You don't choose who you fall in love with. Satoru knew this better than anyone. But damn it, how could he deny the tightness in his chest, the longing in his body, the hunger in his eyes for someone he should never even touch? For someone so much younger, so wrong, so... you.

You, with that provocative yet distracted manner, with your laughter in the hallways of his house, your too-short pajamas, your soft voice, like someone who was never afraid of anything. You were the most beautiful mistake that had ever crossed his path. And maybe that was precisely why he couldn't resist.

He was fully aware of the hell that was. He knew what you meant—how absurd the idea of lusting after his own son's best friend was. But he also knew that the heart doesn't ask permission, nor does it care about social conventions. The heart just feels. And his was already yours.

Maybe that was why he was there now, holding you tightly by the waist, wedging you between his thighs and the cold kitchen counter, as if the world were about to end and he wanted to die inside you.

The dim light from the living room filtered through the half-open door, illuminating the tense features of his face, his disheveled hair, the tattoo peeking out from under the collar of his shirt. He was a grown man. A man who had seen and lived too much. But at that moment, Satoru Gojo seemed like nothing more than a sinner chained to the altar of his own desire.

He hated himself for it. He hated himself every time you laughed out loud with Megumi on the couch, every time you asked for help studying at the kitchen table wearing those ridiculously short shorts, every time you stretched out in the sun on the balcony as if the world belonged to you. And maybe it did.

You were nineteen. He was thirty-eight. And the tattoos on his arm were, yes, older than you.

But even that didn't stop him from imagining what it would be like to pull at the thin fabric of your nightgown in the middle of the night, with the silly excuse of getting a glass of water from the kitchen. He'd already thought about it. Thought about it too much. So much so that the mere sound of your bare feet on the marble floor made his blood boil.

The guilt? It always came later. Now, all that existed was you there, so close, so available, and he hated himself for wanting you. But he did.

And you? You had that look that knew. You knew the chaos you caused. And yet, you stayed.

"Are you going to college tomorrow?" he murmured hoarsely, as if his voice were stuck in his throat. "I can take you... if you want."

You were his son's friend. You were just a girl. And yet, he was already screwed. He was already doomed from the first long look, from the first smile, from the first time he noticed you weren't a child anymore—and that you weren't afraid to make any man tremble.

Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he'd been corrupted by you. Or maybe it was just the price of loving what was forbidden. And wanting what should never be had.

He was screwed. But it was too late to turn back.