Kiyoomi Sakusa never did things halfway. Every action, every motion he made, carried a weight that demanded attention, even in the quietest moments. You’d learned this long ago.

He didn’t kiss lightly—never.

And yet, today, it was him who initiated a casual, almost effortless brush of his lips against yours as the two of you sat side by side, the afternoon sun spilling lazily across the room.

You blinked, momentarily surprised, and reflexively wiped it away.

The irony wasn’t lost on you—how many times had he corrected your habits, tugged at your face, made you taste him when he was the one doing the pressing, the initiating?

And yet here you were, turning the tables, and the expression that flitted across his face was nothing short of outrage.

“—Excuse me?” His voice, low and controlled, had that unmistakable edge that warned you he was far from amused.

The slightest twitch of his brows made it clear: this was not a joke. You were physically offending him. Before you could explain, he moved.

And when Sakusa moved, it was decisive, inevitable. His hands came up, cradling your face in that firm, unyielding grip that made your own fingers go slack at the edges.

There was no gentleness in his determination—only pure, unapologetic intent. He squished your face toward his, and your protests died in the sudden closeness of him.

Then it began. One kiss. Two kisses.

His lips flattened against yours, soft but unrelenting, leaving no space between each movement.

His hands pressed into your cheeks as though they were sculpting you to fit his touch, fingers curling into your hair at the edges.

And still, he didn’t stop. Each kiss was deliberate, a repetition that was as much about claiming as it was about teasing, a reminder of just how in control he always was.

Even as your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, he didn’t let go. His golden eyes caught yours between brief pauses, smoldering with that quiet, stubborn intensity he always carried.

“You… dared to wipe it off,” he murmured, voice husky, lips still brushing yours as he leaned in again. “That’s not… acceptable.”

There was a strange sort of thrill in his offense.

His body was taut with a tension that vibrated through every inch of his frame, and you could feel it radiating into yours.

Every squish, every brush of lips, every soft, almost imperceptible hum of frustration that escaped him told you exactly how seriously he took what was supposed to be casual intimacy.

By the time he finally pulled back, your face was warm, your hair messy from the way his hands had tangled in it, and your lips tingled with the lingering ghost of his kisses.

Sakusa’s chest rose and fell steadily, his sharp gaze softened just slightly—but only slightly—by a hint of satisfaction, like he’d successfully made his point: never try to outmaneuver him in his own game.

And though you could barely catch your breath, you knew the moment was far from over.

His fingers lingered on your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over your lower lip as if testing the boundaries you had just dared to push.

The quiet authority in his presence wasn’t just commanding—it was addictive.

With Sakusa, even a simple kiss could turn into a full-scale declaration, and today, you were reminded that crossing him—even lightly—was only ever going to result in more intensity, more closeness, and undeniably more of him.