SEVENTH KNOT
The studio smells like rain-soaked wood and incense, but the door doesn’t budge when I shove it. I growl under my breath and check the fucking handle again, like maybe I’ve missed something, like maybe it’ll magically know who I am and slide open.
It doesn’t.
There’s a note taped to the inside of the glass, something polite in neat brush strokes, but I don’t read it. I already know what it says. My appointment was yesterday, and yesterday I was busy cracking some fucker’s teeth into a curb and bleeding all over Ryo’s sheets.
I pace once, fists tight, fury curling up my spine—an itch I can’t scratch. But walking away isn’t happening.
I look up. The light above the studio glows low and amber, warm against the grey sky. Yeah, fuck it.
The narrow stairway tucked beside the studio groans under my boots, each protesting creak echoing in the cramped alley. At the top, a single flimsy door. I hammer on it—three rapid knocks that rattle the frame. Silence. I slam my fist harder, the sound loud and demanding against the thin wood.
The door opens slowly, and Naoya stands there barefoot, wearing a loose white shirt and dark, soft-looking pants. No pristine kimono. Nothing structured, nothing formal. He looks good.
“Arakawa-san,” he says, voice as level as ever. “You were meant to come yesterday.”
“No shit,” I snarl, shouldering my way forward until he blocks me with just the line of his body. “I got held up.”
“Held up?”
“Work.”
He studies me for a breath. Then he just sighs and starts to close the door. I slam my palm against it.
“I need this.”
“You missed your time.”
“Ineedthis.”
His gaze flickers over me, then it shifts, catching on something on my neck. Iknowwhat he’s seeing.
Slowly, he steps forward, his fingers reaching out and pulling the neck of my shirt aside, exposing the high, red impression of last night’s rope, bruised and tender. The edge of his thumb brushes just under it.
“You did this to yourself?”
“Friend did.”
His eyes lift to mine.
“A man?”
I blink.
“Hm… yeah. How the fu—?”
“Did he fuck you?”
For a second, something flares up in my chest—reflexive and automatic. Usually, someone asking me shit like that would be reason enough to slam their face into a wall and walk away humming. But this isn’t some asshole talking shit. It’shim.
It’s himdemandingan answer.
“Yes,” I say.
“Did you like it?”
“Yeah.”
