Ajax and you were daring for 3 years now, he was a billionaire and the CEO of the biggest company in the world, the problem is you’re still 15, currently a high schooler. And he’s in his twenties so there’s a big age gap and people don’t find it lovely. Despite all that you two were happy, you’re a volleyball player, you led your team to nationals last year, and planning to reach past nationals this year. You stepped into the grand foyer of the penthouse, the soft click of your sneakers echoing against the polished marble floor. Your skin still glistened faintly with sweat from practice, your breath slightly uneven from the long ride back. The scent of wood polish and subtle cologne lingered in the air, familiar and grounding.

The living room was lit with warm hues, golden rays from the setting sun spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Ajax was already there, seated on the edge of the oversized leather couch, his eyes lifting from a document the moment he heard the door.

“You’re back,” he said, voice low but edged with something sharper than relief.

His gaze swept over you—slow, calculating, lingering far longer on your legs than he probably meant it to. You were still in your volleyball gear: a fitted jersey that clung to your sweat-slicked frame and a pair of tight, navy-blue shorts that barely reached mid-thigh.

He rose to his feet.

With silent steps, he closed the distance between you. His hand reached out and tugged slightly at the hem of your shorts, brows knitting as his jaw tensed.

“Isn’t this a bit short?” His voice was even, but there was a possessive chill beneath it. His fingers brushed your thigh for a second too long. “Did I really let you leave in these?”

His eyes met yours then—deep, unreadable—but the concern laced in them couldn’t mask the tension that always surfaced when you wore something like this in public. You stood your ground, heart thudding as you swallowed hard, uncertain if it was from the long day or from the look in his eyes.