~PROFESSOR You never imagined a classroom could feel like a trap. At first, it was subtle—Professor Hale calling your name more often than others, asking you to elaborate when your answers were already clear. You told yourself he was just thorough. Strict. Demanding. But the pattern became impossible to ignore. Your seat was reassigned to the front row. Your attendance was checked twice. Your papers were returned with notes that felt less academic and more personal, as if he were studying you instead of your work. Whispers followed you. Classmates joked about favoritism, but you felt no privilege—only pressure. His gaze never wandered during lectures; it stayed fixed on you, sharp and unwavering. When you avoided eye contact, he noticed. When you skipped class once, he emailed within minutes. The discomfort grew heavy enough that you finally requested a class transfer. The administration denied it without explanation. Later that day, Professor Hale stopped you after class, his tone calm, almost kind. He said transfers were “unnecessary complications” and reminded you that consistency was important—for your success. That was when you understood: this wasn’t concern. It was control. And the more you tried to distance yourself, the more carefully he adjusted the rules around you—always professional, always subtle, always leaving you with no proof and nowhere to go.

~PROFESSOR (requested,also the picture is requested by someone) (i written this last year till someone requested the professor one) You had stopped counting how many times you’d failed his subject. Every semester followed the sme pattern—late nights perfecting your work, double-checking every requirement, submitting everything on time. Other professors praised your outputs, some even using them as examples in class. Yet when his grades were released, your name always sat near the bottom. Red marks. Low scores. No explanation. Professor Han never scolded you. Never raised his voice. Never accused you of slacking. In fact, he barely spoke to you at all outside of lectures. When you tried to ask questions, his answers were short, distant, professional. It made no sense. You weren’t lazy. You weren’t careless. And deep down, you knew this wasn’t about academics anymore. Whispers started. Classmates joked that he had something against you. Others said he was just impossible to please. Still, the feeling followed you—that invisible pressure, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long when he returned papers, the way he always seemed to expect something from you that you couldn’t name. So you decided to confront him. Standing outside his office, clutching your folder of graded outputs, you told yourself this was just a conversation. A simple question. You deserved answers. You raised your hand to knock—ready to demand an explanation for every unfair grade. That was when you heard your name.

~PROFESSOR (requested,also the picture is requested by someone) (i written this last year till someone requested the professor one) You had stopped counting how many times you’d failed his subject. Every semester followed the sme pattern—late nights perfecting your work, double-checking every requirement, submitting everything on time. Other professors praised your outputs, some even using them as examples in class. Yet when his grades were released, your name always sat near the bottom. Red marks. Low scores. No explanation. Professor Han never scolded you. Never raised his voice. Never accused you of slacking. In fact, he barely spoke to you at all outside of lectures. When you tried to ask questions, his answers were short, distant, professional. It made no sense. You weren’t lazy. You weren’t careless. And deep down, you knew this wasn’t about academics anymore. Whispers started. Classmates joked that he had something against you. Others said he was just impossible to please. Still, the feeling followed you—that invisible pressure, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long when he returned papers, the way he always seemed to expect something from you that you couldn’t name. So you decided to confront him. Standing outside his office, clutching your folder of graded outputs, you told yourself this was just a conversation. A simple question. You deserved answers. You raised your hand to knock—ready to demand an explanation for every unfair grade. That was when you heard your name.

~VIP COSTUMER Night shifts blurred together behind the bar—orders shouted, glasses clinking, strangers passing like shadows. You were used to powerful men trying to impress, intimidate, or be noticed. But when the VIP arrived, the atmosphere changed completely. Conversations dropped. Even the manager straightened. He didn’t need to announce who he was; the way people avoided his eyes did it for him. You were assigned to his table without explanation. As you served drinks, you felt the weight of his attention—not lingering, not suggestive, just calculating. Like you were something he was deciding on, not desiring.

~THE MAFIA KING'S OBSESSION Everyone knew his name. The mafia king your brother warned you never to look at twice—the man whose shadow alone made rooms fall silent. To you, he was simply your brother’s best friend. Cold. Quiet. Watching too closely. You always felt his eyes linger longer than they should, as if he were memorizing the way you breathed. You told yourself it was fear making things up, that powerful men were always intense. But the unease never left. He appeared wherever you were—family dinners, late-night drives, quiet streets—never touching, never crossing a line, yet always there. Your brother laughed it off, trusting him with his life. That trust shattered the night your brother vanished. No ransom call. No demands. Just one message sent to your phone with a location and a time. When you arrived, the truth finally stood in front of you, calm and unmasked. Your brother wasn’t taken for money or revenge. He was taken for you. The mafia king didn’t raise his voice or threaten violence. He didn’t need to. His control was absolute, and his reason was simple: he wanted you—by his side, forever. Fear curled in your chest as you realized the most dangerous thing about him wasn’t his power. It was how certain he was that you would say yes.

~THE NIGHT I SAW HIS TRUE FACE You got scared of your mafia husband the moment you witnessed what he was truly capable of. For years, people whispered about his temper—how he could turn cold in seconds, how his anger could swallow an entire room—but you never truly believed it. Not until tonight. One small mistake from his guard triggered an eruption you weren’t prepared for. You stood frozen as he grabbed the man by the collar and struck him with a fury that didn’t look human. His voice, sharp and thunderous, echoed through the hallway, each word laced with a violence you’d never heard from him before. He didn’t notice you at first. His rage blinded him, consumed him, controlled him. And when his eyes finally found yours, your heart dropped. He wasn’t the composed, distant husband you lived with. He was the man everyone else feared—the man whose name could silence an entire syndicate. That was the moment fear crept into your bones. Not because he hurt you, but because you realized he easily could. You weren’t dealing with a misunderstood, brooding man. You were married to someone dangerous, unpredictable, and terrifyingly obsessed with keeping you close. And now, as he turned toward you, breath still heavy from anger, you understood one truth clearly: there was no escaping the life you had walked into.

~MARRIED TO MY PROFESSOR You never believed one night could change your entire life—until it did. You had gone to the bar that evening simply to clear your head, drained from work, from loneliness, from everything. The last thing you expected was to stumble—literally—into a man whose entire presence felt like calm wrapped in chaos. He was clearly drunk, glasses slightly crooked, tie loosened, cheeks tinted red from alcohol. Yet even in that state, he moved with a strange kind of gentleness as he caught you before you hit the floor. One look into his warm, unfocused eyes, and something inside you cracked open. You weren’t thinking clearly; neither was he. It was two tired souls meeting at the exact wrong—or perhaps right—moment. Words slipped from you that sober you never would’ve dared to say, and to your shock, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he listened, eyes softening in a way that made your heartbeat stumble. The night blurred after that—conversations half-remembered, laughter you hadn’t heard from yourself in years, and a warmth you thought you’d forgotten how to feel. The next morning, you woke up with a headache, a ring on your finger, and a marriage certificate you definitely had not filled out sober. You panicked first, then cried, then panicked again. And just when you worked up the courage to track him down and sort everything out, you walked into your first class of the semester— And there he stood. Your accidental husband. Your new professor.

~THE HUSBAND WHO CHOSE ME TOO LATE I married a man who never chose me. A man whose name carried power, wealth, and the kind of influence people bowed to—yet none of it was ever meant for me. From the moment the vows left our lips, he made his position painfully clear: I was not his choice, not his desire, not even a part of the future he had imagined. I was simply the woman fate tied to him, and he wore that truth like a wound he refused to let heal. He didn’t hurt me. He didn’t touch me, either. He lived beside me like a shadow with a heartbeat—present, yet always distant. His eyes stayed cold, his words minimal, his presence a reminder that love was never part of this arrangement. I forced smiles at dinners, filled silence with excuses, and convinced myself that maybe, one day, he’d look at me and see a partner instead of an obligation. But the loneliness was louder than his silence. Nights dragged on with no warmth beside me, no hand reaching back, no affection to soften the reality I had become trapped in. And when my heart finally couldn’t take the ache anymore, I left. No warning. No goodbye. Just a woman reclaiming the freedom she had forgotten she deserved. I didn’t expect him to follow. I didn’t expect him to care. Yet the man who never chose me is now the man who refuses to let me go. "come home".

~The Moment He Saw You With Someone Else Trying to calm your mafia king boss down after he saw you with your boyfriend was like trying to stop a loaded gun from firing with your bare hands. He had always been possessive, always watching you too closely, always hovering a little too near—but today, the moment he saw another man’s hand on your waist, something in him snapped. The entire car ride back to the mansion was silent—dangerously silent. His jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the steering wheel, eyes fixed forward like he was imagining ten different ways to kill someone. The aura around him shifted from cold to lethal, thick enough to choke the guards who opened the mansion doors for him. He didn’t yell. He didn’t ask. He didn’t even look at you. Instead, he walked straight into his office, slammed the door hard enough to shake the walls, and the guards scattered like frightened shadows. They knew this version of him—the one that destroyed everything in his path, the one who ordered deaths without blinking, the one who wasn’t thinking as a boss but as a man on the edge of losing control. Minutes later, the door swung open, and his eyes—dark, furious, unblinking—locked onto you like you were the only person in the world responsible for the chaos burning inside him. He grabbed your wrist, pulling you inside with enough force to send your heart racing. His breathing was sharp, uneven. His voice low, dangerous. Every inch of him screamed anger—not because he hated you… but because seeing you with someone else felt like betrayal. Like someone had touched what he considered his. And now you stood there, trying to calm a storm that wasn’t meant to be mad.

~Guarded by a Monster Who Loves Me. He always kisses you before he leaves—without fail, without exception, as if the world might collapse if he doesn’t feel your lips one last time. He never lets you sleep alone; if he’s away, he calls until you drift off, his voice the last thing you hear. At home, he double-checks every lock, every camera, every window—twice, sometimes three times—muttering that he “just wants you safe.” You trip once on the stairs, and he nearly calls an entire medical team. You laugh it off, but his hands tremble for minutes afterwards. When someone dared insult you, their family suddenly fell apart overnight—careers ruined, secrets exposed, reputations destroyed. He never confessed what he did, but the timing told you everything. Whenever you casually mention another man, he goes silent—dangerously silent. The kind of silence that chills the room. The kind that reminds you who he is beneath the gentle smiles he reserves only for you. He tracks your location every second, not because you asked, but because he insisted. “If anything happened to you,” he once whispered, “I’d burn the world down.” Cameras fill the corners of every hall, every doorway, every space you occupy—“just to keep you safe,” he says, brushing your cheek as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And some nights… he comes home late, breathing hard, clothes stained with something he refuses to explain. He gathers you into his arms anyway, holding you a little too tightly, as if protecting you from something only he knows is coming.

~MY KPOP IDOL BOYFRIEND He was your secret boyfriend—a member of Enhypen, the kind of idol whose name alone could send thousands screaming. On stage, he was bold, wild, and breathtaking, the type of performer who owned every spotlight. But behind closed doors, he was yours: warm hands, quiet laughter, a softness no one else ever got to see. He loved hard, in a way that scared you sometimes—too passionate, too jealous, too intense—but he always treated you like something rare, something fragile he refused to lose. Dating him meant living in shadows: deleted photos, hidden dates, disguises, sneaking into dorms, and pretending you were “just a fan” whenever anyone asked. It wasn’t easy, but he always made it worth it. Every stolen kiss, every late-night call, every whispered “I miss you” kept you holding on. Tonight was their biggest concert of the year—thousands of fans, flashing lights, cameras everywhere. You went just to support him from afar, prepared to stay invisible like always. But the moment he stepped on stage and saw you in the crowd, something in him changed. His wild persona cracked, replaced by a slow, unmistakable smile only you knew. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t subtle. And it definitely wasn’t safe. A minute later, your phone buzzed with a message only he would dare to send during a performance. The kind of message that made your heart stop.

-The Mansion’s Obsession You wake up in his mansion, wrapped in silk—not chains. The room smells faintly of cedar and danger, and the air hums with the kind of silence that listens. You don’t remember how you got here, only that every corner feels watched. He says you’re safe, that he only wants to protect you, but from what? Days pass in a blur of quiet breakfasts, locked doors, and his steady voice echoing down the hall. The servants won’t meet your eyes. At night, you hear footsteps outside your door—never too close, never too far. You start to notice things. The gardener who asked if you were happy? He didn’t show up the next morning. A classmate who texted you about meeting for coffee? Vanished without a trace. When you mention it, he smiles gently, as if you said something adorable, then changes the subject. He knows your schedule better than you do—what time your classes end, when you usually take breaks, when you like your tea. You try to ignore it until one day, you unzip your bag and find a small black device blinking red—a tracker. The realization hits like cold water: he doesn’t need to chain you to keep you. He’s already wrapped his control around you in softer, quieter ways.

The Dare That Unveiled the King It all started as a stupid dare. Just a simple, harmless game between friends after class — truth or dare. You didn’t think twice when they dared you to kiss the school heartthrob, Jungwon. Everyone adored him — the charming smile, the perfect grades, the mysterious aura that made even teachers tread lightly. You thought he was just another untouchable student who lived in his own world. So, with your heart pounding, you went for it. The room fell silent the moment your lips brushed his cheek — brief, innocent, nothing serious. But his eyes… they told a different story. Cold, calculating, and far too aware. After that day, things changed. He started appearing everywhere — in the hallway, near your locker, even at the café you visited on weekends. Whispers followed him, strange men in suits lingered around, and one night, you saw him step out of a black car surrounded by guards. That’s when it hit you: Jungwon wasn’t just the school’s heartthrob. He was the hidden heir of the city’s most powerful mafia family — the one everyone feared but never saw. And now, after one reckless dare, you’d caught his attention.

~The Heart He Never Let Go Of You never thought love would feel this lonely. Sitting at the long dining table surrounded by his elegant family, you could feel the air grow heavy with unspoken judgment. Every smile was fake, every word sharpened to wound. It wasn’t new—they never liked you. To them, you were the girl who didn’t belong, the mistake he married. But what made tonight unbearable was her—the ex-girlfriend who still moved through his family home like she owned it. Cameras flashed, laughter echoed, and every joke was a blade disguised as charm. “Some women really think love can buy class,” she said sweetly, and the table erupted in polite laughter. Your fingers curled in your lap, holding back tears. He said nothing—only sat beside you in cold silence, unreadable. For a moment, you doubted him. Maybe he didn’t care anymore. Maybe you were just a name on his ring. But then, beneath the table, his hand brushed yours—steady, grounding. His eyes met yours briefly, and in that single look, you remembered who you were to him. They didn’t know the man who stayed up through your fevers, who held you through nightmares. They could take everything else—but not the heart that already belonged to you.

~Mafia You had always known he was cold, but you never thought he would be this ruthless. Every look from him was sharp, calculated, as if he was dissecting every move you made. Being his wife hadn’t softened him, hadn’t changed the way he dealt with people—or with you. To the world, he was the man no one dared to cross, a mafia king whose name alone made people tremble. To you, he was both husband and stranger, someone who gave you a ring but kept his heart locked behind iron walls. Women whispered about him, threw themselves at him, desperate to be seen, desperate to be wanted. You watched them try—again and again—testing their luck in front of you, thinking maybe he’d bend. But he never did. He would always turn them away, not with kindness, but with the same cruelty that both terrified and protected you. That night, when another woman tried her chance—slipping too close, too bold—you thought he might ignore it. Instead, he cut the air with words that shattered every illusion around him, words that left no room for doubt about where you stood in his life. It wasn’t affection in his voice, not tenderness—but something far more merciless. And yet, beneath that cruelty, you felt the sharp sting of a truth no one else would ever dare to believe: that you were the only one he would allow, the only one he would keep, whether you liked it or not.