Chapter 352: The Rain in the Room
The soft hiss of falling rain filled the chamber. Not the wild crash of a storm or the clean patter of a drizzle outside the windows — this was rain indoors, conjured by not Malik himself but his house. It fell in perfect rhythm from a ceiling woven with Magic sigils, droplets fading before they could touch the floor beyond a painted square of misty light.
The smell of petrichor mingled with fresh paint and turpentine. It was soothing.
It was madness.
It was Malik's kind of art.
He sat on a low stool, brush poised, his newest canvas before him. Across the studio, framed by an invisible curtain of rain, sat Aoi Rokushō.
She was perched on a stone bench, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, an umbrella tilted at her shoulder. Beads of conjured water ran down its lacquered surface, glinting silver in the glow of the lamps Malik had arranged like theatrical spotlights. The air shimmered around her, her chakra instinctively rejecting the false chill, yet droplets still dotted her skin, tracing lines along her neck and collarbone before evaporating.
She was, as usual, equal parts dangerous and breathtaking.
Her raincoat — translucent emerald vinyl trimmed with black — clung to her shoulders and arms, loose enough to catch the light with every shift of movement. The hood was down, and her dark green bob stuck slightly to her cheeks from the moisture. The mask she wore hid half her face — a simple piece of crafted steel lacquered to match her coat, sculpted to obscure her mouth but not her eyes.
Those eyes — sharp pale lavender — were fixed on him with suspicion and the faintest trace of amusement.
"You know," she said dryly, voice muffled slightly behind the mask, "I didn't sign up to be turned into a still life."
"You didn't sign up for anything," Malik replied without looking up from his easel. His tone was easy, amused. "You volunteered the moment you walked in here and said, and I quote, 'I'm bored, entertain me.'"
"That's not volunteering," she countered. "That's coercion."
Malik dipped his brush into the paint, swirling a mixture of sea green and violet. "Then call it a collaboration."
Aoi sighed, shifting slightly on the bench. "Your collaboration has me half naked, drenched, and holding an umbrella indoors. You realize this is absurd, yes?"
"Absurd," he said, smiling faintly, "is where beauty starts."
"Absurd," she repeated, "is what gets people killed."
He finally glanced up, eyes bright with amusement. "Lucky for us, you're hard to kill."
That earned him a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk — there and gone again. She turned her face slightly, pretending to study the far wall of the chamber.
The studio around them was one of Malik's private sanctuaries, a wide circular room in the western wing of the mansion. A single skylight shimmered with rain illusions. Canvases leaned against the walls — some abstract storms of color, others portraits so lifelike they almost breathed.
The air grows heavier as Aoi's fingers tighten around the umbrella handle. Its metal tip taps twice against the stone floor—a rhythmic punctuation to her unspoken thoughts.
A faint hum of magic thrummed through the floorboards, keeping the air cool and scented faintly of ozone.
Malik's brush marked and slid over the canvas. The rhythm of his strokes matched the rain: soft, deliberate, musical. He had fallen into that peculiar focus that artists sometimes reach, where time folds and only form and color exist.
Aoi watched him, fascinated in spite of herself. His eyes followed every line of her posture, but not like a predator — like a musician studying a melody. The curve of her arm, the angle of her jaw beneath the mask, the tension between stillness and strength.
"You're staring," she said finally, half accusation, half observation.
"I'm studying," Malik replied. "There's a difference."
She arched an eyebrow. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely," he said, dipping his brush again. "Studying involves restraint."
Her laugh was quiet but genuine, soft and sharp at once. "Restraint isn't usually your style."
He grinned without looking up. "True. But you inspire discipline. It's terrifying."
"Good," she murmured, adjusting her grip on the umbrella. "Someone should."
The rain shifted slightly at her movement, droplets sliding down her coat. The vinyl gleamed with the glow of the lamps, catching the subtle shimmer of color-infused light. Malik painted that glow with quick, confident strokes, his hand sure and smooth — tracing the illusion of wet silk, the muted color of her eyes, the shadows curling around her shoulders.
Minutes passed.
Aoi's patience thinned. She sighed, one hand resting on her knee. "You've been at this for over an hour."
"Forty-seven minutes," Malik corrected. "But who's counting?"
"My legs are," she said flatly. "And they're about to go on strike."
The bench scrapes against stone as Aoi shifts position, her bare feet padding against the floor. The sound echoes oddly in the rain-filled chamber, as if the drops absorb half the noise before it can escape. The umbrella tilts further back on her shoulder, droplets running down its lacquered surface in steady streams.
Malik doesn't stop painting, but his brushstrokes slow slightly. "We're not finished yet," he says, more to the canvas than to her.
"We never are," she replies, voice tinged with something between resignation and amusement. "That's the problem with working with you."
He finally looks up, eyes bright with challenge and a smile growing on his face. "I could say the same about you."
The rain around them grows heavier for a second, then lighter—Malik's house responding to his mood. The air smells more intensely of wet earth and turpentine.
He glanced up, smiling. "Wouldn't be the first time your legs staged a rebellion. Remember the waterfall mission? Well, I called it a Date, but that part isn't important."
Her mask tilted toward him. "Don't remind me. You almost drowned."
"I didn't even know I could still drown, you live and you learn, but most importantly, and you carried me out," he said, voice softening. "You never told me what you were thinking that day."
"I was thinking," she said evenly, "that you were too heavy to drag up a cliff."
"Liar."
A flicker of warmth passed behind her eyes. "Fine," she admitted, "I was thinking you were too important to lose."
Malik's brush paused midstroke. His voice gentled. "You know, I still remember how you looked that day. Hair plastered to your face, lightning behind you. You looked like the storm itself."
Aoi clicked her tongue, as if scolding him for sentimentality, but she didn't deny it.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
"And you're beautiful," he said.
She stiffened slightly. Compliments still disarmed her — even after everything. Especially from him.
"I told you not to say things like that when I'm supposed to be still," she said, eyes narrowing.
"Why not?"
"Because then I start thinking about things that aren't art."
He smiled faintly. "That's still art."
Her exhale came out as a low groan of mock frustration. "You're incorrigible."
"Frequently."
She shifted again, impatience finally winning. "That's it. I'm done. My knees are frozen, my coat's sticking to me, and this room smells like paint and arrogance."
She stood, lowering the umbrella. Water streamed from its edge before vanishing into nothing midair. Malik looked up, brush still in hand, and caught the full image of her standing in the rain's shimmer — fierce, proud, magnificent.
"Aoi," he said quietly.
"What?"
He set down the brush, rising slowly from his stool. "Before you go… thank you."
She turned halfway toward him, mask glinting. "For what?"
"For giving me time I know you don't have. You're always working, always out there saving people or killing problems for me. I don't say it enough, but—" He hesitated, then smiled. "—I love when you're here. Even if it's just for a painting."
She blinked once. The rain between them softened, falling slower.
He went on, softer now. "I love you, Aoi."
The words hung in the air like the final stroke of a masterpiece.
She froze, caught between instinct and heart. Her first impulse — mockery, dismissal, deflection — evaporated under his gaze.
After a moment, she sighed, low and quiet. "You really know how to make a woman's exit difficult."
"Occupational hazard," he said gently.
Aoi shook her head, muttering something he didn't catch, and sat back down on the bench with exaggerated reluctance. "Fine. But finish it fast. I'm cold."
Malik grinned, reaching for his brush again. "You're perfect."
"Paint faster," she ordered.
He did — but with a smile on his face that had nothing to do with art and everything to do with her.
The rain continues its gentle descent, a constant sound in the room as Malik's brush resumes its dance. Each stroke captures the subtle shift in her posture—the way her shoulders relax minutely, the way her head tilts just so, the quiet surrender in her pale lavender eyes. Malik mixes a shade of muted gold and silver, painting the reflection of lamplight in the droplets on her raincoat, the way they cling like tiny jewels before vanishing into the air.
Her patience holds, but he could feel the familiar restlessness simmering beneath her stillness. It's part of what makes her so compelling—that constant, coiled readiness, even here, even now.
"Tell me a story," she says suddenly, her voice cutting through the rhythm of the rain and brush. "Something real. Not one of your embellished tales."
Malik paused, considering. "Which one?"
"The first time you realized you loved me," she says, her tone neutral, but her gaze sharp.
At that, Malik stood taking her in as he walked up to her.
Malik's hand rises slowly, giving her every chance to stop him. His fingers brush against the cool metal of her mask, tracing its edge where it meets her skin. There's a moment—just a breath—where she could pull away. But she doesn't.
His thumb presses against the hidden clasp at the side of her face. The mask comes free with a soft click, revealing the lower half of her face: the sharp angle of her jaw, the slight flush of color high on her cheekbones, the full curve of her mouth set in that familiar, guarded expression. Her breath fogs the air slightly as the cooler room touches her exposed skin.
The mask falls to the floor between them, a small sound against stone.
Malik's eyes lock with hers, both of them unmoving. The rain falls around them, but none of it touches them now—Malik's magic has created a pocket of dry air, a private world where only they exist. Aoi's lips part slightly, her gaze unreadable. "You're making this difficult," she says quietly, but she doesn't move away.
He reaches up again, this time with two fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. The touch is light, almost reverent. "I've always found that the difficult things are the ones worth doing," he murmurs.
Water still clings to her face from the magical rain. Malik's thumb brushes against her cheek, wiping away a droplet that clings to her skin. Then another. His hand moves to her temple, pushing wet strands of dark green hair back from her face. The gesture is gentle, possessive.
He studies her expression, watching for resistance. Finding none, he moves closer.
His lips meet hers with the same careful deliberation as his brushstrokes. The kiss is soft at first, questioning, giving her every chance to pull away, but instead she slips her tongue into his mouth. His free hand slides beneath her raincoat, fingers brushing against the damp material, tracing the outline of her small breasts through the coat.
Her breathing falters slightly, but she doesn't stop him. The raincoat's vinyl makes a soft rustling sound as his hand moves against it.
"You've been painting me all this time," she whispers against his mouth, "and only now you come over to touch me."
"I've been seeing you," he counters, his voice rough. "Just not the way you think."
His hand tugs gently at the collar of her raincoat, pulling it back to expose one shoulder. The fabric clings to her skin as he peels it away. His lips follow the path of his fingers, pressing against the newly exposed flesh.
Aoi exhales sharply, her fingers tightening around the umbrella. She's still holding it, even now. Her grip loosens, and the umbrella tilts backward, water streaming from its edge.
"I should—" Malik smiled at her unfinished question, "Here," he said, taking the umbrella away from her and setting it aside, before unhooking her raincoat and pushing it off her wet and warm skin, both his hands moving to grab her small breasts. The raincoat pools at Aoi's feet, leaving her exposed to the air and Malik's intense gaze. Her skin glistens with moisture, the droplets still clinging to her like tiny jewels. Malik's hands close around her small breasts, his thumbs brushing against the hardened peaks. His grip is firm but gentle, his touch a perfect balance of admiration and possession.
Aoi's breath catches, her body responding in ways that betray her usual control. She doesn't push him away, doesn't tell him to stop. Instead, she arches into his touch, her head tilting back slightly. Her hands, which had been gripping the umbrella for stability, now find their way to Malik's shoulders, her nails digging in just enough to let him know she's aware of every sensation.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, his mouth trailing down her neck, tasting the water and the faint salt of her skin. The rain around them grows heavier, droplets falling faster as Malik's magic responds to his desire. But none touch them in their sheltered space—just the memory of rain, the echo of what had been between them.
Aoi's breathing grows uneven. "Malik," she says, her voice tight with restrained emotion.
He pulls back slightly, looking at her face. "What?" he asks, though he knows.
She shakes her head, frustration and want warring in her expression. "You make everything... complicated."
"That's what I do," he agrees, hands still on her, fingers tracing patterns against her skin. "But I've never lied to you."
She stares at him, her lavender eyes searching his face. "No," she admits finally. "You haven't."
Something shifts between them—the unspoken words, the unmade promises, the passion of tension and possibility. Malik's hands move to her waist, pulling her closer. She doesn't resist. Malik kisses her lips once more before asking, "How do you want me? I know you love anal, but the choice is yours." Aoi's gaze sharpens even as her body relaxes against him.
She lifts her chin slightly, a subtle but deliberate gesture of command. "Take me against the canvas," she says, her voice low and steady despite the faint tremor he feels beneath his palms. "I want paint on my back when we're done."
Malik smiles—a slow, dark curve of his mouth—and sweeps an arm across the nearest worktable, sending brushes and pigments clattering to the floor. The wet, rich scent of oils and rain fills the air between them. He lifts her easily, her body light and taut in his arms, and lays her back against the unfinished painting. The cool, tacky surface of the canvas meets her skin, and she gasps softly as the pigments smear across her shoulders and spine.
He doesn't hurry.
Aoi's legs part for him, her thick thighs wrapping around his waist with practiced ease. She leans back against the stained canvas, her skin smeared with colors—blues and greens and golds that catch the lamplight like a living artwork. Her hands grip the edges of the table, fingers curling into the soft fabric of Malik's paint-stained shirt as she pulls him closer.
Her pubic hair, dark green and thick, glistens with moisture. She tilts her hips upward, exposing herself fully to him, her swollen lips parting slightly as if in invitation. The air between them is charged, thick with the smell of her arousal mingling with the metallic tang of paint and rain.
Malik's hands rest on her inner thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He watches her, drinking in the way her breath catches, the way her body tenses with need. "You're beautiful like this," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "Open for me, exposed, real."
She gives a sharp, breathless laugh. "You've never had trouble making me real, Malik."
He smiles, dark and knowing, and slides one finger into her. She gasps, her hips jerking slightly against his hand. "Here?" he asks, stroking deep inside her. "Or somewhere else?"
Aoi's nails dig into his shirt. "You know what I want," she says, her voice tight. "Stop playing with words."
His fingers curl inside her, drawing another gasp from her lips. "I want to hear you say it," he insists, adding a second finger, stretching her. "Where do you want me, Aoi?"
Her breathing grows uneven. "I want you to fuck me," she says, voice steady despite the tremor in her body. Aoi's eyes narrow, her grip tightening on his shirt. "In my ass," she says, voice low and clear. "Now, Malik."
He withdraws his fingers from her pussy, slick with her wetness, and presses one against her tight entrance. She gasps sharply, her thighs tightening around him. "You're sure?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.
Her answer is a sharp, impatient nod. "Yes. Do it."
Malik positions himself, his cock pressing against her. He pushes in slowly, giving her body time to adjust. Aoi's breath hitches, her back arching against the canvas. The cool, tacky surface of the painting presses into her skin, smearing colors across her shoulders and spine. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment before opening again, fixed on his face.
He moves inside her with a steady, deliberate rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last. Malik moves one of his hands to her perky, small breast, grabbing and squeezing it while the other holds her pretty face, his pink-gold eyes on her gray-purple ones. She whimpers softly, her hips lifting slightly to meet his thrusts.
The paint on her skin smears further, the colors blending into a kaleidoscope of blue and green that clings to her like a second skin. Aoi's grip on the edges of the table tightens, her nails pressing into the fabric as she arches into his touch. The air in the studio is heavy with the mingled scents of sex and oil paint, the heat of their bodies rising in the space beneath the illusory rain.
Her breath comes in short gasps, her mouth open in a silent expression of pleasure. "Fuck," she mutters, the word almost lost beneath the soft patter of the rain outside their intimate bubble. Her thighs tremble around his waist, the muscles flexing with every deep thrust. The slick, lewd sound of their coupling fills the room, a primal counterpoint to the gentle hiss of the falling water.
Malik picks her up, her legs clamped onto him as she rides him, his thick black cock in her ass. As soon as their faces get close enough, Malik leans in to kiss her. The taste of her mouth is warm and familiar—rain and sweat and the faint sweetness of her. Her arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as she grinds against him, the motion sending sharp pulses of pleasure through her body.
"Harder," she demands against his lips, her voice roughened by desire.
Malik complies, his thrusts becoming deeper, more insistent. The studio around them pulses with magic—the rain falls faster, droplets catching the light like tiny stars. Colors from the canvas smear across Aoi's skin, painting her in swirling patterns of blue and gold and deep, rich green.
Her breathing grows ragged, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm going to come," she warns, her voice tight with building tension.
Malik's hand slides between their bodies, finding the swollen nub of her clit. His fingers circle it, firm and insistent. "Am I about to make my Aoi cum? Is my sweet baby about to show me her dirty little face as she cums all over her man's cock, while I'm holding on to her fat ass?" Malik asked in a hot but innocent voice. Aoi's breath hitches, her hips stuttering as her body responds to the filthy words. She grinds down on Malik's cock, her thick ass jiggling with the force of her movements. "Fuck, Malik," she gasps, her voice a husky whisper.
His fingers press harder against her clit, rubbing in firm, quick circles. "That's right, baby," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against the shell of her ear. "Show me how much you love it when I take this tight little ass."
Her muscles clench around him, her body quivering as she teeters on the edge. "I'm so close," she pants, her nails raking down his back. "I'm going to cum all over your cock, Malik. I'm going to make such a mess."
"That's my girl," he growls, his thrusts becoming even more forceful. The air crackles with tension as Aoi's climax builds. Her body arches against his, every muscle straining as pleasure ripples through her. The illusionary rain around them intensifies, droplets falling faster and brighter, catching the lamplight like shattered glass. Colors from the canvas smear across her skin in wild, beautiful patterns—deep blues and shimmering golds that seem to pulse with the rhythm of their bodies.
Malik feels her tighten around him, her ass clenching rhythmically as her orgasm washes over her. Her cry is sharp and unrestrained, echoing through the studio. He holds her through it, his own release building as he watches her face—eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, expression utterly lost in the intensity of the moment.
When she finally stills, breathless and trembling, he allows himself to finish. His thrusts slow, becoming deeper and more deliberate until he spills inside her with a low groan, his forehead pressed against hers.
The room is quiet now, except for the soft patter of the illusory rain and their ragged breathing. Aoi's body is limp against his, her skin glistening with sweat and smeared paint. The colors of the canvas have transferred to her back, leaving abstract patterns in blue and gold across her shoulders and spine. Malik's arms cradle her, holding her close as he catches his breath.
She looks up at him, her lavender eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. "Happy now?" she asks, voice soft but edged with her usual dryness.
Malik smiles, his fingers tracing the painted patterns on her skin. "You have no idea," he murmurs.
She rolls her eyes, but there's no real irritation in the gesture. "You're impossible," she says, but her tone lacks its usual bite.
"And you're covered in paint," he counters, glancing at the abstract design now decorating her back and shoulders. Malik is still not done, kisses her again, sitting her on a desk as her legs release their death grip on him. She shifts on the desk, wincing slightly as the cold surface meets her sensitive skin. The paint from the canvas has left abstract patterns across her back and shoulders—swirling blues and golds that catch the lamplight like flecks of glass.
"Your house is going to hate me for this," she mutters, reaching back to touch one of the smeared patches on her shoulder blade.
Malik laughs, a warm sound that fills the studio. "My house loves you more than it hates paint," he says, running his fingers through his own hair—still slightly damp from the magical rain. "Besides, it's a small price for inspiration."
Aoi arches an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "Inspiration?" she repeats, sliding off the desk to stand beside him. The movement causes her to sway slightly—still recovering from the intensity of what they've shared. "Yes, True Inspiration!" he told her, as he sat on a stool watching her move around, enjoying how her big, fat butty jiggled and bounced.
Malik watches her with undisguised appreciation as she moves, his expression thoughtful. Aoi doesn't seem to notice, too busy examining the paint smeared across her back and shoulders. She plucks at a particularly stubborn blue streak on her arm, wincing as she realizes it's not coming off easily.
"This is never coming out of my skin," she mutters, more to herself than to him.
Malik reaches for a rag from the workbench, dipping it in a solvent. "Let me," he says, approaching her with the damp cloth. His fingers brush against her shoulder as he gently begins cleaning away the paint, his touch light and careful.
She stiffens slightly at the contact, her usual defensiveness rising to the surface. "I can do that myself," she says, reaching to take the rag.
But Malik holds it just out of her reach, his eyes meeting hers with that familiar challenge. "Let me take care of you." He speaks in a gentle, persuasive murmur, his words laced with something deeper than just affection. Aoi hesitates, her fingers hovering near the rag before she finally lowers her hand.
She doesn't turn away, doesn't pull back, just lets him work in silence, his soft, paint-stained hands moving with surprising tenderness. The solvent soaks into the smeared pigments, slowly lifting the colors from her skin. Blue and gold dissolve into pale streaks, revealing the soft, warm flesh beneath.
Malik works methodically, his touch firm but careful. He wipes away the paint from her shoulders, tracing the curves of her arms, down to the swell of her hips. Each pass of the cloth leaves a trail of fresh, clean skin in its wake, though the faint outline of colors still clings to her curves. Aoi stands still, her breath steady but her body taut with awareness. "Aoi, love, bend over for me," he said through the kisses he gave her on her neck and shoulders. Aoi hesitates for only a moment before bending forward, her hands resting on the edge of the workbench.
The movement causes her thick, painted ass to rise slightly, the curves of her hips accentuated by the streaks of blue and gold still clinging to her skin. Malik's fingers trail down her back, following the dip of her spine before settling on the swell of her ass. He wipes away the last remnants of paint, his touch deliberate, sensual. The cloth drags slowly across her curves, the soft damp fabric caressing her skin. Aoi's breath hitches, her body tensing slightly as he works, her muscles still sensitive from their earlier encounter. Malik moves around her, cleaning the final streaks of paint from her thighs and the small of her back.
Malik, using his hand, spreads her legs, not only taking a detailed look at her pussy but also taking the time to spread her ass cheeks, seeing his thick cum still leaking from her asshole. Malik's fingers trace the curve of her hip, his touch both possessive and reverent. He gently parts her legs wider, the movement exposing her completely to his gaze. Her pussy glistens with their mingled fluids, the dark green of her pubic hair damp and tangled. His thumb brushes against her inner thigh before he moves higher, spreading her ass cheeks apart with deliberate care.
The sight of his own cum slowly leaking from her stretched asshole makes his breath catch. He watches the pearlescent trail slide down her skin, a stark contrast against the smudged remnants of paint still clinging to her curves. The intimacy of the moment hangs thick in the air, more vulnerable than any act that came before.
Aoi remains perfectly still, her face turned away but her body trembling faintly beneath his hands. Her silence speaks volumes—this is a trust she grants to no one else. Malik now fully hard again, pressing his cock head to the lips of her pussy, waiting for her permission. She looks back at him over her shoulder, her gaze sharp even in the dim light.
The paint has been almost completely wiped away, leaving only faint streaks of blue and gold tracing her curves like war paint. "You want more?" she asks, her voice quiet, almost challenging.
Malik's lips curve into a slow smile. "I always want more of you," he admits, his fingers still holding her spread open. "I want to watch you take me again, to feel you clench around me while you're still marked with paint and cum."
Aoi exhales sharply, her body tensing beneath his hands. "You're insatiable," she mutters, but there's no real protest in her tone—only the familiar edge of desire laced with irritation.
He presses forward, the thick head of his cock nudging against the slick folds of her pussy. "And you're irresistible," he counters, his voice rough with renewed want, "Can I have you again?" Aoi's breath comes faster as he presses against her, his words igniting something deep and unrelenting inside her. She doesn't answer immediately, her body already responding to his touch, her thighs quivering with restrained need. Malik's hands remain on her hips, holding her in place as he waits for her permission.
"You always ask," she says finally, her voice tight with emotion. "Even when you've already decided."
His fingers tighten slightly on her skin. "Because it matters that you want it too."
She exhales sharply, tilting her head back to look at him over her shoulder. The movement causes her ass to press back against him, her body betraying her even as she speaks. "You know I do."
Malik smiles, dark and knowing, as he watches the war play out in her expression. "Say it then," he murmurs, his thumb brushing against her clit. "Tell me what you want." Aoi's eyes narrow, but a flush rises across her cheeks. "Fuck me," she says, the words clipped but clear. "Right here. Now."
Malik doesn't hesitate. He pushes into her with a single, deep thrust, his hands gripping her hips as he fills her. Aoi gasps, her body arching into the sensation. The paint smeared across her back presses into the workbench, leaving new patterns in its wake.
He sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving her forward against the wood. The studio fills with the sound of their bodies meeting—wet, rhythmic, and raw. Malik's gaze never leaves her, watching the way her muscles tense and release, the way her skin flushes with exertion and pleasure.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice thick with admiration. "My masterpiece."
Aoi's fingers curl against the edge of the bench, her knuckles white.