The Changing Room
The dress was a weapon, and right now, it was winning.
Inside the cramped, velvet-draped changing room of the Ginza boutique, Miyuki was losing a war against gravity and a very stubborn invisible zipper. The midnight-blue silk pooled around her feet like spilled ink before she managed to shimmy it up over her hips.
It fit. That was the problem. It fit too well.
It clung to her curves with scandalous precision. The slit rode high up her thigh, and the back... There was no back. It dipped dangerously low, exposing the entire length of her spine.
Miyuki reached behind her, twisting her arm at an unnatural angle, trying to catch the zipper tab at the base of her back. Her fingers brushed empty air. She groaned, frustration bubbling up.
"Nobara," Miyuki called out, her voice muffled by the thick door. "I need help. The zipper is stuck."
Silence.
"Nobara?" Miyuki tried again, louder. "Don't tell me you're trying on shoes."
The changing room's door opened, but she didn't look at the mirror.
"Finally," Miyuki huffed, turning her back to the entrance, holding the front of the dress against her chest to keep it decent. "Just zip it up, will you? And tell me if it's too much. I feel like I'm naked."
The door was closed.
The air in the small cubicle instantly changed. The pressure spiked. The smell of expensive perfume—sweet citrus, ozone, and something distinctly masculine—filled the tiny space.
It wasn't Nobara.
Miyuki froze. She watched in the full-length mirror as a large, looming figure stepped into the reflection behind her.
Gojo Satoru stood there.
He wasn't wearing his blindfold. He was wearing round, dark sunglasses that slid down his nose, revealing those piercing, electric blue eyes. And he wasn't in his uniform. He was in a tuxedo, custom-fitted, charcoal grey, with the top button of his shirt undone.
He looked devastating. He looked like sin in a suit.
"Nobara got distracted by a limited edition pair of heels," Gojo said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against Miyuki's exposed back. "So I volunteered."
"Get out," Miyuki hissed, clutching the dress tighter. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Gojo, you can't be in here. It's improper."
"Improper?" Gojo chuckled darkly. He didn't leave. Instead, he reached behind him and engaged the lock on the changing room door. Click.
The sound was deafening in the silence.
"Propriety is for people who have to follow rules, Miyuki," he drawled, taking a step closer. The cubicle was so small that his chest nearly brushed her back. "I don't have that problem. Besides... I hate waiting."
He looked at her reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn't playful; it was hungry. He scanned the bare expanse of her back, the curve of her waist, the damp hair sticking to her neck.
"You asked for help."
"I asked for Nobara."
"I'm better with my hands."
Miyuki's breath hitched. Before she could protest, she felt his fingers—warm, and terrifyingly real—brush against the base of her spine.
There was no static. No shock. No Infinity.
Just him.
"Hold still," he commanded softly.
He found the zipper tab. But instead of pulling it up quickly, he took his agonizing time. His knuckles grazed her skin with every inch he ascended. It was torture. It was electric.
"You're tense," Gojo noted, his voice right by her ear. He was so tall he had to stoop slightly, his reflection towering over hers. "Relax, Arima. Your muscles are coiled tight."
He paused the zipper halfway up her back. His hand flattened against her bare skin, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her spine, pressing into a sensitive spot just above her waist.
It was too much. The heat, the sudden pressure, the overwhelming scent of him.
Miyuki gasped. It wasn't just a breath; it was a sound—a soft, involuntary whimper that escaped her throat before she could stop it. "Ah—"
The reaction was instant.
Gojo moved faster than thought.
One moment, she was standing there; the next, she was spun around and pinned against the full-length mirror. The glass was cool against her bare back, but the man pressing into her was a furnace.
"Hush," Gojo whispered roughly.
His large hand slammed over her mouth, muffling her gasp, effectively silencing her.
Miyuki's eyes went wide. His hand was huge, easily covering her lips and jaw, his thumb resting against her cheekbone. He had her trapped—one hand over her mouth, the other planted on the mirror next to her head, boxing her in.
"Nobara is right outside," Gojo murmured, leaning down until their noses were almost touching. His blue eyes were blown wide, dark with something dangerous. "Unless you want her to hear exactly how much you like this... I suggest you stay quiet."
Miyuki couldn't breathe. She could only nod, her pulse pounding against his palm.
He didn't pull away. He kept his hand there, his thumb slowly stroking her cheek, enjoying the flush rising on her skin. He looked at her like a predator playing with a very interesting mouse.
"Good girl," he purred.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth. But he didn't step back. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.
"You're missing something," he whispered, his voice husky.
He opened it to reveal a delicate silver choker with a small blue gemstone.
"A protective charm," he explained, though his eyes were fixed on her swollen lips. "To stabilize your output. So you don't melt this very expensive dress when you get... excited."
"I don't get excited," Miyuki managed to whisper, her voice trembling.
"Liar," Gojo grinned. "Your heart rate is 140. I can hear it."
He stepped even closer, invading her personal space until there was no space left. He moved her hair aside, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin of her neck. He unclasped the necklace and brought it around her throat.
For a moment, his arms were caged around her. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Blue suits you," he whispered, the words ghosting over her skin. "It matches my eyes. Now... everyone will know who you belong to."
Click.
He fastened the clasp.
Miyuki felt the weight of the silver against her throat, a cold contrast to his burning touch. He pulled back just an inch to look her in the eye. The playfulness was gone. In its place was something raw, something possessive.
He looked at her lips. He leaned in. Miyuki's eyes fluttered shut, anticipating the kiss, wanting it.
But he didn't kiss her.
Instead, he pressed his thumb against her bottom lip, dragging it down slightly, exposing the wet pink inside.
"Patience, Arima," he murmured against her mouth. "Not here. Not yet."
He stepped back. The cold air rushed in to fill the space between them. He unlocked the door with a loud click and adjusted his cufflinks as if nothing had happened.
"Ready to go, partner?" he asked, flashing that infuriating, perfect smile.
Miyuki stood there, gripping the edge of the mirror to keep her knees from buckling. She looked at her reflection. The dress was perfect. The necklace was beautiful. Her lips were red and swollen.
"I hate you," she whispered, breathless.
"I know," Gojo winked. "Let's go."