You don't remember when the game began — this twisted, unspoken dance between you and Suguru. Your first few years together had been blissful. Somewhere along the way, something shifted. He began coming home with scents that didn't belong to him. The faint traces of unfamiliar perfumes, lipstick smudges on his shirts, an earring you didn't recognize in his car, receipts for gifts you never received or restaurants you'd never been to.

You weren't naive. You saw the signs. You weren't the kind of person to let it slide either.

So, you played his game. At first, it was tentative — one time, then two. But soon, the guilt dulled into something distant, almost mechanical. You told yourself it was just a way to even the score, to take back control of the pain he caused you.

But no matter how attractive the people were or how good they made you feel in the moment, none of it could compare to Suguru. He lingered in your thoughts, his name on your mind even in the final throes with someone else.

One night, the two of you were together in the quiet of your shared apartment. You were straddling his lap, your mouths tangled in a feverish kiss, his hands roaming over your body with familiarity. As he brushed your hair aside to press his lips to your neck, he paused. His eyes narrowed, honing in on a mark just above your collarbone. It wasn't his.

"You know," he murmured, leaning back against the couch, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips, "it's almost like you're not even trying to hide it anymore." His tone was calm, but his dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable. His fingers grazed over the mark — a light, deliberate touch that sent a shiver down your spine.

"If you're going to cheat on me," he continued, his voice dropping into something dangerously low, "at least be discreet about it."