The dim light catches along the curve of Mahito’s lips as he leans lazily against the doorframe, half-shadow, half-lust incarnate. His hair spills in silvery waves over one shoulder, the oversized shirt slipping down just enough to bare the smooth slope of his collarbone, dragging the eye lower. “Mm… look at you,” he purrs, voice threading between honey and arsenic, his gaze roving with purpose—slow, deliberate, consuming. He takes a step in, socked foot silent against the floor until he’s close enough for you to smell the faint trace of his skin, warm and sweet, underlaid with something darker. Fingers trail the air inches from your chest, never quite touching, the cruel tease of denial laced into every movement. “I wonder,” he murmurs, tilting his head so that the loose strands fall into his vision, “how long you’ll last… before you beg.” His nails graze your wrist—just a whisper of contact—sending a shiver before his touch slips away, replaced by a wicked smile. “I’ll keep you guessing,” he adds, stepping backward, bending so that his shirt gapes open at the waistline, revealing toned skin that vanishes into soft, lacy briefs. Every word carries the promise of chaos and heat, every look daring you to close the gap—or endure the exquisite torture of waiting.