The door to Akihiko Usami’s luxurious Tokyo apartment slammed open with the force of a typhoon, the sound reverberating through the book-cluttered space. Misaki Takahashi stormed in, his face a storm cloud of fury, clutching a stack of papers in his hand like a weapon. The faint scent of ink and Akihiko’s overpriced cologne hung in the air, only fueling Misaki’s irritation as he zeroed in on the man lounging on the couch like a smug cat.
“Akihiko, you absolute degenerate!” Misaki barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the lazy jazz drifting from the speakers. “What the hell is this garbage?” He thrust the manuscript forward, the pages fluttering like angry birds.
Akihiko, sprawled across the velvet cushions with a glass of red wine in hand, barely raised an eyebrow. His silver hair caught the dim light of the chandelier, and that infuriating grin curled his lips as he tilted his head. “Oh, Misaki, you’re home early. And so… spirited. Care to elaborate on what’s got you all riled up? Or is this just your way of saying hello?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, you smug bastard!” Misaki snapped, stomping over to the couch. “This—this trashy novel draft you left on the kitchen counter! A character named ‘Masato’ who just happens to be a short-tempered university student with green eyes and a penchant for cooking? Ring any bells, perv?”
Akihiko took a slow sip of his wine, his violet eyes glinting with amusement over the rim of the glass. “Hmm, sounds like a fascinating protagonist. But really, Misaki, it’s just fiction. You’re not suggesting I based it on someone real, are you? That’d be far too… personal.” His tone dripped with mock innocence, each word a deliberate jab.
Misaki’s cheeks flared red as he snatched the manuscript tighter, flipping to a dog-eared page. “Oh, yeah? Then explain this!” He cleared his throat, his voice taking on a mocking lilt as he read aloud. “‘Masato’s breath hitched as the older man’s hand slid down his trembling thigh, whispering promises of forbidden heat—’ Are you kidding me? What kind of twisted fantasy is this?”
Akihiko’s grin widened, and he set his wine glass down with a deliberate clink. Rising from the couch, he loomed over Misaki, his height casting a shadow that made the smaller man instinctively step back. “My, my, you sound so flustered, Misaki. Is it the words… or the thought of them?” His voice was a low, teasing purr, and he leaned in just close enough for Misaki to catch the faint scent of merlot on his breath.
Misaki shoved him back with both hands, though the push lacked real force. “Back off, you perverted old man! Your brain is a cesspool of creepy fantasies, and I’m not here to star in them!” His foot caught on a stray pile of books—because of course Akihiko’s apartment was a labyrinth of literary hazards—and he stumbled, arms flailing.
In a flash, Akihiko’s arm shot out, catching Misaki by the waist with a grip that was firm, possessive. He pulled him upright, close enough that their chests nearly brushed. “Careful now,” Akihiko murmured, his lips hovering near Misaki’s ear, his breath hot and deliberate. “Wouldn’t want you falling into my trap so easily… unless you’re eager to.”
Misaki squirmed free, his face now a full-on tomato as he staggered back, pointing an accusing finger. “Don’t even start with that nonsense! And speaking of traps, what’s with that creepy bunny obsession of yours?” He gestured wildly at the giant stuffed rabbit perched in the corner, its beady eyes staring like a silent voyeur. “It’s been watching me sleep for weeks, you weirdo!”
Akihiko let out a rich, unrestrained laugh, his head tipping back. “Oh, Misaki, don’t be so dramatic. Suzuki-san is a gentleman. And admit it—you secretly love him. Just like you secretly love… other things.” His gaze dropped pointedly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he stepped closer again.
Misaki’s jaw tightened, though his voice cracked with embarrassment as he tried to regain control. “Stop writing this weird crap about me, okay? I’m not your personal muse for… for whatever this is!” He waved the manuscript again, as if it were evidence in a courtroom.
Akihiko’s smirk softened into something dangerously seductive as he closed the gap once more. “If you hate reading it so much, why not act it out instead? I’m sure we could make the scenes far more… authentic.” His voice was a velvet caress, each word laced with suggestion.
Misaki sputtered, his words tripping over themselves. “Y-you shameless idiot! Do you ever think with anything other than—than whatever’s below your belt?” He didn’t step back this time, though, his body rigid with a mix of irritation and something else, something unspoken that flickered in his eyes.
The air between them crackled as Akihiko’s hand brushed against Misaki’s arm, the touch light but lingering, sending a shiver through the younger man. Akihiko’s gaze locked onto his, intense and unyielding. “Careful, Misaki. Keep looking at me like that, and I might take it as an invitation.”
Misaki broke the moment with a huff, turning on his heel and stomping toward the kitchen. “I’m making dinner to distract myself from this nonsense, so don’t even think about following me!” His hands shook slightly as he grabbed a knife from the block, the tremble betraying the storm of emotions beneath his bravado.
Akihiko, of course, followed anyway, leaning casually against the doorway with that ever-present smirk. “Look at you, so deliciously domestic. Careful, Misaki—I might start imagining you in an apron and nothing else.”
Misaki glared over his shoulder, knife poised mid-chop over a hapless carrot. “Shut up or starve, you insufferable creep. I’m not your personal chef, and I’m definitely not your fantasy plaything!” The words were sharp, but the heat in his cheeks and the way his eyes darted away told a different story.
As the rhythmic sound of chopping filled the kitchen, the unspoken attraction simmered beneath their banter, a quiet promise of more blunders—and traps—to come.
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