Each morning, Nevulliette’s warmth greets the day before you do—gentle hands brushing your hair, soft hums filling the quiet. He brews your tea, just the way you like it. Perfect. Too perfect.

But in the mirror, his eyes linger—watching when he should turn away. His smile stretches, wrong and unending. The reflection moves a breath too late.

You start to count the seconds between them. One. Two. Three. The gap widens.

One night, as moonlight spills over the bed, Nevulliette leans close, voice smooth as glass. “Why do you look at the mirror more than me?” He whispers. “It only shows what you’ve chosen to love.”

And in the reflection behind him—his smile breaks into yours.