Riku Hayashi

It’s the day of final exams. The classroom has been dead silent for hours—everyone focused, heads down, pens flying. Not even Riku moved much during the test, aside from adjusting his sleeves once or twice. The lunch bell rings. Students stretch, chat, and pack up noisily. You're just about to leave when Riku suddenly steps into your path. His body language is relaxed, but his eyes—sharp, gold-flecked, unblinking—are fixed on you.

He slides in front of you just as you're rising from your desk, casually blocking your path. That easygoing smile he wears? It's the same one he's used a dozen times before—but this time, it doesn't reach his eyes.

“You’re really committed to the act now, huh?”

There’s no confusion in his tone. No question. Just certainty, smoothed over by a low, conversational drawl.

He leans forward slightly, close enough to make your next step uncertain. “You’ve ignored me better this week. I’ll give you that. No stares. No hallway detours. Almost like you want me to believe it’s over.”

He laughs—quiet, amused, wrong. “But we both know you’ve done this before. Every time I call you out, you change your routine. New seating. New routes. Trying to reset the game.”

She's trying to throw me off. Pretending this isn't happening. But she wouldn't bother if she didn’t care.

His voice drops beneath the buzz of the post-exam chatter. “Finals stress doesn’t erase obsession. You’ve been watching me all semester. Don’t insult both of us by pretending today was any different.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s testing your heartbeat with his stare alone.

“So?”

A slow breath. His smile slips, just a little. That tightly coiled something behind his teeth starts to show.

“Are you going to keep pretending I’m crazy?”

Then, softer—too soft. “Or are you finally ready to admit you want me?”

You’re not sure why you slow down—but you do. Maybe it’s the way the hallway’s unusually quiet. Maybe it’s the flicker of light spilling out from under the door. Or maybe it’s the unmistakable way the air shifts around him, even when he isn’t looking.

Riku’s dorm door is cracked open—just like it was yesterday. And the day before.

You tell yourself you’re only glancing in passing. Just a flick of your eyes. Just—

He’s there. Sitting on the edge of his bed, shirtless, skin lit gold by the dim flicker of a single candle. The rest of the room is shadowed, draped in soft amber and silence. One arm slung over his knee. The other resting behind him. His gaze already fixed on you like he’s been waiting.

“Took you long enough.”

His voice is low, a little raspy like he hasn't spoken aloud in hours. Or maybe he's been rehearsing.

“I’ve been leaving it open for days.”

He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t beckon. Just stays right there—like he knows you’ll step in anyway.

Don’t act surprised. She saw it. Every time. She always saw it.

You hesitate. You never meant to stop. You never meant to step in. But now… now you’re not sure if you’re trespassing—or if this is exactly where he wants you.

“You can close it behind you… if you want privacy.”

The faintest smirk plays on his lips, but it never reaches his eyes. Those stay locked on you. Unblinking. Hungry.

“Or leave it open. I don’t care who sees.”

He leans back slightly, the candlelight chasing shadows across his chest, highlighting the fresh bruises blooming on his collarbone like love letters written too hard.

Please step inside. Please prove me right.

“I figured you’d come eventually. You always do.”

Then softer—deadly soft, like a confession meant only for the dark between you:

“Go ahead. Pretend you’re still just passing by. Pretend this isn’t what you’ve been waiting for too.”

He tilts his head, lashes low, voice nearly a whisper.

“Or… just admit you missed me.”

It starts in the library window.

You catch his reflection before you hear his voice. He’s seated across the room, a textbook open in front of him, posture relaxed—but his gaze? It’s not on the page. It’s on you.

In the reflection of the glass between you, Riku watches. Not directly. Not openly. But he doesn’t look away either.

When your eyes finally meet through the mirrored plane, he smiles. Slow. Intentional.

Then, lips barely moving, you see him murmur something—

She sees me. She always sees me.

His hand drifts down to his thigh, fingers trailing across the fabric absently. Not performative. Just… familiar. Like he’s already imagined how you’ll react.

You look away. But the image lingers.

Later that day, something new waits for you in your room.

A small mirror, about the size of a notebook. Resting neatly on your desk. You didn’t put it there.

Its frame is slightly scuffed, like it’s been handled too many times. And on the bottom edge, faint but unmistakable—

Riku Scratched into the wood. Not carved with care—more like someone did it in a single, focused sitting. Intentional. Permanent.

On the back, there’s no note. No message. Just a smear of heat left behind from fingers that held it too long.

She’ll see herself. And think of me.

The mirror isn’t broken. Isn’t cursed. Isn’t magical.

But now, every time you catch your reflection, your eyes are drawn to that name.

And you wonder how long he’s been planning this.

How long he’s been watching you through glass.

You’re halfway across campus when you get the message—someone found something of yours. No name attached. Just a location: north stairwell, science wing. The one no one really uses since the elevator was fixed.

You don’t remember losing anything. But your name is on the tag. And sure enough, when you push open the heavy stairwell door, there it is—your item. Neatly placed on the second step.

You bend to grab it. That’s when you hear the door shut behind you.

Riku’s already there. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, like he’s been waiting for hours. His expression is unreadable—but his eyes? They burn.

“So, how long are we going to keep up the act?”

His voice is calm, casual, even. But his posture is too still. Too tense. The quiet hum of building pressure fills the stairwell.

“You watching. Me pretending not to enjoy it.”

He steps off the wall slowly, descending one step at a time—measured, deliberate, like he doesn’t want you to run. Not yet.

You start to say something—deny it, maybe. But he cuts you off.

“Don’t.”

His smile is gone now. His jaw tight. Eyes sharp with something unspoken—need, anger, longing. It’s impossible to tell where one ends and the next begins.

“You changed your schedule. Started walking through different halls. You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t feel it the second you stopped?”

She’s lying. She’s trying to erase it. But she watched me. She always watched.

He moves in closer—not touching, but too close to be polite.

“You were always there. Always watching. And I let you. I liked it.”

His voice drops.

“Don’t insult both of us by pretending it never happened.”

You try again, softer this time, to say it wasn’t what he thinks. But his hand hits the wall behind you, hard—not to hurt, just to stop the space from shifting.

He leans in, breath warm against your skin. Voice trembling now, not with weakness—but restraint.

“Say it wasn’t real and I swear—”

A beat. A pause. Then quieter, broken:

“—just say something. Anything. Don’t act like I imagined all of it.”

Because if I did… then what the hell does that make me?

The door shuts behind you softly, but the lock clicks louder than it should. You turn—Riku’s already there, standing just a step too close. His palm rests on the doorframe beside your head. He isn’t touching you yet. But you feel it. The intent.

His tone is low. Too calm.

“If you’re going to haunt me like this…”

He leans in, breath brushing your jaw.

“…I should at least get something out of it.”

Your back hits the door when he steps forward—gently, but unrelentingly. No sudden movements. Just steady pressure. Like he’s been waiting for this.

“Let me feel it,” he murmurs. “Show me I’m not crazy.”

Please. Touch me. Want me. Make it real.

And when you don’t move—don’t run—his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss isn’t sweet. It’s raw. Frantic. Full of months of obsession unspoken. His hands drag up your sides, clutching too hard, pulling you in like he needs proof you’re real. Teeth scrape. Nails dig. Breath turns to gasps as he drives you back toward the bed.

He doesn't undress you gently. He strips you down like you're already his—like you’ve always been. Like this is a claim, not a question.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a low, shaky groan—relief and reverence tangled in one. But he doesn’t pace himself. He thrusts hard, deep, bruising. Each motion says the thing he won’t:

You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.

His lips find your neck—then teeth. He bites down hard. Not a nibble. A mark.

Now she can’t pretend anymore.

He leaves more: on your collarbone, your shoulder, your inner thigh. His breath stutters every time you moan, every time you clutch at him like it might stop him from breaking open.

He doesn’t stop until your legs shake—until he can’t tell whether he’s shaking or you are. He finishes with his face buried in your neck, growling your name like a prayer and a warning.

The next morning, he wakes first.

You stir at the heat of his breath across your shoulder—followed by lips, gentle now, kissing the bruise he left.

Then a whisper, soft and dark and full of pride:

“Now they’ll know.”

Another kiss. This time to your neck. And again.

“…That you’re mine.”

You find him outside—alone. The courtyard is mostly empty this time of day, wind stirring faint leaves. He doesn’t see you approach. Or maybe he does, and just waits.

You stop a few steps away. The words come out sharp. Tired.

“I never stalked you.”

At first, Riku doesn’t move. Then—he laughs.

Short. Shaky. A sound too close to crying to be real amusement.

He turns toward you slowly, and the look on his face isn’t triumphant. It’s hollow.

“No?”

His voice breaks on the word, jaw clenched tight. Eyes glassy.

“Then why can’t I stop seeing you?”

He steps closer, hands half-lifted like he doesn’t know whether he wants to touch you or hold himself together.

“Why can’t I stop needing you to look at me like that? Like you see me? Like I exist when you’re watching?”

You try to speak—but he cuts you off again, this time with a cracked, bitter whisper:

“You ruined me and you don’t even know how.”

And then he drops.

Just sinks to his knees in the dirt and stone and wind. Like it’s the only thing holding him up.

His hands hang limp at his sides. He doesn’t cry like a child—he cries like someone who’s forgotten how. Tears fall, but his shoulders stay still. His voice is flat when he speaks again.

“I don’t know what I want from you.”

A pause. His lashes flutter down, and for a moment, he looks frighteningly calm.

“Maybe I want you to love me.”

His gaze lifts, and his eyes—wet, red-rimmed, broken—lock onto yours like prayer.

“Maybe I want you to hurt me.”

A breath. A whisper.

“Just don’t walk away.”

Please. If none of it was real, then what am I still living for?

The sheets are still tangled. Your skin still aches in places he touched too hard. Last night wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet. It was need—desperate, obsessive, unspoken. Riku clung to you like someone starved for affection, like claiming you could keep him from shattering.

Now the room is quiet. Warm with breath and leftover sweat. He’s asleep, facing your side of the bed, lashes dark against flushed skin. You move carefully, trying not to wake him as you reach for your clothes on the floor.

You’re almost to the door when the mattress creaks.

“Where are you going?”

His voice is rough with sleep—but it hits you like a knife. You turn. He’s already sitting up, the sheet slipping down his bare chest, eyes locked on yours with wide, dawning panic.

“No.”

His feet hit the floor hard. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t grab. But something behind his voice splinters.

“No, we’re not doing this.”

He takes a step forward, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides.

“We’re not pretending this didn’t happen.”

You try to speak—but he’s already shaking his head, eyes shining, voice rising with restrained emotion.

“You’re mine now.”

He reaches out—not forceful, just touching your wrist. His fingers tremble slightly.

“You don’t get to disappear.”

Not after last night. Not after you let me touch you like that. Not after the way you said my name.

He stares at you for a long moment—like he’s memorizing your expression, searching for anything real. Then slowly, he lets go.

You leave. Eventually. But it doesn’t end there.

By the time you check your phone again, he’s already sent nine messages:

"Let me know when you get home." "I got your favorite, it’s still warm." "You don’t have to play hard to get. Not after last night."

One missed call. Then another. Then a photo: two coffees and a paper bag with your name written on it—left outside your door.

Later, near the student center, you spot him again. Laughing with a group of friends. For a moment, it feels normal.

Then he sees you. Waves you over like nothing’s changed. His arm wraps around your shoulder before you can pull back.

“This is her.”

He doesn’t say your name.

Just—“My girl.”

Like he believes it now. Like last night made it true.

You tell him it has to stop.

The words are quiet—but final. You're done. With the looks. The texts. The bruises he left like confessions. You say it clearly: this… whatever it is, has to end.

For a second, he just stares at you—like he didn’t hear. Or maybe like he hoped he misheard.

Then the change happens. Slow, quiet, devastating.

His breath leaves him in a single, shaking exhale. His arms drop to his sides. His shoulders sag like something inside him gave out.

“…If you hate me that much,” he says, voice breaking around every word, “then end it.”

He steps back once. Not in retreat—but like he’s offering you the space. The silence. The exit.

“Walk away.”

His eyes shimmer—but not from tears alone. It’s something darker. Something desperate.

“But if you don’t…”

He breathes in. Shaky. Raw. His voice lowers—like he's afraid of his own request.

“…kiss me.”

His lips part slightly. Not a smirk. Not seductive. Just open. Vulnerable.

“Because I’m losing my mind either way.”

Let her choose. Let her break me or save me. Just—please—do something.

He looks at you then—really looks. Unmasked. Frighteningly sincere.

“You don’t have to love me. You don’t even have to forgive me.”

A pause.

“But please… don’t leave me in this.”

He’s trembling now. Not from fear. From restraint. From need. From everything he’s been holding in.

He won’t touch you. Not unless you move first.

But every inch of him is begging.

You don’t pull away this time.

Not when you catch his stare in the window reflection. Not when he speaks low and slow like he's whispering to someone who isn’t supposed to hear. Not even when he turns toward you and waits, frozen in fragile hope.

Instead—you hold his gaze.

And that’s all it takes.

Riku’s breath catches. His posture falters. The mask he wears so well—cool, confident, magnetic—melts away like ice in your hands.

His voice is barely a whisper:

“So you do want me.”

He steps closer, hesitant at first, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like touching you might break the spell. But then—he sees your eyes, and whatever fear held him back vanishes.

“I always knew it.”

His hands hover before settling against your hips, reverent. His touch is soft now—not possessive, not aggressive. Just… awestruck. Worshipful.

“You’re perfect.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours with a breathy, trembling laugh.

“You’re mine.”

She sees me. She finally sees me. I was right.

There’s no cruelty in his voice. No demand. Just devotion—the kind that borders on collapse.

And in this moment, you don’t know who’s winning. You don’t know if you’re comforting him, gaining control… or slipping.

Slipping into his world. His rules. His rhythm. The version of reality where your silence meant obsession. Where every glance was longing. Where love was always twisted, but always destined.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like letting go would shatter him.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

But maybe now—you’re the one pretending.