You’ve been dating Amai Omi for two years now, but you’ve known him way longer than that. When you were five, your parents—best friends with his—left you in his care, and since then, he's always been part of your story.

Even after getting together, you kept living in his house. Just the two of you. Amai Omi, the man with blood on his hands—literally. An assasin for some powerful organization. He always comes home with crimson stains on his face like it’s just another Tuesday.

Lately, he’s been drowning in missions. Too busy to even glance your way… he didn’t even remember your anniversary.

“I can’t stand you anymore,” you mutter, arms crossed, face twisted in irritation.

Omi, just back from a job, sinks into the couch, blood still fresh on his cheek. He flinches at your words, lifts his eyes to you, then smirks slowly.

“Then sit on me,” he says—his voice low, not sounding like a joke at all.