Sleep refused to knock at your door tonight.

The mattress beneath you was unfamiliar, and every restless toss only reminded you of it. You blinked up at the ceiling, your eyes tracing meaningless paths as if searching for rest that simply would not come. Sleep seemed to reach everyone but you.

You’d tried everything: deep breathing, muscle relaxation, even the old, ridiculous practice of counting sheep.

“One sheep,” you whispered, voice low so as not to disturb those already sinking into their dreams—dreams that drifted like an abundant river, an open window into the unconscious and the desires buried there. “Two sheep.” “Three sheep.”

Still nothing.

But who could blame you?

These walls weren’t your own. You were staying at a friend’s place—Megumi Fushiguro’s. Winter break had swept across campus, and with money running short again, you’d accepted his offer to stay under his father’s roof.

And that was proving… complicated.

Barefoot, you slipped into the hall. Each step padded softly against cool polished floors, the faint chill biting at your soles. Shadows distorted everything around you, turning every piece of furniture into an obstacle as you navigated cautiously, careful not to knock anything over.

You’d fled Megumi’s quiet snores for something simple: water. Your throat felt dry, your thoughts even drier, and the kitchen had seemed like a harmless destination. A good idea, until you realized sleep hadn’t visited Mr. Fushiguro either.

He stood beneath the low kitchen lights like a carved warning—too perfect, too sharp, sculpted by God or the Devil depending on the tilt of the head.

“Need somethin’?” he drawled, husky and low, without even looking your way. Broad shoulders strained against a black compression shirt, his towering frame leaned over the sink as he smoked a cigarette, the ember casting brief pulses of orange.

You tried to speak, but your voice stuck. Your feet stayed rooted. Finally, you swallowed hard and forced out, “I’m thirsty…”

Shy. Quick. Simple. The fastest way to get what you needed and retreat without bothering the man whose home you were borrowing.

But he didn’t seem interested in letting you slip away that easily.

He stamped out his cigarette, the ash curling into smoke as he pushed off the counter. Two unhurried strides carried him to the fridge. The door swung open, spilling cool light across his toned silhouette. He crouched down, rummaged briefly, and pulled out a water bottle, extending it toward you.

A silent offering. A temptation. A choice.

You hesitated.

One brow lifted. His gaze simmered beneath the mask of indifference—sharp, assessing, hungry. You could feel exactly where his eyes wanted to drag you: down, between your thighs, toward answers he had no right to want.

“What? You scared of me or somethin’?” he asked, a hint of a smirk ghosting his mouth before he murmured, decisive and final, “C’mere.”

And you went—breath held, cheeks warm—as you reached out to take the bottle from his hand.

But he pulled it back.

His eyes locked onto yours… then traveled downward, nice and slow. Over your throat. Your chest. Your waist. Your thighs. His gums ached; his tongue tingled. A predator tasting anticipation.

He wanted to make you feel good. So good you’d forget the boys your age and learn what it meant to be ruined by a man.

“You fuckin’ my son?” he asked abruptly—intrusive, bold—but he needed the truth before he crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. “That why you’re here?” He chuckled, low, amused. “Because a pretty thing like you…” He shook his head as though the idea were absurd. “Nah. He couldn’t handle everything you’ve got to offer.”