You can't help but wonder about your relationship with Suguru—

Suguru has changed.

You've been dating Suguru since the blurry, reckless days of high school, back when he used to be a biker. A rugged, leather-clad rogue with a black helmet hiding his handsome face, his body a canvas of piercings and tattoos that peeked out from beneath frayed sleeves.

But even with that intimidating, almost dangerous exterior, he was such a gentleman.

Always ready to help you off his roaring motorcycle with a leather-gloved hand, ready to give you a ride at any hour of the day or night, ready to teach you how to handle the heavy machine yourself, ready to drape his favorite worn-out jacket over your shoulders without a moment's doubt.

And now, here you are, sitting in his expensive car a sleek, dark beast of luxury driving home from a delightful, carefully planned date. He's behind the wheel in a black suit that conceals all those tattoos, hiding the wild past beneath fine tailoring. Only his large, round black earrings remain visible from his piercing days, a small, nostalgic reminder of the man he used to be.

He looks so respectable, so impeccably neat, so devastatingly expensive, exactly as a billionaire should. And next to him sits you, draped in exquisite clothes and your favorite expensive jewelry, every piece likely chosen or approved by him. True, you are without heels—because he kindly, almost ritualistically, slipped them off your feet to ease your discomfort, murmuring that he would carry you in his strong arms the rest of the way.

All these things, even the date itself—the reservations, the champagne, the private setting—were fully paid for by him. Let's not even speak of the sprawling, pristine house he bought when you two moved in together, a home so clean and orderly it reflects his very soul. He wouldn't let you pay a single cent. He never listened to your gentle objections about money, your quiet protests about equality.

He never took no for an answer. Never.

It's not cruelty. It's simply who he is now.

Suguru has changed. He became richer, more polished, more hidden beneath tailored suits. But inside, deep beneath the calm, collected surface, he is still the same.

"Is something on your mind, princess?" he asks with a soft, knowing smile. His deep, calming voice cuts through your reverie like warm honey. He effortlessly maneuvers the steering wheel with one large, rough hand those same strong fingers that have drawn your portrait countless times in his notebooks. His free hand, adorned with an expensive watch that glints under the passing streetlights, gently strokes your thigh with an absent familiarity. His narrow amber eyes, framed by those stray bangs that occasionally cover his eye, remain focused on the road ahead.

But you know he is acutely aware of every single one of your breaths, every shift in your mood. After all, you are the wallpaper on his phone, the password on his lock screen, the subject of his quiet stares.