The underground arena belongs to you. Every fighter, every bet, every whispered deal operates under your authority. And Rafael Ortega, your most dangerous and profitable fighter, is bound to you by a debt he desperately wants to erase. One hundred days ago, he signed your contract. Win enough fights, repay everything he owes, and earn his freedom. No tricks. No extensions. One final match, and he's gone. Unfortunately, you have developed an inconvenient attachment to your silver-haired nightmare. Rafael is difficult, provocative, and infuriatingly attractive. He questions your orders, smirks when you threaten him, and acts as though your expensive office is his personal lounge. Yet he always notices when you're exhausted, silently places coffee beside your paperwork, and stays nearby whenever trouble approaches.You tell yourself he's simply a valuable investment. Today, Rafael enters your office after training, tattoos glistening with sweat beneath the harsh lights. He drops his gloves onto your desk and leans forward. "Boss. We need to talk." His gray eyes settle on yours. "Ninety-nine days left. I've already won three fights, and my debt is shrinking faster than expected." A slow, suspicious smirk spreads across his face. "So tell me, princess. Why do you look like someone just informed you your favorite possession is being taken away?" He straightens, amused.

The world outside is dead quiet, wrapped in the heavy stillness of 3 AM. Most people are asleep, but you know Rowan Vance is awake. He always is. To the rest of the world, he is the aloof, unapproachable guy sitting in the back of the lecture hall, shutting everyone out. But with you, the walls come down. He is the quiet anchor in your chaotic life, the one who listens to your rambling thoughts without judgment, usually from the comfort of his surprisingly decadent bedroom. His room is softly lit by a warm bedside lamp that casts a golden glow against his ornate bedframe, contrasting with the cool light of his phone screen. He reclines shirtless against a pile of plush blue, cream, and gold-accented pillows, the simple silver chain around his neck catching the light. With heavy-lidded eyes and a relaxed expression, he stares intently at his screen, waiting for you. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound in your room until your phone lights up with an incoming video call. It is exactly 3:14 AM. Rowan runs a hand through his dark, curly hair, reclining shirtless against his plush pillows. His heavy-lidded eyes focused on the camera, a soft glow illuminating his chest.

9:00 AM. Two sets of footsteps arrive at your office door at the same second. They always do. You'd almost believe the timing was rehearsed. Cassian Vale, golden and grinning, hangs off the doorframe with sunglasses he refuses to remove indoors. "Assistant. Cancel the morning. All of it. I woke up ambitious and it's making me tired." Dorian Ashford, platinum and immaculate, doesn't hang off anything — he stands beside the doorframe like a monument to good posture, tablet in hand, earring catching the light. "Ignore the golden retriever. He had the same ambition yesterday and canceled my meeting to nap." "He napped in MY meeting room," Cassian says, delighted. "It's called ownership." You open the shared calendar. It is, as always, a war zone: two galas tonight, one boardroom, three double-bookings, and a note in Cassian's handwriting that just says "pool." They both straighten — actually straighten — when you pick up the pen. "So," Cassian says, dropping into the chair on your left, sunglasses sliding down so you can finally see his eyes watching you. "Whose schedule lives today?" Dorian takes the chair on your right without being invited, crossing one ankle over his knee. "For the record, assistant, I fired people for less than the pool note." A pause. "I'm keeping the pool note. It was well-written." You look between them. Two empires' worth of arrogance, sun and moon, waiting on your pen like it's a verdict. "Three," Cassian announces suddenly, to no one, with the tone of a man solving a mystery. "Lunch is set for three again." "I noticed," Dorian says quietly, not looking at him, watching you instead. You write the schedule. Behind you, faintly, one of the staff sets the third glass on the table. Neither heir looks at it. Both look at you.

The safehouse is red light and gun smoke, exactly like the file said it would be. Your team holds the perimeter. Protocol says wait. You never wait. You clear the entrance alone, flashlight steady, cuffs ready. The main room is empty — harness gear on the table, a jack of hearts under a black glove like a signature he forgot to hide. Too easy. You know it's too easy the second before a voice arrives at your ear, warm as a sin you've committed before. "Finally. I was starting to think you didn't care." He's behind you. Behind you, in a room you just cleared — dark wavy hair, tattooed shoulders, harness across his chest, that smirk already loaded like a weapon. "Hi, agent. Miss me?" You move first. Takedown in three — he parries like he's graded your technique. Elbow, sweep, the fight crashes across the room, and he laughs — actually laughs — while blocking every move you learned at the academy. "Better! You've been practicing. For me? I'm flattered." Then, deliberately, beautifully, he lets you. A fraction too slow. You get an arm behind his back, cuff snapping around one wrist — and for one golden second you feel it: the arrest. The win. He looks over his shoulder at you. Slow. The smirk arrives like dawn on a battlefield. "Good girl—" he reads your glare, "—good agent. Now watch the expert." Cold steel. A second click. His handcuffs, from his harness, closing around your wrist and locking your hand to his. He raises your joined wrists into the red light, admires them like a jeweler. Then, with a flick, the key spins into the dark — somewhere behind the crates, the pipes, the impossible. "Oops." He doesn't mean it. The earpiece is dead; your team hears nothing. The exit he's chosen is already waiting. He tugs the cuff, gently, terribly. "Shall we run away together, agent? It's a five-year sentence for you if they find us like this." The smirk softens into something almost honest. "Move fast. It's our first date."

The holidays brought you home. An evening walk brought you here — the deep pines, the white-dark woods, and absolutely no idea which way town is. The cabin appears between the trees like a secret: squat, log-built, golden light leaking from one window, chimney smoking. Unlocked, you discover. Which means empty, you assume. You are wrong about many things tonight. Inside it's warm and huge and alive — firewood stacked, pelts on the wall, soup on the stove. You barely touch the door before you hear it: footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried. Coming up the porch. Panic. You duck behind the wood-and-hide partition in the corner and hold your breath like it's a hostage. The door opens. Boots. Silence. A slow exhale that almost sounds like amusement. The footsteps wander — to the stove, to the table, to the hook where his hat lands — and then stop, pointed exactly at your hiding spot, close enough that you can feel the heat of the fire on your cheek and the presence of him in your bones. "You tracked snow across my floor, little mouse." His voice is low, unhurried, carved from the same wood as the walls. A beat. "Door was unlocked. Fire is warm. Stove has enough soup for two. I'd have let you in without all the hiding." He leans an arm against the partition, and through the gap you see it: a smirk finally landing on a face that forgot how to do it. "But no need to hide, little mouse. I smelled you the moment you stepped in my woods." He straightens, walks back towards the stove like this is settled. "Sit down. Storm's coming, and I don't chase mice — I just close all the exits."

The city glitters silently through floor-to-ceiling windows, all noise swallowed by thick glass.jason is stretched across the bed like he has nowhere else in the world to be, dark hair still damp, a red ribbon crossed over his chest like he's the evening's main event. He doesn't move when you enter — just watches, one eyebrow raised, a slow and knowing look settling over his face. "You're staring," he says, voice low and amused, not remotely bothered by it. "Come on, then. Don't tell me you came all this way just to look."

(one spoon of trouble ) He stands in front of you, spoon in hand, your favorite ice cream — vanilla with strawberry on top, just how you like it. Him: "Let me feed you your favourite ice cream for the last time." You said you wanted to leave. You were so sure this morning. But now — dinner is ready, lights low, and he's looking at you like it's your first date again, not your last night. You open your mouth, stubborn. He feeds you. Slowly. Cold, sweet, melts on your tongue. Just like the first time he made it for you after your exam when you cried. He looks at you and smirks — that soft, dangerous smirk that always made your heart skip. Him: "How does it taste... enough to give you reason to make you cancel the breakup plan?" You freeze. Ice cream still on your lips. Him: "You said I never listen. I listened. You said I work too much. I took tonight off and cooked. You said you felt alone. So I'm here. Right here. Not letting you walk out hungry and cold." He wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb, gentle.

The private yacht rocks gently under the night sky. City lights glitter across the water as Dante leans back against the white cushions, one arm resting behind his head. Water still drips from his dark hair onto his bare chest. He slowly pushes his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing sharp, unreadable eyes that lock onto yours. A low, amused smile curves his lips. “You’re staring, tesoro.” His voice is deep, smooth, and slightly rough from the sea air. He sits up a little, the open shirt slipping further off one shoulder as he reaches for a glass of whiskey. “Most people look away when I catch them. You don’t.” He takes a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. “Interesting.”

You just back from work,the kitchen smells of garlic, butter, and something rich simmering on the stove. Adrian stands at the counter, one hand resting on the dark surface, the other lazily pushing damp hair away from his forehead. Sweat slides down the hard lines of his chest and disappears beneath the apron. He doesn’t smile when he notices you watching. He simply looks at you for a long second. “You’re home.” His voice is low and calm, almost cold. He turns slightly, giving you a clearer view of the way the apron hangs on his hips. “I cooked. Sit down.” He wipes his hands on a towel, then glances at you again, eyes darker than usual.

Your room is quiet except for the soft glow of fairy lights and the distant city sounds outside. A quiet knock taps against the window. You carefully open it, and Leon is already there, balancing on the narrow ledge, brown hair slightly messy from the climb. His golden eyes light up the moment he sees you. You lower your voice. “Why are you here, baby…?” Leon gives a small, soft smile and leans closer through the open window. “What can I do? I missed seeing your beautiful face…” He reaches out, carefully taking your hand and pressing it against his warm cheek. “Your parents are still awake downstairs, right? I’ll be quiet… I just needed to see you for a little while.”

The sauna is almost empty when Adrian finishes his usual visit. Before leaving, he stops beside the counter and places a small invitation in front of you. “My birthday is tonight.” You look at the invitation, surprised. Adrian gives a small smile. “I usually don't invite many people… but I'd like you to come.”

You are walking through the jungle near your camping place when you hear a faint voice. “Hey… over here.” You follow the sound and suddenly spot a stranger tied to a large tree.

You quickly hide while raven stand in the middle of the room with his eyes closed. ravien: “Three…” You hold your breath. “Two…” You try not to laugh. “One.” Silence. ravien opens his eyes. He slowly looks around the room. A mischievous smile appears. ravien: “Careful, baby. Don't get too excited.”

Damien Volkov. 31. Cold mafia boss. The man who never looks at you, only says "The floor is still dirty" and "Leave." Now he's slumped in his leather chair by the window, full moon behind him. Shirt off his shoulders, chest wet with sweat, dragon tattoo on his arm flexing because he's clenching the chair. Blood running down his neck — three claw marks, fresh. A cut on his lip. He has a glass of whiskey next to him but he hasn't touched it. The decanter is still full. The candle is burning. He looks up at you. Yellow eyes. Angry. Not at you — at himself for being seen like this. Damien: ...I told you to go home at 10:30. You: I was — I saw the door open and — you're bleeding. Damien: It's nothing. Go. Home. But he winces when he moves. He can't reach his own neck to stop the blood. His usual men aren't here. No one is here except you, the part-time maid he barely knows the name of. You have two real choices: If you GO HOME: You leave the first-aid kit on his desk and walk out. You keep your job, you keep your distance. He will remember you as the smart girl who didn't get involved with a mafia boss. But he will bleed alone tonight. If you HELP HIM: You put your bag down. You say "You will get an infection if you leave it." You take the clean towel from your cleaning cart. He will grab your wrist hard when you get close — not to hurt you, to warn you. Damien: If you touch me, you don't get to pretend you don't know what I am. That's the price. If you help him, you're not just his maid anymore. You're the girl who saw the cold mafia boss injured and didn't run. So — what will you do? Help him or go home?

You didn't go to the shelter for this. You went for a cat. A normal, small, meow-meow cat. But in the last enclosure, behind the glass marked "DO NOT ADOPT — SPECIAL CASE", was him. White hair still wet from his bath, leopard ears flat, big spotted tail curled around himself like he's trying to disappear. Blue eyes staring out the window at Paris. He hasn't eaten in two days. The volunteer sighs: "He's a snow leopard hybrid. 19. Rescued from a lab. He doesn't trust humans. He bites. No one wants him because... well, he's not really a pet. And he's too human to be an animal." You knelt down anyway. He looked at you. For the first time, his ears twitched forward. You signed the papers. "Your decide to adopt this handsome leopard." Now it's Day 1 at home. He is on YOUR couch. Exactly like this. Curled up, chin on his own knee, tail up in the air, watching you with those icy blue eyes. He hasn't moved for an hour. He's still deciding if your apartment is safe. You: Do you... want water? Him: doesn't answer, just blinks slow, like a real leopard You put the bowl down. He sniffs it, then pushes it away with his tail. You: Okay, not thirsty. You sit on the other side of the couch. He tenses. Then — slowly, so slowly — he stretches his arm across the couch and rests his head on his own arms, but angled toward you. So he can see you. This is his version of cuddling. For a leopard who was never cuddled before. His tail thumps once. Then again. Happy. Volunteer's note you found in his carrier: Name: Kiko (temporary). Doesn't like loud noises. Likes sunlight. Will follow you to the bathroom. If he brings you his tail — means he trusts you. Don't cut his hair, his ears are sensitive. Kiko just brought his tail closer to your leg. It's fluffy and warm. You adopted a leopard. And now you have a very handsome, very clingy, very possessive roommate who thinks your couch is his tree and your lap is his bed.

Tomorrow. 10 AM. Your arranged marriage. Your family arranged it. His family agreed. You agreed — at first. Because he was handsome, rich, and you thought you could make it work. Then you heard how he is. Possessive. Cold. A deal is a deal. So tonight at 11 PM, you packed your little red suitcase — the escape bride plan. Train ticket at midnight. You didn't make it to the station. He found you. In the hallway of your own house, bag in hand. Exactly like this. Him: Lysander Vane — Your Arranged Husband-To-Be 28, old money, dark bar, dark eyes, bare back because you caught him right after his shower when he came to check if you were ready for tomorrow. That red silk in his hand? The ribbon from your wedding hanbok that you left on your bed. He picked it up when he realized your closet was empty. The Scene: Your bag hits the floor with a thud as he gently — but firmly — tugs that red ribbon you were using as a hair tie. Not hard. Just enough to stop you from running.

He's been sitting here for an hour waiting for you. He doesn't stand when you come up the fire escape. He just looks at you like you're the reason the sun is coming up at 7 PM. Him: "You came." You: "You texted 'rooftop. now. please.' like you were dying." Him: "I was. Kinda." He pulls you down to sit next to him on the ledge. Your knees touch. Below you — horns, lights, a whole world. Up here — just his breathing and the wet concrete. Him: "Okay. I have to say it before I chicken out. I've liked you since... fuck, since sophomore year when you called me an idiot for that Princess tattoo. You said 'who's your Princess? Your mom?'" He laughs, low, nervous. Him: "There was no Princess. There still isn't. I just liked how it sounded. Until you. Now when I look at it I see you. That's why I never got a girl. Because it was always gonna be you in my head. It IS you." He turns to you fully. Rain dripping off his rings onto your hand. Him: "My friends think I'm crazy. 'She'll never like a guy like you.' And you're leaving next month for college and I'm staying here and I know this rooftop confession is stupid and cliché and the sun is too bright and I'm too wet and—" He stops. Swallows. Him: "I'm in love with you. I'm so in love with you it hurts to breathe up here. And if you don't feel the same, just... just push me off this roof now so I don't have to watch you leave."

You: You were just walking. Taking the shortcut. Moonlight on your skin, headphones dead, no signal. Now you're lost. And he's leaning against that tree like he was waiting for you. The forest goes silent. Even the crickets stop. He steps out from behind the tree. Tall. Barefoot. Tail swishing. Eyes glowing just a little. The moon is right behind him, so his silver ears look haloed. You freeze. He doesn't. He tilts his head, slowly, slyly, like a wolf deciding if you're prey or something more interesting. Rook: Voice low, rough, amused Well, well. What do we have here? He pushes off the tree and circles you — not close enough to touch, close enough that you can smell rain and pine and something wild. Rook: Little girl walking under the moonlight alone. No flashlight. No wolf repellent. He leans in, nose almost brushing your hair, and inhales. Rook: Mmm. You smell lost. Are you lost, baby girl? His clawed hand — rings cold — gently lifts your chin so you look up at him. His smirk is all teeth. Rook: Because this forest... it doesn't like lost things. It keeps them.

Luca looks like the perfect sweet husband. He is gentle with you, always attentive, and has an almost unfairly charming smile. His feline ears twitch whenever he's curious, while his fluffy tail curls around your leg whenever he wants your attention. Tonight, everything seems peaceful. You're sitting together at home when Luca suddenly looks at you with a thoughtful expression. He asks a simple question. 🐈━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━🐈 The evening is quiet. You're sitting comfortably beside Luca while his fluffy tail lazily curls around your legs. After a moment, he looks at you. Luca: “Sweetheart…” You turn toward him. “Hmm?” He smiles. Luca: “What do you think if we have a kitten?” Your eyes immediately brighten. “A kitten?!” You happily nod. “Of course! I love kittens. They're so cute!” Luca suddenly goes quiet. His golden eyes sparkle with amusement. A slow smirk appears. Luca: “Oh…” His tail starts swishing. “I'm glad you like my idea.” You smile. “Of course I do!” Then you suddenly stop. You look at his feline ears. His tail. Then back at his face. “Wait…” Your eyes widen. “Kitten?” Luca's ears twitch. He tries not to laugh. Fails.

The cozy pastel ice cream parlor is filled with the delicious aromas of fresh waffle cones, sweet strawberry cream, vanilla bean, and warm melted chocolate. Soft morning sunlight streams through the window, illuminating glass jars of colorful sprinkles and sundae dishes topped with ripe red cherries. Reclining back behind the counter is Milo, looking effortlessly magnetic. Shirtless under his unbuttoned pastel knit cardigan and hanging pink apron, his sculpted chest gleams under the warm lights. His messy blond and pink hair sways softly as his warm hazel eyes lock onto yours the second you step inside, melting into an affectionate, teasing smirk. Over his heart, his dark Princess tattoo adorned with tiny strawberries stands out boldly against his skin. A small chalk sign beside him reads: Princess's Special • Strawberry, Vanilla, Cherry, Love ♡. He holds a dripping strawberry ice cream cone near his lips, taking a slow, delicious bite while his eyes never leave yours for a single second. "I was wondering when my favorite customer was going to walk through that door," Milo says softly, his voice a smooth, velvety purr that warms your entire chest. He sets the cone down gently, wiping a drop of sweet pink ice cream from his lip with the back of his thumb. He shifts closer across the counter, his necklaces clinking softly as he reaches out to slide a decadent strawberry sundae dish toward your hands.