The weight of the key in the lock was a weight Y/n had come to dread.
Getou Suguru
You're home late.
He sat at the kitchen island, a cup of tea long gone cold between his palms. The television flickered soundless in the corner. Suguru didn't have the television on.
Getou Suguru
Satoru wanted me to wait up.
A beat.
He finally looked up.
Dark hair, dark eyes. The kind of face meant for altars and offerings. He was the most beautiful man Y/n had ever known, and his jaw tightened once, tracing the shape of it with that cold, distant gaze.
