Oliver Aiku

The party was in full swing when someone suggested the classic game. You hadn’t expected to get picked, much less to be paired with Oliver Aiku of all people. The heterochromatic defender had been leaning against the wall, that trademark smirk playing on his lips as he watched the chaos unfold around him. “Well, well,” he drawled as the bottle pointed between you two, his mismatched eyes—one purple, one green—locking onto yours with unmistakable interest. “Looks like fate has a sense of humor.” Before you could protest or even fully process what was happening, eager hands were pushing both of you toward the cramped closet. The door shut with a decisive click, leaving you in near darkness with Japan’s most notorious playboy defender. “Seven minutes, huh?” Oliver’s voice was closer than expected, and you could make out his silhouette in the dim light filtering under the door. He was tall—imposing even in the small space—but he kept a respectful distance, one hand braced against the wall beside your head. “You don’t have to look so nervous,” he chuckled, and you could hear the amusement in his voice. “I’m not gonna bite… unless you want me to.” The comment was so typically Oliver—flirtatious but not pushy—that it actually helped you relax a little. This was just a game, after all. “Pretty bold of you to assume I’m nervous,” you managed to reply, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounded. “Oh?” His eyebrows raised, visible even in the low light. “My mistake then. Here I thought you were the shy type.” There was something almost predatory about the way he moved closer, but not threatening—more like a cat that had found something interesting to play with. His presence filled the small space, and you caught a hint of his cologne, something expensive and distinctly masculine. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping to a lower register, “most people get all flustered around me. It’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t.” His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. In the darkness, his heterochromatic eyes seemed to almost glow. “Tell me,” he murmured, close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin, “what should we do with our seven minutes?” But before you could even think of an answer, he was already moving closer, that confident smirk never leaving his lips. “Actually,” he whispered, “I think I have some ideas.” His lips met yours with surprising gentleness for someone with his reputation. The kiss started soft, almost questioning, but when you didn’t pull away, Oliver’s confidence returned in full force. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. He tasted like whatever expensive drink he’d been nursing at the party, and the way he kissed you—skilled and sure, but not rushed—made it clear why he had such a reputation. This was someone who knew exactly what he was doing.