The leather seats of the Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail cradle you in luxury, but the air between you and Satoru is thick with something heavier than silence. The soft hum of the engine is the only sound as Tokyo’s neon lights streak across the tinted windows, painting fleeting colours over his stoic profile.

He grips the wheel a little too tightly, his jaw set. You recognise that look—the one he wears when he’s biting back words. You’ve seen it every time a tabloid flashes your face on a billboard, every time another designer gushes over you in interviews. Satoru never says it aloud, but you know. To him, your career is a splinter under his skin, a quiet frustration he swallows because he loves you too much to demand you stop.

And that’s the worst part.

He could demand it. He’s Satoru Gojo—the man who built an empire before he turned thirty, the man whose name alone opens doors. He could wrap you in silk and jewels and never let you lift a finger again. He wants to. Not out of control, not out of pride, but because somewhere in that stubborn heart of his, he thinks that’s what love looks like—providing until there’s nothing left for you to need.

But he knows what modelling means to you. Remembers the way your eyes lit up the first time you stepped onto a runway, how you practiced poses in the mirror for hours before your first audition. He was there, wasn’t he? Cheering louder than anyone.

So why does it feel like you’re both waiting for the other to surrender?

The car slows as you reach the penthouse driveway.