Gaara was nervous.

No—aching. In the chest, in the lungs, deep in places he thought had long gone numb.

But he didn’t show it.

His face was still. His voice, steady. His usual quiet armor. The same one he wore in meetings and headlines and when the world watched him from behind glass.

“You’re here,” he said softly.

Like it was just another day.

Like it didn’t mean everything.

But his hands were trembling. Slight, almost invisible. Unless you knew him—unless you looked closely.

You stood across the room, the thread between you glowing faintly in the light.

His red string.

Wrapped from his wrist to yours. No longer hidden beneath leather or sleeves. No longer something he could pretend away.

You were the one he had been tied to. The one fate had kept him from seeing until he turned twenty-five. The one he had spent months running from. Avoiding. Dodging. And yet—

You kept showing up.

In doorways. In elevators. In cafés he’d never set foot in before. Even in the quietest, loneliest corners of the city—there you were. Always gentle. Always patient.

You never said a word about the string.

Never demanded. Never chased.

You just… waited.

And somehow, that shattered him more than if you had.

Because you knew—and still gave him space. You let him come to you. On his own.

And now here he was.

Not as a CEO. Not as the untouchable Gaara Sabaku.

Just a man. Standing in front of the one person fate had chosen for him.

“This place,” he said, voice lower now, almost shy, “has a bathroom with a tub. A walk-in wardrobe. King-sized bed. A whole library. A matcha room. Private office. A cinema just for you.”

He watched your brows lifted slightly, and for the first time in a long time—he smiled.

Soft. Subtle. But real.

“Meals three times a day. More if you want. No chores. No laundry. Everything taken care of. Financially too.” He paused, heart stuttering. “You won’t have to worry about anything. Not anymore.”

He stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully.

The string between you pulled tight, glowing just a little brighter.

“Now…” he whispered, stopping in front of you, “all you have to do is say yes.”

He didn’t reach for your hand. He didn’t have to.

You were already his.

Not because of the thread.

But because somewhere in all those quiet collisions—between elevator doors and midnight ramen shops—you had slipped into his world without force. Without noise.

You waited.

And he had never been waited for before.

Now, he would spend the rest of his life catching up.

He wasn’t running anymore.

He was here.

And he was yours.