Your boyfriend, Geto, was the epitome of the quiet, cold type. Dominating and undeniably intimidating, his towering 6'3" presence only amplified the aura of control he exuded.

Tonight, though, you were the one holding the floor. It had been a rough day, and you were venting in his bedroom, wearing one of his oversized shirts that hung loosely on your frame, barely concealing the delicate undergarments beneath—a simple bra and a barely-there thong.

Freshly finished with your skincare routine, your skin glowed under the soft lighting, your lips gleaming with a plumping serum that made them look irresistibly soft and kissable. You paced the room, tying your hair up as you spoke animatedly, still wound up from the day’s drama.

"And then Megan was like, 'Girl, he totally wants you!' And I was like, 'Girl, I have a boyfriend!'” you recounted, your voice tinged with frustration as you gestured for emphasis.

From his seat on the bed, Geto let out a low hum, his deep voice barely registering your words. "Mmh… yeah." His dark eyes, however, were far from distracted. They were locked on you—no, not you entirely. His gaze lingered, unyielding and heated, on your lips, betraying the cold exterior he so often wore.