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I make a deeply offended sound and pull the blanket a little higher, even though that should be physically impossible at this point.

“You’re shy,” he says.

“I’m not shy.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses me properly this time. When he pulls back, his forehead brushes mine.

“I’ll let you get dressed,” he murmurs as he kisses my temple, then stands and finally leaves me alone with my dignity, or what’s left of it.

The second the door shuts, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Then I yank the blanket down and just stare at myself.

There are marks everywhere.

Some of them are from my usual torture sessions.

But not all of them.

Kento left his own.

These are different.

His.

I look at them, and then I smile a little, but I kill the expression immediately and start getting dressed.

By the time I make it downstairs, Kento is already in the kitchen.

There is light spilling over the counters and the sound of something sizzling in a pan.

I stop in the doorway and just look at him.

He has his back half-turned to me, sleeves pushed up, one hand on a pan, the other reaching for something on the counter. Domestic in a way that feels so violently out of character for him that my brain briefly stops working.

I shift my weight, too aware of my body again. “Why are you cooking?” I ask.

He turns the stove down, arranges the food on the table, and faces me more fully. “Because you need to eat.”

I scoff to hide my blush, but instead of tormenting me properly, he just says, “Come here.”

I narrow my eyes, but I obey, and the second I get close enough, his hand settles at my waist.

I tense, more from habit than fear, but his touch stays careful, and then he pulls me in until I’m standing close to him. Before I can ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, he lifts me.

I make a scandalized noise. “Kento—”

And the next thing I know, I’m on his lap while he sits down.

This feels weird.

I don’t know what to do with weird.

My hands hover awkwardly before settling on his shoulders, mostly because I need something to do with them besides cling. I’m not clinging.

There are eggs, toast, some kind of soft potatoes with herbs, fruit cut neatly on the side.

“You made all this?”

“Mm.”