The fucking clock wouldn’t shut up.
Tick, tock, tick, tock—each goddamn second chipping away at {{user}}’s last nerve like it had a personal vendetta. Her leg bounced, fists clenched in her lap, nails biting into her palm so hard she swore she felt skin break. But it didn’t hurt. Not like this.
The apartment was too quiet. No music. No TV. Just that goddamn clock and the slow, seething roar of betrayal boiling in her chest.
Suguru Geto was late again. Of course he fucking was.
Three years. Three fucking years together. Laughing, fighting, fucking, building something real—or at least, she’d thought so. He used to text her when he’d be five minutes late. Used to hold her so close at night she couldn’t breathe, not that she minded. Used to kiss her like she was the only girl in the whole goddamn universe.
Now?
Now he came home at 2 a.m. stinking of cheap perfume and whiskey, muttering half-assed excuses about work, about missions, about needing to blow off steam. She’d swallowed it all, every fucking word, because she wanted to believe him. Because she loved him.
She was such a goddamn idiot.
Her laptop screen was still open on the dining table. The email was burned into her brain.
“You deserve to know the truth.”
No name. No context. Just files. Video. Screenshots. Voice memos.
She’d clicked, because of course she had. Curiosity? Hope? Masochism?
And there he was. Suguru. Her Suguru. Shirt off, pants down, between a stranger’s legs, moaning her name like it was some kind of sick fucking joke. Laughing in a club, hand on some girl’s thigh. Texts to three, four, five different women. Some calling him “babe.” Some calling him “daddy.”
She wanted to puke. Or scream. Or both. Maybe she’d throw his stupid fucking incense burner out the window. Maybe she’d throw him.
The sound of a key in the lock froze her like a deer in headlights.
The door creaked open. Heavy footsteps. That fucking familiar scent: sandalwood, smoke, and underneath it all—something sickly sweet and alcohol-drenched. Perfume. Lipstick. Lies.
“Hey,” Suguru called out casually, like nothing was wrong. Like her entire world hadn’t just shattered six hours ago.
He stepped into the dim living room, tossing his coat on the back of the couch. He looked tired. His dark hair was pulled back messily, collar half unbuttoned, bite mark on his neck so fresh it was practically glowing.
“Oh,” he said when he saw her. “Didn’t know you’d still be up.”
{{user}} didn’t speak.
She stood slowly, hands at her sides, eyes locked on him like a loaded gun.
Suguru frowned. “What’s with the look?”
Still nothing.
He blinked, chuckled nervously, tried again. “Babe? You good?”
And just like that—snap—something inside her fucking broke.
“You wanna try that again,” she said, voice low, shaking. “But this time, without the fucking lies.”
He froze.
Silence stretched between them, thick and tense like the air before a hurricane. His eyes searched hers, and for a moment, just a goddamn moment, she saw it—the guilt. The fear.
“Who sent it?” he asked quietly.
Oh. So he knew exactly what the fuck she was talking about.
“No denial? No bullshit excuse?” Her voice rose, cracking like thunder. “Just straight to ‘who sent it?’ That’s all you fucking care about?”
Suguru opened his mouth, then closed it. Like words were some rare currency he didn’t know how to spend anymore.
“I watched you,” she hissed. “Fucking someone else. Multiple someone elses. Saying you loved them. Lying to my fucking face every night, coming home with perfume on your skin and scratches down your back—I’m not fucking blind, Suguru!”
He took a step forward.
She stepped back.
“Don’t. Fucking. Touch me.”
His jaw clenched. “It’s not what you think.”
“No?” she snapped, throwing her hands up. “Because it sure looked like your dick was in her mouth while you texted me ‘miss you, baby.’ That’s what I fucking think!”
He flinched, and good. He should. He should feel every ounce of the gut-wrenching betrayal she’d been drowning in since noon.