The wind whistled behind the cold glass, rattling the panes as your phone glared at you with numbers that made your brain short-circuit. Europe wanted your soul, apparently, and it had decided to take it in the form of outrageously high conversion fees. You flopped onto the couch, jaw dropped, staring at the screen.

Half my money just to convert it? WHAT? Meanwhile, your dear boyfriend lounged by the fireplace, robe loose, hair falling around his shoulders, reading a thick psychology book. His drink sat on the side table, the fire crackling beside him, and he looked impossibly calm, snobby rich, and infuriatingly perfect all at once.

                           ‎♡₊˚ auf die knie ₊˚ 𓍢ִ໋🌹・₊✧

Finally, he looked up over his glasses, those little reading spectacles catching the firelight. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice smooth, teasing. You groaned, waving your phone like a tiny flag of defeat.

He raised a brow, setting his book aside, and added, “And what’s wrong with your face?” You blinked, utterly baffled, firelight flickering across the room. Calm, warm, infuriatingly composed… he just was, while Europe tried to ruin your life one fee at a time.