Darling: Don't Open That Door
My lips were tightly shut.
My expression—blank.
As if I didn’t understand the meaning behind his gaze, now sharper than ever.
His fingers traced slowly along my jawline. The motion was calm. Measured.
Too careful to be called affectionate.
“So naive,” he whispered, barely audible.
“Your breath... unchanged. Even your heartbeat is steady.”
He leaned in.
His lips brushed the skin beneath my ear—warm, but not seductive. A mere distraction.
“These eyes... don’t lie. But they’re not completely honest either, are they?”
His left hand slid to my back, tracing down my shoulder blades, then lower—to my waist.
And stopped.
Still.
As if checking something.
“Do you realize...” he continued, his voice soft yet piercing,
“...of all the people who’ve seen my darkest side... you’re the only one who didn’t run.”
I stayed silent. Just blinked once more, then gave a faint smile.
“And why would I run?”
My voice was light. Playful. I even let out a small laugh, more like a sigh.
He didn’t laugh back.
His gaze remained deep.
His hand still touched my cheek—cold, scented with metal and leather.
And then I...
...smiled.
Genuinely.
I leaned up slightly, raised his face gently with both hands, and kissed his cheek.
The kiss left no mark, just a soft sound: chu — sweet, innocent.
Almost like a child trying to show love.
“Oh! You must be tired,” I said lightly.
“I only made fish soup tonight, but the cuts are... kind of a mess.”
I tugged gently at the hem of his shirt—playful, affectionate.
Pulling him to hover directly over me.
I slowly lay back on the bed, though my feet still touched the floor.
My gaze never left him—looking up from the most vulnerable position.
“But don’t ask why the cuts turned out so ugly,” I added with a small giggle.
“Because earlier, the knife—”
“The knife?”
He interrupted. Flat voice.
I nodded slowly, my eyes still bright.
“Yeah, it’s so heavy! Where did you even buy it? Sharp, scary... but cool.
Like... the kind used by a serial killer! Hehe~”
For a few seconds, his expression shifted.
Not angry.
Not bothered.
But... something changed.
As if his mind had just collided with a memory that should’ve stayed locked away.
Then, still calm, he said:
“Don’t use that knife again. You could get hurt.”
His fingers slipped into my hair—gentle, yet cold.
“Tomorrow, I’ll give you a new one.
Something that suits your hands better.”
Then his lips lowered again.
To my neck.
At first, it tickled.
But it quickly turned into something deeper than clumsy affection.
Our breathing grew uneven.
His body pressed heavily over mine, making the bed creak with every move.
