North would be lying if he said he wasn’t, on some level, looking forward to whatever grand, absurd production Johan had planned next.

Whether it was the private planetarium, the sudden helicopter ride to a secluded beach for a sunset picnic, or even the surprisingly tranquil afternoon learning the basics of horse riding under Johan’s watchful, steady gaze… it had all started to feel almost… nice?

The constant, high-intensity attention, which had once been suffocating, had become a bizarre new rhythm to his life.

He’d found himself, during a particularly dull lecture on thermodynamics, mentally speculating on what today’s "somewhere special" might be. A private concert? A hot air balloon ride?

The thought itself was so ludicrous he’d almost laughed aloud, but the anticipation was there, a faint, thrilling hum beneath the surface.

When Easter and his mother had cautiously probed about his outings, their faces had been etched with horror.

"Why are you going along with it, Northie?" his mother had asked, her voice tight with fear. But seeing the uncharacteristic, almost excited light in his eyes—the way he’d check his appearance in the hall mirror before leaving—they had simply fallen quiet, their confusion and worry a silent, heavy presence in the room.

Today was one of those "special" days. Johan had mentioned it with a cryptic smile the evening before.

North had spent his university hours distracted, his mind wandering from his textbooks to the possibilities.

But when the final bell rang and he walked out through the main gates, his steps slowing in anticipation, the familiar black Audi was nowhere to be seen.

He stood there for a full five minutes, the buzz of students flowing around him, a strange hollow feeling opening up in his chest.

The spot by the curb, always occupied by now, was just… empty.

A frown tugged at his lips.

He checked his phone. No messages. No "Running five minutes late, my love." Nothing.

An uncomfortable, itchy feeling settled under his skin.

It was disappointment, sharp and unwelcome.

He went home, the journey feeling longer than usual, and stomped up to his room, locking the door with a definitive click.

He was pissed.

And the fact that he was pissed just made him more pissed.

Why should he care? This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Freedom from that relentless presence?

He scrolled through his messages, half-expecting, half-dreading to see a flood of texts explaining the absence.

There was nothing.

No persistent, possessive texts from the devil.

The silence from that particular number felt louder than any message ever had.

A deeper frown etched itself onto his face.

With a grunt of frustration, he threw his phone onto his bed as if it had personally offended him and marched into the bathroom to take a shower, hoping the hot water would wash away the deep, unsettling feeling creeping through his body.

It didn’t.

At dinner, his mother had outdone herself, preparing all his favorite dishes—spicy basil chicken, tangy tom yum soup, the works. The aromas that usually made his mouth water now did little to lift his mood.

He pushed the food around his plate, his expression a thundercloud.

"North?" his mother's voice was soft, concerned.

She watched him prod at a piece of chicken without eating it. "Is everything alright, baby?"

The frown on his face deepened.

He couldn't explain it.

How could he say, 'I'm sulking because the obsessive mafia kingpin who turned my life upside down didn't show up for our date'?

He stood up abruptly, a full, sulky pout now evident on his face. "I have a lot of assignments, Mom. I'll go back to my room. I'm full."

He didn't wait for her reply, walking away from the table and the uneaten feast, leaving his mother staring after him with a mixture of confusion and deepening worry.

Back in his room, he locked the door again and sat at his desk, opening his engineering textbook with determined force.

But his brain refused to cooperate.

The equations blurred together, and all he could focus on was the unnerving silence of his phone.

After an hour of reading the same paragraph without comprehending a word, he gave up in defeat and went to bed, where he spent hours staring at the ceiling, his mind frustratingly, stubbornly awake.

The next day was a carbon copy.

No car at the gate.

No texts.

No sign of Johan.

The absence, which should have been a relief, was instead becoming a grating source of frustration.

He kept pulling his phone out of his pocket, checking the screen for a notification that never came.

By lunchtime, in a fit of pique, he turned the device off entirely, shoving it to the bottom of his backpack.

The resulting silence was… empty.

He and Nao spent the afternoon exploring the bustling markets, just like old times.

They ate greasy street food, haggled for silly trinkets, and Nao cracked jokes, trying to lift the strange, sullen mood that had clung to North all day.

But for North, the vibrant chaos of the market felt flat, the flavors bland.

He went home that evening exhausted, but not from joy—from the effort of pretending everything was fine.

He was met at the door by his mother, her arms crossed, her face a mask of furious relief.

"North!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp with worry. "Your phone is off! Do you have any idea how worried I was?? I was about to call Easter!"

North's eyes widened.

In his sulky state, he'd completely forgotten he'd switched it off.

"Sorry, Mom," he said, his voice small. He immediately moved to hug her, trying to soothe her anger. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"Sorry?" she pulled back, cupping his face, her anger melting into deep concern. "I was scared to death! North, what is going on, love? This isn't like you."

North remained silent, his gaze dropping to the floor.

What was wrong?

He couldn't articulate the hollow, irritable feeling gnawing at him.

"Baby," his mother pressed, her thumb stroking his cheek. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

He just shook his head, his voice dropping to a petulant mumble. "Nothing. I… I will take a shower, Mom. I'm really hungry." It was a flimsy excuse, and they both knew it.

His mother studied his face—the downcast eyes, the unhappy set of his mouth—and sighed in resignation.

She patted his cheek gently. "Go freshen up. I'll have your food set up."

After a long shower and a quiet, solitary dinner where he actually managed to eat a little, North finally retreated back to his sanctuary.

With a sense of grim inevitability, he dug his phone out of his backpack and switched it on.

The moment the screen lit up, it exploded into a frantic symphony of light and sound.

Dozens of notifications popped up, and the screen displayed a staggering number: 107 Missed Calls.

North’s heart gave a single, powerful thump against his ribs.

He sat up straight, his earlier sulkiness evaporating into a spike of adrenaline.

His fingers flew across the screen, scrolling through the call log.

Almost all of them were from the same, dreaded, and now strangely awaited contact-

The Devil.

Instead of the thrill he might have expected, a fresh, hot wave of irritation washed over him.

Now he calls? After two days of radio silence? A deep scowl settled on his face.

With a huff, he threw the phone back onto the bed as if it were toxic, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

He sat there in the quiet room, the silence now feeling charged and expectant.

He didn't have to wait long.

The phone lit up again, vibrating against the duvet with an insistent, buzzing ringtone.

The screen clearly displayed: Devil Incoming Call.

North jumped, his body betraying his feigned indifference.

He stared at the device, a war waging inside him.

A part of him, the part that had been checking his phone all day, screamed to answer it, to finally hear the reason for the silence.

The other, more stubborn part—the part that felt neglected and inexplicably hurt—rebelled.

He contemplated it for a long moment, his bottom lip jutting out in a sulky pout.

Then, with a deliberate, haughty turn of his head, he looked away from the ringing phone, deciding to let it go to voicemail.

Let the devil wait.

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. He held his breath, waiting. Sure enough, a moment later, the phone buzzed again, not with a call, but with a rapid-fire series of text notifications.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

The sound was insistent, worming its way past his defenses.

His resolve crumbled.

With a frustrated groan, he uncrossed his arms and snatched the phone from the bed.

The screen was filled with messages from The Devil.

Where are you?

Your phone was off.

Answer me, Love.

I do not like this.

The messages were terse, devoid of their usual flowery devotion, and laced with a sharp, commanding edge that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. The last one made his breath hitch.

I am waiting outside your mansion, love.

North’s eyes widened.

He scrambled off the bed and rushed to his window, pushing the curtains aside just enough to peer down into the driveway.

There, parked ominously under the glow of a streetlamp, was the familiar black Audi.

A tall, dark silhouette leaned against the hood, the ember of a cigarette a single, burning point in the night.

Johan. Actually here. At his house. Past midnight.

A chaotic mix of emotions warred within him—relief, anger, indignation, and that traitorous, fluttering anticipation.

He couldn’t just leave him standing out there. What if his mother looked out her window?

Muttering curses under his breath, North shoved his feet into his shoes, didn’t even bother with a jacket, and slipped out of his room and down the grand staircase, moving as quietly as he could.

He unlocked the front door and stepped out into the cool night air, closing it softly behind him.

Johan straightened up as he approached, crushing the cigarette under the heel of his polished shoe.

His expression was unreadable in the shadows, but the intensity of his gaze was a physical force.

“You switched off your phone,” Johan stated, his voice a low, calm rumble that held a universe of reprimand.

North stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms again, the picture of defensive irritation. “I was busy,” he retorted, his voice snippy.

Johan didn’t respond immediately.

He took a slow, measured step forward, then another, closing the distance until North had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.

The night seemed to shrink around them.

"Are you angry with me, love?" Johan asked, his voice softening, losing its edge and becoming almost… gentle.

He brought his hands up, intending to cradle North’s face, but North immediately flinched back, making Johan’s hands hang suspended in the air between them.

The rejection hung there, tangible and sharp.

"No," North said, the word too quick, too brittle.

He looked away, focusing on a distant tree. "I am not angry."

It was the weakest lie he’d ever told.

A small, almost imperceptible tug pulled at the corner of Johan’s lips.

He let his hands fall back to his sides. "Then why are you radiating such… chilly displeasure?" he murmured.

"And why are you here this late?" North countered, trying to seize back some control, his eyes flicking back to Johan’s.

Johan looked at him, really looked at him, as if reading the turmoil in the set of his shoulders, the unhappy line of his mouth.

The small tug on his lips became a definite, gentle smile.

" Because I missed you, love."

The confession, delivered with such simple, devastating sincerity, made North’s frown deepen, his brows drawing together.

It was the last thing he wanted to hear, the one thing that dismantled his anger most effectively.

"Well, I didn't," North mumbled, the protest sounding childish even to his own ears. He hugged himself tighter.

"So you can go back. I have my morning classes tomorrow." He tried to sound dismissive, but it came out as a plea for… something. An explanation. A reason for the silence.

Johan’s gentle smile remained.

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he stepped forward again, and this time, he didn’t ask for permission. He simply wrapped his arms around North and pulled him into a warm, firm hug.

North resisted for a moment, his body rigid, his arms trapped between them.

But the warmth was a seductive lure against the night’s chill, and the solid, familiar feel of Johan’s body was an anchor in his chaotic emotions.

After a brief, token struggle, he stilled, but he didn’t reciprocate.

He stood within the circle of Johan’s arms, glaring at the shoulder of the man’s expensive suit jacket.

"Please don't be mad at me," Johan mumbled, his voice a low vibration against North’s ear.

He pulled back just enough to cup North’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking over his cheekbones with a tenderness that felt illicit.

North tried to maintain his glare, but the gentle stroking was unraveling him.

"I had some… pressing business," Johan explained, his dark eyes searching North’s. "Some people needed to be buried six feet under the ground. It was… time-sensitive, and the location was remote. There was no signal." He said it with the same matter-of-fact tone one might use to describe a tedious board meeting. "I would never ignore you intentionally, Love. You must know that."

He leaned his forehead against North’s, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I am sorry, love."

His thumb brushed over North’s lips, tracing the sulky, downturned pout that had been fixed on his face for two days.

The explanation, so absurdly violent and yet delivered with such earnest apology, was the final crack in North’s armor.

The anger, which had been a hot, burning coal in his chest, began to cool and crumble into ash.

He stood still, allowing the contact, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief second.

Johan felt the surrender.

He smiled, a real, warm smile that reached his eyes.

He pulled back slightly, his hands still cradling North’s face.

"Do you know," he began, his voice taking on a playful, teasing note that was entirely new,

"you look exactly like those angry wives in those dramas, waiting for their husband to come home so they can scold him."

North froze.

His eyes, which had been half-lidded, flew wide open.

What?

His brain stuttered, trying to process the analogy.

His mouth fell open in horror.

Johan? The man who commanded a criminal empire, who spoke of love in terms of cosmic devotion and violent permanence? Comparing him to a… a scolding wife from a soap opera? He didn’t seem like the type to even own a television, let alone watch something so… mundane and melodramatic.

"What?" he finally managed to choke out, his voice squeaking.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across Johan’s face, delighted by the reaction. "You heard me. The pout. The crossed arms."

North’s horror was now mingled with a burning, incredulous curiosity. "Where," he demanded, his face flushing, "From where did you learn this bullshit?"

Johan looked at him, his gaze still gentle but now sparkling with unabashed amusement.

He leaned in close, his lips nearly brushing North’s ear, and delivered the line with deadpan seriousness.

"Porn."

The single, blunt, one-syllable word dropped between them like a stone in a still pond.

North’s mind went completely, utterly blank.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. He stared at Johan, his brain short-circuiting as it tried to reconcile the image of this sophisticated, dangerous man with… that.

A wave of heat, so intense it felt like a sunburn, exploded across his skin.

He was sure he was glowing red from head to toe in the darkness.

"Y-You…" he stammered, pulling back to search Johan’s face for any sign of a joke. There was none. Only that infuriating, knowing amusement. "You watch… porn? That kind of porn?"

Johan’s smirk deepened.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind North’s ear, his fingers lingering. "I am a man of varied and thorough research, my love. I believe in understanding all facets of human behavior, even the… dramatized ones."

His thumb stroked the shell of North’s now-burning ear. "And my research conclusively proved that you, my beautiful, sulking boy, were missing me. Terribly."

North was speechless.

He was torn between the urge to scream, to laugh hysterically, or to simply turn around and march back into the house and never come out.

He settled for a furious glower, his earlier anger now completely refueled by embarrassment.

"That's—! That's not research, that's—! And I was not sulking!" he hissed, his cheeks burning.

He jabbed a finger at Johan’s chest, a futile gesture of defiance. "And I am not your… your dramatic wife!"

Johan caught his wrist effortlessly, his grip firm but not painful.

He pulled North just a little closer, eliminating the scant distance between them.

The night air suddenly felt much warmer.

"No," Johan agreed, his voice dropping to that devastating, possessive whisper that never failed to make North’s knees feel weak. "You are much more than that." His dark eyes held North’s, utterly captive

North’s breath hitched.

He could feel the solid warmth of Johan’s body, smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne mixed with the night air and the lingering trace of tobacco.

The fight drained out of him, replaced by a shaky, confusing vulnerability.

He couldn’t deny it.

The two days had felt… empty. Wrong. The silence had been deafening.

He didn't admit it aloud. He didn't have to. The lack of a fiery denial, the way his body subtly leaned into Johan’s hold, was confession enough.

"Don’t… don’t do it again," North mumbled, the words leaving his lips in a soft, petulant rush before he could stop them.

They were possessive, needy, and everything he’d sworn he wouldn't become.

A slow, triumphant, and unbearably tender smile spread across Johan’s face. He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to North’s forehead. "I won't," he promised, his voice firm against North's skin.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Now, go inside before you catch a cold," he said, his tone gently chiding. Then, with a final, glinting smirk, he added, "My dramatic little wife."

North’s head snapped up, his embarrassment returning in a furious, crimson wave. "I am not—!"

But Johan was already turning, a low, rich chuckle echoing in the quiet night as he walked back to his car.

North stood frozen on the doorstep, watching the Audi’s taillights disappear down the long driveway.

His face was burning, his heart a confused, frantic mess in his chest.

He was furious, humiliated, and yet, a strange, warm sense of rightness settled over him.

A strange, watery laugh escaped him as he finally turned and stumbled back into the mansion, locking the door behind him.

He leaned against it, his heart still pounding a frantic rhythm.

He was in deep, deep trouble.

~***~

The next day, the scent hit him first. Not the usual aroma of coffee and breakfast, but an overwhelming, cloying wave of roses.

North paused midway down the grand staircase, his hand frozen on the polished banister.

He blinked, his sleep-addled brain struggling to process the sight below.

The vast living hall, usually a study in tasteful minimalism, was now a sea of blood-red velvet.

Dozens, no, hundreds of rose bouquets were arranged with military precision on every available surface.

It was an opulent, suffocating invasion.

And in the center of it all, sitting across from his mother on the plush white sofa, was the source of the invasion.

Johan.

He looked perfectly at ease, a king holding court in a conquered land.

His posture was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, a stark contrast to his mother’s rigid, pale form.

She was holding a thick sheaf of documents, her hands trembling so slightly the papers rustled.

The scene was so surreal, so utterly bizarre, that North simply stood there, staring.

It was Johan who noticed him first.

His dark eyes, which had been fixed on Mrs. Theerawong, flicked upward.

The moment they landed on North, the intensity in them shifted, sharpening with a possessive, burning focus that made the air crackle.

A gentle smile spread across his face. "Slept well, love?"

The sound of his voice broke the spell. North’s mother flinched and followed Johan’s gaze, her own eyes wide with a mixture of sheer terror and profound confusion.

Feeling like he was moving through deep water, North descended the remaining steps, his sneakers silent on the marble.

He ignored Johan’s question, his own heart hammering against his ribs.

His eyes were locked on the documents in his mother’s hands.

"Mom?" he said, his voice quieter than he intended. "What's this?"

His mother looked from the papers in her hand to North’s face, her expression one of a person who had just been told the sky was green.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She simply shook her head, a helpless, lost gesture.

"Johan," his mother finally managed, her voice a shaky whisper, correcting him.

She held the documents out to North as if they were radioactive. "He... he bought them. All of them. Under your name."

North’s eyes widened, his brain refusing to compute the words.

He took the papers from her numb fingers.

They were property deeds, transfer documents, all stamped and official.

His vision blurred over the legalese, but the names were clear. Theerawong, North. And the properties listed… he recognized them. Every single one.

"The… the café near the university," North stammered, his finger tracing the address. "The one with the good iced coffee… and the… the one by the river we went to last week… and…" He flipped through the pages, his disbelief growing with each one. "There are six here."

"Seven, actually," Johan corrected gently, as if discussing the weather. "The one on Silom Road finalized its paperwork an hour ago. The agent is bringing the documents later."

North’s head snapped up.

He stared at Johan, his mouth agape.

Huh!???