Chapter 4: The Aftermath of Satisfaction
The water was scalding. Megumi tilted her face up into the spray, letting it pummel her skin red, as if it could wash away the lingering feeling of his departure. The bathroom was a steam-filled cave, the mirror already fogged over, hiding the proof of his possession etched across her body.
She looked down, watching the water sluice over the dark blooms on her hips. Her fingers traced them, pressing just hard enough to reignite a dull throb. A small, private smile touched her lips. He’d be gone all day. But these were his. They were a message, a chain. She soaped her hands, the generic scent of the bar clashing with the richer, deeper smell of him that still clung to her. She washed between her legs, wincing at the sensitivity, the clean sting a strange comfort.
The silence of the apartment pressed in, louder than their earlier noises. Just the drum of water on tile.
Then, a buzz. A low, insistent vibration against the porcelain sink counter.
She stilled. Her eyes cut through the steam toward the blurry shape of his phone. He’d forgotten it. A rare slip. The buzzing stopped, then started again a moment later—a call going to voicemail, then a text notification lighting up the screen.
Her heart did a funny, hard kick against her ribs. The warmth from the water turned suddenly claustrophobic. She turned off the shower, the silence now absolute and heavy. Dripping, she pushed open the glass door, the cold air raising gooseflesh on her wet skin. She didn’t grab a towel. She walked, bare feet leaving dark prints on the tile, and picked up the phone.
His passcode was her birthday. The screen unlocked to a messaging app. The notification was at the top.
Unknown Number.
You left your jacket at my place. Come get it tonight?
The words were simple. Innocuous. But they screamed. My place. Tonight.
The cold fury that swept through her was instantaneous and total, freezing the last of the shower's heat in her veins. It wasn't the hot, screaming jealousy she'd felt with Yuki. This was different. Sharper. More precise. This was a violation of a promise made just an hour ago, whispered into her skin while he was still inside her.
She stood there, water dripping from her hair onto the screen. She read the message five more times. Memorized the number. Then, with a hand that was eerily steady, she placed the phone back on the sink, screen up, the message displayed like an indictment.
She finally wrapped a towel around herself, tucking it tightly above her breasts. The fabric was rough. She didn't dry her hair. It hung in wet ropes down her back, soaking into the towel.
She found him in the bedroom, pulling a clean black t-shirt over his head. He was scowling at a pair of boots, one kicked under the bed. The room still smelled like them.
"Kuna-nii."
He grunted, not looking up as he yanked the boot free. "Told you to shower. You're dripping on the floor."
"Who is she?"
That got his attention. He straightened, finally looking at her. His eyes scanned her face, then the phone she was holding up like a weapon. His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his gaze—a flicker of annoyance, then a hardening. "What?"
"Who. She." Megumi took a step forward. Her voice was low, flat. "You left your jacket at her place? She wants you to come get it tonight?"
A slow, infuriating grin spread across his face. He finished with his boot and leaned back against the dresser, crossing his arms. "Jealous, bsby?"
"Don't call me that right now." The words crackled. "Who sent this?"
"Some girl." He shrugged, a lazy roll of his shoulders. "From the bar a couple nights back. When you had that migraine and went to bed early. Means nothing."
"A couple nights back," Megumi repeated. The chill in her deepened. The night her "migraine" had been a sulking fit because he’d been on a phone call for too long. He’d gone out to get air. He’d come back smelling of whiskey and cold night. Not perfume. "You fucked her."
"It's a jacket, Megumi. Not a marriage proposal." His tone was dropping, a warning rumble entering it. "Put the phone down."
"Why is she texting you? Why does she have your number?" She was advancing on him, the towel threatening to slip. "You gave some bitch from a bar your number? After what you just said to me? After you promised?"
"I didn't promise her anything." He pushed off the dresser, suddenly taking up all the space in the room. "I promised you. And I kept that promise this morning, didn't I? You're still walking funny."
"This isn't a joke!" she screamed, and the sound was raw, tearing from her throat. She threw the phone at him. It bounced off his chest and clattered to the floor. "You tell me I'm yours, you tell me never to look at anyone, and you're leaving your shit at some whore's apartment? Making plans to go back?"
He looked down at the phone, then back at her. The amusement was gone, replaced by a flat, dangerous calm. "You need to watch your tone."
"Or what?" she challenged, her chest heaving. "You'll what? Go fuck her to teach me a lesson?"
In two strides he was on her. His hand shot out, not to hit her, but to fist in the towel at her chest, yanking her forward so she stumbled against him. His other hand clamped on the back of her neck, forcing her to look up at him. His breath was hot on her face. "The lesson," he said, each word deliberate and cold, "is that I don't answer to you. I come home to you. I fuck you. I own you. What I do outside these walls to blow off steam is mine. You don't get to question it. You especially don't get to throw my fucking phone."
She struggled, but his grip was iron. "You liar," she spat.
"I never lied." His thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind her ear, a grotesque parody of a caress. "I said you were mine. I never said I was only yours." He saw the words land, saw the fury in her eyes flicker with a helpless, wounded confusion. It seemed to satisfy him. His grip loosened, just slightly. "Now, are you done having a tantrum? I've got work."
The fight drained out of her, replaced by a hollow, shaking rage. He was redefining the rules right in front of her, and she had no ground to stand on. He was everything. She was just his.
He released her, turning to pick up his phone and wallet from the dresser. He didn't look at the message again. He just shoved the phone into his pocket.
"Are you going?" she asked, her voice small now.
"To the dock. Yes."
"Tonight. To get your jacket."
He paused at the bedroom door, glancing back. His expression was unreadable. "Maybe. If I feel like it. The jacket's expensive."
He left. She heard the front door open and shut, the finality of the lock.
Megumi stood in the middle of their room, the wet towel sagging. The hollow feeling was back, but now it was filled with shards of glass. He was going to see her. Maybe not tonight, but eventually. The jacket was just an excuse, a thread connecting him to another world. A world where she didn't exist.
She walked to the window, peeling back the edge of the blind just enough to see the street below. A minute later, he emerged, lighting a cigarette as he strode toward his car. He didn't look up.
As his car pulled away and disappeared around the corner, Megumi let the blind fall back. The room was silent. She looked at the rumpled bed, at the indentations in the pillows. The peach soda he'd promised felt like a joke now. A consolation prize for the girl who got to stay home while her owner went out into the night.
She dropped the towel. She didn't reach for clothes. Instead, she crawled back into the mess of sheets, pulling the one that smelled most strongly of him over her head. In the dark, warm cocoon of his scent, the tears finally came—hot, silent, and furious.