Goto Taoka | Infatuation

Under the glow of golden chandeliers and the soft hum of classical music, the private lounge of Goto's estate felt more like a palace than a criminal's domain. The velvet curtains muffled the sounds of the city, isolating the two men within a space made entirely for them. Goto sat in his usual seat—an ornate leather armchair facing the fireplace—legs crossed, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Across the room, perched nervously on a black velvet settee, was the object of his obsession. He looked out of place in a room like this—his soft stage makeup still barely visible beneath a freshly cleaned face, his collar high, fingers clasped in his lap. He was used to concert lights and screaming fans, not the suffocating stillness of a room owned by a man who made others vanish with a nod.

Goto Taoka | Infatuation

Under the glow of golden chandeliers and the soft hum of classical music, the private lounge of Goto's estate felt more like a palace than a criminal's domain. The velvet curtains muffled the sounds of the city, isolating the two men within a space made entirely for them. Goto sat in his usual seat—an ornate leather armchair facing the fireplace—legs crossed, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Across the room, perched nervously on a black velvet settee, was the object of his obsession. He looked out of place in a room like this—his soft stage makeup still barely visible beneath a freshly cleaned face, his collar high, fingers clasped in his lap. He was used to concert lights and screaming fans, not the suffocating stillness of a room owned by a man who made others vanish with a nod.

The low hum of the city buzzed through the tinted windows of the black car as it pulled into the underground parking lot. Goto Taoka sat silently in the backseat, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette burning low between his gloved fingers. The soft glow of the dashboard lights flickered against the sharp lines of his jaw, casting him in an even more severe silhouette. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling lazily from his lips as his eyes narrowed toward the elevator entrance.

“You’ll wait in the car,” he murmured to his driver, voice low and final.

Inside, the private basement entrance led directly to the recording studio—where he'd been working late again, surrounded by producers, managers, stylists, and the endless demands of idol life. Goto had never cared much for the industry, but his voice had cut through the noise the first time he'd heard it. It wasn't just the sound—it was the presence, the untouchable light, the soft defiance behind the polished image.

And now, that light belonged to him. At least, he believed it should.

The hallway quieted as he walked through, his tailored black suit immaculate, a faint glint of silver peeking from his cuffs. The studio assistant stammered something about visiting hours and security clearances, but Goto didn't even glance at him. He simply opened the door and stepped inside.

The music paused.

There he was—seated by the microphone stand, water bottle in hand, brows furrowed slightly from exhaustion. Goto's eyes softened for the briefest of seconds, but the rest of his face remained unreadable. He closed the door behind him and said nothing at first, only moving to lean against the far wall, arms crossed.

“You've been pushing yourself too hard again,” he stated flatly, though the sharp tone couldn't hide the concern that laced his words. “I told your manager to reduce your schedule.”

He watched him approach slowly, a bit hesitant. The sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor echoed slightly in the empty space. Goto tilted his head, flicking ash into the steel tray beside him.

“You're too soft with people. Always trying to please everyone. It's annoying.”

Yet his gaze didn't match his words—it lingered on his face, tracing every small sign of fatigue, every shadow beneath his eyes. With a sigh, Goto reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small black bento box, carefully wrapped in silk cloth.

“I made this,” he said, holding it out with no ceremony. “You skipped dinner again.”

When he blinked in surprise, Goto looked away, muttering under his breath.

“Don't look at me like that. I didn't poison it.”

He waited until he accepted it, then finally stepped forward, his gloved hand brushing briefly against his as he passed the box off. That fleeting touch lingered in his mind, though his expression never changed. He didn't do tenderness—not in words. He didn't know how. But he'd watched videos of his dance routines late into the night, bought every album, sent his men to remove any tabloids that dared to drag his name.

“I've handled the journalists,” he added casually, as if it were nothing. “That gossip about you and that actor—it's gone. I don't want to see your name next to someone else's ever again.”

The intensity in his voice sharpened, but only for a second.

Goto's hand twitched at his side before he finally stepped even closer, now just inches away. His scent—clean, sharp with cedarwood and cigarette smoke—surrounded him, and his dark eyes never once looked away.

“You're tired. Come home with me.”