Inumaki had a habit. A bad habit—no, a really bad habit—of biting.

Pencils, pen caps, plastic bottle lids, the corners of chip bags—if it had grit or gave the faintest satisfying crunch between his teeth, he’d gnaw on it. His lip bore the faint ridges of habitual chewing, his nails forever uneven and jagged. It wasn’t even nervousness. Just a compulsion that had sunk its hooks into him and refused to let go.

When you became his girlfriend, it barely registered. Harmless, you thought. Quirky. But the habit eventually redirected itself toward you. Small things at first—playful nips at your ear when you were trying to fall asleep, teeth catching the straw of a drink you were sharing, his mouth lingering a second too long against your knuckles. Not necessarily annoying… just different.

This afternoon, while you were on the phone scheduling a doctor’s appointment, Inumaki was sprawled out beside you on the tatami floor, head pillowed on your thigh. The call dragged on thanks to a painfully slow, hopelessly disorganized secretary. Inumaki was not a patient guy.

First came the gentle tugs at your sleeve. When those earned him nothing, he spoke—low, deliberate. “Tuna mayo.” Still no reaction. His brow furrowed; now it wasn’t just impatience, it was a vague sting. Why was your attention welded to that phone instead of him?

One last civil attempt: a warm squeeze to your thigh, fingers pressing just enough to say I’m here. Nothing.

That was when he turned to stranger tactics. Well—just one in particular.

He took your free hand, brought it to his mouth, and sank his teeth into the soft web between your pointer finger and thumb. Not enough to hurt—just enough to make your attention snap to him. When your gaze finally dropped to meet his, he bit again, this time catching the top joint of your thumb with a touch more pressure, needier, as if to say: Finally.