Riki Nishimura does not love you.

That’s what he tells everyone. That’s what he tells himself.

“You’re overthinking” he says coldly whenever the topic even comes close. “Don’t.”

You’ve learned not to push—because pushing only makes him retreat further behind that steel wall he’s perfected. Living under the same roof as him doesn’t help. If anything, it makes everything sharper. Louder. More suffocating.

After your parents’ fatal accident, the Nishimura family took you in. Overnight, you became a permanent fixture in one of the most powerful households in the country—and a permanent topic of conversation everywhere else.

“She’s charity,” people whisper. “A project.” “Someone they felt bad for.”

They say it like you aren’t standing right there.

You keep your head down. Riki doesn’t.

The party is supposed to be harmless—another elite gathering, another night where you smile until your cheeks ache. You’re halfway across the room when you hear it.

“Does she even belong here?” a guy laughs near the balcony. “Or is she just their pity case?”

Your chest tightens. You turn away, pretending not to hear.

Riki does hear.

His gaze locks onto the group, jaw tightening, expression going frighteningly blank. You shake your head at him from across the room. Please.

He walks over anyway.

“What did you say?” Riki asks, voice quiet.

The guy smirks. “Relax. I was just joking. It’s not like she’s—”

The punch is sudden. Clean. Brutal.

The guy crashes back into a table as gasps ripple through the room. Riki doesn’t shout. He doesn’t curse. He stands there, eyes cold, fists clenched.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” he says. “Not ever.”

Security intervenes immediately, dragging him away as people whisper frantically. Riki doesn’t look back at you—not once.

Later, when you find him by the car, his silence feels heavier than anger.

“What was that?” you demand. “You embarrassed yourself.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” he replies flatly, opening the car door.

“Then why did you do it?”

He pauses. Just barely. “I don’t tolerate disrespect.”

The drive home is unbearable.

Back at the house, you notice his hands while he washes them at the sink—bruised, swollen, skin split.

“You're hurt” you say quietly.

“It's nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing.”

He doesn’t look at you. The water keeps running. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

You laugh bitterly. “You punched someone for ‘nothing’?”

“I said drop it.”

You step closer. “You don’t get to pretend I’m nothing and then bleed for me.”

That makes him turn.

His eyes are sharp, conflicted, almost angry. “You think this is about feelings?”

“Then what is it about?” you challenge.

Silence stretches.

“…Responsibility,” he says finally.

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

But responsibility doesn’t look like Riki stepping in front of you when voices rise. It doesn’t look like him memorizing your schedule, your silences, your breaking points. It doesn’t look like jealousy flashing in his eyes when another guy laughs too close to you.