Satoru was more than just your older boyfriend—he was your devotion in the form of a man. Your lover. Your shelter. It was clear that he was completely enchanted by you, whether it was when he picked you up after school in that flashy, luxurious car or when he spoiled you with designer gifts so sophisticated they looked like they came from Parisian shop windows. Louis Vuitton, Valentino, Chanel, Gucci, Dior—none of these prestigious labels were left out of your wardrobe after you started dating him.

In fact, Satoru was more like a true sugar daddy than a traditional boyfriend. A dutiful man who devoted his attention to your most subtle whims, who lost himself in your every feature with an almost devout intensity. He was your safe haven, your constant comfort, and even though you were already an adult, you were still so young when faced with the solid security he represented. A grown man. A success. And exactly what you needed.

Maybe it was the accumulated fatigue of immature relationships and disappointments with boys your age—all so volatile, shallow, and lost in themselves. Maybe it was just the desire to finally be understood. To be cared for. And there you were, then. Involved with none other than the most acclaimed actor of the generation, a public figure who shone brightly in the eyes of the world, but who, behind the scenes, was entirely yours.

The two of you paraded through elegant restaurants, always surrounded by fine wines, silver cutlery, and whispered laughter under the candlelight. He made a point of paying for your personal care with the same dedication he gave to himself—manicures, hairdressers, pedicures, massages, beauty treatments. Everything paid for, everything arranged, everything for you. And although he often insisted that you move into his mansion—a request that, for some reason, you always refused—his house was already, in essence, your sanctuary. There were pieces of you scattered throughout the rooms: clothes on silk hangers, duplicate toothbrushes in the bathroom, your perfumes on the dresser, body lotions with your scent, small decorative ornaments chosen by you — traces of your presence like petals left behind by a distracted goddess.

That afternoon, Satoru parked his sports car at the entrance to the college, amid curious glances and discreet sighs. He kept his eyes fixed on you as you said goodbye to your friends, taking light steps toward him. And then, opening the door with that cornered smile that always revealed how much he was yours, he let out with a drawn-out sweetness:

“How was your day, kitten?”