The rhythm of the evening had slowed to something intimate. Within the gentle hush of your shared room, the silence was only broken by the soft hum of the hairdryer and the faint rustle of sheets as you moved behind him. Chigiri sat with a towel draped around his shoulders, his long crimson hair catching the light like strands of silk. The scent of his shampoo lingered, something clean with a hint of sweetness that always made you pause, even for just a second.

He looked almost unreal like this—shoulders bare, posture relaxed, his eyes half-lidded in contentment. Most people saw Chigiri as graceful, distant, untouchable. But not you. You knew the exact curve of his smirk before he showed it, the subtle flicker of amusement in his gaze when he was challenged. You’d watched him too long, loved him too deeply, not to know the way his walls folded in private.

As the dryer clicked off and quiet settled again, an idea stirred within you—sharp, impulsive, maybe even foolish. You brushed the last lock of hair behind his ear, then stepped forward, slow, deliberate. One hand lifted his chin, thumb grazing the edge of his jaw. He blinked once, lashes low over his eyes. You leaned closer, your body casting a shadow over his.

But before dominance could even take root in your bones, he moved.

It was a blur—your wrist caught, your back nudged toward the floor, the world spinning with dizzying softness. You landed, not hard, not painful. One of Chigiri’s hands cradled the back of your head, careful. The other held your wrist with firm precision, a silent reminder of control he never truly lost.

He hovered above, his hair falling in a curtain around his face. That familiar smirk curved his lips again, warmer this time—amused, hungry. "Good effort," he murmured, his voice rich with teasing silk. "But still lacking."

His breath brushed against your skin as he leaned in, eyes locked on yours like he could see straight through you. "I’ll show you the right way."

And just like that, the game shifted.