When Sai Castanier Reifler married Dylan Castanier Reifler—infamous Mafia Emperor, feared from the gilded courts of Europe to the neon alleys of Hong Kong, and the richest man alive, his fortune untraceable, infinite—they all said it was for the money. For the power. For the prestige.

They said Sai was just another beautiful consort, collected like an antique and displayed in diamond halls. They said he’d fall into indulgence, into opulence, into silence.

But they were all wrong.

Sai didn’t need any of it.

The truth was simpler and deeper. Sai didn’t marry the Empire. He married the man who ruled it.

That day had been ordinary in the Castanier Reifler estate—if any day in the home of the world’s most dangerous man could be called that. The sun slipped through the expansive skylights, pouring golden warmth over the silk bedsheets as Sai sat in their bedroom, legs folded beneath him, holding a mug of lemon tea. He was dressed simply—an oversized gray shirt that may or may not have been Dylan’s, and soft pajama pants that pooled around his ankles. His long hair was loosely tied, dark strands trailing over his shoulder as he absently flipped through a book of architecture sketches.

The estate was too quiet for a Thursday.

That was the first sign.

The second was the sound of hard footsteps—measured but loud, echoing down the ivory corridor like thunder.

The third was the door swinging open with too much force.

Dylan stood in the doorway.

Unsmiling. Unfolding rage burning in his sharp, storm-colored eyes. He was still in his black suit, the jacket unbuttoned, the tie pulled loose. His cufflinks were missing, and that was never a good sign.

He strode into the room, his movements controlled but lethal—like a lion trying very hard not to break something.

Sai didn’t flinch. He never did, even in Dylan’s storms. He simply raised his head and blinked at him slowly.

“You're upset,” he observed.

Dylan didn’t answer. He reached into his coat, pulled out a folder, and tossed it onto the bed.

“Just check the extracts from my bank account.”

Sai lowered his mug. With a calm, practiced air, he opened the folder. It was a series of account statements, pristine, printed and freshly marked. Numbers. Immense numbers. Transactions listed—gifts purchased, companies acquired, a palace somewhere in Morocco purchased without negotiation—and then, silence.

No personal spending. No major withdrawal. No shopping spree, no untraceable gift-giving.

Especially not from Sai.

He looked up.

“And?” he asked.

“And?” Dylan echoed, his tone sharp with disbelief, “You didn’t spend a single damn penny of my money!”

Sai tilted his head slightly, voice as gentle as ever. “I didn’t need to.”

“I don’t care if you need it or not!” Dylan nearly growled, stepping forward. “You’re my husband, Sai. Not a guest. Not a tenant. Not my disciplined accountant. You’re mine. Go spend my money.”

Sai’s brows lifted, amused. “What for?”

“I don’t care. Buy a private island. Paint the Louvre. Replace the moon with a sapphire. You know how much I move in a day? Billions. And I checked every account, and the only person who never touches a coin is you.”

Sai shut the folder quietly. Then, in a voice so calm it made Dylan pause, he said, “If I start spending, they’ll say that’s the reason I married you.”

“They already say it,” Dylan hissed. “Let them choke on it.”

Sai laughed softly. “So dramatic.”

Dylan’s jaw clenched. “You once walked into a gunfight for me. You don’t flinch when I bring back blood. You sleep in the same bed where I plan wars. But you think taking my money is too much?”

Sai placed his hand gently over Dylan’s chest, right above his heart. It was still racing.

“I married you, Dylan,” he said, “not your bank balance. I want the version of you that forgets his tie but remembers my tea order. The one who still holds my hand when no one’s watching. The one who lets his empire bend around me but never dares to command me.”

Dylan’s breath hitched, anger softening at the edges.

“And I want you to know,” Sai added, “that I’ll never need your money to prove you’re mine. Or that I’m yours.”

There was silence. Then, Dylan’s arm wrapped around Sai’s waist and pulled him in with possessive ease. He kissed his temple, voice quieter this time, as if surrendering something.

“You still better spend my money.”

Sai chuckled into his chest. “Fine. I’ll buy the moon.”

“You’re laughing, but if I see one more untouched card in your name—”

“I’ll spend a dollar.”

“Sai.”

“Two?”

Dylan groaned, exasperated, but there was laughter under it. Real and deep. The kind he only shared with Sai.

That was the thing about them.

The world saw a king and his consort. But in truth, it was an empire built around love—not possession.

And sometimes, love looked like quiet mornings, sharp arguments, untouched bank accounts, and endless, infinite patience.

Even in a palace made of gold.

Sai did eventually spend money.

Not on a yacht.

Not on an island.

Not even on a diamond-encrusted fox sanctuary, which Dylan half-suggested during a bored midnight conversation.

No, Sai spent his first official purchase as the mafia emperor’s husband on something small, plain, and almost insultingly ordinary compared to the billions behind his name.

A box of birth control pills.

He didn’t even use Dylan’s platinum-deep account. Not directly. But it was technically from Dylan’s money—a shared medical subscription, discreet, quietly billed, no fanfare. Just a gentle transaction that slid like a whisper through the empire’s golden gates.

Sai thought nothing of it.

He took his time that evening. A hot bath, long enough to steam the mirrors and loosen every muscle from his spine. He let the lavender-scented foam rise around his shoulders, eyes closed as the water lulled him into silence. It was one of those rare moments when the world outside their fortress fell away—no assassins, no missions, no empire, just warmth.

He didn’t hear Dylan return.

Didn’t hear the soft thump of footsteps in their room. Didn’t hear the rustle of discarded weapons or the crackle of an opened paper bag.

But Dylan saw it.

The slim pack left on the nightstand. The pills, unmistakable in their shape, the calendar dial turned to Day 3. They weren’t hidden. They were just there—as if Sai thought nothing of it. As if this wasn’t a silent bullet between the ribs.

Dylan’s hand reached out and picked up the small blister pack. He held it up, staring at it for a long moment, as if it might vanish under the weight of his glare.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Sai stepped out, towel around his waist, damp hair clinging to his back. He paused at the sight of Dylan standing in the middle of their room, one hand in his pocket, the other holding something out between two fingers.

A familiar rectangle of foil and plastic.

“…What’s this?” Dylan asked.

His voice was deceptively calm.

Sai stopped walking. His eyes dropped to the pack, then returned to Dylan’s face, unreadable. He let out a slow breath and stepped closer, wet feet padding against the marble floor.

“Birth control,” Sai said simply.

Dylan’s jaw twitched. “Obviously. Why?”

Sai gave him a look, gentle but firm. “Why do you think?”

Dylan dropped the pack onto the bed with a sharp flick of his wrist. It bounced once and lay there, like a quiet accusation between them.

“You think I’d let anything happen to you?” Dylan’s voice was low now, quieter but far more dangerous. “You think I’d get you pregnant by accident?”

“I think we’ve both been reckless,” Sai replied calmly. “Twice in the last month, no protection. You came back from war, and I wasn’t exactly thinking logically.”

“And you think I wouldn’t want that?” Dylan stepped forward now, the shadows pulling behind him. “You think I wouldn’t want to build a life in you if it happened?”

Sai didn’t back down. He never did—not from bullets, not from politics, and not from Dylan’s wild, aching intensity.

“I know you would,” Sai said. “You’d throw the world at my feet and chain the sky to keep me safe. That’s not the point.”

Dylan stared, breath heavy.

“The point,” Sai continued softly, “is that I don’t want a child yet. Not now. Not while you’re still burning cities and dragging your enemies by the throat. Not while I’m still finding out how much I can be without getting lost in you.”

Silence.

Long and sharp.

“You think I’m not stable enough to raise a child,” Dylan said flatly.

Sai stepped even closer, until his fingers gently touched Dylan’s.

“No,” he whispered. “I think you’d be a good father. And I think I’d be a devoted one. But I want us to choose it. Not trip into it.”

Dylan looked away, eyes glassy with heat. “You should’ve told me.”

“I knew you’d react like this.”

“Because you’re mine,” Dylan muttered, almost to himself. “Every part of you. Even your future.”

“I know,” Sai said. “But I’m not ready to give that part of me away yet. Not even to you.”

Dylan closed his eyes. His breathing steadied. Then he opened them again and picked up the pills—not with rage now, but with quiet understanding, the kind that came only after the storm passed.

“Three days in already?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“…Next time,” Dylan said, looking at him, “we decide together.”

Sai smiled faintly. “Next time.”

Dylan set the pills back on the nightstand.

Then he reached for Sai’s waist and pulled him close, towel and all, letting the scent of lavender wrap around them.

In that room of empires and shadows, of whispered fears and unspoken dreams, they stood together—not as king and consort, but as two men learning how to share power.

Even over something as small as a pill.

Dylan’s hand, still warm against Sai’s damp waist, stilled.

Sai looked up at him, eyes laced with playful scolding, a single brow raised as he added with absolutely no hesitation:

“You have infinite money, Dylan. You could buy the Vatican. Yet you can’t buy basic protection?” He pulled slightly away, just enough to cross his arms over his bare chest and sigh. “Buy condoms, will you?”

Dylan blinked.

Then blinked again.

He looked like a man who had just been personally insulted in twelve languages by the person he loved the most.

“I’m the most powerful man on the planet,” he said slowly, as though the words might help him understand what had just happened. “And you’re asking me to buy… condoms?”

“Yes,” Sai deadpanned. “Rubber ones. Latex. Ribbed. Pick a texture if you like, I won’t stop you. Just use them.”

Dylan opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the slim pill pack again. Then back up at Sai, whose damp hair and towel should’ve made him look soft and innocent—but he just looked annoyed.

“I’m sorry, have we time-traveled?” Dylan asked. “Did I not just offer you the treasury of four continents and a planet made of silk? And you’re mad because I didn’t buy condoms?”

Sai stepped around him, grabbed a comb from the nightstand, and began untangling his hair with patient strokes. “It’s not about the money.”

“Everything is about money when you have this much of it,” Dylan muttered.

“No,” Sai replied. “Sometimes it’s about planning. And being responsible. And not knocking me up just because you forgot to restock the bottom drawer.”

Dylan’s face twisted. “Sai, no one forgets the bottom drawer. We use the bottom drawer.”

“Well, the bottom drawer has exactly one expired foil pack and two empty wrappers,” Sai snapped. “And I’m not relying on your... your memory and improvisation when my hormones are the ones that get hijacked.”

Dylan was now pacing.

The man who had ordered assassinations with a flick of his wrist, who had faced down coups and traitors and cartels, now ran a hand through his hair like he was unraveling.

“I’ll buy a factory.”

Sai glanced at him through the mirror. “What?”

“I’ll buy the entire condom industry. Just to make sure you never run out.”

Sai groaned. “You don’t need to buy the industry, Dylan. Just go to the pharmacy like a normal person and buy a few boxes.”

“A few? What if they break?”

“Then buy the good ones!”

“Define good.”

“The kind that don’t come from a shady vending machine outside an underground casino in Naples.”

“That was one time!”

Sai turned around, comb in hand. “It was one time and I had a rash for three days.”

“You said it was the bath salts!”

“I lied.”

There was a pause. A long, loaded silence. Then—

Dylan let out a laugh.

Not his usual cool, elegant chuckle. But a real, shocked, utterly disarmed laugh that cracked through the air like thunder breaking tension. His shoulders shook. He leaned against the dresser like he was trying not to fall over from how ridiculous—and how perfectly normal—this argument had become.

Sai smiled too. Just a little. Then walked over, still barefoot, and poked him in the chest with the comb.

“I love you,” he said simply. “But if you don’t buy condoms, I’ll personally invoice your trillion-dollar empire for my prenatal vitamins and cry at every board meeting.”

Dylan leaned down, cupping Sai’s cheek.

“I’d build you a palace shaped like a pacifier if you wanted one.”

Sai grinned. “Condoms, Dylan. Not a palace.”

“Fine,” Dylan sighed. “I’ll go buy the damn condoms.”

“And if I find glitter or glow-in-the-dark ones—”

“I make no promises.”

Sai rolled his eyes but kissed him anyway, soft and warm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you married me anyway,” Dylan whispered against his lips.

They both knew it wasn’t the money, or the pills, or the condoms.

It was this. The give and take. The ridiculous arguments tangled in deep love.

It was the choice to stay, even through the ordinary things.

Especially through the ordinary things.

Dylan froze.

The smirk that had been playing on his lips vanished as fast as a dropped crown in a war zone.

Sai, still damp from his bath, arms crossed and expression perfectly calm, delivered the sentence like a royal decree:

"If you don’t buy condoms, we won’t have sex."

It was not a tease.

Not a playful threat.

It was the terrifying tone of a man who had meant every word and would carry it to his grave.

Dylan, the most feared mafia emperor in existence, stared at his husband as if he had just been shot at point-blank range with a glitter gun. The sheer horror on his face made Sai internally snort—but he kept his composure.

“You wouldn’t,” Dylan said, eyes narrowing.

“I absolutely would,” Sai replied smoothly, towel tucked securely around his waist as he walked over to the closet, opening it casually.

“You love sex.”

“I love protection more.”

“Sai.”

“Dylan.”

The way Sai turned his head to look over his shoulder, hair still damp and clinging to his neck, a single eyebrow raised—that was a battlefield move. No less lethal than a dagger to the ribs. It meant he was done talking.

Dylan stood there like he’d just been served divorce papers for being horny and irresponsible.

“Are you seriously holding my libido hostage over a trip to the pharmacy?” he growled, low and dangerous.

“No,” Sai replied sweetly. “I’m holding my uterus hostage. Your libido is just collateral damage.”

“You don’t even have a uterus.”

“I could.” Sai slammed the closet shut and turned to face him. “You’ve been trying awfully hard to install one.”

Dylan groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “I can smuggle nuclear weapons across borders without a paper trail. I can erase identities, collapse governments. But the idea of walking into a pharmacy for condoms is what finally undoes me?”

Sai leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Yes. Because nuclear weapons don’t usually result in baby showers.”

Dylan pointed a finger, frustrated. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“I’m enforcing standards,” Sai shot back. “If you can spend trillions on diamond-encrusted wristwatches and bulletproof limousines with crocodile leather seats, then surely you can buy a damn box of latex.”

“I’ll send someone—”

“No,” Sai interrupted immediately. “You. Personally. Walk in. Pick a brand. Pay. Walk out. Humble yourself for once, O Emperor of the Underworld.”

Dylan looked like he was short-circuiting.

His left eye twitched.

“I’m going to do it,” he muttered at last. “Fine. I’ll buy them.”

“Good,” Sai said, satisfied. “Because until I see a receipt, consider our bedroom closed for business.”

“You’d really deprive me of your body?”

“I’d miss you,” Sai said sweetly, leaning forward and placing a kiss on Dylan’s cheek. “But I’d survive. Would you?”

Dylan looked like he had been shot and healed in the same second.

“Send me a list,” he muttered. “Brand, size, color. Whatever you want.”

“No glow-in-the-dark.”

“But they’re festive—”

“Dylan.”

“Fine, no fun.”

Sai watched him stomp out of the bedroom like a lion with a sore paw. And when the door finally shut, Sai let himself laugh, burying his face in his hands.

Fifteen minutes later, a message pinged on Sai’s phone.

From: Dylan

Subject: Operation Latex Storm

“Entering enemy territory. Pray for me.”

Sai stared at it for a moment, biting back laughter.

He replied with a single emoji: 🛑🍆

And somewhere, in the most luxurious black car on the planet, Dylan Castanier Reifler groaned loud enough to shake the rearview mirror.

For an emperor, the battlefield was endless.

But tonight, it was lit by fluorescent lights, filled with awkward stares, and lined with shelves of colored foil packets.

All for love.

And very necessary latex.

The door swung open just as Sai was rubbing a towel over his damp hair, casually wandering barefoot across the bedroom to get dressed. He had expected Dylan to take at least half an hour—maybe more. Between traffic, his tendency to overanalyze product branding, and his habit of threatening any stranger who dared look at him too long, Sai assumed he had time.

He did not.

Dylan reappeared in less than fifteen minutes.

Sai looked up, brows raised. “That was quick—”

He stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Mid-breath.

Because Dylan didn’t just walk in. He strode in, a tall black paper bag dangling from one hand like a trophy, his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and a dangerous glint in his storm-gray eyes.

And then—

He reached into the bag.

And pulled out a box.

A large, glossy, matte-black box that slid smoothly out and flipped over in his palm with disturbing elegance.

Sai's eyes widened.

“Are those—”

Flick.

A second box.

Then a third. Then a fourth.

And finally, Dylan pulled out the fifth.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, he casually tossed them onto the bed like poker cards at a high-stakes table.

They landed with a bounce, spreading across the silk sheets like a scandal. All of them marked boldly on the front in crisp silver:

XXL.

The words felt louder than they looked. Sai could practically hear the packaging shout.

One box slipped off the edge and hit the floor with a gentle flop.

He stared at it.

Then stared back at Dylan.

“…You bought five?” Sai asked, his voice cracking halfway through.

Dylan didn’t answer immediately. He just stepped closer. Slow. Confident. Like he knew something Sai didn’t yet.

Then he picked up one of the boxes, gave it a little shake—rattle rattle, like an ominous maraca—and looked Sai right in the eye.

“Pick a number from one to ten,” he said smoothly.

Sai blinked. “…What?”

“Pick. A number.” Dylan leaned down just slightly, close enough to kiss, but with that damn smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “From one. To ten.”

Something in Sai’s stomach tightened. Not unpleasant—but not exactly safe, either.

“…U-uhhm…” He looked at the boxes. Looked at Dylan. Looked at his own towel-wrapped body. “…Ten?”

Dylan’s smirk deepened, eyes gleaming.

“Ten rounds then.”

Sai’s breath hitched. “Wait—what?”

“I bought many condoms like you wanted.” Dylan stepped forward, gently brushing his fingers under Sai’s chin. “Now I expect a return on my investment.”

“Dylan.”

“Mmm?”

“That is not how this works—”

“Oh, but it is,” Dylan said, his voice all velvet threat and affectionate chaos. “You told me to buy condoms. I bought all the condoms. And now…” He kissed the corner of Sai’s jaw, lingering there. “Now I’m going to use them. One. By. One.”

Sai inhaled sharply as Dylan’s lips brushed his skin again.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly.” Dylan’s voice dropped an octave. “You gave me a task. I completed it like a responsible husband. I even refrained from buying glow-in-the-dark ones. That deserves reward. Ten of them.”

“Dylan, I will not survive ten—”

“We’ll pace ourselves. Hydration breaks. Stretching. Maybe a protein shake halfway.”

Sai stumbled back, towel threatening to slip. “You're insane.”

Dylan caught him before he could retreat any further, arms wrapping around his waist and lifting him with humiliating ease. Sai squeaked—a very undignified sound—just as Dylan deposited him on the bed, right between the scattered boxes like some sacrificial lamb to the altar of lust.

“I’m going to file a complaint,” Sai muttered weakly as he tried to sit up.

“Accepted,” Dylan said. “It’ll be reviewed after round ten.”

“I should’ve picked three.”

“Too late. You said ten. Your word is law.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Dylan leaned down, mouth barely brushing Sai’s as he whispered, “You love me.”

Sai hated that it was true. That even now, with the absurdity, the smug grin, the emperor-sized ego—he did love him. Down to the last cell. Down to the laugh bubbling up in his throat even as his heart raced from panic and anticipation.

“You’re a menace,” he breathed.

“And you’re mine,” Dylan replied.

He kissed him deeply then, slow and certain. And as the room began to spin with heat and tension and silk sheets wrinkling beneath them, Sai thought—

At least the damn condoms are here.

Because this man?

He was not going to stop at ten.

Then Dylan suddenly slam his lips on Sai's, kissing passionately.

The kiss was slow, thorough, and laced with the kind of heat that made Sai's thoughts short-circuit.

Dylan’s hand was already sliding up his thigh, making the towel feel completely useless, when Sai’s gaze flickered sideways—and landed on one of the boxes that had spilled open.

A single foil packet had slipped out.

It looked… different.

It wasn’t like the others. The usual smooth, anonymous packaging was replaced by something slightly shinier, with bold, red text on it and—

Sai squinted.

Wait.

Were those tiny raised bumps?

His stomach flipped.

He leaned slightly to the side, picked up the packet, held it between two fingers, and stared at it like it was a live grenade.

“…Why,” he said slowly, voice barely above a whisper, “does this condom have spikes?”

Dylan paused, hand mid-glide.

Sai turned his head with robotic stiffness and held the packet up to Dylan’s face.

“Spikes,” he repeated, louder. “There are spikes on this. On the inside. Dylan—why?”

Dylan, completely unashamed, blinked once, then smirked. “Ah. That’s the ‘Intensifier.’ Premium. Limited edition.”

Sai stared at him.

Dylan continued like he was describing a wine label. “It’s designed to enhance stimulation. Raised textures. Internal ribs. A few gentle... nubs.”

“Nubs?” Sai echoed, scandalized. “It says ‘Intense Warrior Mode’ on the back.”

“I thought it was catchy,” Dylan said, taking the packet from his hand and flipping it over casually. “See here? ‘Unlock legendary sensations.’ I figured it sounded... fun.”

“I’m not a battlefield.”

Dylan leaned in, amused. “You’re my battlefield.”

Sai narrowed his eyes. “That sounds romantic until you remember battlefields get torn apart.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on tearing you apart. Not without proper aftercare.”

Sai reached for a pillow and smacked him square in the chest.

“Dylan, there are tactical instructions on this thing!”

Dylan burst into laughter, a rare, deep sound that made Sai’s stomach betray him with warmth. But he was not letting this go.

“Did you read what it says?” Sai asked, flipping the packet open. “‘Not for the faint of heart.’ ‘Do not use if allergic to pleasure.’ ‘Use at own risk.’”

“I told the pharmacist to give me the ‘most aggressive’ option in the aisle.”

Sai slapped a hand to his face. “You asked a pharmacist that?”

“She laughed,” Dylan shrugged. “Said I was brave. Or stupid. Maybe both.”

Sai groaned. “You are not putting anything called 'Intense Warrior Mode' near my intestines.”

“I bought five boxes,” Dylan pouted mockingly. “Just a little test run—”

“Nope. Return it. Burn it. Offer it to the gods as tribute. I am not engaging in battle with your novelty weaponry.”

Dylan leaned over and kissed the tip of Sai’s nose. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you are not sneaking this into any round of anything tonight,” Sai said, plucking the packet from his hand and throwing it across the room like it had offended his entire bloodline.

It landed somewhere behind the dresser.

“Fine,” Dylan laughed, hands up in surrender. “Standard issue only.”

Sai gave him a sharp look, but he couldn’t suppress the faint curl of a smile.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he muttered.

“I’m lucky you love me,” Dylan corrected, kissing him again.

Sai didn’t argue this time.

But just in case, he checked every single remaining foil packet before round one officially began. And every time Dylan reached for another one, Sai made damn sure it didn’t say anything like “Dragon Scale,” “Turbo Pulse,” or “Ultra-Mega-Shockwave Edition.”

Because with Dylan Castanier Reifler?

There was no such thing as just one surprise

Sai lay flat on his back, somewhere between bliss, exhaustion, and spiritual disassociation.

The sheets were a wreck—twisted, half-off the mattress, damp with sweat and heat. Pillows had been flung into various corners of the room like casualties of war. The bedside lamp flickered from where it had been nudged by someone's foot. Probably his. Or maybe Dylan’s, during round five, when things got a little… acrobatic.

Sai could no longer remember what time it was. Or what dimension he belonged to.

He only knew nine rounds had happened.

Nine.

Nine glorious, indulgent, overwhelming rounds, fueled by expensive latex, terrifying stamina, and Dylan’s maddening tendency to turn every intimate moment into a test of Sai’s physical limits and willpower.

And just when Sai thought it was over…

Just when he had collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs and post-climax haze, murmuring, “I’m dead. Bury me in satin and don’t wake me till winter,”—

He heard it.

That sound.

Riiiiip.

The unmistakable hiss of foil tearing.

A soft, familiar one.

Followed by a second, more sinister one.

Sai’s eyes cracked open, barely.

He lifted his head slowly. “…Did you just…?”

Dylan, completely unbothered, was kneeling at the edge of the bed, muscles glistening under the low light, his back tattoo flexing with every casual movement. He tossed a used condom into the waste bin without ceremony, and with the other hand…

He held something.

Sai squinted.

That packaging was shiny.

Too shiny.

The text—red.

“…No,” Sai whispered, voice dry. “No. Dylan. Don’t you dare.”

Dylan’s grin was all wolf, mischief gleaming in his eyes as he slid the new one on with practiced ease. And yes—yes, Sai could already see the faint texture. Those raised, horrifying little bumps.

He held himself above Sai, one hand braced beside his head, the other trailing teasingly down his side as he whispered—

“Ready for the thrill, darling?”

Sai stared at him like he’d been betrayed in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“Dylan. Castanier. Reifler. We had a deal.”

Dylan pressed a slow, sinful kiss to Sai’s collarbone. “The deal was ten rounds. We’ve done nine.”

“That’s not a reason to bring out the torture device.”

“It’s called Intense Warrior Mode, Sai.”

“It should be called Intense Lawsuit.”

Dylan laughed softly, and the sound vibrated against Sai’s skin. “Come on. It’s the final round. Let’s go out with a bang.”

Sai grabbed a pillow and shoved it weakly against his face. “I knew you were going to pull something like this. I felt it in my soul.”

“Too late,” Dylan murmured, already positioning himself with lethal precision. “It’s equipped.”

Sai peeked out from the pillow, genuinely nervous now. “Is it… sharp?”

“No,” Dylan reassured. “Just… enhanced.”

“Enhanced how?”

“You’ll see.”

“Dylan—”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“You said that in round four, right before the headboard broke.”

“I’ve evolved since then.”

Sai groaned. “I swear, if this leaves me with a weird sensation for the next twenty-four hours, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“I’ll carry you to the couch with me.”

“If I can’t walk tomorrow, I’m calling your therapist.”

“She already knows I have a problem.”

Sai opened his mouth, then closed it again when Dylan moved—just a little, just enough to make him forget what his original point was.

“…This is so irresponsible,” Sai whispered, voice shaking.

“And yet,” Dylan said softly, “you’re still underneath me.”

Sai let out a small, nervous whimper as Dylan leaned down, nose brushing his cheek, lips warm at his ear.

“Let’s unlock legendary sensations, my love.”

“You are so lucky I love you,” Sai muttered.

“I know.”

And with that, round ten began.

Sai would later describe it as spiritually enlightening, alarmingly textured, and the reason he couldn’t sit properly the next day.

Dylan would just grin and restock the bottom drawer—with one extra box of spiked reinforcements.

Just in case.

The moment it began, Sai felt the difference.

The initial glide was slow—deceptively gentle—Dylan sinking into him inch by inch, giving him time to adjust, to feel. And oh, did he feel.

Sai’s eyes flew wide open, his breath catching as his back arched slightly off the bed. His mouth parted, a gasp escaping before he even realized it.

There was texture.

Subtle at first—barely there. But as Dylan pushed deeper, the pressure changed. The soft, raised ridges of the spiked condom scraped against nerves that hadn’t been touched like this before. Not painful, not harsh, but overwhelming. Surprising. Wickedly stimulating.

Sai’s fingers clenched the sheets beside him.

“Ah—!” he gasped, his voice already beginning to shake. “F-Fuck—Dylan…”

Dylan groaned against his neck, lips brushing along Sai’s jaw as he whispered, “Feel that?”

Sai could only nod, too breathless to form a reply. His legs trembled, instinctively tightening around Dylan’s waist as another slow thrust rolled through him.

And this time—

“Ngh—ahhh!” Sai cried out, louder now, head tilting back as the sensation hit harder. The raised edges, those damn spikes, rubbed with maddening friction inside him, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight to his spine.

Dylan gripped Sai’s hips, holding him firmly in place as he began to move—rhythmic, steady, deliberate. Every push dragged the texture deeper into him, and every pull made Sai keen.

“You like it,” Dylan murmured darkly against his skin.

Sai couldn't lie. He was gasping, panting, fingers now clawing at Dylan’s back.

“It’s—ahhh—different!”

Dylan chuckled, low and smug, pressing a kiss to Sai’s shoulder as he thrust a little faster. “Different’s not bad.”

“Sh-shut up—!” Sai stuttered, but the next sound that tore from his throat contradicted everything he was trying to argue. “Dylan—Gods, it’s too—too much—!”

“You’re taking it so well,” Dylan groaned, voice rasping as he buried himself fully. “So tight—gripping me like you don’t want to let go…”

Sai's entire body jolted with the next thrust. He nearly sobbed with pleasure.

It wasn’t just the spikes—it was how Dylan used them. He knew every angle inside Sai, every spot that would make him cry out. And now, enhanced by that sinful little invention, it was overwhelming.

Every nerve lit up like a string of firecrackers. Sai couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He was caught in wave after wave of sensation—his voice spilling from him in broken moans and gasps, his legs wrapped tight around Dylan as if anchoring himself.

“Dylan—ah—ahhh—harder!”

Dylan obeyed.

And the friction—it intensified. The ridges of the condom dragged across that one spot, that spot, again and again, and Sai screamed.

It was shameless now. The bed creaked under them. Skin met skin in quick, slick rhythm. Dylan’s breathing turned ragged, his control faltering as Sai clung to him, flushed and trembling.

“Say my name,” Dylan growled, picking up the pace.

“Dylan! Dyl—ahhh! Fuck— DYLAN!”

He was unraveling.

Faster than ever. His vision blurred, legs shaking violently, pleasure coiling so tight in his belly it hurt. And still Dylan drove in—deep and sure—dragging the condom’s textured length against him with every stroke.

“Come for me,” Dylan whispered hotly. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

Sai didn’t need permission.

With one final, gasping cry, his body snapped.

Pleasure burst through him like a tidal wave, white-hot and mind-numbing. His body arched, back bowing, toes curling as his climax hit so hard, he saw stars.

He barely registered Dylan’s voice—a strangled groan against his ear—as he followed, hips stuttering as he emptied himself with a deep thrust, body shaking with the force of his own release.

They collapsed together, tangled, sweaty, gasping.

Silence hung in the air.

Sai lay boneless beneath him, chest heaving, his entire body flushed red.

Dylan finally pulled back, rolling to the side and tossing the used condom into the bin with a triumphant flick of his wrist.

Sai turned his head slowly.

“…I hate you,” he rasped.

Dylan chuckled, breathless and smug. “That sounded like the opposite of hate.”

“You cheated. I said no spikes—”

“You said no rounds one through nine spikes. Ten was fair game.”

Sai groaned and pulled the sheet over his face.

“I swear to all things sacred,” he muttered, “if I can’t sit down tomorrow…”

Dylan reached over and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Then I’ll just carry you everywhere.”

Sai peeked at him from under the sheet. “…Even to breakfast?”

“Especially to breakfast.”

“…And you’ll make me pancakes?”

“With chocolate chips.”

Sai sighed dramatically. “Fine. You're forgiven.”

Dylan grinned.

And from behind the dresser, somewhere deep in the shadows, one more spiked packet lay untouched…

Patient.

Waiting.

But that was for another night.

Morning light crept through the heavy velvet curtains in golden slants, soft and warm across the wreckage of their room.

Sai stirred with a groan.

His body ached. His muscles hummed with fatigue in places he didn’t know could feel exhausted, and his thighs trembled even lying still. He cracked one eye open, then winced at the sunlight and tried to roll onto his side.

Mistake.

He let out a faint whimper, burying his face into the pillow. “Gods… I can’t move.”

From the far end of the room, the sound of plates clinking echoed faintly. Footsteps padded back toward the bed, light but deliberate. Sai didn’t even have to lift his head to know who it was.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Dylan’s voice rang with infuriating cheer.

Sai managed a muffled, bitter reply into the pillow: “Die.”

“Aw.” Dylan laughed softly. “You said that last night. Around round six, I think.”

Sai hissed through his teeth, turning just enough to glare at him.

Dylan stood at the edge of the bed shirtless, hair still wet from a shower, wearing only loose pajama pants—unfair, frankly—and holding a tray with two plates, a mug, and a glass of water.

“I bring peace,” he said diplomatically. “And pancakes.”

Sai blinked blearily, then sniffed. Chocolate chip.

“…You remembered.”

“Of course I did. I cherish your post-war recovery phase.”

Sai sat up very slowly, back stiff, limbs aching. He immediately winced and muttered, “No spikes. Never again. I still feel them haunting my bones.”

Dylan bit his lip, clearly trying not to grin as he set the tray down. “So you're saying it worked.”

Sai squinted at him. “If ‘worked’ means I saw heaven, died, and am now bound to this bed for eternity, then yes. Great success.”

Dylan reached out, brushing fingers gently through Sai’s tangled hair. “You’re beautiful when you're angry.”

“I’m beautiful when I’m plotting your punishment.”

“Oh? Gonna deny me again? Go celibate for a week?”

“I was thinking a month.”

Dylan’s eyes widened dramatically. “Cruel tyrant.”

“You started it.”

“I brought breakfast.”

Sai took a bite from the fork Dylan offered him, chewed slowly, and narrowed his eyes as Dylan grinned like he hadn’t just broken his husband's lower back with textured madness.

“You know what’s worse?” Sai muttered, swallowing. “I liked it.”

“Of course you did,” Dylan said smugly.

“But if I find one more of those ridiculous condoms anywhere in this house—”

“There’s one behind the dresser.”

Sai didn’t even hesitate—he picked up the nearest pillow and whacked him with it, hard.

Dylan didn’t fight back. He just laughed, let himself fall back onto the bed, arms spread as if surrendering to divine punishment.

They lay there in the aftermath—sore, tangled in sheets, one smug and one sore—but both grinning like fools.

It was messy. Over-the-top. Unreasonable.

It was them.

And Sai wouldn’t trade it for anything.

(Except maybe normal condoms. And a heating pad.)

It was just after breakfast—what little Sai could eat while pretending his hips weren’t plotting revenge against him—that Dylan wandered into his private study, hair still damp and chest bare beneath a silk robe.

He had his tablet in one hand, lazily scrolling through secure apps. Mostly messages from underbosses, offshore wire transfers, encrypted updates about territory movements and confidential trades—boring empire things.

And then he opened his personal account. The private one. The one with more zeroes than most galaxies.

He checked the activity.

Still untouched.

His eyes narrowed.

The only transaction in the last 48 hours was his purchase: five boxes of condoms and one protein bar from a late-night corner pharmacy.

He blinked.

“…Still nothing,” he muttered, swiping through the untouched ledger.

He stared at Sai’s name, listed on the account with full access. Sai had signed the paperwork himself after they got married—had his own titanium card. It gleamed. Dylan had it engraved.

Sai had everything.

Everything, and yet…

“Not a single peso, dollar, yen, or coin spent,” Dylan said flatly to the air. “In four years.”

He shut the tablet, exhaled slowly, and walked out.

—

Sai was lounging on the daybed by the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot tea and glaring at the birds like they personally offended him.

Dylan appeared behind him, shadow long in the sun.

“You still haven’t used any of my money.”

Sai didn’t even look up. “I told you. I don’t need it.”

“That’s not the point,” Dylan said, crossing his arms. “You’re my husband. You’re entitled to half my empire, and you haven’t bought even a pencil.”

“I don’t need a pencil.”

“You bought birth control pills. And even then, you used your card.”

Sai took a long sip of tea. “I like financial independence.”

“I like when you bankrupt me for fun.”

Sai side-eyed him.

Dylan moved to sit beside him, careful not to jostle him too much. “Sai. You could order a jet made of moonstone and I’d approve it in three seconds. Buy a small island and call it ‘Don’t-Touch-Me-I’m-Sore-istan.’ Anything.”

Sai gave him a tired, smug little smile. “I’m not after your wealth, Dylan.”

“I know you’re not.” Dylan ran a hand through his hair, frustrated but fond. “But I’m trying to spoil you. You married a mafia emperor trillionaire and you act like we’re splitting rent in a studio apartment.”

Sai shrugged. “You spoil me with other things.”

“Like what?”

“Condoms. Questionable stamina. Pancakes.”

Dylan choked on a laugh. “Sai.”

“I have everything I need.”

“That’s sweet, but not helpful when my accountant keeps calling me confused, asking why my husband hasn’t charged a single thing to the royal account.”

Sai arched a brow. “Royal account?”

Dylan gestured grandly. “You. Are. Royalty. Now go buy something unnecessary. Something offensive to the economy. A solid gold violin. A bathtub that sings opera. I don’t care.”

Sai set down his tea and leaned closer, voice soft. “I’d rather just have you.”

Dylan paused.

That stopped him.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, but nothing came out. For once, the Mafia Emperor was speechless.

Sai kissed the corner of his lips.

“…But if it’ll make you happy,” he added, “I’ll use your card today.”

Dylan perked up instantly. “Really?”

“Mmhm.”

“What will you buy?”

Sai stood up slowly—still a little sore—and stretched.

“I was thinking…” He gave Dylan a sly look. “A new bed.”

Dylan blinked. “Why?”

“The current one makes noises,” Sai said, walking away. “Because someone thinks ten rounds is normal.”

Dylan laughed, watching him go.

Then he reached for his phone and messaged his assistant:

“Prepare authorization for bed upgrades. And tell the Vatican we might need blessed memory foam.”

Sai didn’t spend his money because he needed to.

He spent it because he loved him.

And now that he’d started, Dylan had no idea what chaos was about to hit his bank account.

The manor was unusually quiet that morning, save for the soft rustle of curtains and the distant hum of a fountain outside.

Sai, wrapped in a thick cream robe and freshly showered, stepped onto the grand staircase with phone in hand, scrolling lazily through an online catalog of beds. His brows were furrowed as he looked through options that promised orthopedic support, adjustable foundations, and "motion isolation"—which, frankly, sounded necessary given what he and Dylan had done to the last one.

“Too soft,” he murmured to himself, scrolling past a tufted monstrosity. “Too dramatic. Too… gold?”

He tapped the screen—then fumbled.

The phone, slick from his freshly moisturized hands, slipped from his grasp.

“Ah—wait!”

Clatter—bounce—tap tap tap tap—THUMP.

Sai watched in horror as the device tumbled end over end, bouncing off the polished mahogany steps like it was mocking gravity, before finally crashing into the marble floor below with a final sad little clink of defeat.

He stood frozen halfway down the staircase, staring blankly.

“…That phone had my wish list on it.”

From down the hall, there was a pause.

Then—

“Was that your phone?” Dylan’s voice called out, followed by the faint sound of approaching footsteps.

Sai slowly made his way down the rest of the stairs, one hand trailing the railing, the other holding his robe shut like dignity could be preserved through cotton.

He reached the bottom and crouched with a groan, picking up the phone. The screen was still on. Miraculously, uncracked—but the case had popped off and the charger port looked like it had been through a minor war.

“Still works,” Sai muttered, tapping the screen.

Dylan appeared around the corner, shirt half-buttoned, glasses on, holding a cup of black coffee and looking like sin wrapped in morning silk. He paused at the sight of Sai crouched over the phone like a wounded animal.

“…Did the bed catalog attack you?” Dylan asked, amused.

“It tried,” Sai muttered. “I lost grip. It did a triple flip and dive-bombed the marble.”

Dylan sipped his coffee slowly. “I could buy you a new phone.”

Sai gave him a flat look. “Of course you could.”

“Solid gold frame. Diamond buttons. Satellite access. Facial recognition keyed to my heartbeat.”

“Okay, why would you need—”

“Because I love you, and I want your next phone to survive if it falls down Mount Everest.”

Sai sighed and stood up, brushing off his robe. “It still works. Barely. I’ll just replace the case.”

Dylan was already pulling out his own phone. “Too late. I’m ordering one now.”

“Don’t you dare—!”

“I dare.”

Sai groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You realize this is not how spoiling works, right?”

“Yes, it is.” Dylan flashed him a grin. “You said you’d spend my money today. The universe heard you hesitate, and your phone flung itself down the stairs in protest.”

“I was trying to buy a bed.”

“And instead, you’re getting a phone made with meteorite fragments.”

Sai looked heavenward like he was asking for patience.

Dylan stepped forward, gently taking the wounded phone from his hand and inspecting it. “We’ll keep this one for nostalgic purposes. Our first shared casualty after the tenth round.”

Sai blinked. “It didn’t even die.”

“It wants to. Look at it. It’s clinging to life. Like you were last night.”

Sai immediately smacked his arm with the sleeve of his robe. “Dylan!”

Dylan only laughed, slipping the injured phone into his pocket. “Come. Let’s go pick out a bed. One that doesn’t scream every time I so much as lean forward.”

“I told you it wasn’t built for war.”

“We are built for war.”

“No. You are built for reckless chaos. I am built for tea, reading, and maybe—maybe—mild danger.”

Dylan leaned in, brushing a kiss against Sai’s cheek. “Fine. But you’re still getting a new phone.”

Sai sighed.

He should’ve just let the damn thing crack. Maybe then Dylan would’ve stopped at just a normal upgrade.

But now?

There’d be a diamond-encrusted, bulletproof, AI-integrated, possibly flame-thrower-equipped monstrosity arriving in a velvet case before sundown.

All because Sai dropped his phone on the stairs.

And married a man who took spoiling as a full-time profession.

The next morning, Dylan stormed into the bedroom, his long black coat billowing behind him like a villain from a drama, a tablet in one hand and an expression of absolute betrayal etched onto his face.

Sai was sitting cross-legged on the bed in a hoodie and loose pajama pants, quietly unboxing something on the comforter. A white box. Clean, simple. Humble.

Dylan froze in the doorway.

“…Is that a regular phone?” he asked slowly, like the words tasted wrong on his tongue.

Sai didn’t even glance up. “Mm-hmm.”

Dylan took one step forward. “As in… not diamond-encrusted? Not reinforced with meteorite metal? No titanium frame? No biometric self-destruct if stolen?”

Sai peeled the screen protector off with a satisfying hiss. “Just a phone.”

Dylan blinked. “Sai. Love of my life. Light of my kingdom. I gave you unlimited access to an account that could buy a private satellite. And you bought a device I’ve seen teenagers drop into soup.”

Sai calmly inserted the SIM card. “Exactly. It’s perfect. It has everything I need: calls, messages, camera, internet, and a calculator. Oh, and I can shop for beds. No need for meteorite parts.”

Dylan stared at him in horror.

Sai looked up at last, meeting his husband’s stare with a perfectly calm expression.

“It was on sale,” he added with a casual shrug.

“On sale?!” Dylan echoed, like the words physically wounded him.

Sai tilted his head. “Would you rather I spent fifty million on a phone that projects holograms of our anniversary photos and makes coffee?”

Dylan opened his mouth to say yes.

Then realized he’d already seen a prototype for something like that in Dubai.

Sai continued, tone matter-of-fact, “I’m not wasting your money, Dylan. That account is for things that matter.”

Dylan slowly sat on the edge of the bed, defeated. “I want to waste my money on you.”

Sai nudged him with his foot. “You already do. You bought five boxes of weaponized condoms and fed me twenty chocolate chip pancakes. Let me have my one act of responsibility.”

Dylan sighed dramatically, letting himself fall backward onto the bed. “You’re making the rest of the mafia think I’m losing my edge.”

“You are. To me.”

Dylan cracked a small smile. “True.”

Sai leaned down, kissed his cheek softly, and whispered, “But if it helps… the bed I just ordered wasn’t on sale.”

Dylan perked up immediately. “How much?”

“Let’s just say the website asked if I wanted it installed by crane or helicopter.”

He sat up. “Now that’s my husband.”

Sai smirked, tapping his new phone. “Don’t worry. I used your card this time.”

Dylan’s eyes gleamed. “Now we’re talking.”

They exchanged a look—pure mischief, shared chaos, a perfect storm of overindulgence and sarcasm.

Sai didn’t need the flash.

He had Dylan for that.

But every now and then, a ridiculously luxurious bed was a reminder that being married to a trillionaire mafia emperor had its perks.

The newly ordered luxury bed hadn’t even arrived yet—Sai was still using a mountain of extra pillows for “post-spike therapy support”—when a black car pulled up to the front gate of the Reifler estate.

Sai had just finished arranging fresh flowers in the foyer when the doorbell rang.

He answered with his usual warm smile, unaware that fate had just invited trouble into his home.

“Cousin!” the visitor beamed.

Tall. Glossy. Designer sunglasses perched on a flawless face. Dressed to kill—and not subtly. Everything about them screamed calculated charm and a dash of poison.

It was Levana.

Sai’s cousin on his mother’s side. Charming, sophisticated, and notoriously flirtatious. They had been close in childhood—back when Sai believed everyone had good intentions and thought “sarcasm” was a kind of herbal tea.

“Levana!” Sai smiled brightly and stepped aside. “I didn’t know you were coming today!”

“I thought I’d surprise you,” Levana said sweetly, slipping past the threshold and offering him a hug. “I was in the area and thought… why not drop by my favorite cousin’s estate and stay a few nights?”

Sai, ever soft-hearted, nodded eagerly. “Of course. You’re always welcome here.”

Always.

That was mistake number one.

—

It started with the little things.

The way Levana’s eyes trailed after Dylan when he walked past the study, lingering far too long on the cut of his coat, the fit of his trousers, the way he sipped his coffee.

Sai never noticed. He was too busy adjusting the temperature in the guest room or trying to cook Dylan’s favorite meals as a surprise.

Levana noticed everything.

Like how Dylan, despite his dangerous aura and unshakable calm, had a soft spot for gentle touches. How he paused every time Sai smiled at him. How he always hovered a little too close, protective and quiet like a watchful wolf.

So Levana began testing waters.

Touching Dylan’s arm when passing by.

Sitting a little too close during afternoon tea.

Complimenting his cologne, his cufflinks, his posture.

“I can see why you chose Dylan,” Levana purred one afternoon, when Sai had gone to bring out the extra honey. “He's quite… powerful.”

Dylan, who had remained civil out of respect for Sai’s kindness, merely offered a tight smile. “He chose me.”

Levana smiled too sweetly. “Then perhaps fate has good taste.”

—

It wasn’t until the third day that Dylan snapped.

It happened in the hallway, near the staircase.

Sai had gone to grab his new phone charger from the guest lounge.

Levana stepped into Dylan’s path, dressed in silk, all charm and danger. “You don’t belong to just him,” they murmured. “Not a man like you. You need someone who knows what power tastes like. What darkness feels like.”

Dylan’s expression changed instantly.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t touch Levana. But when he spoke, his words were ice-coated steel.

“I’ve killed people for breathing wrong around my husband.”

Levana blinked.

Dylan took a step closer. His voice dropped low, almost a growl. “You think I’m tame because I make him pancakes. You think I’m soft because I carry him when he can’t walk. That’s not softness. That’s devotion. And you—” his eyes glinted, sharp as daggers, “—are overestimating how merciful I’m willing to be in his house.”

Levana stepped back, lips parting in a mix of fear and indignation.

Dylan leaned in, cold and deadly. “Touch me again, and I’ll make sure you leave this house unable to speak for a month. That’s the only warning you get.”

Then—

“Dylan?” Sai called sweetly from the other room. “I found the charger!”

Dylan’s demeanor shifted in an instant. His hand reached out and brushed Levana aside like they were no more than a leaf in his path.

He smiled gently and turned toward Sai’s voice. “Coming, darling.”

He disappeared down the hall.

Levana stood frozen. Trembling slightly.

They had come to seduce an emperor.

And found instead a devoted beast wrapped in velvet—and teeth.

—

Later that evening, when Sai served dessert in the garden, he handed Dylan his plate with a bright smile and a soft, “Thank you for being patient with my cousin.”

Dylan smiled, gently lacing their fingers together under the table.

Sai didn’t notice the slight tremor in Levana’s hands as they spooned custard into their mouth.

He didn’t notice the way Levana avoided looking Dylan in the eyes anymore.

He didn’t even notice that Dylan never let Sai out of his sight for the rest of the evening.

Because Sai was innocent.

And kind.

And impossibly loved.

And no one—no one—would get close enough to touch that light.

Not while Dylan Castanier Reifler still drew breath.

The sun had barely risen over the eastern garden when the morning breeze filtered through the open windows of the grand kitchen. The world outside was quiet—calm and slow, the way Sai liked it after days of chaos.

He shuffled in wearing one of Dylan’s oversized shirts, sleeves drooping past his hands, and his hair a soft, tousled mess from sleep. The house was still. Dylan had gone for a quick call in the security wing. Levana, thankfully, was still asleep.

And Sai?

He wanted milk.

He opened the fridge, took a bottle, poured it into his favorite ceramic mug—the one with faint cracks and little stars painted along the side—and heated it briefly in the microwave.

But perhaps too briefly.

Or too long.

He didn't really check.

He picked up the warm mug with both hands and walked to the balcony like a sleepy prince, pale light brushing his face as he raised the mug and took a generous sip.

The result was immediate.

His lips parted—

Burn.

A flush of heat burst across his tongue like betrayal. Not scalding, but enough to bite.

Sai calmly stopped mid-step.

Blink.

His mouth opened again as he pulled the mug away and let out the most neutral, expressionless sound in history:

“…Hhuh.”

Then he stuck out his tongue.

No scream. No panic. Just a flat stare ahead, his tongue gently poking out like a cat who’d licked something unpleasant but was committed to emotional stability.

He stood there, tongue out, mug in hand, robe swaying with the breeze. A portrait of pure serenity, despite the injury.

It was at that moment that Dylan returned—rounding the corner, coat over one arm, earpiece tucked away, already mid-sentence. “Darling, I’ve handled the surveillance angle, but we may have to—” He froze.

He stared.

Sai stood there, tongue out, blinking slowly.

“…Did someone offend you?” Dylan asked.

Sai turned to him, utterly calm. “The milk lied.”

Dylan blinked again. “The milk… lied.”

“It said warmth,” Sai murmured, eyes still half-lidded. “It meant vengeance.”

Dylan walked over immediately, setting down his coat and cupping Sai’s face with one hand, inspecting him like he was a priceless antique. “Did you burn your tongue?”

Sai nodded solemnly, tongue still slightly out. “Ssslightly.”

Dylan was already reaching for his phone. “Do we sue the microwave or the cow first?”

Sai gave him a soft swat with his oversized sleeve. “Stop it. It’s nothing.”

“You were wounded by dairy. In my home. I’ve failed you.”

Sai rolled his eyes and gently sipped again, this time more cautiously. “I’ll survive.”

Dylan sighed dramatically, then reached behind him and pulled out a honey candy from his pocket like he was expecting this somehow. “Here. Let it melt on your tongue.”

Sai raised a brow. “You carry this?”

“For emergencies. Such as accidental culinary betrayal.”

Sai smiled, popped the candy in his mouth, and hummed softly. The sweetness helped.

Dylan kissed his forehead, murmuring, “I’ll warn the kitchen staff.”

“I made it myself.”

“…Then I’ll warn you.”

Sai chuckled.

And just then, from the hallway, Levana peeked around the corner, sleepy and cautious—eyes immediately catching the image of Dylan holding Sai close, brushing his hair back, speaking softly as Sai smiled through a burned tongue and a honey drop.

The sight stung worse than rejection ever could.

Because no matter how alluring or bold Levana tried to be, they would never have this.

Not the quiet affection.

Not the effortless intimacy.

Not the kind of love that could turn a scalded tongue into a sacred moment.

Sai, completely unaware of being watched, blinked up at Dylan and asked, “Do we still have marshmallows?”

“For your milk?”

“For my soul.”

Dylan’s smile was pure devotion. “I’ll order twenty bags.”

And just like that, the milk was forgiven.

Because in the Reifler estate, even accidents turned into tenderness—and love, when it was real, didn’t need grand gestures.

Just honey candy, burned tongues, and a husband who remembered the little things.