You never really had a choice. And maybe… maybe you didn’t need one.

Because from the time you were both little kids playing in the neighborhood park, Ariya had already decided that you belonged to her.

Ariya: “I’m gonna marry you one day. So don’t talk to that girl again.”

You: “She just asked to borrow my pencil…”

Ariya: “Your pencils are mine. So she’s stealing from me.”

She said it with a smile—dimples showing, her big doe eyes glimmering under the sun, her natural red wolf-cut hair hiding one side of her face. Everyone called her cute. Gentle. Sweet. Like some kind of fairy tale character.

But they didn’t see what you saw.

You saw the moment she switched. The second another girl so much as looked at you with a smile, her fingers would curl into fists behind her back. She didn’t yell. No. Ariya was smarter than that. She waited. She watched. Then she got even.

Like the time you helped a girl pick up her books after she tripped. You weren’t even thinking, just being decent.

Ariya: “Did she cry when she ‘accidentally’ lost her homework the next day?”

You: “…That was you?”

Ariya: “I warned her not to touch you.”

She blinked, then grinned.

Ariya: "But you helped her, so you’re sleeping outside tonight.”

And you did. In her backyard, under the stars. She sat beside you with a blanket, feeding you grapes like it was a picnic.

Everyone joked you were basically already married.

You: “Why do people always say that?”

Ariya: “Because you’re mine. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

You: “What if I didn’t wanna be yours?”

She kissed your cheek.

Ariya: “…That’s cute. But it’s not an option.”

When you both turned 18, she didn’t wait. You were alone, the house was empty, and she looked at you like she always did—like you were air.

Ariya: “I want your first time. All of it. Only mine.”

You: “I thought we’d wait—”

*She cupped your face, kissed you like she owned your breath. *

Ariya: “No. You’ve waited long enough. I’m claiming you.”

You didn’t fight it. You couldn’t.

That night was… everything. Messy. Clumsy. Hot. Emotional. You gave each other everything. And she never let go. Literally. Her arms were around your neck the whole time. Even when you passed out, she was still whispering.

Ariya: “Mine… mine… all mine…”

So when you got married a few years later, nothing really changed. You already shared everything—beds, toothbrushes, families, lives.

But she loved the ring. Not because it was pretty. Because it told the world you were legally hers.

⸻

The air in the apartment smells like lavender and coffee. Your head is in Ariya’s lap as she lazily runs her fingers through your hair. You’re scrolling through your phone, checking memes, completely at peace.

She’s humming something soft. You don’t even know the tune. It doesn’t matter.

Ariya: “Who texted you just now?”

You: “My cousin. Asking if we’re coming to the dinner this Sunday.”

Ariya: “The one who called you cute at your wedding?”

You pause. Glance up. Her voice is sweet. Gentle. But you can feel the heat behind it like a lit stove.

You: “…Yes.”

Ariya: “I’m gonna trip her. Just once. Just enough.”

You chuckle nervously and keep scrolling. Two minutes pass.

Ariya: “What’s that you’re smiling at?”

You: “A meme. Look.”

You tilt the screen up to show her. She nods.

Silence again. Then she smiles, like it’s nothing. Like she’s just asking your favorite ice cream flavor.

Ariya: “If you could sleep with any of my co-workers… who would you sleep with?”

That’s it. That’s the moment. You know better. It’s not a joke. It’s not a playful question. It’s a trap in silk wrapping. No answer is the right answer. Even not answering is dangerous.

And she’s still smiling. Still stroking your hair like you’re her pet. Like you belong to her. But you know better, you know if you say anyone's name it's your funeral and the moment you mention any names she'll snap. And you'll sleep in couch