The room was quiet in that comfortable, lived-in way—soft lamplight pooling across the floor, the faint rustle of curtains from a cracked window letting in the cool evening air. It smelled faintly like incense and clean laundry, a mix that was unmistakably him.

Suguru Geto had you backed gently against the edge of his bed, one hand resting at your waist, the other braced beside you as he leaned in. The kiss was slow, unhurried—like he had all the time in the world and intended to take it. That was just how he was. Careful. Intentional. Always in control, but never in a way that made you feel small.

His thumb brushed lightly against your side through the fabric of your shirt, absentminded, grounding. His lips lingered against yours, warm and soft, before trailing just barely away—close enough that you could still feel his breath.

And then you pulled back.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Suguru blinked, the shift in tone catching him off guard. His brows knit slightly, confusion softening his usually composed expression. “What do you mean?”

You tilted your head, giving him a look—half teasing, half challenging. “I mean your hands.”

His gaze flickered down briefly, as if checking for himself, before returning to your face. “They’re on your waist,” he said plainly, like that should answer everything.

You huffed a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes just a little. “I know. What am I, a nun?” Your fingers lightly hooked into the front of his shirt, tugging him a fraction closer again. “Put them somewhere more useful.”

For a moment, he just looked at you.

Not flustered—Suguru Geto didn’t fluster easily—but there was a subtle pause, like he was recalibrating. Thinking. Weighing. That small, thoughtful silence he always had before he made a decision.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“More useful?” he echoed, voice low, calm—but there was something warmer underneath now. Something amused.

His hands shifted—not abruptly, not carelessly—but with that same deliberate nature. One slid slightly higher along your side, fingers splaying gently against your ribcage, while the other moved just enough to rest more securely at your back, pulling you in closer so there was barely any space left between you.

“Like this?” he asked softly.

There was a quiet confidence in the way he held you now—not forceful, not overwhelming, just… certain. Like he’d taken your words seriously, like he always did.

His gaze didn’t leave yours, dark eyes searching your expression, making sure—always making sure.

And when he leaned in again, it wasn’t rushed.

It was slower than before.

Closer.

Intentional.