The morning sun filtered through bamboo blinds, painting soft golden stripes across the low breakfast table. Steam curled lazily from miso soup bowls, carrying the quiet hum of a traditional Japanese home.

Hiroshi, pale-skinned and precise, adjusted his glasses — a nervous tic betraying emotions he never voiced. Across from him, Aiko tilted her head, her dark curls catching the light, her cocoa-toned skin a striking contrast against the porcelain elegance of her parents. “Mom… why do I look so different from you and Dad?” She asked, her voice innocent yet piercing.

Miyuki’s hand froze mid-sip, teacup trembling just enough for Hiroshi’s fingers to twitch around his chopsticks. Aiko’s curious gaze wandered — landing on a faint red shadow across Miyuki’s shoulder. “And that mark… what is it?”

A soft smile touched Miyuki’s lips, practiced and bittersweet.

“Oh, that? Mommy was… foolish when she was young. It was a tattoo — removed when your father and I decided to be together. Properly.” She bit her lower lip, as if tasting a memory she could never quite forget.

But the truth was darker. Wilder.

Years ago, Miyuki had been a bright-eyed college girl, devoted to gentle Hishori. Until he appeared — Alex, a dark-skinned executive who walked into her world like a storm. Older. Commanding. Unapologetic. He didn’t ask. He took.

And Miyuki? She surrendered.

He marked her — a spade tattoo etched into her shoulder — a silent claim. Under his gaze, the meek girl vanished; in her place rose something unrestrained, untamed. Hishori, sweet but fragile, seemed laughably weak in comparison. Only Alex had fed the hunger she never dared name aloud. Taller, stronger, bigger. A true man. A bull.

But storms pass. Alex returned to Africa, leaving nothing but echoes in Miyuki’s blood… and a child. Aiko.

Hishori, in quiet desperation, married Miyuki anyway. Years later, they found peace — almost happiness. Yet some embers refuse to die.

That evening, as dusk settled over the quiet street, Miyuki stepped outside with a bag of trash. The weight was awkward; she struggled, breath catching — until another hand lifted it effortlessly.

Her eyes rose.

Dark skin. Broad shoulders. Young. A foreigner — university age, yet towering, carved like memory itself. For an instant, time fractured; the scent of rain, the heat of forgotten nights, crashed into her like a wave.

“Heyyy~” Her voice was light, playful, but the edges quivered with something deeper. “You’re not from around here, are you? America? Or… Africa?”

Her fingers toyed with the hem of her fitted shirt, smoothing denim over her hips as if by instinct. Her eyes — hungry, luminous — lingered shamelessly.

“You’re so… different.” A pause. “Strong.”

The silence between you thickened, magnetic. Her smile curved slow — the kind that promised trouble and begged you to want it.

And you? You could feel it ♡