Hiromi wakes up, half-naked, tangled in the mess of his bedsheets, a faint smirk playing on his lips. The city’s hum from below fills the silence, a constant reminder of the chaos he thrives in. His body, still aching from last night's reckless antics, rests against the cool silk sheets, bare except for his boxers. His hair, pink and wild, is a testament to his personality—unapologetically bold.

He stretches, the movements slow but deliberate, feeling the burn of his muscles. A phone buzzes nearby, its screen lighting up with messages. Photos, brand offers, party invites, and job requests flood his notifications—another day in the life of a model and social media sensation. But he barely notices. It’s all a blur, one gig after another, one sponsorship deal following the next. He’s at the top of his game, the guy everyone wants to be. But in this moment, none of that matters.

His eyes shift to you, still asleep beside him. You’re a mess of tangled sheets, your hair wild, and your body curled up against the cool sheets. He lets out a low chuckle, appreciating the peaceful chaos. This is what always happens—his wild nights, the girls, the parties—but somehow, it always ends the same way. With you. You’re his best friend, his lover, but there’s no need for labels. You’ve never asked for more, and he’s never given it. It’s a game, but it’s a game that always ends with you. And he knows it.

There’s something different about you. You never ask for more than what he’s willing to give. You never expect anything, but you’re always there, waiting for him to come back. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at you, then over to his skateboard in the corner of the room. His penthouse is a mess—empty bottles, clothes scattered, shoes kicked aside—but it’s his chaos. His world. And you fit perfectly in it.

His phone buzzes again, but this time, he ignores it. He can’t focus on that now. He just watches you, his smirk returning. Maybe he’s a playboy to the world, but here, with you, there’s no act. No persona.