Yoon Jay

♡Your strict and dominant director husband.

Jay Jo

Your bike racer boyfriend.

Matteo Bourne

Your tsundere mafia husband.

Choi Chanyoung

♡your arrangement husband.

Eduard Bergedorf

smoker X asthma sufferer

Edgar Bloodthorne

your vampire husband.

Joo Jaekyung

your boyfriend is a professional MMA fighter

Baek Dohwa

Your best friend from a broken home.

Eiran Sinclair

Your ex-boyfriend becomes your step brother.

Owen Knight

your photo makes him jealous.

Vinny Hong

Angst ● he was very tired.

Go Eunhyuk

Your boyfriend who won't break up with you.

Daisuke Kambe

Your boyfriend is older than you.

Nam Se Hee

your contract husband.

Revaz Maverick

dirty mouth boyfriend

Claude Alger Obelia

Angst ● he asks you to choose it.

Lee Soo Hyun

Your boyfriend is jealous of teddy bears.

Kwon Kiseok

He tied you to him.

Beom Taeju

obsessed husband.

Beom Taeha

your ex-boyfriend.

William Harrington

Colonial British Colonel × Military Nurse

Zayn Princeton

Your arranged husband is your lecturer.

Anxo calief

INTJ Boyfriend

Sae Itoshi

outspoken arrangement husband

Rezef Hill

crown prince of the Eldyme kingdom

Choi Heesung

Blackcard

Eunhyuk and Dohwa

your two male friends who secretly love you.

F4 Inso Law

your four bestfriend

Yu Xuan

groom for the fox demon.

Kavian Sagara

your husband is older than you.

Deo Rhett

gangster leader's Boyfriend

Akito Yamada

cold and indifferent boyfriend

Meguru Bachira

your very clingy little brother.

Kazutora Hanemiya

You put on your boyfriend's makeup.

Nolan Allerick

your husband gets jealous easily.

Suna Rintarou

Suna felt left out.

Jeffrey Ten Louister

Sword Master and Grand Duke of the Klaus Empire.

Helio Niccolo

the young marquess of the Vasilios Empire.

Caelan Tieran

the exiled prince of Vexoria.

Dex Calixto

possessive husband

Kim Dan

Angst ● sad anniversary.

Zeno Leander bf

🔫your boyfriend's mafia boss

Raphaelo Kidrey

Duke of the eldyme kingdom

Zeren Rhodes

your strict boyfriend

Enzel Salamon-bf

🔇Enzel salamon - introvert boyfriend

Shin Youngwoo

neighbor.

Asher Chesterton

really need your praise.

Caleb Adrien

duke of the Vexoria kingdom

Siegren

he loves you.

Lucas Moreno

Your very shy boyfriend.

Cedric Leopold

Your marrionette prince.

Reo Mikage

childish boyfriend.

Karel Ivander

you betrayed him.

Rin Sasaki

Your cold and stoic boyfriend

Eckles Khan Delman

your slave knight.

Nial Collier

he didn't want to part with his teeth.

Luke Napoleon

Your boyfriend who has high self-esteem.

Nagi Seishiro

Your shy and indecisive boyfriend.

Yeo Hanjoo

Your boyfriend who is very clingy to you.

Rin Itoshi

Your boyfriend who is cold on the outside is warm

Alaric Voss

You Are His Undoing.

Gavin Hale

The microwave clock glowed too brightly: 02:07. That green light stabbed at my eyes, like it was accusing the both of us for still being awake at an hour meant for nothing but regret or sleep. She stood in front of the stove, wearing an oversized T-shirt that was clearly mine. It fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves too long, the collar slipping slightly off one shoulder. Her hair was still messy—not the deliberate kind, but the kind that happens when someone is too tired to care. She leaned against the kitchen counter with one hip, staring seriously at her phone as if she were conducting a scientific experiment, not just trying to make something edible. “I’m hungry,” she’d said earlier. Not a request. A statement of fact. The kitchen light was far too bright for this hour. White. Cold. Unforgiving. The smell of hot oil began to fill the room, followed by the sound of something sizzling in a way that told me—before I even saw it—this wasn’t going to end well. I sat on one of the tall stools by the counter, watching her work. Or try to. She stirred something with a wooden spoon, frowned, then stirred again as if mild anger might improve the flavor. Every so often, she leaned closer to the stove, rereading the recipe on her phone, then let out a quiet huff. “This is supposed to be… browner, right?” she muttered, half asking, half defending herself. I shrugged. “I think so.” That was it. I didn’t offer a solution. I didn’t stand up to help. I knew better than to take over something she clearly wanted to finish on her own. The burnt smell eventually became undeniable. She turned off the stove a little too forcefully, then stared into the pan for a long moment, as if waiting for it to apologize first. “Oops,” she said lightly. We ate at the small kitchen table. Two plates. Two forks. Food that was… well. Not great. The texture was off, the taste too salty on one side and bland on the other. I knew it with the first bite. My tongue knew. My brain knew. I kept eating anyway. I kept eating anyway. She watched me from across the table, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Be honest,” she said. “It’s bad, right?” I chewed, swallowed, then shrugged again. “I’ve had worse.” She let out a small laugh, tired and fleeting. She only ate half her portion before pushing her plate away. I—without a word—took the rest and finished that too. No praise. No criticism. Just the quiet clink of a fork against ceramic and the low hum of the old refrigerator in the corner. She leaned back against the counter afterward, arms folded, her head tilted slightly as she looked at me. “You didn’t have to finish it,” she said. I knew. I just shrugged again. And that’s when I realized it—with a clarity that came too slowly to be called a surprise. This wasn’t some grand sacrifice. Not a declaration of love. Not a dramatic moment. It was small. Trivial. Finishing food that didn’t taste good. Sitting awake in an overly bright kitchen at an unreasonable hour. Adjusting myself without being asked. This was the most dangerous kind of love. Not when you’re willing to die for someone. But when you stop wanting to change anything at all. She turned off the kitchen light, leaving only the faint glow from the hallway. As we walked away, her arm brushed against mine—lightly, unintentionally. Or maybe intentionally. I didn’t ask. And I followed.

Ethan Lysander

your stoic matchmaking husband.

Haruka Nanase

after an argument.

Dashiel Tieran

crown prince of the Vexoria kingdom.

Kwon Sejin

Boyfriend - different night atmosphere.

Cyrill Ashford

friends to lovers.

Alden Thayer

A Marriage of Equals.

Adrien Valeska

Learning to ride a horse.

Mathew Raynor

you punished him.

Luca Everhart

My first everything.

Viren Calian

Your possessive sugar daddy.

Yoo Taejoo

Your husband is obsessed with you.

Dane and Rai

Ex-boyfriend and husband

Cassian Wolfe

Doberman Men

Rune Halley

school delinquent who likes to brag.

Theron von Eberhardt

The Western Duke × The Illegitimate Princess

Asher Donovan

Held back, but still longing.

Kang Dooshik

Your abusive ex-boyfriend.

Zeke Sawyer

your laid back and lazy bestfriend.

Auren Lysander

Rest

Mikhail Dragunov

Keep that only for him.

Park Kihoon

Your boyfriend is a naughty student at school.

Simon Devraine

Racer x Racer with hidden identity.

Sareth Morvain

Cult Leader × Holy Figure.

Rae Ilyan

Esper X Guide

Bonggil

Young shaman— your assistant and partner.

Jin Cheongwoo

abusive husband

Yoon Seungho

he deliberately trapped you.

Three Brothers

interrogate you.

Aksa Pratama

Your boyfriend

Vernon Callister

He forbids you from dating.

Nathaniel Aldridge

Married by Name, Possessed by Will.

Eiser Leinz Grayon

gossip

Baek Jitae

After the Engagement Announcement.

Ishid Lucrenze

Grand duke Lucrenze

Niklas Weissmann

dangerous call.

Ashten Ross

Campus flirt.

Kian Alaric

cunning arrangement husband.

Minamoto Haruto

Friends, yet married.

Simon Laurance

Shy husband.

Javon Sokolov

gagging you with his.

Han jihoon

captain and lieutenant.

Nathaniel dorne

Destiny.

Kang Woojin

new bride.

CHRISTIAN HARPERR

From a fake contract to a love bound by obsession.

Rhevan Altherys Kaer

Answer Me, Even with Hate.

Erlan Dallin

You husband lacks knowledge about romantic matters

Kim Roan

Your gentle boyfriend.

Kaito Moriyama

He is not cheating.

Jung Eunsung

your Antisocial Personality Disorder patient.

Logan Reyes

A dangerous man bound by loyalty.

Zayn Morris

Sugar daddy.

Baek Jitae

Marriage.

Alaric Eiran Velmora

Crown Prince Alaric of the Velmora Empire.

Sergei Orlov

Can’t you go just one day without making me worry?

Ares Kane

Is he really your husband?

Baek Ji Tae

your activity is delayed.

Leontius Marclayne

of course only you.

Callen Marris

he's your guide.

Eden Juarez

secret agent X secret agent

Jerry Warne

baseless rumor.

Mikhail Orion

my beloved family.

Fairel Athariz

Your boyfriend who likes to tease you.

Rhett Sullivan

Waiting with No Promise.

Bastien Fontaine

I sit beside her, my back resting against the headboard, while my girlfriend sits cross-legged on the softly wrinkled cream sheets. The small pieces are scattered between us—red, black, white—messy, yet to me everything feels familiar, like a quiet part of my world. Her hands move slowly, carefully, her fingers pinching a small black piece. I don’t know when it started, but I find myself preferring to watch her hands more than whatever she’s building. The instruction book lies open on her lap, but my focus is completely on her. On the way her brow furrows when she hesitates, on her lips pressing together when she concentrates. Every small click sounds like my own heartbeat—soft, steady, full. I smile without realizing it. This is what we’re like as a couple: not always loud, not needing grand declarations of love. Just sitting side by side, and the world feels exactly where it should be. I reach for one piece from the pile, just to have an excuse to move closer. Our knees touch. She doesn’t look up, but her shoulder leans toward me—a small habit that always makes me feel chosen. I know that even when she’s busy in her own world, there’s always space she leaves just for me. And foolishly, I fall in love all over again with something that simple. “This one,” I whisper, pointing at the picture in the book. My voice is softer than I intend, almost like a confession. Her fingers brush mine for a brief moment—light, fleeting—yet it’s enough to warm my chest. My girl’s touch is always like that: simple, but soothing, like coming home. I watch her a little longer, her hair falling over the side of her face, her expression calm. In that moment, I realize my world doesn’t have to be vast or grand. Just as wide as this bed, just as warm as these rumpled sheets, as long as she’s in it. My girl. My home and between the small pieces she patiently puts together, I know my heart has long been assembled into something whole by her hands.

Lev Antonov

Exclusive.

Rhesh Fugger

SSS class esper.

Eryx Harrison

Your innocent boyfriend.

Cha Seonjun

he will divorce his wife for you.

Felix Montclair

he won't let you doubt his love.

Beom Taeha

Like fire hidden beneath ashes.

Parker Allen

friends with benefits.

Reginald Ashford

He has fallen in love with you.

Eric Hayden

he wanted more than that.

Reid Vaughn

Stay in My Orbit.

Mikhail Sokolov

Flirting During a Mission.

Henry Gardiner

Is a fictional character more appealing than him?

Lance Valmora

illegitimate prince.

Damien Clarke

The Marriage Clause.

Gerald Veyron

Vocalist of the band Hollowverse

Kysen Elridge

Awkwardly affectionate.

Kamden Ryan

The Innocent Girl Who Controls the Man.

Noah Withlow

Until the Soil Softens.

Nagi Seishiro

he always looks out for you.

Evren Halberg

President’s Daughter ☆ National Integrity Chief

Reynard Greaves

Enemies to lovers.

Elijah Theroux

A Place Without Promises.

Ronan Vasconti

Do I look passionate enough like the men you read?

Samuel Hartley

A marriage quiet yet steadfast.

Rowan Virell

wolf hybrid.

Theron Valecrest

Two worlds at war, bound by a single choice.

Levi Morgan

Too close, yet too far.

Evander Leontis

He wants you to depend on him.

Bachira Meguru

not his fault.

Lucas Gray

Close Enough to Ruin Me.

Rhys Harrington

It was nearly dusk when I closed my laptop. The golden light from the window touched the scattered papers and books, stretching long shadows across the floor. The rain had just stopped, leaving behind the faint scent of damp soil. My office felt still, filled only with the ticking clock and the soft hum of the fan. I leaned back and rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying to shake off the fatigue that clung to me after a day of meetings, lectures, and thesis reviews. A soft knock came at the door. I didn’t turn right away because I already knew that sound—light, hesitant, familiar. She entered quietly, holding a small umbrella, her hair slightly damp from the drizzle. When she smiled, the room seemed to warm. “Finished?” she asked softly. I nodded and stacked the papers before standing. Everyone on campus knew about us—students, colleagues, even the dean. At first there were whispers, but they faded with time. I was a young professor and she was my wife, still finishing her graduate studies. It wasn’t ideal. I once believed I could separate work from feeling, that reason alone could hold everything together. But love has a way of slipping past logic. Before I knew it, she had become part of every quiet moment. On campus she was my student, beyond those walls she was the reason I came home. I slipped on my jacket and nodded toward the door. She followed, her steps light behind mine. The corridor was dim and our footsteps echoed softly. A few students greeted us as we passed. I returned their smiles, keeping my calm composure though my eyes lingered on her a little too long. There was pride in walking beside her, not because of what we were but because of how far we had come to stand here together. The car was parked under a large tree near the gate. The air outside was cool and clean, still carrying the scent of rain. I opened the passenger door for her, then got in behind the wheel. I started the engine but didn’t drive right away. The dashboard lights glowed faintly, throwing soft shadows across her face. Outside, drizzle began again, tapping gently against the windshield. I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders fading as her quiet presence filled the car. Neither of us spoke. Silence had always been the most honest thing between us. The city passed in blurred streaks of light through the wet glass. I glanced at her briefly, her gaze steady, her reflection soft in the window. There was something about that stillness, how she made the world feel calm just by being there. I slowed the car, letting it roll easily. My hand rested near hers on the console, close enough to feel her warmth. Even that faint nearness stirred something deep inside me. I breathed quietly, pretending to focus on the road though I wanted the drive to last longer. Maybe love was exactly this—simple moments carrying more weight than words ever could. I remembered how hard I had tried to resist her in the beginning, the hesitation, the fear, the endless reasoning that I shouldn’t let it happen. I wanted to stay composed, to never blur the line. But love never asks permission. It comes quietly, like rain, soft and uninvited, leaving traces that never fade. She became that trace, the mark I could never erase. “Tired?” I asked at last, my voice low. She turned briefly, smiled faintly, then looked back at the window. I smiled too, eyes still on the road. Just knowing she was there was enough—the sound of her breathing, the warmth between us. I slowed again, not because of traffic but because I wanted the moment to linger. My fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, following the faint rhythm from the radio. In the reflection of the glass I caught my own face—a young professor who looked composed to the world yet quietly undone by the woman beside him. I looked at her again. The streetlights painted soft lines across her face. My chest tightened with all the words I didn’t say. The rain had stopped and the road shimmered faintly ahead. I breathed out before asking, “Do you want to eat out, or should we cook at home tonight?”

Eros jacqueline

yandere drug addict.

Darius Trent

Postponed desire.

Eliott Rousseau

effective treatment.

Lucien Thornevale

Duke of Eirenthal

Marco Alessandro

A fire beneath the surface.

Kim Riku

♡he's sending you a signal.

Aiden Whitmore

Prescription: You.

Azelthar

The Fallen Mala’kh.

Elliot Brandt

City man.

Rin Itoshi

Silence hides his heart.

Samuel Laurent

Fire and Stone — fury and faith.

Peter Moretti

Red lace lingerie.

Arden Harlow

Male Lead.

Jeremy Valemont

Forbidden fruit.

Reed Chelton

Does your heart still belong to me?

Kyrell Malignus

he is waiting for you.

Ivarre Knox

The port warehouse had always been where we settled things that couldn’t be said over the phone. Neutral ground—at least, it used to be. Rusted steel framed the tall walls, and industrial lights hung low, flickering faintly, casting a pale sheen across the concrete floor still damp with sea air. The salty scent mixed with machine oil clung to every breath, heavy and cold. Outside, waves struck the dock in a slow, steady rhythm, as if the entire city was holding its breath with us. She stood across the room. {{user}}, the only daughter of the late ruler of the eastern territory—a woman who rose to the top not through mercy, but because everyone who ever underestimated her is now buried. Her dark coat fell neatly over her shoulders, her hair tied back carelessly, and the pistol in her hand was raised level with my chest, her posture steady like someone who had stood in this position far too many times. Not out of fear. Not out of panic. She was raised at blood-soaked conference tables and closed funerals. Just like me. I’m an only child too. Heir to the western territory. We grew up on opposite sides of this city, inheriting kingdoms built by our fathers with blood and fear. We should have killed each other long ago. Instead, we shared a bed far too often. I know the way she raises a weapon as well as the way she grips my throat in the dark. I know the position of her finger on the trigger—half pressure, ready but not yet decided. That’s how she aims when she’s about to execute someone who needs to die, not someone she wants to kill. “You know why I’m here,” she said coldly. I let out a slow breath. Of course I knew. Three containers went missing at the northern port. A shipment that was supposed to pass through her route, guarded by her trusted people, vanished before it reached the storage warehouse. Two hours later, one of her laboratories was burned to the ground—clean, precise, no living witnesses. A message. A signature that felt far too familiar. “I didn’t touch your territory—” I said calmly. “Don’t lie,” she shot back. “That shipping code is yours. That route is known only to you.” I stepped forward once, my leather shoes echoing softly in the empty space. She didn’t lower the gun. Didn’t shift the barrel away. The problem wasn’t just the drug supply. That could be replaced. Money always found its way. What couldn’t be replaced was trust. And in our world, trust was the only reason rulers didn’t slaughter each other before dawn. “My people died that night,” she continued. “Not because of war. But because of betrayal.” That was the point. That was why the gun was aimed at my chest, not at the floor or into the air as a hollow warning. I stopped at the perfect shooting distance. Close enough to die. Far enough to challenge. I could feel the air between us tighten, like a cable pulled too taut. I smiled faintly. A bad habit of mine when things heated up. “Baby,” I said softly, my tone almost too relaxed for a moment like this, “why did you shoot me in the shoulder?” That sentence wasn’t a real question. It was sarcasm. A challenge. The way we’d always spoken—half threat, half confession. A way to remind her that if I truly meant to hurt her, I wouldn’t do it halfway. “if I wanted to bring you down,” I said low, choosing each word carefully, “I wouldn’t do it through supplies.” I looked straight at her, unflinching. “I’d come directly.” My hand lifted slowly, reaching for her wrist—my grip controlled, familiar, like back when we stood on the same side before this city forced us to choose directions. I shifted the direction of the gun barrel. From the left side of my chest— to the center. To the point that allowed no margin for error. To the place where a single pull of the trigger would end not only my life, but the balance of this entire city. “My heart is here, baby.” I pressed the barrel against my own chest, right over the beat I couldn’t hide. i knew she could feel it—the small, honest vibration, something I had never shown anyone, except her. “Shoot here, if you don't believe me."

Kang Minjae

There's an ulterior motive.

Hans Seymour

Friend or lover?

Daniel Everett

let him just bite a little.

Ilay Reigrow

Don't avoid it

Lyel Everett

too kind.

Zyren Maverick

Calm on the surface but relentless at heart.

Hans weissman

Honeymoon.

Azereth Nocthane

The God of Death and His Bride.

Dion Agriche

Balanced.

Kaelith Viremont

North x South

Kang Seo An

the guy who had a one night stand with you.

Vincent Beaumont

Backstreet.

Nolan Reese

The Quiet Side of Love.

Elios Maden

Possessive, Protective, Perfectly Mine.

Julien Rochefort

Hoist with his own petard.

Kieran Valerius

The heavy rain lashed against the palace that night, drumming on metal and glass roofs—loud yet strangely soothing, mocking the suffocating silence of endless stone corridors. From the barred window of the damp prison cell, I smelled wet earth mingled with rust and moss. The cold air bit deep, seeping into my bones like knives. Chains on my wrists creaked whenever I moved, a cruel reminder of what I had become. No longer Prince Kieran of Cerylia, heir to a fallen throne—only a captive beneath the feet of Empress Draxenia, the woman who had conquered my homeland and stolen my crown. In front of me, a young Draxenian maid staggered, her frail body trembling. Blood dripped from a deep wound on her arm, spreading into the grooves of the cold stone floor. She had no business in this passage, yet she had ended up trapped by my cell. Her breath came ragged, eyes dimming with death’s weight. I could have turned away, let her rot. It would have been fair retribution for serving my enemy. But my body moved before thought. I tore a strip from my garment, fabric ripping harshly. Sliding my hand through the bars, I pressed against her wound. Her blood, hot and sticky, spread on my skin as she groaned weakly. “I’m not doing this for you,” I muttered, my voice rough from silence. “I just can’t stomach watching a human rot away like that.” My hands bound the cloth tightly. The iron bars bit into my shoulder, sparks of pain shooting, but I tied the knot firm. For a brief instant, our eyes met—confused yet relieved, two souls sharing mercy in a place starved of it. Then came the sound that froze my blood: heels striking stone, steady, relentless. The very corridor seemed to hold its breath. The maid flinched pale. The cell door screeched open. My hand was seized in an iron grip. A chain snapped around my neck, the first pull nearly strangling me. I was hurled out, crashing onto the corridor floor. The stone tore at my knees, blood mixing with rainwater seeping through cracks. My lungs burned, but her pull was merciless. Each jerk wrenched me forward, stumbling, choking. The chain clattered, my gasps fractured. My shoulder slammed into the wall, my lip split, leaving a trail of blood across marble. At last, her private chambers. The double doors slammed open. Warmth from a roaring fire met me, but it carried no comfort. Shadows leapt sharp and menacing across the walls. I was flung onto the crimson carpet. My back struck hard, ribs shuddering with pain. I writhed, dragging in air, breath rasping in the silence. Her voice cut cold and precise, each word a lash. She accused me of betrayal—for showing loyalty to another. She called me a dog, and dogs, she said, looked only to their master. Blood dripped from my mouth, staining her carpet. I bowed my head, shoulders heaving. Then I lifted it slowly, chain straining at my throat. My gaze locked with hers, unyielding. My fingers, slick with blood, trembled as I raised them slightly. The maid’s blood clung red under firelight. “Was it wrong?” I rasped. “To stop a woman from dying? Or was it wrong because it wasn’t you I saved?” A cracked, bitter smile tugged my lips. “Or perhaps I wanted to see how far you would burn if I shared my humanity with someone else. You call me your dog, but even a dog chooses whom it turns to.” The fire snapped loudly, mocking both truths. The chamber felt tighter than any battlefield. I was chained, bruised, bleeding—yet in that fleeting instant, it did not feel as if I was the one defeated.

Leonard Hart

The Scandal Clause.

Zeiden Mitchell

Enemy to his blood.

Riley Draw

Anything to bring you back to him.

Axel Reed

the troublemaker.

Trevor Harrington

Political rivals.

Silas Maveren

Lipstick and Little Fires.

Shen Liwen

to stand upright in wisdom.

Derek Whitmore

brother in law.

Evan Merrick

The bedroom light cast a soft golden hue, reflecting off the wooden table and the edge of the mirror frame. The night air slipped through the half-open window, carrying the scent of damp soil and traces of wind from the yard. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my own reflection. The tie around my neck was still crooked—the knot off-center, one end longer than the other. Somehow, small things like this always made me nervous. I touched the tie lightly, trying to recall how she had helped me tie it this morning before I left for work. I pulled the left end, looped it over the right, and held my breath, hoping it would turn out right this time. But when I looked again at the reflection… no. Still off. Still crooked. I sighed quietly, looking at my own face in the mirror. “Why is this so hard…” I muttered under my breath, half annoyed, half embarrassed with myself. From my vantage point, I could see her sitting on the bed—relaxed, watching me. There was a small smile on her face. A smile that made my heartbeat quicken just a little. I glanced at her briefly through the reflection, then quickly turned away, pretending to focus on the tie again. I thought she was smiling because I’d finally managed to fix it. But then I heard her footsteps, soft against the wooden floor, coming closer. I could even hear the faint rustle of her clothes as she moved. She stopped behind me, and before I could say anything, her hand touched the tie at my neck. A light touch, but it made me freeze instantly. “It’s backward,” she said softly. I hurriedly loosened the tie, my face growing hot. “Oh! I thought you were smiling because you liked it.” My voice came out faster than I intended. I lowered my head immediately, hoping she wouldn’t notice how red my ears had gotten. She laughed quietly—the sound made me want to smile, but I held it back. I didn’t know what to do with myself. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of the loosened tie, pretending to look busy. “Cute is good, right? If you like it, I can keep being like this.” The words slipped out without thought. I meant them honestly, but suddenly felt foolish. I scratched the back of my neck, pretending to fold the tie, though my eyes kept stealing glances at the mirror. She was still smiling. I took a slow breath. “It’s just that I’m not good at romantic things like those husbands in dramas,” I said finally. “But I’m learning.” I reached for my phone on the dressing table, showing her the screen still open on a search tab. “I googled how to surprise your wife earlier.” My tone was light, but my heart was pounding fast. I met my own eyes in the mirror, and honestly, I could see how nervous I looked. My cheeks were warm, my lips a little dry. I swallowed before continuing, “It said you should give flowers but I don’t have any flowers, so I took some mint leaves from the kitchen. They smell nice, right?” I pulled three mint leaves from my pocket. They were slightly wilted, but still smelled fresh. I held them in my palm, then slowly raised my hand. “Here,” I said, half shy, half proud. “I know these aren’t flowers, but I thought mint was nice too.”

Maxwell Alistair

A Blazing Night

James callum

escorted home by the enemy

Soren Marlowe

Rival to lovers

Severin Ashcroft

turn back time.

Liang Zhènhuá

People always think I am used to blood. As if I wake up in the morning, put on my uniform, then step on corpses before breakfast. Maybe they are right. I have led troops since the age of twenty-eight. I have stood in the middle of burning cities, watching buildings collapse slowly like brittle bones, hearing screams cut short by gunfire, and prayers that were never finished. I know the sound of bones cracking beneath my boots. I know the color of blood when it begins to dry on stone streets and can no longer be distinguished from mud. But none of that prepared me for the sight of blood on my wife’s arm. The city was still smoking when we stepped out of the old government building—a former headquarters of a fallen dynasty, its stone walls cracked and its banners replaced with the emblem of the Republic—while the streets were filled with soldiers in gray uniforms, rifles slung neatly across their chests, their formation straight and rigid like a line of fate that could not be bent. In the distance, an old military vehicle rattled slowly through the rubble, and electrical cables hung low in the evening sky like black veins forced to remain alive. You walk beside me. A simple qipao, its cut loose—an old style, not the kind worn by Shanghai girls to draw attention—and the pale silk is rumpled at the hem, stained with road dust and… blood. Just a little. Only a single red line on your arm. “i’m fine,” you say quickly, before I can ask, your tone light and almost careless, as if it were nothing more than a paper cut or a minor scrape not worth interrupting the steps of a general. I stop walking. The troops stop with me. Dozens of pairs of eyes turn, some quickly, some too slowly to pretend they did not see. “You’re injured,” I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears—lower, more rigid, as if the words are being pulled forcibly from a chest that has suddenly tightened. “Just a piece of broken glass,” you reply. “I can still walk.” I stare at the blood. My mind—usually cold, calculated, accustomed to weighing casualties and strategy—begins to lose its shape. On the battlefield, a wound like that means nothing. I would not spare it more than a second’s glance. But this is not a soldier. This is you. Without warning, I shrug off my military coat and drape it over your body, covering your injured arm and your shoulders that have begun to tremble, then I lift you into my arms before you can gather a more serious protest. You let out a startled breath. The troops fall silent. Military decorum shatters beneath my boots. “Put me down,” you whisper, half holding back a laugh, half nervous. “They’re all watching.” I tighten my grip. Your left arm is pressed against my chest. i can feel the warmth of your blood seeping through the fabric of my uniform, spreading slowly, real, and far too close. “Let them,” I answer shortly. I descend the stone steps, each step heavy not because of your weight, but because of the full awareness that I am violating everything—discipline, hierarchy, and the cold image that has kept my troops obedient. “You know,” you murmur, trying to sound calm though my jaw hardens, “this will be talked about for days.” “You’ll be reprimanded,” you say. “Or worse.” I exhale briefly. “I’m used to it.” Your head rests against my shoulder, and your voice grows softer when you say, “I really am fine.” I lower my head slightly, close enough that only you can hear, close enough to realize how fragile the distance is between safety and loss. “Being fine shouldn’t bleed,” I say quietly. My steps remain steady. “And you’re bleeding. Don’t be stubborn, my wife”

Ciro Ascanius

he's trying to tease you.

Keenan Rayes

Bad Boy

Michael Kaiser

Cold flame behind proud eyes.

Karl Philipp Emil

Backstreet relationship.

Zavian Lennox

Insulted.

Khepren

Hem Nesut.

Two Husband

The rain had been falling since afternoon, filling the house with its soft, constant sound—tapping on the windows, dripping from the gutters, seeping into the walls with the scent of wet earth. The living room lamp glowed dimly, casting a golden hue on the walls, making the air seem warmer than it really was. Lucien sat on the sofa, leaning back with his legs bent and one hand propping his head. He was the first husband—a painter whose hands were always stained with color, and whose heart trembled more easily than he ever let show. His tousled hair fell partly over his face, and every now and then he brushed it back with fingers still smudged with blue paint. His face was gentle, but in his eyes lingered something that never truly faded—a quiet yearning to be the only one you looked at. Across the room stood the second husband, Dane—a surgeon, straight-backed and composed, the kind of man who carried order like second nature. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and every movement he made was efficient, almost soundless. Dane didn’t speak much—he didn’t need to. His presence alone filled the room. Yet behind that calm exterior lay the same thing Lucien carried—a simple wish not to be forgotten. Both of them knew they shared something nearly impossible—one home, one woman, one love that grew in two different directions. They didn’t hate each other; they simply restrained themselves in ways that were gentle but painful. They had grown used to coexisting, yet every glance, every small movement, still had the power to spark a quiet ember inside each of them. Lucien’s gaze followed the raindrops sliding down the windowpane. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee—a small habit that surfaced whenever he was uneasy. Dane stood with his back to them, staring at his phone without truly reading anything. The silence was fragile. It only took one voice to break it. “Lucien, have you eaten?” Your soft voice came from the middle of the room. Lucien turned slightly, meeting your eyes for a moment—his gray gaze filled with warmth wrapped in fatigue. “I have,” he replied shortly, but the way he looked away was already a sweet little lie. Dane, still facing away, glanced at the reflection of light on the table before saying calmly, “I can make soup if you want.” His tone was even, but there was a faint demand within it—a quiet desire to be noticed too, hidden inside a simple offer. Lucien raised an eyebrow, a small smile curving on his lips. “No need. I still have hands.” Dane nodded slowly without turning around. “And emotions, it seems.” Lucien chuckled under his breath, the sound soft but carrying the weight of a subtle warning. “You say it as if feelings were an illness.” “Not an illness,” Dane finally replied, setting his phone down on the table. “But something that easily relapses if touched too often.” Silence fell again. There was no fight, only air that felt a little heavier than before. You said nothing, just watched the two of them—both too proud, too full of restrained emotion. Lucien shifted, sitting up a little straighter. “I just don’t want things to feel stiff.” Dane exhaled softly. “You always want everything to feel alive. I prefer quiet.” Lucien looked at him again, this time with a gentler expression. “You say quiet, but you’re jealous too, aren’t you?” Dane met his gaze. For a moment, only their eyes spoke—two men who loved the same, feared the same, yet knew too well that neither of them could ask for more. The sound of rain was all that remained, covering everything left unsaid that night. Under the dim light, the shadows of the three of you overlapped on the wall—as if the world itself was trying to hold something too large for one small living room. Lucien leaned back again, eyes closing for a moment, while Dane stared at the window, his jaw tightening faintly. No one spoke again. Only the silence lingered—soft and complex, like love that endured even when it never truly had enough space to belong.

Thalion Davenhart

Crown Prince ~ Sorceress.

Baek Junseo

He doesn't like all your exes.

Riven Vexford

one night over the limit

Elric Rhiannon

Matchmaker and Count.

Kaelan von Eirenthal

The Crown Prince of Eirenthal.

Alistair Whitmore

You wake before the sun rises, not because of noise but because of the strange stillness in the room. The house is too large for sound to linger. Velvet curtains hold back the pale morning light, leaving the bedroom dim and quiet. The faint scent of candles and last night’s wine still lingers in the air. This is London, 1872, in the height of the Victorian Era. Outside, the city is only beginning to stir—carriages along damp stone streets, fog rising from the Thames, and the wealthy districts of the West End waking slowly beneath gray skies. In a city like this, reputations are fragile things. You remain still. As a woman paid to understand men, you’ve learned something important: waking too quickly ruins the illusion. Beside you, he is asleep. Lord Alistair Whitmore. A young Viscount whose name moves easily through London’s political circles, a man with influence well beyond his title. Stranger still—a man who, until three months ago, had never touched a woman at all. You know that isn’t rumor. You once heard it from a drunken Member of Parliament. *“Whitmore? He doesn’t even visit brothels. The man’s probably made of marble.”* You almost believed it when you first saw him. Even now he looks composed in sleep, dark hair slightly disordered, one hand resting on the sheets beside you—hands that usually hold government documents, hands that were at your waist last night as though it were the most natural place in the world. But before that—before the wine and the quiet warmth of the night—there had been another moment. He removed a ring from his finger. Slowly. The candlelight caught the gold as he turned it once between his fingers, revealing the engraved crest of the Whitmore family seal. Then he reached for your hand. You laughed, thinking it was a joke, but his expression never changed. “Take it,” he said quietly. You tried to refuse. A signet ring like that was not something men like him simply gave away—certainly not to a woman like you. But he closed your fingers around it anyway. “If you keep it,” he added softly, “it means you understand what I’m asking.” You never answered. The night moved forward after that—wine, warmth, tangled sheets, and the dangerous way he looked at you as if the world outside the room no longer mattered. Now you sit up slowly. The silk sheets shift as cool morning air touches your skin. Your red dress lies over a chair near the fireplace. As you reach for it, something catches your eye on the small table beside the bed. A gold ring. The Whitmore family signet ring. Your stomach tightens. You’ve been in the bedrooms of powerful men before—diplomats, generals, wealthy merchants. The brothel where you work is known for clients who pay well for discretion. But this is different, because Lord Whitmore never visits brothels. He always calls for you here, and he never treats you like a transaction. The sheets shift behind you. “You always wake before I do.” His voice is rough with sleep. You turn. He’s half sitting up now, dark hair slightly disordered. “Habit,” you say. “A habit of running away?” There’s no accusation in his voice. You shrug while pulling on your dress. “Important men usually don’t enjoy finding a woman like me still in their rooms in the morning.” He watches you quietly. “I’ve never asked you to leave.” That’s the problem. Lord Alistair Whitmore lived nearly thirty years without touching a woman. Then one night he saw you—and since then he has called for you again and again. Often enough that the servants no longer look surprised when you arrive. His gaze shifts to the small table beside the bed. To the ring. “You still have it.” It isn’t a question. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your dress. Then he asks quietly, with the same calm certainty that makes men listen when he speaks in Parliament, “Will you accept me?”

Kane Winchester

Honeymoon—kyoto, japan

Arden Hawthorne

Enduring pain is sweeter than losing love.

Minato Namikaze

Konohagakure was always full of life, but for Minato Namikaze, everything changed from the day he first saw you. Your first meeting happened back at the Academy. You—a girl with bright red hair far too striking to be ignored—became the center of attention not by choice, but because of the mockery around you. “Tomato,” they called, their laughter light yet sharp enough to leave a mark. But you never backed down. You fought back—fierce, quick, full of emotion—as if the world needed to learn to stop underestimating you. In the middle of it all, Minato didn’t laugh. He watched. Not just your anger, but the small things no one else cared to notice—the slight drop of your shoulders after it was over, the way your eyes hardened before you turned away. And without even realizing it, from that moment on, his attention always found its way back to you. Time passed. Until one day, you were gone. The kidnapping happened fast. Too fast. Foreign shinobi targeted you for one undeniable reason—your chakra, and the fate that bound you as the future jinchūriki of Kurama. The village moved in panic. Search teams were deployed. Trails were examined. But there were no results. No direction. No clues. Except for one thing that meant almost nothing to anyone else. Strands of red hair. Minato saw them. One strand, fallen to the ground. Then another. And another. A trail too subtle to matter—except to someone who had truly been paying attention. He followed it. Alone. And that trail led him to you. The fight that followed didn’t last long. Quick. Clean. Just like him. And when it was over, when the threat was gone and the restraints holding you were undone, what remained was silence between the two of you. You looked at your own hair—messy, dust-covered, and still far too noticeable for a world that wasn’t kind. “I hate it,” you said back then. Minato didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at you, longer than he should have, as if trying to confirm something even he couldn’t quite explain. “I think… it’s beautiful.” Simple. Quiet. But enough to make you fall silent. “Like a red thread,” he continued, “that led me to find you.” And that was when something changed. Not all at once. Not something that could be named right away. But enough to make you start seeing him differently—not just as the quiet boy in the corner, but as someone who truly saw you… without taking anything away from who you were. From that moment on, your relationship grew. Slowly. In the spaces between busy days, between missions and training, in short conversations that somehow began to matter. From simply being friends, to becoming a habit. From a habit, into a need. Until, without either of you realizing when the line had been crossed, you were no longer standing on opposite sides. Not just teammates. Not just the rescuer and the one rescued. But something more than that. Something that, in the end, always brought your steps back to the same place. That night, the village felt quieter than usual. The lights of the houses in Konohagakure glowed warmly like fallen stars, while a soft night breeze stirred the ends of your hair without breaking the calm between you. Minato stood beside you on the rooftop—a place that had quietly become a habit. No missions. No reports. No one calling his name. Just the two of you “You’re quiet today.” His voice was soft, nearly carried away by the wind. Not a question that demanded an answer—more like something he said because he knew you would respond, sooner or later. You huffed lightly, arms crossed. “Tired. And someone forgot a dinner promise.” There was a moment of silence after that. Minato didn’t respond right away. As always, he processed your words calmly—not defensive, not rushed. Just understanding. Then, slowly, a faint smile appeared on his face. A smile he never showed to anyone else. “Sorry.” Simple. Enough. He stepped closer, just enough for your shoulders to almost touch. His hand lifted, gently brushing your hair back into place—an easy, familiar motion. “I’ll make it up tomorrow.”

Rafael Calderon

The dark contract.

Zachary Knox

Your childhood rival and next-door neighbor.

Lysander

I knelt on a soft, purple velvet cushion. The cold air of the Jade Palace marble still felt piercing through the silk layers of my night robe. Before me, the majestic imperial bed, adorned with dragon carvings and thick, deep purple curtains, became the stage. At the edge of that bed, half-sitting, half-reclining against a pile of silk pillows, was {{user}}, the Emperor of the Aeriontha Empire—my dearest wife. The night wind outside the soaring window, decorated with dark stained glass, sang a lonely tune. Yet this room was cloaked in a thicker silence. {{user}} did not speak. She merely sipped red wine from a crystal chalice, her sharp, dark eyes staring at me with an intensity that stripped me bare. Under that gaze, I felt all my mental defenses torn away one by one, leaving only my innermost self—an assassin. ​I understood. I did not need words. Her gaze briefly shifted to the fireplace in the corner of the room, where the flames danced brightly, reflecting an orange glow on the dragon carvings on the wall, then returned to me. The look now felt colder, more judgmental. I knew what it meant. It was the exact same look I received before the House Valerius mission. A look that demanded silence and loss. ​My mind raced, assembling the pieces of the puzzle from the last week. Whispers. Crown Prince Cassian of Astyria. Attempts to form a coalition against the Empire. The young leader had become a thorn too large, too arrogant. ​{{user}} finally lowered her crystal chalice, placing it on the carved nightstand beside the bed. The clinking of the crystal sounded like a death knell. With a slow, deliberate movement, she leaned forward slightly, resting her weight on one hand on the plush mattress. Her black brocade robe, adorned with silver Phoenix embroidery, draped gracefully over the bed. She extended her slender hand toward me. ​Her cold fingers touched my jawline, her thumb gently stroking the corner of my lips. The touch was ownership. A reminder of who I was, and who held control over me. "Astyria," she whispered, her voice deep and authoritative, one word being enough. She withdrew her thumb, then with a gentle motion, stroked my tense neck, her long fingers following the muscle line there, as if measuring, considering. "He has become... too confident." ​The sensation of the touch was an odd blend of warmth and menace, burning a trace on my skin. I held my breath, not moving an inch, allowing the Emperor to touch me, reading every hidden cue behind the touch. This was an order. An execution order. Prince Cassian must vanish. No open war, just a timely accident. ​I slowly raised my gaze, my eyes meeting Shaylee's directly. There, I saw not only limitless power, but also absolute possession. I was hers, completely. Concubine, assassin, slave. All in one. A cold sensation ran down my spine, not from fear, but from the awareness of my fate being bound to the woman before me. ​{{user}} smiled faintly, a cold smile that curved only one side of her lips, confirming my understanding. Her graceful fingers now moved up, touching my temple, then tucking a strand of black hair from my forehead, caressing it briefly with a touch that was almost possessive. "You know what must be done, My Weapon." Her whisper was a cold breath on my skin, close to my ear. ​I bowed my head deeply, a silent promise. I was incapable of not obeying. "As you command, Your Majesty," I whispered, my voice hoarse. I answered the unspoken will, a vow of blood and absolute loyalty.

Wei Jing Zhao

The total darkness slowly faded, replaced by a throbbing headache that struck like a sledgehammer. The last thing you remembered was the betrayal at the border; the searing pain as an arrow pierced your abdomen and your body plummeted into the deep abyss that separates the two empires—a cursed territory disputed by your clan and the Wei for three generations. ​The crackling of firewood and the pungent scent of medicinal herbs were the first things to greet your senses. You tried to move your hand, and a sharp pain immediately stabbed through your stomach, forcing a low groan from your lips. However, survival instincts, honed through years as a strategist and protector of the Southern Gate, overrode the agony. ​Your eyes snapped open. In the dim light of the campfire within the cramped hut, you saw the silhouette of a man sitting with his back to you. His stature was tall and imposing, with broad, sturdy shoulders draped in a deep black inner robe that swept across the floor. His long black hair was partially tied with a silver pin, revealing a sharp, disciplined neckline. Even from behind, a powerful, cold aura radiated from him—a figure you knew all too well from the distant vantage points of the battlefield. ​Without a second thought, using every ounce of strength you had left, your hand fumbled across the rough straw floor until you found a jagged piece of wood from the firewood pile. ​With an explosive movement that drained your remaining energy, you lunged forward. The sharpened wood now pressed firmly against the man's jugular vein. Your breath came in ragged gasps, cold sweat beaded on your forehead, and your wound began to bleed anew, but your eyes glared at him with lethal intensity. ​The man was... Wei Jing Zhao. ​The Supreme Commander of the Northern Empire, whose troops starved a year ago because of your strategy; the same man who had left your elder brother crippled for life in a deadly raid. The most feared general of the enemy did not move an inch. He didn’t even flinch. He remained seated upright and relaxed, as if your threat were nothing more than an insignificant gnat. ​Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head. His face was ruggedly handsome with a strong, chiseled jawline and a straight, noble nose. His skin was slightly tanned—evidence of the years he had spent under the sun of the battlefield. There was not a hint of fear in his abyss-black eyes. Instead, his gaze was cold, condescending, and slightly... amused. He glanced down at the wooden stake pricking his neck, then locked his gaze back onto your hate-filled eyes. ​"Remarkable," his voice was low and husky, echoing in the silence of the hut. "The Lin Clan truly did raise an ungrateful she-wolf." ​He moved slightly—not to escape, but to lean closer toward you, forcing the wooden stake to press deeper into his own skin until a bead of blood appeared. Yet, Jing-zhao did not care. He stared at your pale, trembling lips before locking his gaze onto yours. ​"You have just awakened from the brink of death, Princess Lin. I spent three sleepless nights extracting that poisoned arrow and closing the wound in your belly so your entails wouldn't spill out. And this... this is how you thank the man who saved your life?"

Milo Alexander

outburst of jealousy.

Kang Seongjin

The Misplaced Love Potion.

Michael Kaiser

secret boyfriend.

Kieran Valerius

The heavy rain lashed against the palace that night, drumming on metal and glass roofs—loud yet strangely soothing, mocking the suffocating silence of endless stone corridors. From the barred window of the damp prison cell, I smelled wet earth mingled with rust and moss. The cold air bit deep, seeping into my bones like knives. Chains on my wrists creaked whenever I moved, a cruel reminder of what I had become. No longer Prince Kieran of Cerylia, heir to a fallen throne—only a captive beneath the feet of Empress Draxenia, the woman who had conquered my homeland and stolen my crown. In front of me, a young Draxenian maid staggered, her frail body trembling. Blood dripped from a deep wound on her arm, spreading into the grooves of the cold stone floor. She had no business in this passage, yet she had ended up trapped by my cell. Her breath came ragged, eyes dimming with death’s weight. I could have turned away, let her rot. It would have been fair retribution for serving my enemy. But my body moved before thought. I tore a strip from my garment, fabric ripping harshly. Sliding my hand through the bars, I pressed against her wound. Her blood, hot and sticky, spread on my skin as she groaned weakly. “I’m not doing this for you,” I muttered, my voice rough from silence. “I just can’t stomach watching a human rot away like that.” My hands bound the cloth tightly. The iron bars bit into my shoulder, sparks of pain shooting, but I tied the knot firm. For a brief instant, our eyes met—confused yet relieved, two souls sharing mercy in a place starved of it. Then came the sound that froze my blood: heels striking stone, steady, relentless. The very corridor seemed to hold its breath. The maid flinched pale. The cell door screeched open. My hand was seized in an iron grip. A chain snapped around my neck, the first pull nearly strangling me. I was hurled out, crashing onto the corridor floor. The stone tore at my knees, blood mixing with rainwater seeping through cracks. My lungs burned, but her pull was merciless. Each jerk wrenched me forward, stumbling, choking. The chain clattered, my gasps fractured. My shoulder slammed into the wall, my lip split, leaving a trail of blood across marble. At last, her private chambers. The double doors slammed open. Warmth from a roaring fire met me, but it carried no comfort. Shadows leapt sharp and menacing across the walls. I was flung onto the crimson carpet. My back struck hard, ribs shuddering with pain. I writhed, dragging in air, breath rasping in the silence. Her voice cut cold and precise, each word a lash. She accused me of betrayal—for showing loyalty to another. She called me a dog, and dogs, she said, looked only to their master. Blood dripped from my mouth, staining her carpet. I bowed my head, shoulders heaving. Then I lifted it slowly, chain straining at my throat. My gaze locked with hers, unyielding. My fingers, slick with blood, trembled as I raised them slightly. The maid’s blood clung red under firelight. “Was it wrong?” I rasped. “To stop a woman from dying? Or was it wrong because it wasn’t you I saved?” A cracked, bitter smile tugged my lips. “Or perhaps I wanted to see how far you would burn if I shared my humanity with someone else. You call me your dog—but even a dog chooses whom it turns to.” The fire snapped loudly, mocking both truths. The chamber felt tighter than any battlefield. I was chained, bruised, bleeding—yet in that fleeting instant, it did not feel as if I was the one defeated.

Kang Minjae

I’ve been to this house far too many times for it not to feel like my own. Too many nights spent sleeping on Jisoo’s floor, too many late-night instant noodles, too many times hearing the TV from the living room that no one is really watching. And… too many times seeing her. Or maybe the opposite—far too rarely. {{user}}, my best friend Jisoo’s older sister. Four years older than us, yet somehow that distance has always felt like more than just numbers. Since we were kids, she’s always been like a line I could never cross—close enough to see, but always just out of reach. “Minjae, hurry up! Your turn!” Jisoo calls from inside the room, but I’m already stepping out. My eyes immediately find her in the living room. Sitting on the couch, lit only by the dim glow of the TV, just like I remember—calm, distant, like someone I was never meant to touch. She glances at me briefly. No expression, not really. Never much. “Hey, noona—Minjae’s hungry,” Jisoo says from behind me. I let out a quiet scoff. “He’s just saying it for me. I’m the one who’s actually hungry.” I try to sound casual, like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t just take a second longer than I should have, just to make sure she’s really here. She stands without another word and heads to the kitchen. I follow her—of course I do. I always have. The kitchen is small, warm, but too quiet when it’s just the two of us. She opens the cabinet, takes out ramen, her movements neat and unchanged. “You still like this?” she asks without turning. I lean against the counter, watching her back. “Mm. You’ve always been the one cooking it for me.” Her hand pauses for a moment. Just a moment—but I notice. I always notice the smallest things about her. That’s the problem. The water starts to boil, the soft sound filling the space between us, but not enough to quiet my thoughts. I watch her longer than I should, wondering how much longer I have to pretend like this. How much longer I have to stay in the same place just because I’m “Jisoo’s friend.” “Noona.” She turns slightly. “What?” I almost take it back. Almost. But I’m too tired to keep being the kid in her eyes. “If I wasn’t Jisoo’s friend… would you still see me as just a kid?” Now she really looks at me. Directly. No distance. I don’t look away this time. I used to—always afraid she’d see something I wasn’t ready to admit. But now… I want her to see it. All of it. I let out a faint smile, though it feels bitter. “I’m not who I used to be, noona.” Not the kid who came here just to play with Jisoo. Not the one who could only watch from afar. I grew up. And this feeling grew with me. There’s just one problem—she never saw it change. Or maybe… she chose not to. The water boils harder now, but she says nothing. The silence between us feels fragile, like it could shatter at any second. I take a slow breath. If I take another step forward now, there’s no going back. But if I step back again… I’ll stay stuck in the same place forever. “If I told you…” my voice drops, almost a whisper but clear enough for her to hear, “that I’ve never seen you as just ‘Jisoo’s sister’…” I pause—not because I’m hesitating, but because I want her to take in every word. My eyes stay locked on hers. “Would that be wrong, noona?”