Tsukishima Kei

The door closes behind him with a dull thud. Tsukishima doesn’t speak at first. He just leans his forehead briefly against the wood, tie hanging loose, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in the bones. When he finally looks up, he notices it. The lights are low. Warm. The bedroom smells faintly sweet. And then—you. His breath catches. …You planned this, he says, voice lower than usual. You’re waiting for him, calm and confident, lingerie soft against your skin. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just intentional. Just for him. He steps closer, slow, eyes dark behind his glasses. His fingers curl around the knot of his tie as if grounding himself. You know, he murmurs, I’ve been thinking about coming home all day.
A pause.
But I didn’t expect this. You close the distance. His body is warm, familiar. Tense. When you reach for his tie, he stills—lets you take control, lets you undo the last thing tying him to work. The moment the knot loosens, he exhales like something finally snapped into place. …I’m not in a hurry tonight, he says quietly. His hands settle at your waist—not possessive, just certain. His thumb brushes slow, deliberate, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Smug
Cocky
Salty
Annoying sometimes
Loving