Chapter 1: Sunday Chest Time
The sunlight hitting the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse was my first warning that the world expected me to be a functioning adult soon. I ignored it. From up here, the Higashiazabu streets looked like a miniature set, and the faint hum of Azabu-Juban dori was nothing compared to the steady, rhythmic heartbeat currently pressed against my cheek.
I wasn't actually asleep. I was "recharging."
My face was buried deep in the center of Yami's chest, my nose catching the scent of her Dior skincare and that faint, warm aroma of sleep that only she had. She was wearing my oversized black hoodie—the one I'd "lost" three weeks ago—and as she breathed, the soft cotton brushed against my forehead. Her long, wavy hair was a silken mess across the sheets, a few strands tickling my neck, but I didn't care.
I nuzzled closer, letting out a long, pouty exhale—my signature "peb peb peb"—and felt her stir.
I didn't wait for her to wake up fully before sliding my hand under the hem of the hoodie, cupping her skin with a possessive, heavy warmth. It was a habit I couldn't break; if I wasn't touching her, I felt like I was drifting off into space.
"Morning, puppy," she whispered, her voice husky and low. I felt her fingers find my hair, scratching gently behind my ear.
"Not morning," I mumbled, my voice muffled by her skin. "Still dark. Go back to sleep."
"Kai, the sun is literally blinding me," she teased, letting out a soft laugh that vibrated through my entire skull. "And you've been glued to me since 7 AM. My ribs are going to have a permanent imprint of your face."
I tightened my arms around her waist, anchoring myself. "A fair trade for my affection. Mine. Don't move."
I tilted my head up just enough to catch a glimpse of her. Even with sleep in her eyes and messy hair, she looked like she'd stepped off a Shiseido billboard. I leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, then her nose, before catching her lower lip with mine in a soft, lazy brush.
"Mine," I repeated.
"Always," she breathed, pulling me back down. I happily obliged, sinking back into my favorite recharge station.
The Matcha Ritual
By 10 AM, the growl in my stomach became louder than my desire to stay in bed. We shuffled into the kitchen—a wide, white-marble space that looked out over the skyline toward Roppongi Hills.
Yami stood at the counter, her movements as graceful as if she were on a runway for Tokyo Fashion Week. She was whisking matcha—my healthy obsession—with a focused intensity. I didn't give her any space. I drifted behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder, watching the green froth form.
I didn't bother waiting for my own cup. I leaned in and stole a sip of hers.
"Hey! Get your own, you thief," she laughed, though she tilted the cup back so I could get another gulp.
"Tastes better when you make it," I said, trailing kisses along the sensitive curve of her neck. "What's the schedule for tomorrow? Please tell me you're staying home."
She sighed, leaning her head back against mine. "I wish. Fitting at Shibuya Hikarie for the Fetico show. The director wants that 'ethereal glow' again, which usually means standing in 4-inch heels for six hours while they pin pleats to my skin."
"I'll kill him for you," I muttered, my thumb circling the skin of her hip.
"You'd have to get past your own director first," she countered, feeding me a bite of strawberry mochi. "What's the villain doing tomorrow?"
I groaned at the reminder. "iQiyi set. I have to deliver a three-page monologue of ancient poetry while looking 'menacingly handsome.' But I think the crew lost all respect for me yesterday. I tripped over the hem of my hanbok during a dramatic walk-off. The director didn't even yell; he just looked at me with pity."
Yami turned in my arms, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "My heartthrob villain. If your fans saw you pouting over a hemline and clinging to my waist like a toddler, your 'dark and mysterious' reputation would be ruined in seconds."
"Let it be ruined," I said, pulling her closer until there was no air between us. "Only you get the real me."
Sectional Sovereignty
We spent the afternoon on the plush sectional sofa, the one that gave us a perfect view of Tokyo Tower peeking out from the urban jungle. I pulled Yami onto my lap sideways, her legs tangling with mine.
Naturally, my face went straight back to her chest. It was the only place the world felt quiet.
She turned on some random Netflix romance—ironic, considering my job was usually playing the guy trying to kill the hero—but we barely watched it. I was too busy complaining about work while she threaded her fingers through my hair.
"They told me my freckles were 'too cute' for the edgy shoot," she vented, holding a strawberry to my lips. I bit the fruit, then kissed her fingertips, tasting the sweetness. "I told them to just use more foundation, but they acted like I was being difficult."
"They're idiots," I said, looking up at her. "I have to practice my 'brooding stare' in the mirror for twenty minutes a day, and half the time I just end up looking like I have a stomach ache."
"You look beautiful when you're brooding," she teased, tilting my chin up.
I didn't give her a chance to finish. I pulled her down into a slow, deep makeout, my hand sliding up to cup her cheek. Between kisses, I whispered "Only yours," and she'd reply "Mine," pulling me even closer until I was buried back in the soft cotton of that black hoodie.
At one point, I shifted to get a better angle for a nuzzle and accidentally sent the remote flying off the couch. I didn't even want to move, so I just groaned and dramatically crawled over her to retrieve it, making sure to linger over her just to hear her laugh.
The Dusk Wind-Down
As the sky turned a deep, bruised purple and the lights of Tokyo Tower flickered to life, the energy in the room shifted. The playful banter died down, replaced by a comfortable, heavy silence.
Haru had been blowing up my phone about some bar opening in Roppongi, and Yami had a pile of sample-sale invites she was ignoring. None of it mattered.
"You're my favorite place to hide," I whispered into her skin, my voice thick with the kind of honesty I only felt when we were like this.
I felt her hand stroke my back, her touch light and grounding. "And you're my favorite idiot to hide with," she replied, her voice just as soft.
I nuzzled deeper, closing my eyes as the city lights reflected off the glass. Tomorrow I'd have to be a villain, and she'd have to be an icon, but for now, I was just a boy with his face buried in the one person who made the rest of the world disappear.