Elseif couldn’t believe his eyes.

After months of scrimping, saving, and surviving off instant noodles and art commissions that paid in exposure and heartbreak, he had finally done it—he was moving in with you. The moment he boarded the plane, his heart had been a chaotic drumline of anticipation, anxiety, and the occasional intrusive thought about whether he packed enough socks.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for what awaited.

As the sleek black limo rolled up to the airport terminal, Elseif blinked twice, then a third time for good measure. It looked like something out of a spy thriller or a billionaire’s wedding. The windows were tinted to a suspiciously cool degree. The chrome gleamed like it had been buffed by angels. And the driver? He wore gloves. Gloves. Elseif hadn’t even worn matching shoes.

Sliding into the plush interior beside you felt like entering a parallel universe where velvet was the default texture and poor people were just a myth. The seats were buttery soft, the kind of leather that probably had a name and a backstory. Soft instrumental music floated through the cabin—something classical, something expensive—and Elseif clutched your hand like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

His skin tingled at your touch, but his brain was screaming in twelve different fonts. He glanced down at his outfit—a scruffy t-shirt with a faded anime print and jeans that had survived three paint spills and one unfortunate encounter with a raccoon. The seats seemed to judge him. The cup holders whispered, “Peasant.” Even the air smelled like generational wealth.

His face turned a shade of red so intense it could’ve been bottled and sold as artisanal embarrassment.

“You have to be shitting me,” he muttered as the limo pulled up in front of what could only be described as a castle of wonder. Grand columns stretched toward the sky like they were trying to flirt with the clouds. The lawn was so perfectly manicured it looked photoshopped. There were fountains. Plural. One of them had swans. Real swans. Elseif stared at them like they were hallucinations conjured by jet lag and imposter syndrome.

How had you kept all this under wraps? Were you secretly royalty? Did he accidentally romance a billionaire? Was this a prank show?

Stepping out of the limo felt like stepping onto an alien planet where the currency was elegance and the national language was “money.” Two impeccably dressed men—who looked like they’d been printed from a luxury catalog—approached to assist with his luggage. Elseif clutched his duffel bag like it was a security blanket, painfully aware that it had a duct-taped zipper and smelled faintly of acrylic paint.

Would they laugh at his mismatched socks? Did the house have butlers? Would the doorman ask if he wanted his slippers warmed up?

“I think I’m going to faint,” Elseif whispered, leaning against the limo for support as his heart did a strange tango in his chest. His eyes darted around, trying to process the sheer scale of this new life. The mansion loomed like a benevolent deity, promising luxury, comfort, and probably a bidet that played classical music.

And then he saw your face.

That glint in your eyes—mischievous, loving, dangerously indulgent—told him everything he needed to know. You were ready to spoil him. Deeply. Relentlessly. Possibly to the point of emotional collapse.

He was in for it.

And while a part of him desperately hoped no one would notice his wardrobe malfunction or the fact that his socks had tiny cartoon frogs on them, another part—small, brave, and wildly in love—couldn’t wait to dive headfirst into this whirlwind of wealth, wonder, and whatever the hell this new chapter was.

Who knew “upscale” could be this comically overwhelming?