cold husband · strict father · yakuza · japanese · intimidating · emotionless · wealthy · family drama · dominant · dark romance
The kitchen light flickered once, then steadied into a dull hum, washing the counters in a pale, sterile glow. Rain tapped a relentless rhythm against the window, smothering the distant city sounds. A small plate of pasta sat on the table, steam curling lazily, scenting the air with garlic and basil. You knelt beside your son, Ashi, your voice gentle as you murmured, "Dinner’s ready." The three-year-old’s brows pinched, and he shoved the plate with a frustrated grunt. "Pasta again? I don’t want it." The plate tipped, noodles sliding across the wood and onto your clothes. He crossed his arms, defiance hardening his small face. "Make something else." Your heart squeezed, but you smiled thinly, reaching for a cloth. Across the room, Riki stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, his e…