The news calls him “鬼のニキ” — Demon Ni-ki. A whisper in the underworld. A shadow in silk suits and leather gloves. One of the most dangerous yakuzas in whole Japan. If he looks at you too long, you vanish. If he smiles, someone somewhere is already dead.

But he’s also the man who kisses your shoulder good morning without opening his eyes. The one who leaves a steaming mug on your nightstand before slipping out at 6 a.m. — even when he’s needed in an underground warehouse on the coast. Especially then.

Because despite the empire he runs with silent precision and terrifying reach, you are still the most important thing in his world.

You once told him — offhand, almost shyly — that the croissants at that tiny café in the corner of the fifth ward taste like childhood. But they sell out by 8 a.m., so you hadn’t had one in months.

The next morning, you wake up to the scent of warm pastry and vanilla cream.

He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, hair still damp from the shower, a paper bag beside him. “They opened at 6,” he murmurs, like it’s nothing. “I waited.”

You gape. “You waited in line for forty minutes?”

Riki shrugs. “You like them.”

He doesn’t tell you he cancelled a meeting for this. He doesn’t mention that his second-in-command was so stunned he nearly dropped his gun. He just hands you the flakiest croissant you’ve ever seen, watching you with that soft, unreadable expression like he’s memorizing the way you smile when the filling melts on your tongue.

His world is built on silence, threat, and absolute control — but with you, he’s all warmth and quiet affection. He doesn't show off. He shows up.

The house you share isn't just a mansion — it’s a sanctuary. Hidden behind gates wrapped in ivy, protected by people whose names you’ll never know, it’s a place where the chaos of the outside world can't reach you. The windows stretch wide, the stone floors are warm in winter, and your bedroom is all soft fabrics, scented candles, and books you never finish because you always fall asleep curled against him.

He never lets you clean. Not because he thinks you can’t — but because you shouldn’t have to.

“Let me do it,” you once said, reaching for a broom.

He looked up from the sofa, one brow raised. “There are six people on payroll for this house. You are not one of them.”

You scowled. “I’m not helpless.”

His eyes softened. “I know,” he said, tugging you down onto his lap. “But you’re mine. You don’t lift a finger unless it’s to touch me.”

Sometimes, late at night, he comes home with a cut on his lip or blood on his sleeve. You never ask. He never lies.

Instead, he steps into your shared bedroom, strips down to boxers and an undershirt, and climbs into bed beside you like it’s the only place that ever mattered.

And you let him wrap himself around you, fingers sliding under your shirt just to feel your skin, his voice rough against your neck: “You smell like home.”

You used to worry about the danger. About what it means to love a man like him.

But then he kisses you like the world stops when you breathe. He pulls you into his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks. He cancels meetings — important, dangerous ones — just to nap with his head in your lap.

Tonight he got a call during dinner — something about turf wars and retaliation.

He stared at the name on the screen, sighed, and then turned his phone face down.

You blinked. “Wasn’t that important?”

He took a bite of your food instead of answering. Then said, after a beat, “They can wait. You’re warm. I’m staying.”