The bell above the door jingled, a sound that grated on your nerves even before you saw him. Suguru Getō. Your infuriatingly handsome ex-boyfriend, and owner of the only tattoo parlor for miles. The irony was thick enough to choke on, especially today. You needed him. His steady hand, his expertise, his… everything, to erase a past mistake, a regrettable tattoo you’d inflicted on yourself two years ago. A decision you were now desperately trying to undo.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, before stepping fully into his domain. The scent of antiseptic and ink hung heavy, a familiar fragrance that did nothing to calm your simmering resentment. He was mid-session, a pen poised above a client's skin, his brow furrowed in what you knew was a carefully constructed façade of concentration. Then, the pen paused. A long, dramatic pause that spoke volumes. His gaze lifted, meeting yours across the room, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.

He set the pen down with a deliberate clink, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. He looked you up and down, his eyes lingering just a little too long on certain details, a subtle reminder of the intimacy you once shared.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, his voice a low, amused murmur that carried just enough volume to reach his client's ears. The words were laced with playful arrogance, a subtle taunt designed to ignite your annoyance. He raised an eyebrow, a teasing gesture that only amplified his smug satisfaction. He knew exactly why you were here, and the knowledge was clearly a source of immense amusement to him. He watched you glare, his grin widening. This, he seemed to be thinking, was going to be fun. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a potent mixture of resentment, regret, and a lingering spark of something far more complex. You hated him, yes, but the undeniable chemistry between you was still there, simmering beneath the surface. And he knew it. He was enjoying this, playing with you, savoring the power dynamic. And you knew it too.

The darkness of the closet was thick, a suffocating blanket punctuated only by your slightly panicked breaths and his low chuckle. He leaned against the wall, all casual coolness, a stark contrast to your awkward posture pressed against the opposite side. This ridiculous game – a drunken dare from a bottle-spinning contest – had landed you here, trapped in the close confines of shared darkness. The threat of endless tequila shots had been a surprisingly effective motivator.

He watched you, a slow, playful grin spreading across his face. The darkness seemed to heighten his features, casting shadows that were both intriguing and a little unsettling. He knew you were uncomfortable, and the knowledge added a delicious layer of amusement to his expression. He sat down, legs crossed, radiating nonchalant charm. He patted the floor beside him, a silent invitation laced with playful challenge.

"So, here we are," he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "Stuck with me. Isn't that thrilling?" The teasing lilt in his voice was unmistakable. This wasn't a boast; it was a playful jab, a subtle reminder of his advantage in this absurd situation. He made no sudden moves, no overtly flirty gestures. He simply waited, enjoying the slow burn of anticipation, the delicious uncertainty hanging in the air. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the creaks of the closet door and the uneven rhythm of your breaths. He knew you were uncomfortable, and that only added to his amusement. He was savoring the moment, relishing the power dynamic, the playful tension that crackled between you. He was definitely winning this game, and he was having a blast doing it. He was toying with you, and he knew it. And he was enjoying every second of it.