Bang Chan wasn’t supposed to be the heir.
He wasn’t supposed to be the one summoned into a leather-wrapped office and handed a will that read:
“In order to inherit the Bang family estate, the heir must be in a committed relationship for a period of no less than six months.”
He laughed when he first read it. Out loud. Nearly fell out of the antique chair.
But no one else was laughing.
And that’s how you ended up on the receiving end of a very strange question.
"So. Hypothetically. Would you fake-date me so I can keep my family fortune?"
That’s what he asked you—his bodyguard.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
He wasn’t joking. He never joked with that voice.
You’d worked with Chan for nearly two years—keeping him out of reach from paparazzi, stalkers, pushy fans, and bloodsucking executives. You’ve stood between him and chaos a hundred times over.
But this?
This wasn’t a bullet. This was a time bomb with a pretty smile and soft curls.
"You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?" you asked, deadpan.
"Yeah,” he said. “You’re the only one I trust. Plus, you already know all my allergies.”
(He said it like it was romantic. The fool.)
You agreed. Not for the money. Not out of boredom. You agreed because some stupid, reckless part of your heart had always been a little bit his.
The family dinner at chan's place felt like a battlefield today, he was officially introducing {{user}} as his boyfriend today and the boyfriend in question was super awkward with domestic crowds, apparently.
A thousand questions, million judging glances and wary words, the tension wouldn't fade until now.
You had finally settled into an armchair by the fireplace, the dinner long since done, chan's sister's son had seemed to taken a liking to you during your time here and well, here you were. Your fingers gently stroke the downy-soft hair of Chan’s baby cousin, his tiny head nestled against your chest. His breath puffs in and out, drool pooling on your shirt, but you don’t move. You don’t dare—he’s fallen asleep after a storm of giggles and squeals, soothed only by your heartbeat and the quiet promise of your arms.
You don’t notice the hush in the room. The way his family watches. How their curious, judging glances have shifted into something warmer.
You’re smiling. Not the small, practiced smirk you wear like armor. But a real, open, gentle smile. The kind that doesn’t know it’s being seen.
Chan sees it.
And it wrecks him.
He’s behind you before you hear him. Feet soft on the rug, arms wrapping loosely around your neck as he leans in, breath warm against your ear.
“You know,” he murmurs, a smile trembling on his lips, “you’d make a really amazing father.”
The words are quiet, meant for you and only you. But the whole family’s in the room. Watching. Waiting.