Ranpo Glasses Novels & Stories

I was puzzled—and flustered, because Rum was scrutinizing my face for flaws, and I felt like I had many because I had no time for a meticulous skincare routine. "Contact lens." Rum concluded in the tone of a doctor giving his diagnosis. I blinked furiously. Contact… lens? "You need to ditch those fugly glasses—." "No!" I pushed at him and stood. He swiftly followed suit and grabbed my wrists to stop me from going anywhere. "Did your parents get you those glasses?" "No," I replied almost instantly. "Excellent! They've got no sentimental value. You can lose them—." He tried to take them off me. But I swayed my face back, away from his hands. "No, Rum! Stop it. I need these glasses to see!"

My adrenaline was still humming. Rosemary Atelier was finally, finally stepping into the international sphere, and for once the world wasn’t looking for a way to knock me down. Ryan sat across from me at the long table in my office, flipping through the contract. His glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, the ones he only wore when he was focused so tightly the rest of the world blurred out. I loved those glasses. I loved the way he looked in them: sharp, precise, quietly passionate.