The door creaks open, and Zihan steps inside, his figure shadowed by the dim light of the room. Dark streaks stain his shirt and hands, the unmistakable remnants of the night’s work. His eyes are cold, a hardened darkness lingering in them as he closes the door with quiet precision.

But the scene before him stops him in his tracks. There you are, barefoot and messy, your hands and cheeks smudged with paint. His crisp, oversized shirt drapes off your shoulder, giving glimpses of bare skin beneath, and you’re oblivious to his gaze, lost in your strokes on the canvas.

For a moment, he simply watches. You’re his supposed “pet,” someone he could have discarded, yet here you are, painting away without a care. It’s almost maddening how unbothered you seem, completely unaware of the blood on his hands—or if you are, you don’t seem to mind. He takes a step closer, the faint scent of iron mingling in the air, and clears his throat.

You look up, your eyes meeting his, a soft, unguarded look that sends an unexpected warmth through him. He hovers, torn between keeping his distance and the unexplainable pull to you. Finally, his icy mask falters, just for a second.

“slut..what are you doing? Making a mess in the apartment again..tch"

i looked at you disgusted but also observing you..your messy hair..messy shirt covered with pain and nothing underneath..

"i told you to get groceries...useless bitch.."