SYNOPSIS: At first, he just wanted a reaction. Now, he’s not sure he wants you to stop looking at him at all. Because the moment you finally do, he realizes it’s not enough—and it never will be.
WORD COUNT: 13.7k
The Zenin Clan compound sprawled across the rolling hills just outside Kyoto like a fortress carved from old money and older pride. High walls of weathered stone and dark timber enclosed courtyards lined with meticulously raked gravel, ancient cherry trees, and training grounds where the air always hummed with the faint crackle of cursed energy. Inside the main hall there was vast, tatami-floored, and lit by paper lanterns that cast long, golden shadows. Every pillar and sliding screen whispered of hierarchy. Strength was currency here. Weakness was erased.
You had been assigned to the clan three months ago as a contracted Grade 1 sorcerer. Your technique, Reverse Cursed Technique with an unusual affinity for stabilizing others’ cursed energy during high-stakes missions made you useful. Not family. Not heir. Just… useful. The elders tolerated your presence because you delivered results without asking for glory. The younger sorcerers mostly ignored you. And Naoya Zenin?
He had yet to decide what to do with you.
The hall was crowded tonight. Naobito’s youngest son had just returned from a solo extermination in the mountains north of the city. A Grade 1 cursed spirit that had been terrorizing rural villages for weeks. Word spread fast. Servants moved like ghosts, laying out low tables with sake and small plates of kaiseki. Clan members in traditional robes or crisp modern suits clustered near the center, their voices a low, reverent hum.
You stood near the back wall, half-hidden behind a lacquered pillar, clipboard in hand. The mission report you’d been asked to review rested on the wooden surface, but your eyes weren’t really on the words. You were watching the room the way you always did. Detached, cataloguing exits, cursed energy signatures, potential threats. Habit. Nothing more.
The heavy sliding doors at the far end whispered open.
Naoya Zenin stepped through.
He was exactly as the rumors painted him: tall, slim but powerfully built, the kind of athletic frame that moved like it had never known hesitation. His dyed blond hair with roots a deep, living green swept back from his forehead in that signature undercut, the longer top strands catching the lantern light like polished gold. Sharp brown eyes scanned the room with predatory ease. Three silver piercings glinted in his left ear. The arrogant grin was already fixed in place, as natural to him as breathing. He wore the clan’s traditional attire with effortless arrogance: a white long-sleeved shirt buttoned high under a teal kimono that shifted like liquid shadow with every step, light hakama, and waraji sandals that barely made a sound on the tatami.
The room reacted instantly.
Heads bowed. Shoulders straightened. A ripple of murmured praise washed through the crowd “Naoya-sama,” “Well done,” “As expected of the heir.” A few of the younger sorcerers practically vibrated with admiration. One woman who’s a daughter of a branch family actually flushed when his gaze flicked her way. An elder clapped him on the shoulder, voice booming about how the Zenin bloodline continued to produce perfection.
Naoya accepted it all like oxygen. He rolled one shoulder, the grin widening just enough to show teeth.
“Obviously,” he drawled, voice carrying across the hall with that lazy, cutting confidence. “Did you really think some half-rate curse would slow me down? Projection Sorcery makes short work of anything that doesn’t know its place.” He flicked a hand dismissively. “Though I will admit the thing had decent speed. For a worm.”
Laughter. More bowing. Someone pressed a cup of sake into his hand; he took it without looking, eyes already drifting over the crowd as if searching for the next source of validation.
You didn’t move.
Your pen kept scratching notes on the clipboard. Small, precise handwriting detailing the energy signatures from the report. You didn’t glance up. Didn’t straighten. Didn’t offer the polite smile or the deferential nod everyone else seemed programmed to give. He was background noise, like the distant chirp of crickets outside or the soft clink of porcelain. Present. Irrelevant.
Naoya’s gaze landed on you.
It lingered.
You felt it. The weight of those sharp brown eyes, the way they narrowed just a fraction when you failed to react. Most people would have at least looked. A quick bow. A murmured “Congratulations, Naoya-sama.” Something. Anything.
You turned a page.
He took a slow step forward, still speaking to the group but clearly directing the next words toward the back of the room. “The technique’s getting faster every time. Twenty-four frames per second, flawless execution. No one else in this clan could have handled it so cleanly.” A pause. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge. Several heads turned your way expectantly.
You finished your note, capped the pen, and finally lifted your gaze. Just enough to meet the elder who had asked you to review the report earlier. “The stabilization matrix held,” you said evenly, voice calm and professional. “No residual damage to the surrounding area. Efficient work.” You gave a small, polite nod to the elder. Nothing more.
Not to Naoya.
Not a single glance in his direction.
The silence that followed was microscopic, it was barely a heartbeat, but you felt it crackle.
Naoya’s grin didn’t falter on the surface, but something behind his eyes shifted. Confusion, maybe. Mild irritation, like a speck of dust on an otherwise pristine blade. He was used to eyes on him. Used to people orbiting him like satellites. Women especially would have been flustered, eager, desperate for even a scrap of his attention. Men respected him or feared him or both. No one simply… continued existing in his presence as if he were furniture.
He took another step, closer now, the hem of his hakama brushing the tatami. The crowd parted slightly, giving him space. “You’re the transfer, right?” His tone was light, almost conversational, but edged with that unmistakable Zenin superiority. “The one with the healing trick. Useful little ability. Must be nice, riding the coattails of real sorcerers.”
A few chuckles from the sycophants.
You adjusted the clipboard under your arm, eyes already drifting back to the report. “The technique is Reverse Cursed Technique, specialized for field stabilization,” you corrected mildly, without heat. “And yes, it’s proven effective on joint missions.” Still no eye contact. Still no acknowledgment of the subtle barb.
Naoya’s fingers tightened around the sake cup. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But he noticed the way his own pulse kicked up, just a fraction. Confusion sharpened into something closer to annoyance. She’s doing it on purpose, he thought. No one is this dense. Everyone knows who I am. Everyone reacts.
He waited.
You didn’t.
After a beat, he let out a low chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “ Acting professional.” He turned back to the group, but the grin was tighter now. “Anyway. The mission was flawless, as expected. Drinks are on the clan tonight.”
Cheers went up. The moment passed, or seemed to.
But as the crowd surged forward again, offering more praise, more sake, more deference, Naoya’s gaze kept sliding back to you. You had already moved toward one of the side doors, slipping out of the main gathering like a shadow that refused to be pinned down. No backward glance. No lingering. Just… gone.
He drained the sake in one swallow, the liquid burning pleasantly down his throat.
Who the hell does she think she is?
The thought lodged in his mind like a splinter. Small. Irritating. Impossible to ignore once it was there.
Later that night, long after the lanterns had been dimmed and the hall emptied, Naoya stood alone on the engawa overlooking the moonlit training grounds. The cool spring air carried the faint scent of blooming wisteria. His kimono hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms. He should have been basking in the afterglow of victory. Instead, his mind kept circling back to that one indifferent face in the crowd.
She hadn’t even looked at him.
Not once.
The realization sat heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Naoya Zenin did not get ignored. He was the center. The standard. The one everyone measured themselves against. And yet some contracted nobody with a clipboard and a flat voice had treated him like background noise.
His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no amusement in it.
“Interesting,” he murmured to the empty night, voice low and dangerous. “Very interesting.”
He flexed his fingers, cursed energy flickering faintly around them like static. Projection Sorcery hummed under his skin, ready at a thought.
She wanted to act like he didn’t exist?
Fine.
He’d make sure she couldn’t look anywhere else.
Three days had passed since the welcome banquet, and the Zenin Clan compound had settled back into its usual rhythm of rigid discipline and simmering ambition. Dawn painted the eastern sky in bruised pinks and golds, casting long shadows across the gravel paths that crisscrossed the training grounds. The air smelled of dew on moss and the faint ozone tang of cursed energy being honed like blades. Servants moved silently between the low wooden buildings, carrying trays of rice and miso for the early risers. In the main dojo, a vast, open-air pavilion with tatami mats worn smooth by generations of feet, sorcerers gathered for morning drills.
You were already there, as always.
Positioned at the far edge of the mats near a row of wooden practice dummies, you wore the standard field uniform: dark, reinforced jacket over a fitted shirt, pants tucked into sturdy boots. Your hair was pulled back neatly, out of the way. No makeup, no jewelry, nothing that drew attention. Just a contracted Grade 1 doing her job. You were reviewing a mission briefing scroll the elders had assigned you last night. Something about stabilizing a team during an upcoming Grade 2 incursion near Osaka. Your Reverse Cursed Technique made you the perfect support; you didn’t need praise for it. You didn’t seek it.
You didn’t seek anything from anyone here.
Especially not him.
Naoya Zenin arrived exactly on time, because of course he did. He never allowed himself to be late; tardiness was for the weak. He strode onto the training grounds in his usual attire. White button-up open at the collar just enough to show the sharp line of his clavicle, teal kimono draped over one shoulder like a casual afterthought, hakama swaying with each purposeful step. The dyed blond hair caught the morning light, green roots visible at the scalp like a reminder of the raw power beneath the polish. Three silver piercings winked in his left ear. His expression was the same arrogant half-smirk he wore like armor, but his sharp brown eyes scanned the dojo with a new intensity.
They found you immediately.
He’d spent the last three nights replaying that banquet in his head. The way you’d turned a page on your clipboard without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment. The way his words and his very presence had slid right off you like water on oiled steel. At first it had been amusing. A novelty. Then irritating. Now it festered.
No one ignored Naoya Zenin. Not the elders. Not the branch families groveling for favor. Not the women who practically tripped over themselves to catch his eye. And certainly not some outsider with a fancy healing trick.
She’s doing it on purpose, he’d decided by the second night. Playing some long game to make herself interesting. Well. Two could play.
He didn’t head straight for the center of the dojo where the main group waited, bowing and murmuring greetings. Instead, he veered toward the edge, toward you.
You felt him coming before you saw him. The shift in cursed energy was unmistakable: Projection Sorcery humming like a live wire, controlled but always ready to snap forward in those perfect twenty-four frames per second. You kept your eyes on the scroll, pen scratching notes in the margin.
“Morning briefings already?” His voice cut through the quiet dojo like a blade, loud enough for the nearby sorcerers to hear but pitched just for you. He stopped directly in your path, close enough that the hem of his hakama brushed the edge of your boot. “How dedicated. Or is it just an excuse to avoid real training?”
You finished the line you were writing. Then, without lifting your gaze, you stepped sideways, it was smooth and unhurried. You then continued toward the next dummy. “The briefing is for the Osaka team,” you said evenly, voice neutral as still water. “I’m support, not frontline. Efficiency matters.”
No eye contact. No deference. No reaction to the way he’d planted himself like a wall.
Naoya’s smirk twitched. He moved again, faster this time, Projection Sorcery flickering for a split second. Hust enough to close the distance in a blur most eyes would miss. He was in front of you once more, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly as if studying a mildly defective tool.
“Efficiency, huh?” He leaned in, invading your space without touching. You could smell the faint scent of his soap. It was something sharp and expensive, like citrus and smoke, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. “That’s cute. Most people would kill for a chance to train under me. Projection Sorcery isn’t something you just watch from the sidelines.” His voice dropped, laced with that signature Zenin condescension. “Or are you scared you’ll look weak next to perfection?”
A few of the younger clan members nearby exchanged glances, smirks hidden behind hands. They knew the game. Naoya was toying with the new girl. It was entertainment.
You simply sidestepped again, circling around him as if he were a misplaced training post. Your shoulder nearly brushed his arm, but you adjusted at the last second to avoid it. “I’ve stabilized worse than Grade 2s,” you replied, still not looking at him. “Fear doesn’t factor into the technique.” You reached the dummy and began channeling a thin thread of Reverse Cursed Technique into its core, testing the wood’s structural integrity. The faint blue glow of your energy was precise, controlled. Professional.
Naoya’s fingers flexed at his sides. No reaction. Not even a flicker of annoyance on your face. No flush, no stammer, no wide-eyed deference. Just… nothing. It was like shouting into a void.
He hated it.
The irritation coiled tighter in his chest, hotter than any curse he’d ever crushed. He was Naoya Zenin. The heir, prodigy, the one who made the clan’s future look inevitable. People orbited him. They begged for scraps of his attention. And this woman treated him like static in the background.
Fine.
He’d make himself impossible to ignore.
The rest of the morning drill became a slow, deliberate game. Naoya didn’t join the main formation. He prowled the perimeter instead, always finding reasons to cross your path. During partner drills, he “accidentally” positioned himself so you had to maneuver around him to reach your assigned station. When you moved to retrieve a set of cursed tools from the rack, he was already there. Leaning against it, long legs stretched out, blocking the way.
“Looking for something?” he drawled, eyes locked on your face even though yours stayed fixed on the tools behind him. He didn’t move. “These are clan-grade. Might be a little advanced for support work. Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”
You paused for half a second, then reached past him. Arm brushing the open collar of his shirt, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but never lingering. You selected the tool you needed without comment and stepped back. “They’re standard issue,” you said flatly. “I’ve used them before.” Then you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there with the echo of your indifference ringing in his ears.
By midday, the game had spread through the compound like wildfire among the gossiping younger sorcerers. “Naoya-sama’s got it out for the transfer girl,” they whispered. “She won’t even look at him.” Some laughed. Others watched with wary fascination.
Naoya noticed none of it. His focus had narrowed to a single point: you.
He told himself it was still just irritation. A challenge to his authority. But as the afternoon wore on and he found excuses to interrupt your solo stabilization drills. Leaning over your shoulder to “correct” your form (his breath warm against your ear, voice a low taunt: “Too slow. You’d be dead in a real fight”), standing so close in the narrow corridor leading back to the main hall that you had to turn sideways to pass. He felt something darker stirring beneath the annoyance.
Curiosity.
A sharp, gnawing need to crack the shell of your indifference and see what was underneath.
She has to react eventually, he thought, watching from the engawa as you disappeared into the archive building without a backward glance. No one sustains this forever. Not with me.
That night, long after the compound had quieted and lanterns flickered low, Naoya stood alone in his private quarters. The room was sparse by clan standards. Only the essentials, because excess was for the weak, but the sliding doors opened onto a private garden. He hadn’t slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that same neutral expression. Heard that same flat voice.
He paced, bare feet silent on the tatami, cursed energy crackling faintly at his fingertips like restrained lightning.
Tomorrow he’d push harder. Stand closer. Say things that cut deeper. Force her into a corner where ignoring him became impossible.
Because the alternative that she truly didn’t care, that he was background noise in her world was unacceptable.
It was starting to feel like a game he was losing.
And Naoya Zenin did not lose.
He stopped at the edge of the engawa, staring out into the moonlit garden where your quarters lay on the opposite side of the compound. A faint light still glowed in your window.
His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
“Keep pretending I don’t exist,” he murmured to the night, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. “See how long that lasts.”
The days blurred into a deliberate campaign.
Naoya Zenin had never needed to chase anyone in his life. People came to him, drawn like moths to the sharp, blinding light of his confidence, his power, his name. Yet here he was, three days after the morning drills, rearranging his entire schedule around one indifferent woman who refused to play the game correctly.
It started small. Logical, he told himself. He simply needed to observe the anomaly up close.
He learned your routines with the precision of a hunter mapping prey paths.
You rose before dawn, always. A quick run along the outer perimeter path that circled the wisteria garden, then straight to the auxiliary training hall for solo Reverse Cursed Technique drills. Breakfast was taken alone in the small side courtyard near the archives. Usually rice balls and green tea, eaten while reviewing reports. Mid-mornings were spent in the main archive building, cross-referencing mission data or stabilizing cursed tools for the next excursion. Afternoons involved accompanying lower-grade teams on practice missions or handling stabilization requests from the elders. Evenings: you disappeared into your modest quarters on the eastern wing, light burning late as you wrote detailed logs in that neat, unemotional handwriting.
Naoya memorized it all.
He told the elders he wanted to “personally oversee the support division’s efficiency.” They didn’t question it. Why would they? Naoya-sama’s standards were famously high.
He began appearing where you were.
Everywhere.
That first morning after the dojo incident, he was already on the perimeter path when you started your run. Leaning against a cherry tree, arms crossed, blond hair still damp from his own training. He didn’t greet you. Just watched as you approached, eyes tracking every stride with predatory focus.
You didn’t slow down. Didn’t glance his way. You simply adjusted your route by a few meters, passing him at a wider arc as if he were another tree in the landscape.
Naoya’s jaw tightened. He fell into step beside you anyway. Long legs eating up the distance effortlessly. Projection Sorcery let him match your pace without breaking a sweat.
“Running alone again?” His voice was smooth, mocking. “No partner? Afraid they’ll see how mediocre your little healing trick actually is when there’s no one to impress?”
You kept your breathing even, eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Solo runs improve focus,” you answered after a measured beat. Nothing more. No denial. No defense. You veered left at the next fork, leaving him behind without another word.
He let you go that time. But only because he already knew where you’d head next.
The auxiliary training hall.
He was waiting inside when you arrived, standing in the exact center of the mats like he owned the air itself. A few lower-rank clan members were present, but they scattered the moment he waved a lazy hand. “Out. I’m using this space.”
They bowed and fled.
You entered anyway, setting your water bottle down near the wall. Without hesitation, you moved to the far corner and began your drills. Channeling thin threads of Reverse Cursed Technique into a series of damaged practice dummies, repairing micro-fractures in the wood with precise, glowing blue energy.
Naoya didn’t join you. He simply… watched.
Leaned against the wall, arms folded, sharp brown eyes never leaving your form. He catalogued everything: the way your shoulders moved with controlled power, the faint sheen of sweat at your temple after twenty minutes, how your cursed energy flowed clean and steady without waste. Most sorcerers faltered under his stare. They’d stumble, blush, try too hard.
You didn’t even acknowledge he was there.
After thirty minutes of silence broken only by the soft hum of your technique, he pushed off the wall and stalked closer. Close enough that his shadow fell over the dummy you were working on.
“Your output is stable,” he commented, tone dripping superiority. “Boringly so. No flair. No ambition. Just… adequate.” He tilted his head, leaning in until his breath ghosted the shell of your ear. “Tell me. Does it get you off, being this forgettable? Or are you saving all that energy for when someone finally forces you to react?”
Your hands didn’t pause. The blue glow brightened slightly as you reinforced a deeper crack. “The technique doesn’t require flair,” you said quietly, professionally. “It requires precision. Results speak for themselves.” You finished the dummy, stepped back, and moved to the next one.Circling around him without brushing a single thread of his kimono.
Naoya’s fingers twitched. The urge to use Projection Sorcery to freeze you mid-step, force you to face him in twenty-four perfect frames was almost overwhelming. But he held back. Not yet. Making her acknowledge me by force would be too easy. Too cheap. He wanted the crack to come naturally. Wanted to see the exact moment her indifference shattered.
He started creating situations instead.
During lunch in the side courtyard, he appeared at the entrance just as you unwrapped your rice balls. Sat down on the opposite bench, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours under the low table, without invitation. He didn’t eat. Just stared.
“Quiet type, aren’t you?” he said after five full minutes of silence. “Most women in this clan can’t shut up around me. They simper. They laugh at every half-witted joke. They beg for a look.” His voice lowered, edged with frustration he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “You? You act like the air I breathe is beneath your notice.”
You took a slow sip of tea, eyes on the scroll beside your plate. “I have reports due by evening,” was all you offered. Then you stood, gathered your things, and left the courtyard through the opposite gate.
He followed you to the archives that afternoon.
You were deep in the stacks, pulling ancient texts on cursed energy stabilization. The narrow aisles between the tall wooden shelves left little room for two people. Naoya made sure to take up all of it.
He stepped into the aisle behind you, so close his chest nearly brushed your back when you reached for a higher shelf. One hand braced on the wood beside your head, caging you without quite touching. The scent of him filled the confined space.
“Need help reaching that?” he murmured, voice velvet over razors. “Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself on something so… beneath you.”
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t press back into him. You simply turned sideways in the tight space. Your shoulder grazing his arm for the briefest second, and pulled the book down yourself. “I’ve got it,” you said, voice steady. Then you slipped past him, pages already flipping open as you walked away.
Naoya stayed there for a long moment, hand still pressed to the shelf, breathing harder than the minor exertion warranted.
This was no longer mild irritation.
It was becoming an obsession.
He started watching you even when he didn’t approach. From rooftops. From shadowed engawa. From the training grounds’ perimeter. He told himself it was strategy. Learning weaknesses, finding the perfect pressure point. But the truth gnawed at him in the quiet hours: he was seeking you out because the compound felt wrong when you weren’t in his line of sight.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the compound in blood-orange light, he cornered one of the archive assistants. “The transfer sorcerer. What does she do after hours?”
The young man bowed low, nervous. “She… usually writes logs in her quarters, Naoya-sama. Sometimes walks the eastern garden if the weather is clear.”
Naoya dismissed him with a flick of his wrist.
That night, he found himself on the engawa overlooking the eastern garden. Your light was on again. He could see the faint silhouette through the shoji screen. Head bent over papers, pen moving steadily.
His chest tightened with something ugly and unfamiliar.
Why her?
Why did her refusal to look at him burn hotter than any praise ever had?
He flexed his hand, cursed energy sparking. Projection Sorcery could bridge the distance in an instant. He could be in front of her door before she finished her next sentence. Force the interaction. Make her see him.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, he stayed in the shadows, eyes fixed on that small window like a man possessed.
“She’ll break,” he whispered to the night, voice rough with the edge of something dangerously close to need. “Everyone does. And when she finally looks at me… she won’t look away again.”
The game had shifted.
It wasn’t about winning her attention anymore.
It was about making sure no one else could ever have it.
The afternoon sun hung heavy over the Zenin training grounds, turning the gravel paths into shimmering ribbons of heat. A light breeze carried the scent of blooming wisteria and sweat-soaked fabric. The main courtyard had been cleared for a joint drill between the main family’s elite squad and several contracted sorcerers including you.
You stood near the edge of the formation, clipboard in hand as usual, noting energy output readings for the support team. Your expression remained calm and focused, the same professional mask you wore every day. No smiles for the crowd. No nervous energy. Just quiet competence.
Naoya watched from the elevated platform where the elders sometimes observed. He wasn’t supposed to be there today. His own training schedule had him elsewhere, but he had rearranged it. Again. His sharp eyes tracked your every movement with increasing fixation. The way you moved between stations, offering precise adjustments to cursed energy flow without fanfare. The way you never once glanced toward the central group where he stood, arms crossed, teal kimono draped perfectly over his shoulders.
He had grown used to the burn of your indifference by now. It no longer surprised him; it fueled him. Every time you stepped around him in the archives, every time you answered with that flat, minimal voice and walked away, the splinter in his chest twisted deeper.
Today, though, the splinter would snap.
The drill involved paired stabilization exercises. One sorcerer would push their cursed energy to the limit while the other maintained balance with support techniques. You were assigned to assist a mid-rank clan member named Kaito. A tall, easy-going man from a branch family with a wind-manipulation technique. He wasn’t particularly powerful, but he was competent, friendly, and had a habit of cracking dry jokes during downtime.
Kaito approached you with a casual wave. “Hey, looks like we’re paired up. Try not to make me look too bad out there, yeah?”
You glanced up from your notes. For the first time in weeks, your lips curved into a small, genuine smile. Not wide, not flirtatious, just easy. Natural. “I’ll keep the feedback constructive,” you replied, voice lighter than Naoya had ever heard it. “Your wind bursts are strong, but the dispersion at the edges needs tightening. We can work on that.”
Kaito laughed. It was a warm, open sound that carried across the courtyard. “Straight to the point. I like it. Most people here just nod and hope I don’t embarrass the family. Let’s do this.”
They moved to their station.
Naoya’s fingers dug into his forearms hard enough to leave faint crescents.
He watched as you worked with Kaito. You gave clear, patient instructions. When Kaito overextended and his cursed energy spiked unevenly, you stepped in smoothly, placing a hand on his shoulder to channel Reverse Cursed Technique. The blue glow stabilized him instantly. Kaito grinned at you, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Damn, that feels way better,” he said, voice carrying. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously, most support types are either scared or sucking up. You just… fix it. No drama.”
You let out a soft laugh. Quiet, but real. It wasn’t loud or performative. It was the sound of someone relaxing for half a second because the interaction required no performance. “It’s literally my job,” you said, still smiling faintly. “But thanks. Your control improved on that last set. Keep the rotation tighter next time.”
Kaito bumped your shoulder lightly with his fist, it was friendly and brotherly. “You’re good at this. We should grab tea after drills sometime. I know a spot in the village that doesn’t suck.”
You nodded once, easy agreement. “Sure. If schedules line up.”
Another laugh from Kaito. Another easy exchange.
Naoya felt it like a curse tearing through his ribs.
She can react.
The thought slammed into him harder than any physical blow. She can smile. She can laugh. She can offer casual conversation and light touches and future plans like it’s nothing.
Just not to me.
His vision narrowed. The rest of the courtyard faded into a dull hum. All he saw was you, smiling at someone ordinary. Someone who hadn’t earned it. Someone who hadn’t spent weeks pushing, invading, obsessing just to get a single scrap of acknowledgment.
The ego damage was visceral. Deeper than jealousy. This wasn’t about wanting what another man had. This was the realization that your indifference wasn’t a universal trait. It was targeted. Deliberate. You chose to give warmth and attention to others while treating him—Naoya Zenin, the heir, the prodigy—like he was less than the gravel under your boots.
His chest burned. Projection Sorcery flickered involuntarily around his hands, twenty-four frames of restrained violence itching to be unleashed.
How dare she.
How dare she have that in her and withhold it from him.
The drill continued for another twenty minutes. Every laugh, every easy word between you and Kaito scraped against Naoya’s nerves like sandpaper on raw skin. When the session finally ended and Kaito gave you another friendly wave before heading off, Naoya didn’t wait.
He descended from the platform in a blur, Projection Sorcery carrying him across the courtyard faster than anyone could track. He reached you just as you were gathering your clipboard.
You sensed him coming, his cursed energy crackling like a storm, but you didn’t look up. You simply turned toward the exit path.
Naoya stepped directly into your way. No teasing lean this time. No mocking drawl. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, eyes burning with something sharper than irritation.
“You seem chatty today,” he said, voice low and edged with ice. No smile. No arrogance masking the cut. Just raw, unfiltered confrontation. “Laughing. Making plans. Touching. All that warmth for a branch family nobody who can barely hold a Grade 2 on his own.”
You paused, finally lifting your gaze, but only to his chest, not his face. “The exercise went well,” you replied evenly. “Feedback helps the team.”
He took a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head slightly if you wanted to avoid looking at him. His hand came up not grabbing, but hovering near your arm, fingers trembling with the effort not to close the distance. “Team,” he repeated, the word dripping venom. “You give them smiles. You give them laughs. You give them your time like it costs nothing.” His voice dropped even lower, almost a growl. “But me? I get nothing. Not a glance. Not a reaction. Not even basic fucking courtesy.”
The air between you thickened. A few lingering sorcerers glanced over, sensing the shift in tension, but they quickly looked away. No one interfered with Naoya Zenin when he looked like this.
You didn’t back down. Didn’t step away. You simply adjusted your grip on the clipboard. “I respond when it’s necessary, Naoya-sama.”
The honorific felt like a slap.
His eyes darkened. For the first time, the obsession cracked open fully in his chest, no longer disguised as mere provocation.
“So you can react,” he said, almost to himself, the words bitter. “Just not to me.”
He wanted to grab your chin. Force your eyes up. Make you see exactly who was standing in front of you. But he held back, barely. The restraint only made the fire worse.
You sidestepped him again, the movement smooth and unhurried, and continued toward the archives.
Naoya didn’t follow immediately. He stood there in the courtyard, fists clenched at his sides, blond hair shifting in the breeze as the green roots seemed to darken with his mood.
The game had changed.
No more testing.
No more waiting for you to slip.
He would corner you. Force the reaction. Make you understand that ignoring him was no longer an option.
Because the thought of you laughing with anyone else. Giving even a fraction of that easy warmth to someone beneath him made something possessive and ugly uncoil in his gut.
He wanted your attention.
He wanted your reactions.
He wanted you.
And he would have them. All of them.
Even if he had to break his own rules to get there.
The archive building was quiet after sunset. Most of the clan had retired to their quarters or the main hall for evening sake and strategy talks. Only the faint glow of lanterns and the occasional rustle of turning pages broke the silence in the long, narrow corridors lined with towering shelves of ancient scrolls and cursed tool ledgers.
You were alone in the restricted section at the back, a small reading alcove tucked behind a sliding shoji screen. A single lantern cast warm light over the low table where you sat cross-legged, surrounded by open texts on advanced Reverse Cursed Technique applications. Your pen moved steadily across fresh paper, logging observations from the day’s drill. The air smelled of aged paper, ink, and the faint cedar of the wooden beams.
You didn’t hear him approach at first.
Naoya moved like a predator who had already decided the hunt was over.
Projection Sorcery carried him through the empty halls in near-silence. Twenty-four flawless frames per second, each step calculated so that the tatami barely whispered under his waraji. He had waited until the last assistant left. Until the compound settled. Until there was nowhere left for you to slip away.
He stopped just outside the alcove, one hand resting on the wooden frame of the shoji. His shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing the lantern light. The teal kimono hung open at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of his chest and the faint sheen of sweat from hours of restrained tension. Blond hair fell slightly messier than usual, green roots stark in the low light. His sharp brown eyes locked onto you with burning intensity.
You felt the shift in cursed energy immediately. Heavy, crackling, barely leashed. But you kept writing. One more line. One more note.
Naoya slid the shoji screen shut behind him with a soft click. The sound was final. No escape route. No audience. Just the two of you in the confined space.
He didn’t speak at first. He simply stood there, staring down at you. The silence stretched, thick and charged.
Then, voice low and rough, edged with weeks of festering frustration:
“You ignore me on purpose.”
It wasn’t a question.
You paused, pen stilling on the paper. For the first time in all these encounters, you slowly lifted your gaze and meeting his eyes directly. Not wide-eyed. Not fearful. Just… calm. Steady. As if you had been waiting for this moment to arrive.
You didn’t deny it.
The lack of denial seemed to snap something inside him.
Naoya took one step forward, then another, until he was towering over the low table. His presence filled the alcove, the heat of his body cutting through the cool night air. He dropped into a crouch in front of you close, too close, his knees bracketing the edge of the table so you couldn’t easily stand without brushing against him.
“Look at me,” he demanded, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Right now. Stop pretending I’m fucking background noise.”
Your eyes stayed on his. Unflinching. “I’m not pretending anything, Naoya-sama.”
The honorific sounded hollow again. It only fueled the fire.
He leaned in further, one hand planting on the table beside your notes, the other gripping the edge of the wooden surface so tightly the grain creaked. His face was inches from yours now. Close enough that you could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his piercings caught the lantern light, the raw, obsessive hunger burning in those sharp brown eyes.
“You laugh with that branch-family idiot,” he hissed, the words spilling out sharper than he intended. “You smile. You touch him like it’s nothing. You make plans. But when I speak, when I stand right in front of you, you act like I don’t exist.” His breath ghosted across your lips. “Why? What makes me so fucking beneath your notice?”
You held his gaze. Your voice remained even, but there was a new undercurrent. Something quieter, almost curious. “Because everyone else wants something from you. Praise. Favor. A reaction. I don’t.”
The honesty hit him like a curse technique to the chest.
Naoya’s eyes darkened. He reached out and caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Not rough, but firm. Unavoidable. He tilted your face up, forcing you to keep looking at him even as you tried to maintain that careful distance.
“Then give me one,” he said, voice rough and low, vibrating with frustration and something far darker. “React. Say something. Fight back. Do anything except this… nothing.”
His thumb brushed your lower lip, barely there, but the touch sent a spark through the confined space. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed there, crouched in front of you, body caging yours against the table, cursed energy humming around him like a storm about to break.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Your eyes searched his face for a long moment. Taking in the arrogant set of his jaw, the possessive glint in his stare, the way his breathing had grown uneven.
“I see you, Naoya,” you said finally, quiet but clear. “I just don’t need to orbit you like everyone else does.”
Something in him cracked.
It wasn’t softness. It wasn’t romance.
It was raw, frustrated need.
He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But he leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to remind you he could hold you there if he wanted.
“You will,” he whispered, the words almost a threat. “You’ll look at me. You’ll react to me. You’ll stop walking away like I’m nothing.” His free hand moved to brace on the table behind you, fully caging you now. The heat of his body pressed close. Chest inches from yours, thigh brushing your knee. “Because I’m done playing this game. You’ve been under my skin for weeks, acting like you’re immune. You’re not.”
The air crackled with tension. His cursed energy flickered, Projection Sorcery ready to freeze the moment if you tried to slip away again. But you didn’t move.
You just looked at him, really looked, seeing the obsession that had taken root behind the arrogance.
Naoya’s breath hitched. The realization slammed into him harder than ever:
This wasn’t about winning anymore.
This wasn’t about ego.
He wanted you. Specifically you. Your attention. Your reactions. Your indifference broken only for him.
And he was no longer willing to wait.
“Say something,” he demanded again, voice hoarse, thumb still tracing your lip with deliberate slowness. “Anything. Or I’ll make sure you can’t ignore me ever again.”
The lantern flame flickered between you, casting shifting shadows across his sharp, beautiful, dangerous face.
The confrontation had begun.
And Naoya Zenin had no intention of letting you walk away from it unchanged.
The lantern in the archive alcove flickered low, casting long, dancing shadows across the wooden beams and scattered scrolls. The air felt thicker now, heavier with the scent of old paper, ink, and the sharp, clean citrus-smoke of Naoya’s presence. His hand still held your chin. His thumb pressing lightly against your lower lip, not painful, but insistent. Unyielding. His sharp brown eyes bored into yours, pupils blown wide with a mix of frustration, fascination, and something far more dangerous.
He was close. Too close.
His knee had shifted forward between yours where you sat on the floor cushion, caging you against the low table. The open collar of his white shirt revealed the taut line of his collarbone and the faint sheen of tension on his skin. The teal kimono had slipped further off one shoulder, exposing the powerful slope of muscle. Projection Sorcery hummed faintly around him, a barely-contained vibration that made the air between your bodies feel electric.
You didn’t pull away.
You didn’t lean in either.
You simply held his gaze, steady and unafraid, as if this entire storm of obsession was something you had expected all along.
That lack of fear that complete refusal to be intimidated or impressed only twisted the knife deeper in Naoya’s chest.
His thumb dragged slowly across your lower lip, deliberate and testing. The touch was rougher now, less controlled. “You’re not scared,” he murmured, voice low and rough, almost accusatory. “Not even a little. Everyone else in this compound flinches when I look at them the wrong way. Women practically melt or run. But you…” He leaned in closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath hot against your mouth. “You just look at me like I’m another scroll on the shelf.”
He released your chin only to slide his hand along your jaw, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding. Possessing. Testing how far he could push before you finally reacted.
“Say something,” he demanded again, the words edged with that familiar arrogance, but cracked open by raw need. “React. Tell me I’m wasting my time. Tell me to fuck off. Anything but this silence.”
Your breathing remained even, though your pulse had quickened just enough for him to feel it under his fingertips. “You’re not wasting your time if this is what you want,” you said quietly, voice calm but no longer completely detached. There was a new undercurrent there. Something sharper, almost challenging. “But I won’t perform for you, Naoya.”
His eyes flashed.
The use of his name without the honorific this time hit him like a spark on dry tinder.
He moved.
In one fluid motion, Projection Sorcery blurring the transition, he rose and pulled you up with him. His hands gripped your waist, firm and unyielding, spinning you so your back pressed against the nearest shelf. Scrolls rattled softly behind you. The wooden edge dug into your spine, but his body crowded forward immediately, pinning you there with his hips and chest.
He was hard against you. Thighs bracketing yours, one hand braced beside your head on the shelf, the other still tangled in your hair. The heat of him seeped through your uniform, overwhelming. His face hovered inches away, lips brushing the corner of your mouth as he spoke.
“You think this is a performance?” he growled, voice dropping into something darker, more obsessive. “This isn’t a game anymore. You’ve been walking around this compound like you’re above it all. Above me. While I can’t stop thinking about how to make you look at me.” His hips pressed forward slightly, deliberate, letting you feel the growing evidence of his frustration. “Every time you stepped around me, every time you refused to even glance my way… it drove me insane.”
He tilted his head, nose tracing along your jawline, breath hot against your ear. “I watch you now. Your routines. Your drills. The way you breathe when you’re concentrating. I know when you take your tea. I know how long you stay in the garden at night.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. Light, testing, not quite a bite. “And still you act like I don’t exist.”
His free hand slid down your side, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist, then lower to grip your hip. He pulled you tighter against him, the movement slow and intentional, grinding just enough to make his point without crossing fully into violence.
“You’re not impressed by me,” he continued, voice hoarse now, lips brushing your neck. “Not intimidated. Not trying to use me for status or power or anything the others want.” He laughed once. “That’s what makes you dangerous. That’s why I can’t stop.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, eyes dark and burning. His hand left your hair to cup your face, thumb dragging down your throat, pressing lightly over your pulse.
“React to me,” he whispered, the command laced with desperate fascination. “Fight me. Want me. Hate me. I don’t care anymore, as long as it’s me you’re feeling it for.”
The tension in the small alcove was suffocating. His body was a wall of heat and muscle, hips still pressed flush against yours, one thigh nudged between your legs to keep you pinned. Cursed energy crackled faintly around both of you. His Projection Sorcery mixing with the steady blue glow of your Reverse Cursed Technique that had begun to flicker unconsciously in response to the proximity.
You could feel every inch of his restraint fraying. The way his fingers trembled slightly against your skin. The way his breathing had grown ragged. The arrogant heir who had never needed to chase anyone was now obsessed, fixated, unraveling because one woman refused to give him what everyone else handed over freely.
He leaned in again, lips hovering just above yours. Close enough that the slightest movement would close the distance.
“Say my name again,” he ordered, voice rough and low, almost pleading beneath the demand. “Look at me while you do it. And don’t you dare look away this time.”
His hips rolled once more. Slow, deliberate, a clear promise of everything he was barely holding back.
The spice had ignited.
And Naoya Zenin had no intention of letting the fire die until you finally burned with him.
He was breathing harder now, chest rising and falling against yours, the open collar of his shirt allowing skin-to-skin contact where the fabric had slipped. His sharp brown eyes never left yours. Dark, obsessive, burning with weeks of pent-up frustration finally spilling over.
Your pulse thrummed under his thumb. You held his gaze, unflinching, even as heat pooled low in your belly from the relentless proximity. “Naoya,” you said quietly, the name slipping out softer this time, but still steady. No tremor. No submission. Just acknowledgment laced with that same calm challenge.
Something feral flashed across his face.
He closed the last inch.
His mouth crashed against yours. It was hungry, demanding, all sharp teeth and arrogant possession. There was nothing gentle about it. This was Naoya Zenin claiming what had tormented him for weeks. His tongue swept in without waiting for permission, tasting, conquering, devouring the indifference he hated so much. One hand tangled deeper into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you tighter against his grinding hips.
You tasted like tea and ink and the quiet defiance that had driven him insane. He groaned into the kiss, low and frustrated, the sound vibrating through his chest. His thigh pressed higher between your legs, rubbing with deliberate friction as his hips rocked again. Though slower this time, more intentional, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was for you.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was hoarse, wrecked. “You taste like nothing I’ve ever wanted before. And I hate how much I need it.”
He didn’t give you time to respond. His mouth moved to your neck, lips and teeth scraping along the sensitive skin, sucking a mark just below your jaw. His actions were dark, possessive, and impossible to hide. His hand slid under the hem of your uniform jacket, fingers splaying hot across your bare waist, nails digging in as he pulled you even closer. The roll of his hips became more insistent, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against you in a rhythm that made the shelf behind you creak softly.
“You feel that?” he rasped, biting down on your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue. “That’s what your silence does to me. Weeks of you walking away, acting like I’m nothing… and now I can’t stop thinking about bending you over every surface in this compound until you can’t ignore me anymore.”
His cursed energy flared, Projection Sorcery flickering for a split second. Freezing the moment just long enough to make the friction sharper, more overwhelming before releasing it again. He was losing control, and he didn’t care. The arrogant heir who never chased was now rutting against you like a man starved, lips trailing back to your mouth for another bruising kiss.
But then, you shifted.
Your hands came up to his chest, not pushing him away exactly, but creating the slightest space. Your breathing was ragged now, lips swollen from his kisses, but that familiar calm was creeping back into your eyes. You started to turn your head, body angling as if to slip sideways along the shelf. The same way you had moved around him so many times before. Walking away mid-interaction. Denying him even in the heat of the moment.
Naoya’s reaction was pure instinct.
His hand shot out, slamming against the shelf beside your head with enough force to rattle the scrolls. His other arm wrapped around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back flush against him. Projection Sorcery activated fully this time, locking the frame for a heartbeat so you couldn’t complete the sidestep.
“No,” he snarled, the word torn from deep in his chest. “You don’t get to walk away. Not now. Not from this.”
He held you there, trapped against his body, his forehead pressed hard to yours, breathing ragged and hot. His hips had stilled, but his cock was still throbbing against you, heavy and insistent. The grip on your waist was bruising, possessive.
And in that frozen second when his body acted before his mind could catch up, the realization slammed into him like a curse breaking through his ribs.
This wasn’t about attention anymore.
It wasn’t about winning the game or repairing his ego or forcing a reaction just to prove he could.
He wanted you.
Specifically you.
Not the praise. Not the admiration. Not even the satisfaction of breaking your indifference.
He wanted the woman who looked at him without awe or fear. The one who moved through the compound like a quiet storm he couldn’t control. The one whose calm voice and steady hands made his blood burn hotter than any battle ever had.
He wanted your time. Your touch. Your rare smiles turned toward him. Your body under his. Your voice saying his name like it mattered.
Not because everyone else gave it freely.
Because it was you.
Naoya’s eyes widened fractionally, the obsessive fire in them shifting into something deeper, more dangerous. His grip loosened just enough to be less punishing, but he didn’t let go. His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip again, almost reverent now, though his voice stayed blunt and annoyed, pure Naoya.
“You’re irritating as hell,” he muttered, voice rough and low, forehead still pressed to yours. “Acting like I don’t exist when all I can think about is you. Stop it.”
What he meant was: Don’t ignore me. Don’t walk away. Don’t make me chase what I now realize I can’t live without.
His hips rolled once more. Slower, deeper, a deliberate grind that dragged his clothed cock along your core with aching friction. His hand slid higher under your jacket, palm hot against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through fabric.
“I want you,” he said bluntly, the confession sounding almost angry on his tongue. “Not your reaction. Not your submission. You. Specifically you. And I’m done pretending it’s anything else.”
He kissed you again. It was now hard, claiming, but with a new edge of raw honesty beneath the arrogance. His body pressed fully against yours, thigh spreading your legs wider, hips moving in a slow, filthy rhythm that promised everything he was barely holding back.
The lantern light flickered over his sharp, flushed face. Blond hair messy, green roots dark with sweat, piercings glinting as he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“Tell me you feel it too,” he demanded, voice hoarse, hips still grinding slow and relentless. “Or I’ll keep you here until you do.”
The obsession had cracked open completely.
And Naoya Zenin was no longer fighting it.
The restricted alcove in the archive building had become a pressure cooker. Lantern light flickered weakly across scattered scrolls and the low table, but neither of you paid any attention to the mess. Naoya’s body was a solid wall of heat and tension, pressing you back against the wooden shelf with unrelenting insistence. His thigh remained wedged between yours, hips grinding in slow, deliberate circles that dragged the thick, hard length of his cock against your core through too many layers of fabric. Each roll sent sparks of friction straight through you, making your breath hitch despite your best efforts to stay composed.
His mouth was on yours again. He kissed like he fought: no mercy, no hesitation, all raw dominance tempered by the obsessive need that had been eating him alive for weeks. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head exactly how he wanted. The other had pushed fully under your uniform jacket, palm hot and rough against your ribs, fingers splaying wide as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast, teasing the edge of fabric without quite giving you more.
He pulled back from the kiss with a wet sound, lips swollen, breathing ragged. His sharp brown eyes, dark with lust and that deeper, dangerous fixation locked onto yours. Blond hair fell messier across his forehead, green roots visible and damp with sweat. The three silver piercings in his left ear caught the light as he tilted his head, studying you like a man who had finally stopped pretending.
“You’re still not running,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost annoyed at how much that pleased him. “Everyone else would have begged or cried or thrown themselves at me by now. But you…” He rolled his hips harder, grinding the ridge of his erection right against your clit with precise, filthy pressure. “You just take it. Look at me like you’re waiting for me to break first.”
His hand slid higher, finally cupping your breast fully, squeezing with arrogant possession as his thumb circled your nipple through the thin layer of your shirt. He pinched lightly, then harder when your body arched into him despite yourself. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest.
“Fuck… look at that reaction,” he muttered, leaning in to scrape his teeth along your jaw, then down to the mark he’d already sucked into your neck. He bit down again harder this time sucking until the skin bloomed dark under his mouth. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you? All that calm indifference, and your body’s betraying you right here against my cock.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His free hand dropped to your hip, gripping hard as he rocked against you in a steady, relentless rhythm. The friction was maddening. Thick and hot, the outline of him rubbing perfectly with every grind. Projection Sorcery flickered around you both for a split second, sharpening the sensation until it felt like there was nothing between you.
Then he stopped.
Pulled back just enough to look at you properly, chest heaving.
Instead of another taunt or demand, his expression shifted. The arrogance was still there but beneath it was something rawer. More honest. Still very much Naoya.
“You’re irritating,” he said bluntly, voice hoarse but direct. His hand stayed on your breast, thumb lazily stroking your nipple as if he couldn’t stop touching you. “Acting like I don’t exist when I can’t get you out of my head. I watch you run in the mornings. I know exactly how long you spend in the archives. I rearrange my entire fucking day just to stand in your way… and you still treat me like background noise.”
He leaned in again, forehead pressing to yours, hips giving one slow, deep grind that made his cock twitch against you. His breath was hot against your lips.
“Stop it.”
The words were simple. Annoyed. Almost petulant in that Zenin way.
But what he meant hung heavy in the charged air between you:
Don’t ignore me anymore.
Don’t walk away mid-sentence.
Don’t make me chase what I now know I need.
His hand left your breast only to slide down your side, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. He didn’t pull them down, not yet, but the intention was clear. His palm pressed flat against your lower stomach, thumb dipping just beneath the fabric, brushing the sensitive skin there.
“I want you,” he continued, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Not the reaction. Not the ego boost. You. Specifically you. The one who doesn’t simper or beg or look at me like I’m some prize. The one who makes me lose control just by existing in the same compound.” He nipped at your lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue. “It pisses me off how much I want this. How much I want to pin you down every night until the only name you remember is mine.”
The touch became more intentional now. His fingers slipped lower, tracing the edge of your underwear before pressing firmly against your clothed heat. He rubbed slow circles, feeling the dampness there, a smug yet frustrated smirk tugging at his lips even as his eyes stayed dark with obsession.
“Feel that?” he murmured, voice thick. “That’s mine now. This whole fucking indifference act ends tonight. You’re going to look at me. You’re going to moan for me. And you’re going to stop pretending I’m not the only thing you think about when you’re alone in that quiet little room of yours.”
He kissed you again. Less frantic conquest, more deliberate possession. His fingers continued their teasing pressure between your legs, building the heat without rushing to the end. His hips rocked gently against his own hand and your thigh, letting you feel how painfully hard he still was.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours once more. The lantern light cast sharp shadows across his flushed face.
“No more games,” he said, blunt and final, thumb pressing firmer against your clit through the fabric. “You’re staying right here until you admit it. Until you feel it. Until you’re as obsessed as I am.”
His fingers slipped beneath the last layer of fabric, finally touching bare, slick skin. Two fingers dragged slowly through your folds, gathering wetness before circling your clit with precise, torturous pressure.
“Say it,” he demanded, voice a low growl against your mouth. “Tell me you’re done ignoring me. Tell me you want this, you want me, as much as I want you.”
The breaking point had arrived.
Naoya Zenin wasn’t asking anymore.
He was claiming.
And in the flickering lantern light of the private alcove, with his body pressed hot and heavy against yours, fingers working you with arrogant skill and obsessive focus, the tension finally shattered into something raw, addictive, and undeniably mutual.
“Say it,” he growled again, voice low and rough, thumb pressing harder on your clit as his fingers teased your entrance. “Tell me you’re done ignoring me. Tell me this pussy is already mine.”
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed. But instead of the surrender he clearly expected, the corner of your mouth twitched into a small, defiant smirk.
“Make me,” you whispered, voice breathy but laced with clear challenge. You rolled your hips once against his hand then pulled back just enough to deny him the full friction. “You’ve been chasing me for weeks, Naoya. If you want me that badly… earn it.”
Brat.
The single word flashed across Naoya’s mind like a curse.
His eyes narrowed instantly. The arrogant set of his jaw tightened, and a dangerous smirk curled his lips sharp and predatory, it was pure Zenin superiority. The playful frustration in his expression vanished, replaced by cold, controlled annoyance.
“Oh?” His voice dropped dangerously low, the casual drawl gone. “You think you can still play games with me? After all this?”
Before you could retort, his hand withdrew from your pants entirely. You barely had time to register the loss before he spun you around with effortless strength. Projection Sorcery blurring the motion so fast your back hit the shelf again, this time facing away from him. His chest pressed flush to your back, one arm banding around your waist like iron while his free hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back sharply so your neck arched.
“You want to act like a brat?” he hissed directly into your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Fine. I’ll treat you like one.”
His hips snapped forward, grinding his cock hard against your ass through the fabric. The thick, heavy length rubbed insistently, letting you feel exactly how little patience he had left. With a rough tug, he yanked your uniform jacket and shirt up in one motion, exposing your back and breasts to the cool air. His hand immediately palmed one breast, squeezing hard, pinching your nipple between thumb and forefinger with mean precision.
“Naoya—” you started, the challenge still in your tone.
“Shut up,” he snapped, voice sharp and commanding. He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder. Hard enough to leave teeth marks then soothed it with a rough lick. “You’ve had your fun ignoring me. Walking away. Acting like I’m nothing. Now you’re going to learn exactly who owns your attention.”
He shoved your pants and underwear down in one swift, impatient motion, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hit your soaked core, but it was immediately replaced by the heat of his hand as he reached between your legs from behind. Two fingers plunged inside you without warning. It was deep, stretching, curling instantly against that spot that made your knees buckle.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he growled, pumping his fingers hard and fast, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet alcove. “All that bratty mouth and your cunt is clenching around me like it’s starving. Pathetic.”
You tried to push back against him, still challenging, a breathy “Is that all you’ve got—” slipping out.
Naoya’s response was immediate and merciless.
He pulled his fingers out, spun you again to face him, and lifted you clean off the ground with Projection Sorcery assisting the motion. Your back slammed against the shelf once more as he pinned you there, your legs forced around his waist. He freed his cock with his other hand. He was thick, flushed, leaking at the tip and dragged the head through your folds once, twice, coating himself in your wetness.
“Still talking?” he sneered, eyes dark with annoyed lust. “Let’s fix that.”
He thrust into you in one brutal stroke. Burying himself to the hilt, stretching you open around his cock with zero mercy. The sudden fullness punched the air from your lungs. Naoya groaned, deep and satisfied, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second as he savored the tight heat.
“Shit… so fucking tight,” he muttered, then pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm immediately. Each thrust was deep, hard, and perfectly controlled. Projection Sorcery letting him hit exactly where he wanted, over and over. The shelf rattled behind you with every snap of his hips. His hands gripped your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he fucked you against the wood.
“You wanted me to earn it?” he taunted between thrusts, voice rough and breathless but dripping with superiority. “This is me earning it. This is what happens when you push me, brat. You get fucked until the only thing you can say is my name.”
He angled his hips, grinding deep on every stroke so the head of his cock dragged against that sensitive spot inside you. One hand left your ass to wrap around your throat. Not choking, but firm, possessive, tilting your head so you had no choice but to look at him.
“Eyes on me,” he ordered, sharp and final. “No looking away. No ignoring me. You’re going to watch me fuck the attitude right out of you.”
His pace quickened, thrusts turning shorter and harder, skin slapping against skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead, blond hair sticking to his skin, green roots dark. His piercings glinted with every movement. He leaned in, biting your lower lip hard before kissing you. The kiss was messy, dominating, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock.
Every thrust drove the point home: he was in control now. Completely.
No more chasing.
No more games.
You were his, and he was going to make sure you felt it in every bruise, every mark, every deep, relentless stroke.
“Say it,” he demanded again, voice strained with pleasure but still commanding. He slammed in particularly hard, holding himself deep as he ground against your clit. “Tell me who you belong to. Tell me you’re done being a fucking brat and you’ll look at me from now on.”
His hand tightened slightly on your throat, thumb pressing under your jaw as he kept fucking you with single-minded, obsessive intensity.
Naoya Zenin had finally taken full control.
And he wasn’t stopping until you broke exactly the way he wanted.
Naoya’s cock was buried deep inside you, thick and throbbing, stretching you open with every brutal snap of his hips. The wooden shelf dug into your back as he fucked you against it with relentless force, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin and the low, arrogant growl rumbling from his chest. His hands gripped your ass hard enough to leave fingerprints, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he held you suspended, legs wrapped tightly around his waist.
Sweat glistened on his sharp collarbones, his white shirt hanging open and clinging to his skin. Blond hair stuck to his forehead, green roots dark and messy. Those sharp brown eyes burned into yours with pure, obsessive dominance. No mercy, no softness, only the raw need to break the last of your defiance.
And you were still pushing him.
Even as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in your belly, even as your walls fluttered helplessly around his cock with every deep stroke, you managed a breathless, bratty smirk.
“Is that… all you’ve got?” you gasped between thrusts, voice shaky but challenging. “Thought the great Naoya Zenin would last longer than this…”
His eyes flashed with pure annoyance.
He slammed into you harder, grinding the head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you until your vision blurred. Then, he stopped.
Completely.
Buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours, he held perfectly still. Projection Sorcery flickered around you both, freezing the moment so you couldn’t even rock against him for friction. The sudden denial made your core clench desperately around nothing but his thick length, the orgasm that had been building crashing back down into agonizing frustration.
Naoya’s lips curled into a dangerous, mocking smirk. His hand moved to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your pulse jump under his palm.
“Still running that mouth?” he hissed, voice low and venomous. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
He pulled out almost entirely, leaving only the swollen head inside you, then thrust back in once before stopping again. The sharp spike of pleasure followed immediately by nothing made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
“You want to cum?” he taunted, leaning in so his lips brushed your ear, hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “Then beg properly, brat. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ll never ignore me again. Say the words and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you fall apart on my cock.”
You bit your lip, hips twitching uselessly against his hold. The denial burned. Your body was screaming for release, walls pulsing around his cock, but he refused to move.
“Naoya…” you tried, voice strained, still trying to sound defiant.
He laughed. Short, cruel, and entirely too pleased with himself.
“Wrong answer.”
He started moving again, but slower this time. Torturously slow. Long, deep strokes that dragged the thick head of his cock against every sensitive ridge inside you, building you right back up to the edge with merciless precision. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, firm circles that had your thighs shaking around his waist.
Every time your breathing hitched, every time your walls started to flutter and tighten around him, he stopped.
Completely.
Pulled out until only the tip remained, or froze with Projection Sorcery, leaving you dangling on the precipice of orgasm with nothing but aching emptiness.
Over and over.
The fourth time he edged you, tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his open shirt. Your voice cracked.
“Naoya—please—”
“Please what?” he growled, slamming in deep once more before stilling again. His cock twitched inside you, hot and heavy, but he refused to give you the final push. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your collarbone. His grip on your throat tightened slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. “Use your words, little brat. Tell me exactly what I want to hear.”
You whimpered, hips desperately trying to grind against him, but his hold was ironclad. The pleasure was unbearable now—coiled so tight it hurt, every nerve ending screaming for release.
“I’m yours,” you finally gasped, voice breaking on the words. “I’m yours, Naoya—fuck—I won’t ignore you anymore. I won’t walk away. I won’t… I won’t pretend you don’t exist. Please—please let me cum—”
Naoya’s eyes darkened with savage satisfaction. The arrogant smirk widened, but there was something deeper in his gaze now.
“That’s better,” he murmured, voice rough and approving. “But say it like you mean it.”
He started moving again. Harder this time, faster, each thrust punishing and perfect. His cock drove into you with brutal precision, hitting that spot over and over while his thumb worked your clit in tight, relentless circles.
“I’m yours!” you cried out, the words tumbling desperately now. “I’m yours, Naoya—only yours. I won’t ignore you again—I swear—please, I need—”
He cut you off with a bruising kiss, tongue claiming your mouth as he fucked you with single-minded intensity. The denial finally shattered.
“Come,” he commanded against your lips, voice dark and final. “Cum on my cock like the brat you are. Show me who owns you now.”
The orgasm crashed over you like a curse breaking. Violent, overwhelming, white-hot pleasure ripping through every nerve. Your walls clamped down around him, pulsing and fluttering as you came hard, a broken moan of his name tearing from your throat. Your vision whited out, body shaking violently in his hold as wave after wave tore through you.
Naoya didn’t stop.
He fucked you straight through it, hips snapping relentlessly, drawing out every last tremor until you were oversensitive and whimpering. Only then did he bury himself deep one final time, groaning low and guttural as he came inside you. Hot, thick pulses filling you up while his fingers dug bruises into your hips.
He stayed buried inside you as you both came down, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. His hand loosened on your throat, sliding up to cup your jaw instead. Still possessive, still controlling, but with a new, darker satisfaction burning in his eyes.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice hoarse but dripping with arrogant triumph. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He kissed you again but slower this time, no less claiming. Then pulled back just enough to look at you with that sharp, obsessive gaze.
“No more ignoring me,” he warned, still deep inside you, cock twitching with aftershocks. “From now on, you look at me. You react to me. You belong to me. Understand?”
His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip, eyes narrowing with that familiar Zenin intensity.
“Or next time, I’ll edge you for hours.”
The resolution had come.
Naoya Zenin had won.
And the possessive, obsessive fire between you had only just begun to burn.
The morning light filtered through the shoji screens of Naoya’s private quarters, painting the tatami in soft gold and shadow. The compound outside was already stirring. The distant sounds of training drills, servants moving along the engawa, the faint clash of cursed energy in the air. But inside this room, the world had narrowed to the large futon and the two bodies tangled within it.
You woke first, or at least you thought you did.
Naoya’s arm was draped heavily across your waist, possessive even in sleep. His bare chest pressed against your back, skin warm and marked with the faint scratches your nails had left the night before. His cock, half-hard and still nestled between your thighs, twitched faintly as you shifted. The marks he’d left on your neck and shoulders throbbed pleasantly. Dark bites and bruises that would be impossible to hide under your uniform collar.
You tried to slip out from under his arm, moving slowly, testing.
The arm tightened instantly.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was rough with sleep, low and dangerous, lips brushing the back of your neck. He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his hips rolled forward, pressing his growing erection more firmly against your ass. “Didn’t I tell you last night? No more walking away.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh. Still a little defiant, still testing the new boundaries. “I was just going to get water, Naoya. Not running to the archives to ignore you.”
He hummed, unconvinced. In one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back and loomed over you, blond hair messy, green roots visible, sharp brown eyes finally cracking open with that familiar arrogant glint. The three silver piercings in his ear caught the morning light as he smirked down at you.
“Liar,” he murmured, voice still thick. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down your body to cup between your legs. His fingers found you still slick from the night before. His cum and your own release making everything messy and sensitive. “You were going to slip out like always. Old habits.”
Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling lazily as his thumb brushed your clit. You gasped, hips jerking, but he held you down easily.
“Naoya—” you started, the challenge creeping back into your tone even as pleasure sparked through you.
He leaned down, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting. “Say it again,” he ordered, pumping his fingers slowly, deliberately building you up. “Tell me who you belong to. Right now.”
You bit back a moan, eyes narrowing up at him in that same bratty spark. “Make me.”
His eyes darkened instantly. The smirk turned sharper, more dangerous.
“Oh, you still haven’t learned?”
He withdrew his fingers, ignoring your frustrated whine, and replaced them with the thick head of his cock. He pushed in slowly this time inch by inch, stretching you open with deliberate control until he was buried to the hilt. Then he stilled.
Completely.
“No moving,” he warned when you tried to roll your hips. Projection Sorcery flickered, locking your lower body in place so you couldn’t chase the friction. “Not until you say it properly.”
He stayed there, buried deep, cock twitching inside you, while his free hand lazily traced circles around your clit. Light enough to tease, never enough to satisfy.
You lasted maybe thirty seconds before the words tumbled out, breathless and edged with need.
“I’m yours,” you gasped, thighs trembling against the invisible hold. “I’m yours, Naoya. I won’t ignore you again. I won’t walk away. Just—please—”
The smirk widened into something almost feral.
“Good girl.”
He released the Projection Sorcery and started moving deep, steady thrusts that quickly turned punishing. The futon creaked beneath you as he fucked you into the mattress, one hand still pinning your wrists, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust drove the point home: you were his now. Completely. No more indifference. No more slipping away.
When you came shaking, crying out his name. He followed right after, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied groan.
Afterward, he didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing slowing.
“Better,” he muttered, voice still rough but laced with dark satisfaction. “Keep that up and I might even let you walk around the compound without me shadowing every step.”
You raised an eyebrow, still catching your breath. “Might?”
He nipped at your jaw. “Don’t push it.”
Later that morning, the Zenin compound buzzed with its usual rigid energy.
Naoya walked the main path toward the training grounds with you at his side. Not behind him. Not ahead. Right beside him, close enough that his kimono sleeve occasionally brushed your arm. His posture was the same arrogant stride as always, but his sharp eyes kept sliding toward you, possessive and watchful.
The younger clan members stared openly. Whispers rippled through the courtyard.
“Naoya-sama… with the transfer?”
“He never lets anyone walk beside him like that…”
Kaito, the branch family sorcerer from the drill, passed by and offered you a friendly nod and wave. “Morning! Still up for that tea later—”
He didn’t finish.
Naoya’s arm shot out, wrapping around your waist and yanking you flush against his side. His gaze on Kaito was ice-cold, laced with clear warning.
“She’s busy,” Naoya said flatly, voice dripping superiority. “Permanently.”
Kaito blinked, then bowed quickly and hurried off.
You glanced up at Naoya, a small, challenging smile tugging at your lips. “Jealous?”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as you walked.
“Call it what you want,” he murmured, hand tightening on your waist. “But from now on, the only person who gets your smiles, your laughs, your attention… is me. Understand?”
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into his touch—just slightly, enough to make his breath hitch.
“Yes, Naoya,” you said, voice soft but with that familiar spark. “I understand.”
He smirked, satisfied, but the obsessive glint in his eyes promised there would be more “lessons” later if you ever tested him again.
The dynamic had shifted.
No longer neglect versus ego.
Now it was sharp, intense, addictive fire. Bratty challenges met with ruthless control, indifference burned away into raw, possessive obsession.
Naoya Zenin had what he wanted.
You.
And he had no intention of ever letting you look anywhere else.
contains strong language, mutual emotional repression, unresolved sexual tension, chaotic friendship dynamics, verbal sparring, domestic intimacy, physical teasing, wrist grabbing, neck touching, light choking, power imbalance, slow-burn enemies-to-lovers tension, gendered insults, Naoya being misogynistic and getting roasted for it, reader verbally dominating, possessive behavior, competitive flirting, ego bruising
You didn’t like Naoya when you first met him.
Actually, you hated him.
He’d leaned on the doorframe, scanning the room like it was a buffet of people he could insult, and decided you were interesting enough to talk to. Which, in Naoya Zenin’s language, meant: be an ass to until she walks away or throws a drink in my face.
Somehow, you didn’t do either.
It turned out, you spoke fluent bitch too.
It was at some stupid gathering you had been dragged to, already in a foul mood because you knew it was going to be hours of polite smiles and fake laughs.
You’d just found the drinks table when a voice behind you said,
“Careful with that, sweetheart. Looks heavy. Wouldn’t want to strain yourself.”
You turned, deadpan already locked in place. “It’s a glass of juice. I think I’ll survive.”
He smirked in that insufferable way, like he had already decided you were beneath him and was amused you didn’t know it yet. “I’m just saying, some women—”
You cut him off without missing a beat. “—need to be told when to shut up, right? Funny. I was thinking the same thing about men.”
The look on his face had been worth every ounce of irritation that followed. A mix of disbelief and amusement, like you’d just slapped him with your words and he wasn’t sure if he liked it or wanted to bite back. You’d walked away, not thinking much of it.
The problem?
Naoya hunted you down before the night was over. Sat beside you at dinner. Annoyed you into talking again. And somehow, somehow, by the end of the night, you were both leaning in close, laughing at the same people, whispering commentary, and deciding you’d get along just fine, as long as you were allowed to insult each other whenever you felt like it.
From then on, it was hell for everyone else.
The two of you were like magnets—either drawn together or sparking off each other in public. If you showed up anywhere, people knew Naoya wasn’t far behind. He’d complain about you constantly and still show up when you called. You’d threaten to block his number and still send him memes at three in the morning.
Which is how you ended up here, years later, in the middle of a weekday, shopping with him.
“You walk so slow,” Naoya says behind you, voice pitched just enough to sound mocking.
You don’t turn around. “You walk like you’re the main character in a mafia movie. Maybe if you took smaller steps like a normal human being—”
He strides past you, hands in his pockets, throwing you a smug look over his shoulder. “You just can’t keep up.”
You roll your eyes, catching up easily. “You know, for someone who insists women should be quiet, you talk a lot.”
That makes his smirk twitch. “I make exceptions.”
“Oh? Because you like me?” You grin, knowing exactly how he’s going to react.
He scoffs instantly. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just like watching you struggle to keep up with me.”
You lean in close to his ear as you pass him this time, murmuring, “That’s cute, Zenin. Keep telling yourself that.”
His jaw tightens—victory.
The two of you drift into the next aisle, and you start piling things into the cart without much thought. He follows, occasionally taking things out when you’re not looking until you catch him mid-reach.
“Put that back.”
“You don’t need it.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“That’s new.”
You glare at him. He doesn’t move, just stares back like you’re playing chicken and he’s already won. You slowly take the item from his hand, drop it back into the cart, and keep walking.
He falls into step beside you, quieter now—but not for long.
“People think we’re dating,” he says suddenly.
You smirk without looking at him. “And that bothers you?”
“Yes.”
You glance at him now. “Because you don’t want people thinking you’re taken?”
“No.” His lips twitch upward. “Because I don’t want people thinking I’d pick you.”
You laugh loud, genuine and he almost smiles, but hides it by looking away. “Sure, Zenin,” you say, bumping his arm with your shoulder. “Keep pretending you don’t follow me around like a lost dog.”
His head snaps back to you, voice low. “Watch it.”
“Oh, I’m watching,” you tease, stepping ahead of him toward the register. “Always watching.”
You can feel his glare burning into your back the whole way—just the way you like it. You stop at the home decor aisle, eyes immediately catching on some over-the-top vase shaped like a sea shell. “Ooh—”
“No,” Naoya says before you can even pick it up.
You turn your head slowly, narrowing your eyes at him. “I didn’t ask.”
“Doesn’t match your place.”
“Oh, because you’re an expert on interior design now?”
He shrugs one shoulder, hands still shoved deep in his pockets as he looks at a row of abstract figurines. You watch him for a second—he picks one up, turns it in his hand, and then just shrugs again before putting it back. Not even a maybe.
“What’s the point of coming with me if you’re just gonna sulk behind me like a bodyguard?” you ask.
He looks at you flatly. “To stop you from buying stupid shit.”
“Naoya, everything in here is stupid shit. That’s why we’re here.”
He huffs, following you further down the aisle until you stop in front of a display of candles. The pretty glass jars are lined up like soldiers—vanilla, sandalwood, bergamot, ocean breeze… you start picking them up one by one, lifting the lids to smell them.
He leans his hip against the shelf beside you, watching. “You already have candles.”
“These are different.”
“They smell the same.”
You turn to him, holding out a candle under his nose. “Smell it.”
He doesn’t move at first, giving you a look like you’ve just asked him to eat dirt. Then, with a sigh, he leans in just enough. You notice the way his lashes lower, the faint twitch of his mouth as the scent hits him.
“…It’s fine,” he mutters.
You grin. “See? You like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
You put the lid back on and drop the candle into the cart. “You didn’t not say it either.”
He watches you grab another candle, this one in a deep green jar. You pop it open, take a long inhale, and let out a quiet hum of approval. Then you shove it toward him again.
“Smell.”
“I’m not—”
“Smell it, Zenin.”
His jaw tightens, but he leans in again. This time you hold it there longer than necessary, your fingers brushing against his as he takes it. His eyes flick up to yours briefly, and for a second, neither of you moves.
Then he shoves the candle back into your hands and straightens. “Too sweet.”
“You’re too sweet,” you shoot back automatically, smirking when his expression goes sharp.
“Watch it.”
“Oh, I am watching,” you say, tossing the candle into the cart. “Now help me find one that smells like I’ve got my life together.”
He sighs, following you again but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smile.
You pull up to the checkout with your cart of absolutely necessary life-changing purchases—three candles, a throw blanket, decorative pillows, and a vase that looks like it belongs in a very niche art museum.
Naoya is already judging it all, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily drumming his fingers on the counter. “You’ve lost your mind,” he mutters.
“You’ve always been a hater,” you shoot back, unloading items.
The cashier—a young woman with a bright smile—greets you both. But when her eyes flick to Naoya, her smile softens in that way. “Oh, hi—” she says, a little warmer.
You don’t miss a beat. “Don’t waste that smile on him, he’s a misogynistic prick.”
Naoya’s head whips toward you so fast you swear you hear something crack. “What the—”
The cashier freezes mid-scan, eyes going wide. You continue sweetly, leaning your elbow on the counter.
“Yeah, real traditional type. Thinks women shouldn’t drive, shouldn’t talk too loud… shouldn’t buy candles without male supervision.”
The cashier blinks, clearly torn between laughing and being scandalized. Naoya’s voice drops low. “Stop.”
“Oh, but you’re so shy now,” you murmur, giving him an exaggerated pout. “Where’s all that big talk from earlier, Zenin?”
“I will leave you here,” he says through clenched teeth.
You grin at the cashier. “See? Gentleman.”
By the time she hands over the receipt, the poor girl doesn’t know where to look. Naoya snatches the bag of candles from her like it’s a lifeline and heads for the door without another word.
You trail after him, swinging the bag of pillows at your side. “Don’t walk so fast, people will think you’re running away from the truth.”
“I am,” he snaps.
“Good luck.” you call, smiling smugly as his ears turn the faintest shade of red.
You’re still laughing when you push the door open and step out into the parking lot, the sound trailing after him. Naoya’s already standing by your car, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the roof, glaring at the door handle like it personally insulted him.
“This door isn’t opening itself, even if you glare at the handle,” you call, amusement dripping from every word.
His head turns slowly, expression pure disgusted patience. “Fuck off. Next time I drive by myself. I hate you.”
You grin as you click your keys, unlocking the car. “Why? ‘Cause I was right?”
He doesn’t answer—just yanks the door open, tosses your shopping bags into the backseat like they’re evidence he’s trying to get rid of, and then drops himself into the passenger seat.
You slide in on the driver’s side, start the engine, and glance at him. “You know, for someone who supposedly hates me, you spend a lot of time in my car.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, looking out the window, “and every time, I regret it more.”
You bite back another laugh, pulling out of the parking lot. “Good. I’d hate for you to get too comfortable.”
He shoots you a side-eye, but doesn’t move his hand when it accidentally brushes yours on the center console.
The drive starts with you poking at him. Literally. One finger jabs at his arm every thirty seconds. “Still mad?” poke. “Still mad now?” poke.
He doesn’t flinch, just stares out the window with the stoicism of a man trying to ignore a fly. When you reach for his shoulder, he catches your wrist without even looking. “Touch me again and I’m walking.”
“Walking where? You don’t even know the way home.” You free yourself with a grin and turn your attention back to the road.
He exhales through his nose, muttering something about how you were born to be annoying.
You’re about to fire back when—
A beige SUV swerves directly into your lane without signaling.
Your foot slams on the brake like a child just sprinted into the street. Your seatbelt digs into your shoulder, and the shopping bags in the back shift with a thump.
Your palm smacks the horn, holding it down in one long, furious note that echoes through the whole parking strip.
Naoya, still calm, just looks straight ahead. “Overreaction.”
Then the SUV stops dead in front of you. Door opens. Out steps the type—middle-aged, bob haircut, knockoff designer sunglasses, and the Karen stance already loaded.
Naoya’s eyes flick to her. Not to you. Just the woman. Then, low and flat: “Don’t do it.”
But your seatbelt’s already unbuckled.
“Don’t—”
Click. Door open. You’re out.
You stride up to her with all the confidence in the world, Naoya’s voice now muffled behind you. “Get back in the car—”
“Excuse me?” the woman starts, already on the offensive.
“Yeah, hi,” you cut in. “Do they not install turn signals in your clown car, or do you just enjoy almost killing people?”
Her mouth drops open. “I—”
“Because, sweetheart,” you continue, hands gesturing like you’re explaining basic math to a toddler, “you merged like you were auditioning for a demolition derby, and I’m not about to be your warm-up act.”
Naoya’s door clicks open. He’s walking over now, still calm, but there’s a certain twitch in his jaw.
The woman tries to wave you off. “You need to calm down—”
“Oh, I’m calm,” you snap. “This is me being polite.”
Naoya steps between you and her, one hand lightly on your arm. “Enough. Get in the car.”
“Tell her to learn how to drive.”
“I don’t care.” His tone is sharp now, eyes narrowing at the woman. “Move your car before I make you regret stopping.”
Something in his voice makes her back up. She huffs, stomps back into her SUV, and slams the door. Naoya doesn’t move until she’s driving away. Then he turns to you, voice low.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
You grin, climbing back into the driver’s seat. “You’re lucky I didn’t use the vase in the back as a weapon.”
He shuts his door, muttering under his breath, “Next time, I’m driving.”
You pull up in front of his apartment building, easing to a stop. He steps out, shuts the door, and starts walking toward the building—only to pause, double back, and lean down so his head’s poking in through the open passenger window.
“Stop insulting people and drive home,” he says, that smug little grin plastered across his face like he’s just won.
You tilt your head, smiling sweetly. “Stop being insultable and maybe I will.”
His grin widens. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” you point out, “you still get in my car every time I offer.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose, backing away toward the door. “Yeah, yeah. Go before you start a fight with my neighbors.”
You salute him with two fingers, roll the window up, and pull away—catching, in the rearview mirror, the way he’s still standing there, watching you go, that grin refusing to leave his face.
You kick the door shut behind you fifteen minutes later, juggling shopping bags onto the counter when your phone buzzes.
Naoya: You home? In one piece?
You smirk, typing back.
You: I am.
It takes him all of three seconds to reply.
Naoya: Shame. Was hoping you got arrested for that candle aisle stunt.
You roll your eyes, tossing one of the bags onto the couch.
You: You’re just mad the cashier knows the truth about you now.
Three dots. Then—
Naoya: Truth is you’ve got the self-control of a raccoon in a trash can.
You laugh out loud, leaning on the counter as you type.
You: Says the man who still bought me three candles after I called him a misogynistic prick in public.
There’s a pause this time, then—
Naoya: Yeah, well. Don’t make it a habit.
You: Too late, Zenin.
You can practically picture his face as he reads that—annoyed, but with that barely-there smile he’ll never admit to.
You’d spent the evening cleaning, finding homes for all your new “unnecessary” purchases. The throw blanket got draped over the couch, the vase took prime position on your coffee table, and the candles—well, two were already lit, making the place smell like vanilla and smug victory.
The rest of the day? Radio silence from Naoya.
By 11 p.m. you’re sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling—when it buzzes.
Incoming Call: Zenin.
You swipe to answer, pressing it to your ear. “Huh?”
“You up?” His voice is casual, like it’s the most normal question in the world.
You don’t answer right away. “…Naoya, are you stupid?”
“No.” A beat. “You wanna go to 7/11?”
You glance at the clock. “It’s 11:15 p.m.?”
“And?”
You sit up, smirking despite yourself. “…Yeah, come get me.”
There’s a soft, almost satisfied huff through the line. “Twenty minutes.”
He hangs up without a goodbye, and you’re left smiling at your phone, already pulling on a hoodie and grabbing your keys.
Fifteen minutes later, you hear the low purr of his car outside. You pull your hood up, slip on your sneakers, and step out into the cool night air.
Naoya’s leaning against the hood of his car, joggers hanging loose on his hips, black T-shirt stretching just enough across his shoulders, hair a little messy like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.
You look him over and smirk. “Wow, I expected you in a suit, but go on.”
His eyes flick over you—leggings, hoodie, sneakers—then back to your face. “Fuck off,” he mutters, pushing off the hood and sliding into the driver’s seat.
You circle around and get in. “Touchy tonight,” you hum, buckling in.
He doesn’t answer, just starts the car and pulls out onto the road. You watch the streetlights pass by, expecting him to take the usual turn toward the 7/11. Instead, he keeps going.
“…Where are you going?” you ask, frowning at the unfamiliar route.
“Mega store.”
You blink. “That’s not 7/11.”
“No shit,” he says, deadpan, eyes on the road.
“Why?”
He smirks faintly. “Bigger snack aisle. And you need more crap for your apartment anyway, don’t you?”
You lean back in your seat, pretending not to be pleased. “You’re lucky it’s open all night.”
“I know,” he says simply, and keeps driving.
The mega store is nearly deserted, the lights buzzing faintly overhead. It smells faintly of disinfectant and stale popcorn from the snack corner. You grab a basket, but Naoya takes it from you immediately. “You’ll fill it with useless shit if you hold it.”
You lift a brow. “And you won’t?”
He smirks. “I have restraint.”
Five minutes later, the basket already has a novelty mug shaped like a cat, a box of cookies you definitely didn’t need, and a bag of chips you caught him sneaking in.
“Restraint, huh?” you tease as you round into the home goods aisle.
“Strategic purchases,” he says without missing a beat.
You’re halfway through debating whether to grab another throw pillow when you feel his arm slide over your shoulders. Heavy, casual—like it’s a joke, or just a way to steer you down the aisle. You glance up at him, ready to make some snarky comment, but he’s looking straight ahead, faint smirk playing at his mouth. Like he’s not even thinking about it. Like it’s normal.
You know better. You know him.
Still, you don’t say anything about it—just tilt your head back enough to meet his eyes. “You wear too much perfume.”
His gaze flicks down at you, amused. “You complaining?”
You keep your face neutral. “Just an observation.”
“Mm.” His arm stays where it is as you walk, the faint, clean-citrus scent clinging to him filling your head more than you want to admit.
You let him keep it there.
You’re scanning the shelves in the snack aisle when you spot the chips you want—top row, naturally, just out of reach. You stretch onto your toes, fingers grazing the bottom of the bag, but it’s no use. You click your tongue and raise your voice. “Zenin!”
A beat later, his head appears at the end of the aisle, brows lifted like you’ve interrupted something important. “What?”
“I need your height,” you call back, dead serious.
He sighs loud enough for the sound to carry—then strolls toward you. Without a word, he steps in behind you, his arm reaching easily over your head. The move closes him in around you, your head level with his shoulder.
You turn your head just enough to glance at him. “At least you’re good for something.”
That smirk creeps over his mouth as he plucks the bag from the shelf. “Careful. Keep sweet-talking me like that and I might start charging you for my services.”
You snort, taking the chips from his hand. “Please. You owe me for putting up with your personality.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, falling into step beside you like the whole thing was nothing.
But you catch the way his hand brushes your back as you leave the aisle, just enough to guide you forward and you file it away silently.
The checkout lane is empty except for the bored-looking graveyard-shift cashier. You start unloading the basket, already plotting the next way to humiliate Naoya. You lean toward the counter, voice ready to carry: “This is my friend—he’s a—”
An arm suddenly sweeps across your chest, firm but not rough, pulling you back a half-step. The motion spins you slightly so you end up facing him and you’re way too close now, your hoodie brushing his T-shirt. His eyes are steady on yours, mouth close enough you catch the faint scent of that “too much perfume” you teased him about earlier. “Shut it,” he mutters, low enough only you can hear.
You tilt your head, letting your nose brush against his in a deliberate, slow drag. “Okay,” you murmur, smiling smug like you’ve just won something you’re not even naming.
For a beat, neither of you moves until he lets you go, turning to swipe his card for the snacks like nothing happened. But you can still feel the ghost of his arm across you all the way to the car.
He doesn’t say a word on the way back to the car. Just walks beside you, steps steady, eyes straight ahead. No teasing, no smug one-liners.
He pops the locks with a click, sliding into the driver’s seat without looking at you. You circle around, drop into the passenger seat, and tug the door shut.
No words. Just the sound of his seatbelt clicking and the low rumble of the engine as he pulls out of the lot. You glance at him. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who just stopped me from embarrassing them.”
Nothing. His eyes stay on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. That faint curve at the corner of his mouth tells you exactly what mood he’s in.
“Oh, I get it,” you say, leaning back in your seat. “You’re doing that smug, bitchy thing. The one where you think you’ve won.”
Still nothing—except that smirk twitching higher. You nudge his arm. “You didn’t win, by the way.”
He exhales through his nose, finally glancing at you. “Then why are you sitting there looking like I did?”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t have an answer ready and he knows it. That smug little smirk stays glued to his face all the way to your street.
He pulls up in front of your building, shifting the car into park. The engine hums in the silence, the street outside empty.
You lean over the console, resting your chin on your hand, eyes fixed on him. “You don’t talk to me now?” you whisper, the corner of your mouth tugging up. He side-eyes you, the streetlight catching the faintest glint in his eyes. “You are annoying.” Then, before you can bite back, he leans in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath. “…but I guess I have no other option.”
The smirk that follows is pure Naoya—smug, knowing, and entirely too pleased with himself—before he leans back, unlocking your door like nothing happened.
Your hand slips from under your chin, snaking forward until your fingers catch in the soft cotton at his collar. You tug—just enough to pull him toward you over the narrow space between the seats.
The movement tilts your bodies together, your hood brushing his shoulder, the scent of his cologne curling around you both. His eyes flick down briefly to where your fingers still hold him.
“Then stop bitching,” you murmur, close enough now that your words are more felt than heard.
He stays exactly where you’ve pulled him, head angled toward yours, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. His gaze lingers on you a second longer than necessary, like he’s debating saying something, before the smile fully settles—lazy, smug, and warm all at once.
Finally, he leans back just a fraction, “Get inside before I change my mind about dropping you off.”
You release his collar, but the ghost of your touch still seems to hang there as you grab your bag and open the door. “You come with me,” you say as you push your door open, stepping out into the cool night air.
“What?” he calls after you, but you’re already shutting the door, your sneakers hitting the pavement as you head toward the building. Behind you, there’s the metallic click of his seatbelt, the thunk of his door closing, then the solid beep of the locks engaging. His footsteps follow, unhurried but deliberate.
“What did you say?” he asks again, voice lower now that he’s closer.
You glance over your shoulder with a smirk. “You’ve been here so often, you might as well come inside. If you didn’t want to hang out, you wouldn’t have called in the first place… right, Zenin?”
He doesn’t answer immediately—just watches you as you swipe your keys and push open the entrance door. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a comment, but he steps inside after you anyway, his hands stuffed in his jogger pockets.
By the time you reach your apartment door, he’s close enough that you can feel his presence behind you. You unlock it, swing it open, and glance back at him. “Well? You coming in, or are you just gonna stand there looking judgmental?”
That smirk finally breaks through as he steps past you into the apartment, eyes flicking over the new candles and throw blanket like he’s taking mental notes he’ll use to annoy you later.
You drop your keys in the little dish by the door and kick your sneakers off, heading straight for the couch. Naoya trails in behind you, scanning the place like it’s his personal inspection.
Without asking, he drops onto the couch, leans back, and grabs the bag of chips from your coffee table like they were put there just for him.
You squint at him. “You make yourself at home way too fast.”
He crunches into a chip, completely unfazed. “This is my home.”
You scoff. “Oh, really?”
“I’ve been here the last four years. Regularly.” He says it with that trademark smugness, like the math alone makes it undeniable. You grab one of the candles from the counter and set it down near him. “You’ve also been complaining here the last four years. Regularly.”
He shrugs, reaching for another chip. “Consistency is important.”
You roll your eyes, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Yeah, well, you’re consistently annoying.”
“And you’re consistently letting me in,” he shoots back, looking at you sideways.
You grab a chip from his bag without breaking eye contact, pop it in your mouth, and lean back. “Guess we’re both bad at learning lessons.”
He smirks at that, and the two of you lapse into the easy quiet you always end up in—bickering set aside, for now.
The TV ends up on, not because either of you planned to watch anything, but because you picked up the remote to change the music and never changed it back.
Naoya’s sprawled out in the corner of your couch, one arm along the backrest, the other lazily fishing chips from the half-empty bag. You’re tucked into the opposite corner, legs curled under you, blanket draped over your lap.
At some point, the conversation fades into half-muttered comments about whatever’s on screen. You don’t notice how late it’s getting until you catch the clock on the cable box.
“…It’s two-fifteen in the morning,” you say, glancing at him.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t even look away from the TV. “And?”
“And you said you were just coming in for a little while.”
He shrugs, finally flicking his gaze toward you. “Guess I lost track of time.”
You snort. “Guess you just didn’t feel like leaving.”
That smirk returns, faint but there. “Maybe.”
You shake your head and reach for the chip bag, stealing the last one before he can grab it. He doesn’t argue—just leans back further, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who doesn’t technically live here.
Before long, your eyes start to feel heavy. You shift, curling further into the blanket. Naoya notices, but says nothing, just stretches his legs out, settling in like he’s got no intention of moving anytime soon.
By the time you doze off, the TV is still murmuring in the background, and Naoya’s still there—same corner of the couch he’s claimed for years, like it really is his home You’re half-gone into sleep when your head tips forward, snapping you back awake. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, and glance at him.
Naoya’s watching you, the faintest curve at his mouth before he lets out a quiet, amused laugh. “You look so stupid.”
You groan, grabbing the remote to flick the TV off. “Leave me alone.”
He’s still chuckling as you push yourself up from the couch, blanket slipping from your shoulders. “You can sleep on the couch,” you say over your shoulder, padding toward your bedroom.
Just before you disappear through the doorway, you pause and glance back. “I’ll leave the door open, if something’s wrong.”
He tilts his head at you, that smug smile softening for just a second. “Yeah, yeah. Go to bed.”
You roll your eyes and head into your room, the sound of him settling deeper into the couch cushions following you down the hall.
You flop onto your bed, tossing your phone onto the pillow beside you as you curl under the blankets. The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge down the hall.
Your phone buzzes almost instantly.
Naoya: nice blanket, did you get that from the retirement home section?
You huff a laugh, typing back.
You: shut up, you’re literally sleeping on my couch.
Another buzz.
Naoya: your couch is lumpy. not very hospitable also you left crumbs on the armrest, disgusting.
You roll onto your side, grinning at the ceiling.
You: I’ll come vacuum you off if you don’t stop texting me.
Three dots appear, vanish, then return.
Naoya: gross. go to sleep before I start listing more of your flaws.
You: you wouldn’t dare.
Naoya: oh, I would.
You laugh again, toss the phone back onto the pillow, and finally let your eyes close, still smiling, because you can hear the faint sound of him shifting on your couch, settling in like he belongs there. Your phone buzzes again. You don’t even check it this time. Instead, you throw your head back against the pillow and yell, “NAOYA!!!”
From somewhere in the apartment comes a smooth, quiet, “Yeah?”
You jolt, twisting toward the sound only to see his shadow stretched across your bedroom floor. He’s standing in the doorframe, leaning one shoulder against it like he’s been there for a while.
“How—” you start, but he steps forward, crossing the room with that slow, deliberate walk of his.
The soft light from the hallway follows him in, catching on the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“You scared?” he asks lightly, stopping just beside the bed.
You grab your pillow and swat at him. “You’re annoying.”
He catches the pillow before it hits him, tosses it back onto the bed, and shakes his head like you’re the ridiculous one. “You called me, remember?”
“Yeah, not to stand there like some creep.”
He chuckles under his breath, then sits on the edge of the bed like it’s his right, your phone buzzing again between you.
He stands suddenly, looking down at you. “Move.”
You sigh, dramatic, but scootch over just enough to make space. “Why are you so clingy?” you mutter, facing him on your pillow with the blanket draped over your shoulders.
“I’m not,” he says, sliding onto the mattress without hesitation. “I just wanted to check because you yelled my name.” His tone is pure mockery, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Yeah, ’cause you fuckass text me even when you’re literally a few steps away.”
He smirks, lying back with one arm under his head. “It was easier than yelling.”
You roll your eyes, tugging the blanket tighter around you. “Easier for you, annoying for me.”
“That’s the point,” he says smoothly, clearly enjoying himself.
You glare at him, but he’s already settled in, stretching out like he owns the place. One ankle hooks over the other, his head sinking into your pillow as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re not staying here,” you warn.
“Mm.” He closes his eyes briefly, then looks at you with that lazy half-smile. “Sure I’m not.”
You sit up halfway, pointing toward the door. “Couch. Now.”
He doesn’t move. “Too far.”
“It’s like eight steps for you.”
“Exactly,” he says, smug as ever, shifting just enough to get comfortable under the edge of your blanket. “This is closer.”
You groan, flopping back down beside him. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet,” he says, eyes drifting shut, “you just made space for me.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the warmth under the blanket and the quiet of the apartment make it harder to care. His breathing evens out, and you realize with mild irritation—and maybe something else—you’re not actually kicking him out.
By the time you drift off, he’s still there, solid and warm beside you, like he’s always been. You’re somewhere between asleep and awake when you feel a light nudge against your arm.
You hum, eyes still closed.
“Are you awake?” his voice comes, low and casual.
“Naoya,” you mutter, not even lifting your head.
There’s a short pause. Then, like he’s asking about the weather, “You wanna cuddle?”
Your eyes fly open. “Huh?”
“I asked,” he repeats, eyes on the ceiling like this is completely normal, “if you want to trade some body warmth.”
You blink at him. “You mean cuddling.”
“That’s what I said,” he replies smoothly, though there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You stare at him for a beat too long, then pull the blanket up higher over your shoulders. “…You’re weird.”
“And you didn’t say no,” he says, voice dipping into that satisfied, smug tone that always gets under your skin.
You glare at him for a long moment, then huff through your nose. With an overly dramatic motion, you throw the blanket open with one arm. “This doesn’t mean anything. Don’t touch me wrong or I will bite you.”
His smirk deepens, but he doesn’t say a word—just shifts in smoothly, sliding under the blanket like he’s been invited to royalty’s bed. He tucks his head under your chin, arms folded in front of himself instead of around you, but his body radiates heat like he’s hiding a furnace inside.
You exhale against his hair. “I will melt.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a you problem,” he says lazily, completely unbothered. Then you feel the lightest tap at your waist, just one finger pressing against the fabric of your hoodie. “Can I sling my arm over here?”
You let out a small, non-committal hum, the closest thing he’s going to get to a yes. He slides his arm across your waist, not too tight, just enough to settle in. His breathing evens out, and the weight of him there, hot and steady, makes your eyelids grow heavier.
The last thing you hear before drifting is his quiet, satisfied sigh, like he’s exactly where he wants to be. You shift slightly, trying to roll onto your back, but his arm tightens instantly around your waist.
“No,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
You blink at him, amused despite yourself. “First you ask for consent, and now you whine? Are you really Naoya?”
“Fuck you,” he mutters without even opening his eyes, his head burrowing deeper into the front of your hoodie like he’s trying to disappear there. His palm spreads wide over your back, holding you firmly in place, thumb brushing absently through the fabric.
You lie there, frozen for a second, not because you’re uncomfortable, but because you can feel every bit of his warmth sinking into you, his breathing slow and heavy against your chest.
“Unbelievable,” you murmur, but you don’t push him off.
“Mm. I know,” he says, half-asleep, and doesn’t move an inch.
Your hand slips up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands in slow, steady strokes. He lets out a low, content hum at the touch, the kind of sound you’d never expect from him if you weren’t here to hear it.
Without thinking, you tug him a little closer. His arm reacts instantly, tightening around your waist, pulling you flush against the heat of him.
“Good night,” you murmur into his hair.
“Mmm… night,” he rasps, voice rough and low, the words melting into the quiet like he’s already halfway gone.
You keep your fingers in his hair until his breathing evens out completely, the warmth of him anchoring you as you finally let your eyes close.
When you open your eyes, the world is dim, the soft, early light spilling through your curtains just enough to tint the room. You’d forgotten to close them last night, but it’s not harsh, just enough to tell you it’s still early, hours before you’d normally wake.
You haven’t moved. Not an inch.
Naoya is still pressed against you exactly as you fell asleep—head tucked into your hoodie, arm heavy around your waist, your hand still resting loosely in his hair. His breathing is steady and deep, every exhale warming the space between you.
It’s quiet, so quiet that you can hear the faint hum of the city outside and the occasional shift of fabric when he tightens his hold in his sleep, pulling you in without waking. You don’t speak. You don’t even try to move. For a moment, you just watch the slow rise and fall of his back, letting the stillness sink in.
You slowly start petting his head, fingers drifting lazily through his hair before settling your palm over it. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, slow circles, and he makes a faint, content noise without opening his eyes.
“Zenin,” you whisper.
He stirs, shifts just slightly, but stays under.
“Naoya, I have to pee.”
There’s a beat of silence before a muffled, half-asleep, “No.”
You blink down at him. “No? What do you mean, no?”
His voice is groggy, almost slurred with sleep. “Stay still.”
“I’m gonna—”
“Don’t care,” he mumbles into your hoodie, his arm tightening fractionally over your waist like that settles the matter.
You sigh, but your hand never leaves his hair. “You’re impossible.”
From the depths of sleep, he hums, satisfied—like that’s exactly what he was going for. You slide your hand to the back of his head, fingers curling into his hair, giving a light but insistent tug to pull him back. His eyes crack open, hazy with sleep but already glinting with that familiar smugness.
“Naoya,” you warn, voice low. “My bladder will start leaking.”
That earns you a slow, deliberate smirk. Instead of moving away, he tips his chin up, letting his nose graze along your jaw in an unhurried drag. “Mmm,” he mutters, like he’s savoring the reaction more than the contact itself.
His hand shifts higher on your waist, fingers spreading over your side before giving a firm squeeze. He doesn’t say anything else—just watches you from that close, as if daring you to actually try and leave.
The air between you feels warmer than it should for this early in the morning. You groan, shifting your hips to try and slip away, but his hand slides lower, disappearing under the hem of your hoodie. His palm is hot against your skin, fingers splayed wide like he’s staking a claim.
“Mmm… you’re warm,” he mutters against your throat, his breath fanning over the sensitive skin there.
“Naoya,” you warn again, sharper this time, but it only earns you a low hum.
His head lifts slowly, the movement lazy but purposeful, until his chin rests just under yours. His nose is a hair’s breadth from brushing yours, the closeness almost uncomfortable, not because you mind, but because you already know exactly where this is leading.
The room is silent except for the quiet rhythm of your breathing. His eyes hold yours, unblinking, like he’s waiting for you to break first. And you can feel it—this is one of those moments where neither of you says it out loud, but the air is heavy with what’s about to happen.
“Zenin,” you whisper, your voice low enough to barely stir the air between you.
His lidded gaze flickers back and forth between your left and right eye, his expression unreadable for half a heartbeat until you catch the twitch of a smug grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. Then he leans in, closing the last inch with deliberate slowness, like he’s letting you see it coming and daring you to stop him.
His lips press to yours—warm, unhurried, and carrying that same infuriating self-assurance he wears in every other part of his life. The kind of kiss that says he knows he’s getting away with something. And for once, you don’t pull back.
His hand drags up along your ribs, fingers curling into your skin with enough pressure to make your breath hitch. Your own hand finds the side of his face, palm warm against his jaw as your fingers slip into his hair.
He pulls you in just as you pull him, the kiss deepening, heat sparking where your mouths meet. A low groan rumbles from his chest, the sound vibrating against you. In the next breath, he shifts—guiding you back until your shoulders sink into the mattress. His weight follows, one knee braced beside your hip, his body leaning over yours.
You don’t stop. If anything, you kiss him harder, his mouth moving with yours in a rhythm that’s both messy and deliberate, like neither of you’s willing to slow down now that it’s started.
His hand stays firm on your ribs, thumb brushing over the curve of your waist before pressing in again, grounding you under him as the air between you grows hotter.
Between kisses, you hear the faint rumble of his chuckle, warm against your lips. “Doesn’t mean something, right?” he murmurs, the words low and teasing.
You shove at his chest, breaking the kiss. “No. Now move.”
Before he can react, you push him far enough to slip out from under him. He makes a faint sound of protest, but you’re already swinging your legs over the side of the bed.
“Where the hell—”
“Pee,” you call over your shoulder, already heading for the bathroom.
You catch his smirk in your peripheral before you disappear into the hall, and you know he’ll still be stretched out on your bed when you get back, like nothing happened. When you walk back into your room, he’s exactly where you left him, except now he’s lying on his side, propped up on one forearm like he’s been waiting for you on purpose.
There’s that insufferable little grin again. “Took you long enough. Miss me?”
You grab your blanket and toss it at his face. “Shut up, Zenin.”
He pulls it off slowly, still smirking, eyes never leaving yours. “Sure. Doesn’t mean something, though…right?”
You roll your eyes, climbing back onto the bed. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” he says easily, shifting onto his back, “you wanted this too. Otherwise you wouldn’t have let me sleep in your bed.”
You sigh and drop down beside him, your head hitting the pillow with a soft thud. He turns his head, eyes on you, that same faint smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s waiting for you to crack first.
“Naoya, stop,” you warn, voice low but firm.
He doesn’t. Just keeps looking at you, his expression a mix of smugness and something softer underneath, like he’s enjoying pushing you but also enjoying just being there.
“Mmm but I wanna kiss,” he says suddenly, voice low and almost lazy. His eyes narrow just slightly, that smirk returning full force. “C’mere.”
Before you can reply, his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you into him with an easy strength that makes resisting pointless.
Your nose brushes his as your lips meet again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring it rather than rushing. His thumb strokes idly against your skin, keeping you close until he finally pulls back just far enough to look at you.
And of course, he’s still smiling.
“You smug bastard,” you mutter against his mouth.
“Mmm, yes,” he says without missing a beat, smirking like it’s second nature. “Can’t help it—you’re special to me, even if you are annoying.”
You give him a knowing look. “Figured that. You asked for consent half-asleep. I’m flattered.”
His smirk widens, and instead of answering, he leans in again, just close enough that you feel his breath, before flopping back onto the pillow like the conversation’s over.
And somehow, that feels exactly like him.
You push the blanket off, stand up, and pad into the kitchen. The apartment is still dim, the early light barely creeping through the windows. You pull your little old coffee machine toward you, measuring out grounds with practiced laziness.
It gurgles to life, filling the air with that sharp, comforting smell.
Footsteps pad in behind you. Naoya appears, striding in like he owns the place. He stops by the fridge, leaning against it with his arms crossed, watching you work.
“Looks funny,” he says, gaze flicking over you from your messy hair down to your hoodie and bare legs. Then, after a beat, “But also sexy.”
You don’t bother looking at him as you reach for a mug. “You want one too?”
“Yeah.”
You nod, pouring the first cup as the machine sputters, knowing full well he’s still standing there, eyes on you, probably waiting for a reaction you’re not going to give him—yet.
The coffee machine hisses its last bit of steam as you pour the second cup. You hand it to him without looking, your fingers brushing his briefly.
His voice comes quiet, almost buried under the sound of the mug meeting his palm. “I’m sorry.”
You pause, mid-step toward your own cup. “Huh? What did you say? Sorry? For what?”
He meets your eyes, smirk gone for once. “For kissing you.”
Your mouth parts. “Wha—?”
He takes a slow sip of coffee, gaze still locked on yours, like he’s watching for your reaction and already knows you’re caught off guard. You set your cup down, turning to him fully. “Why are you apologizing?”
He shifts his weight against the fridge, eyes flicking down before meeting yours again. “Because I didn’t want to fuck this up. You’ve been my best friend for years and the whole time, I haven’t wanted anyone else. Not once.”
For a beat, you just stare—then a laugh escapes you, sharp but not unkind. “You’re a misogynistic piece of shit. Of course girls only find you hot and don‘t want anything serious with you.”
His expression hardens instantly, brows knitting like you’ve just kicked a puppy he doesn’t admit to owning. “Be serious for one time in your life, for fuck’s sake.”
You smirk, stepping toward him until the space between you is gone. “I am serious. You think I’d waste four years on you if I didn’t know exactly what you are?” Before he can answer, your arms slip around his waist, pulling him in until your forehead nearly brushes his chest. “Don’t be sorry, Zenin.”
He exhales through his nose, one hand hesitating before resting on your back, grip firm, like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t want to lose. His hand stays on your back, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of your hoodie. You feel the shift in his breathing before he speaks.
“…You’re a pain in my ass,” he mutters, but his voice has none of its usual bite.
You smirk against his chest. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome.”
For a second, he doesn’t move—just stands there, holding you tighter than you expected. When he finally leans back enough to look at you, his expression is softer, but there’s still a spark of that Naoya arrogance in his eyes. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, almost like it’s a threat.
You grin. “Like me? Careful, you’re starting to sound romantic.”
He rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Shut up.” And even as he says it, his hand doesn’t leave your back.
You stay there, the two of you unmoving, the quiet settling in between sips of coffee and the faint hum of the machine cooling down. His hand stays firm on your back, his chin tipping slightly so he can look down at you.
“I don’t know if you’re willing to turn this into something serious,” he says finally, low, steady, not his usual tone.
Your head jerks back, eyes wide. “Naoyaaa,” you gasp dramatically. “Since when are you so soft-spoken?”
His brows draw together, but not in anger—more like he’s instantly regretting saying anything. “I— My God. I will leave.”
You tighten your arms around his waist before he can move. “No, you won’t.”
He mutters something under his breath, but he doesn’t step away. You look up at him, grinning. “You’re not going anywhere. You just dropped a whole emotional bomb and now you’re stuck here.”
He huffs through his nose, eyes sliding off to the side like he’s trying to escape without moving. “I’m not good at emotional shit.”
You snort. “No kidding. That’s why I almost fell over when you said something that wasn’t an insult.”
His gaze snaps back to you, half-annoyed, half-defensive. “And this is exactly why I don’t do it.”
“Mm-hm,” you hum, smug, leaning your head against his chest again. “You’re fine at it. Just need practice.”
He scoffs, but his arm tightens a fraction around you, holding you there like he’s already decided he’s not letting go. You feel his grip stay firm around you, the warmth of him seeping through your hoodie.
“See?” you murmur, eyes closing for a moment. “Not so bad.”
He exhales, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. “Why? Afraid I’ll start expecting feelings from you?”
His smirk makes a slow return. “No. Afraid you’ll start thinking I’m nice.”
You laugh, giving him a small squeeze before stepping back toward your coffee. “Too late, Zenin.”
“Tragic,” he says dryly, but you can still see the faint softness in his eyes before he hides it behind his mug.
Silence settles in again as you lean back against the counter, cradling your mug. You take a slow sip, watching the steam curl up into the dim morning light. Then his voice cuts through it. “So… will this change anything or..?”
You glance at him over the rim of your cup. “Depends. You like me, or like like me?”
He freezes, mug halfway to his mouth. His eyes stay on you, and for a long second, you think he’s about to shoot back something cocky. Instead, you get—“Uhh—I…”
You raise your brows, smirking. “Oh my god, you do.”
He glares, looking like he wants to deny it but can’t quite find the words. “Shut up.”
You laugh, shaking your head at how uncharacteristically off-balance he looks. “I do too,” you say, still smiling as the words slip out.
For a moment, he doesn’t move, just stands there with his mug in hand. Then his gaze flicks away, like he’s trying to hide the reaction, before inevitably coming back down to you. There’s no smirk this time, no quick jab or sarcastic comeback. Just that steady look, like he’s measuring what you just said and letting it sink in.
The air between you feels heavier now, in a way that’s not uncomfortable—just different. He keeps looking at you for a few long seconds, then exhales through his nose like he’s made some kind of internal decision.
“…Guess that means you’re stuck with me,” he says finally, the corner of his mouth twitching back toward a smirk.
You snort into your coffee. “Pretty sure I’ve been stuck with you for years, Zenin.”
“Yeah, but now it’s official,” he says, leaning back against the fridge like he’s won something. “No returns, no exchanges.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no hiding the small smile pulling at your lips. “Tragic.”
“Mm,” he hums, taking a sip from his mug. “For you, maybe.”
You push away from the counter and walk up to him. Without hesitation, he sets his mug aside and pulls you into his arms, his grip warm and familiar.
“Yes, very tragic for me,” you say, tone dripping with sarcasm, “having a tall, bratty, handsome man cluttering up my life.”
He tilts his head down, looking at you like you’ve just handed him a trophy. “You think I’m handsome,” he says, smugness coating every word.
You roll your eyes. “That’s all you heard?”
“That’s all I needed,” he murmurs, pulling you just a little closer.
You huff a laugh against his chest. “You’re insufferable.”
He leans back just enough to look at you properly, smirk still there but softer around the edges. “And yet, you keep letting me in your bed.”
You shake your head, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I’m just a bad decision-maker.”
His expression shifts, the humor still there but his voice quieter. “Or maybe you just know I’m not going anywhere.”
You stare at him for a beat, caught off guard by how certain he sounds. Then you smirk, nudging his side. ”I know.“
He takes a slow sip of coffee, eyes flicking toward the window like he’s already moved on. “So,” he says casually, “you still got those cookies we bought last night, or did you inhale them already?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Emotional depth to baked goods in under ten seconds. Impressive.”
He smirks, setting his mug down. “What can I say? I’m efficient.”
You shake your head, walking past him toward the cupboard. But you can feel his gaze following you and you know he hasn’t actually let the earlier conversation go. You grab the pack of cookies from the cupboard and toss them across the counter toward him. He catches them one-handed without even looking, leaning back against the fridge like he’s lived there his whole life. “Thanks,” he says, tearing the pack open. “Didn’t think you’d share.”
You take a sip of your coffee. “It’s called generosity. You should try it sometime.”
He pops a cookie into his mouth, chews, then smirks around the bite. “Mm. I’d rather just take what I want.”
Your eyes flick to him, unimpressed. “You’re talking about food, right?”
He grins, slow and deliberate. “Sure. If that makes you feel better.”
You groan, setting your cup down. “You’re disgusting.”
“But,” he says, tossing another cookie into his mouth, “you keep feeding me.”
You smirk, leaning against the counter. “Yeah—like you feed my ego by hanging around all the time.”
That actually makes him pause mid-bite, brow lifting before the corner of his mouth twitches into a reluctant grin. “Touché.”
You’ve been official with him for six months now.
You always knew Naoya had a soft spot for you but not like this. He still brats, still bitches, still throws his smug little comments whenever he gets the chance. Of course he does—it’s baked into his personality. But beneath it, you’ve learned something else: he loves you deeply.
He’s never said the words outright. That’s not his style. Instead, he lets you feel it. In the way he walks on the street side without thinking. In the way he keeps your favorite snacks stocked in his kitchen, even though he complains every time he buys them. In the way his hand finds yours when no one’s looking, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a secret.
Naoya might be a lot of things, brash, arrogant, infuriating but he’s also the most loyal man you’ve ever known.
And you don’t regret one second of that night you let him kiss you. If anything, you wonder why you waited so long.
jinichi zenin, a volatile and (on the surface) careless man, starts to change himself for the better following an incident • x arranged marriage x f!reader, feelings realisation with angst and smut, abuse/violence (not from him), takes place just under a decade before the main plot • based on this ask for @meowgumi10 • w.c: 3k • jjk masterlist
For as long as you could remember, the Zenin name had only been spoken in your household as a warning. It was not hatred that fueled it—for that much required a degree of care—but contempt.
Your family was also strict, but different in the sense that, in their eyes, good sorcerers were sculpted through resilience and training, regardless of the name they were born into. The Zenin clan, on the other hand, conflicted with that sentiment, reducing the relations into something barely held together, and strained at best. Despite this, the relations were still crucial, and so, both clans participated in being cordial with one another. For the sake of tradition, or whatever else the elders claimed.
When it came to strengthening that bond, you, the oldest daughter, were encouraged for the mutual benefit of both clans to fulfil an arranged marriage into the Zenin name. Your to-be husband, Jinichi Zenin, was nothing surprising to you when you first made his acquaintance, and he, too, knew exactly what he was getting himself into.
Marriage, after all, in such a clan, especially, was never about want, but rather about fulfilling function. Both clans masqueraded the arrangement as something favourable for both ends, but Jinichi didn’t bother pretending that it was anything else.
As for your thoughts on the matter, you did not care in the slightest.
After all, the man you were being married off to made no significant effort to woo you, nor did he soften his edges to ever present himself as a man worth keeping. You were his wife as decided by familial politics and not by affection. With that reason in mind alone, there was no reason for either of you to perform anything other than what you had agreed upon. At best, he spoke to you when it was necessary to do so, and then ignored you when there was nothing left to add.
The fact that you also seemed to welcome this sort of understanding freed him, allowing him to not cut back—or pretend to, because truth be told, you would have very little sway to begin with—on old bad habits and the like. Jinichi continued to hide away in gambling dens, staying up all night away from the estate, drinking without consequences, and the like.
You didn’t pay much attention to it, of course, not even when he’d come back home with the scent of perfume clinging to his clothes, be it from a brothel, a mistress, or anyone at all. It was all insignificant to you. A part of you did resent your family, though, because if the Zenin name was so bad, then why did the family politics matter that much? You did not mind fulfilling and enduring your new life, merely obedient to the role it served, but you still could not help but wonder.
By the end of it all, when you were fully established as husband and wife, somehow Jinichi stopped feeling like such to you, and more like a weight that rested heavily on your shoulders. Surprisingly enough, he was not as aggressive as some of the other men in the clan, but he was constant; always there and lingering at the edges of your life, and yet, barely involved enough to matter.
You must have felt the same in that regard, you speculated, because he never questioned where you went or what you did, so as long as it never reflected poorly back on him. In that sense, he was almost dangerous, but again, it could have all been a lot worse. The Zenin clan, who largely consisted of men who looked down heavily upon women, could have stuck you with a man who was deep into betraying such double standards, but that never became an issue.
Until something threatened the peace, and it was none other than his own feelings being to blame.
Something else began to take root that Jinichi picked up only after living in such proximity to you. On its own, it should have been easy enough to dismiss, but it quickly turned into one of those things that he could not play off as nothing anymore. Sometimes, it would be something you said that caught him off guard, and in other times, it was just in the way that you spoke, the voice you used when you talked to him, or even in the way that you moved, that gave him pause. Slowly, he began to understand that under different circumstances, he would have sought you out anyway.
This, to him, however, was not such a wholesome realisation, because arranged marriages, even with rich chemistry, had a way of dulling people down into the role they took on. Yes, you would give him heirs and stand dutifully at his side when needed, performing as you promised, but love would never truly be a part of it.
And, for the most part, he did not trouble you in the ways you thought he might when you first joined the clan, given your family’s negative influence, recognising that he was fully capable of observing boundaries if you made them clear. He never bothered you if you were tired, never hounded you to be present, and allowed you to come and go from the assigned house on the estate as you pleased.
Which was why it almost started you both when something like this began to unravel.
One night, he noticed something different in your posture. You had returned much later than you ever had—which tipped him off already—finding your gaze dull in a way that went beyond exhaustion.
Jinichi was quick to suspect mistreatment or abuse on your end, but dismissed it initially, until it started to happen more and more frequently. If it were a one-off, then fine, you could handle it yourself, but given that it happened so often, he was starting to become suspicious.
Just as you had come back home another time, all bruised up with your expression downcast, he asked you a question, his voice sharp and heavy in a way that surprised even him.
“Is someone doing this to you?” he asked.
His voice didn’t sound concerned, though, rather irritated, as though the very idea that someone else had touched you without his knowledge was somehow offensive. He felt angered by the same thought, but some parts of his reasoning made sense: if it could spiral into a scandal, it could trace him back to his old, bad habits. Therefore, Jinichi risked getting in trouble as well.
Still, if you were being abused right before his very eyes, then something had gone wrong.
He asked you again, slower that time, each word carrying weight. “Did someone put their hands on you?”
You paused, then let out a decisive sigh. “Yes. They did.”
The breath he took in was harsh from the confirmation.
“I see,” he said gruffly, nodding just once. “For how long?”
You blinked away from him, feeling the resolve in your voice drain. For some reason, such a confrontation felt humiliating in a way you could not name.
“About a couple of weeks now.”
Jinichi had nothing to say to that, coming to stare at you with such a focus that it made you feel uneasy.
“When did it start?” he finally asked, or rather, demanded.
You hesitated, just like before.
“Well—”
“Or,” he interrupted you, catching you before you could make excuses. “Who is it?”
You swallowed hard. For once, you were feeling left a little shaken from how he was treating you, misunderstanding the idea that he was angry at you, when all that was happening in reality was that he had never been told how to properly care.
“Just one of the maids,” you murmured out, hoping he would buy the excuse and drop the issue.
He stopped for a brief moment, confusion settling over his face. He had been prepared for anything else, most likely a man—someone reckless or foolish enough to forget the boundaries that existed within the clan—as oppressive as it was. He knew that his family name was cruel to women; he was no ignorant of that, nor exempt from it. If it was truly just a maid, then he would deal with her accordingly, but something did not add up.
“Elaborate,” he said after a pause.
“W-well,” you scrambled, trying to forge a believable answer. “It’s a cycle here. The strong pick on the weak, so that leaves the weak to pick on the weaker, and I don’t exactly fall into any hierarchy given that I only married into the name—”
Jinichi stopped you again. “Yes, you married into the Zenin name. That makes you a part of the clan, whether you want to be or not,” he reminded you firmly, but not harshly. “That alone puts you above a maid.”
His gaze dropped then, fixing on the red mark that bloomed on your skin. It was a handprint, easy enough to deduce who it might have belonged to. He stepped closer, only just, his palm pressing hot against the sore spot.
A scoff left him as he covered it perfectly.
“And besides, what maids do we have with hands this big?” he asked.
You gulped thickly, realising just how transparent your lie was.
Another part of you felt confused, because you didn’t expect him to care this much.
“If you wanted someone dismissed, fair enough,” he continued, “we can pretend that it was a maid, but this mark was left behind by a man.”
“Does it matter?” you blurted out, your composure finally slipping.
His eyes snapped back to yours, his brows knitting together in anger. “Yes, it fucking matters,” he growled. “It’s humiliating for another man to put his hands on my wife.”
“You meet with other women,” you pointed out, needing to deflect his care.
However, Jinichi didn’t react the way you thought he would.
“True,” he supposed, offering you a simple shrug. “Wouldn’t you? If you could leave this place?” he challenged. “Besides, that’s nowhere near the same.”
You quietened down, supposing he did have a point.
Then, he continued.
“So, dearest wife,” he pressed onwards, stepping close to you, his large fingers tweezing your chin and forcing you to meet his unwavering gaze. “Do tell me. Who the fuck dares to betray me like this?”
Finally, you were able to speak.
Even if your words did come out weak.
“Ogi,” you gasped out, fear lacing your tone, expecting disbelief or anger or anything else negative that could point its way back to you.
Jinichi smiled at that. “So, he’s gone from being a failed father to someone who thinks it’s acceptable to put his hands on my woman,” he said, scoffing under his breath, taking a step back and tilting his head. “But why?” he asked. “Did you do something to anger him?”
“I found his daughters upset,” you said, albeit hesitantly. “Possibly after being reprimanded, and suggested they could be strong regardless of what they were born as. He pushed me out of the way once, reminding me of my place as an outsider, but then it started happening again whenever we would cross paths.”
His lips curled. “I see. So, he’s truly petty enough to abuse you repeatedly.”
Even if it weren’t a question, you nodded, which was all that he needed. Within a beat, he stepped away to give you space, his eyes locked on the door and the path that lay ahead, likely already thinking of a way to confront that man and punish him for daring to humiliate him so deeply.
All the while, you were left behind at home, wondering just what on earth this could change.
~~~
Over time, however, Ogi stopped appearing wherever you were, and this went for just about anyone within the clan who might have looked at you for longer than what was acceptable. Whatever Jinichi had done when he stormed out the day of the confrontation had a significant impact, and you became essentially untouchable.
To drive his efforts further, he also stopped coming home at dawn, and his gambling nights were not as frequent, which, as a result, helped him sober up considerably. When he wasn’t at the estate and returned, he stopped smelling like perfume and smelled closer to himself. He even started commenting on the little things that you did, starting to enter the habit of bringing you small gifts that escalated based on your reaction, hoping to, for a change, win your affection.
Then, one night, you found him already in bed when you entered the room.
The atmosphere felt as charged as it did on the day of the confrontation, making you halt your steps, but there was a different energy to him now.
His voice was low and softer than you had ever heard it.
“Come here,” he requested, patting the space right next to him as he lay on his side, facing you.
You hesitated for the briefest moment, but slowly undressed yourself to join him where he lay. He drew you into his body quickly, coming to reposition himself to eclipse over you, hovering steadily right above. His strong arms caged you in between his chest, and you could feel the heat that radiated from within him, hot and unyielding.
The entire time, he kept his eyes directly on you.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked just once.
You shook your head, although you weren’t sure what the right answer was.
“Good,” he said, regardless. “I want you to feel safe with me.”
Before you could react with a follow-up, he dipped his face right into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against the soft flesh for just long enough to make his intentions clear.
The way he felt on top of you—curious but not forceful—was something that you found yourself strangely welcoming. He kept his presence above you firm, but the way he explored his touch around you felt almost light. Then, when he pulled away, coming to rest on his knees as he looked you down, sprawled out on your back, looking deliciously vulnerable, a whole new look formed in his eyes.
“You’re my wife, aren’t you?” he asked you simply.
You blinked, staring at him directly now.
“Yes,” you replied softly.
“Then, you will allow me to treat you as such,” he said.
Your breath hitched as his large hands came to cup around your thighs, his fingers wrapping around the soft give of your flesh, squeezing where he could. He traced a path all the way up to your middle and then hooked your underwear with his thumbs, peeling away the last of your clothes, quickly discarding his own. The way he gazed at you now was hungry, almost, if not starved; a feeling in him awoken that he could no longer ignore.
Jinichi reached down to palm his length, sliding his fist up and down to achieve his full arousal before coming to spread the lips to your cunt apart. He rubbed the head of his cock right against the entrance, his breath catching in his throat from the mutual warmth radiating from you both, feeling your wetness welcome him in, and finally, easing himself into your heat.
You fluttered out rolling gasps as he gradually hilted himself in you slowly, betraying a keening, breathless sound as his girth stretched you out, and even more so when he began to saw his hips in and out of your quickly adapting core. Almost involuntarily, you sought out some comfort in the process—to which he responded—folding your legs over you, taking your hand to press against his lips, offering an assuring kiss just this once, before continuing. His hands moved to anchor parallel, side by side next to your shoulders, allowing him to push as far as he could go.
For the while that this happened—he could no longer speak coherent words—all too consumed by a single-minded focus that devoured him whole. He wanted nothing more than to remind you of who exactly you were married to; for better or for worse, in this grounding moment. Your eyes rolled back as he continued to fill you out relentlessly, and rough grunts of tortured bliss left his own lips as he surrendered to rutting into you. His body was slick by now with dripping sweat, and the veins on his arms pulsed from over-exertion.
Neither of you could last very long, however, due to the intensity. Pleasure rose from deep within your very sense of being, but Jinichi was the first to tense up. His movements became almost erratic, his hips snapping back and forth on pure instinct. Whereas when you caught up, your legs felt weak as they trembled, something tight and warm pooling in your lower stomach that tingled and squeezed, demanding release.
Quickly finding it unbearable, you closed your legs around his form, clenching as hard as you could. A final, strained rasp of relief escaped your lips, and Jinichi, too, grunted out a heavy moan of completion. He plunged himself as far—and as hard as he could—into your cunt, filling you out as utterly as he could. Warmth soon flooded you from within, and even if he knew to stop—to let the aftermath settle—he could not help but rock his hips for slightly longer to coax out the last few drops entirely.
Finally rolling off of you, he didn’t let you recover alone.
Instead, he pushed his body as flush against yours as he possibly could, unable to bring himself to care about the mess you both made for the time being. You, too, lay exhausted in his arms, seeing him at last, in a different light, as not only exhaustion claimed you then, but something deeply sated.
(That fulfilled you in the best possible way.)
(Understanding perfectly then, what it meant to be loved in an impossible situation.)
And as you drifted off that time, something different bloomed that you never thought you could feel in a place like this:
When a prestigious, high-ranking family arranges an evening at an ochaya, your okiya sends you—a newly debuted maiko—to attend. You serve and perform alongside senior geiko… until you notice the family’s son watching a little too closely.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🎐་༘࿐ CW (in this chapter): might be historically inaccurate (research of culture attempted), AGE GAP: (Naoya is 27, reader is 18-19), obsessive behavior.
wc: 519w, 2,973 Ch.
The noren curtain softly brushes against your shoulder as you step inside the ochaya. The warm light spills across the tatami, painting it golden and low, carrying the quiet murmur of conversation. “you’re late,” a soft voice murmurs beside you.
your Oneesan.
she doesn’t spare you a glance as she adjusts the sleeve of her kimono, but you feel the weight of her presence all the same. you give a respectful bow in apology, careful and precise.
“The rain was quite heavy.”
“remember your place,” she adds quietly. Firm and harsh, but you understand that she just wants the best for you, especially when serving such a powerful family. still, this is the same woman you know when she’s not on duty. You cannot take it to heart. “observe, listen. don’t rush.” she concludes. “yes, oneesan.” you reply with a soft hush. only then are you allowed to move further in.
The guests are already seated. A family, men of status, you can tell without looking directly—everything from the quality of their kimono to the way they hold themselves speaks of wealth, of suffocating power. your okiya had warned you: tonight’s gathering is important.
Wealthy and hold great power. Good for the okiya.
you can feel eyes around the room, but you do not meet them. not yet, not unless invited. perhaps they have questions why a maiko, someone with little experience, was sent instead of a additional geiko. “we will begin shortly,” one of the geiko announces.
your breath catches. this is it.
your first performance.
you join the others at the front of the room. the shamisen begins—soft at first, then guiding. your body moves before your thoughts can come to mind, each step ingrained into your bones. Control with such grace. you do not think. you perform.
but still, for just a moment.. you feel it.
a gaze.
its different from the others. heavier. Suffocating. unmoving. not wavering, and certainly not polite.
watching.
when the dance concludes, you lower yourself gracefully, bowing your head. the room fills with soft approval and claps, conversation slowly returning as if nothing had shifted at all. you assume a kneeling position beside a young guest, a child, hands folded neatly as you wait to be needed.
“Miss, you are very pretty!” the young boy beams with a smile. you couldn’t help the blush of pride and embarrassment creep up onto your cheeks. you give him a soft smile, giving the boy a soft thanks. “would you like to play a game? Konpira Fune Fune?”
The boys eyes gleam with curiosity as he nods quickly, intrigued. Across the room, your oneesan moves to refill a guest’s sake. you don’t look—but you hear it. “leave it.” the voice firmly snaps. a long stretch follows. subtle, but enough to be noticed.
“have her do it.”
your fingers still. you don’t need to be told who he means. you could feel the suffocation to know. slowly, you lift your gaze away from the little boy—just enough.
for the first time that night, your eyes meet his.
a/n: haii guys! short chapter bc.. duhhhh it’s chapter 1. this is just Naoya x readers “official meeting”. I plan to make longer chapters in the future! I actually released this chapter 2 days earlier than intended so I can work on another fanfic. please refer back to the master list linked in the beginning to see the chapter release dates! thank you!!
Young!Naoya x young!fem!reader. Fluff, first meeting between MC and Naoya.
WARNINGS! misogyny (I don't condone this behavior, I just write these things in NAOYA'S perspective, but yeah, misogyny = BADBADBADBADBAD)
--------------
The Zenin clan was difficult to describe, as much hatred it holds is just how much you love it. You wanted to leave, when Naobito found you and brought you in. It was difficult adjusting at first until meeting Naoya.
Well, it wasn't really meeting, was it?
Naobito had you in your room all of the time, a lock adorning your wooden doors. The only modern looking thing in the house, bolted shut with metal. A curious, 12 year old, Naoya approached it tentatively.
He heard whispers of a money maker in the clan, without a technique locked in the room. A source of such mental prowess that his father wouldn't let them out. So recently after seeing Toji, Naoya was beyond himself to find out who the myserteous person was.
Unfortunately, the door refused to budge open. No matter how stubbornly he pulled at it. The chain leashing the lock to the handle and then wall rattles under such presser. Naoya stops at hearing footsteps padding inside the room.
...
You turn on the light, walking to the shaking door. Usually the maids knock and quietly slip in food, and usually if Naobito wanted to get in he would simply unlock the door. Who could this be? A childish grunt travels under the door. A huff as whoever it was sits on the ground, sulking.
"Hello?" You whisper under the door, you're cheek pressed against the floorboards as you talk. They scream, high pitched at terrified. The shrill noise morphs into panting. It could be a maid, but you find it hard anyone with that high of a voice could be old enough to serve food.
"Don't just say that-a-and whisper creepily, thats fucking weird!" A boy's voice declares, a boy making that sound forces a laugh from you.
"You sound funny for a boy." You giggle out.
"You're a... female?" The bafflement coating the voice is clear and obvious. A female, the words sap with disappointment and disdain.
"Of course, why else would they keep me here?"
"W-well you-your such a-a-a-you-agh!" The ruffling of clothing alerts you he's standing in a flurry of emotions. "I can't believe I was tricked by a girl!" The thumping of feet scurries away.
----------
Naoya feels distraught beyond belief, he thought he'd find a mentor only to hear a female? Tch-disgusting, the very thought irks him to his core. What irks him even more is that he's been sitting outside the girl's door for hours each night. A single candle on the ground for light as he rambles about his day to her, how she'd listen and laugh at his crude comments. Occasionally scolding in such a cute way. Cute? No, annoying, ugly way.
"Why can't you open it already?" Naoya mumbles, his fingers right by the crack of the door, resting over yours which are slipped fully under. fingertips partially on the hallway.
"I don't need to, and theres just too much to loose. My life's fine, I don't want to risk it." Pauses intercept your sentence as you drift out into thought. Despite how much you wish to see him you can't let it crowd your judgment. The days you have here are repetitive but fine, a concept Naoya can't fathom.
"What? Just open it so I can go inside the room."
"I don't have the key."
"Do I have to do everything around here?" He retorts. "At least I know how to pick a lock, do you have a couple hairpins?"
Naoya looks down at the black, thin, metal. Bending it to create the perfect shape and sliding into the key hole he tries to move fast. It's only been a week yet he strives for impressive acts, the motions come naturally. After all, he practiced a week none-stop on how to pick a lock for this very moment.
The lock clicks satisfyingly, and with triumph he shoves the door open. It hits a certain someone right in the face.
"Ouch!" You fall back into a sitting position, hands clutching your nose. All the insults and shit Naoya was going to spew falls flat immediately. Your voice matched how you looked, so soft and ador-he slaps his own face.
"I-i'm going to puke, it smells awful in here." Naoya walks in, shaking off the feeling of a girl standing so close to him.
"Sorry, uhm... it smells bad?" You look around at all the coordinated candles. Fuck, wrong insult, Naoya scrambles even more.
"I mean that... your face just looks weird!"
"Really?" You stand, heart sinking. A part of you expected this, well being the first boy you've seen in a while thinks that you're hideous. Despite it all, this morning when you looked in the mirror you didn't think you looked awful. Now the feeling switched into a sickening mass forming in your stomach.
Naoya is mentally fucking himself. Fuck! He messed up so badly, he would've stomped his feet like a pouting toddler if he wasn't in front of you.
"Jeez! Take an insult, you're not eye burningly-bad, chill out." Naoya looks around the room, trying to find something to change the subject to. "You've been here how long?"
"About uhm... 3 years?"
"Holy shit, thats insane!" Naoya rushes around the room, inspecting everything with such genuine curiosity it warms your heart.
"Yeah, I-I get a lot of what I want. Since I earn a bunch of money and what not."
"I heard about that, so are you like a cash cow or something?" He stands, finally walking over, a bit too close.
"Something like that." He suddenly brushes hair behind your ear, the movement clunky and awkward. Your face flushes swiftly at the moment, his warm hands against your cheek, ear, and now neck as Naoya's touch travels. "What are you doing?"
He's quickly broken out of his trance. "Whatever! Y-you should've gotten so close. Pfft-women these days. Can't take a damn compliment..." He keeps venting on and on as your hand touches where he just touched. The night ends quickly with him storming out. One of the stories you made tucked under his arm. Naoya claimed it's too see how much of an horrible writer you are, but excitement in his eyes say otherwise.
---- Extra Scene ----
Naoya got halfway through page five, googling for the umpteenth time on his phone what another vocabulary word is. Looking back at the page he has the sudden urge to catapult the book out the window.
"What. The. Fuck. Is. Vehement? Is that even a word!?"
----
Authors note:
Yes, I love all the morally dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, grey characters. You can't stop me. I already got a hyper fixation.
Summary: Unfortunately, Zenin completely slipped your mind. He was never on it to begin with. How were you supposed to know that your interaction meant something? Or that he would remember you, someone who he met once several years ago?
an: this is inspired by Stalking Laura (1993) which is a movie based on a true story. So, there are notable similarities that this has with the movie.
tw: gun violence, stalking, assault, sexual harassment, criticizing makeup and weight (implied?), misogyny
All it took was one meeting. One look for you to immediately come to the conclusion that Naoya Zenin is repulsive. He’s nothing but an insecure joke. For someone who claims he’s strong, he sure as hell is worried about it. Hiding behind a macho facade that is practically leaking out a fragile and overinflated ego; shoving his ideals about women and not giving a damn about humanity or humility.
It began when your parents went over to the Zenin household when you were about ten or so years old. Even at that young of an age you marveled at the Zenin’s house. Truly, it’s a beauty. Elegant and traditional without it being outdated. As you were admiring the house and walking in the garden, a boy with blond hair with dark ends appeared behind an elephant statue.
You ignored him and walked past him. He didn’t like that at all. Immediately, he yanked you backwards and pushed you against the statue. “Women should walk three steps behind a man.”
You gasped at his sudden action and opinion. Feeling petty, you look around. "Where's a man?" He looked aghast, shocked by your quip. What did he expect? He just pushed you into a statue and believes that women should walk behind him. Did he think you’d take that easily?
His lip curls and eyes fill with rage. His face changed to red. “You bi-”
You quickly cut him off before he can finish. “If you’re talking about yourself, then I’ll remind you that you weren’t even walking.”
Just like that, he stopped. What you thought would be this random boy going off on you ended up with him giving a scowl. You took the opportunity to run away. He called out for you only to find silence.
Throughout the visit, the boy stared at you intently. Following his eyes, his father, Naobito, introduced him as Naoya. Even when his father spotted Naoya's attention on you, Naoya still insisted on studying your every move, making you too nervous to enjoy your meal. Your mother noticed how tense you became, and in a whisper, she asked, "Are you okay?"
Everyone turned to look at you. Despite wanting to out his staring, you shake your head yes. It's not that looking at someone is cause to get him in trouble, it's the way he's doing it. Like he wants to hurt you.
So busy looking at your hands, you don't notice that the adult to your left had switched seats at the boy's request. The adult cooed and awed, complying to his request. It isn't until a plate of cake is put in front of you that you notice the change. "You're going to eat this with me."
His father laughs at it and...cheers? The newly greying man slurs his question, reeking of alcohol. "Growing up to be a man so soon?"
The adults laugh with him, praising how well he's developing into "someone to take charge" and is a shining hope for a family. In the corner of your eye, you see him smirk with a twinkle of pride in his amber eyes.
It all goes over your head but doesn't sit right with you. You look at the plate in front of you. Although you love a good dessert, you don't touch it. The evening continued on without you picking up on his growing curiosity, rage, and infatuation.
Of course, you parents talked about the prospect of the two of you together. Apparently, they noticed him eyeing you from across the table and how "smitten" he was. You simply answered, ‘no’.
That was the last time you talked to or about him or any of the Zenins. As the years went on, your parents worried about your future and marriage. You brushed them off time and time again, much to their irritation. It got to the point where they were even threatening to cut off your college fund for it. Needless to say, you left. No one gets to decide shit for you.
With the help of some friends and a caring teacher that you remained close to, you were able to have a temporary shelter until you could get on your feet. It took months of saving and odd jobs but in the end, you were able to get assistance for college.
It was all liberating. Working hard and thinking for yourself. Being free without being proper or worrying about a stain or two. The blood, sweat, and tears were all worth it. Years later, you graduated at the top, opening hundreds of windows of opportunities.
Unfortunately, Zenin completely slipped your mind. He was never on it to begin with. How were you supposed to know that your interaction meant something? Or that he would remember you, someone who he met once several years ago?
You woke up in a good mood, having dreamt of memories, strangely. You remember how excited and nervous you were when you got hired at your job. Leo, your boss, is a boisterous and kind man who's larger than life. Despite this, he is stern in his rules and direction. It makes you chuckle on how your first day went exactly one year ago. After only a few minutes after meeting you, he decided to 'manifest’ that you'd get a higher position. Now, a higher position is open, and you are one of the people who are thought to be considered for it. Of course, you aren't banking on it. You've only been there for a short time and there are plenty of people who have more experience and do an overall better job than you.
It's nice to be thought of for the job even if you aren't really up for it. Not officially, at least. However, you have worked hard for a better position.
It's only been a year when you got hired and met all of your friends. At work, you clicked with Yuki, a woman with a gorgeous smile and has goddess braids that she herself put in (she made sure you knew that). When you first met her on your first day at work, she took an immediate liking to you. She talked animatedly about her dress for her sister’s wedding. As it turns out, Yuki does not like pink taffeta.
“It’s like she’s trying to make me ugly! Look at this. This is what I’m supposed to wear.” Her slim fingers scroll through her phone for you to see a bubblegum pink taffeta dress with one sleeve on the shoulder and lavender lace on the waist. The dress is form fitting until the bottom fluffs out in magenta tulle.
“Oh my God.” Lord, help her this is ugly. “Exactly! I’m not wearing that, screw it.” You pop a french fry in your mouth. “So, what're you going to do?”
Yuki stops for a second then puts a wicked smirk on her glossy lips. Her mocha skin glows in the sun from the window behind her. Her eyes gleam mischievously. “Wear a wedding dress.”
You nearly choke on your food. “Yuki!”
“She’s doing this on purpose. Look at the other bridesmaids.” She shows you four silk, Grecian like, gowns with subtle and elegant designs. “See? And I get stuck with that.”
You chew on your burger. “Could it be a joke?”
“No. Not unless my mom’s in on it which wouldn’t surprise me. She’s always been like that with us.” Yuki sips on her pop.
“This may be bad advice but go for it. Be the belle of the ball.” She laughs. “Yes, yes, yes! I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
Now that you think about it, yesterday was her sister's wedding if you remember right. You wonder if she went through with it.
You stretch and get ready for work, looking forward to the possible talk you'll have with Leo about the promotion. Not only will you be accomplishing a goal, but you'd also get higher pay which would make Em, your roommate, happy.
"Morning, Em." She gives a light wave, clearly not fully awake yet. Confused, you look at the clock. "Shouldn't you be at work? It's seven."
"Hired a morning worker, remember? So, I shouldn't be working at four in the morning everyday thank God."
"Amen." You say and start making coffee. Although she is the owner of an excellent cafe, you usually make the coffee in the morning. It's your way of giving her a break from it even if only for a moment. You start to lightly chuckle as you notice the green jar.
"Don't you even think about it. I'm serious!" Em warns. You shake it a little. "You don't want decaf?"
She puts her hands on her hips. "It's seven in the morning. I need the hard stuff." You put the decaf down and grab the regular. "I wanted the hard stuff, too, remember?"
Em looks at you questioningly. "When I applied for the apartment? You served me decaf."
"Ha! That's the same jar too."
The house was of a decent size and clean. The outside didn’t look like much but the inside was decorated nicely if not a little quirky. In front of the entrance is a rug that looks like the carpet in The Shining. A clock on the wall in the shape of an apple, throw pillows of different designs and some look homemade. The paint on the walls is different in each room. Could she not decide on which color?
“Alright, where are you from?” The woman who is about your age with long hair asks. Her eyes are warm, and she has a few freckles. They’re cute, you note.
“I wasn’t born here, if that’s what you mean. I was raised in Kyoto though.”
She nodded, taking in the information and understanding your wording. You don’t want to talk about that. Lucky for you, she’s easy going and aware. “Okay, I get it. I don’t like thinking of that shit either.”
You look around the kitchen, secretly looking at the corners and the trim, wondering if you’ll see anything. So far, there isn’t a big hitch. “What’s the catch?”
She hums and looks up at you. “It’s a little too good to be true. I mean, sharing a house for this price?”
She scratches her face. “No catch. My old job helped me keep up the place, then I got fired and was able to finally get my cafe together.” She takes a breath. “I make enough now to not rely on my savings so much but not enough to pay for and take care of a house.”
You nod. “I get it. Y’know, getting started late.” You truly understand. After high school, it took you a hot minute to get to college and get hired for jobs.
“Exactly. Everything is overwhelming so I decided to risk my life and take my chance on a potential serial killer. Anything to save a buck.”
“If it helps, I’m not one. I’m quite normal,” You shrug. “Terribly, boringly, normal.”
She pats the counter in an upbeat rhythm. “How unfortunate. Coffee?”
She holds a pot. “Sure. Thank you.” As she finishes pouring you a mug, she looks up at you. “It’s decaf by the way.”
You stop mid sip. “Why would you do that?” You make her laugh to herself.
“By your reaction, I already like you. You’re quiet but a go-getter. Don’t sell yourself short.” You don’t touch your decaf again.
Em scratches her head. "That shit's got to be expired, toss it." She stops scratching and studies you. "What made you so nostalgic this morning?" That's a good question, honestly. "There's something in the air, I guess."
"Well don't bring that shit over here. It's way too early to think about my past, hell. I need something a little stronger than coffee if that's what we're doing." You roll your eyes at her. "No, Em, that's not what's happening."
You pour her a cup and place the cream and sugar before her. "It's possible that I get that promotion, y'know? I'm not fully qualified but it's possible. I'll be making more money..."
"That reminds me, your half of the rent is due."
"Em! I'm serious." She nods. "I understand what you're saying," Em looks at the clock. "Can we table this? We both have to get ready."
As you exit your car and walk into the building, you notice a familiar looking vehicle. For the life of you, you can’t place it. So, you ignore it and continue on. “Good morning, Rue.”
You wave at the receptionist who has the phone against her ear. She gives you a quick wave before exasperatingly answers whatever was asked over the phone.
“Ah, (L/n). This is the new hire, Naoya Zenin.” The name sounded so familiar to you. His hair is distinct, and eyes are very catlike. You can’t pin it, but you know him from somewhere. The little tick in your mind is pushed back. If you can’t recognize him then it doesn’t matter.
The man pats Leo on his back. “Transfer. Nice to meet you.” He shakes your hand with a firm grip. “So, I was about to give him the tour, want to join?”
“Leo, I already know my way around.” Your boss looks at you incredulously. “I distinctly remember you having to ask for directions to the bathroom.”
“Fine.” You scoff, a little embarrassed that he knew that. Leo leads the tour. Naoya asks questions about the departments and officials. Leo answers with ease then adds, “Then again, you aren't in this department."
"You misunderstand, I am not in a department. I am the future CEO." Your eyebrows raise. Leo copies your expression sticks and his hand out. "Oh, well, nice to meet you!"
"Did you not know this, Leo?" You whisper to him. "No, one of the higher ups asked me to. I didn't think anything of it."
The transfer pays no mind to you. You didn’t get the vibe that it was intentional though. You break off and head to your cubicle. From the corner of your eye, he studies you as he and Leo walk away, with Leo explaining the company in his usual light tone.
“I did it!” Yuki runs up to your cubicle. “What?”
She pulls out her phone to show her selfie she did in a stark white wedding dress in a bathroom. The dress was studded and had a mermaid silhouette and a sweetheart neckline. In usual Yuki fashion, her makeup was elegant and had a dramatic lip stain to her full lips.
“I can’t believe you went through with it…” She slides through the photos. She had the gall to take a picture of her throwing peace signs as her sister cries in the background.
“Hey, you told me to!”
“Oh come on. You were planning this before I…well, encouraged it.”
“Uh-huh! See!” You roll your eyes at her flamboyant demeanor. “Anyway, I didn’t stay long or was dramatic about it or anything.”
You side eye her and raise a brow. “Really?”
“I wasn’t! I felt too much like a lady. Look at me with my opera gloves.” She points to one of her pictures in her gown.
“Since you weren’t dramatic, do you think your family will take that into consideration?”
“Nope. My mother sided with her through it all and my dad then walked me out.” Yuki and her father are close. So, to have him escort her out must’ve hurt a little. “He said I looked pretty then he shut my car door.”
“Are you okay?” You whisper, noticing that her gaze went a little far. She blinks multiple times and lightly slaps her cheeks. “Yep! Oh, here’s Junie the other day!”
You respect her wishes to drop the subject and go on to coo at the image of her daughter, who shares her name. Rather than calling her Yuki as well, it was decided to just nickname her Junior.
---------
At lunch, you, Yuki, and a few others decided to go to a small mom and pop pizzeria. It’s small and dingy but by the Lord in heaven, they make excellent pizza. Per usual, you argue about the toppings. No one can make up their mind or compromise. You groan at the thought of ground beef being on your pizza with no cheese.
“Rue, I swear to God-”
“What? I’m lactose intolerant!”
The chair next to yours scrapes, causing you to look up at the transfer, Zenin. “We’re getting separate pizzas. It’s the easiest way, don’t you agree.”
His tone and words rub you the wrong way. Getting separate personal pizzas is an easy route, but how he worded it sounds wrong. Like he’s telling you. Rue raises her brows in a welcomed shock. She elbows Yuki, who is still looking at the menu for her toppings. Your friends might see this as a turn on, but it’s off putting.
Leo joins the group and explains that he and Zenin were at lunch when they were told that you and your friends went to the pizzeria. The waitress looks at you. “Crap…” You look over the menu, having forgotten what you wanted. Unexpectedly, Zenin pipes up once again and orders for you.
“We’ll share. It’s on me.” Zenin tells you. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. Seriously.”
“Hear that? It’s on Zenin!”
“Should’ve got extra toppings…” Rue whines.
Thirty minutes after random conversation, the pizza is out. Zenin puts a slim slice on your plate.
You’re in mid bite when he talks to you. “It's a fitting size for you." What the hell?
"Meaning?" You talk to him lowly, not drawing attention from the rest of the table. He shrugs and answers, "Meaning, it's the right size."
That didn't clear up shit.
-------
Since Em has decided to hire new staff and use some of her extra time with music classes, you hang out at her cafe alone. As you sip on your drink and read a book, someone takes a seat in front of you. You perk up and look up at the person. You end up meeting Zenin's cat like eyes. You are still unhappy and uncomfortable with how he acted at lunch a few days ago.
"What're you reading?"
"A book." You cross your legs. He sighs like he's dealing with a child rather than an adult who just wants to be left alone. "Did you not like the pizza?"
"Barely remember it since it was basically bite sized." He scratches his ear. "I only did that because Rue said you were insecure and watching your portions. I was just trying to support you."
That never occurred to you. It's not like you hate yourself or think low. You're just trying to watch it. "I'd appreciate it more if you didn't do that."
He freezes for a second. "Me doing and saying that must've come out wrong. Let me buy your coffee." You shake your head no, denying his request. "It's fine. I already paid."
“No, no. I’ll get your money back and pay for you. My treat.”
You stare at him blankly. Honestly, you have no idea what the fuck is going on. “I already paid. I don’t want you to.”
“It’s the proper thing to do.” He lightly grabs your arm, rubbing circles on it.
You scoff. “I don’t want you to pay. Think of it as a thank you for covering the pizza.” You get up and leave. There is something deep that’s making you flinch as you walk away from him. This dread and anticipation from a predator.
“Stop, don’t be dramatic.” You whisper to yourself, shaking away the feeling. There’s nothing to be weary of. This is a colleague, for crying out loud! Not some man in a white van.
You don’t tell Em what happened at her cafe since it was nothing to worry about. At least that’s what you tell yourself. Through the night the encounter ran through your mind. For some reason, it’s not leaving.
-------
Nevertheless, you head on and go to work the next day.
You enter your office thirty minutes before your time. You flick on the lights and see Naoya sitting in your chair with a coffee in his hand. He gets up and gives you the warm drink. You notice that it’s warm, not hot.
“What are you doing here?” Figuring that it may not be best to come off as accusatory or aggressive, you ask him with a smooth voice. “Well, with that report coming up, I guessed that you’d show up early,”
He spots something on you, staring intently at it. Naoya isn’t the most imposing man physically. What he lacks there is replaced in his demeanor and behavior. Naoya touches your face.
“Women shouldn’t wear so much makeup. It’s unbecoming.”
“What I do is none of your business, Naoya.” His eyes darken ever so slightly then clear up.
“Just be careful. People might get the wrong impression.” He touches your chin slightly. His eyes move to your lips and wipes them with his thumb. You stop breathing. You want to jerk your head away and fight but God…
“Enjoy the coffee.”
You can’t stop shaking.
-------
At lunch, you tell your friends what happened. “What?”
“Yeah. The coffee was warm, too.” You tap your foot.
Rue smacks her lips. “So what? He thought you liked warm coffee.” She takes another bite of her sub. You rub your temples. “No, I mean he was there for a while. It wasn’t warm like hot but lukewarm. He was there, in my office, in the dark, without my permission. He was waiting for me.”
The two of them stop eating. Speak of the devil and he’ll appear, the man walks in with a group of his colleagues. You couldn’t help but glare and make an annoyed face. Yuki points it out first.
“Honey, if you keep staring at him like that he won’t pay for your coffee anymore.” She says teasingly.
“I say take advantage of it, personally.” You roll your eyes at Rue and turn to Yuki. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”
Leo comes up to your table. “What are you three clucking about?” You scoff at the man who seems to never get rid of his smile. “Rude. But to answer your question, (Y/n) over here has some news.”
Rue, you discover cannot hold water to save her life. Suddenly, he gets serious after she spills.
“You can take this up with HR. They can take care of this.” You sigh. “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”
After work, you head home. Nothing’s different or out of place in the routine. The neighbors still wave at you and the dogs still bark. Em isn’t at home, like normal at this time. Everything seems fine.
You get out of the car and lock it. Before you can even take the first step, another car pulls up. It’s sleek and black, clearly expensive and well taken care of. Out of the car is Naoya. You can’t hide the shock from your face.
He followed you home. You didn’t even see him.
He comes stomping towards you with a cup in hand. “I assume you didn’t drink the first, right? Here. Since you’ve acted like a brat all day and need coffee to behave.”
“This is seriously inappropriate! What are you doing here?” You don’t take the coffee from his hand. “If you don’t take it, I’m not leaving, I swear to God.”
You take it hesitantly. It’s iced and is slowly melting. “Since you don’t know how to act, I’ll have to teach you. Lucky for you, I’m a forgiving and patient man.”
He pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Read it. And drink.” He turns around and leaves you and slams his car door.
Dear,
When I provide, let me. It is not an option to deny a protector his darling and for you, my Summer sweet, to reject what I give. This letter is for you to know that the innate primal instinct is forever in your name even though you disrespected me.
Nevertheless, I will be here. Let me show you what a man’s supposed to do a few times. Denying an advance of a beautiful relationship speaks volumes of your pain that I wish to heal. One date at a time, one night at a time. All that is needed is your obedience.
“This letter…baby this is a threat. It’s…what’s the word? Crazy? Obsessive? You have to do something about this.”
“Rue said something about his position that worries me. His superior is his father. He’s got me over a barrel.”
“Yeah, he seems like a spoiled ass. What's this about your obedience? A night at a time? The guy’s a pig.” She tosses it on the counter. “This man can’t be reasoned with. He followed you home, broke into your office, followed you to my cafe-this is serious!”
You know that. You know that this guy is growing scarier. “I can handle it. I’ll tell him to leave me alone.”
“Baby, he asked you out in a threatening letter. Love? Being a provider and protector? This is insane. You have to tell your boss. Go to HR, something.”
“Leo knows of how he’s acting. But he’s out of the loop about Zenin following me home,” You walk through the kitchen for a mug. “Besides, HR is going to think we were together! They won’t believe me. Not when he’s sitting in a fancy chair that daddy gave him. I’ll handle this.”
"Why would HR think you're together?" She puts her hands on her hips. "Because it's a romantic poem-"
"There is not a damn thing romantic in this trash. At all." She rubs her face. “What’re going to do? All you did was not drink a coffee and he followed you home and wrote a threatening letter. This is serious!”
You pour a cup of coffee, not even wishing for the one Zenin gave you. “I can do this. Trust me.”
--------
At lunch, you tell your friends what happened. “What?”
“Yeah. The coffee was warm, too.” You tap your foot.
Rue smacks her lips. “So what? He thought you liked warm coffee.” She takes another bite of her sub. You rub your temples. “No, I mean he was there for a while. It wasn’t warm like hot but lukewarm. He was there, in my office, in the dark, without my permission. He was waiting for me.”
The two of them stop eating. Speak of the devil and he’ll appear, the man walks in with a group of his colleagues. You couldn’t help but glare and make an annoyed face. Yuki points it out first.
“Honey, if you keep staring at him like that he won’t pay for your coffee anymore.” She says teasingly.
“I say take advantage of it, personally.” You roll your eyes at Rue and turn to Yuki. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”
Leo comes up to your table. “What are you three clucking about?” You scoff at the man who seems to never get rid of his smile. “Rude. But to answer your question, (Y/n) over here has some news.”
Rue, you discover cannot hold water to save her life. Suddenly, he gets serious after she spills.
“You can take this up with HR. They can take care of this.” You sigh. “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”
After work, you head home. Nothing’s different or out of place in the routine. The neighbors still wave at you and the dogs still bark. Em isn’t at home, like normal at this time. Everything seems fine.
You get out of the car and lock it. Before you can even take the first step, another car pulls up. It’s sleek and black, clearly expensive and well taken care of. Out of the car is Naoya. You can’t hide the shock from your face.
He followed you home. You didn’t even see him.
He comes stomping towards you with a cup in hand. “I assume you didn’t drink the first, right? Here. Since you’ve acted like a brat all day and need coffee to behave.”
“This is seriously inappropriate! What are you doing here?” You don’t take the coffee from his hand. “If you don’t take it, I’m not leaving, I swear to God.”
You take it hesitantly. It’s iced and is slowly melting. “Since you don’t know how to act, I’ll have to teach you. Lucky for you, I’m a forgiving and patient man.”
He pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Read it. And drink.” He turns around and leaves you and slams his car door.
Dear,
When I provide, let me. It is not an option to deny a protector his darling and for you, my Summer sweet, to reject what I give. This letter is for you to know that the innate primal instinct is forever in your name even though you disrespected me.
Nevertheless, I will be here. Let me show you what a man’s supposed to do a few times. Denying an advance of a beautiful relationship speaks volumes of your pain that I wish to heal. One date at a time, one night at a time. All that is needed is your obedience.
“This letter…baby this is a threat. It’s…what’s the word? Crazy? Obsessive? You have to do something about this.”
“Rue said something about his position that worries me. His superior is his father. He’s got me over a barrel.”
“Yeah, he seems like a spoiled ass. What's this about your obedience? A night at a time? The guy’s a pig.” She tosses it on the counter. “This man can’t be reasoned with. He followed you home, broke into your office, followed you to my cafe-this is serious!”
You know that. You know that this guy is growing scarier. “I can handle it. I’ll tell him to leave me alone.”
“Baby, he asked you out in a threatening letter. Love? Being a provider and protector? This is insane. You have to tell your boss. Go to HR, something.”
“Leo knows of how he’s acting. But he’s out of the loop about Zenin following me home,” You walk through the kitchen for a mug. “Besides, HR is going to think we were together! They won’t believe me. Not when he’s sitting in a fancy chair that daddy gave him. I’ll handle this.”
"Why would HR think you're together?" She puts her hands on her hips. "Because it's a romantic poem-"
"There is not a damn thing romantic in this trash. At all." She rubs her face. “What’re going to do? All you did was not drink a coffee and he followed you home and wrote a threatening letter. This is serious!”
You pour a cup of coffee, not even wishing for the one Zenin gave you. “I can do this. Trust me.”
--------
At work, you avoid him like the plague. You even go as far as to change your schedule, much to your friends' dismay. Anytime he was conveniently on your floor for some fake ass reason, you leave. This behavior is becoming suspicious to your friends. They know of how he acted towards you but not to the extent that it has gotten.
Hopefully, he’ll stop coming towards you. He’ll stop breaking into your office and leaving coffees. If this continues on, you will go to HR.
You park your car and head inside the shabby little building. The lights flicker outside, fighting the dark. Its bold red print on the sign is fading and the parking lot only has a few cars. It is a writer’s class that you found with an excellent and self published writer for a teacher. All of your peers eagerly wait for her to come in.
“Hey! Did you get something down?” You ask Ren. His thick hair gets in his face before he moves it. His dark eyes trail to find yours and have a sparkle of excitement in them.
“A chapter! Like, a whole chapter. I couldn’t believe it.” You gasp and pat him on the back. “Getting out of your slump! I can’t wait to read it.”
Suddenly, the door opens and reveals a devil. Naoya Zenin waltz’s through in his casual clothing. The teacher introduces him to the class. You are the only one that doesn’t welcome him, earning a curious look from Ren. The teacher goes on and asks for anyone to present. Zenin stands up with his catlike eyes gleaming and a smirk on his face. This can’t be good.
He clears his throat. “My dearest dream weaver, my heart’s sake divine. I’ve wondered about these streets for years, hoping for a moment of clarity from you. Alas, there isn't a thing to make you go away. Did you know this when you saw me, you with a beautiful face?
You, my nightmare who keeps me up, a ghost of a heavenly past. I gave you words of my declaration yet you turn away from me. The turn of your face and hidden eyes aren’t what’s terrible in my mind. It is the question of what’ll happen after.”
The class is silent until the teacher praises his poem. He stares into your soul, a cold wash scaring you. After class, you get up and practically run outside. “Hey, let me drive you home!”
“No!” You shout at Zenin. You need to get out of here. To run into your home and hide. “Don’t be difficult!”
You drop your keys on the pavement right as you try to put them into the slot. Your hands shake. “Shit, fuck!”
“I just want to talk!”
You hear a car and see bright lights. No one drives a fancy car like that except for him.
“Please, please…” You get inside and lock the doors. Wasting no time that God has given you, you drive like a bat out of hell.
“I need to go…” You come to the decision.
--------
You tap your foot, nervous about this meeting.
“What are you talking about? Naoya Zenin is the son of Naobito Zenin. It is said that out of his brothers, he'll be the one to inherit,” HR is an older woman with pristine white hair in a bun. Her lipstick is a bit dry but otherwise impeccable. Her voice is so proper it makes you want to take classes to clean yours up. "This is not some run of the mill employee. What happened?"
“He’s followed me home twice that I know of, to my writer’s class, given me coffee and letters. He even read one in the class.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood the writer’s class letter. It could’ve been his genuine assignment.” She sits in her chair and gestures for you to follow. You sigh as you sit down. “No, it was his first time. He couldn’t have known about any assignments. Ma’am, please. He stares at me while I’m working and hovers through the entire floor until he finds me. I’ve even had to change my schedule to avoid him.”
She brings out a paper, a form for her to fill out. You begin to smile when you see that. “Did you have a prior relationship?”
“No, no. I don’t know him.”
“Spend time outside of work at any point?”
“His first day, I think?” She writes in perfect writing. “But everyone went. Actually, Rue and Yuki were with me at the time. We were already there when he and Leo showed up. He paid for the meal, but that’s it.”
Her eyes don’t look right to you. You smile anyway. Once she moves her eyes from the paper to you, a perfectly trimmed eyebrow raises up. “Do you always smile like that?”
Your face drops at the question and your heart aches when she writes it down.
You cry in the bathroom. Seeing your makeup smudging, you desperately try to save it at the same time.
“(Y/n)? What’s wrong?” Yuki comes in. Looking at her concerned face, tears start to shed again, relentlessly trailing down your face. Without hesitation, you spill everything. You don’t have the letters with you at the moment, but you insist on the legitimacy.
“I believe you.” You throw your arms around her neck and hug her. Her vanilla scent has always been fragrant and sweet. Yet never has it been sweeter and more welcomed than now.
“Come on, let’s go out to lunch. How about your friend’s cafe? She makes excellent muffins.” You chuckle and wipe your tears. “How can you think of food at a time like this?”
“Easy,” She looks you over, inspecting your state. “Oh honey, you’re a mess. No way am I going there with you.”
“The hell?” You look into the bathroom mirror and see what she means. Your mascara is running, foundation is suffering and various other things. You laugh as you side eye her.
“Come on, let’s fix you up.”
You bring out the only touch up makeup you have in your purse and do the best you can.
At the cafe, you see Em and wave. She hurries to you and Yuki. “Is everything okay? Is it the creep again?” She rubs your back gently.
“We’re just hungry and here for a ‘pick me up’.” Yuki smiles. Em pats her chest. “I was about to say. That creep is a menace. Do you know?”
“Yeah, she told us that he was in her office. I just now found out about the legit stalking when I found her in the bathroom. I knew he was being weird, but this is crazy.”
Em nods and turns to a barista with bright blue eyeshadow and full lips. “I need muffins, coffee, chamomile tea, cookies-”
“That’s not necessary, Em.” You touch her hand to get her to stop since she is still going. After she’s finished, she sits down and asks you, “So what happened? Why were you crying?”
Yuki nods and thanks the barista who sees your red, puffy eyes and gives you a sympathetic smile. You take a sip of your coffee and then clear your throat. The thought of the meeting that you just had makes your lip wobble.
“Apparently, I smile too much.”
---
The next day you attend work, the elevator door opens to a bouncing Leo. “You’ll never believe the news I have for you.”
You step out and walk alongside him, passing your colleagues and unattended Dahlia plant on a random desk. The receptionist on the floor scrambles to his phone and answers it with a professional, yet tired, tone. It matches Rue’s perfectly.
“What’s the news?”
“You’re up for the promotion.” You halt and gasp. “Me? Are you serious?”
“Dead. Come with me.” You follow him earnestly with questions on your tongue. “Why? There are people who’ve been here a lot longer. Surely, there are people who are better.”
You knew that you were talked about, but for you to be put in front of the line is crazy. He opens the door for you to enter his office. “Enough with the questions. Listen, this is a prime opportunity and you are way better than you give yourself credit for.”
You sit down on one of his chairs. “Leo, I’m serious. There must be a mistake.”
“Nope!” He sits behind his desk. And turns his pencil holder twice.
“Who would take that risk? Yes, I work hard. Yes, I am driven. But I’m not experienced enough. I knew it was possible for me and I’m excited! But for me to be actually getting it?” You bounce your stocking covered leg. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
Leo turns his pencil holder again. “It’s a promotion with numerous benefits. Higher pay, a better office-”
You interrupt. “Who’s taking that risk, Leo.” Your suspicion is growing. Not just because of the proposition, but the way he turns his clay pencil holder with his daughter’s sunflower painting on it. The way he avoids the answer and has a wide smile on his face that is now looking forced.
“A promotion is a promotion…right?” He sounds so unsure, almost as if he’s asking you for the answer and permission. The answer to this riddle is right there. A name and a face deep in your gut. “Zenin?”
Leo and the whole office knows about him now. It was Yuki’s form of being petty. No one has said anything to him or the higher ups, though. “Yes.”
“Leo! No, no I won’t accept something he has to offer. If I get promoted it will be fair and square.”
“I know it’s not ideal, but the rest agreed on you. Even though he brought you up, it was unanimous.”
You shake your head, now completely disgusted. “Leo, I won’t. I’ll never owe him a damn thing.”
Leo stands up. “I’m with you then, kid.”
------
You go to H.R. again. “Ma’am, look into it again. He’s now getting in the way of my job.”
She scoffs and takes a deep breath. “This promotion-”
“Isn’t right. I take pride in my work, absolutely so. What Zenin is doing isn’t fair to anyone. If I get a promotion, it’ll be on my terms. I won’t win unfairly. I won’t let him bypass all the others that deserve a chance at getting this position.”
She studies you and your conviction. “I will never owe him a thing. Here are his letters,” You slam them down on her desk. The thick wad of paper slaps against it, showing just how bad it has gotten. “And these aren’t even the ones he’s written in my class.”
She licks her lips. “I know this is odd. But men in his position are a bit eccentric anyway as far as I can-”
You interrupt her. “I also wrote down all of the witnesses including those on my floor. He walks through it and stares at me, following me. Tries to make conversation even when I say no. He’ll touch me in harmless ways that have more meaning than they look. He’ll break into my office! Lord only knows what sensitive information he’s touched."
You put your hands on her desk. "Ma’am, I’m unrelenting on this. He’s still following me home. You have to do something.”
She nods subtly. “I can suggest counseling to the higher ups and show how this has become. I cannot guarantee what’ll happen.”
It’s better than nothing. “What if they say he has to go and he doesn’t? He has a high position, also.”
“Yes, he does. But a unanimous decision trumps him anyway. May I keep these?” You say yes and push the letters to her. “And if there are any photos, emails, phone calls, anything, give them to me.”
---
When coming home, you decided not to go to your writer’s class. You haven’t dropped out, though. Breaks are good. They’re exceptional even. Perfect for mental health. This is the lightest you’ve felt in a while. Things were being taken seriously and the ball is rolling. You exit the car and are met with a furious Zenin, who comes from behind your home.
“How dare you. How dare you!” He stomps over to you. His hair is still in place and his suit is still pressed. “I hand you the answer to your prayers and you bite.”
“I’m not taking that promotion, Zenin. I want to get it fairly, without help.”
“Naoya. Call me Naoya.” There's a lilt in his voice. He stands perfectly straight and unbothered. He takes a deep breath. “Perhaps you didn’t understand me to begin with. (Y/n),” His voice is back to a serious tone. Zenin clasps your hands gently and stares into your eyes with sincerity. “Our relationship is simple. You are my woman; all I require is your obedience.”
He caresses your cheek. You can’t breathe.
“No.” Is all you can muster. You run inside to find the door unlocked and Em sitting in the living room. Quickly, you lock it securely. “Is the back door unlocked?”
“What?” She props herself up. “Is it unlocked?!”
“Don’t yell at me!” She drops her magazine on the coffee table. Your breath is ragged, too scared to work properly. Em makes her way to you and is gentle. “Everything’s locked up. Why? What’s wrong?”
“He’s out there. He thinks we’re together. It’s not a crush. He genuinely believes we’re in love.”
Em peeks out the window and sees him in his car, clenching his cellphone. The home phone that Em insists on keeping, rings. She answers it, not bothering to look at the ID. Suddenly, a wicked voice speaks through.
“Put her on the fucking phone now!”
“How the fuck did you get this number?” Em is way calmer than you. Way, way, calmer. “Put her on-”
“No!” She hangs up. The black corded phone rings again and again. “I can’t stay here, Em.”
“I’m going with you. No arguments.”
The two of you quickly found a new apartment with new numbers. Even the cafe’s number changed. The apartment isn’t the best. It’s a cheap one with bad neighbors and a shady landlord. All of it is temporary and honestly, you feel safer here. What you feel bad about is Em’s house. She still owns it and is trying to find new renters or if it comes down to it, buyers.
-----
It has been days, weeks, since you have had to be subjected by Naoya’s presence. Although the first day was refreshing, you can’t help but wonder if this growing anxiety is from his absence or from impending doom.
“Okay, you guys. I’m going to the bathroom. Be right back.”
Your friends, Em, Rue, and Yuki sit at a little round table waiting for the loaded nachos appetizer. You head to the bathroom and dodge the plenty of people in the popular bar. The smell of cigarette smoke and cold beer is slight. The dim lights still work and help you find your way.
Finally in the bathroom, you touch up your makeup. Not just for yourself but for a man at a table who has been eyeing you since you came in. Strange thick white hair, sparkling blue eyes, and perfectly sized lips. His long fingers gripped the beer glass, completely wrapped around it. How his round eyes peered over the glass just to look at you made your face incredibly warm.
It has been a while.
You finish swiping your lipstick when a loud bang shocks you. A furious Zenin charges towards you. His eyes are bolder and eyebrows so furrowed that you could swear they’d stay there. He is growing redder by the second and his hands twitch with anticipation.
“What did you do? How could you?”
“I need to go-” You try to brush past him.
“Don’t take another fucking step, I swear to God.” He comes a little closer. “How could you? Lie about me to the office and my colleagues? Force me into counseling to talk to a quack about our relationship? After all I’ve done to show my love, this is how you act. You embarrass me?”
“I never wanted to embarrass you. I just want you to leave me alo-” He smashes the mirror with his bare hands and yet has no scratches. You shriek when the impact occurs, your instincts realizing that you may die here. That he really is a man on the edge.
“Is everything okay?” A woman with dull red hair and bright green eyes enters. She looks at the two of you curiously and gasps at the mirror.
“Get out!” He screams at her. She screams and takes off. “Help me, please!” You yell before the door closes. You pray she heard you in time. To get some kind of help or to at least come back to save you.
“How far do I have to go? For you to remember our love? To accept it and how much of a man I am? Why do I even have to prove it?!”
“You don’t have to prove anything! We are not in love!” He backs away slowly. “Don’t make me lose my temper. Do not push me there. Take the promotion, work with me. I have to keep you on a leash since you won't behave on your own. Your rightful place is by my side, (Y/n). As your fiancé, I demand it.”
“I’ll go to the police, Zenin. I swear I will.” Tears stream down your face. You slowly back away. He opens the door. “If you do, I’ll show you what I’m capable of, God have mercy on you and me.”
When the door closes quietly, you faint, hitting the pink tile.
--
You walk to HR with the red haired woman’s number and statement in your hand. Along with it is the manager’s, and multiple people who heard your cry and saw you being carried out unconscious by the white haired man.
“Here. You wanted evidence. All of these people are witnesses on how far he will go. He trapped me in the bathroom, threatened me, broke property and-and-” Air is being slowly taken from you as you try to talk. A clenching feeling in your chest threatens to burst.
“This. I’ve had to move, change my number, I can’t go back to my writer’s class without him being there, convincing everyone that the letters are from his love rather than his psychosis.”
Her eyes become wider by the second as she reads everything. “I encourage you to get a personal restraining order. I’ll bring this to the higher ups but I cannot guarantee a company one. He has already been told to stay away from you unless necessary.”
You shake your head as tears fall. “I can’t. He’s threatened-”
“That matter is up to you. I will go by company protocol. This alone will not be enough, (Y/n).”
---
“What are you saying? Do you know who I am?” Zenin bounces his leg slightly, determined to not show that this is getting to him. The bright room with several elders at the rectangular table stare at him. Not a single thing in this is comforting.
“You do understand how serious this is, don’t you? Phone calls, stalking-”
“We’re in a relationship. We have been since we were kids. Our parents arranged our betrothal. I’m merely acting as a man should with his future wife.”
“No, no that’s not how it goes, Naoya.” A woman sits straighter, observing his behavior, catching every little thing. Naoya taps his fingers on the wooden table. “That’s the proper way a married couple acts. This isn’t stalking, this is making sure she stays in line.”
“She isn’t some fiance of yours. She’s an employee. Our employee.” A man with greying hair gestures between the higher ups. Naoya sits straighter. “Am I not a part of that?”
“Depends.” The woman states. He can’t help but glare at the woman. “As a shareholder, a man of the future position of CEO,”
“This will halt that, Naoya. That’s what we’re telling you.”
The world stops. He can only hear the faint buzzing noise. “Are you taking this company, my inheritance, away from me?” He’s burning hot.
“We want you to stay, Naoya. But this behavior has to stop. This is serious.”
Naoya stiffens then with the calmest tone says, “I have weapons like you wouldn’t believe. If I lose my job, my heritance, because of my woman’s dramatization, I’ll end it. Not just me but everyone.”
“Are you saying, if you lost your job, you’ll kill us?” The woman stiffens. “Everyone. I am Naoya Zenin, a man who will not be rejected.” The air is sucked out of the room.
----
“Naoya Zenin has been fired.” HR comes to you personally. “I want you to take a couple of days away. Not just to your home, but elsewhere. Just for a few days.”
“What’s happening?” Leo asks. He stands next to you, curious and cautious.
“It’s been handled. (Y/n), this is not our problem anymore. The ball is in your court.”
You stand up, smoothing your pencil skirt. “Thank you.”
“For your safety, I suggest a restraining order immediately.” She leaves. Leo looks at you with a frown on his face. "What the fuck happened?" You shrug, not wanting to know the answer.
“Mother?” She’s the first thing you see when the door opens with a suitcase in your hand and a forced smile on your face. “What’re doing here, child?”
“I just need to sleep here for a few days. Is that okay?” You didn't want to bring Em, Rue, and Yuki into this. You thought it was best to leave the apartment for a bit, so it didn't disturb anything.
“No. Not after all of this,” She closes the door and steps onto the porch. “Why now? After your independence.”
She crosses her arms and looks at you condescendingly. You want to scream. “A man at my job is stalking me. He just got fired because of it and they suggested I hide.”
“What?” She uncrosses her arms and gently touches your arm. “It was one of my bosses. He’s completely delusional.”
“W-well, who is he?”
“Naoya Zenin? You probably never heard of him. He was a big shot at the company but he assaulted me-”
“Child, who did you say?” You repeat his name that tasted foul on your tongue. “Why would you do this? He was almost-”
“What? You know him?”
“You do too. Then again, it has been a long time. Back then, he was smitten with you and we tried to set the two of you up. Never did I think he’d go this far. Especially when it was denied. Both of you went your separate ways.”
Your mouth falls as you process her information. “Mom…this can’t be. I don’t remember him at all. Did he know of your plans?”
“Yes, he did. His father was joking about it. Nothing was to come of it.”
You drop your suitcase. Is this why? He deluded himself or possibly love you in a psychotic yet childish way? “What do I do now?” You whisper, totally flabbergasted that he remembered you and held onto this. Something that was to never be. “Ha, actually, you’re the one who rejected him-”
“Mom! What do I do?” Her lips go to a thin line, contemplating your problem. She looks up at you with an intense stare. “Get a restraining order. It was a bad idea to do all of this but now you have no choice.”
The way she put it stings but the answer to the problem is a restraining order. It’s exactly what you did. Called a lawyer and got a temporary restraining order until trial.
--
It goes downhill from there.
The trial is set for this week, which you prayed that the day would come soon. Only for it to be met with gunshots. The first floor is the first to meet him. You hear them clearly while in your office. The window looks great to jump out of right about now. Before you can think anymore, Naoya bursts the door open with a bang. You stand up, terrified of not only the gun but how blank his expression is. Like this isn’t fazing him in the slightest.
There's no air in the room just pressure. Time is frozen as the two of you have a stare off. A buzzing noise comes from the broken lights in the hallway, the metallic scent of blood is too much. There are red splotches on his clothes and on the large gun. He carries more on him, more disgusting violence and stupidity.
“Naoya, no!” You grip the edge of your desk, hurting your finger. Perhaps the pain from it will wake you up from this nightmare.
“As my wife you should’ve known better. A restraining order? Against your husband!”
“I didn’t remember-”
He curses at you and fires a shot. Your body topples back from the impact. He stares at your unconscious figure, then goes to leave. "I know you're not dead yet. You better live because I'm not through with you."
When you awake, the shots are still firing. Screams are still heard, and the nightmare continues. “No, no, God, please…”
Your upper arm was hit, the bullet clean through. The blood is all over your shirt and even on your bottoms. You take your jacket off and press it onto your wound. Shakily, you stand up and slowly walk out. Reo, the receptionist on your floor, is the first you see. Slumped over his desk with a phone in his hand. The red dahlia plant is shattered.
Next, are two colleagues who worked at the other side of the floor, shot in the back. You quickly walk away, doing it as quietly as you can.
With every popping sound you flinch harder and harder. The phone on someone’s desk is untouched with blood or a dead hand. You pick it up and call for the police, somebody, anybody. “My name is-”
A smooth and stern voice interrupts. “This line is for-”
“Please, please save us. I’ve been shot.” You whimper. His tone changes to one of complete sympathy. “We can’t storm in right now. Just sit tight and hide. Where are you? What’s your name?”
You tell him what he wants to know. “He’s on the third floor I think? I can still hear him.”
“Thank you so much. Now, (Y/n), you have to hide. Put pressure on the wound and hide.”
“I’m doing that already. Please get me out of here-” You hear another shot that is closer. You duck behind a barrier, hearing the devil enter. The phone rings and Zenin answers with annoyance in his voice. “Before you say anything, you need to know that this is all because of her. My wife.”
“Who?”
“(Y/n) Zenin. Had she just listened, accepted me as her husband and a man, we wouldn’t be here. It’d never have come to this. This is all her fault.”
You silently cry at the truth. It is true right? Maybe if you just caved and went to him, accepted his love and left everyone out of this, they’d be alive today. “I will blow this building to hell if you don’t back off.”
Not bearing to hear it anymore, you crawl out the best you can. Worried for your friends, for everyone. "She's missing. I think she's walking around or escaped. If you see her, tell her I'm coming for her."
You hit the stairs as quietly as you can. He’s still ranting about you to the policeman. Hopefully the love of his own voice overpowers the sound of your footsteps. You see the sign for the lobby and push the doors open to it. Glass is everywhere in the lobby and blood coats the walls. To your right is Rue, laying on the floor with her eyes open in horror. Her red lipstick matches the blood on her chest. You touch her face with an apology on your tongue.
“Forgive me, forgive me…” You leave her and exit this hell you created. You pray that everyone else escapes it. You pray that time rewinds and you alone are punished with this. For Rue, for everyone.
The ambulance hauls you in. The corner of your eye Yuki stands with an officer, desperately hanging onto him, crying. You’re on the bus before you can apologize.
It takes hours of surgery to fix your arm. You’re ordered to stay for a little while. The small white room smells of bleach and cleaner. You can't close your eyes, or you will see Zenin, standing at the door waiting for you. It changes every time you blink. He'll have a gun and another he'll be completely unarmed and leaning on the door frame, smirking. You can't get rid of his image.
In the room comes Em and surprisingly, Yuki. Right as you see them, you beg for forgiveness and your apologies fill the room. You look Yuki in the eyes and are reminded of Rue’s death. Her bloodied corpse and horrified face will stick with you forever.
“Enough!” Yuki yells. She sports a cut on her eyebrow but otherwise looks alright if you don't count the slight shaking. “It’s over. All done.”
“He’s not out there anymore. He can’t hurt you.” Em says sweetly. She comes to your side and holds your trembling hand. Her warmth tries to bring you a comfort that you reject. “It’s all my fault. All of it. Every single-”
“No! This is on him and him alone. You have the right to say no. You did what you had to. It’s no one’s fault but his.”
“Yuki…” You can’t finish your sentence, choking up. Yuki’s eyes are watering. “We’ll survive this. He won’t win.”
“Ever.” Em affirms. Yuki grabs your hand, too. The guilt will always be there. But his hold will fade away one day at a time, and every time you will spit on his grave.
