I lay on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly through pictures of houses I could never afford. My heart was heavy, not just from the weight of recent events but from something I couldn't name. Something that sat quietly in my chest—like love, but not the kind that saves you. The kind that confuses you, bruises you softly.
The mattress dipped beside me. Sinister.
He lay down on his stomach, arms folded, and rested his chin on the back of his hand. "What are you looking at?" he asked gently, peering at my screen.
"Houses", I replied, not turning to face him, continuing to scroll. The ache in my heart grew stronger.
My mind wasn't really on houses. It was on the break-in. On the lock that had been shattered. On the way, my entire room looked like it had been turned inside out while I was working a shift at the library. On the old CCTV cameras, smashed like paper toys. No fingerprints, no clues—just broken walls and a broken sense of safety.
The landlord had asked me to vacate temporarily. "Just a week or so," he'd said kindly, but his eyes were tired. I didn't have a plan. My savings were gone—I'd handed them over without hesitation to repair the damage. I knew it wasn't my fault, but guilt can be louder than facts. That man had trusted me with a roof when no one else had. I owed him peace of mind.
I remember reaching for my phone to call Sophia. Of course, I wanted to go to her. Her home was mine too. But before I could even press her name, my phone rang.
Sinister.
He didn't ask what happened. He didn't say anything. He just showed up. In less than fifteen minutes, he was at my door. I opened it, crying into a crumpled tissue, nose red, eyes swollen. He didn't ask questions. Just quietly packed my things into the trunk of his car, handed me his napkin to wipe my tears, and drove me away.
Now here I am. In his second house.
Yes—second. This man doesn't just have a house. He has houses. Plural. And not just ordinary houses either. Big, beautiful, empty spaces. Sometimes I wonder if he was born with a ruby spoon in his mouth—not even silver or gold. Something rarer.
"You know you can't afford that, right?"Hee teased, trying to snatch the phone from my hands with a half-smile. His voice was light, but I saw something deeper in his eyes. Something that made me question if maybe, just maybe, he really did care.
Since the break-in, he hasn't let me out of his sight. It's like he's watching me with his heart in his throat, like if I left the house for too long, I might disappear. And maybe that scared him more than he let on.
But I can't stay here for free.
I don't know how to say it, but I feel like I'm running out of places to go. The thought of depending on him too much eats away at me. I'm grateful—but I'm also scared. Scared of how safe it feels here. Scared that the warmth in his voice might one day turn cold. Scared that I'll forget the warnings.
"Ahh, Petal," he said, stretching beside me, his voice playful now. "Stop scrolling through Zillow dreams and come exercise with me."
"Exercise?" I rolled my eyes. "No thanks." I hugged my phone protectively, as if it could guard me from the real world.
He chuckled, that rare, boyish laugh that didn't match his otherwise mysterious self. "Okay then," he whispered, wrapping one arm lazily around my waist and pulling me closer. His lips brushed my ear, his breath warm as he whispered, "Let's go shopping."
I turned to look at him.
His eyes were soft. Mischievous. Like a child begging for attention.
"I don't want to leave the room," I muttered, eyes glued to my phone screen, scrolling past apartments I couldn't afford and dreams I wasn't ready to chase.
I wasn't really looking at anything. I just didn't want to talk—not about rent, not about houses, not about feelings. And I knew exactly what Sinister was doing. Every playful distraction, every suggestion to go out, every touch—it wasn't about fun. It was about keeping me here. Near him. In his world.
He didn't argue. He just rolled away from me, onto his back, and then onto his side, facing the opposite direction. His soft black hair spilled over the pillow, and his broad shoulder blocked my view. I didn't need to see his face to know what was coming.
"I'm so freaking sad," he mumbled in a childish voice, like a kid denied candy at the grocery store.
I blinked, already bracing myself.
"The girl I love doesn't even pay attention to me anymore," he whimpered. "She's always busy, no time to play with me."
And there it was—the performance.
He started drawing invisible circles on the bed with his finger like some tragic little prince banished from joy. I swear, no Oscar-winning actor could match his commitment.
"What do you mean always? I only work four times a week. It's not even enough to save for a deposit," I replied flatly, not looking up.
But he wasn't done.
"She doesn't listen to anything I say," he continued, voice cracking with exaggerated pain. "She probably forgot I even said I love her. She doesn't wanna exercise, she doesn't wanna go shopping, she doesn't wanna go on a date… she just wants to lie in bed all day and ignore me."
I closed my eyes and let out a long breath, staring at the ceiling of my soul. This man—he could win an award for melodrama. I could practically feel him sneaking side glances at me, checking to see if his performance was landing.
I said nothing.
He sighed, then rolled again—this time toward me. His arm slid carefully around my waist, pulling himself closer until we were chest to back, like two puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit but refused to separate.
His voice, suddenly soft and real, broke the act.
"It doesn't matter if you're indifferent," he whispered. "At least you're here. At least you're safe."
He tightened his grip on me, hugging me like someone afraid I'd vanish if he let go.
He looked up at me, and for a brief second—just a second—his eyes sparkled.
Not with mischief.
Not with play.
But with something real.
Something raw.
And my heart, completely unprepared for it, skipped a beat.
I quickly looked away. I didn't want him to see that moment land in me—that softness I was trying so hard to fight.
So I did what I always do when I feel too much.
I picked up the nearest pillow—the one lying right in front of me—and threw it straight at his face, not too soft either.
It hit him with a satisfying whump.
"If you're bored," I said, leaning on the same pillow now covering his head, "then take a nap."
From under the pillow, his muffled voice replied, "Mmm…'s right…"
There was a pause.
"Then wake me up wh's you wans to go for wak," he added, his words melting into the fabric like a sleepy toddler talking in his dreams.
I smirked.
He was ridiculous. Spoiled. Possessive. Dramatic.