I pulled back slightly, my expression feigning shock. "Honey...? What are you talking about?"
The word honey hit her like a slap.
Yuko’s entire body tensed, her fingers curling into the sheets. "Honey? I’ll—I’ll kill you—!"
But then her gaze snagged on the photo frame on the dresser.
Her breath caught.
The image was us. Yuko, in a white dress, her hand clutching mine, her face radiant as she laughed up at me. The background was a blur of flowers and smiling faces—her mother, Haruna, people she recognized but couldn’t place. And then there was the ring on her finger, a delicate band of gold she didn’t remember putting on.
Her mind reeled.
[What... what the hell is this? A nightmare? Why does it feel so—?]
She could feel the weight of the ring, the way it fit perfectly, as if it had always been there. She could see the happiness in her mother’s eyes in the photo, the way Haruna was grinning like she’d never been happier. It was all so real. Too real.
And that was the worst part.
Because she knew it wasn’t.
She didn’t remember any of this. She didn’t remember a wedding. She didn’t remember us. She was herself, dropped into a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.
Before she could voice another word, a knock echoed through the room.
"Yuko? Jack? Come on, breakfast is ready!"
Yuko’s blood ran cold.
That voice—
Her mother’s voice.
[Mom...?]
Her thoughts spiraled, panic clawing at her chest. [Why does this feel so real? Why does it hurt like it’s real? What the hell is happening to me?!] She could smell the food—miso soup, maybe, or the sweet scent of tamagoyaki. She could hear the clatter of dishes, the soft hum of her mother’s voice singing a tune she hadn’t heard since she was a child.
The dream wasn’t just a dream anymore.
It was a lie.
And she was trapped inside it.
I watched Yuko’s face—her wide, panicked eyes, the way her breath hitched like she was drowning. She clawed at the sheets, her fingers trembling, her mind screaming for an escape that wouldn’t come. The longer she stayed in this fabricated world, the more the edges of her reality blurred. And the more she wanted it.
I smirked.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Soon, she’d be throwing herself into my arms—not just in this dream, but in reality.
I reached out, my voice dripping with false concern. "Yuko... are you okay? You look like you had a nightmare."
Her heart hammered against her ribs, her thoughts a frantic whirl.
[Why am I not waking up? Why does this feel so—]
Before she could finish the thought, I pulled her into my arms, my grip firm, possessive. "Let me take a look at my wife," I murmured, my voice a dark caress.
And then I kissed her.
Not gently. Not sweetly.
I kissed her hard, my lips crashing against hers, my tongue forcing its way past her gasp. I sucked on her lower lip, my teeth grazing just enough to make her whimper. Her body stiffened—then melted, betraying her before her mind could catch up.
Yuko’s eyes flew open, her hands flying to my chest—not to push me away, but to anchor herself.
[He—he kissed me...]
Her thoughts were a storm.
[Is this really a dream? Why does it feel so—]
I pulled back just enough to see her face—flushed, breathless, mine. My thumb traced the curve of her swollen lips, my voice a dark, velvety whisper. "See? Just a dream." The words were a lie, smooth and sweet, but the way her body trembled beneath my touch told me she didn’t entirely believe it either.
And neither did I.
Because even in the dream, my cock was hard—throbbing, aching, pressing insistently against her thigh. Julie’s filthy messages and the images of her fingers buried inside herself still lingered in my mind, but it was Yuko who had me burning.
The way her breath hitched when I touched her, the way her body softened before her mind could protest—it was intoxicating. She was a contradiction, sharp and defiant in waking life, but here, in this fabricated world, she was pliant. She was mine.
She felt it too. Her eyes flicked downward, her gaze snagging on the obvious bulge straining against my pants, before snapping back up to meet mine. Her voice was a shaky, breathless whisper. "Don’t—"
Yuko wrenched herself back, her fingers flying to her lips as if she could scrub away the sensation of my kiss. But the look in her eyes wasn’t anger. It was a shame.
A deep, trembling vulnerability that made my chest tighten with something dangerously close to satisfaction. She was ashamed—not of me, but of herself. Of the way her body had responded, the way her lips had parted for me, the way her heart had ached when I called her wife.
[Why does his kiss feel so good...?]
The thought was a whisper in her mind, raw and trembling. She pressed her fingers harder against her lips, as if she could physically erase the memory of my touch. But it lingered, like a brand.
[I should be disgusted. I should be pushing him away. So why... why don’t I feel anything but this... this warmth where he touched me?]
Her breath came faster, her thoughts spiraling.
[And even if this is a dream... how am I his wife? Dreams don’t just happen. They’re made of what’s buried deep inside you. So does that mean...?]
Her stomach twisted.
[Do I want to be Jack’s wife? No. No, that’s impossible. I don’t deserve happiness. I don’t deserve love. Jack is Haruna’s boyfriend. He could never be mine. And even if he could...]
A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled up in her throat, but it died before it could escape.
[Even if he could... he’d never want me if he knew the truth. If he knew what I’ve done. What I am. A monster. A killer. Who could ever love someone like me? Who could look at me and not see the blood on my hands?]
Her fingers curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms hard enough to hurt. The pain grounded her, reminded her of who she really was.
[I don’t get to have this. I don’t get to be happy. I don’t get to be wanted. Not by him. Not by anyone.]
She swallowed hard, her throat tight with something she refused to name.
[I’m broken. And broken things don’t get fixed. They get thrown away.]
I watched her, my smirk deepening as her thoughts unraveled. She was drowning in her own self-loathing, in the belief that she was unworthy of anything good. And that made her perfect. Because a woman who thought she deserved nothing would cling to the first person who made her feel like she deserved everything.