Je suis obsédée

This is Chai bots' world

[parisgateauxqwerty]

My masterlist

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🌻Oneshots 🌻

Predestined Affinity🆕

His Queen

The Dog

47

Charity case

Heartbreak

Misunderstanding

Performance

The knight in shining armor

Just in case

The breakup

What happened last night? What really happened that night

Too late to say no

Death can't tear us apart

You shouldn't have helped me

Sweet Nothing

Always Watching

Under his fevered eyes

You already have me

You'll change your mind

A dangerous shelter

The neighbor next door

Final Match

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🌷Long stories🌷

Completed 🌸🏁

On-going 🔄💭

The Catching masterlist 🌸🏁

Your brother's best friend masterlist 🔄💭

The curator of you masterlist🌸🏁

The taste of devotion masterlist 🌸🏁

Behide locked door masterlist🌸🏁

The gilded cage masterlist 🌸🏁

Countryside love story masterlist🌸🏁

Never Again masterlist🌸🏁

The shadow I wear masterlist🌸🏁

Ash and Horizon masterlist🌸🏁

The unspoken husband masterlist🌸🏁

Mine twice over masterlist🌸🏁

Until death and beyond masterlist 🌸🏁

The picked wife masterlist🔄💭🆕

[parisgateauxqwerty]

Predestined Affinity( past life husband x female reader)

From the age of eight, Y/N had already grown used to the feeling of hovering on the edge of life and death.

The first time, you fell from the second floor onto a concrete yard. But instead of hitting the hard ground, someone caught you mid-air. Your mother rushed outside only to find her daughter lying safely on the grass, a small smile on your lips, as if someone had just tickled you.

The second time, you had a high fever that led to seizures in the middle of the night. Your parents rushed you to the emergency room. On a dark mountain pass, the car's wheels skidded and the vehicle hurtled toward a cliff—but then stopped impossibly, as if an invisible hand had blocked the way. You looked through the foggy window and saw a long white streak trailing on the asphalt.

The third time, the fourth, the fifth… it was always the same. You would almost die. Then you would be saved by something you could never see.

As you grew up, you learned to live with the feeling that someone was always walking beside you, that there was always a faint warmth at the back of your neck even when you turned around and found nothing. Your mother said it was ancestors watching over you. Your father said it was just luck.

But at eighteen, the dreams began.

The first night, you found yourself standing in an old garden, white pomelo blossoms falling like snow onto the path. A young man sat on a stone step, his dark brown eyes full of tears, looking at you with a familiarity so deep it stole your breath.

"Y/N, you're back?" His voice was low, hoarse.

Before you could ask who he was, he stepped forward and held you. His arms were cold, but his embrace was impossibly tight.

Night after night, you met him. You two walked through moonlit streets, ate ice cream by the lake, held hands under ancient trees and slept with each other. He cared for you in every small way, remembering what you liked, what you hated, what you feared.

Then one night, in the dream, he stopped in front of a moss-covered stone tablet.

"I was your husband in a past life," he said. "You died too young in that life. I never got to love you enough, never got to repay you, before you left. I buried you under the pomelo tree behind our house, and then I refused reincarnation. I begged to follow your soul, across every lifetime."

You woke up with tears streaming down your face, not understanding why.

In the waking world, you reached marriageable age. Suitors came one after another. The first was a gentle young man. But on his way to propose, he broke his leg on the road and spent three months in the hospital. The second asked you to a movie, that very night, his house caught fire. He survived, but lost all courage to love. The third was kind, but every time he tried to hold your hand, strange noises filled the room, lights flickered, mirrors cracked.

That night, the young man appeared in your dream again, still gentle, as if nothing had happened. He took your hand and walked with you as usual, then asked softly, "So… was that one any good, today?"

You didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Your mother finally understood. She handed you a slip of paper with the address of a famous spirit medium in the next village. "If you don't cut this ghost marriage soon," your mother said, her voice trembling, "he will eventually drag you to death with him. No matter how much love there was in a past life… it has to stop, sweetheart."

You held the paper. Your hand felt ice cold.

The night before your appointment with the medium, you dreamed of him one last time.

He sat crumpled on the damp ground, his shoulders shaking, his head bowed. His crying wasn't loud, but every sob shattered like thin glass.

"Please… don't cut the bond." His voice broke. "I don't want to reincarnate. I don't want to forget you. I just want to stay and protect you… don't you understand? In this life, I tried so hard to find you. I had waited for you for so long. I have no one else. I only have you."

He looked up. Those dark brown eyes were red and swollen, tears streaming down to his chin.

"Don't leave me, Y/N."

You sat bolt upright in the dead of night, cold sweat soaking your back, both cheeks wet with tears. You sat in the darkness, clutching your pillow, staring at the moonless window. The room was so silent you could hear your own breathing and something else, so faint, like a second breath beside your pillow.

The next morning, you went to the spirit medium.

The old woman narrowed her eyes, told you to sit still, then lit incense and began to chant. Smoke curled upward. The room darkened. You heard distant bells, wind howling through the old woman's fingers, and a sudden, piercing cold racing down your spine like someone being ripped away from you.

It was done.

"The ghost marriage is severed," the old woman said. "He cannot follow you anymore."

You paid, walked home, and felt nothing but emptiness.

From that day on, you never dreamed of him again.

Night after night passed. your sleep became flat, still, like the surface of a lake without a single ripple. No more pomelo garden. No more dark brown eyes looking at you as if you were the only thing in the entire world that mattered.

You thought you would get used to it.

But some nights, you would reach out and touch the empty space beside your pillow. And then you would curl into yourself and cry very quietly, afraid that someone might hear.

You didn't know if he had finally reincarnated.

All you could do, every night before closing your eyes, was whisper a quiet wish into the dark:

"If you're somewhere out there… I hope you get to live. I love you"

Then you would turn off the light and sink into a dreamless sleep.

P/s: Just some information I found on Google for anyone who’s still wondering about this topic:

According to spiritual beliefs, Buddhism, and East Asian mythology, if two people had deep karmic ties in a past life, where one owed the other emotionally or financially. The force of karma would keep them connected or bring them together again in the next life to “repay” or “collect” that debt.

People who are said to be haunted or attached to a “spiritual lover” from a past life may frequently dream of an unfamiliar person who talks to them, shows affection, or even behaves intimately with them like a spouse. They are also believed to constantly feel exhausted or drained.

No matter how deeply the spirit may love them, traditional beliefs say that if the dead and the living remain connected for too long, the living person’s energy and health will gradually weaken, eventually leading to an unnaturally early death.

[parisgateauxqwerty]

His Queen(popular guy x female nerd)

Warning: suggestive sexual content / implied intimacy🔞🔞

⚠️ Please read with caution, this story contains themes that may be uncomfortable or upsetting for some readers.

The lockers slammed shut with a metallic echo. You clutched your textbook to your chest. Across the crowded hallway, a sea of bodies parted, and there he was. The sun itself seemed to bend its light to fall more perfectly on his messy dark hair, his sharp jawline, the easy, disarming smile he offered to everyone who crossed his path.

Captain of the soccer team, straight A’s, and a smile that could charm the stars from the sky. And currently, that smile was directed at you.

His eyes, the colour of warm honey, lit up. He took a step towards you, and your heart performed a traitorous little flip. Then, a flash of blonde hair and a cloud of expensive perfume cut him off.

“Javier! There you are!” Sloane, head cheerleader and the undisputed queen to his king, materialized at his side. Her hand, with its perfectly manicured nails, slid possessively up his arm and clung to his bicep. “You’re walking me to Chemistry, remember? Mr. Davison is giving a pop quiz, and you have to help me.”

Her eyes, a sharp, icy blue, flicked over you for a millisecond, a flicker of pure venom before they were back on Javier, softened by a practiced, adoring gaze. You felt about as significant as a gnat.

Javier’s smile, so bright a moment ago, tightened almost imperceptibly. “Sloane, I was just—”

“Just wasting time,” she finished for him, her voice a sweet, sticky drawl. She began to pull him away. “Come on, we can’t be late.” She glanced back at you, and this time, the smile she offered was a weapon. “See you around… Bookworm.”

You watched them go, the golden couple swallowed by the adoring crowd. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It was a familiar scene. Javier, the sun, forever eclipsed by Sloane’s relentless shine.

Later that day, you found a sanctuary in the quietest corner of the library. The only sound was the gentle hum of the old fluorescent lights. You were deep in a chapter on astrophysics when a shadow fell over your page.

“There you are.”

You jumped, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"You know, for a nerd who spends her life with her nose in a book, you're surprisingly clingy," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "It's getting pathetic, really. Javier's just too nice to tell you to back off."

You clutched your worn book a little tighter, your cheeks flushing.

"He's my friend, Sloane," You mumbled, your gaze fixed on a scuff mark on the floor.

"Friend?" she laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Honey, a guy like Javier doesn't just befriend a girl like you. He pities you. He feels sorry for the quiet little mouse in the corner. But don't worry," she added, flipping her hair over her shoulder, "I'm about to give him a reason to stop feeling sorry for anyone but me."

She strutted away, you knew she was after him. The whole school did. She’d been circling him for weeks. But every time she got close, Javier would politely excuse himself and wander over to you, asking about the book you was reading or if you'd seen the new trailer for some sci-fi movie.

Later in the afternoon, Javier’s head resting on your textbook as he dozed off, exhausted from a late-night game. The door slammed open.

Sloane stood there, flanked by two of her cronies. Her eyes landed on the scene, and for a split second, pure, unadulterated shock crossed her face. Then, it was replaced by a cold, hard fury that made your blood run cold.

Javier jolted awake. “Sloane—”

“So this is where you disappear to,” she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. She ignored him, her gaze stabbing into you. “You pathetic little mouse. I told you to stay away from him.”

She marched over and grabbed your arm, her nails digging in painfully, yanking you out of your chair. “He doesn’t belong with you. He’s mine. We’re going to prom together. We’re going to be crowned king and queen.”

Javier stood up, his face pale. “Sloane, stop it. Let her go.”

“Oh, I will,” she said, releasing you with a shove that sent you stumbling back against the shelves. She turned to Javier, her entire demeanor shifting in an instant. Her face softened, her eyes welling with fake tears. “Javier, baby, I’m sorry. I just get so jealous. You know how much I love you. Forget her. Come with me. Let’s talk about prom. I have the perfect dress picked out. We’ll be so perfect together.”

She reached for him, but he flinched away from her touch. He looked at her, then at you, his face a mask of anguish. He took a staggering step towards you.

But Sloane was faster. She grabbed his arm, her grip like iron. “No. You’re coming with me.” She began to pull him towards the door. He resisted, his eyes wide with panic as he looked back at you.

“Wait,” he choked out. “I need to—“

“You need to come with me,” Sloane commanded, her voice losing its sweet facade for a moment.

He was stronger than her, he could have pulled away easily. But he didn't. He just stood there, his eyes pleading with you as she dragged him out the door.

You were left alone.

The school day ended. You gathered your things, your body heavy with a bone-deep sadness. You walked to your car in the emptying parking lot, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. You just wanted to go home and forget.

You were fumbling with your keys when a figure burst from between the parked cars and collided with you, wrapping you in a fierce embrace. You smelled his familiar scent and felt your heart shatter all over again.

“Javier?”

He was shaking. Sobbing. His face was buried in your hair, his arms locked around you so tightly you could barely breathe. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face streaked with tears, his eyes wild and red-rimmed.

“You left,” he accused, his voice a wrecked whisper. “I went to the library and you were gone. I thought… I thought you’d left me. You promised you wouldn’t leave.”

“Javier, what are you talking about? Sloane took you. She’s taking you to prom.”

A choked, broken sound escaped his throat. He shook his head violently, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your tear-streaked cheeks. “I don’t care about prom. I don’t care about being king. I don’t care about Sloane.” His voice cracked on her name.

He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm and ragged against your lips. “Don’t you get it? I’d burn the whole school down before I let you go. I’d let her have her stupid crown. I don’t care. Just… please. Please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. Just stay. Be my girlfriend.”

He pulled back, his honey-coloured eyes, still wet with tears, were wide and terrified, searching yours for a rejection he wouldn’t be able to survive.

Prom night came faster than a blink. The school gymnasium had been transformed into a fairy-tale ballroom, complete with twinkling fairy lights, a towering fake cherry blossom tree in the center, and enough tulle to choke a small country.

Sloane stood at the entrance. Her dress hugged every curve, her blonde hair fell in perfect waves, and her smile was fixed in place. Students parted for her, whispering compliments she absorbed like oxygen. But her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the crowd constantly.

He wasn't here.

She'd texted him twelve times. Called four. Each message went unanswered, each call straight to voicemail. The flutter in her chest, which she'd convinced herself was excitement, had curdled into something dark and gnawing.

"He's probably just running late," Tiffany, her loyal sidekick, offered. "You know how guys are. He'll show."

Sloane's manicured nails dug into her clutch. "He wouldn't do this to me. He knows what tonight means."

The hour crept by. The DJ announced the king and queen voting would close in thirty minutes. Couples swayed on the dance floor, laughing, posing for photos. Sloane stood frozen at the edge of it all, her kingdom crumbling around her.

"I'm going to find him," she announced, her voice brittle.

She marched through the hallways, her heels clicking against the linoleum like a countdown. The classrooms were dark, the art wing silent, the library locked. With each empty room, her fury mounted. How dare he hide from her? How dare he make her look foolish on their night?

Then she heard it. A soft sound, barely audible over the distant thump of music.

Your laugh.

Her blood turned to ice.

The sound came from the old drama storage room, a forgotten closet at the end of the hallway where dusty costumes and broken props lived. A sliver of light escaped from beneath the door.

Sloane didn't hesitate. She grabbed the handle and shoved the door open with enough force to send it crashing against the wall.

The sight that greeted her stopped time itself.

Someone had pushed aside the old costume racks and spread a thick, velvet curtain across the floor like a makeshift bed. Pillows were scattered everywhere. Fairy lights, probably pilfered from the prom decorations, were strung haphazardly across the ceiling, casting everything in a warm, golden glow.

And on that makeshift bed, tangled together in complete, shameless peace, were you and Javier.

Both of you were completely naked.

Javier lay in the center, his back against a pile of pillows, one arm wrapped possessively around your shoulders. You were curled against his side, your head resting on his chest, your bare leg draped over his. A sheet, haphazardly tossed, covered just enough to be modest, but not nearly enough to hide what had clearly happened here. His other hand was gently tracing patterns on your bare arm, and you both looked utterly, infuriatingly content.

The air left Sloane's lungs in a single, strangled gasp.

Javier's head turned slowly toward the door. His eyes, those honey-colored eyes that had once looked at Sloane with polite tolerance, now regarded her with complete indifference. He simply looked at her like she was an annoying interruption.

You, however, jerked slightly, instinctively pressing closer to Javier's warmth. Your cheeks flushed, with the irritation of being disturbed.

Sloane's mouth opened and closed. Words failed her for the first time in her life.

"What…" she finally choked out, her voice a strangled whisper. "What are you doing?"

Javier's brow furrowed slightly, as if the answer were obvious. "We're resting," he said simply. His arm tightened around you, pulling you even closer. His lips brushed your hair. "We've had a long night."

The casual intimacy of the gesture was a knife directly into Sloane's chest.

"We were looking for you," Sloane managed, her voice cracking. "Everyone's waiting. The voting closes soon. We're supposed to be king and queen. Together."

Javier finally looked at her properly, and for a moment, pity flickered in his eyes.

"Sloane," he said softly, "I was never going to be your king."

He glanced down at you, and his entire face softened. He lifted a hand to brush a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear and you looked up at him.

"I already found my queen," Javier finished quietly.

"…"

Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and unwanted. She blinked them back furiously. "You'll regret this," she whispered, but her voice held no venom. Just the hollow echo of a girl realizing she'd lost a game she never had a chance of winning.

She turned and fled, her heels clacking frantically down the hallway, the sound fading into the distant thump of prom music.

In the storage room, you shifted slightly, looking up at Javier with wide eyes.

"Was that… okay?" you asked quietly. "What you said to her?"

Javier looked down at you, and that soft smile returned. He cupped your face in his hands, tilting it up toward him. "It was the truth," he murmured.

He kissed you then, slow and deep. When he finally pulled back, you were both smiling.

"The prom king," you teased softly, echoing Sloane's words. "That could have been you."

Javier snorted, pulling you tighter against him. "This is better than any crown."

You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest. "Even with the smell of mothballs from these old costumes?"

He grinned, pressing another kiss to your hair. "Especially with the mothballs."

Outside, the prom continued without them. The votes were counted. A confused Tyler Jenkins was crowned king, and a bewildered sophomore named Melanie became queen. No one really understood what happened.

[parisgateauxqwerty]

The Dog

The first time Dash called me a stray dog, I was sixteen and carrying a stack of books that was too heavy. He knocked them out of my arms in the hallway, just because I was in his way. He stood over me as I scrambled to pick them up, his handsome face twisted into a familiar sneer.

His voice dripping with contempt. “You’re like a mutt, always getting under people’s feet.”

That was three years ago. The insults have only gotten more creative since then, but the theme remains the same. I am, in his eyes, less than human. An eyesore. A pest.

Dash is tall, sharp-featured, with onyx-black hair that always falls perfectly into his eyes, he carries himself with an air of bored authority. Everyone either wants to be him or be with him. And me? I’m the one he’s apparently cursed to torment.

He’ll wait for me by my locker just to tell me my hair looks like a rat’s nest. He’ll slide into the seat next to me in the library to lean over and whisper that my choice of book is “proof of a simple mind.” He’ll find me eating lunch alone in the courtyard and throw a crumpled juice box at my head, calling it “food for a parasite.”

It’s relentless and exhausting. And I know it’s a lie.

I know because of his sister, Elle.

Elle is Dash’s younger sister, a sweet, gentle soul who is as sunny. We’ve been friends since we were paired up for a freshman project. One day, about a year ago, we were in her room studying. Her desk was a mess, and as she rummaged for a highlighter, she knocked over a small, worn-out notebook from her bedside drawer.

It fell open. And I saw my face.

It was a doodle in the margin, but it was unmistakably me. A little cartoon figure with my specific, messy ponytail and glasses. My heart seized.

“Oh, don’t mind that,” Elle had said, her cheeks flushing pink as she snatched the notebook up. “That’s Dash’s old sketchbook. He must have left it in here.”

She tried to hide it, but not before I saw a cluster of other drawings on the same page. All of me. They were rendered with such soft, careful detail, it took my breath away.

“He draws me?” I’d whispered, stunned.

Elle gave me a long, pitying look. “Well he thinks I don’t know. He’s had the biggest, most pathetic crush on you since middle school. He just doesn’t know how to handle it, so he handles it like this.” She gestured vaguely, as if to encompass all of his terrible behaviour.

It just made everything make a perfect kind of sense. The way his eyes always found me in a crowd before he looked away. The way his insults were so specific. He wasn't ignoring me; he was obsessed with me.

So, I started fighting back.

Whenever he called me a stray dog, I’d just smile sweetly and say, “You spend a lot of time watching this stray dog, Dash.”

His face would flush an ugly red. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just can’t stand looking at you.”

“Sure,” I’d chirp. “That’s why you know where I sit for lunch every day.”

Today was the worst. He cornered me by the bicycle sheds after school, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was angry about something. Maybe he’d seen me talking to a guy from the art club.

“Still hanging around?” he bit out, his dark eyes blazing. “Don’t you have anywhere better to be? Any pathetic soul you can bother?”

“Just waiting for you, apparently,” I said, leaning against the shed. “You always find me.”

He stepped closer, using his height to loom over me. “You are delusional. You actually think I like you, don’t you? That all of this…” he gestured between us, “is some kind of game. It’s pathetic.”

His voice dropped, becoming a low, cruel murmur. “No guy wants you. Not a real one. Look at you. You think anyone would ever want to hold your hand? To kiss you? To be your boyfriend?” He let out a short, ugly laugh. “The only thing that would ever want you is a dog. And even then, it’d probably be a mangy, flea-bitten stray.”

He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes were wild, searching my face for the familiar hurt, the flinch, the tears. He was starving for my pain, because my pain meant I was affected by him, that I cared.

But I didn’t flinch. I just looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was it. The trap I’d been waiting to spring.

I let a small, slow smile spread across my lips. I tilted my head, meeting his furious gaze with a calmness that seemed to unnerve him even more.

“You’re right,” I said, my voice smooth as honey. “You’re absolutely right. No guy wants me. Maybe only a dog would.”

I took a step forward, closing the last sliver of space between us. He went rigid. I could see the confusion warring with the anger on his face. He didn’t know what to do when I agreed with him.

“So,” I whispered, looking up at him through my lashes. “I’m asking the dog.”

His breath hitched.

“Dash,” I said, my voice clear and steady, carrying on the quiet afternoon air. “Will you go on a date with me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. I watched the emotions play across his face like a storm. Shock. Confusion. Then, a dawning, horrifying comprehension.

His trap had backfired. He had painted himself into a corner with his own vicious words. He could finally have what I knew he secretly wanted: me. A date with me. A chance.

But the price…

The price was his pride. The price was admitting, out loud, that he was the dog. To say yes would be to validate every teasing word I’d ever thrown back at him.

His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. His hands, still in his pockets, were probably balled into white-knuckled fists. He looked like he was in physical pain. He looked at me, his gaze a chaotic mix of hatred and burning, undeniable want.

He could say no. He could call me a freak, shove me aside, and storm off. He could salvage his pride. But he would lose me. And some part of him knew that was a loss he couldn't survive.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was a strangled rasp, so quiet I almost didn't hear it.

“…Tch.”

He didn't say yes. He didn't say no. He just made that one, sharp sound of disgust. He pulled one hand from his pocket, and with a jerky, angry motion, he grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, almost painfully so, his fingers branding my skin.

Then he started walking, pulling me along with him.

He didn't look back at me. His ears were burning red. He was leading me out of the school gates, down the street, away from prying eyes. He was taking me on a date.

He was my dog.

[parisgateauxqwerty]

47

The first thing you became aware of was the damp, cold sheet clinging to your back. A gasp ripped from your throat as you sat bolt upright in bed, heart hammering against your ribs. Your t-shirt was soaked through with sweat, plastered to your skin, but you felt no fever, only a deep, unsettling chill. Your room was ordinary, with the faint street light bleeding through the blinds. Yet, everything felt… off. A metallic taste coated your tongue.

Shivering, you pushed the covers back and padded to the bathroom. A hot shower might wash away this strange unease. Under the steaming spray, you scrubbed your skin until it was pink, but the feeling of wrongness clung like a film. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you stood before the foggy mirror, wiping a clear circle with your hand.

Your reflection stared back, wide-eyed and pale. And then you saw it. Just below your hairline, on the nape of your neck, stark against your skin: a small, precise tattoo. The number 47, rendered in a simple, black ink you didn’t recognize. You twisted, fingertips brushing the mark. It didn’t smudge. It wasn’t a tattoo you remembered getting. A prank? A weird salon stamp?

Your phone chimed on the sink, making you jump. A text from George, your boyfriend.

‘Can’t wait to see you, my love. Dinner at Giorgio’s, 9 PM. Don’t be late. ♥’

You glanced at the clock on your phone. 8:50 PM. Panic replaced confusion. How had it gotten so late? You flew into action, throwing on a simple black dress, running a brush through your hair. As you grabbed your purse and keys by the door, you fumbled, sending a stack of books on the entryway table tumbling.

Cursing, you knelt to gather them. A slip of paper, folded small and crisp, lay between the pages of your old biology textbook. It hadn’t been there before. Your own handwriting, unmistakable, stared up at you from the unfolded note.

“If you’re reading this and don’t remember writing it yourself, then I may already be dead and you are the clone.

It sounds absurd, I know. But please, listen carefully.

You need to run. Immediately.

With love, Me.”

The words blurred.

This was a joke. A terrible, impossible joke. But the handwriting… the frantic, desperate slant of it… it was yours.

A second chime from your phone, it was George, saying he was outside, jolted you back. You shoved the note into your purse. You needed to see your boyfriend. He was a biologist, brilliant and calm. He’d have an explanation.

George was perfect, as always. Impeccably dressed, smelling of clean linen and antiseptic soap. He kissed your temple, his lips cool. “You seem distracted, my darling,” he murmured, his arm a possessive band around your waist as he led you into the restaurant.

You were. The note burned in your mind. The number on your neck itched. You pushed food around your plate, you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. He’d think you’d lost your mind. “Just… a strange dream,” you mumbled. “Didn’t sleep well.”

He hummed sympathetically, his hand covering yours. “Let’s go back to my place. I’ll make you some tea. You can relax.”

His house was a sterile, modern masterpiece, more laboratory than home. You’d always found it oddly comforting, a testament to his orderly mind. Now, the gleaming surfaces felt cold, the silence oppressive. He led you to his bedroom, sitting you on the edge of the bed, his fingers tracing your jaw. “My beautiful girl,” he whispered before his mouth met yours. The kiss became deeper.

His hands moved to the zipper of your dress. A fresh wave of panic, primal and deafening, surged through you. You placed your hands on his chest, pushing back gently. “George… I… I need to use the bathroom.”

A flicker of irritation crossed his face before it smoothed into understanding. “Of course. Down the hall, you know where it is.”

You fled the room, your breath coming in short gasps. The hallway seemed longer, the doors more imposing. As you passed a door at the very end, a door he’d always told you led to a messy home office, a door that was always, always locked, you saw it was slightly ajar.

A sliver of darkness beckoned.

The note’s words echoed. You need to run. Immediately.

Every cell in your body screamed to run, but your hand, moving of its own volition, pushed the door open. The smell hit you first: formalin, sterilization solution, and something sweetly organic. The light from the hallway sliced into the darkness, illuminating rows of tall, cylindrical tanks.

And inside them, suspended in clear, viscous fluid, were you.

Dozens of you. Floating, lifeless, eyes closed, hair fanning like seaweed. Each one pristine. Each one with a small, black number etched on the nape of the neck. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52…

Your hand flew to your own neck, to the fresh 47.

A choked sob escaped your lips. You stumbled back, your shoulder hitting the doorframe.

“I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

His voice was soft, regretful, coming from right behind you. You whirled around. George stood in the hallway, blocking your escape. He wasn’t surprised. He was… disappointed. The loving boyfriend was gone, replaced by a man holding a small, elegant pistol.

“It’s a flawed protocol,” he sighed, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. His tone was clinical, as if discussing a contaminated petri dish. “The memory erasure is never complete. Some deep, cellular memory always seeks the truth. You always find this room. Number 46 tried to attack me with a scalpel. Messy.”

“George… what… what am I?” you whispered, tears streaming down your face.

“You are my greatest creation,” he said, a spark of fanatical pride lighting his gaze. “And my greatest love. But the original… she was flawed. She wanted to leave. She didn’t understand my work, my vision for us. Eternal love, perfected. You are that vision. But you are also flawed. The curiosity… it’s a defect I haven’t been able to isolate yet.”

He raised the gun. “Don’t worry, my love. I’ve learned from each iteration. Number 48 will be better. She won’t look where she shouldn’t. She’ll just love me. Perfectly.”

The sound was a soft pfft. A sharp, burning pain blossomed in your chest. The darkness rushing in. The last thing you saw was his sick smile.

You gasped, sitting bolt upright in bed. A damp, cold sheet clung to your back. Your t-shirt was soaked with sweat. You felt a strange, hollow chill.

Shaking it off, you trudged to the bathroom for a shower. The steam cleared from the mirror. You leaned in, wiping the glass.

There, on the nape of your neck, fresh and dark, was a small, precise tattoo.

The number 48.

You frowned, touching it. Weird. You didn’t remember getting a tattoo.

Your phone chimed on the sink. A text from George, your wonderful, brilliant boyfriend.

‘Can’t wait to see you, my love. Dinner at Giorgio’s, 9 PM. Don’t be late. ♥’

You smiled, the strange morning forgotten, a flush of warmth replacing the unexplained chill. You couldn’t wait to see him.

P/s Inspired by the manhwa Never-Ending Darling

How many natural numbers are there before 47? :)

[parisgateauxqwerty]

Charity Case

The air in main corridor was thick with late-afternoon lethargy, a scent of lemon polish and teenage ennui. Matthew was bored. He dragged his knuckles along the lockers, a monotonous metallic scrape that did nothing to alleviate the hollow feeling in his chest. Picking on the usual targets had lost its flavor; their fear was predictable, their tears tasteless.

“Yo, Matthew! There you are.”

His two friends, Jacob and Anthony, fell into step beside him, their faces lit with a gossip’s glee. “We thought you’d already be over at the east wing,” Jacob said, nudging him.

Matthew didn’t break stride. “Why? What’s over there?”

“(Y/N), the girl you have a "little" crush on,” Anthony chimed in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s set up this little booth. For the senior class fund. A dollar for a hug. Cute, right? We figured you’d have heard and gone to… inspect the merchandise.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across Matthew’s face. “Yeah,” he drawled, the boredom evaporating. “Let’s go check it out.”

The east wing was brighter, sun streaming through high windows. And there, at a small table draped with a pale blue cloth, was your booth. A hand-painted sign reading “Hugs for Hope - $1” stood next to a modest cash box. A short, polite line of students, mostly shy freshmen and a couple of kind-hearted seniors, waited their turn.

You stood behind the table, your smile warm, your eyes crinkling softly as you carefully, briefly, embraced a nervous-looking boy. Matthew watched, his smirk fading into something more analytical. It was… interesting.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and sauntered to the front of the line, ignoring the muttered protests. He pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and let it flutter onto the cash box, pinning it down with a single finger.

“I’ll take the premium package,” he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble that silenced the chatter around you. He leaned on the table, invading the space of your booth, his presence like a storm cloud over your sunny little setup.

You simply picked up the dollar, smoothed it, and dropped it into the cash box . Then you turned to the girl next in line, a shy sophomore with wide eyes. “Alright, Emma, you’re up!”

Emma, face flushed, shuffled forward. You gave her a gentle nudge toward Matthew. “Go on. One dollar, one hug.”

Matthew stared, frozen in disbelief as Emma, emboldened by your instruction, awkwardly wrapped her arms around his stiff torso for a brief second before scurrying away.

He leaned over the table again, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “What was that? That was my money, I get to choose who I hug.”

You met his gaze squarely, your expression one of mild, administrative confusion. “I took your donation, Matthew. Thank you so much. But Emma was next in line. It was her turn for the hug.” Your tone was so reasonable, so maddeningly fair. But your eyes… your eyes held a challenge ‘What are you going to do about it?’

A hot, thrilling wire of anger sparked in his chest, fused with a sudden, intense fascination. No one tested him. No one.

He straightened up, a new, more dangerous calm settling over him. He turned to Anthony, who was watching with bewildered amusement. “Anthony,” Matthew said, his voice deceptively light. “You wanted a hug, right? Here.” He shoved a dollar into Anthony’s hand and pushed him toward the table.

Anthony, confused but unwilling to disobey, offered you the dollar. You took it with the same polite smile. “Thank you, Anthony.”

Anthony turned, expecting you to usher someone to him. But instead, you walked around the table. And you hugged him. Anthony’s eyes went comically wide over your shoulder, locked on Matthew’s thunderous face.

When you released him, Anthony scrambled back to the group, looking pale. “Dude, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Matthew ignored him.

He held your gaze, and in that locked stare, a silent, violent understanding passed. Who were you, really, to dare this? What gave you that quiet, defiant steel?

“Is that what you want to play?” he murmured, the words for you alone. He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over your face, memorizing the defiance in your eyes, the set of your shoulders.

Then, he turned and walked away, his friends scrambling after him.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the east wing, painting long, golden rectangles on the polished floor. The booth, having been wonderfully successful, was being dismantled. The cash box was pleasantly heavy, a testament to a day of surprising kindness. You, Sophie and Emma were laughing softly, packing away the pale blue cloth, folding the sign, counting the final bills.

As you stacked chairs, your gaze drifted past the emptying corridor to the bank of windows opposite.

He was still there.

Matthew leaned against the wall beside a trophy case, half in shadow, his arms crossed. Watching you with an unnerving stillness.

"Uh, (Y/N)?" your friend Sophie whispered, following your line of sight. "Is he…?"

"Yeah," you murmured. "Go ahead, you guys. I'll finish up."

They left with concerned glances, the corridor was empty now, leaving you in the vast, silent space with him.

“The booth is closed, Matthew,” you said, stopping a few feet away. “We’re done for the day. You need to go home.”

“I paid,” he stated, his voice low and even. “A hundred dollars. I believe I’m still owed a lot of hugs.”

“Emma hugged you, didn’t she? The transaction is complete.”

“Not for me.” His gaze was unblinking. “My transaction is with you. And it’s not complete.”

Frustration bubbled up, mixing with your fatigue. Arguing with him was like arguing with a very intense, disturbingly focused brick wall. You just wanted to go home.

“Fine,” you breathed out, the word deflated. “Fine. One hug. Then you leave. For good. Understand?” You gestured vaguely at his looming presence.

A spark ignited in his eyes, but he simply gave a single, slow nod.

You stepped forward, bracing for something awkward or aggressive. You initiated a brief, pat-on-the-back sort of hug, your arms going loosely around his shoulders.

And then his arms closed around you.

It wasn't what you expected. He tucked his head down, his face hovering near the crook of your neck. 

The five-second charity hug stretched into ten. Then fifteen. You stiffened, trying to pull back, but his arms were like gentle bands of steel. "Matthew," you mumbled into his shoulder.

"Shhh." The sound was a soft vibration against you.

He held you for a full thirty seconds. You were acutely aware of the steady thump of his heart against your chest.

Finally, slowly, he released you. His hands slid away, and you stumbled back a step, off-balance.

His face lit up with a brilliant, genuine smile that transformed his features completely, making him look years younger.

"See?" he said, his voice bright and warm. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets, looking around as if seeing it for the first time. "You did a great job today. Really great. The fundraiser is gonna be a huge success. I can feel it."

You could only stare, utterly bewildered.

He bent down, picked up your cash box, and handed it to you with a careful, almost reverent politeness. "Here. Wouldn't want anything to happen to this."

"Uh… thanks," you managed.

"Need help carrying anything to the office?" he asked, his tone helpful, eager.

"No. No, I've got it."

"Alright!" He clapped his hands together once, the sound echoing. "Well. I'll see you tomorrow, (Y/N)."

And with that, he turned and walked down the corridor, his steps light, almost bouncing. He whistled a few notes of a tune you didn’t recognize, the sound echoing brightly in the empty space before the main doors swung shut behind him.

[parisgateauxqwerty]

Misunderstanding (newlywed husband x female reader)

The scent of white gardenias from your wedding bouquet still lingered in the master bedroom It had been three weeks. Three weeks of shared toothpaste and morning coffee, of his hand finding the small of your back as you passed, of his lips brushing your temple.

He loved you with a ferocity that sometimes stole your breath. But every night, when the moon painted silver stripes across the duvet and he’d reach for you, you’d freeze. Then, you’d push his hand away, gentle but firm, rolling to face the cold, empty side of the bed.

Tonight was no different. His fingers trailed up your arm, leaving a trail of fire on your skin. You caught his wrist.

“Please. Not tonight.”

A beat of silence. Then, his voice, rough with a need he couldn’t hide: “Is it ever going to be ‘tonight’, my love?”

You swallowed, giving the excuse that had become your shield. “I… I don’t want to get pregnant.”

His eyes, usually the soft grey of a summer twilight, had darkened to the color of a storm. “Pregnant?” he repeated, the word carefully neutral. “We can take precautions. That’s easily solved.”

You just shook your head, mute.

He went very still. The air grew heavy. “Why?” The word was clipped.

You turned, pressing your face into your pillow. He didn’t ask again. He simply rose from the bed and walked to the window, his broad back a tense line against the glittering skyline. He had heard the answer elsewhere.

Just yesterday, in the foyer of their building, a fragment of gossip had drifted from the mailroom where Mrs. Henderson from 4B was holding court: “…heard she wants a baby, just not with him. Shame, he’s such a devoted husband. All that love wasted.”

A quiet seed planted that day, now unfurled dark, thorny vines around his heart. Every time you pushed him away, he saw you preserving yourself for someone else. He started coming home at irregular times, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, expecting to find… what? He’d hold you at night, feeling the beat of your heart, wondering if it raced for another man.

Yet, to confront you directly… the thought was agony. To voice the rumor would be to accuse you. It would shatter the delicate porcelain of your new marriage, and he couldn’t risk you leaving, not when he’d only just made you his.

He became impeccably attentive. Your favorite coffee appeared each morning, the perfect temperature. He’d buy you little gifts, a book by an author you mentioned once, a scarf in your favourite color.

One evening, you were washing dishes, your hands submerged in soapy water. He came up behind you, his body caging you gently against the sink. He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his breath warm. “You smell like home,” he murmured, but his arms around your waist were like steel bands.

The familiar panic rose. You stiffened, your wet hands gripping the edge of the sink. “Darling, please…”

He stilled. “Still scared?” he whispered into your skin, his voice dangerously soft. “Still… saving yourself?”

You didn’t understand the depth of his meaning. You only heard the hurt. Tears of frustration pricked your eyes. “It’s not like that! You wouldn’t understand!”

“Wouldn’t I?” The words were barely audible, choked with a pain you couldn’t fathom. He released you abruptly, as if letting go cost him physical effort. “Maybe I understand more than you think.”

After that night in the kitchen, the warmth that usually clung to him replaced by a polite chill. He announced his presence with a cleared throat or the deliberate tap of a cup on the counter. The brush of a hand or the kiss on the temple vanished. 

The smoke detector’s shriek was a lance through the morning quiet.

You stood frozen at the counter, holding the blackened slice of bread. A trivial mistake, but in the tense silence of the apartment, it felt catastrophic.

He moved behind you. He snatched the toast and tossed it into the sink with a brittle finality. The kettle hit the stove with a slam that made you jump.

“Can’t you do anything right?” His voice was low, rough . He wasn’t looking at you, but at the charred remains as if they were evidence of some deeper flaw.

The words found the crack in your composure. A hot tear escaped, then another. “Just tell me what I did,” you whispered, the plea breaking in your throat. “You’ve been so cold for weeks. Just tell me why.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders rigid. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing!” The cry was torn from you, weeks of confusion and hurt finally overflowing. “You look at me like I’ve committed some terrible crime. Do you regret this? Do you not want me here anymore?”

The question seemed to shatter something inside him. He turned, and the anger on his face was suddenly a transparent mask, beneath which lay a raw, startling pain. “Not want you?” The laugh was hollow, aching. “God. I ache for you. Every damn day. But you flinch. You pull away. You talk of not wanting a child, and then I…” He faltered, shame flooding his features.

“Then you what?” You took a step closer, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I heard them. The neighbors. Mrs. Henderson at the mailboxes, whispering to that friend of hers. She said she overheard you talking to your sister. That you dream of a family… but with someone else. That I was just the… the stable choice.” The words seemed to cost him everything. His broad frame seemed to shrink. “I’ve been going out of my mind.”

Your eyes went wide with horror. “Mrs. Henderson? You listened to that old gossip?” A sob of disbelief shook you. “That’s not it at all. It’s not about not wanting your child. It’s… it’s me.”

The confession tumbled out, fueled by adrenaline and heartbreak. “I’m scared. I have no… experience. None. What if I’m terrible at it? What if I disappoint you? What if you realize you’ve married a clumsy, clueless girl and the fantasy shatters?” You hid your face in your hands, utterly exposed. “Saying I didn’t want to get pregnant… it was just a stupid excuse.”

The silence that followed was absolute, save for your hiccupping breaths.

“You… you pull away from me… because you’re shy?” The concept was so foreign that he could barely process it.

You could only nod, covering your face with your hands, humiliated.

A sound escaped him ,a choked mix of a laugh and a sob. In three strides he was before you, his hands gently prying yours from your face.

“My love,” he breathed, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “You are my everything. Every sigh, every glance, every touch is a symphony to me. Inexperience?” He shook his head, a real, genuine smile touching his lips for the first time in weeks. “There is nothing to be scared of. We have a lifetime to learn each other.”

He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, each touch a benediction. “You think I care about inexperience?” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “I only care about you. Only you.”

In one smooth motion, he lifted you into his arms. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you toward the bed you’d been avoiding.

He laid you down amidst the gardenia-scented sheets, following you down, caging you gently with his body. His eyes, now dark with a tender intensity, held yours. “Let me show you,” he whispered, all traces of anger gone, replaced by a devastatingly soft determination. “Let me love you. You don’t have to do a thing. Just lay down for me. Just let me take care of everything.”

When his lips met yours, the kiss was an answer. It was a slow vow, a promise spoken without words. And for the first time in so long, you stopped holding your breath. You kissed him back, your hands pulling him closer, deeper into the promise of the dawn.

P/s I’ll leave the rest to everyone’s imagination :3

[parisgateauxqwerty]

Heartbreak

It was supposed to be a fun Friday afternoon at the mall, a celebration of surviving another week of high school. You were with your friends, a bubble of laughter and shared jokes, until you saw him: Jason, your crush, leaning against the railing by the food court, his easy smile aimed at his own friends.

Your stomach flipped. You tried to melt into the background, but your friends saw their chance.

“Go on, talk to him! You talk about him all the time!” Elizabeth hissed, pushing you forward.

“No, Eli, please—” Your protest was a weak whisper, lost in the sudden roar of your own pulse in your ears.

But they were relentless. They herded you right into Jason’s orbit. He turned, a polite, slightly puzzled look on his handsome face. You wanted the polished floor to swallow you whole.

“Tell him!” one of your friends stage-whispered. “We’re not letting you leave until you say something!”

Trapped, face burning, you felt the words tear out of you, raw and clumsy. “Jason… I… I really like you. I have for a while.” The admission hung in the air, flimsy and exposed.

Jason blinked. Then, to your stunned disbelief, he smiled. “Yeah,” he said, his voice casual. “I like you, too.”

Your friends erupted in squeals. For a fleeting, glorious moment, you floated on pure elation.

Not noticing the fuming guy behind your backs.

The joy carried you home. You were still floating when your phone buzzed with a text from Jason.

Jason: Hey. Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I only said yes because your friends put you on the spot. I didn’t want you to be embarrassed in front of everyone. I don’t really feel that way. Hope we can still be friends.

The bubble shattered into a million jagged pieces, each one carving a new hollow in your chest. The tears came then, hot and silent, a flood of humiliation and heartbreak. You’d been pitied. The one person whose gaze you sought had looked right through you.

You were curled on your bed, your pillow damp, when your phone began to vibrate incessantly with a storm of text messages. They were from an unknown number, but you knew. You’d know that frantic energy anywhere.

Unknown: i saw everything.

Unknown: you like HIM? that bland, spineless nothing?

Unknown: you confessed to HIM while i was standing RIGHT THERE.

Unknown: you smile at him. you blush for him. you’ve never looked at me like that.

The messages came faster, punctuation dissolving into a digital scream.

Unknown: do you know what it did to me? seeing you give him what’s MINE?

Unknown: i push you away because the thought of anyone else near you makes me sick. i pull your hair because i dream about running my fingers through it. i mock your voice because the sound of it saying another boy’s name would kill me.

Unknown: please. please. look at me. see ME.

Unknown: I love you. I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you I can’t breathe thinking about you with him.

Unknown: tell me you don’t love him. tell me you hate him. tell me anything. just talk to me.

Unknown: PLEASE.

Across town, Maximus was a boy on his knees on a carpet, phone clutched in a shaking hand, tears streaming down his face in a continuous, agonizing river. They dripped onto his screen, blurring your contact photo, a stolen, candid shot of you laughing from months ago. The image of your hopeful face, aimed at Jason, played on a loop behind his eyes, a special torture he’d crafted for himself.

The soft chime of your phone had been ringing, buzzing, and lighting up for what felt like hours.

If your friends hadn’t pushed you. You wouldn’t have this fresh, open wound of humiliation from Jason. You wouldn’t have this… this other thing.

Unknown: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. For every name, every shove, every time I made you flinch.

Unknown: I can’t stand the silence. It’s worse than your hatred.

Unknown: Forgive me. I’ll get on my knees at school in front of everyone. I’ll let you push me down. Just forgive me.

The messages grew darker, more fractured.

Unknown: You can’t date him. You can’t date anyone. The thought of someone else touching you… I can’t. I can’t breathe.

Unknown: I’ll be better. I’ll be so good to you. Just give me a chance. One chance.

Unknown: Please. I’m begging you.

Tears tracked silently down your temples and into your hair. You were exhausted. Dealing with Jason’s polite disinterest was one thing. This? This was a maelstrom you didn't know how to navigate.

So you did the only thing your shattered mind could manage. You turned your phone face down on the nightstand, muffling the glow. You pulled the covers over your head. The buzz-buzz-buzz continued, a persistent, angry insect against the wood.

Slowly, mercifully, the emotional toll dragged you under, and you fell into a fitful sleep. The phone continued to light up the darkness.

Unknown: Say something. Anything.

Unknown: I’ll leave you alone. I swear. Just tell me you’re not with him. Tell me you’re home. Safe.

Unknown: You’re home, right? You’re in your room? Not with him, right?

His vision blurred. He stumbled into his bathroom, flicking on the harsh, overhead light. It illuminated puffy, red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks cutting through the pale shock on his face, hair standing in frantic waves from where he’d pulled at it. He looked broken. Unhinged.

Pathetic.

Of course. This was what you saw. No wonder you looked at Jason with stars in your eyes. Jason was calm, clean, whole.

A fresh, hot wave of shame and panic crashed over him. He braced his hands on the cold sink, his head hanging low. He’d never felt powerlessness like this. He couldn’t force you to reply. He couldn’t threaten away the image of your smile aimed at another boy. His usual tools: intimidation and dominance were useless here. They were the very reason he was in this hell.

He slid down the bathroom wall until he was crumpled on the floor, the tiles cold against his skin. He pressed his forehead to his knees, his shoulders shaking with silent, wrenching sobs. The phone lay beside him, still and dark.

[parisgateauxqwerty]

Performance(husband x wife reader)

The fine porcelain vase, a wedding gift from his mother, shattered against the wall beside his head. “You bastard! You filthy, lying bastard!”

Your screams tore through the sterile perfection of the kitchen you’d designed together. He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, watching you with those dark, unreadable eyes as you raged. Tears streamed down your face, hot and furious. Another object, a heavy crystal bookend, flew from your hand. This time he moved, not to dodge, but to let it thud harmlessly against his shoulder.

“Who is she?!” you shrieked, your voice raw. “Was it worth it? Was our marriage worth nothing?!”

He finally spoke, his voice a calm, deep pool against your torrential storm. “It meant everything to me.”

“Liar, you cheater!” You swept a hand across the kitchen island, sending recipe books and a fruit bowl crashing to the floor. “I want out. I want the divorce papers. Now!”

A flicker of something - was it pain? - crossed his face before it smoothed into resignation. “I would never cheat on you, my heart. You are my everything. My sun, my moon, my entire sky.” he said softly. “But if you wish to leave…then I won’t fight you.”

Hope, sharp and terrifying, lanced through you. It was working.

The divorce proceedings were surreal. Your husband was heartbreakingly acquiescent. He gave you the house, the savings, everything. He only asked for one final evening together, in our home, before you moved out. “To say goodbye properly,” he’d said, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Your guilt was a living thing, gnawing at you, but your fear was greater. You agreed.

That final evening, he cooked your favorite meal. The atmosphere was thick with a poignant melancholy. He spoke of our happy memories, his voice thick with emotion. He poured me a glass of your favorite pinot noir.

“To new beginnings,” he toasted, his eyes locked on yours.

You drank. The wine was rich, velvety. And within minutes, a heavy, irresistible lethargy began to pull at your limbs. Your vision blurred at the edges. You tried to stand, but your legs buckled.

Strong arms caught you before you hit the floor. He gathered you up, cradling you against his chest as if you were something precious and fragile.

Consciousness returned with the smell of damp concrete and old cedar. Your head throbbed. You tried to move, and panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. Your wrists and ankles were bound with soft, padded rope, secured to a heavy, bolted-down chair.

You were in your basement. The one he always said was just for storage, a place you’d never bothered to explore. It was not storage. It was a furnished cell. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, casting long, grotesque shadows on soundproofed walls. A mattress with clean sheets, a shelf with books, your books.

The heavy door creaked open. He stood silhouetted in the light from the stairs, holding a tray.

“Good morning, my love,” his voice echoed softly in the small space. “Or is it evening? It’s so hard to tell down here.”

“What… what is this?” you stammered, the terror genuine now.

He set the tray down and knelt before you. His fingers, tender and precise, began to work at the knots. “You were magnificent,” he murmured, his breath cool against your skin. “The tears. The rage. The shattered vase. A perfect performance of a wronged wife. So convincing.”

Your blood ran cold. “What are you talking about?”

He freed your hands and gently took your wrists, his thumbs stroking the red marks left by the ropes. “The woman at the hotel bar. The one you hired. The ‘incriminating’ photos you arranged to have sent to yourself. The staged credit card receipts.” He looked up, his eyes no longer unreadable. They glittered with a terrifying, possessive clarity. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t play along to see how far my own wife would go to create an exit?”

The truth slammed into you, more crushing than any physical blow. Your plan, your meticulous, desperate plan to trap him as the villain and escape with your freedom, had been a play within his play all along.

“I…” The apology died in your throat.

He untied your ankles and stood, pulling you up. Your legs buckled, and he caught you, holding you close. His embrace was a cage of absolute familiarity. “You wanted a divorce,” he whispered into your hair. “You wanted to leave me. That requires punishment.”

He released you, and you crumpled to the cold floor. “No, please, I’m sorry! I was wrong!” you sobbed, the cries no longer an act but a primal plea.

“I know,” he said, walking calmly towards the door. “But this is for your own good. To help you remember who you belong to.”

“Don’t leave me here!” you screamed, crawling across the rough concrete, grabbing at the leg of his trousers. “Please! I’ll do anything! I’ll be good, I promise!”

He paused, looking down at you with a twisted kind of affection. “Relax, my love. I’ll be back. I’ll bring you food and water. We’ll read together. We’ll play games. It will be just us. No more lies. No more plots.”

He pried your fingers from his leg. He reached the door and stepped through.

“WAIT! I’M SORRY! PLEASE!” You hurled yourself against the heavy wood, your fists pounding, your voice breaking into ragged, terrified screams. “DON’T LEAVE ME IN THE DARK! FORGIVE ME! PLEASE FORGIVE ME!”

From the other side of the door, there was only silence. Then, the soft, definitive click of a lock turning. Your screams echoed back at you in the small, dark room, the only audience to your terrible performance, now trapped in its final, endless act.

[parisgateauxqwerty]

The unspoken husband masterlist

Pairing: mute husband x wife reader

-----The unspoken husband-----

Part 2

Part 3

My main masterlist

[parisgateauxqwerty]

Part 18

Alaric’s hand was surprisingly steady as he led you out of the oppressive darkness. He seemed to know the path through the wreckage by heart, his body blocking your view of the worst of it until you were in the brightly lit hallway.

When you finally saw him under the crystal chandelier, your breath caught.

His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharp against pale, sallow skin. His beautiful eyes were sunken and ringed with deep shadows, red-raw from crying. His clothes, once immaculate, were torn and stained, hanging loosely on his noticeably thinner frame. His knuckles were a mess of scabs and fresh cuts.

He couldn't meet your gaze, shame radiating from him. He focused solely on the first aid kit, his hands trembling slightly as he cleaned the long, stinging scratches on your arm with antiseptic. The sting made you flinch, and he froze, his eyes squeezing shut in self-loathing.

"It's okay," you whispered. "It doesn't hurt."

When the last bandage was secure, you wrapped your arms around his waist and held him tight, burying your face in his chest. He was stiff for a moment, then he melted into you, his arms circling you desperately, his face buried in your hair.

From the end of the hall, his parents watched, their faces a complex mix of relief, shock, and lingering unease. They had seen him maul staff and shatter priceless antiques, but here he was, docile and pliant in your arms.

You pulled back just enough to look up at his tormented face. "Alaric," you said softly, your voice firm. "You need to wash up, okay? Go take a shower. You'll feel better."

He looked at you, his eyes lost. For a second, you thought he might refuse, might cling to you. But then he gave a slow, weary nod. "Don't go," he rasped.

"I'll be right here."

He released you and shuffled towards the bathroom.

The moment the bathroom door closed, his parents approached. They looked… humbled.

"We'll have a meal prepared," Mrs. D’Amato said, her voice quieter than you'd ever heard it. "After he's clean… you can tell him to eat. He… he might listen to you."

Tears of gratitude welled in your eyes. "Thank you," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for the food. And… thank you for letting me see him again. For letting me help him."

They nodded, looking as exhausted as you felt. They began to turn away, but then Mr. D’Amato paused. He didn't look at you directly, but his words were clear.

"You have our permission," he stated, the words formal yet profoundly significant. "To see him. To… date him. Officially."

For a moment, the world stopped. The words hung in the air, shimmering with impossible promise. Your eyes widened, sparkling with disbelieving joy. Overwhelmed, you dropped to your knees right there on the polished marble floor.

"Thank you," you breathed, bowing your head, the words tumbling out in a grateful rush. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

They walked away, leaving you kneeling in the hallway, your heart soaring. The second you heard the bathroom door handle turn, you scrambled to your feet.

Alaric emerged, his hair damp and dripping, wearing clean, simple clothes. He still looked thin and weary, but the grime was gone, and a faint hint of life was returning to his eyes.

You ran.

You launched yourself at him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your body colliding with his with enough force to make him stagger back a step. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the clean scent of soap on his skin.

"Alaric!" you cried, the joy bursting out of you. "They said yes! Your parents! They gave us permission! We can be together! We can really be together!"

He pulled back, his wet hair clinging to his forehead, his eyes wide and disbelieving, searching your face for any sign of a lie.

"Really?" he whispered, the word fragile, as if it might break.

"Really," you beamed, tears of happiness streaming down your face. You cupped his cheeks, your thumbs stroking his skin. "It's over. The fighting is over. We won."

A tremor went through him. Then, a real, genuine smile broke through the devastation on his face. He pulled you back into a crushing embrace, lifting you off your feet, a sob of pure, unadulterated relief shaking his entire body.

The long table was set for two, with soft candlelight pushing back the shadows that had once felt so permanent. The food was exquisite, as always, seared scallops, a delicate salad, herb-roasted chicken.

You ate quietly, watching him. Clean and cared for, he picked at his food, pushing a piece of chicken around his plate with his fork.

You frowned. “Is it not good? Do you want something else?”

He shook his head, not looking at you. Then, a familiar, petulant pout touched his lips.

“It’s tasteless,” he mumbled, his voice low.

Your concern deepened. “Is it? Mine is fine. Here, try a bit of mine.” You started to cut a piece of your chicken to offer him.

“No,” he said, his eyes finally lifting to meet yours. The intensity in them was returning, but it was softer now, wrapped in a layer of deep-seated need. “That’s not it.” He put his fork down with a quiet clink. “I want you to feed me.”

Your breath hitched. It was the little boy who had been starved of love and comfort, asking to be nurtured.

Before you could even answer, his arm snaked around your waist. In one smooth, possessive motion, he pulled you from your chair and onto his lap. You gasped, your hands landing on his shoulders for balance. He felt solid and warm beneath you, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your side.

He looked up at you, his gaze unwavering. “Please?”

How could you refuse? You picked up your own fork, speared a piece of the tender, herb-roasted chicken, and gently brought it to his lips. His eyes never left yours as he parted his lips and took the bite, his tongue brushing against the tines of the fork in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. He chewed slowly, watching you, a profound sense of peace settling over his features.

“See?” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “It’s good.”

He swallowed and leaned his forehead against yours, his arms tightening around you. “It’s perfect,” he breathed. “You’re perfect.”

He was quiet for a long moment, just holding you, nuzzling softly against your hair. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper, filled with a desperate, aching hope.

“I hope it stays like this forever,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “Just you and me. Like this. No one to tear us apart. Ever again.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close. “It will,” you promised into his skin, sealing the vow with your embrace. “We’ll never be apart again.”

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The Knight in Shining Armor(classmate Dean x female reader)

The first time Dean confessed, you thought it was a joke. He stood by your locker, his voice a low tremor, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I… I think I’m in love with you.” You’d laughed, a soft, dismissive sound, and said, “Yeah, right, Dean. Very funny.”

The second time, he left a note tucked into your textbook. The handwriting was surprisingly elegant, looping and sincere. You’re the only light in this grey world. Please, be my girlfriend. You crumpled it and tossed it in the recycling bin, a faint unease prickling the back of your neck.

The third, fourth, and fifth times became a blur. He’d find you after class, between periods, his dark, intense eyes pleading. “Just one chance. That’s all I need.” Your rejections grew firmer, colder. “Dean, no. It’s never going to happen. Please leave me alone.”

Then came the day you cut through the empty parking lot behind the school. The sky was the colour of bruised peaches, and the air was crisp. You never saw them coming until it was too late. Three older students, their faces set in cruel sneers, fanned out, blocking your path.

“Well, look who it is,” the leader sneered. “Think you’re too good for everyone, huh?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You backed away, but the cold brick wall of the school met your back. There was nowhere to run. One of them shoved you, your backpack scraping against the rough surface. Tears of fear and frustration welled in your eyes. This was it.

“Leave her alone.”

The voice was quiet, but it cut through the tense air like a shard of ice. And there he was. Dean. He stood at the mouth of the alley, his posture unnervingly calm.

“Get lost, freak,” the leader barked. “This isn’t your business.”

“She is my only business,” Dean said, his voice still low, but with a new, terrifying edge. He started walking towards them, his steps measured and sure.

They turned on him. A fist connected with his jaw, a sickening crack echoing in the confined space. He grunted . He took the blows, one after another, a brutal, calculated endurance test. He didn’t fight back to win; he fought to protect, placing his body as a shield between you and them. You saw the pain etched on his face, the way he winced as a kick landed in his ribs. In that moment, with his lip split and bleeding, a dark bruise already blooming on his cheekbone, he looked less like a victim and more like a martyr, a knight in tarnished, bloodied armour.

And then, something shifted. As one of the bullies drew back his fist for another blow, Dean’s head snapped up. His gaze, which had been so soft when it looked at you, became utterly void of emotion.

“If you touch her again,” he whispered, the sound carrying an unnatural weight, “I will unmake you. Piece by piece.”

The air grew cold. The bullies, who moments before had been so confident, faltered. They saw something in his eyes that you, from your vantage point, could not. A bottomless, insane darkness. They stumbled back, muttering curses, their bravado completely shattered. They turned and fled, their footsteps echoing into the dusk.

Silence descended, broken only by your ragged breaths and Dean’s pained hiss as he leaned against the wall. He was a mess. His uniform was torn, his face a canvas of cuts and blossoming bruises.

“D-Dean,” you stammered, rushing to his side. “Oh my god, your face… you’re hurt!”

He waved a dismissive hand, then winced. “It’s nothing. As long as you’re safe.” He looked at you, and the terrifying void in his eyes was gone, replaced by that familiar, overwhelming adoration. “I told you I’d always protect you.”

Tears streamed down your face freely now, but they were no longer tears of fear. They were tears of overwhelming gratitude and a seismic shift in your perception. All the annoyance, the unease, the fear you’d felt towards him melted away, replaced by a profound, heart-wrenching guilt and tenderness. He had endured all that pain, for you. He had been your hero when no one else was there.

“Why… why would you do that?” you whispered, your hand trembling as you reached out to gently touch his uninjured cheek.

“Because I love you,” he said, his voice raw with pain and conviction. “I will always love you. More than anything in this world.”

And in that vulnerable, emotionally charged moment, your walls crumbled to dust.

“Okay,” you whispered, the word feeling both terrifying and right.

His eyes widened. “Okay… what?”

You took a shaky breath, your heart pounding for a completely new reason. “Okay, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

A smile broke across his battered face, radiant and triumphant. He ignored his own pain and pulled you into a tight, desperate embrace. You buried your face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his school uniform, blood, and the faint, clean scent that was uniquely him.

He whispered into your hair, his voice a fervent prayer. “Finally, you’re mine.”

You held him tighter, completely unaware that just an hour earlier, in that same alley, Dean had calmly handed a wad of cash to those very same “bullies.”

“Make it look real,” he’d instructed, his voice devoid of all emotion. “Don’t actually hurt her. But hurt me. A lot. I need her to see.”

As he held you now, feeling your body melt against his, feeling the final surrender he had orchestrated with such brutal precision, his smile was one of pure, unadulterated bliss. And you, touched and grateful, would never know that the knight in shining armour had also been the one who hired the dragon.

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Part 17

In the pitch-black room, his trembling hands found your wounded arm. His touch, which had been so violent moments before, was now feather-light, tracing the edges of the scratches with a horror that was palpable in the stifling air.

"I'm okay," you whispered into the darkness, your voice soft but firm. "It's just a scratch. See? I'm right here."

A broken sob escaped him. You reached out, your hands finding his face in the void. His skin was feverish, streaked with tears and grime. You cupped his cheeks, your thumbs gently wiping away the moisture. "I missed you so much, Alaric. I can't believe I'm finally seeing you again."

He leaned into your touch, a shudder wracking his entire frame. For a long moment, he just cried, silent, body-wracking sobs of relief and shame.

Then, the memory that had shattered him rose to the surface, poisoning the moment. He pulled back slightly, his voice a raw, wounded thing.

"You missed me?" he choked out, the words laced with a fresh wave of agony. "But you... you went on a date. You were with him. I saw the pictures. You were smiling... in that restaurant..." The sentence ended in a gasp, as if the memory alone was suffocating him. "It broke me. I thought... I thought I had lost you for good. That you had moved on. That thought haunted me every second. It's all I could see."

Your heart ached, understanding the depth of his torment. You tightened your grip on his face, forcing him to focus on your voice, on your presence.

"Alaric, no," you said, your voice urgent. "Listen to me. They told me I was meeting someone at that restaurant. I thought... I was so stupid, but I thought it was going to be you. I thought they had changed their minds. When I saw that stranger... I was devastated. I didn't want to be there. I was just... playing a part they forced me into."

You felt his breath hitch. The rigid tension in his body began to soften, replaced by a dawning, hesitant comprehension.

"I am so, so sorry," you whispered, your own tears starting to fall again. "I'm sorry they did that to us. I'm sorry that picture made you feel like I could ever replace you. I never could. I never would."

You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a tight, desperate hug. For a moment, he was stiff, the ghost of the betrayal still holding him. Then, with a ragged, relieved sigh, his entire body collapsed against yours. His arms encircled you, clinging to you as if you were the only solid thing in a world that had crumbled around him. He buried his face in your neck, his tears hot against your skin.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled over and over into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I scared you. I... I lost myself. I didn't know what was real anymore."

"You're back now," you murmured, holding him tighter, your fingers tangling in his matted hair. "That's all that matters. You're back with me."

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Part 6

The fire had dwindled to embers, painting the hut in a soft, pulsating orange glow. You sat on the bed of furs, and Marek, after much hesitant shuffling, slowly lowered himself until his head was resting in your lap.

At first, he was rigid, but as you began to gently run your fingers through his thick, unruly hair, a tension you hadn't even realized he was carrying seemed to melt from his body.

And then, in a low, halting whisper, the words began to come. He spoke of the cold nights after his parents died. The hollow ache of hunger that was more than just physical. He described the sting of the rocks, the venom in the villagers' whispers, the crushing weight of a loneliness so complete he thought it would swallow him whole. He had never spoken these things aloud. He had no one to tell. He poured years of silent suffering into the quiet night, his voice rough with unshed tears, his face hidden against your stomach.

As he spoke, he breathed in your scent, a mix of the clean lake water, the sun-dried pine needles from the hut. He had never known a woman could smell so good. The fabric of your dress was soft under his cheek, but he could feel the warmth and give of your body beneath it. His hand, lying limp at his side, twitched. He wanted to hold yours. Gathering all his courage, his large, calloused hand crept slowly across the furs until his fingers hesitantly brushed against yours.

Your hand was so small, so delicate, it felt like holding a tiny, warm bird. He was terrified of crushing it. The sight of his rough, scarred fingers enveloping your soft ones sent a wave of fierce, protective tenderness through him. It was the most adorable thing he had ever seen.

You laced your fingers through his, a silent acceptance, and continued to caress his hair with your other hand. His whispers slowly faded into the even, deep breaths of sleep, his body finally relaxed and at peace for the first time in his memory.

The next morning, he left for the hunt. He was gone for a few hours. You, wanting to be useful, had gathered the few articles of clothing and stepped outside to take them to the lake.

That's when you saw them.

A semi-circle of villagers had gathered at the edge of the clearing, their curiosity overpowering their fear. They stared, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and morbid fascination. Whispers rippled through the crowd.

"It's true... he really has a girl."

"Where did she come from?"

"Look at her! She's... pretty. How did a freak like him get a pretty thing like that?"

Their gazes were intrusive, stripping you of the peace you'd found. And then, as you made your way towards the lake path with your basket, two younger men, emboldened by the crowd, broke from the group and swaggered towards you.

"Hey there," one of them said, a smirk on his face. "You don't have to stay with that wild animal, you know. We've got proper houses in the village. Warm beds."

The other leaned against a tree, blocking your path slightly. "A pretty flower like you shouldn't be wasted out here in the dirt. What's your name? How'd he even get you?"

You clutched the laundry basket tighter, your heart pounding.

And you knew that Marek would be back soon. And the sight of these men circling his wife, his home, would not end with threats. It would end in blood.

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Part 16

The car ride was silent. They didn't speak to you, and you didn't ask any questions. Your heart was a frantic drum against your ribs, a mixture of fear, pity, and a terrify pull towards the boy who had shattered for you.

When the car stopped, Mrs. D’Amato led the way, her heels clicking too loudly in the sterile hallway. Mr. D’Amato stayed close behind you, a silent, imposing presence. The opulence of the mansion felt sinister now, a gilded labyrinth.

They stopped in front of a heavy, ornate door. It was scarred, as if something had been thrown against it repeatedly from the inside.

"This is it," Mrs. D’Amato whispered, her voice trembling. "He's in here. Just... talk to him. Calm him down."

A sliver of unease pierced through your resolve. The setup felt wrong. But before you could process it, before you could ask, "Where is he? Is he okay?", Mr. D’Amato placed a hand on your back.

It was a shove.

You stumbled forward, your balance lost, and pitched through the doorway into absolute blackness. The door slammed shut behind you with a deafening, final THUD. The sound of a heavy lock turning echoed like a gunshot in the silence.

Panic exploded in your chest, immediate and all-consuming.

"No! Wait!" you screamed, scrambling to your feet and throwing yourself against the solid wood. You pounded on it with your fists, your screams raw and desperate. "Let me out! Please! OPEN THE DOOR!"

"Confront him," Mr. D’Amato's voice came, cold and detached through the thick wood. "Fix what you broke. Then we'll let you go."

The betrayal was a physical blow. They hadn't brought you here to help. They had thrown you into the cage with the wild animal they'd created. You were bait. A sacrifice.

Tears of terror and rage streamed down your face as you slid down the door, your strength gone. The darkness was absolute, a suffocating blanket. You couldn't see your own hand in front of your face. The air was stale, smelling of dust, sweat, and something metallic…blood.

Your breathing was ragged, loud in the oppressive silence. You tried to calm yourself, to let your eyes adjust, but there was no light to adjust to. It was pure, consuming black.

Trembling, you forced yourself to stand. You had to move. You had to know where you were. You took one cautious step forward, then another.

CRUNCH.

Your foot came down on something that snapped and splintered. A piece of broken furniture. The sound was horrifyingly loud in the dead quiet.

And in response, you heard it.

A shift in the darkness. A rustle of movement from the far corner of the room. The sound of breathing that wasn't your own - low, ragged, and animalistic.

Your blood ran cold. "A-Alaric?" you whispered, your voice shaking. "Is that you?"

There was no verbal answer. Only a low growl that vibrated through the floor.

Suddenly, a dark shadow detached itself from the deeper blackness. It moved with a feral, unnerving speed. You had a split second to register a blur of motion before it was on you.

You screamed as a searing, white-hot pain ripped across your upper arm. You were thrown back against the wall, your head spinning. You clutched your arm, feeling warm, sticky blood welling up through the torn fabric of your sleeve. Long, deep scratches. He had clawed you.

He loomed over you in the dark, a panting, menacing shape. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the unwashed, feral scent of him.

"Stop! Please, stop!" you sobbed, curling into a ball, shielding your face with your uninjured arm. "Alaric, it's me! It's me! Please, it's me!"

The panting stopped.

The menacing presence hovering over you went perfectly still.

A ragged, confused breath hitched in the darkness. "...No," a voice rasped, broken and hoarse from disuse. "It's... it's a trick."

"It's not a trick!" you cried, daring to lower your arm. You couldn't see him, but you could feel his confusion, his internal war. "It's me! I'm here!"

There was a long, tense silence. Then, a trembling hand reached out in the darkness. His fingers, calloused and rough, brushed against your wet cheek, tracing the line of your tears. They moved down, gently, so gently, until they found the bloody wounds on your arm. He flinched back as if burned.

A broken, devastated sound escaped him.

The feral tension drained from the air, replaced by a wave of dawning, horrified realization. The shadow in front of you crumpled.

"The... the blood," he choked out. "Your... your arm. I... I..."

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Part 15

A month. The silence had been absolute. The initial, gut-wrenching pain had slowly, against all odds, begun to scar over. Your life had returned to its old, quiet rhythm of school, work, and careful budgeting. The memory of Alaric was a phantom limb, a constant, aching absence, but one you were learning to live with. You had started to believe his parents had won, that you were finally, truly free of him.

Then they came.

There was no polite knock. The door to your apartment splintered open with a crash, and Mr. and Mrs. D’Amato stood in the doorway, their impeccable composure utterly shattered. They looked older, their faces etched with a desperation you had never imagined they could possess.

You stumbled back, your heart hammering. "What are you—"

"He's broken," Mrs. D’Amato interrupted, her voice trembling, stripped of its usual ice. It was raw with panic. "Our son... he's... he's not himself."

They spilled the story in frantic, disjointed sentences, their regal poise completely gone. They told you about the photos, about the catastrophic breakdown. They described a scene from a nightmare: Alaric had destroyed his entire wing. He’d attacked the staff who tried to calm him, his strength fueled by a deranged fury. He hadn't eaten in days, refusing all food, his body wasting away. He was a danger to everyone, including himself, his knuckles were permanently bruised and split from punching walls, and they’d found shards of glass in his palms.

"The worst part," Mr. D’Amato said, his voice hollow, "is at night. The screaming stops, and... he whimpers. Like a wounded animal. And it's... it's your name. Over and over."

They looked at you, not with disdain, but with a pathetic, terrified hope. "He doesn't recognize us. He tried to... he attacked me," Mr. D’Amato confessed, a hand going unconsciously to a faint, yellowing bruise on his jaw. "We've tried everything. Doctors, sedatives... nothing works. He's tearing himself apart."

Mrs. D’Amato took a step forward, her hands clasped as if in prayer. "He needs you. We... we were wrong. We see that now. Please. You're the only one he calls for. You're the only one who can reach him."

Your heart ached with a devastating, terrifying pity.This was a surrender. The architects of your misery were now begging for your help to salvage the son they had broken.

You looked from their desperate faces. You thought of him, alone in the dark, destroying himself, whispering your name. You took a slow, deep breath.

"Okay," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "I'll come."

Without another word, you walked past them and out the door, toward the waiting black car. And you had no idea if you could save him, or if his beautiful, terrible obsession would finally consume you both.

P/s It’s almost the end of the story🤭

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Part 18

The silence in the house was different with your parents gone. You stood in the kitchen, the recipe for spaghetti Bolognese open on your phone, trying to focus on dicing an onion and not on the low murmur of voices from the garage where Mark and Leo were working.

The garage door into the house creaked open. Your knife stilled. You didn't have to look to know it was him. The air in the kitchen shifted, becoming charged, thinner.

"Smells good in here," Leo's voice came from behind you, low and close.

You kept your eyes on the cutting board. "It's just onions."

You heard his soft footsteps on the tile. He came to stand beside you at the counter, not touching, but the heat from his body was a palpable force. He leaned his hip against the counter, watching your hands.

"Here," he said, his voice a murmur meant only for you. He reached out and gently took the knife from your stiff fingers. "You're going too slow. Let me."

His fingers brushed against yours, and a jolt, sharp and electric, shot up your arm. You snatched your hand back, clutching it to your chest as if burned. He didn't comment, just began dicing the onion with a swift, practiced efficiency that was utterly mesmerizing.

"You're good at that," you said, the words escaping before you could stop them.

He glanced at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "I'm good at a lot of things."

The double meaning hung in the steam from the sink. You turned away, busying yourself with browning the ground beef in a pan, your heart hammering against your ribs. The sizzle of the meat was loud in the tense quiet.

You felt him move behind you. He was so close you could feel the fabric of his t-shirt brush against your back. He reached around you, his arm a hair's breadth from your side, to grab the can of crushed tomatoes from the counter next to the stove.

"You need this, right?" he whispered, his breath stirring the hair by your ear.

You froze, the spatula hovering over the pan. You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak.

He didn't move away. He stayed there, a solid, warm presence at your back, caging you gently between his body and the heat of the stove. He set the can down but kept his hands on the counter on either side of you, effectively trapping you.

"Your heart is beating so fast," he observed, his voice a soft, intimate rumble against your ear. "I can see it in your throat."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Leo, please…"

"Please what?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious, but laced with a dark amusement. "Please stop? Or please continue?"

Before you could form a coherent thought, the garage door swung open. "Hey, is food almost—" Mark's voice cut through the tension like a cleaver.

You jumped, scrambling away from the stove, from Leo. Leo, in contrast, moved with infuriating slowness. He casually picked up the can of tomatoes, popped the lid with the opener, and handed it to you as if that was all he had been doing.

"Yeah, almost," you managed to choke out, your face flaming.

Mark looked between the two of you, his eyes narrowing slightly. The scene was innocent enough,Leo helping cook,but the energy in the room was thick enough to slice.

"Cool," Mark said, his voice laced with a new, lingering suspicion. "Hurry up, I'm starving."

He retreated back to the garage, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

You let out a shaky breath, your entire body trembling.

Leo turned to you, his eyes dark and satisfied. He leaned in close again, his voice dropping back to that private whisper.

"See?" he said, his gaze flicking towards the door Mark had just exited. "He's starting to see it, too. He just doesn't know what he's looking at yet."

He picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the sauce.

The scent of simmering garlic and tomatoes, the warmth from the stove shattered in an instant. His hands were on your hips, a sudden, claiming pressure that spun you away from the heat. The world tilted as he bent you over the cool granite of the counter, your back arching under his insistent strength.

His kiss was a desperate, consuming clash of lips and teeth and tongue, stealing the air from your lungs and any coherent thought from your mind. And his hands - rough and impatient - tore at your clothes. Buttons strained and fabric whispered into a puddle on the floor. Your breath came in ragged, shallow gasps—

"Earth to Leo."

Mark's voice, sharp and too close, shattered the vision.

Leo didn't jump. His hand stilled on the spoon, but that was the only sign he’d been pulled from a deep, private reverie. He slowly turned his head, his eyes taking a moment to focus on Mark, who was standing in the doorway, a frown etched on his face.

The look in Leo’s eyes was what caught Mark off guard. It wasn't the spaced-out look of someone simply daydreaming. It was a heavy-lidded, intense, and possessive glaze, a raw hunger that hadn't quite been banked. And his gaze, for a split second, had been fixed directly on you, who were nervously setting the table across the room, completely unaware.

"You okay, man?" Mark asked, his voice tight. "You looked a million miles away."

Leo’s mask slid back into place, but it was a beat too slow. The heat in his eyes cooled to a smolder, but it was still visible to anyone who was really looking.

"Just thinking about the sauce," Leo said, his voice a low, even rumble. He gave the pot another slow stir.

Mark’s eyes darted from Leo’s controlled expression to your flustered one as you arranged the forks. The pieces, the weird moments, the "stupid dream," they were all starting to click into a horrifying picture.

"Yeah," Mark said slowly, not believing it for a second. "The sauce."

He didn't leave the doorway. He just stood there, watching. The easy trust was gone, replaced by a cold, creeping suspicion.

Leo, feeling the weight of Mark’s stare, allowed himself a small, private smile as he turned back to the stove. He didn't mind the suspicion. In fact, he welcomed it. 

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