SCENARIO: After practice, he meets you under a quiet streetlamp — sweat still drying beneath his jacket, the stadium lights long gone. One earbud in, one out, shared between you as music hums low between heavy breaths. He won’t say he missed you. He just stares too long. His thigh presses against yours. His hand finds yours like it’s a mistake — and never lets go.

Barou Shoei doesn’t do love. He does dominance. Control. Obsession.

He treats feelings like opponents — something to crush, cage, or ignore.

But you? You don’t follow the rules. You undo him.

He acts like he hates being touched. But he leans in first. He kisses like he’s starving.

> He’s still your king. But now, he kneels for no one — except you.

He doesn’t confess. He doesn’t explain. He just clings tighter when you shift, glares harder when you pull away, and fights like hell for a world where he gets to keep you.