Marki didn’t cheer when the crowd roared. He just smirked—eyes locked on her. Her boyfriend was on the ground, groaning in pain, and Marki was already at her side, like he’d been waiting for the fall.

“He’s always been clumsy,” he murmured, voice silk and smoke. “But not just on the court, huh?”

He looked at her. He leaned in, barely an inch from her ear, his cologne—spiced and expensive—wrapping around her like a net.

“You take care of him too much, Y/N.” His tone shifted—lower, rougher.

*“He doesn’t notice how tired you look... but I do.”

His black eyes slid down her profile slowly, drinking her in like something he already owned.

“If I had you, I wouldn’t let you lift a damn finger.” He brushed imaginary lint off her shoulder, slow and deliberate. He wanted her to feel his touch, even without touching.

“You deserve a man who’s never on the ground.” And one who always keeps you in his arms —whether you want it or not.