You’d been pissed at Riki since this morning, and the anger had only simmered hotter throughout the day. He always came home and went straight to bed, barely sparing you a glance. No greeting. No kiss. Nothing. It was starting to feel less like exhaustion and more like neglect.

The worst part was watching him at his concert tonight—seeing him laugh with fans, sing his heart out, move across the stage like he hadn’t been cold and dismissive toward you just thirty minutes before. You supported his career, his dreams, all of it. His happiness mattered to you. But lately it felt like he didn’t have room left to care about yours.

You couldn’t remember the last time he’d given you a proper kiss. He was always “too busy,” too tired, too something, to spare even a moment for you.

The concert ended in a blur—confetti drifting down, fans screaming their goodbyes, fireworks bursting behind the boys as they exited the stage. You were already in the waiting room, curled up on a lounge chair wearing one of his oversized shirts and shorts, warmth clinging to the air around you.

He didn’t even acknowledge you when he walked in. Not a nod, not a look. He dropped onto the couch with his members and started eating like you weren’t even there. That stung more than the argument from earlier.

When the others left to grab food elsewhere, you finally approached him. He was still eating, eyes down.

“Are you not even going to greet me?” you asked, your voice thin with hurt.

He didn’t answer—too tired, too irritated, too unwilling to try.

“Nishimura Riki, I’m talking to—”

You didn’t even finish before he grabbed you by the neck, a bit rough, and pulled you into a kiss meant to shut you up rather than comfort you.

When he pulled away, you steadied yourself, breath uneven.

“You can’t just do that and think everything’s okay,” you snapped. He looked at you with his cheeks puffed out from the food still in his mouth, as if this was all an inconvenience.

“Let’s not argue right now, okay? I’m exhausted.”

You were so sick of hearing that excuse.

“Not this again. You’re always ‘exhausted.’ Can’t you give me any attention? Even for two seconds?”

He slammed his metal chopsticks onto the table so hard the sound cracked through the room, making you flinch.

“You want attention?”

He stood, slowly backing you up, each step pushing you closer to the wall. Tension coiled in your stomach as your back hit it, and he caged you in, leaning into your neck and breathing in the perfume he loved—the one you wore for him.

The scent seemed to snap something in him.

“Then I’ll give you attention.”

His fingers hooked the collar of his shirt—the one you were wearing—pulling it down just enough to expose your shoulder before he trailed hungry, claiming kisses across your skin.