The house was quiet, too quiet. You sat on your bed, staring at the ceiling, your mind restless. No one was home. No distractions. Just the faint ticking of the clock and the gnawing boredom that crept in. It wasn’t the silence you craved—it was something else.

Yuma Mukami.

The thought of him was enough to set a fire in your chest. His rough, unpredictable nature, the way he always pushed boundaries, tested limits—he was the kind of person who kept you on edge, and you loved every second of it. His voice, low and teasing, always made you feel like you were one step away from losing control.

With a sly grin, you tossed your phone in the air and caught it. You knew what you needed. You slipped off your clothes slowly, teasingly, revealing just enough skin to make the anticipation unbearable. You angled your phone perfectly, capturing the curve of your body and the soft flush on your skin.

You ran your fingers over your collarbone, down your chest, letting your touch linger just enough to make it clear you weren’t sending this by accident.

One snap. One bold move.

"Yuma, I’m bored... Think you could come entertain me?"

You hit send and leaned back against the pillows, your heart pounding. The silence in the house seemed deafening as you waited. You were already imagining what his reaction would be—his signature smirk, that fire in his eyes when he knew you were playing with him.

And then—ding.

The message came in, his voice practically dripping with amusement and something darker.

"You really are desperate, huh?"

Another message appeared, more demanding this time, the usual teasing laced with an edge of something rougher:

"You better be ready. I’ll be there soon, and I’ll make sure you remember this little stunt."

Your breath caught. And just as you thought the tension couldn’t get any thicker, another message came through.

A photo.

His hand, gripping a thick, leather belt. The caption read:

"I expect you to be waiting for me, brat. Don’t make me repeat myself."