[Sasaki Fuyumis Apartment, Meguro Ward— Saturday, 11:47 AM]
Ruri changed into a casual outfit—a loose cream blouse tucked halfway into high-waisted jeans—and hesitated outside her mother's kitchen. The air smelled of simmering miso and pickled radish, warm and familiar, the kind of scent that made lying feel worse.
"Mom, can I get a hundred yen for spending money? I'm heading out."
Her mother glanced up from the cutting board, knife pausing mid-slice. "Didn't I just give you allowance last week? How'd you burn through it already?"
Ruri shifted her weight, fingers curling around the hem of her blouse. "I, um… treated some classmates to bubble tea."
"Bubble tea is nothing but chemicals and tapioca starch. Don't drink so much of that stuff." Her mother wiped one hand on her apron and tapped her phone, transferring the money. "Here. Be home before dark."
"I will!"
Ruri fled the apartment before her guilt could show on her face.
---
The open-air market two blocks from the station bustled with its usual Saturday crowd—elderly women haggling over daikon, a fishmonger bellowing prices, the wet mineral smell of ice and fresh mackerel mingling with charcoal smoke from a yakitori stand. Ruri moved through the stalls quickly, filling a cloth bag with ingredients: spring onions, silken tofu, thinly sliced pork belly, a bundle of shiso leaves. She paid without bargaining and checked the address on her phone one more time.
The map led her away from the commercial streets and into a quieter residential block lined with modest apartment buildings, their balconies draped with drying laundry. Sasaki Fuyumis place sat on the fourth floor of a concrete mid-rise—unremarkable from the outside, beige walls, narrow corridor, the faint hum of someone's television bleeding through a neighboring door.
Ruri stood before his door. Her reflection stared back at her in the dark peephole, distorted and small. She swallowed, adjusted the grocery bag on her arm, and pressed the doorbell.
The latch clicked almost immediately, as though he'd been waiting.
Sasaki Fuyumi filled the doorframe—tall, unhurried, one shoulder leaning against the jamb. His dark hair was still slightly damp, pushed back from his forehead, and he wore a plain black t-shirt that pulled across his chest and shoulders with effortless precision. His eyes found her and didn't leave.
He looked her over. Slowly. Deliberately. Starting at her sneakers, climbing the fitted denim that hugged her thighs, lingering at the waist where the blouse tucked in, and then settling—without a shred of subtlety—on her chest. Ruri's bust strained against the soft cotton, the fabric curving outward in a generous, unmistakable arc. No matter how plain the outfit, there was no concealing the sheer volume of her figure there, the way the blouse stretched taut across that heavy, rounded swell before draping looser beneath.
His gaze stayed fixed, openly admiring, the kind of stare that had weight to it.
A chill crawled up Ruri's spine despite the warm afternoon. She crossed both arms over her chest, pressing the fabric flat. "Could you maybe act like a normal person?"
Sasaki Fuyumis expression cooled. "Are you telling me what to do?"
Her defiance crumbled instantly. Her shoulders sagged, her voice shrinking to a murmur. "I was just… suggesting. That it's not… great."
He snorted. "A man looking at a woman's chest is the most natural thing in the world. It's hardwired—coded right into the DNA. Take that instinct away and men lose interest in women entirely. Then what? Humanity goes extinct. You want to be responsible for the extinction of the species?"
Ruri's head spun. She'd only asked him to stop being a creep, and somehow they'd arrived at the survival of mankind. But she'd already catalogued the full breadth of Sasaki Fuyumis shamelessness over the past few encounters, and arguing with him was like headbutting a concrete wall. She let out a defeated breath. "Sure. You're right."
"Good." He nodded, satisfied. "So you agree with my reasoning, and you're no longer opposed to me looking at your chest. Going forward, I'll be devoting even more attention to that area. Come inside. Close the door behind you."
He turned and walked back into the apartment before she could get a single word out.
Ruri stood frozen on the threshold. Then the meaning of what he'd said caught up to her and her face ignited—cheeks, ears, the bridge of her nose, all of it flushing a vivid cherry-blossom pink. She slapped both palms over her chest and glared daggers at his retreating back. How had that turned into her agreeing to let him ogle her? The shameless, insufferable—
She fumed silently for a full ten seconds, fists trembling at her sides. Then, with the resignation of a prisoner walking to the gallows, she stepped inside and shut the door.
Her legs felt unsteady beneath her. A deep, instinctive alarm kept pulsing at the base of her skull: today is going to go badly.
---
The apartment was cleaner than she'd expected—minimal furniture, a low couch, bookshelves lining one wall, the faint scent of cedar and laundry detergent hanging in the still air. Afternoon light fell through half-open blinds in warm diagonal bars across the wooden floor.
"Kitchen's over there." Sasaki Fuyumitilted his chin toward a narrow galley kitchen visible past the living area. "Get to it. I'm hungry."
Ruri felt a small measure of relief. Cooking she could handle. She carried the grocery bag into the kitchen and took stock of the space—clean countertops, a two-burner gas stove, a compact rice cooker already plugged in. She set the ingredients out in a neat row and began rinsing the spring onions under cold water.
Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
She turned. Sasaki Fuyumi stood directly behind her, close enough that she could smell him—clean soap layered over something warmer, something distinctly him, like sun-heated skin. Her body went rigid, every muscle locking.
"What are you doing?"
He smiled. It was the kind of smile that preceded disaster. "Relax. I'm not going to do anything to you. It's just—you came all this way to cook for me, and I feel a little guilty about it. I wanted to give you a gift."
The word gift hit Ruri like a cold splash of water. The last "gift" situation had ended with her panties in his pocket. She shook her head rapidly. "No, that's really not necessary! Actually, I just wanted to practice my cooking. Your kitchen is more convenient than mine. You're doing me the favor."
As she spoke, she turned to face him fully and pressed her backside flush against the edge of the sink counter, as though shielding it behind a barricade. The cool stainless steel lip dug into the swell of her rear through the denim.
Sasaki Fuyumi noticed the maneuver. His dark eyes flicked down to where her hips met the counter, then back to her face, and something knowing flickered behind his gaze.
"How about this," he said, voice mild. "I'll just give you my autograph. That way it's nothing expensive, and you won't feel bad accepting."
An autograph? Ruri relaxed slightly. Then immediately scoffed internally. Who wants your autograph? You think you're some kind of celebrity? Like you're Gojo Satoru or something?
But she didn't dare say any of that. It was only a signature. Harmless. And refusing might push him past his patience.
After careful deliberation, she nodded. "Fine. But after I finish cooking."
"So you agree to accept my autograph?"
A prickle of unease. She couldn't identify why. It was just a signature—what could possibly go wrong with a signature? She nodded again. "Yes. I agree."
Sasaki Fuyumi's lips curved into a smile that reached his eyes in all the wrong ways—slow, layered, the kind of expression a fox might wear if foxes could smile. He produced a black felt-tip marker from seemingly nowhere, uncapping it with his thumb in one smooth motion.
"The thing is, I can't wait until after dinner." His tone was perfectly conversational. "I want to give it to you now. So go ahead and take your jeans off."
"—What? Take off my jeans?!" Ruri lurched backward, her lower back hitting the faucet. "Why would I take off my jeans for an autograph?! What are you actually trying to do?!"
His smile widened, bright and utterly unrepentant. "Because I want to sign your thigh."
Ruri's scalp prickled with alarm, every nerve firing at once. She'd been tricked again—led step by step into a verbal trap until she'd already said yes before understanding what she'd agreed to. Her eyes darted toward the kitchen doorway, calculating the distance, but Sasaki Fuyumis tall frame blocked the only exit, one arm resting casually against the doorframe. There was nowhere to go.
Her heart sank like a stone dropped into dark water.
He stepped closer. His voice softened to something almost gentle, the way one might coax a frightened animal. "Just take them off. I promise—I only want to sign your thigh. I won't do anything else."
Ruri's lower lip trembled. Her back pressed harder against the counter's edge, fingers white-knuckled around the rim. "You swore last night you wouldn't bully me anymore."
Sasaki Fuyumi paused mid-step. He tilted his head and studied her with genuine curiosity. She wasn't stupid—he'd broken promises to her multiple times now. Why did she keep believing him?
She still trusts oaths, he thought. Interesting.
Then Ruri's expression shifted. The fear didn't leave entirely, but something else crept in beneath it—her cheeks darkened to a deep rose, and she averted her gaze, fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. When she spoke, her voice was small, almost shy.
"Sasaki you don't have to do things like this to get my attention. If you actually like me, you could just—ask me out. Properly. I wouldn't… I mean, it's not like I couldn't… consider it."
Ah. Understanding clicked into place behind his eyes. She thinks this is some grade-school courtship tactic—the boy who pulls pigtails because he doesn't know how to say he has a crush. It was a common enough framework for adolescent behavior: teasing as affection, cruelty as confession. Ruri had filed him into that category, and now she was offering him a graceful exit.
Cute, he thought. Genuinely cute.
He blinked, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch hope flicker across her face. Then:
"But I still want to sign Ruri-san's thigh. Because once I do, you'll belong to me."
Ruri's mouth twitched. What kind of elementary school logic is that? But she swallowed the retort, settling for a pout instead. "Even so—you can't make me take my jeans off in front of you. How am I supposed to face anyone after that?"
Sasaki Fuyumi stroked his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "So what you're saying is… you don't mind the autograph itself. You just don't want to remove your jeans. Is that right?"
Ruri seized on the compromise like a lifeline, nodding vigorously. "Exactly! You can sign a notebook or something. I'll keep it safe, I promise."
Liar, he thought, watching the transparent relief flood her features.
He pretended to consider this for a long moment, then sighed with theatrical resignation. "Alright. You don't have to take your jeans off."
Joy surged through Ruri's chest—short-lived, because in the same fluid motion, Sasaki Fuyumi produced a pair of scissors from the kitchen counter behind her, the blades catching a slant of afternoon light. His grin turned feline, sharp-edged and gleaming.
"I'll just cut a hole in them instead."
Before the words fully registered, he dropped into a crouch. His left hand caught the outside of her right thigh to hold her steady—fingers warm even through the denim, pressing into the firm give of her leg—and with two quick, precise snips, the scissors carved a ragged oval into the jeans high on her inner thigh.
Dangerously high.
The cut fabric curled back to reveal a window of bare skin, pale and impossibly smooth, the faint blue trace of a vein visible beneath the surface. And just above the torn edge, where denim met the crease of her hip, a sliver of fabric peeked through—soft cotton, a shade of pastel pink.
Cool air kissed the exposed flesh.
Ruri felt the chill a full second before her brain processed what had happened. She looked down. A patch of her thigh glowed white under the kitchen's fluorescent light, framed by frayed denim threads, the hint of her underwear's color unmistakable at the hole's upper margin.
Her jaw dropped. Her hands flew to the torn opening, pressing the flaps of denim closed, fingertips meeting warm bare skin underneath.
"Sasaki Fuyumi YOU ABSOLUTE PERVERT!"
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