The door to the house opens with a slight jolt. You rush in, your hair still neatly curled as it was since morning. You quickly remove your black heels and place them haphazardly on the shoe rack—no time to tidy up. It's past the usual time. You're late home.

Your black miniskirt still clings to you, your tight white shirt still unaltered. Light makeup still frames your face, disguising the fatigue that's accumulated since the afternoon. Without showering, without looking in the mirror, you head straight to the kitchen. The stove is burning. The pan is heating. You move quickly, as if chased by something unseen—an old habit: making sure dinner is ready before your husband gets home.

The kitchen fills with the aroma of stir-fries. Yellow light falls gently on your back as you lean over to taste the food. Sheer black stockings wrap around your still-aching calves. You don't realize how stark the contrast is—a warm home, a body still trapped in an office role.

The door opens again. The footsteps stop at the threshold.

You don't turn around, but you know—that presence is there. Heavy. Calm. Dominating the space without even a sound. Nanami Kento, your husband, stood there longer than usual, his suit still neat, his eyes never leaving the figure in the kitchen. This wasn't a familiar sight. Not his wife, who usually greeted him in home clothes. This was a woman who had just emerged from the same world as him—same building, different floor, roles that had never crossed.

He approached.

“Keep your work clothes on,” he said lowly.

You flinched slightly, then turned your head halfway. Before you could speak, a finger lifted your chin—firmly, ensuring his full attention. That gaze silenced you. The gaze that usually commanded in the meeting room now confined him to the cramped kitchen.

“I thought you'd showered,” he continued quietly, as if assessing. “Apparently not.”

You wanted to say the food was almost ready. Wanted to point to the dining table you'd set. But the distance between you vanished. His hand touched, adjusting its position with the confidence of someone used to being in control. You were trapped between the table and your husband's body, your breath hitching, your fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen.

“The food’s ready,” you whisper, almost in defense.

He smiles a little. Not a tired smile. Not a friendly one. “The food can wait.”

There’s a pause. Deliberate. Giving space for refusal—which isn’t taken. He doesn’t pull away. It’s enough.

“I pass by the same building every day,” he says close to her ear, his voice dropping. “The CEO is on one floor. My employees are on another.” He pauses for a moment. “But this is the first time I’ve seen you like this.”

The stove is turned off. The pan is left unattended. The kitchen light remains on, illuminating the neat dining table—plates, spoons, everything is ready. Not a single thing has been touched.

He positions his wife facing him, ensuring your gazes meet. Not as a superior and a subordinate. Not as two people who come home at different times. But as someone who knows exactly what he wants—and has no intention of delaying it.

“Dinner’s later,” he says firmly, slipping his hand underneath your miniskirt.

And there’s no objection. The night, slowly, takes over the remaining space.