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xlettex · 2 days ago

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Deception || tetsurou kuroo Yakuza AU - Chapter Six

From the moment you looked into his eyes, you knew—he was nothing but trouble. Everyone warned you. Stay away from him. Don’t get involved. But you never listened. Tetsurou Kuroo, better known as Kurai, is the infamous yakuza boss of Japan. Just mentioning his name is enough to send shivers down spines and silence conversations in dimly lit alleyways. He is a force of nature—deceitful, ruthless, and dangerously unpredictable. A man who bends the world to his will, leaving chaos in his wake. And yet, to you… he is irresistible. You crave him — his touch, his warmth, the way he sets your skin on fire with just a glance. He makes you feel invincible like you can take on the world. But loving him is a double-edged sword. Because just as he lifts you up, he destroys you.

pairing - tetsurou kuroo x reader genre - action romance, crime romance, dark romance, erotica/smut rating - 18+ MINORS DNI chapter word count - 13.0k content warning - violence, drugs and alcohol, illegal activities, sexual content, angst. see each chapter for specific warnings.

Authors Note - This fanfic is inspired by the amazing fanart of the tetsurou kuroo mafia au (found image on pinterest, help me find the artist - I want to credit them). Disclaimer - This is a work of fiction, I do not condone the act of illegal activities, violence, or romanticization of the yakuza. Read at your own risk.

chapter five <- chapter six -> chapter seven

✯ chapter-specific warnings - smoking, violence, injury, threats, exhaustion, illegal activity, manipulation, stalking? & surveillance ✯

The knock was too soft. Hesitant. Like you weren’t sure if you should be here at all. You tightened your grip on the sleeves of your shirt, shifting on your feet as the seconds dragged on. Your stomach twisted—not from anything logical, just a deep, sinking weight pressing against your ribs.

You shouldn’t be here. But where else could you go?

The moment Koushi’s door swung open, everything inside you nearly collapsed.

He was wearing sweatpants, an old college hoodie that was too small for him, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hair messier than usual—probably grading papers or falling asleep on the couch watching reruns of shitty crime shows.

He whispered your name. Careful. Measured. His voice wasn’t angry. But something about it made your chest tighten.

You had shown up unannounced before. Late-night coffee runs, bad days at work, post-breakup meltdowns where you just needed to sit in his kitchen and exist. But this was different. You were different.

Koushi saw it instantly. The tension in your shoulders. The way you hesitated in the doorway like you weren’t sure if you had the right to be here. The way you exhaled—sharp, uneven—like the simple act of knocking had drained you.

“Can I come in?”

He didn’t ask questions. Not yet. He just stepped aside, letting you in. Because whatever this was—it wasn’t good. The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly the weight in your chest felt suffocating.

The house smelled the same—warm, familiar, safe. A mix of fresh coffee, old books, and the faintest trace of laundry detergent. It shouldn’t have felt so foreign.

Koushi walked past you, heading toward the kitchen, his voice casual—but too careful. “You eat yet?”

You shook your head.

He nodded and reached toward the chair by the kitchen table, grabbing a hoodie. One of his old ones. He tossed it to you without a word. The fabric was soft and faded with time. Without thinking, you pulled it over your head. The weight of it settled against your shoulders as you sank into the chair, exhaling slowly.

He didn’t comment.

Instead, he just grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, no cream, no sugar—just how you liked it. Something about that made your throat tighten. He placed the mug in front of you. The soft clink of ceramic against the wooden table felt heavier than it should have. A quiet gesture, but loaded with understanding.

You stared at the steaming liquid, watching the way the dark surface rippled from the motion, the heat curling into the air like something alive. The rich, bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the space between you, comforting and familiar—the kind of familiar you hadn't realized you were aching for.

Something inside you twisted. It was too much. Too normal. Too grounding. Too real.

Koushi settled into the chair across from you, silent, waiting. He didn’t press, didn’t pry. Not yet. But you could feel it—the weight of his gaze, the careful way his fingers curled around his own mug, the patience that came with knowing you weren’t ready to say it yet.

The coffee was warm when you finally wrapped your hands around it, the heat seeping into your palms, spreading through your fingers like a lifeline. You took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on your tongue, waiting for it to burn away the tightness in your chest.

It didn’t.

His eyes flickered, barely a movement, but you caught it.

He knew. You weren’t okay.

You curled your fingers tighter around the mug, pressing your palms into the ceramic as if the warmth could hold you together. As if you weren’t unraveling at the seams.

He exhaled slowly, resting his elbow on the table, his fingers tapping against the side of his cup—a subtle rhythm, slow, methodical. Then— "You want to tell me why your hands are shaking?"

The words weren’t sharp, but they cut through you anyway. Your stomach clenched. You hadn’t noticed. You dropped your gaze to the mug, watching as the ripples trembled beneath your grip. Your knuckles were white, your fingertips pressing too hard against the ceramic, as if you were too afraid to let go. You forced yourself to take another sip, hoping he wouldn’t say anything else.

He did. "Or are you just gonna sit there and pretend everything's fine?"

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t do this. Not yet. Not without breaking.

Koushi sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his patience stretching thin, but not snapping. He studied you for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair. "You don’t have to talk. Not yet," he said finally. "But drink your coffee before it gets cold. You look like you need it."

The words should have been casual. They weren’t. They were permission. To sit here. To breathe. To exist without expectation. The lump in your throat tightened, your grip on the mug shifting as you swallowed hard against the overwhelming urge to say something—to tell him.

But how were you supposed to tell him?

That you had gotten into something you couldn’t leave? That you had said yes to something you didn’t fully understand? That the reason your hands were shaking wasn’t just exhaustion—but the realization that your life wasn’t your own anymore?

So you didn’t. Instead, you took another sip of coffee. And for now, that was enough.

Koushi didn’t push. He didn’t press, didn’t demand, didn’t fill the silence with questions you weren’t ready to answer. He just waited. Not for an excuse. Not for the whole truth.

Just for whatever you were willing to give him. You swallowed, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug absently, words lingering at the edge of your tongue before you finally let them slip. “I got a new job.”

His eyes flickered, barely a movement, but you caught it. He nodded once, slowly. His fingers tapped against the mug. Not surprised. Not relieved. Just… waiting.

“Yeah?” His voice was even. Casual. “Didn’t know you were looking for one.”

“I wasn’t.”

The admission hung between you. For a second, you thought he might call you on it—ask what changed, ask why now, ask what kind of job leaves you like this.

Shaking. Worn thin. Like whatever you’d just stepped into was already swallowing you whole.

But he didn’t. He just took a sip of coffee, his gaze steady. Letting you decide how much to give him.

You exhaled, tucking your hands into the sleeves of his old hoodie. It smelled like him. Like home. Like something steady. Faint traces of cologne still clung to the fabric—warm, clean, familiar. A scent you’d known for years. A scent that didn’t belong to this night, to this mess, to the weight pressing down on your ribs. A scent you could lose yourself in if you let it.

And for a moment, you almost did.

“It’s… different from the hospital,” you murmured, voice softer now.

Koushi hummed a quiet acknowledgment. But he didn’t ask how. Didn’t ask what you were doing or why you looked like you hadn’t slept. And for some reason—that made it easier to keep talking.

“It’s not bad,” you murmured. Not a lie. But not the truth, either. “Just… new.”

Another slow nod. Thoughtful. Measured. And then—soft, quiet, careful: “You gonna tell me what kind of job it is?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t have an answer. But because you did. Your fingers curled around the ceramic, gripping it just a little tighter. “It’s still medical work,” you said finally. “I’m helping people who can’t go to a hospital.”

He exhaled, slow and deep. His eyes closed—just for a second—before settling back on you. And then, softer this time—“It’s safe, right?”

Your breath caught. You knew what he was really asking.

Not if you were happy. Not if you were okay. But if you were in danger.

If he should be worried. If he should be doing more than just sitting across from you, waiting for answers you wouldn’t give him.

You thought about Tetsurou. The way he carried himself—calm, deliberate, inescapable. The way he looked at you—with an unsettling certainty—that nothing would touch you. Not because the world wasn’t dangerous. But because he wouldn’t allow it.

“Yes.” Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. But honest.

A pause.

The words settled between you, heavy and unmoving. Koushi didn’t argue. Didn’t call you out. But the way his fingers tapped against the table again—slower this time, measured, like he was piecing something together—

Made it clear.

He knew. Maybe not everything. But enough. And the worst part? He let it go. Not because he believed you. But because, for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could save you.

The silence thickened, pressing against the walls, against your ribs, wrapping around your lungs like something you couldn’t shake. It should have felt like relief—that he wasn’t pushing, that he wasn’t demanding more.

But it didn’t. Because Koushi never let things go. Not when it came to you. His fingers curled into a loose fist against the tabletop, jaw tightening before he exhaled through his nose—long, slow, controlled.

You saw it happen—the moment he swallowed back instinct. The moment he forced himself not to argue, not to press, not to force the truth from you. Not because he didn’t want to. But because—what if he didn’t like what he found? What if he couldn’t fix it? What if you were already too deep?

A lump formed in your throat, thick and unmoving. You hadn’t wanted this. Hadn’t wanted to bring Koushi into your mess, hadn’t wanted him to look at you like he was losing something. But he was.

His knee bounced beneath the table—restless energy curling at the edges of his frame—but his voice remained steady. Quiet. Unshaken. “Okay.”

That was all. Just okay. Not a demand. Not a lecture. Not an ultimatum. It should have made it easier. It didn’t. Because his quiet wasn’t relief—it was the weight of something unspoken, something hanging between you that neither of you knew how to bridge.

You knew it. He knew it.

He just didn’t know what to do about it. And somehow, that was worse. His gaze flicked toward the window again—just for a second. Just long enough for unease to settle beneath his ribs.

You didn’t follow his line of sight. You didn’t have to. Someone was there.

Watching. Waiting.

You wondered if he had noticed them when you walked in. If he had already seen the car idling on the street. If he had already known—before you even knocked on his door—that something was wrong. That you weren’t in control.

His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed, his knee finally stilling. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching his arms over his head—as if trying to shake off whatever thoughts were creeping in. Then, his voice came again—softer this time. More certain.

“Remember my promise—I’m not going anywhere.”

The words landed heavier than you expected, curling around something fragile inside you. He meant it. No matter what you had done. No matter what you hadn’t said. No matter what you were turning into. He meant it.

Your breath hitched, just barely—and Koushi caught it. His expression softened—just for a second—before he leaned back, voice dipping lower, quieter.

“You don’t have to tell me everything.”

A pause.

“But when you need to, I’ll be here.”

His gaze flicked to yours, and for a moment— Something cracked inside you.

And then, he let out a slow, tired breath—one that sounded like he was carrying the weight of the night on his shoulders. His fingers drummed absently against the table as if debating something. Then—

“I never thought I’d say this,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, “but I think I’d rather have you show up crying over some loser you dated than… whatever the hell this is.”

You huffed out a small laugh. Weak, but real. “Gee, thanks.”

He shot you a smirk—tired, worn at the edges, not quite reaching his eyes. “At least then, I could tell you he sucked and threatened to key his car.”

Something in your chest eased. The corner of your lips twitched—the smallest flicker of warmth in an otherwise cold night. For the first time since stepping through his door, your shoulders relaxed. Because this—this—was why you had come here. Not to be questioned. Not to be saved. But to be with him.

To pretend, even for just a little while, that things could still feel normal. You glanced at him, hesitating.

“…Can we just watch a movie?” Your voice came softer now, barely above a whisper. “Like old times?”

He blinked—caught off guard for a second. Then—He smiled. Small. Barely there. But real.

“Yeah,” he said, already moving towards the couch. “Yeah, we can.”

You were curled up on the couch now, pressing into the worn cushions, the soft hum of an awful reality show filling the room. Koushi’s half-sat, half-sprawled beside you, arms folded, head tilted back against the couch cushions. His breathing had slowed, evening out into something softer, quieter. He was finally relaxed.

Every so often, he muttered something half-heartedly about how stupid the contestants were, and you’d nudge him in response, letting the warmth of normalcy settle into your bones. For a moment—just a fleeting, fragile moment—it almost felt like nothing had changed.

Then—an unfamiliar chime cut through the quiet. Your pulse jumped. The moment shattered. You didn’t need to check. You already knew who it was. Slowly, carefully, you pulled it out, heart stuttering as your gaze fell on the message.

Tetsurou: It’s getting quite late.

Your chest tightened.

Koushi stirred beside you, letting out a drowsy, incoherent mumble—something about the show being garbage, about how he’d never understand why you watched this crap. His words slurred slightly. He was barely awake now.

You swallowed. You needed to go. Carefully, so carefully, you shifted, pulling away from the cushions, standing without making a sound. Koushi barely moved. His head lolled slightly against the couch, his breathing deep and steady now.

Asleep. Good.

Your fingers twitched as you grabbed a pen, ripping a scrap of paper from an old receipt on the counter. You hesitated—just for a second.

Then, you wrote:

Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for tonight. Don’t worry about me too much. I promise I’ll come back.

A pause.

The pen hovered over the paper. Then—with a quiet, final certainty, you added: I love you.

You pressed the note to the fridge, letting your fingertips linger against the paper, the ink still fresh. Then—without another glance back, without letting yourself stop, without letting yourself think too much—you slipped out the front door.

The moment you stepped outside, the cool night air bit at your skin, settling deep into your bones. You curled deeper into Koushi’s hoodie, pulling the sleeves over your hands, but it didn’t help. Because the second you looked up—

You saw Lev.

He was leaning casually against the sleek black car, hands stuffed in his pockets, the dim glow of the streetlights casting long shadows across his face. The moment he spotted you, he pushed off the car, stretching lazily—but his eyes told a different story.

His gaze dragged over you, slow, deliberate. His smirk twitched, but there was something thoughtful behind it, something assessing. “That guy your boyfriend?”

You rolled your eyes, fingers brushing the car door handle. “You sure like to talk for someone who’s not supposed to?”

Lev’s smirk faltered—just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it. The realization. The unspoken warning that had been drilled into him.

He wasn’t entitled to your life story. And he knew it.

He huffed out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I just can’t help myself.”

You didn’t respond. Without another word, you slid into the car.

Lev hesitated. Just for a second. Then, he followed, shutting the door behind him, the interior dimly lit by the soft glow of the dashboard. The quiet hum of the engine filled the space as he settled into the seat beside you.

Outside, the streetlights flickered. Inside, the weight of the night pressed against your ribs. Lev didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Didn’t even look at you right away. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shifting in his seat, tapping his fingers absently against his thigh before muttering—just low enough that you almost didn’t catch it.

“He’s not gonna like this.”

A sharp pang rippled through your core. You turned to him, but he was already scrolling through his phone, eyes fixed on the screen, his expression carefully neutral. Like he hadn’t just said anything at all. Like the words hadn’t just settled deep in your chest like a warning.

The silence in the car stretched, thick and heavy, wrapping around your ribs like something you couldn’t shake. By the time you stepped into the penthouse, the feeling hadn’t faded. The weight in your chest. The hum beneath your skin. That slow, sinking awareness curling at the edges of your ribs.

The air inside was still. Too still. The only sound was the distant thrum of the city below, muffled by the walls of glass stretching from floor to ceiling. The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the polished floors, stretching toward the massive windows where the skyline burned gold against the night.

And then—him.

Tetsurou sat near the window, sprawled across the chair, cigarette balanced between his fingers, draped across the leather as if he had all the time in the world. The ember flared red as he took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the air like he had nothing better to do than wait.

For you.

The city lights burned behind him, slicing across his sharp features—angles of gold and shadow. His half-lidded gaze tracked your every move. Unbothered. Relaxed. Watching you like you were something he owned. Something he hadn’t quite decided what to do with yet.

You wrinkled your nose, waving at the air between you. “Smoking kills, you know.”

A smirk curled at his lips. Slow. Unhurried. He flicked the ash off the tip, eyes dragging over you like a slow burn. Lingering. Peeling you apart. "What I do can too."

The words slithered through the space between you, curling around your ribs, settling deep in your chest. A quiet reminder. A warning. You shifted, but his gaze didn’t waver.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

And then—just when the silence stretched too thin, his voice came again. Low. Even. Too casual. “We need to talk.”

A flicker of unease crawled up your spine.

He leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees, cigarette still dangling from his fingers. The smoke curled between you like a barrier—something thick, something you wouldn’t be able to cross. “The attitude earlier today?” His fingers tapped once against the armrest, the sound too soft, too deliberate. “Yeah, that doesn’t happen again.”

Your shoulders stiffened. “Excuse me?”

His smirk deepened—but there was no humor in it.

"Careful."

His voice was almost conversational, smooth, and easy. But the way his fingers curled loosely around the cigarette? That told a different story. A story of control. Of patience. Of warning.

“I let you leave earlier, didn’t I?” His voice was almost lazy, but there was something sharp beneath it. "That was me being generous."

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of his words to settle. Then—he exhaled, slow, deliberate. “Don’t start thinking my patience is endless”

The ember in his cigarette flared as he took another slow drag, the red glow sharp against the darkness of his gaze. Then—with a flick of his wrist—he snuffed it out in the ashtray beside him. The ember died instantly.

His gaze flickered back to you. Cold. Unshaken. "If you leave, I need to know where you’re going."

Your pulse kicked up. "Why?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. Then—he stood. And suddenly, the room felt smaller. "Because now people are watching you."

The words hit deeper than they should have.

"Because this world you just stepped into? It doesn’t care that you’re not part of it."

Another step. Slow. Deliberate.

“And because if something happens to you, it won’t be an accident.”

The air between you thickened, pressing heavily against your ribs. You weren’t stupid. You knew he was dangerous. Knew the world he lived in was built on power, fear, and control. But hearing it? Acknowledging it? That was different. You swallowed, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t let you catch your breath.

His voice dropped lower, just above a murmur—the kind of quiet that felt more lethal than anything else. He exhaled sharply through his nose, like something was pressing against the edges of his control.

His voice dipped lower, something slipping through the cracks. Raw. Unfiltered.

"If something happens to you, I—"

A sharp inhale. A flicker in his expression—a single misstep. Gone in a second.

You barely had time to process it before his smirk snapped back into place, quick, unrelenting.

"No attitude. And no more leaving without telling me where the fuck you’re going." He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "I let it slide tonight” His voice was low, even, but there was something final beneath it—something that left no room for argument. "Push your luck again, and you’ll see what happens. Got it?"

Your jaw clenched. You could feel it—the way he had already drawn the line for you, the way stepping over it would mean something. Would cost something. But still—you nodded.

A beat of silence.

Then—his smirk twitched. Like he had expected a fight. Like he almost wanted one. But then—it vanished altogether. His gaze dropped, flickering over you once, twice—slow, deliberate. Like he was putting something together, piece by piece, as if something wasn’t adding up.

The hoodie. A hoodie you didn’t leave in. The sleeves hung loose over your hands, swallowing you in a fabric that wasn’t yours. Your hair—messy, slightly tangled. A muscle in his jaw ticked. His fingers twitched at his side. Then—he stepped forward. Deliberate. Unhurried. A predator closing in.

You held your ground. Barely.

He stopped just short of you, close enough that you could smell the smoke clinging to his clothes, the faintest trace of cologne beneath it. His fingers lifted, grasping the edge of the hoodie sleeve, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

Testing. Questioning.

“Where’d you get this?”

The words were deceptively soft. A slow drag of a knife over the skin. Your pulse hammered, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “The friend I was with.”

A shift. Subtle. Small. But you felt it. His grip on the hoodie tightened. His eyes darkened.

“Friend.” He repeated it slowly, rolling the word over his tongue, stretching it out—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to swallow it or spit it back out. His thumb ghosted over the fabric before his fingers left it, his hand dropping back to his side. Then—his jaw flexed once, twice—before tilting his head. His gaze—sharp, assessing, cutting through you like glass.

“What’s their name?”

Your breath caught.

Bait.

You knew it. He knew it.

And yet—your lips parted, but no words came.

His smirk deepened. “No name?” A step forward. Too close.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin.

“You know,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, silkier, “it’s a little weird, don’t you think?”

Your throat went dry. “What is?”

A hum. Low. Amused. Dangerous. His fingers barely grazed the hem of the hoodie. “The fact that you left in one thing…” His eyes dragged over you, slow, heavy-lidded. “…And came back in another.”

The weight of his stare sent something sharp curling in your stomach.

“That you smell like someone else’s cologne.”

Your pulse jumped.

He saw it. Felt it. And he liked it.

“Is this friend a boyfriend?”

The words hit like a flick of a knife. Quick. Testing.

“No. He’s just—” You stopped yourself. Swallowed, grip tightening around the sleeves of the hoodie. “He’s just a friend.”

He hummed like he wasn’t quite convinced. Then—he leaned in, voice lowering, tone shifting from casual mockery to something deeper, something laced with quiet intensity.

“Did he touch you?”

The breath you sucked in was sharp. Too sharp.

“Huh?”

His fingers skimmed higher. Slow. Barely-there touches. His smirk never wavered. “I asked if he touched you.”

You swallowed. “Why would that be your business?”

He tilted his head, searching. Waiting. Then—he leaned in. Close. Too close. His lips hovered near your ear, voice softer now, smoother, more covetous. “Everything about you is my business, doll.”

Your breath hitched.

And Tetsurou? He fucking felt it. His fingers brushed against the hem again—just once—before he stepped back. But the absence of his touch was just as sharp as the presence of it. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

The silence between you stretched—thick, smothering, unforgiving. His fingers flexed at his side, his thumb lazily swiping over his phone screen, A brief pause. A decision was made. But his attention never left you.

Still waiting. Still watching. But he didn’t press. Didn’t demand an answer. He just let the weight of the unspoken words sit between you, curling around your ribs like something too heavy to carry—but impossible to let go.

A tight knot coiled in your chest.

He was playing with you.

You squared your shoulders, tilting your chin up just enough to meet his gaze without faltering. “You don’t own me.”

His smirk returned. Slow. Deliberate. But there was something cruel in it now. “No,” he murmured. “But I do own the space you stand in.” His head tilted, mocking curiosity. “And I like to know who’s been playing in my territory.”

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself not to react. Not to let him see the way your body tensed at his words.

His territory.

Like you were his—as if the decision had already been made for you. Your fingers curled into the sleeves of the hoodie, twisting the fabric between them. A second too long.

He noticed. The corner of his mouth twitched, a quiet exhale slipping through his lips. His gaze flickered lower, tracing the shape of you beneath the hoodie, the way it swallowed you up, covered you. The amusement in his expression deepened.

“So, your friend,” he drawled, stepping forward again, crowding the space between you until the only thing you could smell was him. “Was he good?”

The words were slow. Too slow. You swallowed, willing yourself not to react. Not to take the bait. “Good?”

His smirk grew. “Yeah,” his voice dipped, almost thoughtful. “I mean… you come back in his hoodie, smell like his cologne…hair all messy like someone had his hands in it…” His smirk deepened, sharp and slow. “So, did he fuck you?”

The words landed heavy. Like he wanted to see you flinch. Like he wanted to see if you’d break. Your jaw tightened. “No.”

A beat.

Then—his tongue flicked over his teeth, jaw flexing. Something unreadable passed over his face. A flicker of thought. A slow calculation. Then—a low chuckle.

“No.” He repeated it like he was tasting the word, testing it. “And I’m supposed to believe that?” His fingers brushed against the hem of the hoodie again, grazing your hip before pulling away.

You knew he felt the way your breath caught. You knew he enjoyed it. Your hands tightened into fists inside the sleeves. “Believe what you want.”

He hummed. A quiet, menacing sound. He didn’t respond. Just watched you. Like he was weighing something. Like he was deciding something. And then—

The corner of his mouth twitched. A slow, almost amused exhale slipped past his lips. "Oh, I will."

Silence stretched between you two until it was broken by the faint sound of heels clicking against the marble floor. Your stomach clenched. The air shattered. You turned toward the sound, your body already tensing.

And then—you saw her.

Tall. Blonde. Beautiful in an almost cruel way. The silk of her dress clung to her figure, shifting with every deliberate movement as if it had been made to fit her perfectly. Like she was made to belong in places like this.

In his space. With him.

Her hair cascaded over one shoulder, sleek and shining, not a strand out of place. The gloss on her lips wasn’t smudged, wasn’t bitten raw. She was put together. Effortless. And she looked at you like you were nothing.

Not with curiosity. Not with hostility. With indifference.

Like she had already decided you weren’t worth noticing. A knot formed in your core. Something sharp and unfamiliar crawled up your spine, lodging itself deep in your ribs.

You weren’t stupid. You had no right to be mad, no reason to tighten your grip on the hoodie sleeves, but—she wasn’t just some girl. You could feel it. See it. She didn’t just know him. She knew this place. And when her lips parted—the final nail in the coffin.

“You texted,” she murmured, voice lilting with something sweet—too sweet.

Fake.

Tetsurou backed up slightly, putting just enough distance between you and him, completely at ease, completely in control. His smirk deepened. “Yeah.” His voice was lower now, smoother—like he had just won. Like you were the only one with something to lose. Your stomach clenched, something sick curling in your chest.

Her eyes flickered to you for just a second. A second too long. Not a greeting. Not curiosity. A silent appraisal. And then—she turned to him fully. “What do you need me for?” She was waiting.

And Tetsurou?

He let the silence stretch. Long enough for you to feel it. Long enough for your heart to hammer inside your chest. Then—he moved. Right past you. Straight to her. Your breath caught. She didn’t even blink. Didn’t react. Didn’t hesitate. She just smiled up at him, waiting for his next move.

He didn’t even hesitate either. His fingers skimmed her hip, slow, deliberate, easy. He leaned in, murmuring something low against her ear, something meant only for her. You didn’t hear the words. Didn’t need to. Because the message was already clear.

This was what you had walked into. This was who he was. This was what he did. And the worst part? He was watching you the entire time. Like he wanted to see what you would do. Like he wanted to see if you’d break. The weight of the hoodie on your frame felt heavier now. Your fingers curled into the fabric again, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ached.

The silk of her dress caught the light as she shifted closer to him, tilting her head slightly, waiting. Your breath hitched. You needed to leave.

Now.

But his hand lingered on her waist, fingers just barely brushing the fabric of her dress. Not possessive. Not tender. Something worse. Calculated.

And then—he looked at you. A flicker of something passed through his gaze. Fleeting. Quick. But it was there. Like he was watching for something. Like he was waiting for something.

Your throat tightened. You refused to give it to him. Swallowing the lump forming at the back of your throat, you turned on your heel. Didn’t run. Didn’t let yourself falter.

You forced your feet to move, not toward the exit—but toward the stairs. Each step felt too loud, the soft padding of your shoes against the cold marble amplified in the quiet tension that stretched between you and the scene you were leaving behind.

You swore you could still feel his gaze, dragging over your retreating form like a brand that hasn’t cooled.

And then—a quiet chuckle. Low. Amused. Something dark curling at the edges. You didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. But the sound followed you. Chasing you up the stairs that had not felt this long before. Or maybe it was just the weight curling in your stomach.

Halfway up, you heard her voice. Sweet. Laced with something light, teasing. Meant to be heard.

“You missed me, didn’t you.”

Your fingers clenched into the sleeves of the hoodie. Don’t stop. His voice followed, smooth and unbothered.

“Yeah.”

You forced your legs to keep moving. Almost there. She giggled softly, and then, quieter, but still loud enough to reach you—because it was meant to.

“Could’ve just waited for me in bed, you know.?”

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t stop. Didn’t glance back. Didn’t react. But your grip on the railing tightened.

And then—footsteps.

His.

Your pulse spiked. He was moving, the heavy sound of his loafers clicking against the floor. Unhurried. Measured. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew exactly where you were going. And then—another pair. Lighter. Softer. In sync.

Hers.

Your breath caught. You didn’t have to turn around. Didn’t have to see it. Because you already knew. They were walking together. Heading your way.

You swallowed, shoving open the door to your room before either of them could say anything else—before you could see whatever came next. The second you stepped inside, you shut the door.

Not slam. Not locked. Just closed.

And the silence that followed was deafening. Your hands curled into the sleeves of the hoodie, the fabric soft between your fingers. Something you never should have worn in the first place. And yet—your jaw clenched. You weren’t going to let him get to you. You weren’t.

But as you slid down against the door, knees pulling to your chest, the cold realization sank deep into your ribs.

He already had.

The silence of your room pressed in around you, thick, suffocating, drowning out everything—except for one thing.

Her voice.

"Could’ve just waited for me in bed, you know."

A fresh wave of nausea curled in your stomach. The words clung to you, clawed at your skin, and settled deep in your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut. Willed them away. But they stayed. And then—

Lev’s voice. A whisper in the car. A warning disguised as nothing.

"He's not gonna like this.”

You exhaled sharply, head tilting back against the door. Lev was right. Tetsurou hadn’t liked it. Not one bit. But this wasn’t just about that. This was a power play. A punishment for something you didn’t even do. Because he had taken in your appearance and had assumed the worst.

He hadn’t believed you. He hadn’t let your explanation matter. He had just reacted. Texted her. Brought her here. Made sure you saw. And now, while they were just down the hall, their voices carrying through the space between you, their presence lingering, pressing in—

You were here. Alone. Your fingers curled into the sleeves of the hoodie, gripping it tightly. It wasn’t yours. It was meant to be a tether, something to ground you, to remind you of a world outside of this one. Of warmth, of love, of Koushi. But now?

Now, it felt like a mistake. Like an open wound left exposed, a reminder of something Tetsurou had just ripped away without even knowing what it meant.

Laughter—hers—floated through the silence, soft, muffled by walls but still clear enough. The quiet murmur of his voice followed, smooth, unreadable.

And then—footsteps.

Not distant. Not fading. Moving. Pausing. Settling. A rustle. A shift.

The faintest creak of the mattress. The bedroom door shut with a quiet click.

The sounds echoed.

A slow, simmering pressure built in your chest, clawing downward. You shouldn’t care. You had no right to care. But as you sat there, alone, hoodie clenched between your fingers, the truth burned through you like a sinking weight.

He wanted to hurt you.

And he had.

And Tetsurou?

He fucking knew it.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, fingers curled tight around the fabric at your sleeves, knuckles aching from the pressure. The room felt too small, the air too thick, pressing down on your chest until breathing became a conscious effort.

Beyond the window, the city stretched toward morning, streetlights flickering out one by one as the dark bled into dawn.

The first thing Kuroo registered was warmth. A weight pressed against his chest—soft, familiar. A leg was thrown over his, blonde hair fanned across the pillow. The scent of expensive perfume clung to the sheets, heady and overwhelming.

Alisa.

His jaw ticked. For a second, he just stared at the ceiling, last night bleeding back into him like a slow, creeping ache.

You. That fucking hoodie. The way you looked at him—like you didn’t know him. Like he had become something different in your eyes.

And now?

Now, he was here. With Alisa in his bed. A move he’d made deliberately. A move that should have settled something inside him. But it didn’t.

Alisa stirred, pressing closer, nails tracing lazy patterns over his stomach. “Mmm,” she hummed, voice thick with sleep. Then, after a pause—her voice sharpened slightly. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

Kuroo tensed. She wasn’t teasing. She was testing.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t react. Just exhaled sharply, swinging his legs off the bed. His hands dragged down his face before reaching for his sweatpants, shoving one leg through, then the other.

Alisa rolled onto her side, head propped up on her palm, watching him. “Guess that changed.”

His fingers curled slightly around the waistband of his sweatpants. He needed a shower. Needed to get out of this room.

Alisa studied him carefully. “Lev told me how you threatened him over her.”

Stillness.

The words landed like a flick of a knife. Kuroo’s body went rigid.

Alisa caught it. Her smirk curled as she sat up, hair falling over her bare shoulder. “That’s a first,” she murmured, studying him. “Didn’t think you cared enough to pull shit like that.”

His fingers clenched around the sheet.

Alisa tilted her head, watching him like she had just stumbled onto something interesting. “Did she do something to piss you off last night?”

Kuroo stood up. Sharp. Abrupt. His fingers twitched at his sides, jaw flexing as he grabbed his shirt off the floor. Measured. Controlled. “I’ve got shit to do.”

Alisa blinked, waiting—like she expected more.

But Kuroo didn’t offer anything. Didn’t explain. Didn’t care to. “Do me a favor,” he said, voice low, clipped. “Be gone by the time I get out of the shower.”

Silence.

Alisa blinked. Like she hadn’t quite heard him right. Then—slowly—her lips curved. Not a smile. Something else. Something sharper. "Huh." She leaned back against the headboard, studying him, her nails tapping idly against her thigh. Watching him like she was putting something together.

She exhaled, then—deliberately, lazily—slid out of bed. She didn’t scramble to grab her clothes, didn’t rush to leave. Instead, she stretched, taking her time, her movements slow and fluid. Making a show of it.

When she finally reached for her dress, she paused—just for a second—fingertips grazing the fabric before glancing back over her shoulder. "Guess a girl can get under your skin after all."

Kuroo didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept his focus on the shirt in his hands, jaw locked tight.

Alisa’s smirk deepened. But she didn’t push. Didn’t need to. She had already won. With a quiet hum, she slipped her dress over her head, smoothing out the silk as she stepped toward the door. No rush. No hesitation. And then—just as she reached for the handle— she tossed one last look over her shoulder.

“Let me know when you’re done pretending she doesn’t matter.”

Click.

The door shut behind her. The silence that followed was different than before. Hollow. Taut. Suffocating. Kuroo exhaled slowly through his nose, pressing his palms against his face.

Fucking hell.

His head tilted back, eyes catching on the ceiling, but all he saw was you. Your expression last night. The way you didn’t fight back. Didn’t say anything. The cold, empty weight of it clawed at his ribs.

And for the first time in a long time—he knew he fucked up.

With a sharp inhale, he made his way to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, locking out everything but the sound of his heavy, unwanted thoughts.

The bathroom filled with steam, curling against the mirrors, clinging to the tile. Kuroo let the water scorch down his back, head tilted forward, fingers braced against the marble wall. His eyes squeezed shut.

The scent of Alisa still clung to his skin. Cloying. Suffocating. He scrubbed at his arms, and his chest like he could wash away the weight pressing into him. Like he could erase the taste of last night—the choice he made.

It didn’t work. Your face still lingered in the back of his mind. Not angry. Not hurt. Just… blank. That was worse. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he exhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t know what he was expecting. That you’d lash out? Yell at him? That you’d push back, give him something—anything—to work with? But you didn’t. You just turned away.

His fingers curled into fists, forehead pressing briefly against the cool tile. That fucking hoodie. He had been so sure—so convinced he knew what he was looking at.

But now? Now, the certainty didn’t sit right.

The water ran hot, but his thoughts ran hotter. By the time he shut it off, stepping out into the thick steam, the weight in his chest had settled into something cold. Heavy.

Something was wrong.

He grabbed a towel, running it through his hair once before tossing it onto the counter. A glance in the mirror—his reflection stared back, unreadable.

Tch.

He didn’t waste any more time. The second he stepped out of the bathroom, he was moving. Down the hall. To your door.

A beat.

Then—his knuckles rapped against the wood.

Silence.

His stomach twisted. He knocked again.

Nothing.

The unease crawled up his spine as he tested the handle.

Unlocked.

The door pushed open with an ease that made his pulse kick up. The room was still.

The bed? Untouched.

His gaze swept over the room, scanning the space his men had furnished for while you were out last night. It looked different now. Lived in. His eyes caught on the new additions—the personal touches that hadn’t been there before. The photos. Neatly arranged on the dresser.

He stepped closer, his fingers ghosted over the edge of a frame. A younger you, with a woman and a man. Parents.

His gaze locked onto another. A gray-haired man. Grinning. Arms slung over your shoulders, casual, familiar. Too familiar.

He knew this guy. Had seen him with you before. Something sharp coiled in Kuroo’s stomach. A flicker of something ugly. Jealousy. His jaw tightened. He had no fucking right. He knew that. But it didn’t stop the feeling from creeping in, slow and insidious, settling into his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake. His fingers curled tighter around the frame, the growing tension pulling him back to reality.

Where the fuck were you?

His movements were sharp as he turned on his heel, heading downstairs, hoping—expecting—to find you somewhere in the penthouse. But you weren’t. The only thing waiting for him was a note. Pinned to the fridge. Small. Unassuming. But somehow, it felt heavier than it should have.

His fingers plucked it from the stainless steel, scanning the words once. Twice.

At work. The driver took me. Don’t send a guard.

No snark. No fight. No anything. Just cold. Impersonal. Kuroo exhaled sharply through his nose. His grip tightened around the note. Something deep inside him twisted. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something else. And he fucking hated it.

He grabbed his phone, sending out a single message."Both of you. Penthouse. Now."

Minutes later, Lev sat stiffly across from him on the barstool, fidgeting under Kuroo’s scrutiny. Kenma, on the other hand, was unbothered—leaning against the island, eyes flicking over his laptop, already knowing this was important.

Kuroo exhaled sharply through his nose, tapping once against his knee. “The guy she was with last night.” His voice was even. Too even. “Tell me everything.”

Lev hesitated. “Uh… what about him?”

Kuroo’s stare hardened. “Start with where you guys went”

Lev swallowed. “Some house about thirty minutes away.” He reached for his phone. “I still have the address in my phone—”

Kuroo waved a hand. “We’ll get to that. Now—describe him.”

Lev blinked. “Oh. Uh, gray-haired dude? Looked a little older than her, but not by much.” He scratched the back of his head. “They seemed… close.”

Something coiled tight in Kuroo’s chest. A sharp breath. A muscle in his jaw jumped. Then—he was on his feet.

“Uh, boss?” Lev called after him, confused.

Kuroo ignored him, moving fast, his feet carrying him back upstairs before he could think. The framed photos. His fingers closed around the one that had caught his attention earlier. His grip tightened as he stared at it. The anger built in his chest, burning hotter.

He turned on his heel, heading back downstairs, the photo gripped tightly in his hand. He slammed the frame onto the countertop, the quiet thud of the glass a harsh contrast to the storm inside him. “Is this him?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Lev blinked, glancing down. Then—a nod. “Yeah. That’s the guy.”

Kuroo exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. That slow, insidious feeling continued to gnaw at him, coiling deep in his chest, refusing to loosen its grip.

Kenma, still leaning against the counter, finally spoke. His tone was unreadable, but his gaze flickered between the photo and Kuroo like he already knew this was about to be something.

“Want me to pull up the address?”

Kuroo’s jaw tightened. “Do it.” Kenma’s fingers flew over his keys, the only sound in the room was the quiet tap of keys.

A beat of silence.

Then—his brows lifted slightly. “Huh.”

Kuroo’s patience snapped. “What.”

Kenma didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his laptop toward Kuroo.

Sugawara Family Residence.

But something else.

Occupants: Koushi Sugawara.

Kuroo’s stomach dropped.

Sugawara.

The name slammed into him like a freight train. He’d read it before. When he looked into you when he skimmed through your past.

He just hadn’t fucking thought.

The hoodie. The fucking hoodie.

It didn’t belong to just some random guy. It didn’t belong to a fucking boyfriend.

It belonged to a man who was family.

Kuroo clenched his jaw so tight it ached. His fingers twitched at his side before curling into a tight fist, knuckles whitening.

And then—his arm jerked. His fist swung up— toward the counter, toward the wall—

But he stopped.

Just short.

Fingers shaking. Breath coming fast, uneven.

A sharp exhale left his lips, ragged, unsteady. He dragged a hand down his face, pressing his palm hard against his temple like he could scrub the weight of this realization out of his skull. But it didn’t budge. It sat there, cold and immovable, pressing against his ribs, heavy, unshakable.

He had thought you were trying to provoke him. That you wanted to make him jealous. But you weren’t flaunting anything. You were just holding onto something real. Something that had nothing to do with him.

And he’d fucking ripped it apart without a second thought

Kuroo leaned back against the wall, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His heart hammered against his ribs, too loud, too fucking fast.

He had fucked up. More than he realized. More than he fucking thought possible.

Kenma’s gaze flickered between the screen and Kuroo. A slow blink. “What did you do?”

Kuroo’s jaw tensed. He inhaled sharply. “Something I shouldn’t have.”

Kenma clicked his tongue, watching Kuroo’s expression shift. “Damn.” A pause. Then—flat, but edged with something dry. “You really fucked up if you’re admitting a mistake.”

Kuroo clenched his jaw.

Kenma wasn’t wrong.

This was worse than he fucking thought.

Kuroo leaned towards the counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts. The weight in his chest was unbearable now.

You were gone.

Not gone, gone. But you had left the penthouse before he could see you before he could fix anything, before he could even talk to you. That wasn’t an accident. It was a choice. One that told him exactly how deep of a hole he had dug.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back before typing out a message and hitting send.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. The sound barely cut through the fog clinging to your mind, but the vibration sent a dull pulse through your hip. You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temple, willing away the exhaustion pressing in at your skull.

Lack of sleep was catching up with you. Hard.

You hadn’t slept well the night before moving into Kuroo’s penthouse—your mind restless, unable to settle after your world had flipped upside down overnight. And last night? Last night you didn’t sleep at all. Not after what he did. Not after the scene he had so carefully crafted for you to see.

You should’ve known better than to care. You should’ve.

But your body didn’t get the memo. The pit in your stomach hadn’t left, a slow-sinking weight pressing against your ribs, growing heavier with every replayed moment. Every breath. Every memory of his smirk curling at the edges of something cruel.

Your phone buzzed again.

With a slow breath, you pulled it out, the screen too bright against your tired eyes. The message sat there, clear, simple.

Tetsurou: Let me send a guard.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. You stared at the words longer than you wanted to admit. It wasn’t an apology. Not directly. Not with words. But this? This was him saying I still care. I still want to keep you safe.

And maybe that should’ve meant something. Maybe, on another day, it would have. But today?

Today, you remembered last night.

The calculated way he let you see him with her. The way his fingers had brushed against her waist, the low murmur of words meant just for her, but loud enough for you to hear.

You inhaled sharply, chest tightening with something sharp, something cold.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. A thousand different responses flickered through your head—ones that bit, ones that deflected, ones that asked why.

But in the end, you only sent one word.

No.

You didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t give him the chance to argue. Instead, you locked the phone and shoved it back into your pocket, the weight of it suddenly unbearable.

A deep, tired sigh slipped past your lips.

"You look like you're about to pass out. And if you do, I’m not resuscitating you."

The dry voice pulled you back into reality, and you blinked up to find Shirabu staring at you, arms crossed, unimpressed as ever.

You huffed out a weak, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "Good to know where we stand Shirabu."

Shirabu raised an eyebrow. "You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. And I’d rather not have someone who looks like roadkill assisting in surgery today."

"Feel like it, too. But I’m fine."

He clicked his tongue, eyes scanning over you like he was diagnosing an illness. "Maybe you should just go home before you pass out on someone's open chest. Kind of a bad look."

A short, humorless breath left you. "Nice to know you care."

"I'm serious." He clicked his tongue, arms crossing over his chest. "You look like shit."

The bluntness should have irritated you. But it didn’t. Because this was normal. A coworker making an observation. A cold, pragmatic assessment. Logic.

Not control.

For a moment, a split second, you felt something unfamiliar pressing against the exhaustion in your chest—relief. Because this world was familiar. The pace of it. The order. The simplicity of a tired doctor telling you to go the hell home.

It was grounding. It was safe.

It should have been enough.

You let out another breath, rolling your shoulders. "Not happening. I just need to keep busy. I’ll stick to rounds, checking on patients—nothing major."

Shirabu didn’t look convinced. "Fine. But I better not find you faceplanted in some supply closet." He shook his head before heading off, leaving you standing in the middle of the hallway.

The moment he disappeared, that false sense of normalcy collapsed. The exhaustion wrapped around you like a second skin, suffocating, clinging to the edges of your lungs.

You exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the fabric of your scrub sleeves. You should’ve been relieved. You had shut Tetsurou down. You had drawn the line.

So why the hell did it still feel like you couldn’t breathe?

The hospital air was always thick—antiseptic, muted voices, the quiet hum of exhaustion clinging to overworked doctors and nurses.

But this? This was different.

It started as a twinge. A whisper of unease slithering down your spine, subtle but unshakable. You were being watched.

You ignored it at first. Too tired. Too drained.

Your body running on autopilot as you moved through the halls, doing exactly what you told Shirabu—keeping busy.

But the feeling didn’t fade. If anything, it got worse. Too obvious. Too intentional. Like whoever it was wanted you to know they were there.

Your gaze flickered to the side—casual, practiced, not obvious.

And there he was. A man, leaning against the far wall, just out of reach of the passing nurses and patients. His frame was relaxed, posture at ease, but something about it felt off. Too calculated. Too still.

Dressed entirely in black. Hat pulled low. Long sleeves concealing his arms, hands tucked neatly into his pockets.

That wasn’t an accident. Your stomach twisted. One of Tetsurou’s men.

Of course.

Your exhaustion snapped into something sharper. Anger burned through the fatigue, simmering beneath your skin until you couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Tetsurou didn’t take your ‘no’ seriously. The audacity of him. Sending someone to stalk you. To watch you. To make sure you weren’t slipping beyond his grasp.

You saw red. You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stop to think.

You marched across the hallway, shoulders squared, heart hammering, and shoved every ounce of anger into your voice.

He didn’t react, didn’t shift, didn’t move—just let you approach, let you get close.

Fine. You’d give him something to report back to his boss.

"Seriously?" Your voice came sharp, low enough to avoid drawing attention, but full of venom. "You’re not even trying to be subtle now? Tell your boss he can go fuck himself."

Silence.

The man tilted his head, studying you, and something about the way he did it made your skin crawl.

Not arrogant. Not flustered. Not caught off guard.

Just… interested.

"That’s a lot of anger," he murmured, voice smooth, unreadable. "He must really want to keep an eye on you."

Your breath hitched—not at his words, but at the way he said them. Carefully. Calculated.

The unease settled deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a slow-growing weight.

You narrowed your eyes, jaw tightening. "Tetsurou doesn’t need to keep an eye on me," you snapped, hating the way his name tasted in your mouth. Hating the way this man’s presence made you feel like you were back under his thumb. "So you can tell him to back off."

The man just smirked.

"Noted," he murmured. And then—he just walked away.

But the unease didn’t.

It clung to you. Crawled under your skin.

It followed you through the halls, through the minutes that stretched endlessly, through the exhaustion that should have dragged you under but didn’t. Because the worst part?

You weren’t tired anymore. You were wired.

Your body was running off something sharper than adrenaline. The feeling of being watched hadn’t faded—not really. Even now, hours later, it lingered, pressing against your spine, refusing to let go.

That man. His voice. His smirk.

Your mind kept circling back to it, turning over details you hadn’t processed in the moment. The way he didn’t blink when you snapped at him. The way he seemed amused by your anger. The way he had walked away so easily.

You shivered, rubbing your arms as you made your way toward the emergency room. Your shift was nearly over and you were hanging on by a thread.

One more round of patient checks, then you could get the hell out of here. Then you could breathe.

But just as you stepped past the dimly lit corridor near the storage rooms—

An arm shot out.

Before you could react, a strong grip curled around your wrist, yanking you sideways.

Your breath caught—

The world tilted—

And then you were shoved into the darkness of a supply closet, your back hitting the shelving as the door clicked shut.

Tetsurou.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You barely had a second to process before anger surged through you, sharp and immediate.

The final fucking straw.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me," you snapped, exhaustion collapsing into frustration as you pushed off the wall, stepping toward him.

Tetsurou didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just stood there, towering over you, watching.

Too still.

Your chest heaved, the heat in your veins burning hotter.

"Why can’t you just leave me alone?" Your voice dropped, but the bite remained. "Is this fun for you? Dragging me into your world, making me second-guess everything—making sure I can’t turn a corner without feeling like you’re right there?"

Nothing.

No reaction.

Just golden eyes locked onto yours, unreadable, waiting.

That only pissed you off more.

Because the truth was—you weren’t even sure if you were talking about just him anymore. The feeling had been there all day. Lingering. Pressing against the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

And Tetsurou?

He wasn’t even reacting.

Your fingers curled into fists. "Say something!"

Nothing.

"Fine," you snapped. "Then get the hell out of my way—"

"We’re leaving."

Your whole body locked up. The words were calm. Final. Not a demand. Not a request.

Just a fact.

Your nails dug into your palms, anger clawing at your throat. "You don’t get to decide that."

His gaze didn’t waver. "You’re done for the night."

A humorless laugh slipped past your lips. "Are you kidding me? You can’t just—"

"You’re stitching someone up," he cut in, voice like steel.

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

"That’s why I came here." He exhaled sharply, like this was just another thing piling onto the already fucked-up night. "One of my men took a hit. I need you to take care of it. Now."

You stared at him. Fury still burning. Mind still spinning. And for a moment—you considered saying no.

But the look in his eyes? Said now was not the time.

"Fine," you muttered, voice clipped. "Let’s go."

He didn’t respond. Just moved.

When he stepped past you, his shoulder brushed yours. Firm. Intentional. And then—his hand ghosted against your hip.

The lightest touch. Barely there. But it sent a shockwave through you.

A warning. A claim.

Your pulse jumped, frustration crackling beneath your skin. The cramped space felt even smaller now, his presence filling every inch of it. Too warm. Too inescapable.

His fingers curled around the doorknob. He didn’t look at you as he pulled it open.

And just like that—the fight was over.

For now.

But the heat in your chest hadn’t faded.

The tension sat thick and suffocating between you, trailing behind as you followed him out of the hospital, past the sterile white walls and fluorescent lights, out into the night.

You expected him to take you straight to wherever he had planned—wherever his injured man was waiting.

But instead—

The car slid through the Tokyo streets, past the flashing neon signs, past the familiar grunge of the city’s underbelly—until the driver pulled the car to a slow, smooth stop.

Your brows furrowed. This wasn’t what you expected. Not some dimly lit, back-alley hideout. Not some run-down warehouse or a shady underground room. Instead—Tetsurou had brought you to a restaurant.

And not just any restaurant—one of the most exclusive izakayas in Tokyo.

The kind of place where the rich came to sip sake and pretend they weren’t the worst people in the city.

The moment his car pulled up to the entrance, your irritation—already boiling under your skin—flared.

"What the hell is this?" you muttered, shooting him a look as the valet opened your door.

Tetsurou ignored you. Not unusual.

But when he stepped out, fixing the cuffs of his suit like this was just another night out, you felt something snap.

You barely had a second to push the door open yourself before he was already moving, walking ahead like he expected you to follow.

You did—but not quietly. The second you caught up to him, you leaned in, voice low but sharp.

"I thought you said—"

He cut you off before you could finish, his voice smooth, final. "Come on."

Like that was supposed to be an answer. Your jaw clenched. Your fingers curled into fists.

No explanation. No warning. Just the expectation that you’d go along with whatever bullshit he had planned.

You could’ve stopped walking. Could’ve dug your heels into the pavement and forced him to actually tell you what the hell was going on. But instead, you followed.

Angry. Fuming. But you followed.

The second you stepped through the doors, the heat of frustration crashed against the cool, controlled atmosphere.

It was warm inside—too warm.

Low jazz hummed softly over the quiet clink of glasses. The smell of grilled wagyu and sake filled the air, masking the undercurrent of expensive cologne and cigarettes. Every detail was meticulously designed to feel inviting.

And yet—you felt nothing but unease.

Because he didn’t look around. Didn’t glance at a menu. Didn’t acknowledge the waitstaff. Didn’t even pretend like this was a normal night out.

Your stomach twisted. Something was off. You leaned closer, voice hushed but sharp.

"Tetsurou—"

But before you could finish, his hand pressed lightly against the small of your back.

Not enough to push. Not enough to force.

But just enough to make you move.

Your eyes flashed. You opened your mouth to snap at him—but then he was leading you past the tables, past the bar, straight toward the back of the restaurant.

Straight toward a staff-only door. Your breath hitched. Your pulse jumped.

But Tetsurou? He just pushed it open. And just like that—you weren’t in the restaurant anymore.

Everything changed.

The second the door shut behind you, the warmth of the restaurant vanished—replaced by something colder, quieter, heavier. The hallway stretched narrow and sterile, lined with unmarked doors. The walls were too clean. The silence too suffocating.

The smell of cedar and grilled steak? Gone.

Now, the air smelled like disinfectant and metal. You dug your heels in, finally stopping.

"Where the fuck are we?"

He didn’t answer. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even acknowledge your anger.

He just kept walking, taking you past crates of imported liquor, past a door that hummed with the faint sound of machinery, down a flight of stairs that smelled like steel and blood.

Your hands clenched at your sides. Your whole body screamed at you to turn around. But you didn’t. Because deep down, you knew—whatever was waiting for you down there needed your help.

The moment your foot hit the bottom step, your mouth dropped. This wasn’t a storage room. This wasn’t a kitchen backroom. This was something else entirely

A single, worn leather couch sat against the wall, stained darker in places you didn’t want to think about. A heavy metal table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by neatly stocked cabinets filled with medical supplies that had no business being this well-organized in a basement.

And slumped against the table—his shirt peeled back, bleeding from a deep gash across his ribs—was a man.

The sight of blood—so much blood—yanked you back into reality. Your jaw locked. Your pulse pounded.

Tetsurou just exhaled, slow and easy, like this was routine. Like the blood pooling onto the table didn’t faze him. Like a man bleeding out in a basement was just another Tuesday.

"Fix him."

That was all he said. Low. Even. Like this wasn’t up for debate. Like this was just something you were expected to do.

Your blood boiled. Your vision blurred at the edges, anger pressing against your skull like a vice. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be in the basement of a restaurant, stitching up criminals, pretending like this was normal.

And you sure as hell weren’t supposed to be doing it while Tetsurou stood there, silent, acting like nothing was wrong.

Your fingers curled into fists. You should have argued. Should have said something.

Instead, you stormed forward, snatched a pair of gloves off the tray, and got to work.

If he wanted this done? Fine. But you weren’t doing it gently.

The silence stretched thick, suffocating.

You moved quickly—too quickly. Every motion was sharp, precise, filled with an unspoken fury you had no other way to express.

Clean the wound. Disinfect. Prep the needle.

You worked like a machine, ignoring the way the man beneath you tensed as you pressed down a little too hard.

"Jesus," he hissed, body jerking slightly. "Watch it—"

"Then stop moving," you snapped, your voice clipped and cold.

He grunted but fell silent.

From across the room, you felt Tetsurou watching.

You didn’t care. Didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t turn. Didn’t give him the reaction he was waiting for.

Instead, you focused on the thread between your fingers, on the needle piercing skin, on the rhythm of stitching something back together— because at least this was something you could control.

The second stitch went in. Then the third. The silence pressed in tighter. You knew Tetsurou wasn’t going to speak first.

But you weren’t going to break either.

You pulled the last stitch tight, snipping the excess thread with more force than necessary.

"Done."

Your voice came flat, clipped, as you ripped off the bloodied gloves and tossed them onto the metal tray beside you.

The man on the table exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Damn, that was fast. You do this often or somethin’?"

You ignored him. Didn’t look at Tetsurou. Didn’t wait for approval.

You turned, already heading for the stairs, body rigid with unspoken words. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, anger still simmering beneath your skin—sharp, suffocating, unrelenting.

This was too much. All of it. This wasn’t your world. And yet, here you were.

Again.

But the moment your hand touched the railing—

The sound of your name stopped you cold.

Low. Even. Just enough to make the air feel heavier. You didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just waited. Another long pause.

"You did good."

The words landed differently than they should have. Maybe it was the way they came quieter, closer—like a secret meant for you alone. Maybe it was the way the air seemed heavier between you, the way his fingers brushed against your wrist, fleeting, almost unintentional.

Almost.

For a second—just a breath—you froze.

Because it wasn’t just approval. There was something else laced in his voice, something rare, something that made it harder to swallow down the frustration burning in your chest.

And that? That made you angrier.

Because he was acting like this this was just another night. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t dragged you deeper into something you had no escape from.

Your breath came sharp, clipped, as you yanked your wrist away, ignoring the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to hold on.

And you hesitated.

Just for a half-second. Just long enough to feel the weight of what just happened, to let it settle deep in your ribs.

Then you turned—abrupt, almost too fast.

The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

But you didn’t let him get to you.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t acknowledge the weight in his voice.

You just walked away. Out the door. Into the car.

Without a word.

The silence stretched. Not peaceful. Not empty. Thick. Suffocating.

The kind of silence that sat heavy on your chest, pressing down, making it impossible to breathe.

You kept your eyes on the city lights, arms crossed so tightly your nails dug into your skin. Tetsurou hadn’t said a word since leaving that basement.

Good.

Because if he had, you weren’t sure what would’ve come out of your mouth.

Your chest still burned. Anger, frustration, something sharp and bitter curling beneath your ribs. Too much had happened, too fast.

Tetsurou and that woman.

Him dragging you away from work like it was nothing.

But beneath all of that, something deeper sat heavy in your stomach.

That basement.

You knew it existed. This was the deal—stitching up criminals, keeping quiet, playing your role.

But what unsettled you the most wasn’t the blood. Wasn’t the sterile tools lined up so neatly. Not that the room was a place where men either bled out or survived. But how easily you had stepped into it.

You had just done it. Like it was natural. Like you belonged.

And whether you wanted to admit it or not—

You did.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Maybe you should have asked more questions. Maybe you should have hesitated. Maybe you should have told him no from the beginning.

But the moment you saw all that blood, the moment you heard Tetsurou’s voice—

"Fix him."

You didn’t freeze. Didn’t flinch. And that?

That should have scared you.

Another minute passed.

Then another.

And still, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t glance at you. Didn’t even shift in his seat. Like he was waiting. Like he knew the storm inside you was nowhere close to settling. Finally, the pressure cracked.

"You could at least say something." Your voice came out sharp, cutting through the weight of the silence like a blade.

His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror—just for a second—before settling back on the road. The driver didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t shift, didn’t react.

"Not sure what you want me to say."

His tone wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t mocking. And that only pissed you off more.

"You always have something to say." Your glare burned into the side of his face. "But now? Now you’re just gonna sit there and pretend like nothing happened?"

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. A slow, measured breath. "What do you want me to say?" His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he was choosing his words carefully.

You scoffed. "I don’t know, Tetsurou. Maybe an apology?"

Nothing. No reaction. Not even a flicker of guilt. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

"You just expect me to go along with all of this?"

His fingers tightened around the door handle, leather creaking under his grip.

Still, he said nothing. The weight in your chest grew heavier.

He wasn’t going to argue. He wasn’t going to fight you on this. Because he didn’t regret a damn thing.

Your jaw clenched. Your stomach twisted. You turned away, pressing your forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to shove down the frustration clawing at your ribs.

You weren’t sure how much time passed after that. It could have been minutes. It could have been the entire ride. But when the car finally slowed to a stop, you didn’t wait for him to say anything.

The second the locks clicked open—you shoved the door and stepped out.

Without another glance at him, you walked inside .

The elevator ride up was silent.

Suffocating.

You stood stiff beside him, arms crossed so tightly it almost hurt, frustration radiating off you in waves.

Tetsurou? He was unreadable.

Expression calm. Posture relaxed. But his fingers twitched—just slightly, just enough to betray him. A small movement. Almost unnoticeable.

Almost.

Because Tetsurou never fidgeted.

The second the elevator doors slid open, you moved. Straight for the stairs. Straight for the one place in this penthouse that wasn’t his. But before you could take another step—

"Stop."

The word wasn’t loud. But it didn’t have to be.

It sank into your spine, curling around your ribs, pulling you to a standstill before you could think better of it.

Your jaw clenched. Fingers curled into fists.

Slowly, you turned, fire still burning in your chest. "What?"

His gaze locked onto yours. Steady. Sharp.

"We’re talking."

A bitter laugh slipped past your lips. "Now you want to talk?"

His jaw tightened. "Yes."

Something twisted in your stomach. Because for the first time all night—Tetsurou actually looked like he knew he fucked up.

Good. You hoped he felt it.

"You don’t get to decide when we talk." Your voice came sharp, seething. "You don’t get to rip me out of my job, drag me across the city, shove me into your fucking world—"

Before you could take another breath—

Tetsurou moved.

Fast. Decisive.

Your back hit the wall. Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to make you feel it. Your breath caught—not from fear, but from the sudden heat of his presence.

Too close now.

His hand pressed against the wall beside your head, caging you in—not to trap, not to intimidate, but to make you look at him.

His voice dropped, low and controlled. "You think I dragged you into this?"

Your chest heaved.

Not from exhaustion. From something else.

You hated him for being this close—

Hated that you could smell his cologne, sharp with a hint of smoke and blood. Hated that the fire curling in your stomach couldn’t drown out the way his body heat bled into yours. Hated that even now, with everything burning between you, you still felt the electric trace of his fingers skimming over your sleeve, barely there, but enough to make something shiver up your spine.

"Move."

He didn’t.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease.

He just looked at you.

Waiting.

You shoved against his chest—but he didn’t budge.

"Get out of my way."

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Not until you listen."

You could feel his breath now.

It brushed against your cheek, warm, controlled, infuriatingly steady.

Your pulse pounded.

"Oh, fuck off." you let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act like you—"

You cut yourself off. The words felt too heavy. Too real.

He waited.

And you hated him for it. Your throat felt tight.

"You keep doing this." Her voice was quieter now, but no less cutting. "You act like my choices don’t matter. Like I don’t matter. Like I’m just supposed to go along with whatever you want, whenever you want—"

"That’s not true."

His voice was firm. Immediate. Like he couldn’t let you believe that. Like that was the one thing he refused to accept. A sharp exhale left your lips. Your fists clenched.

“Against my better judgment, I thought you cared. But I guess not.”

That did it.

His entire body went still. Not the kind of stillness that came from processing. The kind of stillness that meant something inside him snapped.

His hand tightened against the wall beside your head.

His jaw flexed. A slow inhale through his nose.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Rougher.

"Say that again."

Your stomach twisted. You had been ready for anger. For mockery. For another one of his goddamn games. But not this.

Not the way his eyes had darkened—not with amusement, but something unreadable. Not the way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but stopped himself. Not the way his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw.

Your pulse pounded.

He exhaled sharply. Then—his voice dipped even lower.

"Say I don’t care about you."

Your breath hitched. You opened your mouth—but nothing came out. Because you couldn’t say it.

Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when you could still feel his warmth caging you in. Not when the silence between you felt like something breakable.

Your chest ached. Because you wanted to say it. You wanted to shove it in his face, make him feel as angry, as raw, as messed up as you felt right now.

But if you said it—it wouldn’t be true.

His fingers twitched. His jaw tightened.

He waited.

You hated him for waiting. Hated him for making you choke on the words.

But before either of you could break—

The anger surged back. Your fingers curled into fists.

"You ignored me. Twice."

He said nothing.

Your chest felt like it was caving in. The words burned on your tongue, bitter and raw.

"I wrote on the fridge not to send a guard. I replied to your text. I said no." Your voice broke on the last word, and you hated it. Hated how much it sounded like something fragile.

You swallowed hard before adding—

"And still—you sent one anyway."

Silence.

But not the kind from before. This wasn’t tense. Wasn’t heavy with something waiting to explode.

This was wrong.

The shift in the air was immediate.

Tetsurou’s entire body –locked up—shoulders going rigid, jaw clenching once, twice. The vein in his forearm twitched beneath his sleeve as his fingers curled into a fist.

You furrowed your brow. You were expecting a fight. Expected some excuse. Some bullshit response. Some smug little grin like this was just another game to him.

But he wasn’t doing any of that. He wasn’t reacting at all.

Your pulse pounded.

"Tetsurou."

Nothing.

The only sound was the slow inhale through his nose, measured and too controlled. Like he was forcing himself to stay still.

Finally—his voice came. Low. Rough.

"I didn’t send a guard."

A pause

Then another.

And then—the realization hit you all at once.

Your breath caught.

Your stomach dropped.