She sighed, resting there, her head on his shoulder. "You're too much."
"Yeah," he said, holding her close. "You like that too."
She didn't argue, just stayed put, the warmth of him cutting through the night's edge. Then he moved, slow, lips brushing her neck. She froze, breath catching. He kissed again, softer, working up to her jaw, his hands sliding to her sides.
"Souta," she whispered, half a protest, but she didn't pull away. He grinned against her skin, tugging at her robe's tie, loosening it just enough. The fabric slipped open a bit, and his fingers found her stomach—soft, warm—tracing lazy circles.
"Still nervous?" he said, voice teasing, as he caressed her waist, thumbs brushing her sides. "You're shaking."
Her face went red, and she squirmed in his lap. "Stop it," she muttered, but it was weak, her hands resting on his arms instead of pushing.
"Nah," he said, kissing her neck again, deeper this time. "You're too easy to mess with. All soft and jumpy."
She huffed, embarrassed, but leaned into him more, her pulse racing. "You're awful," she said, voice shaky.
"Yep," he said, hands still roaming her stomach, teasing the edge of that faint mark. "And you're stuck with me now."
The house stayed silent—Itachi asleep, Fugaku out. For the moment, it was just them, her caught between flustered and falling. Souta pulled back a bit, looking at her, his grin fading to something softer. "Mikoto," he said, quiet. "Do you love me?"
She blinked, caught off guard, then leaned in and kissed him on the lips—quick, firm, her hands on his face. She pulled away, voice low. "Do I still need to prove it? I brought you here, didn't I?"
He chuckled, brushing her hair back. "Guess that's a yes." Then his eyes sharpened. "You afraid of Fugaku?"
Mikoto went still, her breath stopping for a second. She looked down, silent, her hands tightening on his arms. Souta tilted her chin up, voice steady. "Don't think about him. Just us, right here."
She gulped, eyes flicking to his, then away. Her voice came out small, barely a whisper. "I don't mind… this, with you. I like it. But what if Itachi wakes up? He's just a kid—he might hear us."
Souta smiled, pulling her closer, his lips grazing her ear. "Then we stay real quiet. He won't hear a thing."
She swallowed again, face red, but nodded, pressing against him.
Mikoto's fingers dug into Souta's arms, anchoring herself as his hands slid lower, brushing the curve of her hips. Her breath hitched, a mix of nerves and something deeper, something she couldn't name but felt in every inch of her skin. His lips found hers again, slow and deliberate, coaxing her into the rhythm of it. She melted against him, the tension in her shoulders unraveling as she let go—just for now.
The house creaked faintly, settling into the night, but it was distant, drowned by the quiet rush of their breathing. Souta's hands roamed, slipping under the loose edge of her robe, tracing the warmth of her back. Then they dipped lower, cupping her buttocks with a firm, knowing grip. She stiffened, a small gasp escaping before she clamped her mouth shut, eyes wide. He pulled back just enough to grin at her, that glint in his eyes sharpening.
"Perfect shape," he whispered, voice low and teasing, his thumbs brushing the curves he held. "Round, firm—just how I like 'em. You been hiding this from me?"
Her face went crimson, heat flooding her cheeks as she squirmed in his lap. "Souta—stop it," she hissed, barely audible, her hands flying to his wrists like she'd pull him off. But she didn't—couldn't—because any louder and Itachi might hear. She was trapped, voice locked down, embarrassment clawing at her.
"Nah," he said, squeezing a little, his grin widening as he felt her tense. "Can't help it. These are a damn masterpiece—better than I imagined. Bet you know it too, huh?"
She glared at him, mortified, her lips trembling as she fought to keep quiet. "You're awful," she managed, a shaky whisper, her hands still on his but not pushing, just clutching.
"Awful's right," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her neck, his hands kneading her buttocks slow and deliberate. "Perfect little handfuls. Could play with these all night and still not get bored."
Mikoto's breath caught, her body betraying her with a shiver as she pressed her lips tight to stifle any sound. She wanted to snap at him, to shove him away and tell him to shut up, but the house was too still, the risk too close.
He chuckled under his breath, lips brushing her ear. "Why? You're loving it—look at you, all jumpy and cute. These curves deserve some praise." His fingers traced the edges, light now, teasing her more as she squirmed harder, trapped in his lap.
She dug her nails into his arms, a silent protest, but it only made him grin wider. "Souta," she whispered, desperate, her voice a thread. "Enough."
"Not yet," he said, kissing her jaw, hands still weighing her buttocks like he was sizing them up. "Too good to let go. You're blushing so hard—makes it even better."
Her head dropped forward, resting against his shoulder, hiding her face as the embarrassment burned through her. She couldn't argue, couldn't yell—Itachi was too close, the walls too thin.
Mikoto's head rested against Souta's shoulder, her face buried as the embarrassment seared through her.
His hands lingered on her buttocks, kneading gently, his teasing words still hanging in the air—"Too good to let go." Her nails bit into his arms, a silent plea, but he just chuckled, low and smug, lips brushing her ear.
The house stayed quiet, Itachi asleep down the hall, but every creak felt like a warning.
Souta's fingers slid up from her hips, tugging at the tie of her robe. The knot loosened more, the fabric parting to expose the soft curve of her stomach, then higher, revealing the edge of her chest.
Her breath hitched, eyes snapping to his as panic flickered in her chest. "Souta—what are you—" she whispered, voice trembling, but he didn't stop. His grin softened, eyes dark with something heavier than playfulness.