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Never did you imagine flying to Vegas for your sister’s destination wedding.
In the calm before the storm—specifically, the blessed silence before the bridal suite is inevitably swallowed by the chaos of the pre-wedding party—your sister is having a full-fledged meltdown over a chipped acrylic nail. Nothing major, just a single rhinestone missing, and you’d think she just received news of an apocalyptic event. Kami-sama, please, help her husband to be.
“I knew I should’ve gone to that other nail bar, I knew it!” she wails, cradling her hand like she’s been personally victimized.
You glance at the tiny, barely noticeable chip and then back at her. “Right. This is exactly how civilizations fall.”
Yuka ignores your sarcasm, dramatically flopping onto the couch. “What if it looks ugly in the photos? What if people zoom in? You know my wedding is going all over the internet!”
“Oh yeah, because the guests are definitely coming for the vows and not for an in-depth nail analysis.”
Your mother nudges you—fast, subtle, and unmistakably a shut the fuck up before your sister ruins the $9,900 worth of professionally airbrushed, sweat-proof, tear-proof, and possibly nuclear-resistant makeup she has on.
So, wisely, you keep your mouth shut.
Meanwhile, Yuka stands up again and continues spiraling, pacing the room like a high-profile CEO dealing with a stock market crash. “Holy hell. The entire wedding is going to be everywhere. Every pre-event, every angle, every detail—people are watching.”
Your cousin raises a brow. “Right, because the world’s been waiting with bated breath to dissect your nail tragedy.” She’s the one on the end of your mother’s glares this time and she holds up her hands in surrender. To your amusement, Yuka glares at her as well, with a half-hearted glare of her own, her distress over the chipped nail momentarily forgotten. She’s standing there in her fancy, borderline-engineered (also pre-wedding-bra) contraption and skimpy underwear, looking every bit the glamorous bride-to-be. Unfortunately, you’re also painfully aware—with a healthy dose of sibling nausea—that her soccer superstar fiancé, Itoshi Sae, will positively obliterate that delicate lace later, no matter how composed and aloof he seems.
Because you also know for a fact that your sister’s sex life is anything but boring.
Hell, you accidentally went through her phone once—innocently looking for a playlist, mind you—and walked away with permanent psychic damage. The sheer literature in those messages, the boldness of the photos…You nearly dropped the phone like it burned you. Sae, for all his quiet, broody, cool-guy energy, was apparently fluent in filth.
You shudder at the memory. Some things were never meant to be seen.
It’s always the quiet ones. Freaky in the sheets, disciplined in the streets.
Yuka, oblivious to your ongoing internal crisis (and the permanent trauma she inflicted upon you via one unfortunate scroll through her phone), grabs a robe and ties it around herself, still fretting over her nail. “Ugh, I need to fix this before the party starts. Mama, you think I should call the salon?” Your mother opens her mouth to respond, but before she can get a word out, Yuka suddenly lets out a startled shriek—as if she just spotted a cockroach on the ceiling—and dramatically points at you and your cousin. “Wait, what are you two wearing?!”
You glance down at your very comfortable, very eventually-wedding-appropriate clothes. Your cousin, equally unfazed, looks up from her phone. Hanami and you share a look and shrug your shoulders.
Yuka’s hands fly to her hips, her robe billowing out like she’s about to deliver a verdict. “This is a pre-wedding event, not a last-minute grocery run! Get dressed, immediately.”
Your cousin blinks. “Babygirl, we still have time—”
“Immediately!”
Your mother sighs, giving you a look that clearly says, Just do it before she has another meltdown.
You groan. “Fine, fine. But if I have to suffer through another round of wardrobe critique, I will fake a stomach ache and dip early.”
Your sister narrows her eyes. “You wouldn't dare.”
“Try me.”
“Whatever. Your dress is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Speed things up a bit, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Without waiting for more commentary, you disappear into the bathroom and shut the door behind you. Truth be told, you could argue, push her buttons, make a fuss just for fun—but it’s her wedding week. The last thing you want is for it to go up in flames over something as trivial as your outfit.
Besides, you like making her happy.
She’s your sister, your childhood partner-in-crime, and—unfortunately—your main source of deeply disturbing mental images thanks to her soon-to-be husband. And soon, she won’t just be Yuka, your overdramatic but lovable older sister. She’ll be someone’s wife.
You never thought this day would come.
You shake off the thought and start getting dressed. You mentally prepare yourself for whatever fresh chaos the night is about to bring.
When you finally emerge from the bathroom—still struggling to zip up the back of your dress, because of course formal wear is designed to be a two-person job—you’re immediately greeted by a scene straight out of a soap opera.
Your mother and cousin are standing in front of Yuka, hands over their mouths, gasping so dramatically you’d think someone just spilled red wine all over the rehearsal gown.
Your heart lurches in your chest. “What happened?” Frantically, you scan the dress for any stains, rips, or catastrophic fashion emergencies. But no—everything is perfect. No disasters, no wardrobe malfunctions, no need to yell at the designer through the phone. Just two women on the verge of happy tears, overwhelmed by the sight of Yuka in all her glory. You exhale, rolling your eyes. “Kami-sama, you guys scared me. I thought something actually happened.”
Hanami sniffles. “Something did happen, bitch. She looks stunning.”
Your mother nods, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “My little baby’s getting married.”
Yuka, who was literally having a meltdown over a chipped nail approximately sixteen minutes ago, now stands there, chin high, shoulders back, radiating the kind of effortless beauty that makes it really annoying to be related to her sometimes.
You cross your arms. “Yes, ethereal. Great, now that we’ve all processed the fact that Yuka is, without a doubt, a beautiful bride to be, can someone help me with this zipper?”
Yuka motions for you to turn around, and with a huff, she zips up your dress. It’s a little snug, and you definitely shouldn’t have had McDonald's last night—but it’s too late for regrets now.
“There,” Your sister says, giving the fabric a final tug. “you look hot in it. Trust me. Just try not to bust a seam before the night’s over.”
“I make no promises,” you mumble, adjusting the fit.
Without missing a beat, Yuka saunters over to where she’s placed The List—a long, borderline-obsessive checklist that has been her personal gospel throughout this entire wedding process. She scans it with the intensity of a general preparing for battle.
“Is the DJ here?” she asks, eyes never leaving the page.
Your mother nods. “Yes, just arrived.”
Yuka makes a tick with a satisfying swipe of her pen. “What about the band?”
Hanami chimes in, “Yep, they’re setting up now.”
Another decisive tick.
A perfectionist, through and through.
You watch as she methodically checks off each confirmed item, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly with every box filled. If this wedding doesn’t go off flawlessly, it won’t be for lack of effort on Yuka’s part.
You lean in slightly. “Have you accounted for unexpected disasters?”
She side-eyes you. “There will be no unexpected disasters.”
“That’s exactly what someone says before a disaster hits.” You smirk.
Yuka pouts and starts reaching for your list, and panic surges through you. Absolutely not. If she sees the lack of checkmarks on your side of things, she’ll have a full-blown meltdown again, and frankly, you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with that.
You scramble to snatch it before she does, expertly dodging her grasp with the reflexes of someone who has spent years avoiding sibling-induced wrath. Scanning down the list, your eyes light up as you land on the next task—one that, mercifully, requires you to leave this foggy den of hairspray, nervous energy, and dangerously high expectations.
Freedom.
You plaster on your best competent, responsible sibling face, flash Yuka a big thumbs-up, and declare, “I’m on it!”
Then, without waiting for approval, you bolt out of the room.
Behind you, you hear Yuka’s exasperated voice trailing after you. “Don’t mess it up! And don’t tear the dress!”
Like you said before, you make no promises.
As soon as you step out into the hallway, it’s like entering another dimension. The noise, the chaos, and the potentially toxic fumes of hairspray and expensive perfume are all vacuum-sealed behind the door, leaving you in blessed silence.
You take a deep breath, savoring the temporary peace.
That is, until you notice Yuka’s entire friend group rushing towards the bridal suite like a pack of excitable wolves. Even your party-loving dear Aunt—who, under normal circumstances, would rather die than miss out on free champagne—has decided that braving the ear-splitting shrieks and suffocating air of the bridal party is somehow worth it.
You? Not so much.
True to your nature, you make a beeline for the kitchen. The other boxes on the checklist can wait—food, however, cannot.
Fucking priorities.
It’s your sister’s wedding, and you really are so happy for her you could burst.
She deserves this—deserves the love, the celebration, the ridiculous extravagance of it all. And you wouldn’t trade the excitement in her eyes for anything.
But in these quiet moments, when no one is fussing over dresses or playlists or seating charts, it’s harder to keep yourself afloat.
The joy is real, but so is the heaviness sitting in your chest. Maybe it’s nostalgia, maybe it’s something deeper—but whatever it is, it lingers, creeping in whenever you’re alone.
On your journey to the elevator, voices drift from the groom’s suite, carrying through the hallway like a distant battle cry of testosterone and questionable logic. Some fratty cheer erupts—something about man sweat, beer, or possibly opening a bag of Cheetos with the force of a hard stare. Who knows. You’ve long since learned that when a group of men gathers in celebration, the conversation topics descend into madness at an alarming rate.
And then, clear as day, you hear it:
“Hit that fine vagina good, bro!”
You don’t even have to think about who that came from.
Shidou. It’s definitely Shidou.
And if he’s saying it to anyone, it’s your soon to be brother-in-law.
You wince. Because if Shidou is hyping him up like this, it means he’s being relentless—probably tossing out all sorts of wild suggestions that Sae is either ignoring or silently contemplating in his usual unreadable way.
Either way, you’re not mentally prepared for whatever caveman-level nonsense is happening in there and continue your journey to the kitchen.
Soon, you reach the kitchen and, like the responsible and totally focused person you are, immediately grab yourself a plate of sushi.
After making a dramatic, satisfying checkmark on the list (food? secured), you take a moment to admire the menu.
Damn, Yuka, you really outdid yourself.
This buffet spread is so extravagant, you wouldn’t be surprised if it makes the news. There’s enough variety to impress even the snobbiest of food critics. You make a mental note to subtly box some of this up later—wedding chaos be damned, you will eat well.
With your plate in hand, you turn to leave—
—only to immediately walk straight into someone.
Your heart skips a beat as your plate wobbles, but miraculously, the sushi remains intact. Your dress? Unscathed. A miracle.
You let out a breath of relief before finally looking up—
—only to meet his eyes.
It’s Itoshi Rin. Fuck.
Because the universe clearly enjoys tormenting you.
His hands are already on your waist, steadying you with the kind of reflexes that would impress you if you weren’t currently resisting the urge to wince. And as soon as recognition sets in, you feel the shift—his grip loosens like he’s just realized he’s holding a particularly offensive piece of garbage.
Your lip curls.
The revulsion is mutual.
Rin pulls his hands away as if burned, shoving them deep into his pockets with a look that suggests he’d rather be anywhere else.
Honestly? Same.
You half-expect him to say something obnoxious, maybe slip in a comment about how of course you’d be careless enough to walk into him. But instead, he says nothing.
Which, frankly, is almost worse.
Because now you’re left wondering—will he make some shitty remark about you during his best-man speech? (Unlikely, but not impossible.) Or, more realistically, will he rip open a disinfectant wipe the moment he gets the chance? Your money’s on the latter.
He clears his throat and the act draws your attention to what he’s wearing—a tuxedo, you’re surprised he made the effort—and how obscenely well the crisp tailoring fits his long, muscular frame. His green hair is neatly combed off his forehead; his underlashes are as preposterously long as they always are. If you were four years younger, you’d tell him that he looks like an obnoxious sissy—settle down, girl—but they do look undeniably great on his face. The Itoshis had unfairly handsome faces, it was almost a crime to be looking that good.
Annoyed with yourself, you rip your gaze away and pop another tuna roll into your mouth, chewing with deliberate indifference.
You really don’t like him.
Well—
At least, not anymore.
Rin gives you the same slow, assessing once-over.
His gaze starts at your hair—maybe he’s silently judging you for clipping it back so fancy. (Sorry for making an effort, Itoshi.) Then, his eyes move to your makeup—he probably dates makeup-tutorial Instagram models now, so who knows what absurd standards he has these days.
And then, methodically, he takes in your dress.
You feel the urge to cross your arms under your chest—just a little, just enough to make it seem like his scrutiny doesn’t bother you—but you take a deep breath instead, forcing yourself to stay still. No need to look like a petulant kid throwing a fit.
Finally, he lifts his chin slightly, his voice cool and even as he says your name.
You match his stare and reply, dry as ever, “Hello to you too, Rintarou.”
A beat.
You watch as he inhales, like he’s physically restraining himself from correcting you.
You know that isn’t his name. He knows that isn’t his name. And maybe it’s petty, but you really don’t give a crap.
On a scale of mild inconvenience to soul-crushing existential crisis, this whole situation was sitting comfortably at deeply, profoundly awkward.
Your ex—the man you once kissed, had hardcore sex with, fought with, loved, and then unceremoniously cut out of your life—was now about to become family.
And not in the Haha, we’re such good friends, we might as well be siblings! way.
No.
In the legally bound by marriage, showing up to the same family reunions, potentially forced into group holiday photos, and hearing your parents call each other in-laws kind of way.
Which was a nightmare.
Because now, every awkward interaction—like this one, where he was scrutinizing your entire existence and you were pretending not to care—was just the beginning.
A whole lifetime of this stretched ahead.
Fantastic.
Glancing at your list, you skim through your tasks, reminding yourself—this is for Yuka. Not for you. Not for him. For your sister.
With that in mind, you take a steadying breath and look up at Rin. He’s still watching you with that blank, unreadable expression, like he’s deciding whether this interaction is worth his time. (It isn’t. For either of you. And yet, here you both are.)
“Have you prepared your best-man speech?”
Rin exhales through his nose—almost a scoff, but not quite. “Does it matter?”
Short. Curt. Classic Rin.
You refrain from rolling your eyes.
“Yes, it matters. Unless you plan on getting up there and just grunting into the mic for five minutes.”
A shrug. “Might be an improvement over whatever Nii-chan’s going to say.”
“Fucking hell, you’re such a little brother.”
His expression twitches—subtle, but you know that remark got under his skin.
Good.
Satisfied, you glance back at your list, debating if you should push the topic further. But then you remember—this isn’t really your problem. Yuka would kill you if you spent the night antagonizing the best man instead of handling your actual tasks.
“Tell me, is it heartfelt? Is it just a list of stats from Sae-kun’s career? Are you going to passive-aggressively insult him in front of the guests? Because if it’s that last one, I’d actually love to hear a preview.”
No response.
“This is really for your safety. Yuka will murder you with her bare hands if you say something dickish. You know this.”
Rin rubs the back of his neck and sighs. Of course his sister-in-law had to be a bridezilla. He still doesn’t know how your sister managed to pull in his brother of all people; that was beyond him, but maybe love was blind in the end. He then tilts head, sizing you up. He’s six foot four, and your sister and you are..not. Not even close. His point is made, very clearly, with no words: I’d like to see her try.
“Can you be real with me? Did you at least write something?” You ask. “You’re not going to try to wing it, are you? That never goes well. No one is ever as funny off the cuff as they think they are, especially you.”
Rin gives you a flat look, clearly unamused.
You cross your arms. “Come on. We both know the Itoshi brothers combined have the emotional depth of a peanut. Well—Sae-kun more than you, but still. You are not built for comedy.”
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a twitch in his jaw that tells you he’s at least considering snapping back. Instead, he just exhales, slow and measured, like he’s trying not to let you get under his skin.
“Noted,” he mutters.
“Noted,” you mimic under your breath. “Yeah, that’s super reassuring. Just make sure your speech doesn’t suck.”
“My toast,” Rin corrects, in that insufferably precise way of his.
Oh, for—what a stickler for labels. You let out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking your head. Douchebag.
You want to fire back something sassy, something that’ll wipe that smug neutrality off his face, but the only thought looping in your head is how unfair it is that lashes like his were wasted on Satan’s offspring. Instead, you just give a perfunctory nod and turn down the hall before he can step through the door.
It’s all you can do not to adjust your skirt while you walk away. Maybe you’re being paranoid, but you swear you can feel his critical gaze lingering on the tight sheen of your dress all the way to the elevators.
The rehearsal was going too smoothly, which meant disaster was lurking just around the corner. You could feel it in your bones—whether it was your sister stressing over the exact shade of white roses tomorrow or Sae delivering yet another one-word response to an enthusiastic guest, the storm was brewing.
You, however, had already found your personal disaster. It was sitting right next to you in a black suit, posture annoyingly perfect, exuding quiet irritation.
Of all the tables in this extravagantly decorated ballroom, you had the rotten luck of being seated next to Itoshi Rin.
Because, why not?
Your parents were at this table. His parents were at this table. And despite being adults with fully developed prefrontal cortices, neither of you had the guts to argue with the seating arrangement. So here you were, trapped in a purgatory of polite conversation and forced civility, your knee bumping his under the table every time you so much as breathed.
“Can you not manspread into my personal space, Rintarou?” you muttered, stabbing your fork into your salad with more force than necessary.
Rin didn’t even look up. “Can you not sit like you’re trying to impersonate a gargoyle?”
Your eye twitched. “Excuse me for relaxing.”
“You look ready to pounce on someone.”
“I might,” you said sweetly, offering your best customer-service smile before taking a sip of your champagne.
“Children,” your mother warned, sending both of you a look that suggested you were this close to being excommunicated from the family.
You exhaled through your nose, plastering on an artificial smile for the sake of peace. Rin sighed and straightened his silverware. The two of you fell into an uncomfortable silence, with the only solace being the speeches, laughter, and clinking glasses around you.
Meanwhile, Sae, the ever-composed groom, was listening to Yuka’s long-winded toast about love, patience, and mutual understanding with all the enthusiasm of a man attending jury duty. Yuka was beaming at him like she hadn’t noticed.
You, however, noticed everything—like how Rin kept fidgeting with his cufflinks, his jaw occasionally tensing whenever some random guest brought up the idea of when are you getting married next, Rin?
Just when you thought you could quietly escape to get another drink, Yuka’s voice rang across the ballroom like a firework explosion.
“Sae! Kiss me!”
There was a stunned beat of silence.
You whipped around just in time to see your sister bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands clasped together in uncontained excitement. The groom, on the other hand, stood stiffly beside her, hands in his pockets, expression blank.
“Oh shit,” you muttered under your breath, already bracing for the secondhand embarrassment.
Your sister, undeterred by Sae’s stoicism, took matters into her own hands. She beamed, let out a happy squeal, then grabbed Sae by the face—both hands cradling his cheeks, fingers pressing into his sharp jawline—and yanked him down into a kiss.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t elegant.
But it was very Yuka.
A collective gasp swept through the room. Someone’s grandma clapped. One of Sae’s teammates whistled. A kid made a sound of vague disgust.
And Sae?
The Sae Itoshi, infamous for his emotional range that rivaled a brick wall?
He actually stumbled.
For a split second, his hands flinched as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them, before finally settling on Yuka’s waist. His lashes fluttered—probably from the audacity of what had just happened—but before he could recover, Yuka pulled away, grinning like she had just won the lottery.
The whole room exploded into cheers.
Sae didn’t immediately combust. He merely blinked, lips slightly parted, as if processing the fact that his bride-to-be had just bodied him in front of their closest friends and family.
Yuka, ever the menace, bounced on her toes and said, “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
You swore you saw Sae release a sigh of resignation. But then, something surprising happened.
A small, almost imperceptible smirk ghosted over his lips.
And that was when you knew—despite all the odds, despite their completely opposite energies, despite your sister’s chaotic sunshine and Sae’s perpetual boredom—that they were absolutely, without a doubt, perfect for each other.
Even Rin, as much as he wanted to pretend otherwise, seemed resigned to the fact.
“…At least she’s making him look human,” he muttered beside you.
You turned to him, “Was that almost a compliment?”
“Don’t push it.”
As the event came to an end, Yuka cupped her hands around her mouth, eyes gleaming with mischief as she yelled to the crowd, “Alright, everybody! Time for drinks at Omnia!”
The reaction was instantaneous—cheers erupted through the ballroom like a stadium after a last-minute goal. Sae’s teammates, the absolute menaces they were, took the announcement as permission to lose their minds. One of them let out a deafening “LET’S GOOOOO!” before another scrambled onto the nearest chair, then another, until at least three of them were stomping on the tables like drunken Vikings and rushing out.
Rin immediately shielded his face with one hand as if that would protect him from the absolute idiocy of his brother’s friends. You watched as one of Rin’s friends, you were assuming, nudged him. Isagi Yoichi. You’d seen him on television before.
“C’mon, Rin. Where’s your team spirit?”
He shot him a look so dry it could’ve evaporated the champagne in your glass. “Where’s my exit?”
He cackled, taking a sip of his own drink as he watched the chaos unfold. One of the guys had somehow acquired a white napkin and was twirling it above his head like a victory flag, while another had pulled Sae into an aggressive side-hug, grinning like a madman. Sae, as expected, looked entirely done.
Yuka was laughing as she turned to her future husband. “Babe, you excited?”
Sae, who had already endured a surprise kiss, deafening cheers, and now a horde of grown men behaving like rowdy toddlers, just deadpanned, “…No.”
Naturally, that only made everyone cheer louder.
Everyone arrived at Omnia in the sleek black limousines your family had rented, pulling up to the entrance like celebrities at a red carpet event. Yuka had outdone herself—the entire club was booked, the neon lights flashing like they belonged to her. The moment the doors swung open, the night unraveled into pure, unfiltered chaos.
At the bar, Sae’s teammates were already shirtless, waving their jackets over their heads like flags of war. One of them climbed onto the counter, roaring something about taking shots off another guy’s abs. The bartender barely batted an eye as he lined up tequila shots across someone’s stomach, and the crowd around them cheered like they’d just witnessed the pinnacle of athletic achievement. Yuka, ever the queen of revelry, was twirling in the VIP section, a champagne bottle in one hand and a microphone in the other. The DJ had foolishly given her control of the music for exactly two minutes before she nearly blew out the speakers by blasting a remix of her favorite pop anthem. She shrieked in delight, tossing back a drink before grabbing Sae by the face and kissing him like they were the only two people in the room. The crowd exploded in cheers—half in celebration, half in drunken hysteria. The dance floor was a mess of writhing bodies, and at some point, you spotted one of your uncles—one of your uncles—attempting a handstand before immediately toppling over into a tower of champagne flutes. Glass shattered, people screamed, and instead of helping, Isagi, already drunk, just started betting on who could break more glasses by the end of the night. In the gaming lounge, a full-on gambling ring had formed around a blackjack table. Someone’s expensive watch was in the betting pool, and you were pretty sure one of Yuka’s bridesmaids had just wagered her boyfriend. Across the room, a guy was arm-wrestling two people at once while someone else shouted, “Loser strips!” over and over again until the bartender had to physically confiscate his drink.
Rin, unsurprisingly, looked miserable. You spotted him seated at the far end of the bar, arms crossed, one foot tapping against the floor like he was counting the seconds until he could leave. He barely dodged as a flying bra (whose? No one knows) nearly smacked him in the face, his scowl deepening as he muttered something under his breath. Probably a prayer.
Rin could be the sourpuss that he was, you weren’t about to be the only one left standing on the sidelines. The bass pounded through the club, the heavy beat rattling in your ribs as you made your way to the dance floor. The crowd was already feverish—bodies pressed together, hands in the air, a collective blur of sweat and neon lights. You let yourself get lost in it, swaying your hips to the music, rolling your body in a way that made the space around you shrink.
Someone whistled. Someone else grabbed their friend’s arm, whispering something with wide eyes. You didn’t care. Let them look. It was your sister’s wedding rehearsal party, and you were going to have your damn fun. A hand found your waist—too bold, too cocky. Some guy trying his luck. You twisted away, flashing a smirk over your shoulder before vanishing deeper into the crowd.
And that’s when you felt it.
A pair of eyes, burning and sharp, slicing through the haze of flashing lights and bodies.
Rin.
You didn’t have to look to confirm. You felt his stare, cool and judgmental, like he thought you were putting on a show just to piss him off. Maybe you were. Maybe you weren’t.
Either way, you dropped lower, rolling your hips even slower, letting your movements match the slow thrum of the song. Just to see if he’d look away.
He didn’t.
The fact that Rin was watching pissed you off.
Maybe it was because he had spent the entire night acting like you were beneath him, like every word that left your mouth was a waste of his time. Maybe it was because he had been treating you like an inconvenience, a nuisance, ever since you were forced to sit at the same table during dinner.
Or maybe it was just because he was Rin—prickly, cold, and infuriating in a way that made your blood boil hotter than the alcohol running through your veins.
Whatever it was, it made you want to push him.
You ran your hands down your sides, twisting your body to the music, rolling your hips just to see if he’d flinch. You weren’t drunk—tipsy, maybe—but you knew exactly what you were doing. The tension was suffocating, thick enough to choke on, and the fact that he wouldn’t look away made something in you snap.
You finally turned your head, locking eyes with him.
His gaze was unreadable, but there was something there—something heated, something taut, like a rubber band stretched too tight. His jaw twitched, his fingers curled into fists at his sides, and that reaction, that tiny flicker of something—it made your lips curl. You stormed over to him, shoving past the crowd without a second thought.
The second you reach, he beats you to what you were about to say.
“What the fuck is your problem?” He sneers and it took every fibre of your being to not slap the demeaning look off of his unfairly attractive face.
“Me? What the fuck is your problem? You’ve had it out for me since you got here. I’ve had enough.”
Rin took a slow sip from his drink, eyes locked onto yours, his expression unreadable. The club’s neon lights flashed against his sharp features, painting him in blues and purples, but the way his fingers clenched around the glass told you everything—you were under his skin.
You grabbed a glass, took a long swig of your own drink, letting the burn of alcohol fuel you. “Come on, Itoshi,” you taunted, setting your glass down with an unnecessary clink. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
His lips parted like he was going to, but instead, he scoffed, tipping his glass back again.
“Oh, don’t pull that silent-and-moody crap,” you snapped. “Not after treating me like I’m a bitch all day.”
Rin exhaled through his nose, setting his drink down too hard on the bar. “You’re acting like I owe you something.”
You let out a sharp laugh, tilting your head. “You mean basic human decency?”
His fingers flexed on the counter, but his voice stayed level. “Maybe if you weren’t so desperate for attention, you wouldn’t be throwing a tantrum right now.”
You blinked. Then scoffed, downing another glass. “Desperate for attention? That’s rich coming from you. You’re the one who’s been acting like a miserable little shit all night.”
He rolled his eyes, taking another shot. “You’re delusional.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
He leaned in, so close you could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Funny. You didn’t seem to mind back then.”
Your grip tightened around your glass. “Yeah, well, back then, I had terrible taste.”
“Still do.”
You nearly threw your drink in his face. You grabbed another glass, downing the rest in one go before slamming the glass on the bar, breaking it. The burn in your throat matched the heat simmering in your chest. “You know what? Fuck you, Rin.”
He gave you a lazy, unimpressed glance. “Creative.”
“Oh, bite me.”
He snorted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Not even if I was blackout drunk.”
You let out another fake laugh, shaking your head as you waved at the bartender for another drink. “Funny, because I distinctly remember you liking it.”
Rin’s jaw tensed. He knocked back the rest of his whiskey and set his glass down hard enough that the bartender shot a wary look. “Fuck off.”
You tilted your head, lips curling in a mockery of a smile. “Denial’s a bitch, huh?” You barely register the bartender shouting after you to return the bottle you snatch from his hands. It doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters right now except the way Rin is turning his back on you—again—walking away like you weren’t just in the middle of something.
Your grip tightens around the bottle as you shove past dancing bodies and flashing lights, nearly tripping on someone’s discarded blazer. “Oh, you have to be kidding me,” you mutter, biting down hard to keep from screaming.
But fuck it.
“Hey!” You storm after him, shoving his shoulder when you finally catch up. “You don’t even have the decency to listen to me?”
Rin sways a little but plants his feet, turning back with a slow, deliberate roll of his shoulders, like it takes every ounce of patience not to walk away again. Eyes dark, lips parted slightly, his breath is heavy with alcohol.
“You never shut the fuck up long enough for me to listen,” he barks at you.
You step closer, the bottle still in your hand, still half full. “You’re such a fucking coward, Rin.”
His brows twitch, a ghost of a snarl tugging at his lips. “And you’re a fucking drama queen.”
Your grip tightens around the bottle. “Oh, I’ll give you drama—”
He moves first. Fast. Too fast.
Before you can react, you’re backed against the wall, his hands braced on either side of your head. His breath fans hot against your cheek, and you realize just how close he is, how sharp his cologne still smells even under the haze of whiskey and sweat.
Your chest heaves. The bass of the music throbs through the walls, but everything else goes silent.
You swallow hard. You’re so drunk. “Get out of my face, Rin.”
His gaze flickers down—to your mouth, to the bottle still clutched in your hand—then back up. His tongue flicks over his lower lip, and then he leans in just enough that your breath stutters.
A memory slams into you like a freight train, and suddenly, the club, the suffocating heat of Rin’s presence, the way his breath mingles with yours—it all blurs into the background.
Three years ago.
Three years since you stood in that hotel lobby, tears streaking your ruined makeup, heels flying at his crotch, and the world laughing at your misery. Three years since he crushed your heart beneath his cleats like it was just another loose ball on the field.
Whereas your sister is considered the definition of a four-leaf clover, you have always been unlucky, especially when it came to romance.
Your throat tightens. Your fingers clench around the bottle, but your grip is slipping, your palm slick with sweat and lingering traces of spilled alcohol. Before you know it, your palm collides with Rin’s chest—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to push him back a step.
“Why does it have to be your stupid brother?” you demand, your voice rising over the music and drunken shouts around you. “Out of every guy in the world, why the hell did my sister have to pick him?”
His voice is flat, edged with something dangerously close to irritation. “You’re throwing a tantrum over this?”
You shove at him again, harder this time. “It’s not a tantrum, asshat! It’s a goddamn crisis. Do you know what this means?” You jab a finger at his chest with every word. “It means I’m stuck with you. Forever. Family reunions, birthdays, anniversaries—holidays. You and me, in the same damn room for the rest of our lives.”
He sneers as he steps forward. “Sounds to me like you’re the one making your sister’s wedding all about your meaningless problems.”
You almost think you’ll punch each other with how hard your glares are.
“I am not making it about me! I’m just saying it’s bullshit that of all the people in the world, I have to be stuck with you for the rest of my goddamn life!”
“Maybe if you weren’t so fucking insufferable, it wouldn’t be such a problem.”
“Oh, I’m insufferable? You’ve been an asshole since the second you came here!”
“I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t always up in my fucking face!” he snaps, voice laced with frustration. “I swear to fuck, you’re still the same—”
“Shut up! Fuck. I hate talking to you! No one’s forcing you to be here, Rin. No one’s—”
“Do you want to get married?” he blurted out suddenly, the question popping from his lips out of nowhere, and a dark red blush crossed his face. Fuck, he looked so cute.
Fortunately for him, he wasn’t the only one flustered.
Your drunken grin turned more than a little lecherous and face turned flusher, as your hand curled slowly around Rin’s, and you tossed the bottle away, barely registering the smash of a hundred pieces on the floor before licking your lips into a shiny sheen and slotting your tongue inside his mouth.
You don't know what’s happening. You’re so drunk. He’s so drunk.
All you know is that your fingers are tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a low groan from him, and that you're moaning into his mouth as his hands drag over your hips, pulling you closer.
Rin’s breath is ragged against your lips, his thigh positioning between yours. You shudder when his hands slide down to your ass, hoisting you up against him like he has every right to.
“Fuck,” you pant against his lips, your head spinning.
“Yeah?” His voice is rough, his grip firm as he shifts his weight, pinning you there, flush against him. His hand runs up your thigh, hitching it higher against his hip, and when his fingers dig into your skin, you can’t help the way your body arches into him, seeking, desperate.
It shouldn’t feel this good.
Not when you hate him.
Not when your head is swimming, your world off-kilter, and everything is slipping through your fingers like sand.
But when Rin leans in again, mouth trailing down your jaw, his teeth grazing over the skin of your neck—
You let it happen.
You bite your lip as Rin’s mouth latches onto your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you against him like he can’t stand the thought of even an inch of space.
“You know,” you gasp, fingers threading into his hair, “if you want me to take your last name that bad, we can make it official. This is Vegas.”
Rin exhales against your skin, his grip flexing over your hips. His pupils are blown wide, lost in alcohol and something deeper, something dangerous. He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips swollen, breath heavy.
“Fuck it,” he says. “Why not?”
Your pulse pounds in your ears as you grab his wrist and yank him toward the exit, stumbling together onto the neon-lit sidewalk. The world is spinning in the best way, laughter bubbling out of you as you nearly trip over the curb. You fumble for your phone to call a cab, but before you can, one screeches to a stop. You shove Rin inside, tumbling in after him.
The moment the door shuts, it’s madness. His hands are everywhere—your thighs, your waist, your face—and you’re clawing at the buttons of his shirt as your mouths crash together in a messy, drunken kiss. He groans when you shift onto his lap, his fingers digging into your skin, and it only fuels you further.
“Where to?” the cab driver asks, deadpan, not even looking back.
“Closest chapel,” you pant, barely breaking away from Rin’s mouth long enough to get the words out.
The driver snorts. “Figures.”
The ceremony is a blur of bad decisions and cheap gold bands. The chapel is dimly lit, ripped velvet draping the walls, and behind the podium stands none other than Elvis himself. Or at least, a guy who looks enough like him to sell the illusion.
Rin leans over, voice thick with skepticism. “Isn’t he supposed to be dead?”
Elvis winks. “Even ghosts can perform weddings, kid.”
Neither of you have the capacity to question that.
At some point, rings are slid onto fingers, vows are mumbled through slurs, and when Elvis finally declares, “I now pronounce you husband and wife!” Rin doesn’t wait. He grips your face and kisses you like he’s claiming you, like he’s making sure you understand exactly what you just did.
You stumble out of the chapel, still tangled in each other, and barely manage to call a cab back to the mansion before you’re back in his lap, fingers in his hair, mouth on his throat. The cab ride back is a mess of dry humping, breathless laughter, and the undeniable heat of your bodies pressed together. Rin’s shirt is hanging off his shoulders, and your dress is dangerously close to slipping past the point of decency, but neither of you care. His hands are gripping your chest, pinching and groping and you can barely breathe between kisses, palming him through his trousers. Neither of you can register between the drunken haze and the sheer insanity of what you just did.
The second the cab stops, you’re bolting inside for the elevator, tearing at each other’s clothes before the doors even close.
You’re married.
Holy shit.
You’re both panting, drunk out of your minds, and absolutely shameless as you push Rin against the elevator wall, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His hands are tearing at your expensive dress, tongue hot and insistent against your own.
The ding of the elevator barely registers, and neither of you make an effort to move until the doors slide open and you stumble forward, barely catching yourself as you drag Rin along.
“Fuck,” he mumbles against your lips, hearing you laugh breathlessly as you both stagger down the hall, knocking into walls, leaving a trail of clothes in your wake.
Somewhere along the way, your dress slips lower, his belt comes undone, and by the time you reach the door, neither of you care about the fact that you’re barely clothed in the middle of the hallway.
You whine as Rin fumbles with the keycard, cursing under his breath when he drops it twice.
You complain against his mouth, impatiently pulling his zipper down. “Hurry up, husband.”
His grip on your waist tightens, his head tilting slightly as if the word short-circuits his brain for a moment. You don’t give him time to process it because the second the door clicks open, you’re pushing him inside, slamming it shut behind you.
Then you’re alone and everything else ceases to exist.
You’re a moaning mess as Rin slams into your dripping heat with all the ferocity of a scorned ex. His back burns with the tear of your nails on his back as you’re dragged along his cock. Not breaking pace, he takes note of the expressions you make with petty pleasure as your features contort obscenely while he drives his cock as far as humanly possibly inside of your aching cunt, relishing the way you sucked him back in for more every time.
Thank goodness everyone was out drinking and couldn’t hear you both.
Several hours, countless positions, broken furniture, stolen sips of water, and a collection of bruises and love bites later, you’re both sprawled across the bed, limbs tangled, bodies aching in the best way possible. The sheets are barely clinging to the mattress, the air is thick with heat and the lingering scent of sweat and satisfaction, and neither of you has the energy to move.
Sunlight streamed through the window, cutting through the room in golden beams, one of which landed directly on your face. Judging by its angle, you had maybe five minutes before it forced you awake completely. Not that it really mattered—you were already drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and drowsy contentment.
Your body felt heavy, but in the best way, muscles pleasantly sore, your mind still hazy from deep sleep. You registered the slow rise and fall of your own breathing, the way your fingers twitched slightly against soft sheets. You felt safe. Comfortable.
And then—
A strong arm was draped over your waist, its solid weight pressing you firmly against something warm. The faint brush of coarse hair against your bare skin sent tiny shivers up your spine. A slow, lazy breath fanned against the nape of your neck, deep and steady, followed by the subtle movement of a hand, tracing idly over your stomach in a half-conscious, possessive gesture.
Your brows knit together as your sluggish brain tried to piece things together. A body. Warmth. A hand moving—touching—against your skin.
You weren’t alone.
That realization jolted you more awake, pulse kicking up as your breath caught in your throat. Carefully—almost afraid of what you’d see—you turned your head, craning just enough to get a glimpse of whoever was curled up behind you.
And there, nestled against your shoulder, was a head of tousled, unmistakably green hair.
Your stomach dropped.
Your eyes widened.
Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped to your hand.
A ring.
Your heart stuttered.
Slowly, like you were moving through water, your eyes shifted to the hand resting possessively on your waist. A matching ring gleamed on his finger.
Oh shit.
Your mind went blank. Then, in an attempt to reboot, you blinked. Once. Twice. A third time.
By the twelfth, the scene still hadn’t changed.
You were still in bed.
You were still naked.
And so was Rin.
Your stomach twisted. The warm, satisfied haze that had wrapped around you mere moments ago had been viciously replaced by the creeping realization of what had happened.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to take a slow, steadying breath.
There had to be an explanation. A reasonable, logical—
Your gaze flickered back to the ring.
As if to make matters worse, Rin began rousing.
The soccer star groaned, a low, pained sound, pressing his palm against his forehead. His brows knitted together as he blinked himself awake, disoriented. Then his gaze landed on you.
His body stiffened. His lips parted slightly as his eyes roamed over your face, then trailed lower—bare shoulders, sheets tangled around your waist. Slowly, his own awareness caught up. Your stomach tightened as you saw the exact moment realization dawned in his eyes. His pupils flicked down, scanning the sheets barely covering him.
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
And when Rin finally noticed the band resting on his finger, the two of you cursed in unison.
“Fuck.”