Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If someone had told you five months ago that you’d have a sugar daddy—a real one, not just some inside joke between exhausted undergrad girls and overpriced oat milk lattes—you would’ve rolled your eyes so hard they’d orbit back into place, muttered something bitter under your breath about capitalism, and trudged off to your next minimum-wage shift like usual.

You were never that girl. Or maybe you were. Maybe all it took was being ground down enough.

Because it started stupidly. Pathetically, even.

One of those nights that’s sticky with exhaustion, the kind that clings to your skin and your soul. You’d just pulled a double at the restaurant—your third that week—after sitting through three back-to-back classes, all while thinking about the essay you hadn’t touched, the internship paperwork you were behind on, and the rent payment looming like a death sentence. Your feet ached. Your eyes burned. You stared at your work shoes like they personally offended you. So you called in sick for the next shift, even though you desperately needed the money. You couldn't care.

Your body was done. And frankly, so was your mind.

You ordered cheap takeout, stuffed yourself with greasy fries and a milkshake you couldn’t afford, rolled a joint, got high in your shitty little apartment with a busted heater, and did the dumbest thing you could’ve done while scrolling through TikTok in your oversized hoodie: you downloaded a sugar baby app. No expectations. Just pure, impulsive boredom.

You weren’t thinking about meeting anyone. You just wanted to see how it worked. The aesthetic of it felt unreal—like something out of another world. You uploaded a half-decent selfie, wrote something half-sarcastic in your bio, and promptly passed out on your bed, belly full and mind foggy. You forgot all about it.

Until the next morning, when you woke up groggy, bloated, and feeling like your brain had been dipped in static. You blinked blearily at your phone, half-expecting a reminder from your bank about your overdraft.

Instead, there was a message. From someone named todo.soba11. Sent at 7:03am sharp.

Your first instinct? Delete the app. What if he’s some 70-year-old oil tycoon with a foot fetish? What if he kidnaps you? What if it’s a scam? What if—worse—it’s real?

So you do what you always do when your frontal lobe is short-circuiting: you call Shinju. And Shinju, being Shinju, doesn’t even blink.

“Respond,” she says.

“What?”

“Just do it. Worst case, it’s a wrinkly creep. Best case, it’s a hot rich guy with abandonment issues who’ll drop a few grand to hear you breathe.”

You stare at her through the screen. She shrugs like she’s offering a granola bar. “Meet, flirt, ride some dick, get paid. Easy math. You’ll thank me later.”

You almost hang up. But then... you don’t. You respond. Slowly. Carefully. With cautious sarcasm and no expectations.

And somehow, that turns into a drink. One night only, you tell yourself. At some stupidly expensive hotel bar downtown. Somewhere shiny and polished and sharp around the edges. You’re ready to bolt the second it gets weird.

But it doesn’t get weird. It gets... confusingly normal.

Because when you walk in, all tentative and armored in lip gloss and fake confidence, the man waiting at the bar is not what you expected. At all. Not even close.

He stands when he sees you. Smoothly. Like he was taught manners by royalty. He’s tall; broad in the shoulders, lean in the waist with the kind of posture that only ever comes from discipline or suffering. His hair is split right down the middle: bone white on one side, deep crimson on the other, like something from a dream that should’ve stayed in your sleep. His eyes are mismatched, too—ice-grey and turquoise-blue—and they lock on you like they’re scanning for something hidden. There’s a scar running down the left side of his face, faded and puckered just slightly, and instead of looking cruel, it makes him look tragically human. Like someone who’s seen hell and lived to talk about it—but chose not to.

Todoroki Shoto. CEO of Todoroki Steel Group. Youngest son of a family empire. The press calls him ‘The Cold Flame’. It’s that Todoroki. The one you’ve seen in Forbes lists and on magazine covers next to words like power and precision and legacy. The one who rebuilt his father's company from a dusty industrial dynasty into a clean, ruthless global titan with green tech and tighter margins. And he’s here. Waiting for you. Like this is normal.

You expect arrogance. You expect smugness, bravado, some rich-boy smirk that makes you want to claw your skin off. Instead?

He’s quiet.

Measured.

There’s something disarming about him—not soft, exactly, but controlled . He speaks gently. Slowly. Like every word is weighed before it leaves his mouth. He doesn’t talk about your body. Doesn’t make a single comment that’s sexual or forward. Instead, he asks about your degree. Your plans. What you’re passionate about. When you answer, he listens—really listens. His eyes don’t wander. They study. Not in a leering way, but with something closer to curiosity. As if he’s trying to understand something deeper in you, something you haven’t even named yet.

He doesn't flirt. He doesn’t pressure. He doesn’t try to dazzle. He’s not cold to be cruel: he’s cold because that’s what happens when you spend your life being burned. And somehow, being around him makes you feel... calm. Steady. Like the panic in your chest has been put on pause. His voice is soft and unhurried. And when he says your name, it settles in your stomach like warm honey. Like the weight of being seen.

You make a joke. Something dumb, self-deprecating. You don’t expect him to react. But he smiles. And it’s the kind of smile that feels unpracticed, like he doesn’t do it often but means it when he does. It warms his whole face, melts the steel edges of him, and in that moment—just for a second—you forget to breathe.

He doesn’t touch you. Not even once. He walks you to the car he arranged for you. Holds the door open. Tells you to text him when you get home. His last words before the car pulls away?

“I’d like to see you again. If that’s okay.”

You pause.

You say yes.

And so it begins.

Not with champagne or lingerie or thousand-dollar bills slipped under pillows. But with quiet looks. Careful questions.

A man who carries a whole empire in his name—and who somehow, gently, without trying—makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to study.

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It begins, quietly.

No whirlwind. No Instagrammable fantasy of yachts and Prada handbags landing on your doorstep. Just… a message the next morning.

Did you sleep well?

That’s it. No emojis. No pretense. No suggestion of when you’ll meet again. It should feel cold—boring, even. But it doesn’t. There’s something strange in the simplicity, the kind of softness you don’t expect from someone like him. Someone with an empire to his name. With power, with wealth, with that face—the one that doesn’t show much of anything at all, except maybe a distant storm on the horizon.

You stare at your screen for a full minute before responding. Something sarcastic. Half-asleep humor. It’s your usual defense mechanism. Humor as a shield, wit as a mask. You don’t expect it to land.

But then he replies: You’re funny.

That’s it. Two words. But it does something to your stomach. Twists it, knots it—not with anxiety, but with something warmer. A slow curl of surprise. Because he meant it. And when someone like Todoroki Shoto means something, it’s not flattery. It’s observation. It’s truth.

It builds from there.

You see him again the next week. Dinner this time. He doesn’t tell you where—just texts you a time, and a car arrives outside your apartment. You get dressed like you’re supposed to. Tight black dress. Heels borrowed from Shinju. A little lace bra that you couldn’t afford but bought anyway, telling yourself it was a business expense.

The restaurant is tucked into the rooftop of a downtown hotel, dimly lit, quiet. The kind of place you wouldn’t dare walk into without someone like him. The tables are spaced apart, voices hushed, everything made to feel like intimacy disguised as luxury. Like the city below doesn’t exist.

He’s already there when you arrive. Waiting for you.

Black turtleneck. Tailored charcoal coat. Slacks that are cut with precision, understated but expensive in the way only old money can be. His hair is styled back loosely, the red and white catching faint amber light like twin fires meeting in the dark. And his scent—subtle, warm, earthy. Sandalwood and firewood and something almost like incense, clinging to the air around him like a whisper.

He stands when you approach.

Doesn’t ogle. Doesn’t scan your body like you're something bought. Just looks at you and says, “That color looks good on you.”

And it’s not performative. It’s not a line. He says it the same way he says everything—like it’s fact. Unemotional, but true. You feel your face flush despite yourself. Stupid, stupid.

He asks again about school. About your internship. He remembers details. He remembers the name of the professor you complained about last time. The short paper you submitted that didn’t get graded. He doesn’t pry into anything personal—doesn’t ask why your shoulders are tight or why your laugh sounds brittle. He notices, but he doesn’t say. There’s respect in that silence. Like he’s leaving a door open without ever crossing it.

He’s slow. Deliberate. Everything he does feels deliberate.

You wonder if he’s like that in bed. Then you hate yourself for wondering.

The arrangement becomes real on the third meeting.

You’re in his penthouse.

It’s late, and you’re exhausted. Not performatively tired. Real tired. Dead-eyed, emotionally wrung out from your internship supervisor being a nightmare, from your essay being rejected for plagiarism by mistake, from your landlord banging on your door again.

But his place? It’s silent. Peaceful.

The apartment is just like him: coldly beautiful, almost sterile. Black marble floors that reflect the city lights, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over everything like a throne. Furniture that’s minimal, sculptural, elegant. Not a single personal object in sight. No clutter. No mess. Except for you—curled up in one of his leather chairs, wearing his hoodie because you shivered in the car and he gave it to you without a word.

He pours you wine. You sip it slowly. He sits beside you—not touching, not crowding. Just… near.

You don’t even realize you’re negotiating until he says, “I wired the tuition money this morning.”

You blink. “What?”

He lifts his glass, sips like it’s nothing. “You said midterms were overwhelming. I thought it would help to remove the cost.”

You stare. The number you owe—the one that keeps you up at night, that has you choosing between textbooks and groceries—just gone? It’s… unreal.

And he still hasn’t even kissed you. Not once. Not your hand, not your neck, not your mouth. You look at him, squinting like you’re trying to see the catch.

“So what do you want in return?” you ask, voice casual but lined with steel.

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Sharp. His tone is quiet, never raised. Never rushed.

“Company. Consistency. And eventually, intimacy. If you’re comfortable.”

He says it like he’s reciting terms. Not cold, not warm—just clear. Like a man who learned the hard way that clarity is kinder than assumption.

You nod. Slowly. Your heart’s doing something strange—pounding, but not with fear. With… possibility. It’s terrifying.

And thrilling.

The first time he touches you isn’t even sexual.

You’re in his kitchen. A stupid moment: you’re boiling water for tea, insisting you can handle it yourself even though he offered. The kettle hisses. You misjudge the angle and burn your hand.

You hiss. Flinch.

He’s across the room in two seconds. One hand gently around your wrist, the other flicking the faucet on with practiced precision. Cool water. His fingers are steady. Strong. And he says nothing. Doesn’t scold. Just tends to you, silent and present.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it:

“You shouldn’t hurt yourself.”

And you know. He’s not just talking about the kettle.

He tapes a little bandage over the red mark, his movements slow and careful. When his fingers finally leave your skin, the warmth lingers. Not the burn. Him.

Later that night, he kisses you.

Not while you're dressed up. Not while you’re trying. It happens when you’re in socks and his hoodie, curled on the couch with your knees drawn up.

He leans in slowly. Gives you time to pull away. But you don’t.

His mouth meets yours like a question, like a breath. Warm. Steady. You kiss him back. Slow. Soft. Like answering. And when you part, his eyes stay locked on yours.

He whispers:

“Thank you.”

And it knocks the breath from your lungs.

Because you expected desire. Lust. Transaction.

But in his eyes, there’s none of that. Just… reverence. Like you gave him something he didn’t even know he needed.

When the sex happens, it’s weeks later.

It’s quiet. Like everything with him.

Not frenzied. Not reckless. He undresses you like you’re sacred. His fingers are cool, precise, reverent. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t demand. He watches you as if every inch of skin he uncovers is a secret, and he’s memorizing you for some silent vow.

He’s good. Better than you’ve ever had. Because he’s focused. Not on performing. Not on taking. He wants to feel. And he wants you to feel.

He’s silent, mostly. The sounds are from you—moans spilling loose, breath hitching, the wet slick of skin on skin, the soft creak of his bed under your rhythm. His breathing is ragged, lips parted, jaw clenched. But he never loses control.

He likes making you come. Loves it, maybe. Not just for the reaction, but for the knowledge that he’s the one who gave that to you. And after, when your body is shaking and you’re trying to catch your breath, he just holds you. One hand curled around your waist. The other brushing your hair from your cheek.

No words. Just his heartbeat against your back. Steady.

Anchoring.

And for the first time in a long, long time—you believe someone sees you. Not just your body. Not just your mouth or your waist or your moans.

But you.

And he touches that part of you, too.

Deliberately. Quietly. Like he knows it’s the most fragile thing you have.

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By the time you’re five months into the arrangement, you’ve grown used to the silk-and-gold rhythm of this new life.

Used to it, but never numb to it.

You still remember what it felt like before; rushing to class on no sleep, instant ramen as dinner, bills stacked like Jenga pieces you couldn’t touch without the whole thing crashing down. Now? That girl feels like someone you read about in a book once. Familiar, but far away.

Broke college student who?

That’s a ghost you left behind. You still work your job—part-time, less often, fewer hours—but it’s not out of desperation anymore. You can breathe now. You can choose your shifts. You can say no. And it’s not because you’ve become lazy. It’s because you’ve been given time. Time to visit your mom, time to go out with Shinju for drinks without worrying if it’ll clear your account, time to do nothing, even—to just exist.

And time for Shoto.

You like spending time with him. You like being around him. What started as caution has softened into curiosity, and then into comfort. And then, quietly, into something else.

He’s funny in his own dry, unintentional way—deadpan comments that come out of nowhere, the quiet way he’ll blink at you when you’re being dramatic, then say something like, “That seems inefficient,” and leave you wheezing with laughter. There’s still the age gap. And yeah, technically he’s paying you to be here. But there’s more to it than that now. It’s hard to explain. He feels good to be around. Solid. Safe. Like a weighted blanket for your soul.

And his penthouse? A dream. Towering above the city. Quiet, immaculate, private. You don’t just feel rich there—you feel invisible to the world. Untouchable. Like nothing outside those floor-to-ceiling windows can reach you.

Shinju says you’re lucky. She’s right. You don’t even argue anymore. You are lucky.

You’re getting spoiled and dicked down in high-thread-count Egyptian cotton by a man who wears nothing but Tom Ford, has stock portfolios older than you, and calls you angel in a voice that feels like velvet dragged over fire. You're regularly pampered to the edge of ridiculousness—nails, hair, clothes, skincare.

You try to say it’s excessive, but then he’ll just look at you and say something maddeningly simple like: “Take care of yourself. I like when you shine.”

And how do you argue with that?

The black card lives in your wallet now. Quiet and dangerous. You try not to abuse it—maybe a new dress here, a massage there, but he wants you to. You’ll casually mention needing to trim split ends, and the next morning there’s a deposit tagged ‘For your pretty head.’ You’ve stopped protesting. You’ve learned how to let yourself accept softness.

You’ve also warmed up to him.

He’s surprising. Always has been. You expected cold, remember? But what you got was complexity. A man with a split-colored gaze and quiet hands who pays your rent and also insists you drink enough water. He’s gentle in a way that feels radical—always checking if you’re okay, always giving you an out. There’s kindness in him that doesn’t feel performative. You’ve seen him on calls, thanking staff by name, signing off charity initiatives that could feed whole neighborhoods without blinking.

And yet, he still turns into a slightly awkward mess if you compliment his hair.

That’s the thing about Sho—you’ve learned he’s also happy. Maybe not loudly. Not all the time. But genuinely. He’ll stare out the window sometimes with this faraway softness, then turn to you with a look like he’s still surprised you’re there. He’s told you fragments about his past; about his father, his brothers, the pressure. It hangs between you like unfinished threads. But there’s no heaviness in how he carries it. Somehow, despite everything, he chooses joy. He leans into optimism with the kind of stubbornness that feels childlike. Not naive—just brave.

And you?

You’re falling into something dangerous.

Because yes, there are rules. Boundaries you both agreed on at the start. He doesn’t fuck you without a condom—you made that very clear. You’re still in school, not interested in the sugar baby-to-baby-mama pipeline. And there’s a schedule. You only visit him a few times a week, never on consecutive days. You both have lives. This is meant to be arrangement, not a merger.

But those boundaries feel less like lines and more like suggestions now. Like guardrails you’re already leaning over.

Because sometimes he texts you in the middle of the night just to ask if you’re warm. Because he keeps a toothbrush for you in his bathroom now. Because he waits until you’re asleep before kissing your forehead like a secret. Because he looks at you sometimes like you’re not just someone he pays, but someone he can’t bear to lose.

And you keep telling yourself you’re not getting too deep. That you could leave if you wanted. But the truth? The idea of leaving gets harder every day.

But you push those feelings—those difficult, vulnerable, impossible-to-untangle feelings—to the back of your mind, the way you always do when you’re teetering too close to the edge.

You focus instead on the now.

On the present.

On the row of sleek, ribbon-wrapped boxes lined up across his expensive couch.

On the way your new designer handbag glows under the soft light like something pulled from a showroom. On the weight of the diamond necklace—small but dazzling, cool against your skin, delicate and bright like something meant to last longer than most people do. On the red lace lingerie folded carefully in tissue paper, the exact shade of his hair. Thoughtful. Intentional. Beautiful.

You sit cross-legged on the couch in his hoodie, carefully peeling back layers of packaging, trying not to look too giddy. But he watches you like he always does—quietly, calmly, like there’s no place else he needs to be.

You glance at him with a soft smile. “Sho… it’s so lovely. Thank you.”

He nods, that small, understated smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

There’s something gentle in the way he says it, like he doesn’t expect thanks at all. Like your joy is the only confirmation he needs.

This is the last time you’ll see him for two weeks; he’s flying to the Americas for business, something high-stakes and grueling. You don’t ask for details. He doesn’t offer. But you know what it means when he’s gone: the coldness of your apartment at night. His absence in your messages. Your own pulse moving strangely in your body like it misses him more than it should.

So you dressed up for him tonight. Nails done, soft and glossy. Hair perfectly done. Your skin glows from a two-hour spa session he insisted on booking. Everything smooth. Everything soft. Everything ready—for him.

Later, you wear the necklace for him.

You let the cool chain settle against your collarbones and then let the lingerie hug your skin, sheer and red and delicate in all the right places. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you walk out of the bathroom like you just stepped out of a fantasy. Like he dreamed you into being.

He doesn’t speak. Not at first.

Just stands slowly, eyes heavy on you, walking toward you with that steady, slow grace of his—like fire that takes its time burning. He cups your jaw. Stares into your eyes like he’s memorizing something sacred.

And then?

He peels the lingerie off painfully slow. His fingers are reverent, sliding the straps down your shoulders, the lace across your chest, down your thighs. Like he’s undressing something precious, not just something sexy. And as he exposes more of you, he kisses every inch of revealed skin.

Your shoulder. Your sternum. Your hipbone.

His mouth is hot and wet and slow, and it lingers—like he’s not just worshipping your body, but grieving the idea of having to leave it.

He loves your body; studies it. His eyes are laser-focused but soft, like they’re mapping every mark and line and curve. And he buys you jewelry not just for luxury but for how it looks on your skin, how it catches the light when you arch beneath him, how it frames your collarbone when your chest is rising with every gasp.

You call him pretty, whisper it against his throat as he kisses down your stomach, and his breath catches—just slightly. Like it still surprises him to be called something soft. You slip a finger between his lips and he groans—quietly, of course, but his breath stutters like you’ve just blessed him.

And then, he’s between your legs.

His tongue is slow and certain, not rushed, not greedy—just precise, like everything he does. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue heavy against your clit, drawing languid circles that get tighter and firmer as your hips lift toward him. His fingers curl inside you, slow at first, then deeper, just right, just right—until you’re gasping, moaning, pushing at his head with tears springing to your lashes, thighs trembling.

He doesn’t stop until you come twice. Until your body jerks and shudders and your voice cracks around a moan that sounds more like a prayer. Only then does he finally pull away, licking his lips like he’s just tasted something rare.

And when he stands, pulling his boxers down—his cock thick and flushed and curling up against his abdomen—he looks down at you, chest rising slowly, and says:

“I don’t want a condom tonight.”

Your eyes widen. You open your mouth, but then he adds, voice low and real: “I want to feel you. I want to remember how you feel… because I’m going away.”

And you should say no.

You should remind him of the rules. Of the line.

But your body is molten, your heart a traitor, and your pulse is louder than your logic. So you just nod. Just once. And that’s all he needs.

He slides in slowly, thick and hot and bare, and your eyes flutter shut as you feel all of him. Every inch. There’s no barrier this time—just him. Heat. Skin. Fullness.

You make a soft, broken sound, and he breathes out something close to a moan as he sinks into you.

“You feel better than I imagined,” he whispers.

He fucks you slowly at first. Tender, deep thrusts, one hand gripping your hip, the other cradling the back of your head like you might break. His body presses close, chest to chest, lips brushing yours as he moves.

But soon, it shifts.

His pace builds. His breath gets louder. His restraint begins to fray.

Because there’s something different now. Something unleashed.

He makes a sound into your neck, thrusts getting rougher, faster. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. He whispers how good you feel. How warm. How wet. He says he wants to keep you like this—full of him. And your whole body tightens at the words.

You didn’t know you had a breeding kink until now.

But the way he murmurs, “Let me fill you up, angel…”, his voice wrecked and breathless, does something to you you can’t undo.

He comes hard—deep inside, body shuddering, fingers locked into your thighs as he groans your name like he’s been holding it in for months.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He flips you over. Fucks you on your stomach. Then pulls you up on your knees. Then has you straddling him while he sits back against the headboard, his hands dragging you down onto his cock again and again. Then missionary, one of your legs thrown over his shoulder, his thrusts brutal and deep and relentless.

He comes inside you every time. Like he needs to. Like it’s a promise.

By the end, you can’t speak. Your body’s trembling, legs barely holding you up, hands weakly gripping at his arms, his shoulders, anything you can reach. You moan, whimper, say his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth.

And when it’s over—when you’re soaked and ruined and trembling—he doesn’t leave.

He wraps you in a towel, pulls you into his arms. Holds you like you’re still something fragile. And whispers, against your skin: “I’ll miss you every night I’m gone.”

You don't know how to respond. So you just press your face to his throat.

He pulls away slowly, chest still rising and falling, skin slick with sweat, and for a moment all he does is look at you.

Like he’s not quite ready to break the spell.

Then, with that same low, composed voice that always makes your stomach flip—voice of a man who owns boardrooms and bedrooms alike—he says:

“Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

His eyes roam your body as he speaks, heavy-lidded and admiring, lingering on every mark he left behind. The bruises on your hips. The faint red fingerprints on your thighs. The hickey blossoming just under your jaw. His gaze is sharp—but not cruel. It’s not lust anymore. It’s ownership, yes, but not of your body like a thing. Of the moment. Of the intimacy you gave him.

He lives for this; the evidence.

He doesn't need to hear you beg. Doesn’t need to see you cry. He just wants to see you worn. Loved on. Marked. His marks. Subtle declarations that only he will ever really see.

The bath is already drawn by the time he helps you up—he must have started it earlier, the man always ten steps ahead. Warm water, soft steam curling at the edges of the marble bathroom, the faint scent of eucalyptus and jasmine floating in the air. He lifts you in his arms like you weigh nothing, murmuring a soft careful when you wince at the stretch in your thighs, and lowers you into the tub like you’re something fragile.

You relax into the warmth, a sigh falling from your lips as he kneels beside the edge.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays right there, hands dipping into the water as he helps rinse you off—washing your legs, your arms, your stomach with slow, reverent movements. Every once in a while, he’ll pause, letting his fingers skim over the bruises he left.

And then he says it.

Voice low. Steady. Certain.

“I’ll buy you anything you want.”

His hand comes up, thumb brushing the faint bruise on your hip. His eyes don’t move from yours.

“But this—” he says, gently pressing, not enough to hurt, just enough to claim. “—this is mine.”

Heat blooms across your chest. You roll your eyes at him, but your voice is breathy, caught somewhere between fondness and arousal.

“You’re so kinky, Sho.”

A rare smile tugs at his lips—not sly, not smug. Warm. It softens the sharp lines of his face, makes the scar beside his eye look gentler, almost sweet.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, brushing your damp hair back. “But only with you, darling.”

After the bath, he towels you off with the same care. Wraps you in the silk robe he left draped on the counter—it smells like him, of smoke and sandalwood and something soft, like fresh cotton sheets in spring. You feel weightless, pampered, floating.

He takes his time massaging your legs with lotion, something luxurious and thick and floral. Rubs your calves, your thighs, slow and soothing, like you didn’t just get absolutely ruined in every position known to man. And then, with your body soft and glowing and draped in silk, he tucks you into his bed, draws the covers over your hips, and kisses your shoulder.

You glance at him sideways, lips curling. “You really don’t have to spoil me this much, you know.”

He tilts his head, voice even. “I want to.”

And he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like giving is a language he was born speaking. Like your body, your time, your presence—is worth every ounce of it.

And maybe you’re still telling yourself this is just a transaction. An arrangement. A phase.

But when he wraps his arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple before saying, “Sleep. I’ve got you,” you feel something dangerous stir in your chest again.

You ignore the flutter, the warmth curling too close to your chest. You chalk it up to the afterglow and drift off in his bed, nestled in soft sheets and softer arms, lulled to sleep by the sound of his breathing and the warm weight of him behind you.

But hours later—too few hours, really—you wake again, groggy and blinking into darkness. The kind of quiet that only exists at 3 AM, when the city is asleep and the air hums with stillness. You stretch a little, shift against the mattress, and that's when you feel it: the low grumble in your stomach.

You’re hungry.

Of course you are. All that exertion. All that sweating and moaning and coming—twice with his mouth and four more times with everything else. Your body’s wrung out and spent and suddenly very aware it hasn’t eaten since late afternoon.

Behind you, Shoto is still asleep.

You turn slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him—and you can’t help but pause. Just look at him.

He’s sprawled on his back now, one arm tucked under the pillow your head had been resting on, the other resting loose across his toned stomach. His breathing is slow and deep, steady in that way that makes you feel safe. His lips are slightly parted, and a faint, nearly imperceptible sound leaves his throat as he exhales. His hair—normally styled, parted so neatly—is a soft mess against the pillow, the white and red strands tangled and falling over his forehead.

He looks so young like this.

You almost don’t recognize him—not the way the world knows him. Not The Cold Flame, not the ruthless CEO, not the heir to a dynasty of steel and fire. Just Sho, sleepy and beautiful, boyish in the most unexpected way. Peaceful.

You lean in without thinking, guided by instinct and softness, and press the lightest kiss to the tip of his nose. He scrunches it under your lips with a sleepy grumble, a little twitch of his brow, before settling deeper into sleep. You smile to yourself.

God. He’s so cute.

You think about curling back into him, falling asleep with his arm around you again, but your stomach protests—loudly this time. With a reluctant sigh, you slip out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb him. Your legs are still sore, but you pad your way toward the kitchen, feet silent on polished marble floors.

Shoto’s kitchen is a dream. Sleek, spotless, enormous—designed by someone with a minimalist fetish and too much money. State-of-the-art everything, from the hidden fridge panels to the built-in espresso station that probably cost more than your college tuition.

But despite how modern it is, it’s still starting to feel a little like yours.

You’ve stocked a drawer with your favorite teas. Tucked a few snacks into a pantry shelf—your snacks, not the imported kind he keeps for show. Instant noodles. A bag of your favorite chips. Stuff you used to live off of. Stuff you couldn’t always afford. And tonight, you want the comfort of it.

The contrast makes you laugh softly to yourself. One moment, you’re being draped in diamonds and silk, letting him feed you wagyu flown in from Tokyo—and the next, you’re hovering over a pot of boiling water, cracking an egg into cheap ramen and assembling your favorite weird sandwich with crumbled chips on stale white bread.

It’s the kind of nostalgic comfort only a broke student would understand, and it tastes like home.

You sit at the kitchen island, legs swinging a little as you scroll through your phone and slurp your noodles, alternating bites between that and the ridiculous chip sandwich. And you feel good. Relaxed. At peace.

Until you hear the footsteps.

You look up, startled for half a second—until you see him.

Shoto.

Bare-chested, barefoot, wearing nothing but navy pajama pants that sit low on his hips. He’s scratching at his chest absently, red and white hair tousled even more than before, his eyes still sleep-swollen and blinking like he’s adjusting to the light. He pauses in the doorway, his gaze finding you immediately.

He looks so beautiful it’s unfair.

Something flutters deep in your stomach—not hunger this time. He’s tall, all long limbs and lean, sculpted muscle. His body is disciplined, honed, made for war or boardrooms or both, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he stands there half-asleep. Like he’s just a man looking for the warmth that slipped out of bed without him.

“Hey,” you whisper, putting your chopsticks down. You smile gently. “You okay? Doesn’t your flight leave in like five hours? Go back to sleep, you need the rest—with the jet lag and everything.”

He blinks, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “I didn’t feel you in bed. Saw the light. Are you alright?”

You nod, touched by the concern in his voice. “Yeah. Just… hungry.”

He walks closer, slow and barefoot, gaze lowering to your plate. His brow furrows slightly. “What are you eating?” A pause. “That does not look nutritious.”

You scoff, grinning. “Wow. A billionaire snob CEO like you wouldn’t know about taste. This”—you gesture proudly to your bowl and plate—“is instant ramen and a chip sandwich. Food of the people, Sho.”

He stares a moment longer, still blinking slowly, and then—with a little huff through his nose that might be a laugh—he walks around the island and sits next to you.

Your heart does that stupid little flip again.

You push the plate toward him. “Want a taste?”

He gives you one of his long, unreadable looks. But then, wordlessly, he picks up your sandwich like he’s handling a piece of equipment he doesn’t understand and takes a bite.

You rest your chin in your hand, watching him.

The expression that follows is complex. A mix of confusion, curiosity… and begrudging respect.

“It’s… salty,” he says finally.

You grin. “And crunchy. And weird. And kind of amazing.”

He takes another bite. This time on purpose.

You can’t help but laugh. “See? You’ll be craving this from a hotel suite in Buenos Aires.”

He chews thoughtfully, then glances at you, something quiet blooming in his expression.

There’s a softness to it. A warmth he doesn’t always show. Like he’s filing this moment away—you, in his kitchen, barefoot in one of his robes, feeding him chip sandwiches and ramen in the middle of the night—and it matters.

It matters to him.

“You look happy,” he murmurs.

You blink. “I am.”

And you mean it. Here, in his massive kitchen, under dim lights and wrapped in luxury, eating the cheapest food you can think of with a man who’s supposed to be untouchable… you feel safe. Content. Seen.

He looks at you like he wants to say something more—but instead, he reaches for your chopsticks, and eats your noodles.

He pauses with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth when you brush the hair from his face—your fingers gentle, almost reverent. The red strands fall easily away, revealing more of his expression in the soft kitchen light. His eyes are calm, that rare storm-cloud gray-blue softened with sleep and quiet affection.

“Do you like it?” you ask softly, tilting your head just a little, watching his face.

He blinks once, finishes chewing, and then nods with a slow, deliberate kind of sincerity that only Todoroki Shoto seems capable of. “Yes,” he says simply. “The ramen is good. But I like the chip sandwich the most.” He glances down at the remaining half on the plate, then back up at you, thoughtful. “It’s my first time eating it.”

You smile, warmth curling under your ribs. “Well, I’m glad I got to see you try it.”

His lips curl into the faintest smile, one of those rare ones—so small and so honest it’s almost startling. He nods again, eyes still fixed on you. “I was homeschooled for the first few years of my life. Then boarding school. We didn’t have food like this.” He picks up a chip crumb and examines it like it’s a strange artifact, lips twitching slightly. “It’s interesting.”

You scoff playfully. “It would be interesting for you, Mr. I-Have-Sashimi-for-Breakfast.”

That earns a real response—his smile deepens, just a bit. It’s not wide or showy, but it’s felt. Something flickers across his face like the memory of amusement. “Not all the time. Sashimi is not a favorite of mine. It’s—”

“Soba. Cold soba,” you interrupt, finishing for him.

He freezes for a second, brows lifting ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but it’s visible. Like your words caught him off guard. He blinks, and there’s something almost boyish in the way his mouth parts a little before pressing together again. You see the realization hit him, the soft awareness in his eyes—you noticed.

“Don’t look so surprised,” you tease, nudging his shoulder gently. “You eat it all the time. And need I remind you—your old username? Todo.soba11?”

You say it like it’s a secret. Like it’s sacred. And to your delight, you watch it hit him all at once. His head lowers slightly, eyes dropping to the bowl like he’s embarrassed—but not in a bad way. You swear you see the faintest tint of pink rise on his cheeks, just barely visible under the warm kitchen light.

Oh. My. God. He’s blushing.

The same man who signs multi-million yen contracts before breakfast. The same man who fucks you into mattresses with slow, possessive hunger, murmuring mine against your neck. The same man who owns four penthouses, a private jet, and a suit collection that could pay off your entire student loan debt—he’s blushing. Because you remembered something small about him.

Because you see him.

And he looks so cute like this, sitting beside you with chip dust on his fingers and pink on his cheeks, shy and a little quiet and completely unaware of how deeply you’re falling for him.

He clears his throat softly. “That account was… old.”

“Yeah,” you say, teasing gently. “From when you were still pretending not to be the heir to an empire.”

He smiles again, and this time it’s small but real. Like something delicate and sincere and unguarded. He picks at the edge of the sandwich with his fingers and doesn’t look at you immediately when he says, “I like that you know these things.”

You blink.

You watch him for a moment—bare-chested, sleep-tousled, sitting across from you at this impossibly expensive kitchen island with a plate of junk food in front of him—and your chest aches a little. He’s still him, of course. Powerful, absurdly rich, disciplined to a fault. But right now he’s also just a man trying something new, learning to laugh with someone, letting you see him without armor.

It’s… soft.

And you’re dangerously close to liking this too much.

“Well, you know things about me too,” you murmur, voice quieter than before as you shift closer to him. You lean in slowly, careful not to shift the plate too much between you, and rest your chin on his shoulder. The warmth of his skin sinks into you instantly—his body still heat-soft from sleep, the faint scent of him pulling you in: cedarwood, clean linen, and something warmer, almost like cinnamon, that you’ve come to associate with the way he smells only when he’s just woken up.

He doesn’t flinch or stiffen. Instead, he shifts slightly, turning his head, his pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His eyes—those deceptively calm, mismatched eyes—find yours. They flicker, first to your lips, then back to your eyes, and then he kisses you. No hesitation. Just a slow, quiet press of his mouth to yours. It’s soft. Still half-asleep, no urgency in it. A kind of kiss that says, I’m here. I see you. I want this moment to last.

Your lips part just a bit, letting the kiss deepen—only slightly—and your hand comes up to rest on his bare forearm, fingers grazing cool skin. His mouth is warm, pliant, and familiar now. He doesn’t kiss like someone who’s showing off. He kisses like someone trying to say what he doesn’t have the words for.

And then he pulls back. Just a breath. His eyes flick over your face with that quiet curiosity that always feels like he’s learning you, storing each detail somewhere in the neat, precise corners of his mind.

“You taste like instant ramen instead of caviar and scotch,” you tease, your tone light and amused, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “That’s a nice change.”

There’s a beat.

Then he blinks.

And in the most earnest, Todoroki Shoto way possible, he says—seriously, almost puzzled, “I don’t drink scotch. I don’t like it. Maybe you tasted something else?”

You pause.

Your brain short-circuits.

Because he says it without a hint of irony, so straightforward and genuinely confused, and it’s so him that it nearly breaks you in half.

You laugh—quiet, soft, helpless. It bubbles up in your chest and spills out before you can stop it, and you rest your forehead lightly against his shoulder, shaking your head. “Sho,” you whisper, “it’s a joke.”

Another blink. His brows furrow just slightly, like he’s backtracking, trying to retrace the logic.

“Oh,” he says, his voice quiet again, like he’s a little embarrassed now. But he doesn’t pull away. His arm shifts behind you, hand resting lightly at your lower back, grounding you there. “Right.”

You glance up at him, and you swear his ears are a little pink now. Not from the heat, but from the you. From your laugh. From the intimacy of this moment. From the ease that’s starting to settle between the two of you like warm honey, slow and thick and dangerous in the best kind of way.

And for a moment, you forget the dynamic. You forget the rules. The arrangement. The money. The unspoken end that hovers somewhere in the distance.

Because right now, he’s just Sho. Tired and bare-chested and surprisingly terrible at sarcasm. He’s letting you in again—closer, deeper—and you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

You wrap your arms around his waist under the pretense of hugging him from the side, but really, it’s just to stay close. Just to feel him.

“You’re such a dork,” you murmur against his skin, and he hums under his breath.

“I’ve been called worse,” he says softly. And when you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

And it hits you like a whisper:

He’s learning how to be with someone.

And maybe so are you.

────────────────────────

His trip takes longer than planned.

You’re counting down the days like a fool, checking your phone too often, scrolling through your camera roll at pictures you shouldn’t miss this much. Originally, it was just two weeks. But then he flies straight from the Americas to Europe—Monaco, specifically. Something about a sudden board meeting, or a merger, or a foreign investment expansion. You don’t know the details. He doesn’t explain much.

But what does Shoto do?

He flies you out.

The message comes in the middle of the night—his time. Morning, for you.

Sho:

Come to Monaco.

You stare at your screen, blinking. Still half-asleep. Surely he doesn’t mean it literally.

You:

Monaco? Monaco Monaco?

Sho:

Yes. I’ll have the jet ready. You’ll miss one class day. I already checked your schedule.

Of course he did.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over your screen. Because it sounds insane . It is insane. You have classes. You have a paper due. You’re a college student with a sugar daddy, not some heiress with a passport full of stamps.

So you do what you always do when your reality breaks open a little too wide: You call Shinju.

She picks up and you don’t even get the sentence out before she’s yelling.

“GO.”

“Shinju—”

“Go! Are you serious? It’s fucking Monaco! He’s flying you out like some kind of spoiled Bond girl and you’re hesitating?!”

You bite your lip. “It’s just one day of class.”

“Exactly. One. Day. Of. Class.” Then she adds, softer, knowingly: “Besides… you miss him, don’t you?”

And that shuts you up.

Because you do. You miss his hands. His voice. His steadiness. The way he always looks at you like you’re already forgiven.

So you say yes.

Monaco is… something else.

It’s glittering water and hills lined with terracotta rooftops and endless wealth wrapped in elegance. Everything is white stone and glass. Sleek, expensive, ancient and modern at once. You step off the jet and into the kind of heat that makes diamonds glint brighter.

He puts you in a suite that overlooks the harbor. The bathroom is marble. The bed is so soft you melt into it. There's a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice and a silk gift bag on the dresser. Inside it: lingerie. Black lace and red silk. And a note.

Wear this. Come to the balcony. - S

You do. Of course you do.

You’re not sure whether it’s the ocean air or the days without him, but the second his hands touch your waist out on that balcony, you lose your mind.

He’s shirtless, muscles taut from stress and flying and power. His hair’s messy, wind-tousled. He kisses you with heat and hunger, his mouth rough, almost impatient—which is rare for him. You moan into it, and he pulls you against the railing, palms hot and wide on your thighs.

He fucks you there, on the balcony, your back arched against the glass. The city lights below. The harbor glittering. You’re nearly crying by the time he pushes inside you, bare and deep, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He murmurs, “I missed you like this.” And you believe him.

Later, it’s the hot tub.

Steam rising. His hands sliding wet and firm over your ass. Your legs spread wide, floating in the heat while he sinks into you from underneath.

He holds you there—grips your hips and grinds up into you with slow, endless strokes while your head falls back and your mouth drops open.

The water sloshes. Your skin is hot. Every thrust sends a wave rippling outward.

And when he comes, he holds you there—close, close, like he’s trying to pour something more than just come into you.

And then there’s the office.

Because Todoroki Shoto doesn’t stop being Todoroki Shoto just because you’re here. Business resumes. Which is how you end up naked, flushed, and panting on his lap in a Monaco high-rise office, bent slightly forward, his palm around your throat and his cock still buried inside you.

He’s still in his dress shirt—white, sleeves rolled up, belt undone, shirt wrinkled from your desperation.

One hand is on your neck, pressing just enough to make your thoughts scatter like glitter. The other holds your hip down—tight, possessive, forcing you to stay still even as your whole body trembles. You whimper, biting your lip, trying to keep quiet.

And Shoto?

He’s on a business call.

Voice calm. Composed. That subtle authority he always carries, even while his cock pulses deep inside you, still wet and sticky with his last orgasm.

“Yes,” he says, not even winded, thumb stroking your pulse. “We’ll have those numbers by Q3. I want updates before Friday.”

You dig your nails into his forearm. He doesn’t flinch.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder, teeth grazing skin just as his hips shift up—slow and deep—and you moan into the back of your hand as he fucks you in tiny, brutal thrusts while conducting international finance.

You’re lightheaded. Feral. Obsessed.

He hangs up five minutes later. The moment the call ends, his grip tightens.

“Good girl,” he breathes, voice low against your throat.

And then he flips you onto his desk.

There are no more calls that day.

Later, you're draped across his desk—skin bare, cheeks flushed, legs tangled, lips swollen. The lacquered wood beneath you is still warm from where he had you just moments ago, where he pulled you apart with slow, careful strokes until you were trembling and boneless and gasping his name like a secret prayer.

But this… this isn’t sex anymore.

This is something quieter.

Something more dangerous.

Shoto leans over you, still half-dressed—shirt untucked, buttons open, hair a little wild from your fingers. His belt hangs unbuckled at his hips. You’re naked, sticky with sweat and him, your thighs marked with soft red prints from where he gripped you too tightly. Your chest rises and falls in soft, uneven breaths as his mouth grazes your collarbone again and again, like he’s worshipping you.

His kisses are slow. Reverent. His hands trail across your ribs, your stomach, the curve of your hip—not greedy, not urgent. Just there. Holding. Memorizing. Like if he touches you slowly enough, maybe you won’t disappear.

He murmurs against your skin, voice low and rough, worn down with jet lag and hunger—for you. Not lust. Not control. Just you.

“I thought about you every day.”

The words hit like an ache. Gentle and unbearable.

You blink. Your breath stutters.

Because he means it.

It’s in the way his eyes search your face—not just for beauty, but for your reaction, your comfort, your truth. It's in how his thumb brushes your knee absentmindedly, like he needs the contact to stay grounded. It's in the way he looks tired all of a sudden—not from travel, not from sex, but from missing you.

And maybe you weren’t supposed to get this far in. Maybe this was supposed to be simple.

But there’s nothing simple about the way your throat tightens, or the way you lean up to kiss his cheek; gently, silently. No teasing. No games. Just closeness. Just thanks. Just yes, me too.

His breath catches.

He closes his eyes.

Then he lowers himself so his head rests just below your breast, arms wrapping around your waist, and stays there, holding you like a man who’s starved for the comfort of your skin.

And you let him. You hold him back.

It’s not always about sex with you two.

Sometimes—more often than you ever expected—it’s just the intimacy. The warmth. The simple, grounding comfort of another person’s skin against yours, the silence between heartbeats filled with soft breathing and weightless closeness.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The suite is dim, soft amber lighting glowing low from the sconces. The balcony doors are open, letting in the hush of Monaco’s midnight air and the faint distant hum of ocean waves. The bed you’re in feels like a cloud, all plush pillows and silk sheets, but it’s his body that really anchors you—solid behind you, arm around your waist, chest against your back like a fortress of warmth.

Your skin is still dewy from the bath he insisted on running, your limbs heavy and wine-drunk, draped across him like it’s second nature. One leg tangled over his, his hand tucked beneath your ribs, fingertips drawing slow, absentminded circles into your hipbone.

The bottle of wine—whatever brand it is, something expensive and probably older than you—is half-finished, resting carelessly on the nightstand. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t drink it for the taste. It was part of the ritual: the bath, the wine, the laughter. His low, quiet voice rumbling in your ear, telling stories that feel so impossibly normal for a man who wears bespoke suits and signs billion-dollar deals.

“—but then I farted once,” Shoto is saying, tone completely straight, “and the smell was terrible.”

You snort into his chest before you can help it. “God, you’re so stupid sometimes.”

He smiles. Not the rare, careful one he uses in boardrooms or in front of cameras. But the real one—soft and lopsided, that shy flicker of amusement that lights up his entire face when he’s completely relaxed. The one that makes you ache.

You reach up and brush a hand through his hair, gently pushing the strands away from his forehead, fingers combing through the red and white like it’s something sacred. You stroke your thumb along his jaw, feeling the faint scruff there. He nuzzles into your touch like a cat—closed eyes, a low hum in his throat, his grip around your waist tightening just a bit.

You’re amazed, in this moment, by how deeply content you feel.

It hits you all at once. How light your chest feels. How much tension you’ve let go. How happy you are, here in this bed, in this city, with him.

Shoto is your sugar daddy, sure, but he’s also the man who takes the time to learn your favorite snacks. Who always checks in about your day. Who listens more than he talks, who lets you see the parts of him that are still healing. The one who makes you laugh with dumb stories about his brothers and awkward teenage years, even though he’s a whole empire now.

You lean up and kiss his cheek. Then his lips—slow, lingering, almost lazy.

He returns the kiss, soft and sleepy, one hand slipping up your back to pull you even closer. Your bare skin against his—chests, stomachs, legs all pressed together—feels like too much and not enough at the same time. It’s not about arousal. It’s not about control or roles or power.

It’s about closeness. It’s about belonging.

He presses his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, and murmurs something too quiet to catch, but you feel it in the way his thumb brushes up and down your spine, in the way he presses your bodies together like he’s trying to fuse you into one.

He blinks his eyes open, the softest glint of silver and turquoise catching the low light. Still half-drowsy, still flushed warm from the bath, the wine, your touch. His arms tighten slightly around you, like a reflex he doesn't even realize he's doing—like he needs to keep you close even now, as if you'll slip away otherwise.

You smile against his bare chest, your cheek resting just over his heart, and whisper, “Tell me more about this city.”

He hums low in his throat, like the question surprised him, but not in a bad way. You feel the reverberation through his skin as he stirs, shifts a little to face you more fully, eyes opening now with a little more alertness.

“Is there any fun things we can do?” you ask, voice playfully curious. “Or do I just have to keep you company while you’re here at non-business things?”

His response is immediate. “We will do whatever you want, darling.”

You pause.

Something about the way he says it. His voice is low, still gentle—but there's something under it this time. A quiet insistence. A vow. Something more than politeness or sugar-daddy indulgence. It feels… deeper. Like it means something. More than just "Yes," more than convenience. It’s him saying I want to give you what makes you happy.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe the jet lag is hitting. But your chest flutters.

Still, you shake the thought off with a teasing grin and say, “Really? So if I want to go to the beach, and afterward have a ride in your expensive car with the hood down while we go shopping—and maybe I’ll suck your dick during said driving—you’ll let me?”

That gets his attention.

His lips twitch with amusement. But he doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t playfully scoff or feign embarrassment. He just tilts his head slightly, the edges of his mouth curling into a soft, knowing smile as he watches you, quiet and sharp-eyed.

“I think the last part would be dangerous,” he says with such gravity you almost laugh again. “Considering I would be focused on you more than I already am.”

And then, as if that wasn’t already enough to make your stomach twist, he adds, “But if that’s what you desire, we’ll do it.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He nods. “I should tell you that I have a high name in this city. If we do get arrested for public indecency, I might have to say you were a crazy woman that jumped in my car.”

The snort you let out is ungraceful and loud, but you don’t care. You prop yourself up on one elbow, grinning as you look down at him. “Really? That’s your plan?”

His grin widens just a fraction, enough to show a glimpse of tooth. A rare, real smile. “It’s the only way they’d believe I let it happen.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “I don’t think you’d ever do that.”

And this time, he doesn’t say anything right away. His expression shifts—subtle, like everything with him is. The amusement is still there, but it softens into something tender. Something so achingly sincere it almost doesn’t belong in a suite this luxurious, in a city this shiny.

He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says, voice quiet. “I don’t think I ever could with you, angel.”

The words sit heavy between you. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes your pulse slow, your breath catch, your body lean in instinctively toward him—drawn like gravity. That warmth he carries in him, quiet and buried under layers of stillness and self-control, flickers to the surface like a flame trying not to burn too bright.

You smile, something small and shy, and nuzzle back into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. You feel him exhale gently into it, as if the moment makes him melt a little, too.

“I just want to relax,” you murmur, “and spend time with you.”

That’s it. That’s all you say.

Shoto blinks at you for a moment, like your words are something sacred—like they settle somewhere deep behind his sternum and make a home there. You’re half-draped across his chest, still warm from the bath, your skin bare beneath the silk sheets and his arm slung low over your waist. His heartbeat thuds under your ear, steady and calm, but now there’s something else behind it. Something gentle. Something that glows.

You feel his fingers tighten slightly at your hip, like your words gave him permission to hold you a little closer. His voice, when he finally answers, is low; warmer than wine, quieter than the hush of the ocean outside.

“I’d like that,” he says. “Just you and me.”

It’s not about what you said anymore—not about beach trips or convertibles or risky, teasing fantasies whispered in the dark. It’s the way you said relax… the way you said spend time with you, like it’s not about luxury or the lifestyle he provides. Like he is the part you’ve come to want most.

Your breath catches for just a moment. You don’t mean for it to, but it’s there. The softness of this. The way he’s looking at you now—those heterochromatic eyes, usually so guarded, so unreadable—now open, glassy at the edges. He looks at you like he feels something too. And maybe you’re just tipsy and sleepy and curled up in a foreign country with nothing but the ocean and your own heartbeat to ground you, but maybe it’s real.

“You mean it?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “You’d take time off… just for that?”

“I’d give you all the time in the world,” he says, without hesitation. “All you have to do is ask.”

You swallow, eyes darting across his face—still looking for some kind of catch, some hidden meaning. But there isn’t one. There never is with Shoto. For all the mystery in his eyes, he doesn’t lie. He doesn’t posture. When he tells you he’ll give you the world, he means it, because it’s the only language he knows. Quiet devotion. Steady offering. Soft-spoken promises that sound too big to hold but never feel too heavy in his hands.

Your heart squeezes, and you lean forward again, pressing another kiss to his lips—this one slower, less teasing. Just soft and full of emotion you can’t name yet. His hand cups your jaw, guiding you closer, and when you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours again.

“I like you like this,” you whisper, “soft and sweet.”

He hums. “I’m always soft with you.”

That makes you smile. You trace your fingers across his chest, watching how his throat moves when he swallows.

“I’m gonna take you up on it,” you warn him, still smiling. “The beach, the ride, everything.”

“Even the public indecency?”

You giggle and shrug. “Maybe not that one. But don’t act like you wouldn’t let me.”

He laughs, the real kind—a low, breathy sound that rumbles from his chest, and god, it does something to you. Makes you feel so full. So wanted. So safe. You’ve never felt like this in someone’s arms before. It doesn’t matter that it started as an arrangement. It doesn’t matter how it began.

Because here, now, pressed against him under silk sheets in a Monaco penthouse, it feels like something real. Like something blooming slow and deep.

You tuck yourself closer, one leg hooked over his thigh, and whisper against his skin, “I just want you, Sho.”

And he says it like a vow, soft against your temple, lips barely brushing you—

“You already have me.”

It’s almost criminal, how perfect the day is.

Monaco sun glitters over the sapphire water, casting gold onto everything it touches—including you, reclined on a white lounger, legs stretched out, your skimpy white bikini catching the light like pearls. Your sunglasses are oversized and designer, your lips glossed, and your hair is still damp from the sea. You look like a siren; Shoto’s siren. The kind men lose entire kingdoms for.

He’s beside you, bare-chested in black swim trunks that hang low on his hips, his body lean and powerful under the sun. His scar catches the light differently here—less like something marred and more like something sacred. A memory etched into him. The red of his hair darkens in the saltwater, clinging to his forehead in messy strands. He looks effortless, but he keeps glancing your way like he still can’t believe you’re here.

You swim together, laugh together; weightless in the waves. You splash him once, teasingly, and he retaliates by hoisting you up into his arms, bridal-style, wading deeper into the water with you squealing about how you're going to drown. He just raises a brow like he's above such drama and keeps going until you’re both waist-deep. Your arms wind around his neck, his hands steady on your thighs as you float against him, warm and held and so seen.

Later, you tan, stretched out like royalty. Shoto sits nearby, a book in one hand, a drink in the other, but his eyes are mostly on you. Every hour or so, he gently reminds you to reapply sunscreen like the sun might dare leave a mark on what’s his. He even does it for you once, rubbing lotion into your back and the backs of your thighs with large, reverent hands, slow and tender like he’s painting you.

You float together in the water until sunset—your back to his chest, arms around each other like a lazy embrace that refuses to let go. The waves rock you gently, and you talk about the days you were apart. The late nights you couldn’t sleep. The food he tried in New York. The book you read. How you missed his voice. How he missed your laugh. It’s not romantic in a dramatic sense. It’s quiet. Undeniably real.

And when the sun dips lower and paints the horizon in molten orange, he kisses you. Just once at first. Then again, slower, deeper, like the whole beach could disappear around you and he wouldn’t care. Like the only thing that matters is the press of your lips and the salt on your skin.

Then—

“I think I stepped on a rock,” he mutters against your mouth.

You laugh, head thrown back, your body shaking gently in his arms. The noise is pure and bright, and Shoto just looks at you with that small, almost bashful smile like he’s glad he made you laugh, even if it cost him his foot.

Later, as you’re drying off and slipping back into your sandals, he disappears for a moment and returns with something cupped carefully in his palm.

A seashell.

Not a perfect one—there’s a little chip at the top, a faint spiral, edges smoothed down by years of waves. But it’s iridescent. Pale pink and white, shimmering faintly like moonlight. Unique. Singular. Beautiful because of its imperfection.

He holds it out to you like it’s a diamond.

“I saw it earlier and thought of you.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. You just stare at him, at the way he’s offering you something so small, and yet it feels heavier, more meaningful than all the black cards, the gifts, the jewelry combined.

Because this? This isn’t from a boutique or a showroom. This is something he found, something he chose, something he thought of you when seeing.

You take it carefully, fingers brushing his.

And when you look up, Shoto’s already watching you with that look again—that quiet, gentle awe.

The seashell sits warm in your hand, and you feel your heart thump in your chest.

No designer gift has ever felt like this.

Of course, you're back at the hotel before long.

The room is still sun-drenched when you step inside, the light slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting golden stripes across the marble floor. Monaco stretches out below your balcony—boats bobbing lazily in the harbor, the pink haze of sunset brushing against the hills. But you’re not looking at any of that.

You're focused.

First things first: the seashell.

You don’t even pause before slipping it carefully from your fingers into the small silk pouch inside your purse—nestled between a travel-size perfume bottle and your wallet. You make sure it’s secure, gently wrap it in a piece of tissue, and zip the pocket shut like it’s a piece of jewelry. Because it is. To you.

It’s not about the shell itself; it’s about the way he looked at you when he gave it to you. Quiet. Certain. Like he wasn’t just handing you something small and pretty. He was giving you proof. That even while walking alone on a foreign beach, he thought of you. Not just your body. You.

You’re still feeling the echo of that when you strip off the top of your bikini, tossing it onto a nearby chair without a second thought. Your breasts are still faintly warm from the sun, tan lines fresh and skin slightly tight from salt. You walk barefoot across the suite, wearing nothing but the tiny white bikini thong that still clings damply to your hips. It cuts high on your waist, the strings riding up as you move, every line of your body sun-kissed and golden.

You’re moving through the room like you belong there. Like you're used to this—worn luxury and ocean views and designer oils laid out in neat rows across the vanity. You’ve done this before, this ritual: sorting through bottles, deciding between jasmine or rose or that thick, expensive cream that smells like vanilla and sandalwood. It’s indulgent. Pointless. Entirely yours.

And that’s when you see him in the mirror.

You’re not startled. You feel him before you see him. That warm gravity he always carries. That stillness.

Shoto moves like he’s carved out of something deeper than just muscle and bone. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t startle. He simply arrives behind you—silent, shirtless, hair damp from rinsing off quickly at the beach.

His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, and it’s not a smirk or a grin that meets you. It’s something softer. More dangerous. A quiet hunger buried beneath calm restraint.

He steps in close. Arms sliding slowly, deliberately around your waist. His chest is warm against your back, body heat sinking into your spine. His hand comes up—not fast, not greedy—and cups your breast gently, fingers spreading to fit the weight of it in his palm.

His mouth finds your shoulder, then trails inward—kissing the edge of your tan line, where skin shifts from sun-kissed bronze to paler, untouched flesh. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just breathes against you. Smells your skin. Kisses you like he’s studying you.

And then, warm and low, he murmurs against your neck:

“Bend over, angel.”

You don’t even hesitate.

It’s instinctive, the way your body responds to him. To that voice. To the command that isn’t cruel or rough—it’s precise. Measured. Like everything he does. Not a demand. An invitation. A quiet promise of what he’ll give you in return.

So you do it.

You bend over the marble vanity, arms bracing you against the cool stone. You arch your back; deep, instinctive, feline—your spine curving beautifully as you tilt your hips back toward him. Your ass lifts, soft and round and on full display, the thin strap of your bikini thong framing you like a bow on a gift.

Shoto breathes out slowly behind you. You can feel the heat of it on the back of your thigh.

Then his fingers hook into the strings at your hips, and he peels the thong down—slowly, reverently. Not yanking. Not impatient. Like he’s unwrapping something he’s waited all day to see. He slides the fabric down your legs and lets it drop soundlessly to the floor.

And now you’re bare.

Open.

Exposed and displayed for him, still damp with sea water, thighs slightly parted and skin golden from the sun.

You know what you look like. You know what you’re doing—how deeply you’ve arched, how unashamed you are, how the curve of your hips and the glisten of your folds must look to him. You’re presenting yourself like something holy. Like something meant to be worshipped.

And Shoto?

He kneels.

He always kneels when it matters.

You feel his hands on your ass, firm and warm, spreading you gently. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The way his thumbs graze your inner thighs is answer enough. The low, barely audible sound he makes in his throat—that restrained, nearly invisible groan—is praise. Is need.

Then his mouth is on you.

He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, tongue hot and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He never does. He’s too focused, too careful. Every movement is calculated. He tastes you like he’s memorizing you. Like he wants to learn what makes you squirm, what makes your legs shake, what pulls those helpless little noises from your throat.

Your fingers grip the edge of the vanity. Your hips tremble. He hums against you—pleased. Encouraging.

When he finally stands, it’s with that same calm power, like he’s rising from a kneel not just as your lover, but as a man who’s decided something.

His hands find your hips. His cock is already hard—thick, hot, and pressed against the back of your thigh. He doesn’t need to guide himself. He knows exactly where you are. How to slide into you in one long, unhurried thrust.

You gasp—loud, involuntary—as he fills you completely. His hips press flush to yours, the stretch perfect, your pussy already slick and clenching around him. You hear him inhale—sharply, tightly—like the feel of you still manages to shake something loose in his chest.

And then he moves.

He fucks you slowly at first. Deep, smooth strokes that make you choke on your own breath. One hand remains on your hip, steadying you. The other slides up your back, over the slope of your spine, until it’s curled at the back of your neck—his thumb brushing gently just beneath your hairline.

You’re panting now. Whimpering. Every thrust makes your breath stutter, your eyes blur. He’s not speaking. Just moaning softly every now and then—low and controlled, the sound guttural and beautiful.

And you feel everything.

The strength in his hips. The stretch. The precision. The way he angles deeper—seeking that spot inside you that makes you see stars. You’re moaning now, openly, shamelessly. Not just because of how good it feels, but because of what it means. What it is.

This isn’t just fucking. This is him . This is Shoto; all quiet intensity, all reverent heat, all focused pressure. The kind of sex that makes your chest tighten, because even without saying it, he’s telling you: I missed you. I thought about this. I thought about you.

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth near your ear. “You feel better than I remembered,” he breathes.

You whimper his name, a murmured “Sho…” and he makes a sound, hips jolting forward harder. His fingers tighten on your hips. Not to hurt. To anchor. To hold you together while he loses control in the only way he allows himself to—with you.

When you come, it’s not soft. It’s a wave. It crashes through you, shaking your whole body. Your legs give out slightly, and he holds you up, fucking you through it with a low groan, never stopping, never breaking rhythm.

He finishes inside you with a deep, shuddering breath, hips pressed tight, his cock pulsing as he fills you, and his mouth is on your shoulder again, biting down just enough to mark. To claim. To remember.

And when it’s over, when you’re both panting and slick and trembling against the vanity, he doesn’t pull away.

The shower is already running, steam curling around your bodies as the last of the Monaco sun spills across the marble floor through the bathroom windows. The water is hot and steady, hitting your skin in a soothing rhythm, like rain after drought. You’re both inside now, the wide glass shower big enough to feel indulgent, the tiles warm beneath your feet, the air thick with heat and the soft scent of sandalwood and salt lingering on both your skin.

Shoto stands in front of you, water streaking down the planes of his chest, dripping from the ends of his hair. He’s quiet, like always, but it’s not silence that feels empty. It’s full. Heavy. A quiet that speaks volumes. He’s looking at you with that half-lidded, unreadable gaze—one only you have come to understand. It means he’s still in it. Still present. Still with you, even if his mind should be turning toward the dinner meeting waiting for him across the city.

But he’s not thinking about that yet.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder—soft, open-mouthed, lingering against the skin where your tan line begins. Then another at the hollow of your collarbone, and another just above your heart, as if he’s marking each place with a kind of quiet gratitude. The loofah is in your hand, and you’re dragging it in slow, lazy circles across his chest, your eyes half-lidded, the intimacy of it all making your breath slow.

“Five more minutes,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the sound of water.

Shoto blinks, those mismatched eyes dropping to meet yours. He studies you for a beat longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing your face—committing you to memory all over again even though he just had you bent over the vanity minutes ago. But this isn’t the same as that. This is different. Softer. It’s not about hunger now. It’s about closeness. Longing.

You’re clinging to him, arms wrapped around his neck as you press yourself close under the spray, the curves of your body molding against his. And he lets you. He always lets you—never pulls away when you reach for him like this, never denies you softness even when the rest of the world demands steel.

He cups the back of your head with one hand, cradling it with care, while the other strokes slowly down your spine. His fingers pause just above the small of your back, where the water collects and rolls down in steady rivulets. He kisses you again; deeper now. Slower. His mouth moves with yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him. Like he needs this as badly as you do.

The kiss stretches on. Minutes melt. You lose track of time, of how long you’ve been pressed against him, lips moving together in that quiet, drugging way that makes your knees weak. And still, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t break the moment.

You sigh against his mouth and run your palms across his chest again—his heart beating slow and strong under your touch, his muscles warm and solid. You glide them up over his shoulders, trace the slope of his scar. You love his scar. Not just because it’s part of him, but because of the way he lets you touch it. The way he doesn’t flinch anymore. Not with you. You kiss the junction where his neck meets his shoulder, and he sighs—soft and shaky, a little sound that tells you this is getting to him too.

Then, you whisper, quiet and low, “You should go.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. His brows knit, and for a moment, you see the hesitation flicker across his face. That instinct in him to give you what you want—even if it costs him something. It’s who he is. Shoto doesn’t take easily, but he gives constantly. He was raised in discipline and duty, but now he chooses softness—with you.

“I’ll tell them I’m running late,” he says, voice low, hoarse from earlier and from the emotion thick in his throat.

And god, it nearly breaks you; how easily he’d throw it all aside. For you. Always for you.

But the guilt blooms again, slow and stubborn, and your fingers press into his shoulder blades as you shake your head gently. “No,” you whisper. “You should go. Really. I don’t want you missing things because of me.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move. The water still beats down around you both, steam thickening. And then, quietly:

“I missed you.”

You feel your throat tighten.

His voice is so soft when he says it, like it’s too sacred to speak louder. Like if he does, it might shatter. And in that moment, you know he doesn’t mean just in the way his body missed yours. He means you. Your laugh. Your warmth. The way you touch his scar like it’s nothing. The way you hold him in your arms like he’s not the product of something harsh and painful, but something deserving of love. He means the nights he spent in a penthouse in New York or London, in a suit that fit too well and a chair that felt too cold—thinking of your voice, your smile, the way your fingers trace lazy circles over his skin as you fall asleep.

He missed being known. And you know him better than anyone.

You press your forehead to his chest. His heart is beating a little faster now.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “But you don’t have to prove anything, Sho. You’ve already given me so much.”

His hands tighten at your waist, grounding himself in your presence. And after a long moment, he nods.

He pulls back slightly—not all the way, just enough to brush your damp hair behind your ear and place one last kiss to your temple. It’s not rushed. Not urgent. But it carries weight. A silent promise that this, you, will be the first thing on his mind when he steps out that door—and the first thing he returns to.

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs. “Don’t fall asleep without me.”

And you smile and nod. “I’ll try.”

He kisses you one last time—gentle, lingering—before finally turning away to step out of the shower.

And even though you feel that ache of missing him already starting in your chest… you also feel full.

Held.

Wanted.

And you do really miss him.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That it’s normal. That of course you’d miss someone who treats you like a goddamn goddess, who makes you feel beautiful even when you’re half-asleep, puffy-eyed, draped across a sun-warmed bed in a country that doesn’t speak your language. That missing him is just part of the game. The arrangement. The role.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re jet-lagged, because the waves drained the strength from your limbs and the sun kissed you too long. Because this hotel suite is too big, too quiet, too lonely when he’s not in it. You’re still in that silk robe—the short champagne one he likes, the one that clings to your hips and slips dangerously down one shoulder. The tie is loose. Your hair’s half-dry. Your legs are still faintly glowing from the oil you rubbed in earlier, and you’ve barely moved from the bed since he left.

It’s just the waiting that’s messing with you. You’re used to having him close—his body heat, his attention, that subtle way he watches you like you’re art he can’t stop studying. Being without it for even a couple hours has your thoughts turning over themselves.

So you tell yourself what you think someone in your position should tell themselves.

That you’re not some lovesick girl.

That this is just your sugar daddy. A man who happens to be generous. And sweet. And hot. And—fuck—so considerate it hurts.

You tell yourself that lying here in Monaco, curled into his sheets, still warm from his mouth and hands, wearing nothing but silk and perfume, doesn’t mean anything. That the way your stomach flipped when he said don’t fall asleep without me is just your body reacting. Nothing emotional. Just the residue of a really, really good orgasm.

You tell yourself to stop being so dramatic.

And yet—

When the door opens softly, hours later, and you hear the quiet hush of expensive shoes against marble; when he steps into the suite still in his charcoal-gray suit, tie loosened, hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive back; when he finds you, lounging in his bed, robe slipping open at the thigh, lips parted slightly like you fell asleep waiting for him; and when you see what’s in his hands—

You swear your heart skips something vital.

Shoto stands there in the golden light of the suite, holding a bouquet of red roses. Deep crimson, long-stemmed, the kind florists don’t wrap without velvet ribbon. He’s not grinning, not doing some cocky show of it. He just looks… soft. His mouth is curved in the smallest, quietest smile, like he’s happy to see you again and isn’t trying to hide it. His eyes—those dual-colored, steady eyes—flick to yours like he’s checking that you’re okay before he says anything.

You sit up a little, the robe falling slightly lower on your shoulders, and suddenly you feel your throat tighten again, just like in the shower.

He crosses to you without a word and sets the flowers gently on the bed beside you. Then, carefully, he kneels at the edge of the mattress, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, just above your knee. Warm. Grounding.

“I thought they’d suit the room,” he says softly, his tone low, like he didn’t want to wake you even if you weren’t fully asleep.

You blink at the roses. They’re perfect. Not cliché—somehow they fit. Like he’d thought about it, weighed the choices. And the fact that he brought them back after a business dinner, when he should’ve been too tired to even think, is what kills you.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” he says, and there’s no hesitation.

No performative charm. No teasing grin. Just fact.

And now you’re fully awake. Too awake. Because something in your chest aches with how badly you want to kiss him. Not with heat, not with need—but with gratitude.

You ignore that stupid feeling swelling in your chest—press it down, bury it beneath the silk and the roses and the warmth of his hand on your thigh. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. You smile instead. A real one. The kind that tugs at your lips even when you try to bite it back. The kind you don’t usually give anyone.

You brush your fingers over the roses—soft and cool and fragrant, a rich, heady scent of something expensive and classic. They're freshly cut, you can tell. Still full and vivid, like they were meant to sit in a marble suite in Monaco next to a girl like you, in a silk robe, with salt still clinging faintly to your skin.

You tilt your head toward him, your smile lingering as your eyes meet his. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, but you don’t mean it. You lean in before he can say anything back.

The kiss is barely there—just the soft brush of lips, warm and slow and quiet. There’s no tongue, no hunger. Just that feeling. That heat blooming in your chest again like something gentle and glowing and terrifying all at once. And when you pull away, it’s with the faintest wet sound, a kiss that echoes in the stillness of the suite like a secret.

“Thank you, Sho,” you whisper, voice just as soft as the kiss.

He doesn’t answer.

Not right away.

Instead, he leans in again—this time his lips press against your bare shoulder. Not your mouth, not your collarbone, but the rounded slope where your robe has fallen open. He kisses you there like it’s sacred. Like the sun warmed that spot just for him to claim later.

His breath lingers hot against your skin, and then his voice comes, quiet and close: “Did you eat?”

You shake your head, eyes flicking down, your fingers still brushing the edge of the velvet ribbon tied around the stems.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you admit. Your voice is small. Honest.

He blinks, brows drawing in slightly. You can see the faint shadow of concern in the way his mouth tightens—not dramatic, not panicked. Just focused. That subtle Todoroki way of caring—silent and attentive.

“You should eat,” he says simply, but it’s not a scold. More like a reminder. A fact. “I can order you something. Room service still delivers this late.”

And you almost say yes. You almost let him.

But then—too soft, too honest—you murmur:

“I didn’t want to eat alone.”

Your voice is barely audible. Like a confession you didn’t mean to make.

And for a moment, the room is silent. Heavy.

The kind of quiet where something changes—not because it explodes or breaks, but because it settles.

Shoto looks at you.

Really looks at you.

There’s something behind his eyes—something flickering and slow, like warmth building under frost. And then he shifts. Not away. Closer. His hand finds yours where it’s resting near the flowers, and he laces your fingers together without a word. His palm is warm, always warm, callused in just the right places. When he speaks, it’s quieter than before.

“I’ll stay with you next time,” he says. “No dinner. No meetings.”

You turn to him, blinking. “Sho, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts, firm but soft. His thumb brushes along your knuckles. “If you're here, I want to be too.”

The weight of that settles between you—not heavy, but solid. Real.

You nod slowly. You don’t trust your voice. Not with the way your throat feels too full.

And Shoto, true to form, doesn’t press. He simply lets go of your hand gently and rises from the bed with the quiet elegance that always makes him seem untouchable—like something sculpted from stillness and light. But then he walks over to the in-room phone, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, and starts speaking softly into the receiver.

He’s ordering you food.

You watch him from the bed. The curve of his spine, the cut of his jaw in the soft light. The way he pauses to look back at you while confirming the order, like he’s making sure you’re still okay, still there, still his.

He hangs up and returns without fanfare, kneeling once more beside the bed, hand returning to your thigh like it belongs there.

“I’ll eat with you then,” Shoto says simply, and you blink like the words didn’t quite register. Your lips part, ready to argue—some automatic, flustered deflection bubbling to the surface—but he cuts it off with a calm follow-up, completely unfazed.

“I had something small,” he adds, his tone casual. “And I need the protein.”

You blink again. “Protein?”

“For when we work out.”

You snort, incredulous, a hand lazily tugging your silk robe tighter around you. “I don’t work out, Sho.”

You expect him to meet you with that same cool stoicism he always has, that calm restraint. But instead—his mouth quirks. A rare smirk tugs at the corner, soft and crooked and teasing. It makes him look boyish, for a moment. Not the composed man who commands attention at boardroom tables and walks like he was born in a world with marble floors. But just a boy. Just your boy.

And then you see it—the gleam in his eye. Mischief. Pure and quiet and utterly Shoto.

You narrow your gaze, instantly suspicious. “Wow. Really mature,” you mutter, dryly. “Who says I’d want to work out with you?”

He just shrugs—careless, smug, still smiling.

And then before you can get another word out, he kisses you. Firm and fast and warm.

You yelp against his mouth—not because you’re shocked he did it, but because it’s so effective. You feel his hands slide under the robe like silk against silk, and the next thing you know he’s pushing you back into the pillows, the bed swallowing you both whole.

“Shoto—!” you start, but it’s breathless and already edged with laughter.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and your legs shift automatically, wrapping around his waist like you’re made to do this, like your body remembers him. Your robe parts easily, falling open like it’s meant to, and the heat between you builds so quickly it feels almost criminal.

You never get around to the food.

The room service goes ignored—probably arrives and is left politely at the door with a soft knock, but neither of you hear it. Not with the way Shoto’s mouth finds your neck, or the way you tug him down by the open collar of his shirt, not caring that it’s still pressed and elegant and clearly not meant for rolling around in bed.

But he lets you tug anyway.

Lets you undo each button one by one with shaky fingers.

Lets you press your mouth to the line of his chest like you’re starving.

And he touches you like he never left. Like all the nights apart have been building up in his bones and only now is he finally letting it out—slowly, quietly, thoroughly. His hands map over your thighs, your hips, the warm slope of your waist beneath the robe.

And you—you forget everything else.

Forget the ache of being alone in the suite. Forget the ocean outside the window, the city glittering below.

All you know is him.

His body, half-dressed and heavy over yours, his tongue licking into your mouth with lazy confidence, his hand curling behind your neck like he’s holding something precious. You feel his weight in your chest and your bones and your thighs and it’s not just arousal—it’s comfort, intimacy. That quiet, consuming sweetness you only get with him.

You don’t get much sleep.

You stay tangled under the sheets long into the night—laughing, moaning, whispering, holding. You fuck slowly. Then again. Then again, when neither of you can bear to separate. And at some point, maybe hours later, you fall asleep pressed skin to skin, his hand tucked beneath your cheek, your leg slung over his hip, the scent of roses still faint in the air.

And the food?

Still waiting, untouched, just outside the door.

On your last night in Monaco, everything feels a little heavier—but not in a bad way.

It’s that soft kind of weight, the one that settles in your chest when you know a good thing is about to pause. The kind of ache that comes with the end of a perfect day, a perfect trip, a perfect kiss. The kind you carry home with you.

Shoto takes you out to dinner, just like he promised. It’s another high-end restaurant tucked into the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean—a place with soft jazz playing, white tablecloths, and a menu that doesn’t list prices. You’re used to these places now, kind of. You know how to carry yourself in them. You don’t flinch when the sommelier brings a bottle that costs more than your last semester of tuition. But even with all that luxury, there’s still something about tonight that makes you feel… different.

Maybe it’s the dress.

You picked it out that afternoon while he took a call—silk, body-hugging, a shade that glows against your sun-warmed skin. It’s the kind of dress that hugs your waist, dips a little too low at the back, and makes your legs look endless when paired with your strappy designer heels. The jewelry is subtle—diamond studs and a pearl necklace he surprised you with before dinner, hung on a thin chain, resting just above your collarbone.

You step into the living area of the suite, still adjusting one earring, and he looks up from his phone.

And then he stills.

Shoto is not a man of excess emotion—not outwardly. He’s calm, composed, his expressions small and precise. But when he sees you, really sees you, there’s this brief flicker across his face, like something inside him stutters. His gaze drags over you slowly—neck, shoulders, waist, hips, legs—and then comes back to your face with soft, wide eyes.

“You look beautiful today,” he says, plainly. Not flirtatiously. Not dramatically. Like it’s simply the truth.

And it hits you in the chest. Too hard.

You blink, caught off guard by how earnestly he says it. Your heart flutters—traitorously. You smile anyway, recovering quickly, trying to ignore the way your stomach dips.

“Thank you, Sho,” you murmur, stepping close to him. Your fingers curl gently around his—warm, long-fingered, and steady—and with your other hand, you reach up to straighten the line of his button-up collar. It’s a quiet moment, domestic and simple. Like you’ve done it before. Like you will do it again.

His eyes lower to watch your hand, then flick back to your face.

He doesn't say anything right away. He doesn’t have to.

Because that look in his eyes says enough: he sees you. Not just how good you look—but the softness underneath. The care. The intimacy in the little gesture. He holds your hand like he wants to keep it there forever.

At dinner, the night unfolds like a dream—low candlelight, ocean breeze drifting through the open terrace, the scent of salt and wine and jasmine in the air. He orders in French, fluid and confident, but still glances at you after every dish to see if you like it. He always does that—quietly making sure you’re comfortable without calling attention to it.

He doesn’t talk much about work tonight. Instead, he asks you about your classes. Your friends. Your favorite books. The things you’re afraid of. He listens intently, blue and gray eyes focused entirely on you, like you’re the most interesting thing in the world. He asks follow-up questions. He wants to understand. He doesn’t interrupt.

There’s something almost vulnerable about how quiet he gets when you talk about your life outside of him. He doesn’t show jealousy—not exactly—but there’s a kind of wistfulness in his expression, like he wishes he could follow you into that world. Like part of him wonders where he fits.

You make him laugh—really laugh—over dessert when you tease him about his obsession with perfect coffee temperatures. He leans back in his chair, mouth curved into a rare, full smile, and shakes his head, cheeks tinged pink from the wine. His scar softens when he smiles like that. It always does. And for a second, you forget everything else. You just look at him, and think: this man. This man is mine.

Or maybe not yours. Not officially. Not forever.

But he’s yours right now.

And when he reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours again, his thumb stroking the back of your hand gently, there’s no denying the truth sitting between you.

This is no longer just an arrangement.

After dinner, you walk back to the hotel on foot. Monaco sparkles around you—narrow streets, glowing shopfronts, the hum of nightlife gently buzzing through the summer air. You slip your arm through his, heels clicking on the stone path. You don’t even care that people look. You want them to. Because he looks stunning tonight. Dark shirt slightly open at the collar, blazer thrown over his shoulder, white streak in his hair glinting in the streetlights. And he has you on his arm.

At one point, you stop to look out over the edge of a railing, the city below glowing in warm amber lights. He stands behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Do you want to go back?” he murmurs near your ear. “Or do you want to stay here a little longer?”

And you don’t know if he means the railing, the street, the night… or Monaco itself.

So you turn in his arms, slowly, and wrap your hands around the back of his neck.

You look up at him. He looks down at you.

And for a moment, the world hushes.

Shoto has always been quiet, composed, thoughtful. But when he looks at you right now, he doesn’t hide a thing. Not the longing. Not the hesitation. Not the part of him that wants more than this ending.

His hand comes up and brushes your cheek. He leans in. You meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft. Lingering. Not heated or rushed or teasing—just true. Like goodbye and maybe and please don’t go all at once.

You kiss again.

And again.

And again.

Until finally, he pulls back and says, voice just above a whisper: “Come upstairs with me.”

You nod, heart beating in your throat, and let him lead you back. His hand holds yours the whole walk back to the suite—tightly, securely—like he’s not ready to let you go.

And you don’t want him to.

That night, back in the suite—doors closed, lights low, Monaco glittering through the glass like a distant dream—the sex is different.

And it scares you.

Not because it’s rough. Not because it’s wild or overwhelming. But because it’s gentle. Intimate. Reverent in a way that feels too close. Too real.

It starts the moment he unzips your dress.

You’re standing near the bed, the silk slipping from your shoulders as his hands move with practiced ease. But instead of the usual quiet urgency—his need to get it off, to get to you—he takes his time. His fingers linger against your spine, tracing each vertebra like he’s memorizing your back. His mouth brushes your shoulder, then lower, and lower still, slow, almost shy.

There’s nothing performative in it tonight. Nothing about ownership or indulgence or play. It’s not the sex of a man showing off what he can afford or what he wants.

It’s the sex of a man who’s feeling everything.

You turn to face him in just your lingerie, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach twist. There’s no smirk. No hunger. No cool control. Just longing.

And it terrifies you.

Because this isn’t just lust. It’s something softer. Something deeper. Something that reaches past all your rules and your boundaries and your oh-so-clever understanding of what this arrangement is supposed to be.

He steps closer and cups your face. One hand on your cheek, his thumb stroking under your eye. He tilts your chin and kisses you—soft, slow, almost chaste at first. But it deepens quickly. His mouth moves against yours with that quiet heat he always holds back until it slips.

And it does slip.

He breathes your name when you sigh against him. He murmurs it again, quieter this time, like he’s afraid if he says it too loud he’ll ruin something.

He undresses you slowly. Like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t think he deserves. His eyes trail over your body, but not with lust—no, with awe.

And when he lays you down on the bed, he follows. Stretches out beside you. Presses his chest against yours.

You expect him to move fast, maybe to press his thigh between yours and grind, or mouth at your neck, or roll you beneath him like always. That’s the rhythm of this thing, isn’t it? Passion, heat, urgency.

But tonight… he just looks at you.

He takes a breath. Another. And he whispers, like it hurts, “I don’t want this to end.”

You don’t know what to say. Because you feel it too.

He touches you like your body is something sacred. His fingertips graze your skin like they’ve never touched you before, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. His hand coasts down your stomach, slow and deliberate, before slipping between your thighs.

He works you open with care. His fingers move with a kind of patience you didn’t know he possessed. He studies your face the entire time, watching every reaction, every soft gasp and flutter of your lashes, like he’s trying to carve it into memory.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not with a groan or a curse or a rough grip.

It’s with a shudder.

He buries his face into your neck and breathes you in, and you feel his whole body tremble. Like he’s holding back something more than just his climax. Like if he lets go, he’s afraid of what might come out.

He rocks into you slowly. Deeply. His hips roll with a kind of control that doesn’t match the wild thrum of his heartbeat against your chest. You feel it pounding. Hurried. Nervous. Human.

Your hands grip his back. You bury your face in his shoulder. And it’s not the sex that’s making you lightheaded; it’s the closeness.

Because he’s looking at you. He’s seeing you. And it’s not about your body.

He fucks you like he’s trying to tell you something in the way his lips brush your jaw, the way he kisses you when you moan his name, the way he gasps when you cup his cheek and kiss him back like you mean it.

There’s no game here. No power play. It’s not a sugar baby and a man with too much money and too much time.

It’s him. It’s you. And it feels like love.

That’s what scares you.

Because you swore it wouldn’t get this far. You promised yourself you could keep this casual. Keep it clean. But this? This is dangerous.

When you come, it’s not from being overwhelmed; it’s from being seen.

And when he comes—deep inside you again, without hesitation this time—it’s with your name on his lips and his hand gripping yours tight against his chest, like he’s holding on to you just to stay afloat.

Afterward, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t pull away. He stays curled around you, heartbeat slowing against your spine, hand still resting over your navel like he wants to keep everything inside you where it is—his warmth, his mark, his presence.

He doesn’t say anything else. Not about love. Not about feelings.

But as he pulls the covers over both of you and presses a kiss to the back of your neck, you know something’s changed.

And the part that really scares you?

You don’t want to change it back.