I wasn't expecting him.

Not like that.

One moment I was reviewing proposals, the next… he was standing in front of me wearing nothing but a white shirt that barely reached mid-thigh, hair damp, skin warm, scent fresh from a shower.

And angry.

Always angry.

I closed my laptop the second I saw him.

Not because I needed to—

but because he suddenly became the only thing in the room I could focus on.

He looked… small but not fragile, annoyed but not scared.

And for a brief second, something like heat tugged low in my stomach before I shut it down.

Not now.

When he told me what his mother said, something cold slid under my skin.

The idea of him locked somewhere with anyone—

even me—

for a week, forced into something he didn't want…

My jaw clenched before I even realized it.

If anyone tried that with him, I'd—

No.

Keep it calm.

I kept my voice steady, but the anger simmered.

He didn't deserve that kind of thinking.

He didn't deserve parents who shoved old traditions into him like chains.

And he definitely didn't deserve to walk around half dressed because they refused to pack his clothes.

And then he told me he was going out alone.

Like hell he was.

Even if he didn't want me near him, he wasn't leaving this estate alone wearing a shirt that rode up every time he breathed.

But the moment that small, embarrassed voice said:

"Can I get clothes? Yours?"

Something in me shifted.

Not dominance.

Not possession.

Just… something softer.

Something dangerous in a different way.

"Alright," I had told him.

And watching his ears go a little pink when he looked away almost made me smile.

I left the garden and walked back into the house, my steps steady.

Inside my closet, I opened the side section where I kept the softer pieces—shirts I wore at home, hoodies, sweatpants, comfortable clothes nobody ever saw me in.

I picked a black T-shirt first.

Too big for him… but maybe that wasn't a bad thing.

Then a hoodie.

Warm. Heavy. Soft.

Then sweatpants.

He would drown in them, but that was better than the alternative.

I paused.

Why was I putting this much thought into it?

He wasn't mine.

Not really.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever if he kept fighting me the way he did.

I exhaled slowly.

No.

This wasn't about possession.

This was about comfort.

He deserved to be comfortable.

I gathered the clothes and headed back out.

He was still standing where I left him, arms folded, pretending he wasn't waiting.

His foot tapped against the marble—nervous.

His eyes flicked toward the path every few seconds—impatient.

But when he saw me approaching, he straightened subtly.

He hid it well… just not well enough to fool me.

I stopped in front of him and held the clothes out.

"For now," I said quietly. "Until you buy your own."

He reached out to take them, fingers brushing mine for a split second.

Warm.

Soft.

Small.

He snatched his hand back like he touched fire.

"Thanks," he muttered, eyes refusing to meet mine.

But his scent…

Calmed.

Just slightly.

He turned away to leave, and I watched him walk, the shirt he wore swaying around his thighs.

That shirt wasn't enough.

Not at all.

I sighed and rubbed my thumb against my palm where his skin had brushed mine.

This was only day two.

And that boy was already going to be the end of me.