

your laughter shakes beneath him, sweet and nervous and bubbling up from somewhere soft inside. you tilt your head, breath ragged, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“since this is our first time,” you whisper, a little shy, a little daring, “are you… are you gonna be good to me?” he smirks, leaning in, lips ghosting your cheek, voice dropping hot and rough right against your ear. “of course not,” he breathes, his grin wicked. “i am fuckin’ the shit out of you.”

your pulse jumps, eyes wide, but he doesn’t stop. “you’re a brat for teasing me—posting those photos, running your mouth, making me watch you walk around like you didn’t know what you were doing.” he kisses you hard, then bites your lower lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body clench tight.

his hand slides down, squeezing your thigh, his hips pressing against you, everything hungry and trembling. “so i’m gonna need my compensation tonight, babe. every last bit you owe me.”

your cheeks burn, heat surging through you, and you let out a shaky breath, your own voice turning breathless and desperate. “then take it, nemi.” his eyes spark, wild with want and victory, and he kisses you again, deeper, rougher, every inch of him promising to make good on every word.

he works your shirt up and off with a hunger that leaves your skin prickling, hands warm, touch not quite gentle. his mouth finds your shoulder, your collarbone, dragging slow and open-mouthed kisses across every inch of exposed skin. you feel the muscles in his arms flexing as he pins you steady, your legs already tangled around his waist.

he leaves you in your underwear for a beat, sitting up on his knees, stripping off his own shirt and letting it drop carelessly to the floor. he’s just in his briefs now—hard lines and muscle, skin flushed, eyes fixed on you with a look that makes your heart thud.

his hands slide down, tracing your hips, his thumbs tugging at the waistband of your panties, pausing just long enough to ask, “these matter to you?”

you shake your head, voice breathless, teasing, “no. why?” his mouth curls, wicked and wild. “good.”

the fabric tears in his grip, ripped right down the seam, the sound sharp and thrilling in the quiet. you laugh, pure instinct, something in you bright and open and delighted at the roughness, at the strength he holds so casually.

he catches your smile, leans in close, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “oh, princess likes that?” he purrs, voice thick with pride and promise. your hips arch, answer written all over your skin. “maybe i do,” you breathe, hands finding his back, nails skimming over muscle.

his mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and his hand trails down between your legs, fingers teasing, slow, dragging out every shiver he can coax from you.

“good,” he murmurs against your lips, “because i’ve been waiting to ruin you all night.”

his voice drops lower, heat coiling in every word. he mouths along your jaw, voice ragged and raw, lips barely brushing your skin as he spills every filthy promise he’s been holding back.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted you like this,” he growls, teeth grazing your neck, tongue smoothing the sting. “all those nights you played hard to get, strutted around in those stupid little dresses… you thought you were so slick, didn’t you?”

his hands roam your body, fingers squeezing, kneading, memorizing. “you remember that night you tickled me until i was out of breath? all i could think about was flipping you over, pinning you down, and fucking you until you cried for me.” he nips at your ear, a slow, dirty smile curling against your skin. “should’ve done it right there on the couch.”

your breath hitches, thighs parting wider for him, his touch and his words making you dizzy. “and that dress-up night?” he grinds against you, voice rough, “when you twirled in front of me, acting like you didn’t see how hard i was? i almost lost it. should’ve made you sit on my lap and show me just how much you could take.” he grabs your chin, tilts your face up to meet his eyes, wild and dark and burning. “you’re mine,” he breathes, possessive and hungry. “i’ve waited long enough, and tonight—” his lips crush yours, the words swallowed between your mouths— “tonight you don’t get to tease and run.”

his hand slides between your legs, fingers parting you, dragging slow and heavy through your wetness. he swallows the moan you give him, then breaks away just enough to whisper, “every single time you walked away, all i could think about was bending you over the nearest surface and making you remember who you belong to.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling, all heat and promise. “you’re mine,” he repeats, voice so low it’s almost a growl. “say it.”

your words fall apart, stuttering, breath coming in short, needy bursts. you try to answer him, but the only thing that leaves your lips is a whimper, your body shivering with how much you want him. he notices, of course—he always does. his hand, steady at your waist, pulls you in close and he grins against your skin, voice warm with laughter and want. “look at you, all worked up. you’re a mess, baby.”

you feel him fumbling below, the press of his hips, the snap of fabric as he frees himself, hard and hot against your thigh. he lines himself up but hesitates, leaning over you, his lips brushing your ear.

“missionary, huh? little too outdated for you and me,” he teases, a low rumble of laughter in his chest. “that’s baby-making position—we’re not there yet.” his words make you blush hotter, but before you can protest, he’s already shifting you, hands firm but careful, flipping you over and guiding you onto all fours.

the sheets bunch under your knees, your cheek pressing to the cool pillow, the world narrowing to the feel of his body moving behind you. you feel the rough, calloused slide of his palms along your hips, steadying you as he kneels close, chest brushing your back.

his mouth finds your shoulder, warm and open-mouthed, sucking marks you’ll find later, his teeth dragging just enough to make you gasp. “that’s better,” he murmurs, voice thick with approval.

his hand slides between your thighs again, two fingers slipping easily into your wetness, curling and pressing just right, dragging a long, broken moan out of you. he holds you tight against him, his other arm braced around your waist, making you arch back into his touch.

“god, you’re perfect like this,” he breathes, lips dragging along your shoulder blade, voice all praise and filth and something possessive that makes your heart beat wild. “so fuckin’ wet for me. can’t believe how much you tease and act like you don’t want this.”

he thrusts his fingers deeper, his thumb rubbing soft, messy circles, every movement careful but demanding, his kisses trailing up your spine. “tell me you’re mine,” he growls, nipping at your skin. “say it.”

your voice trembles, but you force the words out, eyes glazed, body pulsing with want. “i’m yours,” you gasp, barely above a whisper, “i’m yours, nemi—”

his hand slides up, fingers tangling in your hair, gentle but unyielding, forcing your head to the side until your cheek meets the sheets and your eyes can find his over your shoulder. he leans in, breath hot at your ear, his gaze fierce and unblinking.

“good girl,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost apologetic in the way his thumb sweeps over your cheek, softer than you expected. his other hand still between your legs, fingers buried deep, drawing out those sweet, desperate sounds you can’t control. then he pauses, voice rough, honest, trembling just a little. “i’m sorry for how i’m about to treat you, sweetheart,” he rasps, lips pressed to your jaw, “i promise i’ll be more careful next time. tonight, i just—can’t help it. need you too much.”

his hand withdraws, slick and sure, and you whimper at the loss, but then you feel the heat and weight of him, his shaft rubbing slow and heavy through your wetness, dragging against your clit, making you arch back helplessly, mind going white-hot.

his hand slides up to cup your cheek, holding you steady, forcing you to keep your eyes locked with his. the look in them is wild, dark, raw want tangled with something softer, something that aches for you even as he claims you.

he drags the tip of his cock over your slick, circling, teasing, both of you breathless, lost in the mess of it.

“look at me,” he demands, low and rough, “don’t look away.”

his grip tightens on your face, his hips lining up, the tension electric and unbearable as you wait for him to take you, your heart pounding, his gaze burning into yours—like there’s nothing else in the world but you, the heat between you, and the way you both come undone.

he sinks into you in one smooth, deep thrust—your slick, hot, needy body giving way around him, the stretch so sharp and sweet it knocks the air right out of you. you whimper, back arching, thighs trembling, and he stills, hands gripping your waist with a possessive, steady hold, letting you adjust, giving you just a moment.

“that’s it, baby,” he breathes, voice low and almost holy as his fingers dig into your hips, holding you firm. “fuck—you feel better than i ever imagined.”

his palms slide to your ass, spreading you open, thumbs pressing into your skin as he lets himself savor the way you clench around him. his hips twitch, barely holding back, and he rubs slow, soothing circles along your skin.

he leans down, mouth at your ear, his voice soft, gruff, honest. “don’t ever change for me. you hear me? you’re perfect just like this—every part of you.” his lips brush your jaw, your shoulder, praise spilling from him in messy, hungry words. “so fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart. mine.”

your head shifts, forehead sinking into the pillow, breath coming fast and hot, the moans muffled by cotton. but he doesn’t let you hide, not even for a second. his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging you back up, forcing your head to the side so your flushed cheek presses against the pillow but your eyes are still on him—so he can see every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every messy, desperate sound you make just for him.

“nah, don’t hide,” he says, voice thick and dark as he starts to move, hips rolling deep and slow, filling you up again and again. “want to see you—want to watch you fall apart for me.” his hand in your hair is tight but gentle, guiding, claiming you over and over.

you sob his name, the pleasure and pressure building, and he just groans, fucking you deeper, eyes burning into yours, like you’re the only thing he wants to see for the rest of his life.

his thrusts start slow and deep, each one dragging another sweet whimper out of you, your body rolling back into his like you can’t get close enough. every time he fills you, his grip on your hips tightens, his palm dragging over your waist, your ass, your lower back—touch everywhere, holding, grounding, claiming.

he leans over you, lips ghosting your ear, voice ragged and warm and full of feeling. “fuck, you know how long i wanted this?” his breath stutters with each thrust, his words tumbling out between groans. “being your best friend—always over, always here, eating your food, stealing your bed. everyone thinking i’m your boyfriend but i couldn’t touch you like this. drove me crazy.”

he snaps his hips harder, the bed creaking, your skin heating under his praise. “traditions, movie nights, you walking around in those little shorts—knowing you trusted me, knowing you wanted me close, but not letting me have all of you. so fucking hot, baby. nearly lost my mind every damn time.”

you choke on a gasp, the words and rhythm combining until your head spins. he lets go of your hair just long enough to run his hand down your spine, fingers splaying possessively. “but this?” he moans, thrusting deep, grinding into you, your whole body shuddering around him. “getting to be inside you, to feel you like this? nothing’s better. not a damn thing in the world.”

he presses a kiss to your shoulder, his voice all tangled-up love and hunger. “don’t want to be your best friend anymore. want to be your man. want to come home to you, every. fuckin’. night.”

your hands fist in the sheets, your body arching, the words hitting you as hard as his body does, every stroke pushing you closer to unraveling. all you can do is cry out for him, again and again, his name raw in your throat as he pounds into you, every compliment, every promise making you melt for him, over and over.

he presses his chest against your back, the angle deeper, harder, until you’re trembling, gasping, barely able to hold yourself up. he leans forward, lips finding yours—soft and messy, mid-moan, swallowing every shaky cry you make. his hand never leaves your waist, holding you steady as he rocks into you, slow and devastating.

“love you,” between kisses, “love you,” between thrusts, he breathes it against your lips—“love you, love you, love you”—each word a brand, each movement making you feel more owned, more wanted, more his than you’ve ever felt in your life. your own voice fractures, breaking on his name, tears streaking down your cheeks from the overwhelming stretch, the pressure, the sweetness of him everywhere.

“nemi—god—feels so good, you’re so—fuck—you’re so big—can’t—” your words shatter into another moan, hips bucking, your body arching into every stroke. he coos, low and gentle, lips nipping your ear, voice husky and kind. “shhh, you’re taking me so well, baby. look at you—so perfect, crying for me. you feel incredible, so fucking tight—so proud of you, pretty girl.”

he wipes a tear away with his thumb, kissing the corner of your eye, slowing just enough to draw out the pleasure, to let you feel every inch. “that’s it, let me hear you. let me have it all. you’re mine, aren’t you?”

“y-yours,” you sob, voice cracking, your whole world reduced to the way he fills you, the way he says your name like a precious prayer, the way he pours out every filthy, loving word until you’re lost in him, body and soul, undone and remade with every praise, every thrust, every promise in your ear.

his thrusts slow for a moment, his hand cupping your face, eyes searching yours, dark and wild. “wait—baby, you on birth control?” you’re too far gone to lie, breathless, needy. you shake your head, voice breaking on a moan. “no—‘m not—sanemi—”

he lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, something wicked curling in his voice.

you whine, trying to catch your breath, your body clenching around him. “what’s so funny?” you gasp, half-crying, half-laughing at the edge of it all.

he leans down, mouth at your ear, grin hot and possessive. “nothing,” he teases, nipping your earlobe, hips rolling rougher, faster, “just means i gotta be careful, or i’ll end up really making you mine.”

he punctuates it with a hard thrust, knocking another cry out of you, the sound muffled against the pillow as he picks up the pace, pounding into you, relentless and deep, hands locked on your hips to hold you steady.

“can’t help it, baby,” he growls, voice ragged, “feels too fucking good. fuck—you make me want to ruin you for anyone else.”

all you can do is sob his name, the rhythm driving you higher, your body shuddering as he chases both your pleasure and his, every word, every thrust making you his in ways you never even imagined.

your body tightens around him, everything winding up impossibly tight—every stroke, every filthy praise, every sweet, hungry word turning into heat and lightning beneath your skin.

his hand slides down, two fingers circling your clit, unrelenting, just the right pressure, just the right rhythm, and the pleasure crests hard and fast. your thighs shake, your breath comes in sharp, desperate little cries, and then you’re coming—squeezing tight around him, pulsing, your whole body shaking as the orgasm crashes through you.

you buck back against him, helpless, sobbing his name, the pleasure blinding and sharp and so, so good you can barely breathe. he groans, hips stuttering as your body milks him, his fingers never letting up on your clit. “that’s it, baby—there you go, just like that. fuck, you’re perfect—look at you, falling apart for me.”

you try to move away, too sensitive, but he holds you tight, not letting you run, his hand stroking you through it, coaxing every last shiver, every last drop of pleasure from you. “i got you,” he soothes, voice low and sweet and ruined. “ride it out, pretty girl. give it all to me. that’s it—just like that, i’m right here.”

his thrusts turn ragged, hips snapping faster, the heat in his voice barely restrained. he groans your name, then pulls out at the very last second, hands sliding under your arms, lifting you upright—breathless, hair messy, eyes still hazy with pleasure.

he tugs you up so you’re kneeling in front of him, mouth parted, blinking up, and he fists his cock, rough and desperate, stroking himself while you watch. it only takes a few strokes before he’s falling apart, head tipped back, muscles tight, cum spilling hot and thick across your cheek, your lips, your chin.

his free hand cups your jaw, thumb smearing a bit of the mess across your skin, the sight making him groan even deeper. “fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice ragged and awestruck, his eyes glued to you—wrecked, painted with him, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

he leans in, kisses your forehead, your hair, your lips if you let him, still tangled up in the aftershocks, still holding your face like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. “mine,” he whispers, soft and possessive, “so fucking perfect—could look at you like this forever.”

he’s still catching his breath, fingers trembling as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, screen lighting up in the blue-dark. his eyes search your face for a second, soft and hungry, voice almost shy beneath the rasp. “can i? let me take a picture,” he asks, thumb hovering over the camera, his other hand still warm on your cheek. “need to remember this. need to see you like this, just for me.”

you’re still flushed, streaked with his release, lips parted, pulse fluttering. you nod, a little breathless, eyes shining with mischief and trust. “yeah, nemi. go ahead.”

he snaps the picture, the soft click echoing in the hush. his gaze is a little awed. he turns the phone, checks the photo, his smile going crooked, pupils wide with adoration and want. “fuck—look at you.”

he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, tilting your chin so you’re looking up at him, cum glistening on your face, every inch of you marked by him. “always wanted to see you like this,” he admits, voice thick, “wanted to keep you just for me. you’re gorgeous, baby. can’t believe you’re mine.”

his thumb traces your cheekbone, gentle now, pride and love tangled up in the mess. “i’ll keep it safe. only for me. promise.” he kisses you slow, deep, tasting the sweetness of everything you are, never once looking away.

he grabs a tissue from the nightstand, hands careful as he cleans your face, soft little touches, thumb lingering at your jaw like he’s not ready to stop touching you. his voice drops, gentle, teasing, “hold still, pretty girl. can’t have you walking around all marked up.”

when he’s done, he tosses the tissue aside and pulls you into the bed, sheets cool against your bare skin. you tuck yourself into his side, head pressed against his chest, one leg slung over his thigh. he leans back against the headboard, one arm behind his head, the other wrapped tight around you, grounding you in that way only he can.

the room is quiet, heartbeats settling, the smell of sex and sleep and him curling through the air.

you tilt your head up, cheek squished against his ribs, and with a silly, too-tired grin, ask, “so… what are we now, nemi?”

he barks out a laugh, loud and bright, squeezing your waist. “what, you need a label for this?”

you poke his side, making him jump. “yeah, i do. c’mon, i wanna hear you say it.”

he grins down at you, mouth twitching, scoffs in that old familiar way that’s half affection, half bravado. “we’re best friends,” he deadpans, eyes sparkling.

you groan, snuggle closer, pretend to pout. “liar. best friends don’t do… that.” he shrugs, voice warm and playful, “guess we’re just really, really close.”

you roll your eyes, laugh bubbling out as he tugs you impossibly closer, his arm a solid band around your waist. “shut up, nemi.”

he presses a kiss to your temple, laughter rumbling deep in his chest. “never. but we’re dating now. that’s what we are.”

and in the hush after, it feels like the easiest truth in the world.

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