Kaoru Hoshitani slowly came to after being unconscious for nearly twenty minutes.
His consciousness seemed to float up from the very depths of a deep, deep pool, bit by bit, agonizingly slow.
His eyelids felt as heavy as lead. It took several attempts before he could barely pry them open a crack.
He blinked, his vision slowly focusing—the first thing that came into view was a patch of wheat-colored skin.
That color was so familiar, so familiar it made his heart clench violently, as if seized by an invisible hand.
It was a color kissed by years of sunlight, healthy, warm, carrying a wild, irresistible vitality.
Right now, that skin was pressed against the side of his face, so close he could see the fine texture, could feel the warmth of blood flowing beneath it, scalding like molten lava.
He instantly became aware of his current situation.
That tall, powerfully built body was enveloping his entire form in its embrace.
His back was pressed against her chest, his legs tangled with hers, his face buried in the crook of her neck—he was like a small animal caught in a predator’s jaws, with nowhere to escape, nowhere to hide.
Her arm was wrapped around his waist. The pressure wasn’t heavy, but it felt like an iron band, constricting him so he couldn’t even turn over.
Yet, for some reason, he could no longer muster even a shred of resistance against this powerful body.
That burning, all-out defiance that had once blazed in his chest, those struggles with gritted teeth, those slaps delivered with all his might—they were all like a fire doused by a heavy downpour, leaving only a pile of damp, smoldering ashes.
The main reason was perhaps that his repeated, overconfident rebellions had been mercilessly crushed, plunging him into utter despair.
Every time he thought he had finally gathered enough strength, thought he could finally say no, thought maybe this time he could escape—the result was always the same.
Her palm was always stronger than his, her body always heavier, her will always firmer.
He was like a moth flying into the flame, its wings singed, its body burned, yet still unable to escape the fire.
But was there another reason?
This thought slithered out from the deepest mire of his consciousness like a snake, coldly gliding through his mind. Kaoru Hoshitani didn’t dare think further.
He didn’t dare think about why, lying beside this scalding body that had once made him tremble with fear, he didn’t feel disgusted.
He didn’t dare think about why those touches that had once shamed him to the point of wishing for death no longer triggered his instinctive recoil.
He didn’t dare think about why his body seemed to have… grown accustomed.
‘So strong…’
His gaze fell on the smooth line of muscle on her arm, slightly raised beneath the skin, rising and falling with her breath like a slumbering beast.
His eyes followed that line upward, to her shoulder, to her collarbone, to that broad chest that could envelop his entire frame.
‘We’re both women, so why is the difference so vast… It’s like we’re two completely different species…’
He thought of Aina.
Aina’s body was softer, holding her was like holding a ball of cotton, warm and gentle.
Aina’s arms weren’t that thick, not that strong; when she held him, it was like a silk ribbon, light and soft, careful not to hurt him.
Aina’s body temperature wasn’t this high either, like warm water, not like this woman—like fire, like lava, like she could melt a person.
‘But why…’
His train of thought snagged here, as if tripped by something.
He wanted to shove that thought back, wanted to cram it into the deepest corner of his mind, bind it with chains, gag it with cloth—but it escaped on its own, like a bird that couldn’t be caged, fluttering up to the brightest spot in his mind:
‘But why… does it feel more peaceful now than it has these past few nights…’
These past few nights, he had barely slept.
Ever since Aina started looking at him with that gaze—that gaze full of doubt, scrutiny, as if weighing the truth of his every word.
He could no longer sleep well.
Every night, lying beside Aina, listening to her breathing, he could no longer find the sense of security he once had.
He didn’t know what she was thinking, didn’t know if she was doubting him again, didn’t know if she would suddenly ask a question he couldn’t answer.
He could only close his eyes, pretend to be asleep, wait for her breathing to become even, wait for her body to fully relax, and only then could he slightly relax.
But now, lying in the arms of this yellow-haired woman, it seemed he didn’t have to worry about so much anymore.
Because worrying was useless.
She wouldn’t ask him why he came home late, wouldn’t ask him why he deleted chat records from his phone, wouldn’t look at him with that heartbreaking gaze, waiting for him to spin one flawed lie after another.
She would only pin him down, tell him in that indisputable way—you are mine.
Rika Kawasaki would control everything within her grasp.
He just had to be obedient, just had to endure, didn’t need to think, didn’t need to struggle, didn’t need to toss and turn in the dead of night, wondering how to lie his way through tomorrow.
She would arrange everything for him.
Perhaps for a person like Kaoru Hoshitani, who lacked strong opinions, this made him feel more at ease.
This thought was like a needle, fine and light, pricking the softest part of his heart. It didn’t hurt, but it made him feel a little breathless.
And at that moment, Rika Kawasaki noticed the small man in her arms had woken up.
She looked down and saw those little deer eyes half-open, half-closed, their gaze falling on her collarbone, her shoulders, on those muscle lines she took pride in, full of power.
That gaze was somewhat unfocused, somewhat dazed, as if looking at something, yet seeing nothing.
He was still in a groggy state just after waking, soft and pliant against her chest, like a snowman melted by the sun.
She hooked the corner of her mouth, pinched his chin with her fingers, and gently lifted it.
The motion wasn’t forceful, but it carried an undeniable pressure, forcing him to lift his head and meet her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Her voice was low, husky, carrying a lazy satisfaction and a hint of teasing.
“Fucked stupid?”
Kaoru Hoshitani didn’t reply.
He just looked at her. Those eyes held no fear, no anger, not even that addictive, stubborn resistance that she craved.
They were empty, as if something had scooped out all emotion, leaving only a quiet, blank expanse of confusion.
Rika Kawasaki didn’t mind his silence.
She lifted his face, made him tilt his head back, exposing that stretch of fair neck still marked with red traces.
Then she lowered her head and captured his pink, slightly dehydrated lips.
This kiss wasn’t as savage as before.
No clashing of teeth, no forceful invasion of tongue, none of that ferocity that wanted to devour him whole.
She simply pressed her lips against his, gently, slowly rubbing.
Even so, the kiss was still intensely invasive.
With a slight pressure from her, his teeth parted automatically, utterly defenseless, utterly unguarded, as if he already knew resistance was futile, as if he had grown accustomed to this feeling.
When her tongue slipped in, he didn’t shrink back like before. He just moved his own tongue, lightly, almost subconsciously, to touch hers.
The motion was very light, so light it seemed accidental, so light it felt like a dream.
But Rika Kawasaki felt it.
She noticed the small man right before her closed his eyes.
His eyelashes were long, casting a small, fan-shaped shadow on his eyelids as they lowered, trembling slightly like two butterflies resting on flower petals, wings opening and closing, opening and closing.
He didn’t resist.
His body was soft, leaning against her chest, like a marshmallow melted by the sun, lips slightly parted, following her rhythm, gently, slowly responding.
That response was so faint, so faint it was almost imperceptible. But it was there.
Like a door that had been tightly shut for a long time, finally pushed open a crack, letting in a sliver of light.
When the long, ambiguous kiss ended, Rika Kawasaki wasn’t in a hurry to pull away.
She cupped his face. Those rough, calloused palms pressed against his delicate skin, moving his face away from her lips, making those little deer eyes still veiled with a misty haze meet her gray ones.
Her gaze fell on his face, on those slightly swollen lips, on the tear-stained corners of his eyes, on that face that had been tormented all morning, pale as a sheet of paper.
Her thumb gently stroked his cheekbone. The motion was light, slow, as if caressing a finally obtained, precious, fragile object.
Then she spoke.
No inquiry, no discussion, not even her usual teasing, mocking tone.
Her voice was low, steady, each word seeming to roll out from her chest, carrying an undeniable, absolute force.
“You are my man now.”
The tone was like stating an already established fact, like reading out a verdict already in effect.
It didn’t require his agreement, his nod, not even his response.
Because the answer had been determined from the start, from the moment she first pinned him down.
Kaoru Hoshitani looked at her, at those gray eyes, cold as a winter lake’s surface.
He had once seen his own reflection in those eyes—so small, so weak, so laughable.
Now, that reflection was still there, but it no longer struggled.
It lay there quietly, like a stone sunk to the bottom of the water, no longer trying to float up.
He could no longer defy her command.
Like a fish washed ashore, with no strength left to jump back into the sea.
It could only lie on the sand, mouth agape, waiting for the tide to sweep it away, or for the sun to dry it out.
His lips moved slightly, as if wanting to say something, or perhaps saying nothing at all.
In the end, he just gently closed his eyes.
Rika Kawasaki saw it. The corner of her mouth slowly curved upward. That curve held no triumph, no mockery, only a settled, steady satisfaction.
She lowered her head and pressed her lips against his forehead, placing a light kiss there.
The kiss was light, soft, like some ancient, sealing ritual.
From this moment on, he was hers.