Chapter 7 - “Just Thirsty”

I felt his gaze before I met it, heavy enough to raise the hairs on my arms. When I turned, the last rays of light caught me, and for a heartbeat, his eyes stayed—unblinking, unreadable. Something flickered there, sharp enough to make me forget the horizon. Then he shook his head, looking away as if nothing had happened, bending back to his work. My chest tightened with a question I didn’t dare ask.

I told myself, just imagining it. But even as the sky bled indigo and I muttered, “Ah—damn. Zoned out again,” I could still feel it—his attention, heavy and close.

—-

Hours slipped by, and soon we sat at the mini bar, glasses in hand. The villa’s silence pressed closer in this room than anywhere else. Bottles lined the shelves, but Asami reached for one in particular, dust coating its shoulders.

“This one’s been here forever,” Asami said, uncorking the bottle with more reverence than he meant to show.

“When I was a kid, I tried sneaking down here once. Got caught. My father nearly tore my ear off.” He laughed, but the sound was rough, as if the memory was sharper than he wanted to admit.

Ichinose smiled faintly, fingers curled around his own glass. “Figures. I remember hiding in this cellar during games… babysitting you more often than not. You were a menace.”

Asami poured, lips quirking. “So says the one who tattled every time I tried something fun.”

“I didn’t tattle.” Ichinose shot him a look, heat creeping into his cheeks. “I just… kept you alive.”

“Alive and miserable,” Asami teased back, but the corner of his mouth softened. “Guess I owe you for that.”

Their glasses clinked softly, the sound lingering in the quiet room.

Ichinose lifted his glass for a sip, wincing at the sharpness. “It’s bitter.”

“You don’t sip it like juice,” Asami murmured, eyes fixed on him with something more than amusement. He reached out, fingers brushing Ichinose’s wrist as he adjusted the angle of the glass.

“Slow. Let it sit. It’s supposed to burn a little.”

Ichinose froze at the touch, pulse jumping. He brought the glass to his lips again, this time letting it rest on his tongue. The heat spread slowly, blooming in his chest.

“Mm. Still bitter.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Asami leaned back, swirling his own glass.

Then, softer: “You get used to anything if it stays long enough.”

Something in his tone made Ichinose glance over. The light caught Asami’s profile—shadows at his jaw, the faint strain around his eyes. Without thinking, Ichinose said quietly,

“You shouldn’t have to get used to things that hurt.”

Asami blinked, turning to him. For a moment, their gazes held—unspoken words crowding the silence.

Ichinose shifted quickly, hiding behind his glass. “Anyway. Babysitting you was harder than this wine.”

The smallest laugh slipped from Asami, low and genuine. “And yet you still stayed.”

“Against my better judgment.” Ichinose tried for sharpness, but his voice betrayed him, softer than he intended.

“Mm.” Asami’s lips curved, slow and knowing. He lifted his glass in a lazy salute. “Then I guess I’ll drink to your terrible judgment.”

Ichinose clinked his glass against his, trying not to smile. “Don’t drink too much—you’re already impossible sober.”

The spark in Asami’s eyes was unmistakable now, a heat that had nothing to do with the wine.

I wonder why he says that while I try to learn how to taste this wine properly.

Asami leaned back, watching him with that unreadable half-smile. “Not bad for your first time.”

Ichinose rolled his eyes, grasping at annoyance like a shield. “It’s wine, not street-fight. Don’t make it sound like an accomplishment.”

“Everything with you feels like an accomplishment,” Asami said quietly, almost to himself. The words slipped out, and for a bit too long, neither of them looked away.

The air between them grew thick, heady with the weight of things unsaid.

Asami poured the wine into my glass once more, his fingers brushing mine when he passed it over. Too deliberate to be an accident.

“Thanks,” I said, a little too quickly, like the glass might burn me if I held it any longer.

Before I could take a sip, he leaned closer. “You know, wine isn’t like beer. Twice the alcohol, at least. You can’t just gulp it down.” His eyes lingered on me—watchful, amused.

I raised the glass anyway. “So you’re saying I should be afraid?”

“No,” he smirked. “I’m saying you should show it respect.”

The first sip went down rough, burning in my throat. I coughed, trying not to look like an idiot. “Sweet, but sharp. Like you, maybe.”

He laughed—rich, low. “Careful. Compliments slip easier with wine.”

“Who said it was a compliment?” I shot back, but my ears were hot.

He plucked a cracker from the plate and held it out to me. “Here. Cleanse your poor palate before you embarrass yourself further.”

I hesitated, then took it from his hand, our fingers brushing again. “You really enjoy making me feel like a rookie, don’t you Asami?” without a thought I blurt out his name without his title. Feel heat on my ear and back of my neck.

“Maybe.” His gaze flicked to my mouth, then back up. “Or maybe I just like watching you squirm.”

I rolled my eyes, though my pulse betrayed me. “You sound like this wine—too strong, too old, too full of yourself.”

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning in, “you’re still drinking.”

I swallowed, not sure if it was the cracker or my own restraint stuck in my throat. “Maybe I don’t know when to quit.”

His smile softened, almost tender. “That’s what worries me.”

The words sat heavy in my chest. I set the glass down, afraid my hands might betray the way they shook. The wine had left a warmth in my throat, but what lingered was sharper—him. The silence pressed closer than the alcohol, and when Asami finally turned away, it wasn’t to leave me. It was only to reach for something stronger.

Asami’s back was turned as he poured the whiskey, the lines of his shoulders sharper than I remembered. He wasn’t the little boy I’d once known. When did he become…like this? Broad, composed, too handsome for my peace of mind. The thought startled a laugh out of me—quiet, under my breath.

But when I looked up, he was already watching me. I froze, heat crawling up my neck. When had he finished pouring?

Asami handed me the glass, his fingers brushing mine longer than necessary.

“Don’t gulp it this time,” he murmured, eyes narrowing.

I smirked to cover my nerves. “What, are you keeping score?”

“Always,” he said. “You make it too easy.”

I rolled the whiskey across my tongue, slower this time. Heat bloomed in my chest.

“Much better?” he said with a smirking smile, leaning back.

“You almost look like you know what you’re doing.” Asami added.

“Almost?” I lifted a brow.

He grinned. “You still frown when you swallow.”

I choked on a laugh. “Maybe that’s just my face.”

“Oh…. Unlikely.” His gaze lingered, unblinking. “Your face is… distracting.”

The words tangled in my throat. I forced a playful tone. “You’ve had one sip too many.”

“And yet,” he said softly, “I haven’t even started.”

I raised my glass. “Then catch up.”

He clinked his against mine, his knuckles grazing my skin. “Careful what you wish for.”

I met his eyes. “Maybe I like dangerous wishes.”

His smile curved, slow and knowing. “That explains why you’re here with me.”

I laughed too quickly. “Or maybe I was just thirsty.”

“You’re thirsty, all right,” he teased, voice dipping low.

My breath hitched, heat flooding my cheeks. “I meant for whiskey.”

“Mm.” He sipped, watching me over the rim. “Sure you did.”

The silence stretched, heavy, until I muttered, “You enjoy torturing me, don’t you?”

He leaned in, close enough I caught the warmth of his breath. “No. I enjoy watching you fight yourself.”

The line stole the air from my lungs. I tried to laugh it off, but when I pushed back from the chair, the floor tilted beneath me. Too fast. Too much.

I reached for balance, but his hand was there first, catching my arm before I even swayed. His grip slid lower, firm at my waist, steadying me with a patience I didn’t deserve. The closeness burned worse than the whiskey.

Asami’s arm was still at my waist when he eased me onto the bed. I sank against the mattress, my head light, but not so far gone I didn’t feel the heat of his body beside mine. His hand lingered at the small of my back as though he couldn’t decide whether to steady me… or hold me.

“You should sleep,” he said, voice low, steady. But his thumb brushed, slow, against my side. Too deliberate. Too careful.

“I said I’m fine,” I muttered, though my weight leaned shamelessly into him.

“Of course you are,” he answered, his tone maddeningly soft.

He didn’t argue further, just guided me step by step, his arm a band around me. Each stair creaked beneath us, but all I heard was his breath near mine, steady where mine stumbled. By the time he opened the door, I wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey or him making my head spin.

“You keep saying that,” I murmured, tilting my head up, “but you don’t move away.”

His eyes flicked to my lips. Just for a second. But enough. My breath hitched, loud in the silence between us.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered, like it was a warning for himself more than me.

“Then don’t.” My voice was softer than I intended, stripped bare.

The corner of his mouth curved—pained, hungry, restrained. He leaned in, close enough that the warmth of his breath skimmed my cheek. Close enough that I could count the tiny flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how hard it is to stop here?”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Maybe I don’t want you to go yet.”

His jaw tensed, his hand sliding higher, brushing just under my jaw, his thumb ghosting the corner of my mouth. I froze, caught between leaning forward and fleeing, my heart hammering so loud it drowned everything else.

The space between us shrank to nothing but air and want. His lips hovered over mine—so close I swore I felt the faintest graze, a promise more than a touch.

My eyes fluttered half-shut. The world tilted, waiting.

Then he drew back, just an inch, his hand still holding my jaw like it hurt to let go.

“Not like this, Ichinose. Not when you won’t remember clearly tomorrow.”

His hand slipped from my jaw, leaving the ghost of his touch burning along my skin. The space between us filled with everything unsaid, heavy and suffocating. I wanted to drag him back down, to close the inch he’d left, but my body betrayed me—too heavy, too slow.

He tugged the blanket up over me instead, his fingers brushing my temple as if that could soothe the ache he’d just carved.

“Sleep, Ichinose,” he murmured, voice strained, “before I forget myself.”

The door clicked shut behind him, but the heat he left behind clung to me like fire under my skin.

The restraint in his voice shredded me. I wanted to beg, to erase the gap between us. Instead I whispered, hoarse, “Coward.”

His laugh was soft, wrecked, and far too fond. “Maybe. But I’d rather you curse me sober.”

For one fragile second, that forehead brushed mine—warm, fleeting—before he finally pulled away.

The absence of him was unbearable.

To be continued….