I sink into the couch, letting my body fall back while my eyes quietly scan the apartment.
Simple.
Clean.
Warm in a way that doesn't try too hard.
Gen moves in the kitchen, the soft sounds of cooking filling the space—oil sizzling, a drawer closing, the faint clink of utensils. He looks… domestic. Almost unreal.
I can't believe I accepted this, I think coldly.
This silly boy's confession. This dinner. This farce.
It's only a plan.
Nothing here is real.
My gaze betrays me, drifting back to him.
He's wearing an apron over his shirt, the top buttons undone, exposing a broad chest and arms built with a strength that still doesn't match the innocence in his eyes. The memory of that night flashes through my mind—heat, pressure, breath—
I turn my face away sharply.
What the hell are you thinking, Arem?
Focus.
Focus on plan.
This is strategy, not desire.
"Are you okay?" Gen's voice cuts in, gentle.
I glance up. He's smiling at me—soft, open, stupidly sincere.
