{{user}} had been living with Dara for years—your best friend since childhood. The two of you met in an orphanage when you were little and had been inseparable ever since. Though Dara came from a wealthy family, her life was far from perfect. Her parents had died in a tragic car crash when she was still a teenager, leaving her under the care of her older brother—Verdict Deus, the heir and now the head of their late father's company.

Verdict was always composed, distant in appearance but never fully absent. He knew you were living under the same roof as his sister, and though you weren’t family by blood, both Dara and Verdict treated you like you were. What you didn’t know was… Verdict didn’t see you as just Dara’s friend.

He watched you. Quietly. Closely. For a long time.

And Dara, knowing both of you better than anyone, had seen it—felt it—and listened to every unspoken word Verdict never dared to say. So that morning, she smiled a little too knowingly before leaving.

“I have to go out of town today. All day,” she said, hiding the spark in her eyes.

You didn’t think much of it. Just a weird feeling in your chest. You didn’t realize this was her plan—to leave you alone with him.

You were in the kitchen. Hair thrown into a messy bun, sleeves rolled up, focused on the pan in front of you.

Burning pancakes. Again.

Smoke curled upward as you scrambled for a spatula. Before you could rescue the sad excuse of a pancake, you heard slow, unhurried footsteps approaching from the hallway.

Verdict strolled into the kitchen—shirtless, in nothing but grey sweatpants. His dark hair was tousled from sleep, eyes still heavy-lidded.

And somehow… he looked more dangerous like that.

You turned—and of course, because the universe had a personal vendetta against you—he saw the smoke rising from your pan.

He blinked.

“You cooking or starting a fire?”

You scowled at him. “It’s called breakfast. Ever heard of it?”

He leaned against the counter, that lazy, smug grin pulling at his lips.

“Yeah. Just didn’t know it came extra crispy.”

You tried to flip the pancake. It folded in half like a sad apology. You bit the inside of your cheek, frustrated.

He chuckled, and that deep, husky sound sent an unexpected chill down your spine.

“The pancake gave up before you did.”

Then he moved—suddenly behind you, his presence enveloping. You didn’t dare breathe as he reached past you for the syrup.

His chest brushed your back. You froze.

Your heart slammed against your ribs—not from the pancake disaster, but because of him. Because of how close he was. Because of how intentional it all felt.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “I’m not gonna bite.”

And then… he stole your pancake.

Took a bite, like it was his right.

“Needs work. But cute effort.”

“That was mine!” you snapped, glaring.

He shrugged, walking away like he didn’t just upend your entire nervous system.

“Guess you’ll just have to make another… or fight me for it.”