BAD BOY [ 𝑀𝑀 ]

🗡️ 🍑 Valentine's Special 🍑 🗡️

The scent of something rich and intoxicating lingers in the air, pulling me gently from sleep. I blink against the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains, my senses slow to adjust.

Then I see them.

Roses.

Deep crimson, velvety, and endless. Scattered across the floor like spilled blood. Twisting down from the ceiling like creeping vines. Tangled in the sheets around me, their delicate petals brushing against my skin. My breath catches. It's overwhelming. Dark. Beautiful. Possessive.

I let out a slow exhale, my heart hammering. I never thought Yakow could be this romantic. I never thought anyone would give me something so hauntingly beautiful for Valentine's.

The bathroom door creaks open, and there he is — Yakow, leaning naked against the doorframe, watching me with that familiar, unreadable look.

"Happy Valentine's, baby", he murmurs, his voice low, indulgent.

A slow smile spreads across my lips. "Thank you, Yakow. This is. . ." My fingers brush over the nearest bloom. "Perfect. I love you"

His eyes darken at my words, a flicker of something deep and dangerous flashing across his face. He takes a step closer, the tension thickening between us.

"I love you too, baby", he says, voice silk and steel. Then, softer — almost coaxing, almost a command — "Let's get dressed. We're having breakfast outside today"

I tilt my head. "Really? Where?"

His lips curve, knowing. "Where else but your favorite place?"

There's something in his tone — something that makes my pulse quicken. This isn't just a gift. This is a statement. And I don't know whether to be exhilarated or terrified. Maybe both.

I pull myself from the bed, brushing off scattered rose petals as I stand. Yakow watches me like a predator eyeing his prize, arms crossed over his bare chest, muscles flexing with the motion. His presence alone makes the air thick, heavy with something that coils tight in my stomach.

He moves first, slow and deliberate, grabbing a pair of slacks from the chair. I should turn away, give him privacy — but I don't. And he knows it. The smirk on his lips tells me he enjoys it, enjoys the way I can't help but stare.

"You keep looking at me like that, baby, and we'll never make it to breakfast", he murmurs, his voice dark with amusement.

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks burn as I grab my clothes, slipping into something simple yet nice. Yakow, always effortlessly elegant despite the edge of danger clinging to him like a second skin, dresses in a dark suit — tailored, expensive, perfect for the man he is.

By the time we step outside, the morning air is crisp, fresh — almost at odds with the heat still simmering between us. The black car waiting for us is sleek and ominous. Yakow, ever the gentleman when he wants to be, opens my door before following.