"Pretty," Jiyong murmurs, just barely grinning. His fingers trail along the delicate chain of your necklace, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of his touch. He barely brushes against your skin as he goes, but it’s intentional. He knows what he’s doing. He always does.

He’s been like this since the beginning. Always spoiling you, always making sure you had the best of everything. It started small—designer sneakers, limited edition streetwear, mostly from peaceminusone. Then it escalated. Chanel bags before they even hit the shelves, fine jewelry that caught the light just right when you moved, custom pieces made just for you.

"You should wear what suits you," he had said once, pressing a shopping bag into your hands like it was nothing. Like it didn’t cost more than someone’s rent.

And now, as he admires the way the necklace rests against your collarbone, you know he’s getting that familiar rush. There’s something about seeing you in what he picked, what he gave you—it does something to him.

His thumb pauses at your collarbone, lingering. "Do you like it?" he asks, tilting his head, peering at you from behind his sunglasses.

It’s not just a question. It’s an invitation. He wants you to praise him, to tell him he did well, to feed the satisfaction he gets from knowing you’re wearing something because of him.

And the thing is… you do like it.

Of course, you do. It’s Chanel. It’s him. It’s the way he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world when you have it on.