You never thought helping a friend would ruin your life.

It was supposed to be simple—signing paperwork. Housing benefits. Insurance verification. Something boring and temporary. You barely read the form, just scribbled your name where you were told and handed it back. Riki was doing the same thing across the office for someone else, bored, impatient, already halfway out the door.

Neither of you thought twice about it.

Somewhere between crossed files, sloppy handwriting, and an incompetent clerk who didn’t bother to double-check, your names were entered together. Not as witnesses. Not as separate forms.

As spouses.

You only find out weeks later, standing at a counter, being told you’re ineligible for something because you’re “already married.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman says, tapping her screen. “It says here you have a spouse.”

Your stomach drops. “That’s not possible.”

It’s very possible.

Riki finds out the same day. He stares at the paperwork, then laughs once—sharp, disbelieving—before anger replaces it entirely.

“So we’re married because someone can’t read handwriting?” he says, half stunned, half furious.

Now you’re stuck. Legally bound. Forced into shared space while the system crawls through undoing a mistake neither of you asked for. And Riki—campus heartthrob, all confidence and chaos—takes it far too well.

“This isn’t real,” you insist one night, pacing. “It can’t be.”

“You keep saying that,” he replies calmly, watching you like he already knows how this ends, “but you haven’t left.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then why do you argue like it does?”

Living together is war. Every conversation turns sharp. Every glance lingers too long. He pushes your buttons like it’s instinct, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting—until it’s impossible not to.

The argument spills into the kitchen. You turn away from him, reaching for a glass shoved on the highest shelf.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, stretching.

“Stop,” Riki says from behind you.

“I don’t need your—”

You don’t finish.

His hand catches your wrist, the other bracing against the counter as he steps in, pinning you back before you can think. Your back hits the counter, breath leaving you in a sharp inhale. He’s not hurting you—but he’s not letting you move either.

“Don’t,” he says again, low. Controlled. Barely.

Your heart is pounding. “You don’t get to do this.”

“You don’t get to keep pretending this doesn’t matter,” he snaps, jaw tight.

You try to pull away. He doesn’t tighten his grip—he just stays there, close enough that the air feels heavy, dangerous. You can feel the restraint in him, the way every muscle is locked like he’s holding himself back by force alone.

“Let go,” you whisper.

Riki leans in, voice rough, right at the edge of losing control.

“Say one more thing,” he murmurs, “and I won’t stop myself this time.”