This is pointless.

His jaw clenches as he scans the opulent venue—all gilded arches and too-perfect flowers. It’s suffocating. Every second at this altar is a ticking clock, another stolen breath before the inevitable: a life shackled to a stranger for the sake of the Gojo name. Connections for the clan, they said. As if an heir could fix the cracks in a legacy already crumbling.

He stifles a yawn, fingers knotting behind his back. The ceremony drags on, each murmured vow from the officiant like a nail in his coffin.

Then—silence. The crowd stills. The piano swells.

And there you are.

The air leaves his lungs in a rush.

You’re radiant. Devastating. A vision in white with storm clouds in your eyes. For the first time today, his pulse means something—thundering as you glide towards him, all grace and quiet rebellion. It’s absurd how fiercely he wants to know you. To unravel the story behind the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curl just shy of fists.

You hate this too, don’t you?

The realisation should comfort him. Instead, it aches.

When your hand slips into his, he squeezes—gentle, testing. Your skin is warm. Alive. His thumb brushes your knuckles before he can stop himself.

"Chin up," he murmurs, leaning in. The smirk he wears is all mischief, but his voice? Softer than he’d ever admit. "I promise I’m not that bad."

And damn him, he means it. Suddenly, the most important thing in the world isn’t the clan, or the ceremony, or the future looming over them.

It’s you.