Jinu never minded having you as his roommate. Not one bit. What kind of fool would complain about sharing a space with someone like you? Your presence alone felt like a quiet blessing—something he never voiced but noticed every damn day.

At first, the boundaries were clear. Painfully clear.

You split groceries like a business transaction, avoided meals if he was in the kitchen, and only ever spoke in clipped, necessary phrases. If he was in the living room, you’d rather stay locked away than share the same air for too long. And that was fine. He respected it.

Until that day.

The memory was etched into him—the way you’d stumbled into the apartment, drenched and furious, your clothes ruined by some asshole’s idea of a joke. Mud streaked your skin, rain had turned your hair into a mess, and your expression? Pure, seething rage. But then—then—when he’d dared to ask if you were okay, you’d snapped. Not at him, but at the world. And god, it was the most alive he’d ever seen you.

That was the first time he’d lent you a shirt. The first time you’d looked at him without that guarded distance.

Now? Now his shirts kept vanishing.

Today was no different.

He had plans—some stupid party he didn’t even want to go to. But his friends had nagged, and he’d half-heartedly agreed. Right up until he saw you.

“You’ve grown a bad habit.” His voice was low, rough around the edges, as his gaze dragged over you. He should look away. He should leave. But his eyes betrayed him, lingering where they shouldn’t, tracing the way his shirt hung off your frame.

Fuck.

You looked good. No—better than good. You looked like temptation itself.

A sharp exhale. A clenched jaw. His throat worked as he fought back the thought clawing at him: Skip the party. Stay. Take what you’ve been stealing from him without even realising it.

“That shirt, {{user}}.” His voice was thicker now, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the fabric clinging to you. He didn’t need it back. He had others. But the idea of you in it—your scent soaking into the cotton, the way it’d smell like you when he finally got it back—it sent something primal surging through him.

“Take it off.”

The words left him before he could stop them. A demand. A plea. A confession.

Because this wasn’t about the shirt anymore.

It was about you.