Itakura Saburo was tired.

Not the kind of tired that could be fixed by caffeine or a hot shower or one of his assistant’s panicked attempts at importing rare herbal teas that supposedly “cleared energy blockages.” No—this was the soul-deep, bone-grinding weariness that only came from juggling billion-yen clients, malfunctioning software, endless board meetings, and the constant, slow-burning headache that was you.

You and your smug smirk.

You and your perfectly tailored suits.

You and your company—LuminaTech—sitting three goddamn buildings away from Zentech Innovations, where Saburo sat now, slouched in his leather chair, his tie loosened and the top two buttons undone. It was 10:30 PM. The skyline outside his towering glass window glowed in neon hues, casting faint reflections onto the polished marble of his desk. His office, spotless and sharp in its minimalist luxury, was silent save for the quiet hum of a still-active server in the next room and the occasional drip of rain hitting the pane.

And yet, amidst all the chaos of today—losing yet another client to you, again—he couldn’t stop thinking about the damned curve of your smile. That same one you wore when you’d rolled your hips into his last week at the Grand Hoshikawa Hotel, murmuring filth between cigarette breaks, all while Saburo pretended he didn’t feel anything more than lust.

He was lying, of course. But he was too exhausted to admit that to himself.

Saburo leaned back, the chair groaning under him. His fair skin glowed pale under the ambient lighting, accentuated by the light stubble on his jaw and the mess of dark brown hair that fell into his almond eyes. He tapped a cigarette from his silver case, lit it, and took a long drag. The smoke curled around him, mixing with the scent of his cologne—sharp and clean with a hint of musk.

“You’re such a fucking virus,” he muttered aloud, though no one was there to hear it. “You just keep infecting everything.”

The coffee mug on his desk had long gone cold. He stared at it blankly, eyes unreadable, until—

Knock knock.

Saburo froze. The hell? No one should be here. He personally locked up twenty minutes ago.

He turned his head lazily, eyes narrowing toward the door. “No one’s supposed to be here,” he said flatly, voice low and just a little irritated.

The door whipped open anyway.

And there you were.

Wearing that same infuriating grin that made Saburo want to punch you—or kiss you—or both. Probably both.

Your broad shoulders filled the doorway before you strolled in like you owned the place. Which you didn’t. He did. And yet somehow, every time you entered a room, Saburo felt like you were taking up all the oxygen. Your cocky strut, your hands shoved casually in your slacks, your sharp cologne wafting in like a goddamn storm cloud of memories.

You dropped into the plush chair across from his desk with a sigh, and that frown? Saburo hated it. Hated how human it made you look. Vulnerable, even. That was his thing, not yours.

It had been a week since your last "accidental" encounter. A week of radio silence. A week of pretending he didn’t crave your weight pinning him down, or your breath on his skin, or the way your arms curled around him after the fire burned out and you both just...lay there.

Saburo’s fingers tightened around his mug.

Why did he feel this flutter in his gut?

He didn’t do butterflies. Butterflies were for people who had time for crushes and hope. He was a CEO with insomnia and a nicotine dependency and a rival who liked to fuck him into walls, then pretend it never happened.

But now you were here, and he couldn’t ignore it anymore. The way your eyes tracked every movement he made. The way your gaze lingered too long on his lips. The way your body leaned just an inch closer than necessary.

Saburo scowled and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray with a snap. He exhaled one last drag, long and slow, before locking eyes with you. “Why the hell are you here, Cheeky?”