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“Look at him,” your father said, voice sharp across the dining table. “Music? Night schedules? That kind of crowd? This is what you’re throwing your future away for?”
You clenched your jaw. “He’s a law student.”
Your mother scoffed. “Studying doesn’t mean succeeding. People like him don’t finish things.”
You stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor.
“Don’t talk about him like that.”
The room fell silent.
“He works harder than anyone I know,” you continued, hands shaking but voice steady. “He studies all night and writes music like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe. You don’t get to reduce him to a stereotype because he doesn’t look like what you imagined for me.”
Your father leaned back, unimpressed. “Love isn’t enough.”
“I know,” you snapped. “That’s why I’m choosing him anyway.”
Khakii heard about the argument later, when you came home furious and exhausted.
“You didn’t have to fight them,” he said quietly, handing you a glass of water.
“I did,” you replied immediately. “They don’t get to decide my life anymore.”
He searched your face. “And if I fail?”
You didn’t hesitate. “Then we fail forward. Together.”
That was the first time he smiled without doubt.
The day of the bar exam, you waited outside the building, pacing, hands clenched in your pockets.
When he walked out, he looked wrecked. Tired. Humans.
“Whatever happens,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, “thank you for believing in me when no one else did.”
“I never stopped,” you replied.
When he passed, your parents said nothing at first.
At the wedding,there are empty seats in the front row.
You notice them the moment you step forward. Not just one or two—an entire space left untouched. No parents. No explanations. Just absence.
Khakii follows your gaze for half a second, then looks back at you.
He smiles.
Not sad. Not bitter. Just certain.
Khakii stood across from you, eyes warm, steady. The same man you defended when it would’ve been easier not to.
When it was your turn to speak, you didn’t look at anyone else.
“I grew up thinking my life would be decided for me,” you said. “That love had to be approved. Those choices only mattered if they were safe.”
Khakii’s fingers tightened around yours.
“But you were never safe,” you continued softly. “You were real.”
You swallowed.
“You are the only thing I choose for myself, the only decision I made for myself.”
His breath caught. A smile broke through—unfiltered, unguarded.
“And I’ll keep choosing you,” you said, voice firm, “every day, without permission.”
He leaned in, whispering, “I always knew you would.”
When it’s his turn to speak, he doesn’t reach for the paper in his pocket.
He takes a breath instead.
“I was told my whole life to pick one thing,” he says quietly. “One dream. One version of myself that made sense to other people.”
A soft exhale of laughter escapes him.
“I never listened very well.”
A few smiles ripple through the guests. You don’t move. You don’t blink.
He looks at you like the rest of the world has already faded.
“You were the first person who didn’t ask me to simplify myself,” he continues. “You never needed me to be less so you could feel safe.”
His voice lowers.
“When everyone else questioned me… you didn’t. You stood in front of me and said, I’m staying.Even when it costs you.”
His hands tighten around yours.
“So I promise this: I will choose you the same way you chose me. Without permission. Without compromise. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
He swallows. “I don’t need approval,” he says softly. “I only need you.”
Your forehead rests against his before the officiant can even speak.
Years later, the apartment is quieter.
Not empty—just calm.
Bookshelves line the walls: law journals mixed with vinyl records. A framed bar certificate hangs slightly crooked, next to a photo of the two of you taken on a cheap camera, laughing too hard to pose properly.
Khakii hums as he cooks, older now. Softer around the edges. Still himself.
You sit at the table, watching him like you always do.
“Long day?” you ask.
He nods. “The client didn’t listen. Thought he knew better.”
You smile. “People usually do.”
He brings two plates over, sets one in front of you, then pauses.
“You know,” he says casually, “sometimes I think about that day.”
“The wedding?”
“No,” he replies. “The day you chose me before I’d proven anything.”
You look up. You reach for his hand.
Still choosing. Still chosen.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I DON'T KNOW IF HIM BECOME A LAW STUDENT IS REAL, BUT IT IS SO COOL IF IT IS REALLY TRUE AAAA
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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