The next evening, Ayaka found herself regretting everything.
She sat stiffly in front of her computer, fingers frozen above the keys, while Akihiko lounged far too comfortably on her couch.
His blazer was off, sleeves rolled up, long legs stretched out like he owned the place.
"Again." he said lazily, sipping from the mug she had grudgingly handed him earlier. "That line's off. He wouldn't say that."
Ayaka clenched her jaw. "You've said that for the last six lines."
"Because none of them sound like me."
She snapped her head toward him. "Maybe because you're not a character in a novel. You're a manipulative control freak."
He raised an eyebrow. "And you made a character based on me. So whose fault is that, sweetheart?"
Her eye twitched.
Ayaka turned back to the screen, deleting yet another paragraph. "Fine. What would your fictional self say to the heroine during a fight?"
Akihiko stood up.
Slowly.
Like a storm rolling in on the horizon.
"Depends." he murmured, voice dropping as he walked toward her.
"Is he mad because she's stubborn?" He took a step.
"Or because she won't admit what's right in front of her?" Another step.
Ayaka kept typing, pretending not to notice him circling behind her chair. "He's mad because she's done listening."
Akihiko leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. "Then maybe he should shut her up another way."
Her hands froze over the keyboard.
"Too much?" he whispered, lips barely grazing the shell of her ear.
Ayaka jolted, pushing her chair back and standing up to face him. "You're not taking this seriously at all!"
"I am." he said coolly, stepping into her space again. "But you're not writing. You're spiraling. You're thinking too much—when all you need to do is feel."
She tried to step back, but her thighs hit the edge of the desk.
Akihiko leaned forward, placing his hands on either side of her, boxing her in.
His scent wrapped around her—clean, subtle cologne with something darker beneath.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, breath shallow.
His gaze dropped to her lips, then back up to her eyes. "Helping you write. You wanted authenticity, didn't you?"
"Akihiko…"
His face inched closer.
The air between them snapped tight like a stretched rubber band on the verge of breaking.
"I could kiss you right now." he murmured, voice molten silk. "And you'd know
exactly how to write the next chapter."
Ayaka's breath hitched.
But just as she thought he would close the distance—
He stopped.
Smirking.
"Your reactions..." he said lowly, voice like velvet sliding over bare skin, "are still as adorable as ever."
That snapped her out of it.
Ayaka shoved him back with both hands to his chest, her face burning. "We're supposed to be writing!"
Unfazed, Akihiko caught her wrist gently, then slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Are we? Or are we dancing around something else entirely?"
Her eyes widened.
His hand rested at the small of her back, possessive. "Tell me, Ayaka. Do you still have feelings for me?"
She froze.
Seconds stretched.
But she said nothing.
Akihiko's eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a sinful murmur. "If you're confused… then I'll make you even more confused—until you admit it."
Ayaka's breath shuddered.
Her skin felt too hot, her heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears.
But this time, she forced herself to push him away—harder.
"I'm going back to work." she said quickly, turning and storming back to her chair like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
She sat down, fingers trembling over the keyboard.
Behind her, Akihiko only chuckled, a dark, amused sound.
She didn't have to look to know he was smiling—the kind of smile that promised he wasn't done playing.
Not by a long shot.
Ayaka tried to focus.
She really did.
But after Akihiko cornered her like that, every word on her screen blurred.
Her fingers tapped out a sentence, then backspaced.
Typed again.
Backspaced again.
She bit her lip hard, frustration brimming in her chest.
Akihiko, of course, was still behind her—looming like a shadow she couldn't shake.
"Your pacing's off." he said again, his voice smooth, low. "And he wouldn't just walk away after that kind of confession. He'd do something."
Ayaka turned sharply in her seat, glaring. "I'm writing a novel, not a—"
Akihiko took one step forward, eyes locked on hers. "Not a what?"
"A scene from your twisted fantasy." she muttered.
He didn't flinch.
Instead, he bent down until they were eye-level.
His hand came up, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting them linger—intentionally grazing her skin.
Her breath caught.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, his voice husky. "You think I fantasize about you?"
Ayaka turned away. "I didn't say that."
He chuckled darkly. "You didn't have to."
She stood suddenly, chair scraping the floor. "I need coffee."
But as she turned, he caught her wrist again—not hard, but firm.
The kind of hold that made her pulse quicken.
"I'm not letting you run away from this scene until you feel it." he said. "Write it like your body remembers it."
Ayaka's throat dried.
"Remember what?" she challenged.
His lips brushed dangerously close to her ear again. "How I make you feel."
She spun to face him, hands planted on his chest. "Akihiko—"
But before she could push, he caught her waist and tugged her in until her body was flush against his.
Her breath hitched—her hands stuck between them, heart racing.
He leaned down, nose grazing hers. "Still going to pretend you don't want this?"
Her hands trembled.
His presence was fire.
His touch?
Lightning.
Her body betrayed her at every turn—flushing, heating, aching.
She hated how much power he had without even trying.
"You're insufferable." she whispered.
"And you're beautiful when you're furious."
He leaned closer—too close—his lips barely a breath away.
Ayaka shoved him back again, chest heaving. "We're working. Stop turning this into—into whatever this is."
Akihiko's tongue clicked in mild disappointment, but the corner of his mouth curled into a knowing smirk. "As you wish."
The rest of the night was torture.
He'd sit close, correcting every detail, making her rewrite entire scenes—not with detached critique, but with slow, sultry words, his voice brushing her skin like silk every time he leaned in.
When she stood to stretch, he'd be behind her before she realized, breath tickling her nape.
When she ignored him, he'd whisper things like, "You missed me too, didn't you?"
By the time the clock hit 3 a.m., Ayaka was half-mad, torn between screaming and throwing her computer out the window.
She fell asleep on the couch sometime after 4.
------
Morning arrived too soon...
The shower hissed in the background as Akihiko stood in her kitchen, stirring instant coffee.
He hadn't slept.
He looked far too composed for someone who tormented a woman until sunrise.
*Ding-dong.*
The doorbell rang.
Akihiko opened it casually.
Makoto stood there.
Blonde, handsome, perfectly put together even in casual clothes.
His bright green eyes narrowed the moment they saw who answered.
"…Did you stay here the whole night?" Makoto asked, voice dangerously neutral.
Before Akihiko could reply, the bathroom door swung open.
Ayaka stepped out, toweling her damp hair, wearing an oversized shirt and shorts, cheeks still flushed from the shower. "Makoto? What are you—?"
"I missed you." he said gently. "I've been so busy writing, but I wanted to see you. I thought maybe we could go out and relax a bit."
Akihiko said nothing, but his hand curled tightly around the mug in his grip.
Ayaka hesitated… then saw the perfect chance to escape the literary hell Akihiko had kept her in all night. "Sure. Let me just get changed."
She padded off to her bedroom.
The silence that fell between the two men was heavy.
Unspoken, sharp.
Akihiko leaned casually against the counter, his expression unreadable.
Makoto didn't speak.
But he didn't look away either.
Minutes passed.
Then Ayaka emerged, freshly dressed.
And stunning.
A light blue dress clung to her in all the right places, brushing mid-thigh. Her damp hair had been quickly brushed, her lips tinted pink.
She looked effortless, glowing—and both men visibly froze when they saw her.
Makoto straightened a little.
His lips parted. "You look…"
"Thanks." Ayaka said quickly, grabbing her bag and walking toward the door.
But as she passed Akihiko, he reached out and caught her hand.
Her heart jumped.
He didn't look at her—but his voice was low and quiet enough to make her spine stiffen.
"…Did you forget about our contract?"
Makoto turned.
His expression changed—his eyes shuttered.
That single word hit hard.
'Contract.'
The very same offer he had once made Ayaka—an offer she turned down.
Ayaka froze between them.
The weight of the tension in the air was suffocating.
Makoto's gaze dropped, jaw tense.
And Akihiko… finally looked at her.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Just a quiet reminder that she was bound to him—still.