passing time @justtimings - Tumblr Blog

──── 𝑮𝑰𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑫 𝑪𝑨𝑮𝑬 ────

SYNOPSIS. you marry satsuki gojo not for love, but for what he represents: power, security, the illusion of being wanted. it’s a quiet, distant life—until his son, satoru, returns. charming, reckless, and far too observant, he sees through you from the start.

what begins with stolen glances spirals into something dangerous: a secret, a betrayal, a love you never expected. and when it all falls apart, you’re forced to choose between what ruined you and what might save you.

but some lines, once crossed, can’t be undone.

TAGS/WARNINGS. satsuki gojo is satoru’s father, i gave him a name and a character just for the story. fem reader, age gap(not between satoru and you), emotional neglect, emotional infidelity, forbidden romance, slow burn, secret relationship, complicated family dynamics, bittersweet, so much angst, emotional hurt and comfort, power imbalance, morally grey characters, longing, guilt, smut, cheating (in context), explicit sexual content, themes of loneliness and betrayal, you could say both reader and gojo have daddy issues kinda, exploration of family dynamics. 15,4k words…

TORI’S NOTES. pls read the tags/warnings guys!! anyways, this was loosely inspired by a turkish tv series called “forbidden love” which is a really fucking great show and the dynamics and plot there are immaculate. hopefully, you enjoy this <33 also if you know who the art belongs to in the header pls lemme know.

you meet satsuki gojo in an elevator.

you’re interning at one of his subsidiary companies in shinjuku, working late, wearing a pair of scuffed heels and a blazer that doesn’t quite fit. you’re trying to look like you belong, even though you’re running on caffeine and sheer panic, even though you’ve been walking a tightrope since the day you left your family behind and told yourself you’d make it on your own.

he steps in on the top floor—alone—and you feel it before you see him. the shift in air. the press of presence. the kind of silence that makes you look up.

he’s wearing a black coat and gloves, his platinum hair pushed back like it never learned to fall out of place. older, clearly. not tired, but heavy. like the kind of man who never has to raise his voice to get what he wants.

you press the button again, like it might make the descent go faster.

he glances over. “you don’t have to keep pressing it,” he says, voice smooth and unreadable. “the elevator isn’t ignoring you.”

you flush, quiet.

but he doesn’t look amused. not quite. just… curious.

“what department?” he asks.

“marketing,” you say, after a pause. “well, marketing development. just an intern.”

his gaze lingers. then he nods once and looks away.

you think that’s the end of it. just a strange, stiff encounter with a man who probably owns the building you’re trying to impress.

but then, the next week, your name is pulled from the intern pool for a private project. suddenly you’re assigned to a small research task under one of his closest executives. suddenly your opinion is being asked in meetings. and when you look up during a conference call, you catch him watching you through the glass, hands in his pockets, expression impassive.

you don’t understand it.

not at first.

he starts small. passing comments in the hallway. a drink sent to your table when you’re out with coworkers. an invitation to a private dinner—not framed as a date, not exactly. he doesn’t touch you the first few times you meet. doesn’t try to impress you. just listens. just watches.

you expect him to ask for something. mostly, you expect him to turn cruel, but he never does.

instead, he offers you a job after your internship ends. offers you a place to stay when your apartment floods during a typhoon. offers you answers to questions you didn’t ask, like,

“what do you want to be in five years?”

“has anyone ever taken care of you before?”

“do you always flinch when someone gets close?”

you don’t realize you’re falling into him until you’re already too deep to climb out.

you let him take you to dinner, and then to bed.

and then, six months later, when he tells you he wants to marry you—

you say yes before you even think to ask why. there’s an excited gleam in the ice blue of his eyes, something that pushes you into wrapping your arms around his sturdy frame and whisper an affirmation into his lips. or maybe it’s the diamond that glints under the moonlight.

but you don’t marry satsuki gojo because you love him.

you marry him because he offers you a lifeline when you’re twenty-five and quietly falling apart—starving for something steady, something grown-up, something that makes the ache in your chest feel justified. you marry him because you’re tired of disappointment, tired of men who take and forget to leave anything behind, tired of waiting for someone to pick you. you marry him because he offers you a future drawn up in legal contracts and estate homes, because he places a ring on your finger like it’s a solution instead of a question.

you marry him because he’s older, and sharp, and still, like a mountain you can rest against. because he looks at you with quiet interest, with a kind of coldness that makes you want to prove yourself—makes you want to be good for him, for once, instead of messy and difficult and too much. he offers you affection without chaos. structure without screaming. a name that means something, finally. and you take it.

you marry him because he shows you that care can be a tailored coat draped over your shoulders in winter, a bank account that never runs out, an apartment you never asked for but get anyway—clean, minimal, with a view of the skyline you used to dream about. because when he says you belong to me, it sounds less like a threat and more like relief. like he’s offering you the role of someone permanent, someone seen.

he doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never unkind. he’s polite and controlled when he fucks you—never rough, never wild, never anything that might blur the line between need and love. he kisses your forehead when you come home late. he buys you books you mention once in passing. he nods when you tell him about your childhood and doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask questions you don’t want to answer. he lets you be quiet, and in return, you let him believe that silence means contentment.

he spoils you in ways that feel deliberate: private cars, spa weekends, your name on guest lists you never imagined seeing. you learn the weight of status like it’s second nature—learn how to say thank you, how to smile at his colleagues, how to sit at his right side and make it look easy. and when you wake up in his bed, wrapped in high-thread count sheets and the scent of bergamot and cedar, it feels like maybe this is what people mean when they say stable.

and maybe you marry him because he looks like what a husband should look like: tall, expensive, terrifying in the boardroom, someone with hands that know how to hold power and still touch your wrist like it’s delicate. maybe you marry him because people whisper when you walk in the room beside him, because his hand on your back makes you feel chosen, because he tells you to stop apologizing and you almost believe him.

maybe you marry him because the only semi-steady male figure in your life— your father— never did look at you like you were anything more than a glance, and satsuki looks at you like a solution. like something valuable. and maybe that’s enough.

maybe it has to be.

because you do not marry him because you love him.

you marry him because it’s the only kind of love you’ve ever been offered.

and you definitely don’t marry him expecting to meet his son.

you knew he had one—of course you did. it came up once, offhandedly, in that clipped way satsuki mentioned most personal things. a son from a previous marriage. adult. lives abroad. works with overseas clients but owns his own separate company. “rarely home,” he’d said, as if that explained everything. as if there was no reason you’d ever need to meet him.

and so you don’t think about it. you don’t ask questions. you build your routines around the quiet, clinical calm of your marriage. you host dinners, answer emails, smile politely when his business partners ogle you like an accessory they could never afford. and when satsuki tells you, in early december, that you’ll be spending the holidays at the family estate in kyoto, you just nod and pack your things.

the estate is old money. not modern minimalism, not the cold beauty of his penthouse in minato—but history, carved into dark wood and silk screens, hallways lined with ancestral portraits that stare as you pass. the kind of house that smells like camellia oil and incense, like something sacred and private. you arrive two days before christmas, and the staff is already preparing for a quiet dinner party. something tasteful. something exclusive. nothing warm.

you don’t expect anyone else.

especially not him.

satoru shows up six months into the marriage, just before dinner, when the sky is already turning violet and soft snow has begun to fall. you’re seated at the far end of the long, lacquered dining table, tracing the rim of your glass with one finger. satsuki is beside you, hand resting on your knee beneath the table, heavy and impersonal, like a placeholder. you’re listening to some executive’s wife talk about a skiing trip to niseiko when the door at the end of the hall opens.

the air changes.

you don’t know why you look up—but you do.

the housekeeper bows, stepping aside.

he walks in like he owns the place. tall. loose-limbed. hair a tousled mess of moonlight white, like he spent the entire flight running his hands through it. his coat is half off his shoulder, scarf unraveling, sunglasses perched on top of his head despite the fact it’s already dark outside. he’s dressed well, but not like he tried. something expensive and rumpled and careless. he looks like trouble that learned how to behave just well enough to get away with it.

his gaze lands on you instantly.

and he smiles. slow, amused. like he already knows something you don’t.

“oh,” he says, stepping further in. “you’re her.”

your stomach flips. you blink, mouth parting—but nothing comes out.

satsuki doesn’t move, just rests his hand more firmly against your thigh, grounding you with pressure.

“you’ve heard about my wife,” he says calmly.

and satoru’s eyes don’t leave yours. he’s standing on the other side of the room, but it feels like you can feel him. like heat under your skin.

“i’ve heard,” he says, lips quirking. “she’s pretty.”

his voice is low and casual. no bite to it—but something lingers in the way he says it. like he’s testing you. or maybe his father. or maybe himself.

you shouldn’t feel anything.

you shouldn’t feel the pulse at your neck quicken, shouldn’t feel your skin burn beneath the long sleeves of your dress. shouldn’t feel the tiny tremor in your hands as you lower your glass to the table and force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

you shouldn’t care and you are convinced you don’t.

—

the gojo house is big and cold—too big for how quiet it is, and too beautiful to ever feel lived-in. it sits on a private slope just outside kyoto, surrounded by dense pines and meticulously maintained gravel paths, bordered by walls thick enough to keep the world out. it’s the kind of place where sound vanishes too quickly. where even your footsteps feel like an intrusion.

the interior is all pale marble and deep wood, a mix of traditional architecture and modern minimalism that somehow makes it harder to settle. the ceilings stretch higher than you expect, every room perfectly arranged, untouched, like a showroom. nothing feels soft. nothing feels yours. even the sun filters in like it’s been instructed not to linger.

you’re given the garden wing and told to make yourself at home.

your room is beside satsuki’s, though he rarely sleeps. there’s a large window that faces the pond, where koi move in slow circles under a sheet of winter ice. the bed is king-sized and impersonal. the wardrobe is already filled with seasonal clothes you never picked out. everything smells faintly of cedar and linen and new money. it’s beautiful. and sterile.

satoru’s room is upstairs, at the end of the north hall. you don’t go near it at first. you don’t need to.

you try, at first, to live quietly. to earn your place in the house by not taking up too much space.

you spend your mornings on the terrace, curled under a cashmere blanket with a porcelain cup of genmaicha that a maid brings without asking. the steam fogs up your glasses. your fingers turn stiff from the cold. sometimes you pretend to read, but your eyes don’t follow the words. instead, you watch the way the morning mist clings to the lacquered railing. the way the garden’s plum trees hold on to their last leaves like they’re trying not to be bare.

midday, you take slow, winding walks through the greenhouse—an enormous glass building off the east corridor, filled with rare orchids and fruit-bearing trees. it smells like damp moss and lemon balm, and sometimes, if you stay long enough, you can pretend you’re somewhere else entirely. somewhere softer. you pause by the camellias, the white ones, and trace the shape of their petals with your fingertips. no one asks where you are. no one comes looking.

in the evenings, satsuki retreats to his study—dark wood, no windows, always locked from the inside. you stop asking what he’s working on after the third time he tells you, calmly, “it’s nothing that concerns you.”

and so, at night, you drift.

you wander room to room like a ghost in your own house, bare feet silent on the polished floors. you touch the backs of antique chairs, the corners of carved screens, the cool stone edge of the koi pond. you run your fingers over framed scrolls and family heirlooms behind glass. you take long baths in the deep-soaking tub and let your head rest back until your ears are underwater, heart thudding slow and loud in the quiet.

there are no clocks in the house. time bends strangely.

you learn to find solace in small things—folded linen robes, the weight of a heated floor, the low murmur of rain against shoji screens.

you learn to be still. you learn to be quiet.

you tell yourself this is peace. but you’re not sure it is.

you find satoru in the kitchen one of those nights, barefoot and leaning lazily against the counter, eating chocolate-covered almonds straight from a crystal jar. his shirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, collar undone to reveal the elegant slope of his collarbones and just a sliver of his chest. there’s something too casual about him, too effortless—like he was born into comfort and never had to learn how to earn it, which is the case.

he doesn’t look up when you step into the room, just tosses another almond into his mouth, chewing slow.

“your room doesn’t have a snack bar?” he asks around the bite, reaching for another handful. “shame. i’ll have to talk to housekeeping.”

you hover in the doorway, half caught between leaving and saying something. the lights are low—just the under-cabinet ones casting a soft glow against the marble countertops—and everything about the moment feels like it’s not supposed to happen. too quiet. too late.

“i couldn’t sleep,” you say, finally. your voice is hoarse when it comes out, making you cringe at the sound of it, but your expression doesn’t change. it feels right to keep a shield around satoru.

that gets his attention. he turns, just a little, casting a glance over his shoulder. his eyes flick over you—robe loosely belted, hem brushing your ankles, your bare feet making no sound against the floor. still, you feel too exposed, like he’s seeing something you didn’t mean to show.

he shrugs one shoulder. “my bad. i’ll keep it down next time.”

you frown. “what?”

he taps his phone against the edge of the counter, screen lighting up briefly before he locks it again. his smirk is slow and irritatingly self-satisfied.

“the noise,” he says, voice low and bored. “your walls are thin, sweetheart.”

and then he pushes off the counter, brushing past you on his way to the stairs, footsteps silent against the polished floor. like he didn’t just say something meant to stick to your ribs and it wasn’t meant to be a challenge.

you stand there long after he’s gone, heart suddenly a little too loud in your chest.

at first, you don’t know what he meant.

but then— with burning shame, you realise.

you lie awake that night in your too-big bed with the silk sheets sticking to your skin, and your mind won’t stop looping through it. your walls are thin, sweetheart.

he heard you.

he heard you fucking his father.

and it’s not like there’s much to hear, really. you don’t make too much noise. not on purpose. you try to be good. still. quiet. like you’re supposed to be, like satsuki likes his things. you climb on top of satsuki when he asks, and when it’s convenient, and when it fits neatly into the clockwork routine of your marriage, and you move the way you’re expected to.

you kiss him. sigh into his shoulder.

you moan when he touches you.

you arch your back and say his name when he finishes, and you keep your face turned just slightly away so he doesn’t see that you’re not all the way there.

and it hits you—hard, sudden, ugly—satoru didn’t just hear it.

he listened.

he must’ve laid there, maybe just one room over, while you gasped through your teeth and dug your nails into satin sheets, trying not to look bored, trying to summon heat where there was only resignation. and now he knows. maybe he knew the first night. maybe he recognized it—the silence between the moans. the mechanical rhythm. the effort.

you wonder if he could tell you never came.

if he could hear the difference.

your face burns. your skin itches. the silk is too smooth, too cool, like a lie you’re too exhausted to keep telling. you roll onto your side and stare at the drawn curtains, heart pounding in your throat, and wonder what kind of man throws that line so casually over his shoulder and walks away without looking back.

what kind of man hears a woman pretending to enjoy her marriage and still calls her sweetheart.

—

he flirts.

not in the clumsy, obvious way that boys your age used to—those quick grins and rehearsed compliments, those lingering touches that always felt more like attempts than affection. no, satoru’s flirting is slower, sharper, so casual it almost passes as harmless. like breathing. like it costs him nothing. and maybe it doesn’t.

he flirts in front of everyone—his father, the staff, chauffeurs, distant relatives, guests with titles longer than their patience. he does it like it’s a private joke only the two of you are in on, like he’s daring you to react. daring you to let something slip. but you don’t let yourself indulge in it, don’t let it touch you the way he wants it to.

he makes lazy, unhurried comments when you walk into the room, never quite looking at you directly, but always loud enough for someone else to hear.

“you always look this put together, or is it just to impress the old man?”

“damn. you make that color look more beautiful.”

“look at you, all dressed up and pretty.”

he says it like a sigh, or like he’s bored and needs a new toy to entertain him, voice smooth and slouched and rich with mockery that never quite lands as mean. and you try not to let it show, but your stomach flutters every time.

he glances at your legs when you cross them. lets his eyes drag down your neckline, baby blues lingering on the expensive necklace his father gifted you, like he’s still thinking. he always stands just a little too close when he passes behind you at dinner. always leans in when you speak, even if he could hear you just fine from a distance, which makes you want to slap him in the face because the warmth emitting from him is too much.

he tells you you’re “adorable” when you blink at one of his references—something dry and sarcastic that floats right over your head, usually mid-conversation in a room full of people. and then he grins like he’s won something when you look flustered.

“what? you don’t know that movie?”

“god, you’re so cute when you’re confused.”

“don’t worry, princess. i’ll explain it to you later.”

he calls you princess when you frown, darling when you pretend you’re not paying attention, sweetheart when he wants you to get flustered in front of his father. and you do—because no one has ever said those words to you without wanting something. but with satoru, you’re not sure what he wants. that makes it worse.

and he never crosses a line.

not one that matters. not one you can point to.

he never touches you—never more than a passing brush of knuckles as he sets a teacup beside you, or a hand at your lower back as you’re guided into a car. never long enough to accuse him of anything and never long enough to accuse yourself of anything, either.

but his presence is constant. deliberate. it almost makes you question if he’s played this game before.

he leans into your space. mirrors your movements. sits across from you at every meal, sprawled and open, legs spread like he’s relaxed in a way no one else is allowed to be in this house. and he watches you—god, he watches you—with that lazy, amused gleam in his eyes that makes you feel like he’s reading something under your skin you didn’t even know was there.

the worst part is no one else seems to notice.

or maybe they do, and no one says anything.

and satsuki? he doesn’t blink. doesn’t glance up. doesn’t acknowledge it at all like he doesn’t care and he doesn’t see it.

like you’re not even worth the jealousy.

so you sit there, in your pretty dresses and tasteful jewelry, sipping your wine and pretending you don’t notice when satoru’s fingers brush the rim of your glass where your painted lips touch it as he passes it back to you. pretending you don’t hear it when he mutters under his breath—

“god, you’re so easy to ruin.”

and then smiles like he didn’t say anything at all.

but still, he never crosses a line. not really.

not until the party in tokyo.

it’s the kind of event you’ve grown used to by now—ornate venue, glowing chandeliers, the soft clink of crystal and meaningless conversation humming beneath the polished noise of wealth. a gala hosted by one of satsuki’s oldest partners, the type of thing where everyone is dressed like they have nothing to prove and everything to protect.

you fly in together, the two of you. first class, of course. private terminal. he doesn’t speak much on the flight, just reads over business reports with his glasses low on his nose, and you sip champagne and pretend the silence is companionable. it’s not.

you arrive before sunset, driven straight to the hotel, and by the time you reach the venue—draped in something black and tight and chosen for effect—satsuki’s already slipping into his element. one hand on the small of your back, greeting industry names, bowing with just the right degree of distance. you smile on cue. you laugh politely. you know how to be ornamental by now.

satoru’s already there.

you spot him the moment you enter the ballroom—propped against the marble bar like it’s a throne made for him, hair tousled like he didn’t try at all, collarbone on show beneath a silk shirt that looks like it cost more than your entire week’s allowance. he’s holding a glass of red, swirling it like he actually gives a shit about tannins. when he sees you, he doesn’t wave nor does he smile. just tilts his glass in acknowledgment like a private joke only you’re supposed to understand.

you try not to look.

you try so hard.

but he keeps catching your eye. like he knows.

an hour into the event, when satsuki is deep in discussion with the finance minister and half the board of some international conglomerate, you step away to breathe. to hide. you drift toward the quieter side of the ballroom, past gold-accented walls and perfumed bodies, just far enough to feel the edge of solitude.

satoru finds you there, of course.

he doesn’t ask permission.

“you’re just gonna stand there all night?” he says, easing into your space like it’s nothing, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other still holding that half-finished glass.

you open your mouth to deflect, to say something harmless, but he’s already moving—offering his hand with a mocking little bow. “come on,” he says. “you’re dressed like a dream. it’d be a crime not to dance.”

you hesitate just long enough.

and he smiles, slow and certain, like he knew you’d say yes even before you did.

the music is a rich, jazzy ballad—old-fashioned, warm, nothing like what plays in the clubs. it echoes gently across the ballroom, and when his hand settles on your waist, it feels like a secret. you take his other hand. his palm is big and warm. familiar in a way that terrifies you.

“your husband won’t mind?” he asks, voice soft in your ear. he’s teasing you.

you glance back, spot satsuki mid-conversation, expression unreadable, hands gesturing in measured control. “he’s talking to the finance minister,” you murmur, trying to steady your breath as satoru pulls you just a little closer. “i think he’ll live.”

his mouth twitches. “you’re prettier up close,” he says, as if the words aren’t knives.

you glance away, heart racing, teeth sinking into your lower lip. the dance isn’t fast, but it isn’t slow either. it’s enough to make you sway. enough to make your body remember the shape of heat, even through layers of couture and silk and restraint.

and then the song fades into something quieter.

something that asks for closeness and intimacy.

something you shouldn’t allow.

he doesn’t ask. he just tilts his head, eyes half-lidded as he studies you, voice dropping as if the room’s emptied of everyone but you.

“has he ever told you that?”

you blink. “what?”

“that you’re beautiful.”

your throat dries.

it’s not the question, it’s more the way he asks it. the certainty behind it. the soft, cruel awareness in his tone—like he already knows the answer. as if he’s spent too many nights wondering how you can look so lovely and still be so starved.

you don’t respond. you can’t.

but you don’t pull away either.

not until he leans in—slowly—and your breath catches at the unmistakable press of heat between you, the anticipation blooming into something reckless and warm.

you flinch. just enough.

you pull away before he can kiss you. just one step back. hands trembling like your nerves have caught fire.

he lets you go. doesn’t chase, just smiles again, softer this time, like he’s not surprised. like he knew this would happen too. and then he turns back toward the bar.

you return to your husband’s side in silence, makeup still intact, breath uneven.

but that night, when you lie beside satsuki in the hotel suite, listening to the sound of his breath while he sleeps, you can still feel the ghost of satoru’s hand on your waist.

you don’t stop thinking about it.

not then.

not ever.

—

you watch satoru and satsuki sometimes, and it unsettles you more than you expect.

their relationship is a strange dance—equal parts admiration, rivalry, and unspoken tension. satsuki, with his impeccable control and cold authority, commands rooms and boardrooms alike, a man carved from steel and silence. satoru, by contrast, moves through the world like a wild storm wrapped in casual grins and reckless confidence, but beneath that careless exterior, you sense a deep, complicated loyalty to his father.

they speak little to each other when you’re around—just polite exchanges, clipped tones, eyes that flicker with something unspoken. you see the way satoru tests satsuki’s patience, the way satsuki’s jaw tightens just slightly when his son pushes boundaries, and you wonder if it’s more than just a father-son dynamic. like there’s something heavier between them—competition, maybe, or old wounds neither wants to admit.

you can’t help but feel like you’re caught in the middle of that tension, like you’re a fragile fault line waiting to split. satsuki’s hand on your knee sometimes feels less like comfort and more like a claim—like he’s reminding you, silently, of where your loyalty is supposed to lie. but satoru’s presence feels like a crack in that armor, a tempting escape from the cold order satsuki demands.

your thoughts betray you constantly. you see how satoru’s defiance might be a way of reaching for something satsuki never gives freely—love, approval, freedom—and maybe that’s why he lingers near you, why his eyes hold that unreadable mixture of challenge and something softer when they land on you.

you wonder if satoru envies you for what you have, or if he envies satsuki for what you don’t. and maybe both.

you catch glimpses of their history in the way they move around each other—the subtle shifts in posture, the sharp glances that flash too quickly to be noticed by anyone else. satsuki’s presence is steady, unyielding—a mountain carved from years of discipline and expectation. satoru, by contrast, is the unpredictable wind that refuses to be tamed, restless and wild beneath that polished exterior.

sometimes, you see satoru’s smile falter when satsuki speaks, just for a moment—like a boy still craving his father’s approval despite himself. and satsuki’s eyes harden, not with anger, but with something like regret, or disappointment. it’s clear they’ve been through battles that no one else knows about, fights where words were weapons and silence was a shield.

to you, their relationship is like watching two storms collide—each powerful on its own, but when they meet, the air crackles with tension and something dangerous simmers beneath. satsuki holds the power, but satoru carries the fire, and you’re left wondering which will burn brighter, and which will consume everything around it.

you realize you’re an unwelcome variable in their equation. satsuki’s calm control is always tested by satoru’s sharp edges, and you can feel it every time their eyes lock—a silent war waged in shadows. you’re caught between the push and pull of their fractured bond, an unspoken tension that presses down on you heavier than any promise or ring.

sometimes you wonder if satsuki sees satoru’s interest in you as a challenge, a threat to his carefully maintained order. and if satoru sees your presence as a way to carve space for himself—proof that he can claim something his father owns, or something his father withholds.

it terrifies you, this tangled web of power, desire, and unspoken pain, and you’re the uncharted territory between them—dangerous, forbidden, and impossible to ignore. you know, deep down, that no matter how much you try to resist, you’re already part of their story now.

and you realize, with a sinking feeling, that none of it is going to end quietly.

the moment he pulled you close, felt the heat of his body against yours, something inside you cracked—a fragile barrier you thought had been sealed long ago. it was terrifying, this sudden longing that twisted your insides into knots. you told yourself it was wrong. dangerous. satoru was his son, the very embodiment of everything you swore to keep at arm’s length. and yet, the ache in your chest whispered a different truth.

you wanted him.

more than you wanted safety, more than you wanted silence, more than you wanted satsuki’s steady, cold touch.

it wasn’t just lust. it was the way he looked at you—like you were a secret worth discovering. like you were more than just a trophy wife. like you were alive.

you hated yourself for it. hated the way your thoughts kept drifting to the curve of his jaw, the sharp laugh he tried to hide, the way his fingers brushed your skin like he was memorizing it. hated how your heart betrayed you every time he smiled or touched your hand “accidentally.” hated how lonely you’d become, how hungry for something real, and how satoru was the only warmth you could imagine in the cold palace you’d married into.

you wrestled with the guilt, the fear. with the desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—you could find something in him that your marriage never gave you. but every time you caught yourself imagining his lips on yours, every time your skin flushed remembering his breath near your ear, you heard the cold voice in the back of your mind:

he’s his son. he’s forbidden. this is not love.

and yet, the ache only grew, louder and sharper, until it was impossible to ignore. you were caught between the promise of safety you made to satsuki and the reckless, dangerous desire burning quietly inside you for his son. a desire that whispered, every time you were alone,

maybe you deserve to be seen.

maybe you deserve to be wanted.

maybe, finally, you can be loved.

you try to push it down.

try to bury it under a thousand rehearsed excuses and reminders of what you promised yourself when you said yes to satsuki.

this isn’t real. this isn’t happening.

he’s just his son.

and you’re his wife.

but the more you fight it, the louder it becomes.

like a pulse beneath your skin—impossible to ignore.

when you see satoru’s smile, the careless tilt of his head, the way his eyes linger just a moment too long, it feels like a flame flickering inside you, warm and dangerous. you find yourself catching your breath when he laughs, your heart speeding up at the brush of his fingers against yours in passing.

you hate how much it hurts.

hate that you crave something so forbidden.

hate that every stolen glance leaves you feeling exposed and trembling.

you wonder if he knows—if he feels the same pull, the same reckless hunger.

or if it’s only you, caught in the trap of loneliness and longing.

some nights, when the house is dark and satsuki’s study door is shut tight, you lie awake replaying his voice, the softness of his touch, the way his presence fills the space around you. you want to reach out, to touch, to taste, to be seen in a way you never have been.

and yet, guilt wraps around you like chains, reminding you of the lines you can’t cross, the roles you can’t break.

but desire doesn’t care for rules.

it lingers in your blood, whispers in your ear,

and pulls you deeper into the forbidden.

—

the first time it happens, it’s nothing like you thought it would be.

you’ve imagined fire and urgency, stolen moments and desperate touches. but this—it’s soft. slow. gentle in a way that makes your chest ache with something you didn’t even know you were missing.

it’s late afternoon at the gojo family’s summer house in hakone. the air is thick with the scent of pine and blooming hydrangeas, sunlight filtering through the leaves in lazy golden streams. you’re sitting at the edge of the pool, the cool water lapping at your ankles, soaking the hem of your long dress up to your calves. your bare feet rest lightly on the stone, toes flexing against the smooth surface.

the dress clings to your skin where it’s wet, weightless and cool—a contrast to the heat that curls low in your belly, the exhaustion that drapes over you like a heavy cloak.

you hear footsteps before you see him. satoru is barefoot too, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, the sleeves rolled up, hair tousled in that careless way you’ve come to recognize. he moves quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile stillness that surrounds you.

he stops beside you, crouching down so you’re eye level, his dark eyes searching your face with something raw and unreadable.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low and hesitant.

you nod, but the word feels hollow on your tongue.

“liar,” he says, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

you meet his gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—the gentle ripple of water, the whisper of wind through the trees, the steady beat of your heart.

“he doesn’t love you, you know,” satoru says quietly, his tone both cruel and tender. “he never could. people like him don’t know what to do with soft things.”

you close your eyes, the truth settling heavy in your chest.

“i know,” you whisper.

his hand reaches out, brushing the wet fabric of your dress where it clings to your knee. the touch is light, reverent, as if he’s afraid to break you.

“then why’d you marry him?” satoru asks, voice gentle now, almost a confession.

you swallow hard, your throat tight with unshed tears.

“because i wanted to feel like i belonged to someone.”

for a moment, silence stretches between you, filled only by the quiet splash of water and distant birdcalls.

his hand slides slowly up your leg—never rushed, never greedy—just steady, warm, real. the heat seeps into your skin, grounding you, pulling you out of the numbness.

“you don’t have to belong to someone to be worth something,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours.

and then, with a tenderness that feels like salvation, he leans in.

his lips find yours—soft, patient, promising.

you don’t pull away.

you let him.

and in that moment, everything you’ve been missing comes rushing back.

the kiss starts almost hesitantly—like he’s testing the waters, unsure if you’ll let him in. his lips brush against yours softly at first, barely more than a whisper, gentle and tentative as if afraid to overwhelm you. it’s nothing like the cold, mechanical touches you’ve grown used to. it’s something alive, something aching.

his hand stays steady on your thigh, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin, grounding you in the moment. the warmth of his palm seeps through the soaked fabric of your dress and makes your breath hitch. your fingers twitch at his wrist, unsure whether to pull him closer or to stop time entirely.

then, slowly, deliberately, he deepens the kiss. his lips part just enough, and the world narrows until there is nothing but the two of you—the taste of him, a faint trace of wine and something wild and intoxicating. his breath mingles with yours, uneven and soft, like a secret shared in the quiet.

there’s no rush. no frantic need. just a slow, steady exploration, a promise whispered between lips that have learned to be gentle. his mouth moves with care, mapping yours as if memorizing every curve, every tremble.

you feel the tension in your body begin to unwind—the tight coil of loneliness and despair loosening just a little. it’s like breathing for the first time after being underwater.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment. your heart pounds loud in your chest, a wild, beautiful rhythm you didn’t know you’d been craving.

he murmurs against your lips, “i’m here.”

and somehow, in those two simple words, you find a flicker of hope.

but reality comes crashing down quickly, cold and unrelenting, like a wave pulling you under just when you thought you’d found air.

as his lips linger against yours, as his fingers press gentle warmth into your skin, a voice inside you screams—this is wrong. wrong because he’s his son. wrong because you’re married to satsuki. wrong because every promise you ever made was to someone else, and this—this is a betrayal wrapped in softness.

your heart pounds not with desire, but with panic, a sharp ache of guilt and fear twisting inside your ribs.

yet satoru’s eyes, those soft, searching eyes, hold you steady. they don’t judge. they don’t demand. they coax. with a tenderness that feels like safety, like a secret offered just to you in a world that never cared to understand.

his hands slide from your thigh to your waist, fingers threading lightly through the fabric of your dress, tracing the curve of your hip. the warmth of his touch is intoxicating, a quiet promise that maybe you don’t have to be alone in this.

you want to pull away, to shut it all down before it goes any further. but instead, you find yourself leaning into him, letting the kiss deepen into something more—something that speaks of longing and loneliness, of broken pieces seeking to be made whole.

it’s a dangerous line you’re crossing, blurred and fragile, but in that moment, with satoru’s hands steady on you and his breath mingling with yours, it feels like the only place where you might finally be seen.

and so you stay.

just a little longer.

under the soft glow of the moonlight, the pool water shimmering quietly beside you, everything feels like it’s suspended in time. your heart is pounding loud enough to drown out the faint sounds of the night — the rustling leaves, distant crickets — and yet, when satoru’s eyes meet yours, everything stills.

he cups your face gently with those large hands, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone as if memorizing every curve. you can’t stop the way your breath catches, how your fingers tremble slightly as they rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under your palm. the world feels dangerous, yet safe in this moment — a paradox only satoru could embody.

his voice is a low murmur, full of something unspoken, something aching. “i don’t want to stop. not now.” and you don’t either. the weight of the secret you carry, the life you live with satsuki, it presses down on you like a shadow. but here, now, it’s as if none of that matters — only the way satoru’s lips brush yours again, softer this time, like he’s trying to convey every word he can’t say.

slowly, carefully, his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer. your body responds without hesitation, leaning in, molding into his warmth. you can feel the heat radiating from him, a quiet fire growing in the space between your bodies. the moonlight traces the lines of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and you reach out, fingertips trembling, to touch the pulse at his throat. he shivers at the contact, a quiet sound of vulnerability escaping him.

“you’re here,” he whispers, voice breaking just enough to let you know how much he’s trying to hold himself together. “with me.”

you nod, unable to speak, your lips catching his again, deeper now, more urgent. the fear of discovery is still there, looming at the edges of your mind, but satoru’s hands, warm and sure, ground you. he slides them down your back, over the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him. his body is firm, reassuring — a silent promise that he’s not going anywhere, even if the world tells you both you can’t be here.

the wetness of the night clings to your skin, and satoru’s touch is electric, tracing a path down your spine, fingertips exploring with reverence. he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe in the scent of you, his breath hot against your skin. “i want to make sure you’re okay. i want to be gentle.” his words are soft but fierce, full of a protective kind of love that makes your chest ache.

you’re trembling—nervous, unsure—but the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters, makes you want to believe you’re not broken. makes you want to believe you deserve this.

carefully, satoru helps you up, guiding you inside the summer house. the rooms are warm, a contrast to the cool air outside, and the soft light casts shadows that dance along the walls. he’s still holding you like you’re fragile, like you might vanish if he lets go.

when he finally closes the distance, his hands are gentle but hungry, exploring you like he’s discovering a secret garden. every kiss, every touch is an unspoken confession—a need so fierce it’s almost painful.

you gasp softly when his mouth finds the curve of your neck, the way he nips and sucks is desperate but careful. your fingers weave through his hair, pulling him closer like you don’t want to ever let go. the world narrows until there’s nothing but skin and breath and the sound of your heart pounding loud in the quiet.

he’s slow with you, patient, like he wants to savor every moment. his hands learn every inch of your body—the softness of your skin, the way you shiver beneath his touch, the way you sigh when he trails kisses down your collarbone. and you forget about everything else—the coldness of your marriage, the weight of your promises, the danger of what this means.

you let your hands wander over his shoulders, over the muscles you know so well from stolen moments and shared glances. the air between you thickens, charged with longing and tenderness. slowly, you both shed the barriers — clothes slipping away with careful urgency, revealing skin kissed by lingering sunlight and tingling with anticipation.

his fingers trace the line of your collarbone, down the swell of your breasts, his touch featherlight but unwavering. your breath hitches as his lips follow the same path, soft kisses blooming like petals on your skin. you’re trembling, caught between nerves and desire, but satoru’s hands cradle you, anchoring you to the moment, telling you wordlessly that it’s okay to let go.

he moves with a reverence that makes every touch feel sacred. his mouth finds the delicate skin just beneath your ear, his voice a breathy murmur, “you’re so beautiful. i’ve wanted this for so long.” the words wrap around you, tender and true, and your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.

when he finally settles between your legs, the warmth of his body pressing against yours is overwhelming — a perfect mix of strength and softness. the slow, steady rhythm of his movements is a conversation of its own, speaking of trust and need and something deeper than passion. you close your eyes, losing yourself in the sensation of him — every brush of skin, every whispered promise, every gentle sigh.

he pauses sometimes, his forehead resting against yours, searching your eyes for any sign of doubt or pain. but you’re there, fully present, giving yourself to him in this secret sanctuary. the world outside, with all its complications and betrayals, fades away, leaving only the two of you — tangled, breathless, and achingly close.

afterward, wrapped in each other’s arms by the poolside, the night feels impossibly still. satoru’s fingers trace lazy circles on your back, and you can’t stop the tears that spill silently down your cheeks — tears of relief, of fear, of love too fierce to be tamed. he holds you tight, whispering, “we’ll find a way. i swear.”

he whispers, voice rough with emotion, “you’re everything i didn’t know i wanted.”

and you feel your cheeks burn, ashamed and exposed, but underneath it all, there’s a small, fierce spark of something you thought was lost—a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re wanted. not for the life you married into, not as a prize or a possession, but for who you really are.

—

it’s a slow fall after that.

not a plunge, not a moment you can point to and say, that’s when it all changed. it’s more like the slow, inevitable tipping of scales. the way you go from one kiss to two. one night to three. one excuse to a hundred soft, silent ones that pile up like snow on the edges of a house you no longer feel at home in.

you try to stop. you do. in the hours after, when you return to your cold bedroom and peel off your dress like it’s made of guilt, when you catch your own reflection in the mirror and can’t quite meet your eyes—you tell yourself it can’t happen again. that you’ll pull away the next time he leans in, that you’ll turn your face, that you’ll remember who you are, what you swore, what name you wear on your finger. it’s his name but not his.

but then satoru touches you again.

and everything inside you shatters like porcelain.

he touches you like you’re precious. not fragile—not delicate or breakable like the glass women you’re expected to mimic—but precious. something rare. something meant to be held carefully, not for fear of breaking, but because it’s deserved.

his hands never take before asking, and when they do ask, it’s always with care. he kisses the inside of your wrist like it’s holy. he mouths at the slope of your shoulder like he’s starved. he palms your face and whispers “look at me,” and when you do, when your eyes meet his—blue and bright and warm—it’s like standing in sunlight after years of being cold.

he talks to you like you’re more than just a body wrapped in pearls and cashmere. more than someone to wear on his father’s arm. he listens when you speak, even when your voice is small, even when you hesitate. even when you say things you shouldn’t admit out loud— “sometimes i think i don’t know who i am anymore,” and “i think i married him because i didn’t want to disappear.”

he never laughs. never dismisses. he just says, softly, “you don’t have to explain it to me.”

and then he touches you again.

he kisses you like he’s proud of you—like he’s proud to have you. not as some stolen, shameful secret, but as something he wants to keep. he kisses your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his favorite habit. he kisses your cheeks and your throat and your sternum like he’s putting something back where it belongs.

he says things that feel too good to hear and too dangerous to believe. “you deserve more than this,” and “he doesn’t see you,” and sometimes, when he’s inside you and your breath stutters and your hands are in his hair and you’re gasping into the crook of his neck, he says, “mine.”

quietly. like a vow. like he doesn’t care who it breaks.

he fucks you like you’re real.

not some trophy and not some quiet wife. not some placeholder to keep a legacy pretty. he fucks you like he wants to know what makes you fall apart and then puts you back together with the same hands. he takes his time with you—long nights that bleed into mornings, where his mouth maps every part of you and he learns your rhythm by heart. where he breathes your name into your stomach, your thighs, the center of you, over and over until it’s the only thing left in your head.

and he’s not perfect. he’s not gentle all the time. sometimes he’s messy with it, rough with it, needy. he pulls you into dark corners and kisses you like he’s angry at the distance between you. he pushes you up against the bathroom door in a quiet restaurant because you laughed too sweetly over dessert. he hikes up your dress in the backseat of a black car on the way to a party and bites down on your shoulder just to keep from groaning your name too loud.

but even then—especially then—he holds you after. always. always wraps you in his arms and touches your hair and kisses your temple like he can’t believe you’re real.

you never feel more alive than when you’re in his arms.

when your legs are tangled under his in a bed that doesn’t belong to either of you. when his breath ghosts over the back of your neck and he mutters half-asleep, “don’t go yet.” when you’re sitting between his thighs while he dries your hair with a towel, like it’s a ritual and it matters to him. when he holds your hand in secret and kisses your knuckles like he’s making a promise you’re both too afraid to speak out loud.

it’s a slow fall. and you fall all the same.

and the worst part—the part that keeps you up at night, staring at the ceiling in your husband’s house—is not that it’s wrong.

it’s that it’s the first time anything has ever felt right.

you come home to your husband with your makeup smeared and your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might rip out of your chest.

your dress is rumpled, your lips still swollen, and there’s a faint ache between your legs that makes your knees wobble as you step out of the car. you keep your eyes low as the staff greets you, give them nothing more than a polite nod and a soft “thank you” before you disappear down the hall like a ghost.

your hands shake as you strip out of your clothes in the bathroom. you peel off the lace and silk like it’s a crime scene, like if you leave it on too long it’ll burn you. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—lipstick smudged, mascara streaked, eyes too bright, too wild—and you look like someone you don’t recognize. someone ruined.

his scent is still clinging to your skin. expensive cologne and sweat and heat. the ghost of satoru’s mouth still lingers on your neck, soft bruises blooming under your jaw where he kissed you too hard. where he bit down just to see you shiver.

you scrub it all away with trembling hands.

you press your palms flat against the sink, bow your head, and try to breathe. the water runs hot. too hot. scalding, almost. but it doesn’t burn enough to make you feel clean. nothing does anymore.

you lie in bed that night with your back to satsuki, still damp from the shower, your body coiled tight beneath the sheets like a secret you don’t want him to see. he’s sitting up beside you, his reading glasses on, a neat folder of briefings and documents in his lap. the soft rustle of paper, the click of a pen against the corner of his clipboard—it’s the only sound in the room.

he doesn’t touch you. he never does unless it’s scheduled. expected.

he glances over once, offers a brief, “you’re back late,” and you murmur something vague. traffic. the driver took a wrong turn. your head hurt. you needed air.

he nods and turns back to his documents.

and you think about how much you used to hate silence, how much you still do.

how heavy it feels now—how full of things you’re not allowed to say.

you lie there beside him in his cold, perfect bed with your hair still damp and your heart still beating in someone else’s rhythm, and all you can think about is the way satoru held your face in his hands like you were worth looking at. the way he said your name like it tasted good in his mouth. the way he looked up at you from between your thighs and whispered, “i’d give you everything if you let me.”

you fall asleep before satsuki does. or maybe you pretend to.

you don’t say goodnight.

in the morning, the house wakes before you do—glass clinks in the kitchen, shoes echo across the marble, muffled voices speak through closed doors. you walk into the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for too long.

your lips are raw. your throat is marked. your eyes are heavy.

you put on moisturizer with hands that remember how he kissed your fingertips. you dab concealer over a bruise you let him leave behind. you spray perfume behind your ears and hope it doesn’t smell like guilt.

and you wonder—how long can i survive like this?

how long can you live in this liminal space, in the tight grip of half-truths and false smiles, wrapped in the soft thrill of being someone’s secret? how long before you forget who you used to be? how long before the shame rots you from the inside out?

you think maybe you should’ve said no that night by the pool.

maybe you should’ve run when he touched your face and looked at you like he’d burn for you.

like he already was.

but you didn’t.

you let him in.

you opened your mouth and begged for more.

you curled into his lap and rode the high of being wanted so fiercely it made you cry.

and now—it’s too late.

because you married a man who never really saw you, never asked for anything more than your presence, your silence, your prettiness in pictures. a man who offered protection and nothing else.

and you fell in love with the only person in the world you were never supposed to touch.

and he touched you.

again.

and again.

until you forgot what it felt like to be untouched.

until you forgot what it felt like to be good.

until you forgot what it felt like to be clean.

—

satsuki gojo is not a man who lets himself feel.

at least, not in the way other people do.

he’s measured. composed.precise in every word, every movement. the kind of man who values control the way others value love. who commands attention without raising his voice, who delivers disappointment with a smile so polished it feels like praise.

he can sit across from a man whose company he’s about to dismantle and pour him tea with a steady hand. he can dismantle a legacy with three words and a signature. he’s never needed threats. he’s never needed rage.

because power, when wielded properly, is quiet.

and for most of his life, he believed that was enough to keep the world in order. his world.

neat. predictable. built brick by brick in his image.

he chose you the way he’s always chosen things—with intent. not for sentiment, not for warmth, not for romance. sure, your simple charm was always something he liked, but you were always more of a solution. a symbol. a perfect little piece to complete a picture he’d been curating for years.

you were beautiful, yes. poised, obedient. the kind of woman who knew how to smile at the right people, wear the right clothes, say the right things. he’s teached you a lot, but you weren’t stupid. you didn’t press and you didn’t pry. you didn’t cry when he was cold, or complain when he was late.

you were grateful in a way that flattered him.

and maybe, somewhere deep down—though he’d never admit it—he thought he was giving you something generous. a name. a home. protection.

in return, he asked for compliance and you gave it to him.

you smiled when he gave you diamonds. you folded yourself into his world with elegant silence. you learned not to ask where he went at night. and he never asked what you dreamed about. it worked.

until it didn’t.

he noticed the shift before he had a name for it.

it wasn’t obvious at first. it was in the way you lingered longer in the garden after dinner. the way you turned your head when your phone lit up across the room, a split second too fast. the way your laughter—once rare and practiced—started to sound real again.

he noticed the changes in your perfume. subtler, warmer. scents that weren’t chosen by his assistant or gifted in velvet boxes. you started wearing lipstick he hadn’t seen before and looking like someone who belonged to herself.

he didn’t confront you.

instead, he watched.

he started marking the time you left and returned. took note of how often your hair was out of place, your blouse wrinkled, your voice a little hoarse, like you’d been endlessly whispering things into someone else’s skin.

your body language changed—softer, secretive. like you were learning how to feel again. like you were warming up in someone else’s sun. your body betrayed you, not in bruises or confessions—but in a kind of ease that hadn’t existed between you in months.

and still, he didn’t suspect satoru.

not at first.

not because he trusted you and certainly not because he trusted him, but because he didn’t think either of you would be that stupid.

and maybe part of him didn’t want to believe it.

however, satoru had always been difficult.

they’d always had a strained dynamic.

he was reckless in ways that grated against satsuki’s sense of order. loud where satsuki was quiet, impulsive where he was methodical. he’d fought everything from the moment he could speak.

rejected the power of the family name, the legacy, the weight of expectation. there was something untouchable in him, something wild that satsuki could never quite control—no matter how much money, pressure, or cold expectation he applied. a ghost of his mother’s defiance, wrapped in her smile, armed with her softness.

from the outside, they were the picture of high-society decorum—father and son, both devastatingly intelligent, devastatingly composed, cut from the same ruthless cloth. they looked alike in photographs. sounded alike in interviews. but beneath the polished surface was something frayed, something long-decayed that no amount of money or legacy could repair.

satoru was a reminder of everything that had slipped through satsuki’s fingers.

his late wife’s laughter—light, uncontrolled, human—echoed in satoru’s careless smirks, in the way he leaned too far back in chairs, in the irreverent tone he used when he spoke to people who ought to matter.

she’d been soft. too soft, he used to think. prone to warmth, drawn to people. she gave things away—attention, forgiveness, affection—without vetting them first.

he loved her once, in his own quiet way. but he didn’t know what to do with her softness. didn’t know how to nurture it, only how to contain it. and eventually, it dimmed. and when satoru was born, he took what was left of that softness and love with himself, until the woman he married was six feet under.

but satoru. . . from the moment he was old enough to speak, he’d been impossible to mold. brilliant, yes. too brilliant. but willful and defiant.

he refused to be groomed like a proper heir. he questioned things that were meant to be obeyed. he didn’t take to structure. didn’t respect the natural order of hierarchy. didn’t respect him.

and yet, he had everything satsuki had wanted in a successor. charm. intuition. a terrifying sort of instinct for power. but he wasted it.

he chose unpredictability over control. freedom over legacy. emotion over efficiency. and satsuki could never decide what infuriated him more: that his son refused to be shaped into something useful—

or that he reminded him too much of a past he could no longer touch.

every conversation between them was a performance. every exchange a negotiation. there was love, somewhere—buried deep and misshapen—but it had long since been smothered by expectation, pride, and quiet, festering disappointment. he gave satoru everything a father was supposed to give: education, opportunity, wealth.

but not the things that mattered. not patience, not understanding, not softness. and in turn, satoru gave him brilliance. gave him rebellion.

but never respect and never the submission satsuki demanded, even in silence.

their dynamic had long ago calcified into something functional and cold—like glass. clear enough to see through, but too brittle to touch.

satsuki could never quite reach him. never quite shape him.

and after a while, he stopped trying.

polite meals. distant updates. strained dinners where satoru cracked jokes to make you laugh, and satsuki watched with a stillness that looked like patience but felt like contempt.

and then the whispers came.

not loud. not dramatic. just small details offered by staff who knew when to speak and when to stay silent. two coffee cups in satoru’s room. laundry that didn’t belong to him.a lipstick print on a glass no one remembered pouring.

satsuki didn’t ask questions. he observed.

he sees it first in the way your eyes start to drift.

in the way you excuse yourself from dinners earlier than usual, lips still stained with barely-hidden kisses, skin humming with the memory of someone else’s mouth. he sees it in the tremble in your hands when you pour his tea, the way your smile falters when he looks at you for just a beat too long.

he sees it when satoru walks into the room and your spine stiffens like you’ve been caught already.

he sees it in satoru too—the looseness in his posture, the smugness barely hidden beneath casual remarks. the quiet little grins aimed nowhere and everywhere. the way he looks at you like he’s already claimed you.

like he doesn’t care who knows.

and one night, he followed.

he stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, as you crept barefoot down the guest hallway. your cheeks were flushed, your mouth was kiss-bruised, your sweater was too large. too familiar. too his. and you were smiling. not at him. for someone else.

he watched you slip into the shadows with quiet, practiced shame, and he didn’t feel surprised. he didn’t even feel heartbreak, he felt confirmation.

and something worse— humiliation.

not just as your husband. but as a father. because it wasn’t just betrayal, it wasn’t even infidelity. it was the way you looked at satoru—like you used to look at him, long ago. like you’d been asleep for years and someone finally woke you up.

like you’d finally remembered how to feel.

and the part that sliced deepest wasn’t that you’d chosen someone else. it was that you’d chosen someone he made. someone who shared his name. someone who had every piece of him he’d never been able to give.

he sat with that knowledge for two days.

ate breakfast across from you like nothing had changed. listened to your footsteps echo down the marble hallway. watched satoru breeze in and out of the house with that smug, careless smile and imagined wiping it clean off his face.

he kept it in his chest like a ticking clock.

and waited.

until the third night, when you come home late.

and you have to know, satsuki doesn’t scream.

he doesn’t throw things. neither does he raise his voice. doesn’t call you names or demand answers. there’s no storm. no fire. no broken glass glittering across the floor.

just silence—dense, absolute. the kind that makes your bones ache before you even understand why.

he’s sitting in the lounge when you come home. not his study or the formal sitting room reserved for guests and political favors, but the old lounge near the back of the house—the one with worn leather chairs and a window that always sticks halfway open. he used to like sitting here with you, hands full of documents and reports and your perfume lingering by his side.

the floor creaks when you step in. his jacket is folded over the armrest, his tie loose around his neck like a noose he forgot to tighten. there’s a half-full glass of whiskey in one hand, the rim catching the firelight from the hearth behind him.

he looks up when you enter and he smiles. but it’s the wrong kind of smile: it’s thin and deliberate and shaped like control—sharp and elegant and meant to wound. you’ve seen it on him and you’ve never liked it.

“you’re late,” he says.

his tone is soft, casual. like he’s commenting on the weather. like you’ve only broken curfew by an hour and not shattered the most sacred rule of this house.

you open your mouth to lie—to give him something rehearsed. traffic. errands. lunch with the wife of that board member who always pretends not to loathe you. something easy, something clean.

but then you meet his unbelievably cold eyes and everything dies in your throat. because he’s already holding the truth. you can see it in his face—in the stillness, the patience, the cold poise of a man who’s already played the entire game in his mind.

he knows.

he hums under his breath. the sound is small and almost amused, but it lands like a slap.

he taps his thumb once against the rim of his glass, then says, “i hear you’ve taken a liking to hakone.”

your breath stutters.

“you’ve been going often,” he adds, like it’s an idle thought, like he’s piecing something together he already understands.

you force your voice to work.

“I like the quiet,” you say, careful. measured.

his lips twitch. “yes,” he murmurs. “so do i.”

he sets his glass down with precision, the base hitting the table with a soft clink.

he doesn’t look away.

“you know,” he continues, tone drifting somewhere between dissection and conversation, “i used to wonder why the staff stopped telling me when you left the city.”

his fingers trace the seam of his trousers.

“why the housekeeper started locking the guest suite.”

a beat.

“why you began ignoring my calls.”

your chest goes tight, pulse thudding in your ears.

“they didn’t tell me,” he says. “but they didn’t have to.”

and then—his voice, colder. quieter.

“i’m not a fool.”

your mouth opens on instinct. some part of you still thinks you can lie your way out. deny it. explain it. apologize. even though there’s nothing left to salvage. you don’t even know which version of the truth you’re trying to reach for, but you don’t get the chance.

he cuts in.

“how long?”

you freeze.

he takes a step closer, the firelight catching in the creases around his eyes.

“how long,” he repeats, “have you been fucking my son?”

the words hit you like a blade through silk—clean, merciless, elegant in its precision.

you flinch visibly.

your fingers twist in the fabric of your coat like you’re bracing for a blow. your throat goes dry. your lungs stall. you can’t answer.

because what is there to say?

that it wasn’t planned? that it wasn’t a betrayal at first, just a kiss by the pool? that you didn’t mean for it to turn into something real?

it all sounds so small now. so hollow.

satsuki rises to his full height—he moves slowly, methodically, like he’s done this a hundred times before. straightens his cuffs. buttons the top of his collar. steps toward you without urgency.

he stops a few feet away. not close enough to touch. just close enough that you feel the weight of him, the cold edge of his presence. the domineering cool emitting from him.

he looks at you for a long time.

not with rage or disgust, but with something worse.

disappointment.

like he’s been bracing for this all along. like he expected better—and isn’t surprised that you didn’t deliver. it hits you harder than it should and your nails dig into the plush of your palm, holding in the desire to apologise over and over and ask for forgiveness like a child would with a disappointed parent.

“was it revenge?” he asks.

his voice is quieter now. more intimate.

“a performance?”

he studies your face.

“or did you just get tired of waiting for me to love you?”

you want to scream. to fall to your knees, to beg him to understand that it was never about revenge, that you were lonely, so unbelievably lonely, and satoru looked at you like you mattered. like you existed. but none of that matters now.

the words never come, instead they lodge in your throat like splinters.

“i thought you knew what you were getting into when i approached you.”

he tilts his head slightly, almost curious. like he’s waiting for something that you no longer have to give.

then he exhales just one breath. low. even. controlled.

“he always did take what wasn’t his.”

you blink. he’s not looking at you anymore.

his gaze slips past your shoulder, to the fire, or the window, or some long-dead moment you’ll never be privy to. he’s remembering something you were never a part of and it hurts like it never did before.

“i should’ve known he’d want you too,” he says, and this time the words are softer. like a realization spoken to himself.

you don’t know what history lives between them. you don’t ask because it’s not yours to touch, it never was.

you take a step back. then another.

your breath comes shallow. your cheeks burn. shame licks up your throat and settles in your mouth like ash. but he isn’t done. he adjusts his cuffs again, casual, like he’s resetting himself. it feels like he’s stepping back into the man he was before he ever let you into his home.

“there’s a dinner with the yamamotos tonight,” he says.

his voice is clipped now, businesslike. the conversation is over. this is protocol.

“you’ll attend like you always do,” he adds. “wear the gold chanel dress. and the necklace i gifted you for new years.”

you stare at him.

you’re not sure what you’re waiting for. mercy? forgiveness? one final insult? you think it’d be better that whatever this is.

“and then?” you ask, even though you already know.

he looks at you once more and this time there’s nothing in his eyes— no heat, no cold, no flicker of what you used to hope was affection. just a decision.

“then, in the morning, you’ll leave.”

your heart stops.

“you’ll be out of this house by ten,” he says.

his tone is simple and settled, the one you’ve heard him use a million times in different settings. you just never thought it’d be directed to you.

“the lawyers will be in touch.”

your knees go weak. your vision tilts, dangerously blurry, but somehow, you stand.

somehow, you nod, realising there’s nothing left to fight for. he turns away, back toward the fireplace. the flames flicker quietly, casting soft light on the clean lines of his silhouette.

and as you watch him, standing in a room that once belonged to both of you, you realize—

this is the first time he’s ever really seen you.

and it will be the last time he ever looks at you the same way again.

—

the guest room feels unfamiliar, almost cold, despite the thick curtains and soft linens that try to soften its edges. you close the door behind you with a hollow finality, the sound echoing in the silence like a heartbeat you can’t catch.

the room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside, a distant reminder that life continues beyond these walls. you sink onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe—shallow, uneven, like someone learning how to again.

your mind swirls with everything left unsaid. the confrontation with satsuki replays in endless loops, his measured voice cutting through the memories you had tried so hard to bury. it’s not just the end of a marriage; it’s the unraveling of the life you thought you had. you touch the faint bruises on your skin, remnants of stolen moments with satoru, and a bitter ache settles deep in your chest. the guilt is sharp, a weight that drags against any flicker of solace.

your phone vibrates quietly on the bedside table, screen lighting up with satoru’s name. you don’t answer. you can’t. each message is a tether pulling you back to a world you need to step away from, no matter how fiercely your heart resists. ignoring him feels like a small act of control amid the chaos—a way to protect the fragile pieces of yourself before the inevitable departure.

you ache for the tenderness he gave you and resent the fragility it exposed. loneliness presses in, but so does a quiet clarity: you cannot stay in this in-between, clinging to shadows when the dawn demands you move forward.

you don’t sleep. not really.

you drift in and out of shallow, fragmented dreams—flashes of firelight, the ghost of satsuki’s voice, the warmth of satoru’s hands pressed to your hips. it all blends together until you can’t tell memory from nightmare. every time your eyes close, something inside you flinches.

you lie on your side in the guest bed, staring at the edge of the wall, and you think about how quickly things fall apart. how something that felt so real, so alive in your hands, could slip through your fingers with just a few words. you remember satoru telling you once—softly, like he was afraid of the truth—“nothing we take from him ever lasts.”

you had shrugged. brushed it off.

but maybe you should’ve listened.

his name lights up your phone again around 2:00 a.m.—a short vibration, then another. then a call.

you stare at the screen until it fades. you don’t answer. you don’t dare to.

you know what he’ll say. you know the voice he’ll use—the low, urgent one that always made your chest ache, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. and maybe that’s what you’re afraid of. that if you hear it, you’ll forget why you have to go.

you press the phone beneath a pillow. try not to cry. fail.

when the first signs of morning come, you sit up slowly, your body stiff and reluctant. the house is still quiet. no footsteps, no movement down the hall. it feels like a mausoleum now. you move through it like someone haunting their own life.

you take a long shower. let the water burn your skin red in places. like punishment, maybe, or maybe you just want to feel something that isn’t regret.

the mirror fogs, but you wipe it clear with your palm, stare at your reflection like it might give you answers. you look older today. heavier. but there’s something in your eyes—tired, yes, but awake like you’ve finally decided something for yourself.

you get dressed methodically. a blouse and black slacks you bought yourself with your own money. you fold the gold chanel dress into your bag without thinking, like a relic you’re not sure what to do with. the closet is already half-emptied; you did most of it in the night, between moments of panic and resolve. you left the jewelry. the heels. the coats. you don’t want to take anything you can’t justify wanting.

when you’re done, you sit on the edge of the bed with your coat in your lap and your bags at your feet. your phone buzzes again. another call. his name, again.

you silence it and yet—it hurts. god, it hurts.

because you miss him. not just the sex. not just the rush of being seen, desired, adored.

you miss the stupid jokes, the way he always leaned in too close when he talked. the way he touched your back in passing, like it was second nature. his honesty, his kindness, his desire for you to see him just like he saw you.

you miss how easy it was to feel wanted around him.

how light your body felt when he held you. how much fun you had, even when everything was wrong, but wanting him won’t undo what you’ve done.

and there’s something uglier than heartbreak curling inside your chest now. shame, maybe. or self-loathing. or the simple, brutal truth that you knew what this would cost you. you knew. and you chose him anyway. and now you have to let him go like the mistake it was.

you stand, finally. smooth your blouse. pick up your things. the door creaks slightly when you open it. the hallway is still empty.

you don’t see satsuki again.

but the housekeeper is already waiting by the front doors, her posture stiff, her eyes unreadable. she nods at you once yet doesn’t speak. the kind woman who’d greeted you a few years ago is gone and for a brief second, you feel like a ghost all over again.

no one says goodbye.

no one asks where you’re going.

you walk out of the house with the air crisp and the sky still gray, and it doesn’t feel like freedom, not yet, but it does feel like something.

like an ending you’ve earned and a beginning you might survive. . .

epilogue.

satoru sits alone in his sleek, dimly lit apartment overlooking the city, the night stretching endlessly beyond the glass. the silence here isn’t comforting; it’s heavy and hollow, pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shrug off. his phone lies face-up on the table, screen dark now, no new messages from you. the absence feels louder than any words ever could.

he thinks about you constantly—about the way you moved through the gojo estate, so fragile yet fierce in your own quiet way. how your eyes held a mix of longing and pain, like you were always searching for something just out of reach. he remembers the nights in hakone, the softness of your skin against his, the hesitant way you let yourself fall apart in his arms. those moments are etched in him, vivid and aching.

but alongside the tenderness, there’s the bitter sting of guilt—because he knows what you lost. the life you left behind, the promises broken, the distance you’ve been forced to put between yourself and satsuki. he wonders if you blame him, if you see him as the one who took what wasn’t his. part of him understands. part of him hates himself for it.

he wrestles with the fact that he loved you in a way no one else did—or could. that in those stolen hours, he tried to make you feel seen, whole, and alive. and yet, all he could give you was secrecy and fleeting warmth. the knowledge that he was the reason you lost everything haunts him more than he admits.

there’s a quiet ache beneath his usual careless grin, a sorrow he buries deep beneath sarcasm and deflection. satoru wonders if you’ll ever forgive him—or if forgiveness even matters anymore. he replays your last moments together, the way you pulled away before the kiss could become more, the way you disappeared afterward, leaving nothing but silence.

he’s haunted by the thought of you, not as a prize won or a secret kept, but as someone he genuinely cared for—someone he wanted to protect from the cold world that had hurt you so much already. and now, without you, even the city’s neon lights feel dimmer, the nights colder, and the space beside him painfully empty.

he knows he’s lost you in more ways than one. and the weight of that loss is something he carries with quiet, relentless heaviness.

satoru’s thoughts spiral in the quiet hours, tangled and relentless. he remembers the way your laughter once filled the corners of the house, sharp and unexpected, like sunlight breaking through a storm. how rare those moments were, and how fiercely he clung to them. he wonders if you ever felt the same—that small flicker of something real beneath the facade of your marriage, beneath the walls you both built to protect yourselves.

he thinks about satsuki, his father, with a complicated knot of resentment and reluctant understanding. satsuki’s coldness was a shield, a calculated distance that made love impossible, and maybe satoru saw himself in that—flawed, unreachable, always on the edge of something breaking. he knows satsuki never loved you the way you deserved, and maybe that’s why satoru’s feelings for you became so fierce, so impossible to ignore. it was as if loving you was the only way to fight against a legacy of emptiness.

he replays the stolen nights and whispered promises, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the quiet confession in your eyes when you finally let go. those moments weren’t just physical—they were a desperate grasp for connection, for something genuine in a life that had become a series of transactions and silent compromises. he wishes he could go back, erase the pain that followed, but he knows some wounds run too deep.

there’s also a gnawing fear beneath everything—fear that you’re slipping further away, that the distance between you is becoming permanent, defined not just by walls and silence but by the choices made and the secrets kept. satoru hates that he might have been the cause of your exile, that the sanctuary you once sought in him might now be a memory too painful to revisit.

and yet, despite it all, he can’t stop hoping. hoping that somewhere beneath the fractured pieces, you’re still there—still breathing, still fighting. that maybe, someday, the space between you can be crossed.

satoru knows he could find you anytime he wanted. the networks of the city, the connections woven through his life like threads in a tapestry—they’re all there, quietly waiting for him to pull. he could ask, trace, track. his world is built on precision and control; locating you would be no different from making a phone call or booking a flight.

but he doesn’t.

not yet.

there’s a part of him that understands the chaos you need to navigate on your own, the space to breathe without the weight of his presence pressing down on you. he respects that silence, no matter how much it tears at him. he hopes you’re finding some clarity, some piece of yourself you lost when everything fell apart. and beneath that hope is a quiet, stubborn wish—that when you’re ready, you’ll reach out. that you’ll call him, ask for help, or maybe just for company.

he wants to see you every day. to hear your voice, to catch the light in your eyes when you smile without hesitation. he dreams of ordinary moments with you—the kind of moments that feel impossible now. but he doesn’t force it. he holds space for you in the chaos of his life, a silent promise that he’ll be there when you decide you’re ready.

and then, one day, by chance more than design, he does see you.

it’s unexpected, like a flicker of warmth in a cold room. you’re just across the street, caught in the rush of the city—unaware, untethered, breathing in the world on your own terms.

for a second, time bends. the noise around him dulls.

he watches, heart pounding, the distance between you suddenly unbearable and yet impossible to close in that moment. it’s accidental. unplanned. raw.

the moment stretches, fragile and electric, as satoru stands frozen on the sidewalk, watching you navigate the crowd with that familiar, tentative grace. the sunlight catches the edges of your hair, casting a halo you hadn’t realized you’d missed so desperately. his breath hitches—not from surprise, but from the weight of everything unsaid, every stolen moment that now feels like a lifetime away.

he wants to call out, to cross the street and bridge the gulf that’s grown between you. but something holds him back—a mix of respect, fear, and the unspoken understanding that you need to decide how this story continues. so instead, he lets you go, watching until you disappear around the corner, swallowed by the city’s endless motion.

the ache in his chest is sharp but tethered to a new hope, fragile but undeniable. seeing you—really seeing you—reminds him that the pieces aren’t lost forever. that maybe, in time, the distance can be closed not by force or desperation, but by choice.

he pulls out his phone, fingers hovering over the screen. but he doesn’t call. not yet.

instead, he carries the image of you with him—a quiet promise, a flicker of light in the dark—waiting for the day when you’ll reach back. when the accidental meeting becomes a deliberate reunion. and until then, he’ll hold on to that moment, small and precious, as the beginning of everything yet to come.

days pass like slow tides, each one pulling satoru deeper into a restless rhythm of waiting and wanting. the accidental glimpse of you lingers in his mind—a persistent ache that colors every quiet moment. he keeps checking his phone, half-expecting your name to light up the screen, half-afraid it never will.

he’s careful not to overwhelm. no messages, no calls, no attempts to intrude on the fragile space you might be carving out for yourself. instead, he focuses on the small details he remembers—the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the softness in your eyes despite the shadows beneath them. those details become a silent prayer he carries with him, a hope that you’re healing in your own time.

sometimes, he wonders what you’re feeling. if you think of him, even for a fleeting second. if you’re angry, or scared, or lonely like he is. the not knowing is its own torment, but he endures it because it’s better than pretending the connection never existed.

and then, one evening, as twilight bleeds into the city, satoru finds himself walking past a quiet café he knows you like. the place is small, tucked between towering glass buildings, with warm light spilling onto the pavement. through the window, he sees you seated at a corner table, alone, eyes fixed on a book, a cup of tea untouched.

his heart stutters, the sight both a balm and a challenge. he wants to cross the street, to speak to you, to reach out and pull you back into his world. but he hesitates, caught between hope and fear, between what he wants and what you need.

you look up.

just for a second. just a shift of your gaze, like you’re checking the street, like you felt something—or someone. and satoru knows the moment your eyes land on him.

you blink. he can see it from across the street, that flicker of recognition behind your lashes. the brief, stunned stillness. the small part of you that wants to look away but doesn’t.

and it’s then that he moves.

he crosses the street without thinking. the city hums around him, cars passing, lights changing, but none of it touches him. his feet hit the sidewalk, one after the other, like this was always where he was going to end up.

the door jingles softly when he pushes it open. warm air hits him—coffee, jasmine tea, something spiced—and he sees you straighten in your seat, uncertain, your fingers curled tight around your book like it might keep you steady.

you don’t speak right away. you just stare. like you don’t know if this is real. maybe you’ve conjured him somehow. so he gives you a moment.

he approaches slowly, careful not to crowd your space, hands shaking at his sides and breathing shortening from nervousness. your tea sits untouched, lips of steam curling from the rim. there’s a smear of mascara beneath your left eye. your expression is tired. guarded.

but still you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

he stops just in front of the table. lets the quiet stretch a second longer. then—softly, almost like a joke, like a thread offered—

“hello,” he says. “i’m satoru. and you?”

you blink again. your brow furrows.

and a second later you understand.

your mouth parts, trembling. you reach for the moment like you’re not sure how to hold it, how not to break it. your small hand comes up—slow, uncertain—and he takes it, warmly and steadily, thumb brushing the back of your fingers in a manner too familiar.

you nod once, mouth opening to try and say your name, but it comes out as a sob instead.

your shoulders tremble. tears slip down your cheeks without warning, fast and hot, catching in the hollow of your throat. your fingers tighten in his, like you’re afraid you’ll fall if you don’t hold on or he’ll disappear.

and satoru’s already leaning in, already wrapping his arms around you like he always did when you fell apart.

he doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t ask.

he pulls you to your feet and into him like he’s wanted to do it for years, like your body belongs there, right against his chest, your face tucked into the curve of his neck.

your hands fist in his coat. your tears soak through his shirt. he doesn’t care.

he just holds you—tight, real, steady.

like he’s never letting go again.

—

satsuki’s office is dimly lit, the city lights casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk. he stands by the window, arms crossed, staring out but not really seeing the skyline. the quiet hum of the city below feels distant, almost irrelevant.

satoru leans against the doorway, casual yet tense, his usual carefree grin replaced by something sharper, more measured.

“you knew, didn’t you?” satsuki’s voice breaks the silence, low and controlled.

“knew what?” satoru replies, eyes narrowing but voice calm.

“about us.” satsuki turns, finally meeting his son’s gaze. “about her.”

satoru shrugs, stepping fully into the room. “i figured it was only a matter of time.”

“you crossed a line,” satsuki says, voice steady but with an edge. “not just with her, but with me.”

“maybe i did,” satoru admits. “but she wasn’t yours. not really. you never loved her.”

“love isn’t always what it seems,” satsuki counters, eyes hard. “sometimes it’s duty. control. legacy.”

“then you failed,” satoru says quietly. “because she deserved more than duty and control.”

for a moment, the two men simply regard each other—father and son, rivals and kin, bound by a past neither can fully escape.

“what now?” satsuki finally asks, voice softer.

satoru’s gaze flickers, uncertain for once. “now? i wait. i hope she knows she’s not alone.”

“and if she doesn’t come back?”

“then we live with the choices we made,” satoru says, stepping toward the door. “but i’ll be here. whether she calls or not.”

satsuki watches him go, the weight of everything heavy in the room—words left unsaid, love misunderstood, and a family fractured, too close to broken.

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