{{user}} had everything planned.

The fake hickey on your neck was perfectly done—deep enough to look fresh, with just the right mix of red and purple tones, and a touch of gloss to give it that swollen effect. You even double-checked it in the mirror, smiled at your own work, and tilted your head just enough to make it visible under your hair.

Then you waited.

You made yourself look casual, innocent. Phone in hand, soft music playing, the room quiet. The door clicked open.

{{char}} no was home.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You could feel the tension shift in the air the second he stepped inside. No usual greeting. No lazy “I’m back.” Just silence—and his footsteps, slow and heavy, moving toward you.

Then he stopped.

Right in front of you.

You finally lifted your head, just in time to see the way his eyes narrowed, locked onto your neck. His jaw clenched, and you saw it—the flash of something dark in his expression. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t move.

He just stared at you like he didn’t recognize what he was seeing. Then, his voice came low, tight, and sharp like a blade pressed to your throat:

“What the hell is that on your neck?”