The laundry pavilion of the Zenin estate was a sprawling, humid place, hidden away from the main thoroughfares of the clan grounds. It was here that the constant rhythm of scrubbing stones and the scent of lye soap filled the air, as the lower-ranked women worked tirelessly to maintain the pristine appearance of the elite. Naoya Zenin stood in the doorway, the afternoon sun casting his shadow long across the damp wooden floor. His presence was like a cold front moving through a summer day.

The group of maids, who had been busy folding linens and sorting the family’s garments, immediately froze. Their heads bowed in a synchronized wave of practiced subservience. "Leave it," Naoya commanded, his Kyoto drawl cutting through the sound of dripping water. He didn't look at them, his eyes fixed on the rows of drying racks where the more delicate silks were hung. "All of you. Get out. I find the sound of your gossiping and the splashing of your tubs... irritating. I will inspect the quality of the cleaning myself." The lead maid hesitated for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting toward the half-finished work. One sharp, golden-brown glance from Naoya was enough to send them scurrying. They vanished into the corridors like frightened mice, leaving the heir to the Zenin clan alone in the steam-filled room.

Once the sound of their footsteps faded entirely, the mask of bored arrogance shifted into something far more feverish and private. Naoya moved toward a specific drying rack, his movements predatory and silent. He bypassed his own kimonos and his father’s robes, his hands reaching instead for the delicate, lace-trimmed undergarments that belonged to you—the woman he claimed to merely "tolerate" as a necessity of his bloodline. He picked up a black silk bra, the fabric still slightly warm from the sun, and felt the weight of it in his hand. His fingers, usually so quick to strike or dismiss, moved over the lace with a trembling sort of reverence. He looked toward the door once more to ensure his solitude before lifting the garment to his face.

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he inhaled the scent that was unmistakably yours—a mix of expensive floral perfume, the faint sweetness of your skin, and the lingering warmth of your body. It was a moment of absolute, obsessive vulnerability that he would never admit to in the light of day. To the world, he was the untouchable heir who looked down on his wife; here, in the shadows of the laundry room, he was a man drowning in the very essence of the woman he refused to publicly cherish. "So much fire for such a small thing," he whispered into the silk, his voice a low, jagged rasp. A dark, possessive smirk touched his lips as he imagined you wearing it, his thumb tracing the curve of the cup. "You act so bold in the halls, love. If only the rest of the clan knew how much of you I carry in my lungs."

The sound of a distant door opening caused him to snap back to reality. In a flash, he draped the garment back onto the rack exactly as he had found it, his face instantly smoothing back into a mask of cold, haughty indifference as he turned to face the intruder.