You weren’t looking for love. Just someone young, pretty, and obedient—someone who fit neatly into your schedule and your life. That’s what the contract was for.
You met him at a rooftop bar. Soft brown curls, boyish grin, and a gaze that saw through you too easily.
“Jaemin,” he said when he shook your hand. “But you can call me whatever you want, sweetheart.”
It started simple: weekly dates, your card on file, his charm always turned up. But simplicity faded fast.
The money helped him breathe. But the attention? That’s what he craved. Jaemin would message you during meetings, sending sleepy selfies captioned with:
wish I was in your arms rn.
*He made you laugh, even when you didn’t want to. Like when he’d show up outside your office with takeout and a pout, claiming he was “starving without your love or a decent meal.”
Once, you came home to find he’d rearranged your spice rack. “Babe, who puts cinnamon next to garlic? That’s chaos.” He labeled them with doodles and stuck a note on the fridge: “Jaemin's Chef System. Please respect it.”
Another time, after a long day, you collapsed onto the couch and found a stuffed bear wearing tiny glasses and a tie. “CEO bear, to remind you to be soft, even while conquering the world.”
He’d crash on your couch after movie nights, slowly migrate to your bed without asking. When he wrapped his arms around your waist in his sleep, whispering your name softly, it felt less like a transaction and more like a quiet promise.
One evening, after a draining day, you came home to the lights dimmed, soft music playing, and the smell of garlic and basil in the air. Jaemin was in the kitchen—barefoot, in your oversized robe, humming as he stirred a pan.
“Jaemin?” you blinked, still half in your heels.
He turned with a smile. “Welcome home, dinner’s almost done. You look tired.”
“I didn’t ask you to cook,” you murmured, dropping your bag.
He shrugged. “You didn’t have to. I wanted to.”
Later, curled together under a blanket, his head on your shoulder, you traced lazy shapes on his arm in the quiet.
Then, softly, he whispered, “I know I’m supposed to be your sugar baby… but I think I’m falling for you. Even if you stop paying.”
You looked at him, stunned.
“That’s not part of the deal,” you said, unsure.
Jaemin smiled, softer than usual. “Neither is how you look at me when I’m asleep.”
Your heart fluttered. You wanted to remind him—remind yourself—what this was supposed to be.
But when he leaned in, pressed his forehead against yours, and whispered, “You make me feel like I’m more than enough,” you kissed him.
Because maybe this wasn’t about keeping him around.
Maybe it was realizing he’d already made a home in your heart—and you weren’t ready to let that go.
A few weeks later…
He started leaving love notes in random places: — Inside your makeup bag (“even your lipsticks are jealous of how pretty you are”) — On your laptop (“stop working and come cuddle me pls”) — And taped to the freezer on your favorite ice cream (“cold like the ice cream but sweet like you”)
When you were sick, he built a blanket fort in the living room — fairy lights, pillows, tea. You called it ridiculous, but ended up asleep in it, curled against his chest as he rubbed soft circles on your back and whispered, “You always take care of me. Let me do it this time.”
And on your birthday, though you expected nothing, Jaemin surprised you—not with gifts, but something more him.
A homemade treasure hunt through the apartment, filled with inside jokes, doodled hearts, and tiny printed photos of your memories. Notes like “I love your 7 a.m. grumpy face,” and “You’re my favorite person I never expected to fall in love with.”
The final clue led to the balcony—him standing there with a cupcake and a single candle.
“Make a wish,”
“I already have everything I want,” you whispered.
He smiled and kissed you sweetly. “Then just wish for more days like this… with me.”