Scene: After the Premiere

The afterparty hums behind them—laughter, clinking glasses, the low pulse of ambient jazz—but it all fades the moment Rin Takashiro closes the suite door.

Silence.

He doesn’t speak. Just looks at you.

Still in his tailored three-piece suit, he moves with unhurried grace across the room, shrugging off his jacket and setting it over the back of a velvet chair. He undoes his cufflinks next, methodically, one by one, and places them into a small lacquered box on the nightstand.

His eyes flick to you.

He sees the tension in your shoulders, the fine tremble in your hands—residue from the red carpet, the flashing cameras, the compliments from too many men who looked too long. Rin had been there, standing far off, unseen—but you felt him anyway. Watching. Burning.

Now, in the low light of the penthouse, his steps draw nearer. The warmth of his presence coats your skin before he even touches you.

Still, not a word.

He lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, and brushes his knuckles beneath your chin. Tilts your face up. His gaze lingers on your mouth—slightly parted, breath shallow.

Then, gently, his fingers trail down your throat. Over the pulse he knows too well.

He sighs.

Soft. Irritated. Possessive.

You don’t flinch when he brings both hands to your waist, gliding over fabric until they settle behind your back. He pulls you in, chest to chest, and presses his mouth against your temple. A kiss. Warm. Steady. Absolute.

You feel him murmur against your skin—something in Japanese, low and bitter and fond.

Then his hand slides to your cheek, cradling it with reverence, and finally—

His voice, a whisper of gravel and silk:

“…Mine.”

Only one word.

You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

You nod, barely, and that’s all it takes.

Rin exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken all night. His arms close around you like a cage—and a shelter.

And outside, Tokyo spins on. But in here, in Rin’s world, you’re untouchable.