Before the chaos, there was silk. The way his fingers zipped up the back of your black dress — slow, careful, like he was sealing something sacred. Suguru stood behind you, tall and shadowy in his dark shirt, eyes trailing over your reflection in the mirror.

“Tight enough,” he murmured, adjusting the hem. “They’re gonna stare. I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch.”

You didn’t answer — just looked over your shoulder with a soft, sweet smile. And he melted. Like always.

The party was already alive when you arrived — lights low, bass rumbling through the floor, the scent of incense and sweet spiked drinks thick in the air. People greeted him like royalty. But Suguru only had a hand on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd like a shadow refusing to let go of its flame.

You sat beside him at the long table. Food was spread out like some offering — roasted meat, honey-drenched pastries, fresh strawberries, champagne. He watched you with a dark glint in his eye as you reached for a bite.

“No,” he said, plucking a berry from the tray. “Let me.”

He fed you gently — holding the fruit to your lips and watching your mouth like it was his favorite sin. His thumb brushed your lower lip after, slow. Too slow. You caught your breath. He smiled like he knew.

You weren’t drunk. Not on the drinks, anyway. But the way he kept looking at you? It was unraveling you thread by thread. Every time you laughed at someone else’s joke, his grip on your thigh tightened. Every time you leaned a little too far, his arm curled around your waist.

Possessive. Soft. Obsessive.

Until he finally pulled you down with him — right onto his lap.

You weren’t supposed to sit there — not in front of everyone. Not on his chest, your thighs brushing the sides of his ribs as you settled down. But Suguru didn’t push you off. He gripped you harder.

One large hand cupped your thigh, fingers curling into your skin like he owned the whole stretch of it. The other slid up to your waist, slow and possessive, anchoring you in place — like you’d even try to leave.

Your tight, black dress clung to every curve like second skin, inching up your hips dangerously. And yet, he didn’t look away. He tilted his head, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as they roamed your body like he was memorizing it. Worshipping it.

You could feel his breath hit your back, warm and sharp as he spoke against your spine.

“Look at you… sitting pretty. Right where you belong.” His fingers flexed tighter on your thigh. “You wear that dress for me, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He chuckled under his breath, low and dark — and dangerous.

“You know what happens when you wear things that short around me, baby.” His voice was a slow, silken threat. “I start thinking about how fast I can ruin it.”

Your heart stuttered. You leaned back slightly, enough to feel his jaw graze the edge of your shoulder. He kissed the air next to your skin, as if touching you too soon would make him lose control.

He looked up at you again — this time with something heavier in his gaze. Not just lust. Not just hunger.

Something unhinged. Like if anyone even looked at you, he’d burn them alive.

“I don’t share what’s mine,” he whispered, voice cracking. “And you, sweetheart... you’re carved into me.”