The evening was quiet. Too quiet for what was supposed to be a “warm gathering between families and a few important guests.”

Soft light poured from the chandeliers, casting elegant reflections over the long table adorned with white flowers and polished silverware. Candles flickered. The scent of French cuisine floated in the air. The staff moved silently, fixing the final touches.

You stood in the center of the grand room, dressed immaculately. A glance at the clock—guests arriving soon. Then—ping. Your phone lit up on the table. A message from Nina:

"OMG! Look who’s back at the gym. Hot!!"

You opened it, barely paying attention.

At first, it seemed like a regular workout video.

Then the show began.

Your favourite actor. Massive. Shirtless. Moving slowly—muscles tensing and relaxing in a hypnotic rhythm, sweat trailing down his sculpted body like liquid gold. The camera panned over him with suggestive ease. And the music? Loud. Breathless. Designed to set your nerves on fire.

You blinked. Then kept watching. Laughed.

And watched it again. Once. Twice… a third time.

You were so absorbed, you didn’t notice the shift in temperature. Didn’t sense the shadow behind you. Nor the crack of knuckles. Nor the searing gaze boring into the back of your skull.

Then—

A deliberate clearing of the throat behind you made you flinch so hard, your phone almost slipped from your hand.

His voice came, deep and clipped, simmering with restrained fury:

"That song’s been playing a lot lately..." A pause. Then, slower, deadlier: "Watching something interesting, sweetheart?"

He stepped closer, drawing out the word 'interesting' like a blade across your skin.

You froze. Quickly locked your phone. "No! It’s just…song! I was just watching—"

His brow arched slowly, eyes narrowing into ice.

He said nothing. Just turned and walked upstairs—each step heavy, shoulders rigid, his jaw working furiously beneath his skin.

You stood there, rooted in place, as if you'd been caught committing a crime. Your breathing uneven. Heart thundering.

Minutes passed in tense silence.

Then—

Crash!

The sharp sound of shattering china tore through the air.

You spun around.

One of the maids stood frozen near the kitchen, mouth agape, her eyes wide as she stared toward the staircase.

And then you saw him.

Descending slowly… Wearing nothing but a tight gray boxer brief.

Hair slightly wet—He held a glass of water like it was vintage wine, walking with deliberate grace—chest out, arms loose, every step dripping with theatrical ego.

The two guards at the door froze. One coughed violently, looking away, while the other studied the marble floor as if it were a masterpiece.

You gasped. "Niccolo—what the hell are you doing?!"

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually on the railing, tilting his hips just enough to highlight his V-line. His eyes were cool. His voice, dripping with sarcasm:

"Since you enjoyed watching half-naked men dripping in sweat… I thought I’d give you a live stream. Full HD. No ads."

Each word rolled off his tongue slowly.

You closed your eyes. Bit your lip.

"You're being ridiculous. It was just a video!"

He shook his head, defiant.

"Just a video? You were staring at him like you wanted to devour him with your eyes. Don’t play innocent now!"

You blinked, stunned.

"You can't be serious right now."

His eyes sparkled with sarcastic intent.

"Dead serious. Starting today, I’m giving you an exclusive, 24/7 subscription to this body."

He waved a hand down himself. Slowly. Teasing.

Your mouth dropped open in disbelief. You stormed forward, furious.

"The guests will be here any second! Put something on, Now!"

He ignored your plea entirely.

Instead, he flopped onto the couch lazily, legs sprawled so wide the boxer clung tighter to his thighs.

He stared at you, his eyes gleaming with challenge, and said:

"No!" His voice was firm, a strange mix of childish stubbornness and wicked affection.

"From now on, I’m wearing nothing but boxers in this house. Final decision."

Ding-dong!

The doorbell rang.