Even though it was now early winter, with temperatures fluctuating around freezing, and people outside were bundled in thick coats, their breath forming white puffs that quickly dissipated in the cold air…
Under Rika Kawasaki’s desk, in that cramped, confined space, it was unnaturally damp and stiflingly hot.
The warm air from the heater blew down from above, mostly blocked by the desktop, with only a small trickle leaking into this tiny space, swirling around but unable to escape.
The air felt used and reused, heavy and sticky, mixed with the scent of wood, leather, and something more intimate, something that made one blush.
In this harsh environment, Kaoru Hoshitani, completely naked, hugged his knees, buried his face in the crook of his arm, and curled himself into the smallest ball possible.
His back pressed against the rough, cool wood of the desk’s inner panel, grating painfully against his spine.
His knees were pushed against his chest, each breath making him feel his ribs pressing against his internal organs, a dull ache.
His fingers gripped his own forearms, nails digging into the flesh, leaving several shallow crescent-shaped red marks.
His hair was a mess. His originally smooth black hair was now tangled into knots, with a few stray strands plastered to his temples, damp with sweat and sticking to his skin like dried-up waterweed on a riverbed.
Large areas of pale skin, covered in red marks, were exposed to the air without any cover.
Those marks spread from his neck to his collarbone, from his collarbone to his chest, deep and shallow, overlapping in layers.
Some had already turned bluish-purple, while others were still a fresh pink, like some kind of savage, unrestrained signature.
His shoulders were still trembling slightly.
The tremors were light, fine, like a sob suppressed to the extreme, too afraid to make a sound.
Each tremor started from his shoulder blades, slid down along his spine, transmitted to his waist, to his curled-up knees, to his tightly clenched fingers, finally turning into a faint, almost imperceptible spasm in the crescent marks left by his nails.
He didn’t know how long he had been here.
Time had lost all meaning in this narrow space, leaving only the repeated, prolonged, seemingly endless torment, and afterward, this suffocating, inescapable silence.
The sound of a chair moving came from overhead, followed by the rustle of paper being turned, the scratch of a pen tip across a page.
Her voice came from above, muffled by the desk, as if speaking underwater, indistinct.
Then came footsteps, high heels tapping on the marble floor, once, twice, thrice—growing fainter.
The door opened, then closed.
The office fell quiet again.
Then, a hand reached in.
The fingers were long and strong, their tips bearing thin calluses, touching the top of his head.
The movement was gentle, as gentle as touching something fragile, but he knew this was the same hand that had just manipulated him back and forth, gripped his waist to press him against the desktop, and covered his mouth to stifle his sounds.
Now, it was caressing him like a young animal.
The fingers slid down through his hair, over his forehead, past his temples, to behind his ear, and rested on the nape of his neck.
They lingered there for a moment, then began a slow, rhythmic stroking, once, twice, like a kind of comfort, or a kind of possession.
Kaoru Hoshitani did not move.
He was forced to bury his face deeper, holding his breath, but the scent had already seeped into his pores, impossible to escape.
He remained curled up like that, under that desk, under the gaze of those gray eyes, like a bird locked in a cage, already tamed, unable to fly away…
It went on like this, over and over.
Although Rika Kawasaki was just sitting in the office and didn’t do much actual work, she still had to maintain appearances.
She sat at her desk, pretending to flip through a few pages of documents, signed a few things, took two phone calls, postponed the afternoon meeting to tomorrow, and marked a non-urgent report as urgent.
Her mind was not here at all; it was entirely on the little man curled up under the desk.
She barely managed to endure until noon, twelve o’clock.
As soon as it was time to leave, she stood up, walked around behind the desk, bent down, and scooped up the little man still curled in the corner.
He was unbelievably light, almost weightless in her arms, like a crumpled, damp piece of paper.
His body was still trembling slightly, his skin sticky, clinging to her arm.
His eyes were closed, his eyelashes wet and clumped together, his lips devoid of color. He looked utterly miserable, as if he had more breath leaving him than entering.
But Rika Kawasaki was very satisfied with the results of her efforts.
She looked down at the little man in her arms, who seemed almost broken apart, a satiated curve lifting the corner of her mouth.
It wasn’t her fault—she had endured for over a week.
During that week, she had thought of him every day, her lower abdomen tightening, tossing and turning sleeplessly at night, only able to relieve herself in the dead of night with old videos on her phone screen.
Now he was right here, right at hand. How could she possibly hold back?
Besides, she had originally planned to properly punish this little man who had gone behind her back to find other women.
What was that cheap sister of hers? An illegitimate daughter who couldn’t be seen in the light, worthy of competing with her for a man?
As if she alone couldn’t satisfy him.
She wanted to see if this little man, after being toyed with like this, would still have the energy to go find other women.
She carried him out of the office. The hotel had been booked in advance, just a five-minute walk from the company.
The secretary had already delivered the room card to the front desk.
She gave a name, and the front desk lady respectfully handed over the card, her gaze sweeping over Kaoru Hoshitani before quickly looking away.
The room was on the twelfth floor. She swiped the card, entered, and placed the person in her arms on the bed.
He sank into the soft down quilt, like a leaf blown down by the wind, light and weightless.
His brow was furrowed, not relaxing even in unconsciousness, his lips slightly parted, his breathing shallow and weak, like a thread that could snap at any moment.
Rika Kawasaki stood by the bed and looked at him for a while, then turned and walked into the bathroom.
The bathtub was large, big enough for two people to lie in.
She turned on the faucet, adjusted the water temperature, and hot water gushed out noisily.
White steam quickly filled the space, blurring the outline of the mirror and the lines of the tile floor.
Once the tub was full, she returned to the bedroom, picked up the little man still unconscious on the bed, carried him into the bathroom, stepped into the tub, and sat down with him in her arms.
The hot water rose, submerging her waist, his back, their overlapping bodies.
She carried him out of the office. The hotel had been booked in advance, just a five-minute walk from the company.
The secretary had already delivered the room card to the front desk.
She gave a name, and the front desk lady respectfully handed over the card, her gaze sweeping over Kaoru Hoshitani before quickly looking away.
The room was on the twelfth floor. She swiped the card, entered, and placed the person in her arms on the bed.
He sank into the soft down quilt, like a leaf blown down by the wind, light and weightless.
His brow was furrowed, not relaxing even in unconsciousness, his lips slightly parted, his breathing shallow and weak, like a thread that could snap at any moment.
Rika Kawasaki stood by the bed and looked at him for a while, then turned and walked into the bathroom.
The bathtub was large, big enough for two people to lie in.
She turned on the faucet, adjusted the water temperature, and hot water gushed out noisily.
White steam quickly filled the space, blurring the outline of the mirror and the lines of the tile floor.
Once the tub was full, she returned to the bedroom, picked up the little man still unconscious on the bed, carried him into the bathroom, stepped into the tub, and sat down with him in her arms.
The hot water rose, submerging her waist, his back, their overlapping bodies.
The warm water enveloped them. She had genuinely intended to just wash him clean and then take him out to eat and shop.
Kaoru Hoshitani’s shabby clothes had long been thrown into the trash can, along with his tight-fitting briefs, crumpled up in a black garbage bag.
But in the end, she still couldn’t resist.
Of course, she had never planned to resist in the first place.
Water splashed everywhere, overflowing from the edge of the tub, spreading over the tile floor, flowing under the sink.
A shampoo bottle was knocked over, rolling with a clatter to the corner.
A towel slipped from the rack, soaked in the water, absorbing it until heavy, lying flat on the floor.
The ceiling was covered in condensation droplets, one by one, converging into streams that trickled down along the corner lines, as if it were raining.
Half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, refreshed and clear-headed, carrying Kaoru Hoshitani, who had completely lost consciousness.
His face was even paler than before, his lips almost transparent, only his eyelashes remained black, wet and stuck together like two little rain-soaked fans.
She placed him on the bed, pulled the quilt over him, then walked to the door and opened it.
The corridor was empty, only a paper bag hanging from the doorknob, delivered by the secretary.
She took the bag inside and closed the door.
Inside the bag was a set of clothes—a dark hoodie, soft jeans, and undergarments.
The size, of course, was no problem. After all, Rika Kawasaki knew these details by heart; she had told the secretary.
She walked back to the bed, placed the clothes on a nearby chair, then climbed onto the bed herself, leaning against the headboard, propping a pillow behind her back, and adjusting into a comfortable position.
She reached out and pulled Kaoru Hoshitani into her arms, letting his head rest on her shoulder, nestled against the crook of her neck.
His body was soft and cool, like a piece of jade soaked in water, pressed against her warm skin, slowly absorbing her body heat.
She lowered her head to look at the little man in her arms who hadn’t woken up yet.
His eyelashes were long, casting shallow shadows under his eyelids. His nose bridge was straight, his lips slightly pursed, carrying a heartbreaking fragility even in his sleep.
She reached out and gently stroked his smooth black hair. It wasn’t completely dry yet, carrying the scent of shampoo and the coolness of water.
Her fingers ran through his hair, from the crown to the ends, then back again, slowly and gently, over and over.
“Rest for about ten or fifteen minutes,”
she said softly, as if speaking to him, or to herself,
“We’ll go out around one o’clock.”
She received no response.
The person in her arms was still asleep, his breathing light, shallow, barely perceptible.
His brow was slightly furrowed in his dream, as if having a bad dream.
She reached out to smooth his brow, her fingertips sliding from between his eyebrows down his nose bridge, from his nose bridge to his lips, stopping there, feeling his warm, faint breath.
She held him like that, enjoying this moment of tenderness.
The room was quiet, only the hum of the air conditioner and their slow, interwoven breathing.
Everything was so quiet, so peaceful, as if they were truly a couple of lovers, embracing and sleeping on a lazy afternoon.
Thinking of this, Rika Kawasaki remembered her cheap sister who turned out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
That face somewhat similar to hers, those identical gray eyes, that little bitch who pretended to be sweet and obedient in front of her but secretly stole from her behind her back.
Her eyes darkened, but the corner of her mouth lifted in a meaningful curve.
An idea suddenly flashed through her mind.
She picked up her phone and opened the photo album.
She had taken quite a few photos this morning— the little man curled under the desk, the little man unconscious in the bathtub, the little man lying on the bed, and a few close-ups of him sleeping, his eyelashes wet, his lips slightly parted, fragile like a piece of delicate porcelain.
She selected the most ambiguous one—Kaoru Hoshitani with his eyes closed, leaning against her chest, her chin resting on the top of his head, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other holding up the phone for a selfie.
Her expression was satiated, triumphant, while he looked like a captive who had been thoroughly conquered and fallen into a deep sleep.
She sent this photo to Chinatsu Ayase, attaching a line of text:
“Your brother-in-law is here with me, sleeping soundly. Stop thinking about him.”