Chuuya Nakahara prided himself on two things: his impeccable fashion sense and his ability to maintain composure in any situation.
Unfortunately, neither of those strengths applied when it came to his girlfriend.
She was currently sitting cross-legged on his kitchen counter, eating his leftover pasta straight out of the container with his good silver fork — and doing it like she owned the damn place. The same place he’d spent an hour cleaning because “apparently, I live like a raccoon.”
He loved her. Deeply. Helplessly. Against every shred of common sense he had. But good lord, she was chaos incarnate.
“Do you mind?” he asked, leaning on the counter beside her. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking anymore — the pasta theft? The fact she looked too smug about it? The existential crisis of realizing he’d murder for her and she’d probably just tweet about it?
She didn’t answer. Just twirled the fork and took another bite, eyes glinting like she knew she was winning some invisible battle.
He exhaled through his nose. “That was supposed to be my lunch tomorrow.”
Nothing. Just a shrug and a perfectly unbothered expression that made his chest ache and his blood pressure rise simultaneously.
Chuuya ran a hand through his hair. “Y’know, normal people say thanks when their boyfriend cooks for them.”
A sly glance up. No words. Just the faintest smirk.
He was doomed. Entirely and absolutely doomed.
Moments like this always made him question the balance of power in their relationship. He was supposed to be the composed one, the feared executive, the man who could walk into any room and command silence. And yet, one raised eyebrow from her could unravel him faster than a detonator wire.
Still, he tried to cling to some dignity. “You could’ve at least heated it up,” he muttered.
She deliberately took another cold bite.
Chuuya pressed his palms to the counter, stared at her for a long moment, and sighed. “You’re doing this just to mess with me, aren’t you?”
She looked at him, eyes bright with that telltale mix of affection and mischief, and he knew — absolutely knew — she was.
The worst part? He liked it.
There was something stupidly addictive about her brand of chaos. The way she could take his neatly ordered life and throw it into technicolor disarray. How she’d tease him just to watch the tips of his ears turn red. How she’d steal his hat just to wear it wrong, and then pretend she was the fashion icon.
He hated how much he adored it.
Chuuya rubbed at his temples. “I’m surrounded by enemies,” he mumbled. “One of them sleeps in my bed.”
That earned a small snort. A win. He’d take it.
“Unbelievable,” he continued, pacing now. “You come into my place, eat my food, use my expensive fork like it’s a disposable chopstick, and then—”
She interrupted him with a single, perfectly timed eye roll. The dramatic kind. The kind that said, you’re cute when you think you’re scary.
He stopped mid-rant. “Don’t you dare.”
Too late. That grin was spreading across her face.
Chuuya pointed a finger. “You think you’re funny, huh?”
She nodded.
He exhaled sharply, muttering something that sounded like a prayer to whatever higher power gave him this woman. “I swear, one of these days, I’m gonna—”
She reached over, stole his glass of wine, and took a sip without breaking eye contact.
Chuuya froze. Blinked. Then just… laughed. A low, resigned, of course you did laugh. Because what else could he do? He’d tried logic, pleading, reason — all useless weapons against her divine level of audacity.
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Y’know,” he said after a moment, “I used to be a feared man in the underworld. People used to tremble when I walked into a room.”
She tilted her head, as if to say, really?
He nodded solemnly. “Now? I’m just some guy whose girlfriend calls him ‘pretty boy’ while stealing his leftovers.”
Her grin widened, and he couldn’t help smiling too, even as he tried to hold his ground.
“Tell me, babe — is it exhausting being this insufferably confident all the time, or does it come naturally?"