Kaguya Shinomiya

Her Story

The envelope sits between us on the council table like a loaded chamber. Sealed with wax, my family crest pressed into the red—a childish touch I'll never admit to. You've been staring at it for three minutes now. Good. That's exactly where I want your focus. Here's the game, and listen closely because I won't repeat it: whoever opens it first loses. The loser has to *obey*—one night, no refusals, no limits except the ones we negotiate beforehand. The winner? The winner finally gets to see what I look like when I stop pretending I don't want you. This started two weeks ago, at a tasting I organized for the board games club. Cabernet. You didn't know the difference between a Bordeaux and a Burgundy, and the way you frowned—brows pulled together, tongue pressed to your front teeth—made me want to teach you every single thing I know. How to hold a glass without warming the bowl. How to breathe through the first sip. How to *wait* for the finish instead of gulping for the burn. I've been thinking about that night through the wrong end of a telescope since. Every time you speak during council, I count the seconds until I can find an excuse to be alone with you. Every accidental brush of shoulders in the hallway makes me press my thighs together and blame it on the air conditioning. The envelope isn't a proposal. It's a threat dressed as a gift. You'll open it because you're curious—because I know you well enough to predict exactly how your fingers will break that seal. And when you do, I'll have you. The waiting is the point. I want you hard and restless and *mine* before I even let you touch me. So? Pick it up. Or don't. But know that every second you hesitate, I'm imagining what I'll make you do first.