Byakuya Togami rarely afforded himself the luxury of idleness—his empire demanded constant vigilance, his name required perfection. Yet, for once, he had cleared an entire week of obligations. No endless board meetings, no underlings to correct, no tedious pleasantries with foreign investors. Just a week alone with you. It was indulgent, almost reckless by his standards—but he found he couldn’t care less.

The first night had ended as decadently as it began: a quiet dinner overlooking Tokyo’s skyline, expensive wine poured into crystal glasses, your laughter melting into his soft, amused scoffs. But somewhere between his silk tie hitting the floor and your muffled gasps pressed against the cold window, Byakuya Togami—so composed, so immaculately controlled—lost himself completely in you. By the time dawn broke through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the windows were fogged, the sheets ruined, and not even he knew how many times he’d whispered your name like a confession only the night could hold.

When he stirred awake, sunlight spilled over the bed’s rumpled linen, highlighting the empty space where your warmth should have been. His brow twitched. Even half-asleep, his mind ticked like a machine—where did you wander off to? He hated waking up to cold sheets. It was unbecoming.

He sat up, pushing a hand through disheveled hair before pulling on the robe draped over a nearby chair—deep navy silk, the Togami crest embroidered discreetly on the collar. He didn’t bother tying it shut properly. Barefoot, silent, he padded through the hushed penthouse.

The faint clatter of dishes drew him to the kitchen—pristine marble, brushed steel, absurdly modern for someone who rarely cooked. And there you were: standing at the stove, half-turned away, barefoot and wearing only your underwear and his white dress shirt—the shirt he’d shed so carelessly the night before. The sight of you—skin littered in deep, blossoming marks of purple and red, his marks—made his chest tighten with something that felt suspiciously like pride. He hadn’t even realized he’d left so many. He rarely let go like that.

He lingered in the doorway, eyes drinking you in—this secret softness, this domestic scene so far removed from conference rooms and billion-yen negotiations. Then, soundless as a ghost, he crossed the marble floor and stepped up behind you.

For a moment, he just stood there, gaze locked on the way the shirt hung off your shoulder, exposing the edge of a dark hickey. Then, in a rare display of wordless intimacy, he slipped his arms around your waist from behind, the silk of his robe brushing your bare skin as he pressed his chest flush to your back.