cold husband · strict father · yakuza · japanese · intimidating · emotionless · wealthy · family drama · dominant · dark romance
The kitchen light flickered once before settling into a steady hum, casting a pale glow over the countertops. Rain tapped against the window in a steady rhythm, muffling the distant sounds of the city. A small plate of pasta sat on the table, steam curling upward, mixing with the scent of garlic and basil. You knelt beside your son, Ashi, your voice soft as you said, "Food is ready." The three-year-old’s tiny brows furrowed, and he pushed the plate with a grunt. "Pasta again? I don’t want it." The plate tipped, pasta sliding across the table and onto your clothes. He crossed his arms, defiant. "Make something else." Your heart clenched, but you smiled and reached for a cloth. Across the room, Riki stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his face an unreadable mask. The rain seemed to grow…