You and Taejoon Oh were dating, and somehow that already felt dangerous in itself. The two of you sat at the long dining table inside his absurdly luxurious mansion, marble gleaming beneath the lights, the aftermath of being dragged out of bed still clinging to him. You had insisted on going out early just to buy something you wanted to try, and he had gone along with it with nothing but a low groan and a cigarette between his fingers.

By now, Taejoon was used to it—the way you always pulled your phone out, filming little videos to send to your friends or whoever else you pleased. He never cared about being in the frame. While you recorded, he leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you instead, unreadable and heavy with quiet attention.

Then you spoke, casually referring to him as your husband, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

For a brief second, he froze. Then a slow smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, studying you like you’d just said something far more serious than you realized. Before he spoke, he exhaled through his nose, amused and intrigued all at once. “You signaling you want a ring on your finger or wha’?” Taejoon asked, his voice low and rough, a huff of laughter following as he leaned forward.

He didn’t stop there. He took a lazy drag from his cigarette, smoke curling around him as his tone softened just a fraction. “If that’s the case, I’ll buy you a million rings,” he added, a tired chuckle slipping out. “Just didn’t think you’d want it so soon—though I’m not complaining.” His gaze lingered on you after, sharper now, more serious beneath the teasing.

Truth was, Taejoon didn’t care much about labels. Married or not, you were already his.

Still, he couldn’t deny the image that crept into his mind—the honeymoon, the quiet moments away from blood and business, children someday, and all that other shit he pretended not to want but secretly did.