Chapter 2: Twenty-Five Minutes & Fake Fevers
The sunlight in our Azabu-Juban penthouse had a way of being persistent, but I had developed a world-class defense mechanism: Yami's chest.
At 7:45 AM, the curtains were doing their best to filter the glare, but a stray beam caught the edge of the duvet. I shifted, sinking my face deeper into the soft swell of Yami's warmth. The duvet was a heavy, expensive cloud over us, trapping the heat of our bodies. I was shirtless, the cool air hitting my back whenever I moved, but Yami was wearing my oversized black tee—the one that smelled like my cologne and her jasmine hair oil. The hem had ridden up her thighs in her sleep, exposing the soft, pale skin I loved to map out with my hands.
I started my morning rounds. I pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, my lips brushing the soft curve of her skin. My hand found its usual home, cupping the side of her breast through the thin fabric of the tee. My thumb began a lazy, rhythmic circle, feeling the nipple pebble under the cotton.
Yami let out a long, sleepy hum—a sound that was half-protest, half-invitation. Her fingers, delicate and cool, slid into my messy hair, scratching my scalp in a way that made my brain melt.
"Puppy…" she whispered, her voice thick with sleep. "We have work. You have to be a villain, remember?"
"Twenty-five minutes, baby," I mumbled against her skin, my voice vibrating into her chest. I wasn't going anywhere. I was the king of this kingdom, and my throne was made of silk and Dior-scented skin.
I heard her let out a fond, weary sigh. "You said that thirty minutes ago, Kai. The director is going to have your head."
I snuggled deeper, my nose rubbing side-to-side against her. I nipped softly at her collarbone, just enough to make her breath hitch. "Don't you love me? Are you choosing a green-screen palace over your husband?"
"Fine…" she murmured, her grip on my hair tightening as she pulled me closer. "Only twenty-five minutes. And then we are actually getting up."
I didn't plan on keeping that promise. I moved my head up, my lips finding the sensitive pulse point on her neck. I sucked lightly, the familiar heat blooming in my chest as I left a faint pink mark—a little souvenir for her to remember me by during her fitting. My hand slipped under the tee, my palm flat against her bare, warm stomach before sliding up to cup her breast fully. I kneaded the soft weight gently, my thumb flicking her nipple until she arched her back slightly, a happy, broken sigh escaping her lips.
Our legs tangled under the duvet, skin-on-skin, as she tilted her head back to give me better access. She leaned down, catching my lips in a slow, deep kiss. Our tongues brushed lazily, tasting like morning and shared secrets. Twenty-five minutes didn't just pass; they evaporated into a haze of soft bites, roaming hands, and the kind of quiet intimacy that made the rest of Tokyo feel like a blurry background.
The Great Sabotage
By 8:30 AM, the "twenty-five minutes" had been renewed twice. Yami finally reached for her phone, the blue light of the screen cutting through our dim cocoon.
"I'm taking a leave," she announced suddenly.
I lifted my head from her chest, blinking like a confused owl. "What? The Fetico show? You said the director was a shark."
She smirked, her thumbs flying across the screen. "Watch me."
She showed me the screen. To her director: "Fallen highly sick today. My fiancé is having a hard time taking care of me. It's a bad one. Can we reschedule?"
Not even two minutes later, the reply chirped back. It was her director in full "empathy mode": "Oh no, Yami-chan! Please don't push yourself. Take care of that health. Arrive tomorrow or the day after when you feel better. We'll manage!"
I stared at the phone, then at her. "You're a professional liar. I'm terrified of you."
"Your turn," she said, wiggling her eyebrows. "Puppy looks a little flushed, doesn't he?"
I grinned, nuzzling back into her chest, my hands finding their way back under her shirt. "Message for me too. Puppy wants a holiday."
Yami giggled, typing away to my director: "Kai has a dangerously high fever. I'm taking care of him right now—he can't even hold his phone properly to message you. He's totally out of it."
The response from my director was immediate and predictably aggressive: "I told that brat not to drink cold stuff on set! See what happens? He's always acting like a kid. Fine—tell him to stay in bed and not to die. Come back in two days, at least."
I let out a bark of laughter against her skin. "Perfect. I'm 'dangerously ill.' I think I need more chest therapy to recover."
We tossed both phones onto the nightstand like they were radioactive. I pulled the blanket over our heads, creating a dark, private world. I hoisted her on top of me, her weight a perfect pressure against my chest. I buried my face back into her, kissing and nuzzling every inch of skin I could reach while she stroked my back, her nails leaving faint, pleasurable trails down my spine.
Breakfast & The Cake Heist
It was nearly 10:00 AM before the lure of sugar finally forced us into the kitchen. Yami, still in my black tee, was humming as she moved around the marble island. She kept it simple: a steaming cup of green tea for my "fever," a matcha latte for her, and a massive slice of leftover strawberry shortcake her parents had brought over from their Shibuya café.
We didn't sit at the dining table. We never did. We ended up on the sofa, her legs draped over my lap while I kept one arm firmly anchored around her waist.
"Open up, sick boy," she teased, holding a spoonful of cake to my lips.
I took the bite, then leaned forward to kiss her fingers, licking a stray bit of cream off her knuckle. She flushed—a beautiful, dusty rose color that always made me want to tease her more.
She turned her attention to her phone, doom-scrolling through Instagram to see what her model friends were doing at the fittings she was currently skipping. I saw my opening.
I leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her left cheek. "My love," I whispered.
She beamed, her eyes still on the screen but her smile widening. "So cute, puppy. You're being very sweet today."
I kissed her other cheek, my voice dropping an octave. "My beautiful wife."
"Baby…" she giggled, her shoulders shrugging up. She was completely flustered, her guard totally down.
While she was basking in the affection, I pivoted. I lunged for the plate, taking a massive, ungentlemanly bite of her cake—at least half the remaining slice.
She blinked, looking down at the empty space on her plate. "You... you scammer!"
She set the plate down with a dramatic clack and started raining "punches" on my chest and shoulders. They were cute, light thumps that didn't hurt at all, but I played along, recoiling like she'd actually wounded me.
"Assassination!" I cried out, laughing as I caught her wrists. I pulled her forward, hoisting her into my lap so she was straddling me. "Compensation. I need compensation for the assault."
I kissed her cheek again, then caught her lips in a sweet, slow kiss that tasted like strawberries and victory. She melted against me, her forehead resting against mine.
"I want to cuddle more," she pouted, her eyes fixed on mine. "Don't go anywhere."
I checked the clock. "I have plans with Haru and the boys later. I need to be out by six."
Yami's face dropped instantly into a world-class pout. "Me or the plans, Kai? Choose carefully."
I didn't hesitate. I looked her dead in the eye, my face a mask of villainous coldness. "Plans."
She gasped, clutching her chest as if I'd driven a sword through it. "You monster! You don't care about little old me? After I lied to your director?"
I didn't answer with words. I scooped her up princess-style, making her squeak in surprise, and carried her back to the sofa. I sat down and pulled the plush blanket over both of us, effectively trapping her.
"I'll leave by six, okay love?" I murmured, kissing her nose. "Until then, you have my undivided attention."
Yami snuggled into my chest, her head finding that perfect spot under my chin. "Fine, puppy. But only because you're sick."
We stayed tangled there for hours. The "sick leave" was the best decision we'd made all month. My hands wandered back under her tee, cupping her breasts with a gentle, possessive rhythm, my thumbs brushing the tips until I heard her breath hitch in the quiet room. I spent the afternoon biting her neck, leaving marks that would definitely need concealer tomorrow, while she scratched my back and whispered instructions for my night out.
"Wear the full black t-shirt," she murmured, her voice dazed as she leaned into my touch. "The white pants. The white Nikes. And keep your hair messy. Oh, and the glasses—the ones that make you look like an intellectual jerk. It's a good aesthetic for you."
I smirked, nipping at her earlobe. "Yes, wife. Anything else?"
"Just come home to me," she whispered, her hands tightening on my shoulders as I pulled her closer, the Tokyo skyline outside irrelevant compared to the heat of the woman in my arms.