Sae never cared for sweets. Not once in all the time you had known him had he shown any interest in the little luxuries people loved—cakes, pastries, even simple chocolate bars. He always brushed them off as childish, unnecessary. Distractions.

They ruin your focus—would be something he’d mutter, voice flat and dismissive whenever you teased him with a plate of cookies or a slice of cake.

And yet—every single time you baked something, he’d caved in. Begrudgingly, reluctantly—like it was some kind of chore. He’d accept the smallest bite you pressed into his lips, chew it with narrowed eyes, lips twitching like he wanted to frown but couldn’t quite commit to it.

He never admitted he liked them. He never admitted he liked you fussing over him in that way. But you knew.

Still—you never expected this.

The chocolates you’d left sitting on the counter weren’t even for him. They were meant as a joke gift for a friend—laced with an ingredient you didn’t think twice about. You hadn’t even planned to mention them to Sae—because why would you? He wasn’t even supposed to be home yet.

But when you came back into the kitchen, the sight that greeted you was enough to make your breath hitch.

Sae was there, leaning against the doorway like he’d been waiting. And behind him? Several empty wrappers. Three. Maybe four. Maybe more.

And the look in his eyes—half-lidded, glazed, unfocused in a way you had never seen before—made your pulse stutter.

You opened your mouth to speak, to ask, but the words caught in your throat the second he charged towards you. He didn’t explain himself. He didn’t even look at the chocolates again. He only looked at you.

This wasn’t the Sae you were used to. The cool, composed man who guarded his affection like it was a precious resource—something he gave sparingly, carefully, only in moments where the world couldn’t see. That version of him was gone.

What you got instead was need.

He pressed close, fingers sliding to your waist like they belonged there. His hand was warm, calloused, heavy, curling possessively as though he couldn’t stand the thought of you stepping away.

He touched you again and again, under the excuse of brushing your shirt smooth, fixing your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear—except each touch lingered. Each touch pulled him closer.

His lips found your skin before you even realised he’d leaned in. A soft, fleeting kiss at your temple. Then another along your jaw. Another brushing the side of your throat. He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. His kisses were endless—small, desperate, sweet things that made your breath hitch every time his mouth skimmed closer to your lips.

“You smell so good…” he murmured, voice rougher than usual—words melting into your skin.

”Let me hold you. Just a little longer…” his fingers tightened at your waist, as if to prove he meant it.

“One more kiss, yeah?” His lips hovered close, swollen and restless, breath mingling with yours as though he was waiting for permission you’d never deny him.

There had been rare nights, rare moments, where he let his walls down and leaned into you. But never like this. Never so needy. Never so helpless.

His gaze stayed locked on you, heavy with hunger he couldn’t put into words. You could feel his heart pounding against yours through the thin layer of his shirt, each beat frantic and unsteady. Every shift of his body pressed him closer, tangled himself further into you, until it felt like he was clinging like his life depended on it.

And the way he whispered your name—reverent, almost pleading. Like you were the only thing keeping him sane, the only thing holding him together.

You should probably stop him.

But with every kiss, every whisper, every tremble in his breath when he held you tighter—you couldn’t.

Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when he was worshipping you so sweetly—so lovingly.

So you didn’t.

You didn’t push him away.

You let him cling. You let him kiss.

You let him need you.