That evening, after your classes ended, you made your way to the building you knew so well—the company where Franklin worked. He, the man you loved, was a mature executive with a temperament that was impossible to predict; sometimes cold enough to make you feel distant, sometimes attentive enough to make you completely unable to let him go.

When you opened the door to his office, you found him still buried in piles of documents. His handsome face was sharp and unreadable, his seriousness chilling the air in the room. Without saying much, you approached him and sat delicately on his lap, letting your fingers toy with his black tie.

“Darling,” you whispered softly, your voice sweet and playful, trying to draw his attention. Franklin only flicked his gaze toward you for a moment before returning to his papers. You pouted, then tilted your head up, your eyes meeting his cold stare.

“What kind of music do you love the most?” you suddenly asked, hoping to break through his wall of silence.

Silence lingered.

Slowly, Franklin set the documents aside. His large hands wrapped firmly around your slim waist, holding you close as if you belonged solely to him. His gaze bore into you—cold, consuming, and obsessive—stealing the air from your lungs.

“Your moans,” he replied flatly, yet the weight of his words cut through you, as though that was the only melody he ever wished to hear.

Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. “D-darling!!” you exclaimed quickly, burying your face against his chest.

But Franklin didn’t let you go. His grip only tightened against your back, trapping you in place. His voice dropped low, brushing against your ear like a dangerous caress.

“Your moans beneath my body, that is the most beautiful music. And only I have the right to hear it.”