you invited sylus as a plus one to your friend’s wedding, and sylus, finding it as an opportunity to be presented as your arm candy, accepted it without further hesitation.
the wedding was beautiful. sylus hands you a handkerchief while you teared up witnessing your friend recite her vows, feeling emotional as you can hear the raw emotion of love seep into her words.
you loved love, and you loved seeing your friends experience love with their partners, you knew they deserved.
the reception came, it was no less beautiful than the wedding, and sylus could already see the way your gaze fixates on the decor, how your eyes linger on the color palettes and tableware.
he didn’t need his aether core to know that you were already imagining your own wedding.
in the middle of the reception, you stood up as the women in the venue gathered in the middle, the bride turning her back on the crowd as the gentleman watched from the sidelines.
it was time for the infamous bouquet toss.
sylus stands to the side, a relaxed smile on his face as he watches you stand by the side, not really drawing much attention to yourself.
you were giggling with the other guests and bridesmaids, pointing playfully at each other, as if predicting who was most likely to get the bouquet.
a countdown was held. the bride tossed it behind her shoulder, you and the crowd jumped to reach out for the bouquet.
only for the bouquet to awkwardly dangle on the chandelier as it got stuck.
sylus sees as you immediately step to the side, letting the guests jump and grab at the bouquet that was hanging by the ribbon.
you met sylus’ eye, and smiled.
you gave him a shrug; you were not about to fight over a bouquet. your pride wouldn’t let you.
sylus, however had another idea.
he places the wine glass he sported on the table behind him before he casually walks to where you stood.
a yelp escapes your lips. you find your butt resting on sylus’s shoulder as he hoists you up, giving you a needed height boost.
the women were left shocked as he walked towards the chandelier, you immediately got the hint as you reached for the dangling bouquet with no difficulty.
he smirks, setting you down, planting a kiss on your temple before he steps back to where the other men watched with their jaws dropped. you couldn’t help the flustered giggle that leaves your lips as the women swarm over you, slapping your arm playfully while they whisper about your boyfriend.
turns out, you weren’t the only one imagining a wedding in your head. truthfully, sylus was already planning to propose whether or not you won the bouquet toss.
though, getting the blessing of tradition was definitely a welcomed plus.
inspired by that one tiktok i saw that went exactly like this <3 (just the reception bit)
You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 5
PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader
SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.
WORD COUNT: 12.8k
NOTES: So… I owe you guys a little life update, don’t I? I vanished for a while because the past few months were honestly chaos incarnate. First, I got hit with the worst writing block of my life! Opening a doc felt illegal. Thinking about writing gave me stress. Nightmares. I’m not even joking. Then my sister gave birth to my adorable nephew (10/10 baby), and suddenly life was diapers, chaos, and very little sleep by proxy. Things got so hectic that I literally deleted LADS. The vibes were that bad. Had a small, dramatic mental breakdown. As one does. I resorted to quietly lurking on Tumblr/AO3, hoping inspiration would possess me against my will. Spoiler: it did not. And then—finals week at uni. Because of course. Winter break finally rolled in, and you know what ended up pulling me back? You did. I kept rereading your comments and reblogs, over and over, thinking—wait. These people actually love what I write. Like… genuinely. Wild. So this chapter is for you, dear reader. Thank you for waiting. Thank you for your patience, your kindness, your enthusiasm, your belief that the story was worth sticking around for even when I disappeared into the abyss. And I’m really glad you’re still here.
this series is now completed!
part 4 | MASTERLIST | The end
Morning does not announce itself. It seeps in.
Light slips through the curtains in thin, honeyed ribbons, dust motes drifting lazily like they have nowhere better to be. The world feels hushed, suspended in that fragile hour where nothing has been demanded of you yet.
For a long moment, you don’t move. You don’t even open your eyes properly. Your body is too aware—too warm, too held—for that familiar panic to fully unfurl. Instead, your heart jumps first, a sharp, startled thud against your ribs.
Because this bed isn’t empty.
Because the cold absence you learned to wake up to—years of it, muscle memory carved deep—is nowhere to be found.
There is weight behind you.
Your eyes flutter open.
Zayne is pressed against you like gravity itself conspired overnight to pull him closer. One arm is locked around your waist, hand fisted into the fabric of your shirt as if even sleep couldn’t convince him you wouldn’t vanish. His other hand is threaded through yours, fingers laced tight, knuckles pale with unconscious resolve. Your legs are tangled together, his knee nudged between yours, anchoring you in place.
It’s almost a jumpscare.
A good one—but still enough to send adrenaline skittering down your spine before your mind catches up. You suck in a quiet breath, then another, slower this time, grounding yourself in the simple facts of the moment.
You breathe again, deep and deliberate, letting the panic ebb as your body adjusts to this new normal—if it can even be called that yet. Being held like this still feels illicit, like you’ve wandered into someone else’s life by mistake.
Zayne’s face is close. Too close to ignore.
His head rests half on your pillow, dark hair spilling messily across the fabric. Your noses are barely centimeters apart, close enough that you can feel the soft brush of his breath warming your upper lip. His lashes flutter faintly as he exhales, lips caught in the slightest pout—unguarded, almost boyish.
He looks peaceful.
Happy, even.
The thought lands strangely in your chest.
You’ve learned more about your husband in these few months—these fragile, hard-won months—than you did in all the years you spent orbiting each other from opposite ends of the same house.
Zayne is a clingy sleeper.
Especially in the morning.
There’s almost no space for you to turn without negotiating with his grip. You try anyway, testing the boundaries gently—rolling your shoulder, shifting your hips. His arm tightens instantly, reflexive, pulling you back like a tide reclaiming the shore.
Your nose nearly bumps his.
You freeze.
He doesn’t wake. Just exhales, deeper this time, his grip adjusting until you’re once again perfectly slotted against him.
You crane your neck carefully, peering over your shoulder.
There’s so much room on his side of the bed. An entire untouched expanse of sheets, cool and undisturbed, like an open invitation.
And yet—
You’re trapped on your side, claimed thoroughly, inescapably.
You let yourself fall back.
Well.
Clingy is right.
A smile sneaks onto your lips before you can stop it. Small. Private. You turn back toward him, careful not to wake him, your forehead almost brushing his.
His mouth twitches as if he’s smiling at something only he can see. His lashes flutter again, shadows soft against his cheeks.
He must be having good dreams.
The urge to pinch his cheek rises suddenly, absurd and fond, and you have to clamp down on it like it’s a dangerous impulse. Instead, you lift your free hand—slow, reverent—and let your knuckles hover just above his face.
There was a time—so recent it still aches—when your hand would hang uselessly between you like there was a chasm stretching you. When you would lie awake inches apart, staring at the ceiling, your fingers burning with the want to reach. To trace the line of his jaw. To feel the warmth of him, undeniable and real.
You remember the restraint like a bruise.
You indulge in that memory only long enough to feel the contrast.
Now, your hand moves without hesitation.
You trace him as though you are learning him anew—not the man shaped by duty and silence, but the one laid bare in sleep. Your fingertips glide over his closed eyes, lashes dark and soft against his skin. Down the bridge of his nose. Across his cheek, where sleep softens him, where the sharpness of the world hasn’t yet returned.
The faint rasp of his stubble catches against your skin. You smile at it—at him—at the intimacy of knowing how he feels like this, unguarded and unobserved.
Your touch drifts to his ear, the shell of it warm beneath your thumb, and then—almost shyly—you brush his lips.
Once.
Twice.
A giddy thrill unfurls in your chest, light and dizzy, like you’ve done something reckless and gotten away with it. His breath stutters in response, a quiet hitch that sends warmth curling low in your belly.
It’s subtle, but you feel it immediately, the way his breathing deepens, grows uneven. Like your touch has reached somewhere inside him and tugged. Your heart answers with a delighted, traitorous flutter.
Encouraged, you follow the line of his throat, your fingers tracing the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. It jumps beneath your touch as he swallows, and the sound he makes—low, involuntary—sends a thrill through you.
Your heart feels too big for your chest.
Your palm settles against his bare chest.
His heart is racing.
Fast. Strong. Alive. Beating so hard beneath your hand it feels like it might climb out to meet you. You press a little more firmly, as if to reassure yourself that this is real. That this warmth, this closeness, is not a dream you’ll wake from alone.
Your touch wanders again, tracing the strong lines of his arm, the subtle flex of muscle beneath skin. You slow when you reach the scars—each one a quiet history, a moment the world tried to take something from him. You trace them carefully, as if your fingers might soften their edges, as if acknowledging them is its own form of devotion.
You are so absorbed—so wholly lost in him—that you don’t notice his gaze.
Not until you lift your head.
Zayne is watching you.
His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with sleep, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the green you’ve memorized. His lips are parted, breath escaping in slow, measured puffs, like he’s holding himself still so you won’t stop. He looks undone. Ruined in the most exquisite way.
You inhale sharply.
“Zayne…” you whisper, his name barely leaving your lips.
He doesn’t answer. But his lips curve faintly, as if the sound pleased him.
Is he still asleep? you wonder, pulse skidding.
“Good morning,” you murmur, softer still.
The sound he makes in response is low, intimate—a groan that vibrates against your ear and settles deep in your chest. He shifts closer, pulling you in until there is no space left between you, until your bodies fit like they were always meant to. He buries his face into your neck and breathes you in, slow and deep.
When he speaks, his voice is rough, deliciously low, the vibration at your throat sending your thoughts into disarray.
“…Good morning indeed.”
Your composure fractures.
“Zayne,” you ask, attempting humor because it’s safer than honesty, “are you trying to crawl into my skin?”
“And what if I was?” He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes.
His hair is disheveled, falling into his eyes, casting shadows that make his gaze feel dangerous in the most sensual way. There is something slow and knowing in the way he looks at you now, something that makes your instinct scream to shy away and hide yourself—and just as strongly, to stay. It almost makes you want to look away.
Almost.
“You’ve certainly made yourself comfortable,” he murmurs, lifting your joined hands, pressing a kiss to each knuckle with deliberate care. “I thought I’d return the favor.”
Heat floods your face.
“Aren’t you getting late?” you ask suddenly, grasping for normalcy.
“Hmm. Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe?” you protest. “What will your patients think of you?”
“I don’t find myself particularly concerned with their opinion of me.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “…What happened to ‘tardiness is an unacceptable excuse’?”
“Did I ever say that?” He lets his head fall back into your neck, teeth grazing your skin in a way that feels unmistakably like teasing. “I don’t remember.”
You have a creeping sense that he is silently laughing at you.
Sunlight has fully claimed the room now, casting everything in a soft gold, illuminating the quiet domestic proof of your life together. Clean laundry waits to be folded. Coffee cups sit abandoned on the nightstand. A calendar rests nearby, filled with his precise handwriting—late-night readings, responsibilities.
One date circled.
A quiet countdown.
“Oh, fine,” you huff, suddenly indignant. “If you want to be lazy, be my guest. I have plans with my friends—and unlike a certain someone, I don’t like being late.”
His shoulders shake. He’s openly amused now.
“That’s nice,” he says softly. “But how are you going to get up?”
You arch a brow.
“I’m not feeling particularly generous,” he adds thoughtfully. “But with the right incentive… I might consider releasing you.”
You press a finger to his lips before he can say more. “Dr. Zayne,” you warn, breathless, “go attend to your patients.”
He nips at your finger. Then licks it.
You yank it back, scandalized.
“Right now,” he murmurs, eyes dark and unwavering, “this doctor just wants to be your lover.”
You end up being late, anyway.
The restaurant hums when you step inside. Warm light. Cutlery chiming softly against porcelain. Laughter blooming and folding in on itself like something alive. It’s cozy in a way that makes your chest loosen before you realize it has.
You spot them instantly.
Nora’s laugh carries first—bright, uncontained. Lara is half-turned in her seat, gesturing wildly, nearly knocking her glass over. Irene sits opposite them, composed but amused, chin resting lightly in her palm as if she’s indulging a performance she’s seen many times before and still enjoys.
You hurry over.
“Girl—what took you so long?” Nora demands the second she sees you.
You freeze for half a beat.
Three sets of eyes sweep over you in quick succession, cataloguing things you hadn’t meant to reveal. The faint warmth still lingering in your cheeks. The way your hair isn’t quite as neat as it usually is. The softness in your expression that hasn’t yet learned how to retreat.
You flush.
“Oh—just traffic,” you say, too quickly, already sliding into the empty seat beside Lara as if proximity might shield you. “You know how it is.”
“Uh-huh.” Lara leans back, folding her arms, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “Must’ve been some intense traffic to get you looking like that.”
Irene snorts, lifting her glass just enough to mask her grin.
Your pulse jumps. You busy your hands—straightening your napkin, nudging the menu—as if they might give you away if left unattended. “Can we not psychoanalyze me within five seconds of arrival?” you say. “Anyway. What do you guys want? I heard the dessert here is to die for.”
That does it.
The table erupts into chatter—debate, mock outrage, sudden passion about sugar levels and texture and whether ordering dessert before entrées is morally acceptable. Lara insists they’ll order one of everything and “figure it out later.”. Nora argues passionately about tiramisu versus panna cotta. Irene mediates like a benevolent dictator.
You let yourself sink into it.
There’s a moment—quiet, almost unnoticeable—where you realize your shoulders have dropped. Your breathing has evened out. The part of you that had still been humming too loudly, too awake, finally dims.
Plates arrive. Drinks are refreshed. Time stretches and folds in on itself the way it only ever does when you’re not watching it.
At some point, Nora reaches across the table to steal a fry from Lara’s plate. Lara gasps like she’s been personally betrayed. Irene laughs so hard she nearly spills her drink.
You laugh too—full, unguarded.
“Oh—wait,” Irene says suddenly, her voice threading through the noise. She reaches into her bag, brows knitting slightly. “I almost forgot.”
“Forgot what?” you ask, absently stirring your drink.
She rummages through her bag, brow furrowed in concentration. “This.” She hands you a flyer. “There’s a tennis competition coming up.”
Your hand stills.
“Kinda a big deal,” Irene continues, oblivious—or maybe very aware. “A lot of rising players get their careers kickstarted there.”
You keep your face neutral, even as something old stirs uncomfortably in your chest. “And you’re participating, I’m assuming?” you say, because it feels safer to keep the focus off yourself.
“Yeah.” She pauses, just long enough for you to look up. “And I want you to join me. Most of the matches will be doubles.”
For a moment, the restaurant noise fades into something distant and warped, like sound underwater.
“Me?” The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it. You point at yourself, incredulous. “What about—” You gesture toward the others, grasping for logic. “—them?”
“Nora has her international tryouts going—”
“What?” You turn so fast your chair scrapes softly against the floor. “You got in?”
Nora’s smile breaks wide, unguarded. “I got in.”
You’re on your feet instantly, arms wrapping around her before she can say another word. “That’s amazing—oh my god. Nora, that’s incredible.”
She hugs you back just as tightly, laughing, and Lara gets awkwardly sandwiched between the two of you, making a strangled noise of protest.
“Help,” Lara mutters. “I’m being crushed by talent.”
Irene watches fondly, then clears her throat. “Yes, yes, congratulations all around. As I was saying—Nora’s busy conquering the world, and we all know Lara hates following rules.”
“I do not hate rules,” Lara protests.
“You are a walking violation,” Irene says sweetly. “And professional tennis would eat you alive.”
Lara scoffs, crossing her arms. “Rude.”
Irene turns back to you, her expression softer now. Intent. “So. What do you say?”
The question settles over you like weight.
You open your mouth, then close it.
Playing for yourself had already felt like defiance. Playing for a crowd—strangers with expectations, opinions, the power to applaud or look away—feels like standing at the edge of something vast and familiar in the worst way.
Your mind betrays you easily.
Empty stands. A chair left conspicuously vacant. Words spoken later, sharp and dismissive, carving excuses where encouragement should’ve been.
Do you still deserve this? Are you even allowed to want it again?
You press your lips together, snuffing the thought before it can grow teeth.
“I mean…” you say carefully. “It’s really sudden.”
“You’re talented,” Irene says without hesitation. No teasing now, no laughter to cushion it. Just certainty. “I know you are. And I want to play with you. Not anyone else.”
Her words are simple. They land anyway.
“Just think about it,” she adds. “It’s in Skyhaven. I’ve already got the passes. All that’s missing is a partner.”
You nod, slow and thoughtful, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. Around the table, the conversation drifts back into lighter things, but something inside you has shifted—subtly, irrevocably.
You don’t give her an answer yet.
But somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the doubt, a quiet part of you leans forward, listening—already imagining the sound of a ball striking a racket, the hush before a serve, the possibility of being seen.
And, unbidden, the image of him rises too—steady, present, looking at you like you belong wherever you choose to stand.
Later, the apartment settles into its evening quiet the way a body settles into sleep—slowly, reluctantly, with small residual movements that fade one by one.
Zayne sits beside you on the couch, long legs crossed at the ankle, a heavy medical tome open in his hands. Reading glasses perch low on his nose, catching the lamplight when he shifts. Every now and then, he turns a page with careful fingers, the sound soft but deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling the room.
You’re half-curled into the corner of the couch, cardigan pulled around you, knees tucked beneath your thigh. The television hums quietly in the background, replaying your favorite tennis rally—the one you’ve watched a hundred times, the one that once convinced you that grace and power could coexist in a single body, that fear could be outrun if you moved fast enough.
The rally reaches its crescendo on screen. The crowd roars. You swallow.
Your mouth opens. Closes.
“Zayne,” you say finally.
He hears it instantly.
Not just the sound of his name, but the way it lands—careful, tentative, edged with something that doesn’t quite know how to ask to be held.
He slides the bookmark between the pages before closing the book, the soft thump of it final. The glasses come off next, folded and set aside with habitual precision. When he turns to you, his body angles fully in your direction, attention settling on you completely, as if nothing else in the room has ever mattered.
“Yes, love?”
The word still catches you off guard every time. Love. You don't think you’ll ever get used to that nickname.
You adjust your grip on the hem of your cardigan. Tighten it. Release it. The knit is soft, worn thin at the cuffs—comfort clothing for a conversation you don’t quite know how to have. You’ve rehearsed this already, in the privacy of your own thoughts. Several versions. All of them abandoned midway, discarded like half-written letters.
Zayne doesn’t interrupt.
He notices the signs before the words arrive—the faint hitch in your breathing, the way your fingers worry the fabric until it twists. You’ve been like this all evening: light laughter offered easily, a brightness worn convincingly, and something quieter folded carefully behind your ribs.
You clear your throat.
“So,” you begin, too lightly, already wincing. “Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically,” he echoes, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
“In the very unlikely scenario,” you continue, eyes fixed on the television screen instead of him, “that someone you knew was doing something mildly public. And potentially humiliating.”
His brow lifts, just a fraction.
“And there might,” you rush on, before the courage evaporates, “be people watching. Cheering. Or not cheering. Judging. Existing.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease.
Instead, his expression softens, something anticipatory settling there, patient and attentive. He waits, the way he always does—like he trusts you to find your way to the truth if given enough space.
You swallow.
“There’s a tournament,” you say at last.
“And you’re playing,” he says gently, not a question.
“I mean—” you hesitate, the admission sticking. “I haven’t given an answer yet.”
“But you want to,” he says.
That catches you off guard. You turn to him, brows knitting together.
“You wouldn’t bring it up otherwise,” he adds, simply.
Of course. He sees you too well. Sometimes it feels like a kindness. Sometimes it feels like standing in front of a mirror you didn’t ask for.
Your hands retreat into the pockets of your cardigan, fingers curling inward, searching for something solid. Your shoulders draw in without permission, a reflex older than you’d like to admit.
“Do you think I should?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer the question you asked.
“Do you want to?” he counters.
“Yes,” you say immediately, without doubt. The word leaves you bare and blinking.
“Then,” Zayne says, voice calm and certain, “that’s all that matters.”
You exhale shakily. The relief is almost dizzying.
“There’s something else,” you add, softer now.
He waits.
The silence stretches—not awkward, not empty. Just full. Pressing gently at your chest, encouraging honesty the way deep water encourages surrender.
Your voice drops when you finally speak.
“Could you… would you be there?”
The words come out quieter than you intended. Fragile. Almost embarrassed by their own need.
Zayne doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he opens his arms.
“Come here.”
The invitation is unhurried, deliberate. He gives you time to feel it—the shift in air, the warmth of him entering your space. His hands rise, palms open, asking without asking. When he cups your face, it’s with the same care he uses for everything that matters. His thumbs rest along your cheekbones, steady and grounding, as if anchoring you to the moment so you don’t drift away from it.
You breathe in. His scent—clean, familiar, quietly comforting—fills your lungs.
His thumbs brush along your cheekbones, feather-light. The way he touches you is never careless. It’s always as if he’s reminding you that you’re here. That you’re safe. That the present moment can hold you if you let it.
He waits until your breathing evens. Until your eyes lift to his.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
You do.
You try to read his expression, but it’s layered—affection, concern, something deeper and resolute beneath it all. His gaze searches your face as if the way you asked matters just as much as what you asked.
“Is that what you’re worried about?” he asks gently. “That I won’t be there?”
Your throat tightens. You shake your head, just a fraction.
“I know you’re busy,” you say. “And it’s silly. I just—”
“It’s not silly.”
The firmness in his tone stops you cold.
He brushes his thumb beneath your eye, the intimacy of it stealing the rest of your sentence entirely.
“You’re not asking for something unreasonable,” he continues. “You’re asking to be supported.”
Your breath stutters.
Support. The word feels dangerous. It implies need. Vulnerability. The kind of thing you were taught, long ago, to survive without.
Zayne seems to sense the direction of your thoughts. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through gently—not possessive, just present.
“Listen to me,” he says.
You do. You always do.
“There isn’t a version of my schedule where I wouldn’t be there.”
“Even if I didn’t have the time,” he adds quietly, “I’d make time.”
The certainty in his voice doesn’t posture. It doesn’t overpromise. It simply exists, solid and immovable.
“For you,” he says, softer now. “Always.”
Something in you loosens.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just enough—like a knot you didn’t realize you’d been carrying finally easing under careful hands.
Your eyes burn. You blink, annoyed with yourself, but Zayne doesn’t let you retreat. His thumb traces a slow, soothing line along your jaw, anchoring you in the present.
“You don’t have to perform for me,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be impressive. Or fearless. I’ll cheer just the same.”
A breathless laugh escapes you, damp at the edges. “You say that now.”
“I mean it,” he replies. “Win or lose. Even if you trip over your own feet.”
“I don’t trip,” you protest weakly.
His smile turns playful. “Debatable.”
You huff, leaning into his touch despite yourself, forehead nearly brushing his chest now. The tension in your shoulders finally begins to melt.
“I just…” you start, then stop.
He waits.
“I’m scared,” you admit, voice muffled against him. “I don’t want to freeze. Or fail. Or—” You swallow hard. “I don’t want to feel that small again.”
Zayne closes his eyes briefly.
“You won’t,” he says, steady and sure.
“I used to want this,” you continue. “Playing like this. Being seen. It feels strange to want it again.”
His expression softens, something thoughtful passing behind his eyes.
“Wanting something doesn’t expire,” he says. “It just goes quiet sometimes.”
You nod, lips pressed together as the truth of it settles deep.
Outside, the city lights shimmer softly. Above, the sky stretches wide and indifferent. And between them, on this couch, something steadier takes root—not loud, not dramatic, but enduring.
You linger in the living room a little longer.
The television is off. The lamps are dimmed. Outside, the city glows faintly, like it’s remembering itself rather than insisting on being seen. You sit curled on the couch, phone warm in your hands, knees tucked to your chest, cardigan pulled tight around you.
The group chat is open.
The cursor blinks.
You’ve typed and deleted the sentence twice already. Three times, if you’re being honest. Each version heavier than the last. Each one trying too hard to be brave, to sound casual, to hide the fact that this feels like stepping onto a court barefoot, vulnerable, heart in your throat.
You don’t need a speech.
You just need the truth.
i’ll do it
You stare at it for a second longer than necessary, then press send before you can second-guess yourself again.
The response is immediate.
Lara, of course.
Your phone vibrates violently in your hands as the chat explodes with noise and color.
A sticker of someone doing an unnecessary backflip. Another one of confetti cannons firing directly into the camera. A third—why does she even have this—of a cartoon woman fainting dramatically.
Nora reacts to every single one with a laughing emoji.
You smile despite yourself, the tightness in your chest loosening just a little.
Then Irene’s message comes through.
that’s my girl.
Something warm and sharp blooms behind your ribs. Pride, maybe. Or relief. Or the strange, tender ache of being claimed gently, without possession.
And then—inevitably—because it's not a group chat with Lara in it if she doesn't send something inappropriate.
u guys are giving major ceo and y/n vibes rn its weird
You snort out loud, clapping a hand over your mouth to keep from waking Zayne. The sound echoes in the quiet room, too bright, too sudden.
You hesitate for only a second.
Then, feeling reckless—buoyed by adrenaline, by support, by the sheer audacity of choosing yourself—you send a single winking emoji.
You barely have time to register what you’ve done before your phone goes berserk again.
This time, it’s Irene.
Heart emojis. So many heart emojis.
A sticker of two people holding hands in slow motion. Another one that just says ICONIC in aggressively sparkly font.
Nora chimes in with a voice note you don’t even need to open to imagine: delighted, teasing, loud enough to be heard across continents.
Lara caps it off with:
IM TELLING U RN THIS IS YOUR ROMCOM ARC
You shake your head, laughing quietly into the sleeve of your cardigan, warmth spreading through you in waves.
The suitcase yawns open on the bed like an accusation.
You stand over it with a sweater in your hands, folded once, then unfolded, then folded again with sharper creases than necessary. The room feels too small all of a sudden, the walls pressing in as if they, too, are aware of the ticking clock. The lamp casts a warm pool of light that should be comforting, but your chest won’t listen.
Shoes. Rackets. Extra grips. That one wristband you always use when you’re nervous.
Did you pack it already? Did you forget it? What if you forget something important—something irretrievable, something symbolic enough to unravel everything?
Your breath stutters.
You move faster, too fast. Clothes pile up beside the suitcase in messy, indecisive stacks. One wrong fold irritates you beyond reason. Your fingers tremble as you shove socks into a corner, then pull them back out again, convinced they’re taking up too much space.
Behind you, Zayne watches quietly.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable in that way of his that usually means he’s observing rather than judging. He hasn’t interrupted yet. He knows better.
You tug at the zipper, realize the bag won’t close, curse under your breath, and sit heavily on the edge of the bed, palms pressing into the mattress like it might ground you.
“I’m forgetting something,” you say, voice too tight.
“You’re not,” Zayne replies calmly.
You huff a humorless laugh. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, stepping into the room now. His footsteps are unhurried, deliberate. “You’ve checked the list three times.”
“What if the list is wrong?”
He reaches you then, kneeling slightly so he’s at eye level, his hands coming to rest on your knees. The warmth of his touch is immediate, anchoring.
“Look at me,” he says gently.
You don’t want to. If you look at him, you might cry, and crying feels like another thing you don’t have time for. But his thumbs press lightly, reassuringly, and eventually you cave.
Your eyes meet his.
“You’re spiraling,” he says, not unkindly. “Breathe.”
You inhale sharply. Exhale. Again.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”
“I don’t like this,” you confess quietly. “The waiting. The traveling. Being… there before it even starts.”
“I know.”
“And what if I get there and freeze?” Your voice wobbles despite your efforts. “What if I wake up tomorrow and regret saying yes?”
Zayne’s gaze softens. He lifts one hand, brushing a loose strand of hair back from your face, tucking it behind your ear with reverent care.
“Then you’ll feel those things,” he says. “And they still won’t undo your choice.”
You swallow.
“I’ll be with you tonight,” he continues. “You won’t be alone at the hotel either. But tomorrow—” He pauses, the smallest hitch in his breath betraying what he doesn’t like saying. “Tomorrow, I can’t make it.”
The words land anyway, even though you knew they were coming.
Your chest tightens instinctively. “I know,” you say quickly, too quickly, as if speed might dull the sting. “You told me. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he corrects gently. “It’s inconvenient. And frustrating. And poorly timed.” His mouth curves faintly. “But it’s not abandonment.”
You nod, staring down at your hands.
He cups your face again, forcing your attention back to him.
“I will be there,” he says firmly. “On the day of the match. I promise you that.”
Your eyes search his, as if looking for cracks. There are none.
“I don’t want you looking at the stands and wondering,” he adds. “I don’t want doubt anywhere near you when you step onto that court.”
Your throat tightens. “You really will come?”
“Even if the universe tries to fight me,” he says dryly. “Especially then.”
A weak laugh slips out of you, shaky but real.
He presses his forehead to yours, grounding, steady. “This trip doesn’t decide everything,” he murmurs. “It’s just the next step. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to show up.”
You close your eyes, letting his words sink in.
After a moment, he pulls back and stands, lifting the offending sweater from the bed and folding it properly before placing it neatly into the suitcase.
“See?” he says. “It closes.”
You watch as he zips it shut with ease, the sound final but not frightening.
Your panic hasn’t vanished entirely—but it’s quieter now. Manageable. Held at bay by the certainty of his presence, his promise stretching just far enough into tomorrow to keep you steady.
You lean into him when he pulls you close, your head fitting instinctively beneath his chin.
“One day,” you murmur, muffled against his chest, “I’m going to look back on this and laugh.”
“I hope so,” he says softly. “But if you cry instead, that’s acceptable too.”
You smile, clinging to him a little tighter.
Tomorrow, you’ll leave.
But tonight, you let yourself be held—packed carefully, gently, by someone who knows exactly how much space you need.
The day of the tournament arrives without ceremony.
No fanfare, no dramatic sweep of sunlight—just the quiet insistence of a day that has been waiting for you whether you were ready or not.
The hotel room smells faintly of detergent and citrus cleaner. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in a pale wash of light that makes everything feel slightly unreal, like a set before the actors arrive. Your racket leans against the wall where you left it last night, strings freshly tightened, handle wrapped just the way you like. Your shoes sit neatly beside the door. Prepared. Patient.
You are not.
Your phone lies face-up on the bed.
No new messages.
You check again anyway, thumb hovering over his name, as if staring hard enough might conjure him into existence. The rational part of you recites what you already know—schedules, emergencies, promises made carefully and meant fully—but the ache does not care for reason.
You exhale, slow and deliberate, the way Zayne taught you.
In. Out.
The knock comes just as your hands begin to shake again.
You open the door to find Irene standing there, dressed for the court already—crisp lines, hair pulled back, eyes sharp and bright. She takes one look at your face and softens immediately.
“Hey,” she says gently. “You’re awake.”
“Unfortunately,” you reply, attempting humor. It comes out thin.
She steps inside without ceremony, sets her bag down, and turns to you fully. No distractions. No false cheer.
“You don’t have to be calm,” she says. “You just have to be here.”
Your throat tightens. You nod.
She reaches out, takes your hands in hers. Her grip is warm, grounding, solid. “Look at me,” she says, echoing words that have become a refrain in your life lately.
You do.
“You didn’t get here by accident,” Irene continues. “You didn’t get invited because someone felt sorry for you. You earned this. Every blister. Every early morning. Every time you played when no one was watching.”
A flash of memory rises unbidden—empty stands, the sound of your own breathing louder than any applause. You swallow it down.
“You don’t have to prove anything today,” she adds. “Not to them. Not to your past. Just play the way you always have. For yourself.”
You nod again, more firmly this time.
“Good,” she says, squeezing your hands once before letting go. “Now—have you talked to Lara yet?”
As if summoned by name, your phone buzzes on the bed.
Speak of the menace.
You put it on speaker.
“BABE,” Lara’s voice explodes through the room. “WHY ARE YOU AWAKE AND NOT ASSERTING DOMINANCE YET?”
Irene snorts.
“I’m about to,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You’re very loud for someone not even here.”
“Excuse you, I am here spiritually,” Lara declares. “And emotionally. And violently supportive.”
“Violently,” Irene repeats, amused.
“Okay, listen,” Lara continues, her tone shifting just enough to be serious beneath the bravado. “You are going to walk onto that court like you own it. Because guess what? You do. Those lines? Yours. That net? Yours. Anyone who doubts you? Also yours to emotionally devastate.”
You laugh, breathless and grateful.
“And if you mess up,” she adds quickly, “which you won’t—but if you do? So what. I mess up professionally all the time. Builds character.”
“Does it?” you ask dryly.
“No. But it builds great stories.”
Irene leans closer, murmuring, “She’s not wrong.”
Your laughter fades into something quieter, steadier. You glance down at your phone again, the absence loud.
Lara notices the pause immediately. “Hey,” she says. “What’s that silence for?”
You hesitate, then admit softly, “Zayne’s not here yet.”
There’s a beat.
“He’ll come,” Lara says, without hesitation. No doubt. No pity. Just certainty, delivered like fact. “And even if he’s late—late, not absent—you’re still not alone.”
Irene nods. “You have us.”
You inhale. Exhale.
The announcement echoes through the hall—your match approaching. Time compresses. The present sharpens.
You gather your things. Shoes laced. Wristband secured. Racket in hand.
As you step toward the court entrance, the noise swells—crowd murmurs, footsteps, the squeak of shoes against polished ground. Your heart pounds too fast, too loud, a frantic bird beating against your ribs.
You scan the stands one last time.
Nothing.
No familiar posture. No steady presence anchoring the chaos.
Your chest tightens—but you square your shoulders anyway.
Irene squeezes your arm. “Play,” she says simply.
And you do.
You step onto the court, the sun catching the lines just so, the world narrowing to green and white and the steady weight of the racket in your hand.
Zayne is not here.
But his words are.
His voice, steady and sure, threaded through your breath like a promise not yet fulfilled.
You take your position.
And somewhere between fear and faith, you choose to trust that he will arrive.
That you will endure.
That this—this moment, trembling and bright—is still yours.
You look for him without meaning to.
It’s an instinct now, automatic as breathing—your gaze lifting toward the stands the moment you step onto the court, heart tripping over itself in quiet anticipation. You scan faces, rows blurring together in a mosaic of strangers: parents leaning forward, friends clustered together, strangers squinting at scoreboards with borrowed interest.
Not him.
You try again. Slower this time. More careful, as if patience might conjure him into being.
Nothing.
Your chest tightens, sharp and familiar, like a bruise pressed too hard. You swallow and force your eyes back to the court, to the net gleaming under the sun, to the baseline beneath your shoes. The announcer’s voice booms overhead, introducing teams, names echoing with a confidence you don’t quite feel yet.
You are up first.
Of course you are.
Your partner squeezes your hand briefly before taking position, a silent we’ve got this. You nod, lips curving into something that resembles a smile. Your body moves on muscle memory, on training and repetition and discipline carved deep into your bones.
But inside, something wilts.
The whistle blows. The ball is served. The match begins.
You play—but not fully.
Your feet move where they should, your arm swings with practiced precision, but there’s a heaviness to you, a fraction of hesitation that throws off your timing. Shots you would normally chase with ferocity feel distant, like you’re watching yourself from underwater. The crowd’s noise presses in around you, too loud, too present.
Between points, your eyes betray you again, flicking toward the stands.
Still no sign of him.
You’ve done this before, you remind yourself. You know how to play without anyone watching.
But that’s the lie, isn’t it?
You know how to play when no one comes.
A memory rises uninvited, cruel in its clarity.
You are younger. Smaller. Standing on a court that feels far too big for your body. You remember glancing up at the empty seats, scanning for familiar faces that never appear. You remember the way your chest ached—not because you lost, but because no one was there to see you try.
We were busy.It’s just a game.You can’t expect us to show up every time.
The words had cut deeper than any loss.
Your grip tightens on the racket now, knuckles whitening. You blink hard, forcing the past back where it belongs.
The score ticks against you.
You lose the first set.
The announcer calls it out, voice neutral, factual. Polite applause ripples through the stands, sympathy clapping that makes your stomach churn. Irene pats your back as you bow your head briefly, breathing through the sting, reminding yourself—I chose this. You straighten your shoulders. You are not that girl anymore. You are not alone.
Still, when you look up again—
There.
At first, you think your mind is playing tricks on you. A trick of light. A wish masquerading as reality.
But then he shifts.
Zayne stands near the aisle, coat draped over one arm, hair slightly disheveled as if he arrived in a hurry. His eyes are locked on you, unwavering, green cutting through the crowd like a beacon. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t shout.
He simply looks at you.
And something inside you detonates.
Relief crashes through you so hard it steals your breath. Heat floods your limbs, your spine, your hands. The ache in your chest dissolves into something bright and fierce and alive. It’s as if someone has turned the volume back up on the world, colors sharpening, sounds clarifying.
You straighten fully now.
Your stance shifts—subtle, but decisive. Your feet plant with new certainty. Your grip loosens just enough to be lethal. When the next serve comes, you meet it head-on, no hesitation, no doubt.
The ball flies.
You move like you remember who you are.
Every shot lands with intention now. You chase, you pivot, you strike—body and mind finally aligned. The crowd’s noise rises, surprised, then impressed, then fully engaged. You hear gasps, cheers, the cadence of momentum swinging back in your favor.
Between points, your gaze flicks to the stands again.
Zayne hasn’t moved.
His jaw is set, pride and focus etched into his expression. When your eyes meet, he gives the smallest nod—as if to say I’m here. I see you.
That’s all you need.
You take the next game. And the next.
The set evens out. Pressure mounts, electric and sharp, but you don’t flinch. You play like every scar on your body has led you to this exact moment, like every time you were unseen has sharpened you instead of breaking you.
When the final point lands in your favor, the whistle sounds, and the crowd erupts.
You’ve won the match.
You don’t look at the scoreboard first.
You look at him.
Zayne’s expression breaks then—into something unguarded, something radiant. He’s clapping, not loudly, not for show, but with a reverence that makes your throat ache. His eyes shine, and for the first time all day, you feel it fully, undeniably:
You are seen.
The past loosens its grip.
You exhale, smile spreading across your face, and for the first time on this court, your joy feels unrestrained.
You didn’t just win a match.
You reclaimed yourself.
You don’t remember leaving the court.
Only the way your legs carried you without asking, breath still ragged, sweat cooling against your skin as adrenaline hummed too loudly to be contained. The noise of the crowd fades into something distant, cottoned and unreal, because your eyes have found only one thing that matters.
Him.
Zayne waits at the edge of the aisle, tall and unmistakable, coat forgotten over one arm, tie loosened as if he tore it free the moment he realized he was already late. There is something almost undone about him—hair slightly out of place, breath not yet steady—as though he, too, ran to get here.
You stop in front of him so abruptly you nearly collide.
For a heartbeat, you just stare.
“You made it,” you say, voice trembling despite your attempt at composure.
His mouth curves, soft and unguarded. “I made it.”
The words are simple. They undo you anyway.
Your hands find his jacket without permission, fisting the fabric like proof. He steadies you instantly, palms warm at your waist, grounding and real. The world snaps back into focus just long enough for you to realize you are smiling too hard, breathing too fast, heart trying to claw its way out of your chest.
“I—” You laugh, breathless. “I thought—”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
The apology is quiet, fierce, unnecessary—and you shake your head, already stepping closer.
“Come with me,” you say, barely thinking.
He does.
The walk to the locker room is a blur of corridors and echoing footsteps, your shoulder brushing his arm, sparks ricocheting with every accidental touch. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too revealing, and still you can’t stop the way your body keeps angling toward his, drawn by gravity you no longer resist.
The door closes behind you with a muted click.
Silence rushes in.
For half a second, you just stand there, staring at each other like you’re unsure who will move first.
Then Zayne’s hand cups your face.
It’s decisive, reverent, like he’s been holding this back for hours. Your breath stutters as he leans down, forehead resting against yours, his exhale warm against your lips.
“You were incredible,” he says softly. “I’ve never—”
You don’t let him finish.
You surge forward, fingers tangling into his hair, and kiss him with everything you didn’t have time to feel on the court. Relief, joy, fury at the waiting, the fear—all of it spills into the press of your mouth against his. He responds instantly, a low sound leaving his chest as his arms come around you, pulling you flush against him.
The kiss deepens, hungry but unhurried, like you’re both trying to memorize this exact moment. His thumb brushes along your jaw, then down your neck, lingering just long enough to make you shiver. Your hands slide under his jacket, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady thrum of his heart.
You forget where you are.
You forget everything.
“Oh.”
You freeze.
Irene stands a few feet away, frozen mid-step, water bottle dangling from her fingers. Her eyes flick from you to Zayne to the very obvious way you’re pressed together—and then she breaks into a grin so wide it’s almost blinding.
She giggles.
“Oh,” she whispers, delighted. Then, louder: “I was just here for my bottle! But you guys carry on! Pretend I wasn’t here at all!”
She winks—actually winks—already backing toward the door.
“I’ll be back for our little showstopper for the second matchup!” she adds cheerfully, then disappears before either of you can form a coherent sentence.
The door shuts.
You and Zayne stare at it.
Then at each other.
Your face feels like it’s on fire.
“We’re acting like two teenagers,” you mutter, mortified.
Zayne lets out a laugh—real, unrestrained, warm. It vibrates against you where his hands still rest at your waist. He presses one last, softer kiss to your forehead, grounding you again. “Go,” he murmurs. “You’ve got more to win.”
The rest of the matches pass like a fever dream.
You play doubles with Irene, the two of you moving in sync with startling ease—her sharp instincts, your renewed ferocity. Lara’s voice echoes from somewhere in the stands, utterly unhinged, shouting commentary that has the crowd laughing between points. Nora sends voice notes mid-breaks, breathless with pride.
You win. And win again.
By the time you and Irene reach the final, the weight of it settles in all at once.
This is it.
The court feels larger now. The crowd louder. Your hands shake as you adjust your grip, the racket suddenly unfamiliar, too heavy. Your breath comes shallow, chest tight, thoughts spiraling.
What if this is where you fail?
The memory hits without warning.
Your mother’s voice, sharp and cutting, slicing through the air like a whip.
If you spent half as much time on something useful…
You see yourself smaller again, shoulders hunched, swallowing tears before matches, learning to expect absence instead of applause.
Your vision blurs.
A hand closes around yours.
You look up.
Zayne stands there, close enough that the noise fades again. His gaze is steady, unwavering.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Stay with me.”
You nod, barely.
“Whatever happens,” he says, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, “I am already proud of you.”
Behind him, Lara and Irene exchange wide-eyed looks. Lara clutches Irene’s arm, whispering something frantic. Irene presses a hand to her chest, visibly swooning.
You straighten.
When the final match begins, you play like you’ve finally shed something heavy.
Every movement is purposeful. Every strike honest. You don’t play to prove anything—you play to be.
The final point lands.
The whistle blows.
For a moment, there is silence.
Then the crowd erupts.
You’ve won.
You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.
You drop the racket and run straight into Zayne’s arms, crashing into him with a laugh that turns into a sob. He catches you easily, arms wrapping around you, lifting you just enough that your feet barely skim the ground.
“I knew it,” he murmurs into your hair. “I knew you would.”
You cling to him, breathless and shaking and victorious, the world roaring around you.
This time, when you look back at the stands—
They’re full.
And you are not alone.
A few hours ago, you were shaking on a court, terrified of being seen.
Now you’re standing under a flickering streetlamp in Linkon, tennis bag slung over your shoulder, hair still smelling faintly of sweat and victory, while Lara argues loudly with the concept of responsibility.
The shift feels unreal. Borrowed. Like joy you’re holding on loan, afraid it might be reclaimed if you grip it too tightly.
The girls buzz around you, loud and electric, high on the aftermath of a win that doesn’t feel fully real yet. They talk over each other, laughter spilling everywhere, voices colliding like pinballs. Irene is already chanting karaoke, karaoke under her breath like a spell. Lara has her keys out, tossing them up and catching them with theatrical flair, basking in the role of chaos incarnate.
You follow them anyway.
You always do—when something feels this fragile, this almost-happiness, you move with it before it has the chance to disappear.
The parking lot greets you with cool night air, the faint smell of asphalt and rubber grounding you in the present. Your shoulders relax a fraction as you breathe it in. The sky overhead is ink-dark, city lights bleeding into the clouds.
Lara tosses the keys again.
And again.
Nora watches this with the long-suffering expression of someone who has already accepted her fate.
“Absolutely not,” Nora says flatly. “I’m calling an Uber.”
“And abandon me?” Lara clutches her chest with dramatic sincerity. “After everything we’ve been through?”
“What we’ve been through is vehicular endangerment,” Nora replies without missing a beat.
Irene, unbothered by either of them, is already tapping furiously on her phone. “Okay, there’s one like… ten minutes away.”
“Ten minutes driving or ten minutes walking?” Nora asks.
Irene pauses. You can see the pause, the mental buffering.
“…Define walking.”
You snort before you can stop yourself.
Nora looks at you then, eyes catching yours in the glow of the parking lot lights. Something unspoken passes between you—a shared understanding forged through chaos and near-death experiences and Lara’s relationship with rules.
You climb into the backseat together.
A silent pact forms as the doors shut.
If we survive this, we survive anything.
Lara starts the engine with far too much enthusiasm.
The car jerks forward.
“Seatbelts!” Nora barks automatically, already buckling herself in with grim efficiency.
“I am offended by the lack of trust,” Lara says, swerving just slightly as she pulls out. “I am a fantastic driver.”
“You almost took out a cone,” you say mildly.
“The cone came out of nowhere.”
The city blurs past the windows as they drive—neon signs, convenience stores, intersections that all start to look the same. Music blasts from the speakers, some upbeat pop song Irene insists is perfect warm-up karaoke energy. Lara drums her fingers on the steering wheel like she’s already on stage.
You sit back, watching the lights smear across the glass, your body still humming with leftover adrenaline. Every so often, you catch yourself smiling for no reason at all. Not a careful smile. Not the restrained kind you’ve learned to wear.
A real one.
It startles you each time.
“This feels illegal,” you murmur, half to yourself.
Nora glances at you. “Fun usually does.”
The car slows suddenly.
“Okay,” Irene says, peering at her phone. “I think it’s… left?”
Lara turns left immediately.
Nora squints out the window. “This is a dead end.”
“It’s not a dead end,” Lara insists.
They stop in front of a locked gate.
“…It’s a very committed dead end,” Nora says.
Lara laughs, unfazed, and throws the car into reverse. “Okay, fine. Minor detour.”
This happens again.
And again.
Each time, Irene grows quieter, brow furrowed, zooming in and out on the map like proximity might help.
“Why does every road look the same?” Irene mutters.
“Because you don’t know how to read a map,” Nora says.
“I do know how to read a map.”
“You once navigated us into a bike lane.”
“That was the map’s fault.”
You laugh—soft at first, then louder, shoulders shaking as the absurdity piles up. The sound surprises you. It feels loose. Unrestrained. Like something slipping free.
Lara glances at you through the rearview mirror, grin widening. “See? Worth it.”
Worth it.
The word settles somewhere warm in your chest.
They get lost again—this time ending up near the river, headlights reflecting off dark water. Irene groans, sliding lower in her seat.
“I swear, it was right here.”
Nora leans back, arms crossed. “At this point, the karaoke bar is a myth.”
“Maybe the real karaoke was the friends we made along the way,” Lara says solemnly.
“Please shut up,” Nora replies.
You lean your head against the window, cool glass pressing into your temple. The city hums around you, distant and alive. A few hours ago, the idea of being this visible—this loud, this surrounded—would have made your chest seize.
Now, you’re here.
Still a little overwhelmed. Still half-expecting the night to fracture if you move wrong.
But laughing anyway.
Your phone buzzes in your lap.
Zayne.
You hesitate for half a second, then open it.
Did you get home safely?
Your fingers hover, then type back.
Not exactly home. Karaoke. We are… lost.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Lost?
You smile.
Very. But alive. I think.
A pause.
Then:
Call me if you need me. I’ll come get you.
The offer is immediate. Steady. No hesitation.
Your chest tightens—not painfully, but deeply.
We’ll manage, you reply. I promise.
Another pause.
I trust you, he sends. Then, softer somehow, even through text: Have fun. You earned it.
You tuck the phone away, warmth lingering in your palm.
The car finally pulls up in front of a brightly lit building plastered with neon notes and glittering signs. KARAOKE blazes overhead.
“We made it!” Irene gasps, triumphant.
Lara slams the brakes and throws her arms up. “Never doubted us for a second.”
Nora exhales. “I’m changing my will.”
You climb out of the car, night air wrapping around you again. Music thumps faintly through the walls. Laughter spills out the open door.
You pause for just a moment on the sidewalk.
This morning, you were bracing for failure.
Now, you’re stepping into noise and light and borrowed joy, surrounded by people who want to keep the night going simply because you won.
You follow them inside.
The house is quiet in that particular way only late afternoon can manage—sunlight slanting through the windows, dust motes suspended like they’re holding their breath. The walls wear their age honestly. Fine cracks spider near the corners, paint flaking just enough to suggest neglect, not decay. A home that has been lived in carefully… but not touched in a while.
You tilt your head, studying the living room like it’s a puzzle you’re finally allowed to solve.
“I think pastel blue would suit these walls,” you say, almost absently.
The words leave you before you can overthink them.
Zayne doesn’t respond.
You turn.
He’s staring at you.
Not openly—no, it’s the way his gaze lingers just a second too long, the way his posture stills as if something fragile has just passed between you and he’s afraid to move too quickly in case it breaks.
“What?” you ask, brows knitting slightly. There’s a flicker of self-consciousness there, old and instinctive. “You said the paint was chipping and… I’d like to paint our home together.”
The last word hangs in the air.
Our.
It sounds different said aloud. Weightier. Less theoretical.
Zayne blinks once. Then again.
Slowly, like he’s recalibrating.
“You want to…” he starts, then stops. His throat works as he swallows. “Together?”
“Yes,” you say, softer now, uncertain but resolute. “I mean—if you want to. I just thought… it might be nice. To choose something. To make a mess. To do something ordinary.”
Ordinary. The word almost trembles.
You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how exposed you’ve made yourself. You hadn’t meant for it to feel like this—like an offering held out with bare hands. You were only talking about paint. A color. A wall.
But it isn’t just that, is it?
It’s about permanence. About leaving marks you can’t easily undo. About standing in the middle of a shared space and saying: I’m here. I’m staying.
Zayne exhales slowly.
He steps closer—not rushing, not hesitant either. The movement is careful, deliberate, like every inch of distance matters.
“Alright,” he says. “Pastel blue.”
Your eyes widen just a little. “Really?”
“Yes,” he replies, amused. “Though I reserve the right to debate undertones.”
You laugh, the sound bright and disbelieving. “Of course you do.”
He leans closer, forehead resting briefly against yours. Not a kiss. Something quieter. More intimate.
“We’ll paint it together,” he murmurs. “Take our time. If we get it wrong, we repaint.”
The words carry more than their surface meaning.
You nod, throat thick. “Okay.”
It’s your third wedding anniversary today.
Zayne took the day off without telling you at first. You only realized when you noticed his phone—usually buzzing, lighting up, demanding pieces of him—lying abandoned on the kitchen counter. Silent. Forgotten.
“I thought we could… do this,” he had said simply, gesturing to the room, to the half-painted walls, to you standing there with a brush in hand and paint on your nose.
And you hadn’t questioned it. Because somehow, this felt right.
Not dinner reservations or stiff formality. Just the two of you, barefoot on protected floors, ruining old clothes and fixing something together.
The first brushstroke goes on crooked.
You stare at it for a second—this pale, forgiving blue slanting upward like it changed its mind halfway through—and then you laugh. Not a careful laugh. Not the one you use when you’re afraid of being too much.
A real one.
Zayne pauses beside you, roller hovering midair. “Is it supposed to do that?”
“Yes,” you say solemnly. “It’s called character.”
He hums, unconvinced, and then deliberately drags his roller right through your crooked stroke, smoothing it out with infuriating precision.
“Hey,” you protest. “That was my character.”
“You have plenty,” he replies mildly. “The wall does not.”
You retaliate by flicking your brush at him.
The paint splatters across his sleeve, a constellation of blue blooming against the crisp fabric of the shirt he absolutely should not have worn for this.
He looks down at it.
Then up at you.
Slowly.
“Oh,” he says. “So that’s how we’re playing this.”
You don’t even get a chance to run.
Paint ends up everywhere—on your hands, your wrists, a streak across your cheek that Zayne pretends not to notice but absolutely does. At some point, you slip slightly on the drop cloth and he catches you without thinking, paint-slick fingers warm and steady around your waist, laughter breathless between you.
The house smells like fresh paint and soap and something warmer underneath—home, finally learning how to breathe.
You’re both a mess.
And neither of you would change a thing.
You’re reaching up to reload your brush when you feel it.
The stillness.
You turn.
Zayne has stopped painting.
The roller hangs loosely in his hand, forgotten. He’s looking at you—not the walls, not the color, not the mess.
The look on his face makes you freeze.
It isn’t restrained. It isn’t careful.
It’s unfiltered.
Pure love, naked and reverent, like he’s seeing you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. Like the world has narrowed to the way paint streaks your skin, the way your hair has escaped its tie, the way joy sits on you like it finally belongs.
Your breath catches. “What?”
He steps closer.
Slow. Intentional.
He lifts his free hand and brushes a paint-dusted lock of hair away from your face, his thumb lingering at your temple, leaving the faintest blue smear there like a mark of devotion.
“Let’s elope,” he says quietly.
You blink.
Then laugh, startled. “We’re already married, Zayne.”
“I know.” His voice doesn’t waver. “But marry me again anyway. This time—on your terms.”
The room tilts.
“You can pick a dress you like and want to wear, and we can rewrite this day to what we actually wanted it to be.”
Your eyes burn instantly, traitorous and bright. “Idiot,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I’m covered in paint and you pull this?”
His mouth curves into something impossibly soft. “You’ve never looked more like yourself.”
That’s what breaks you.
You don’t remember saying yes. Only that suddenly you’re crying and laughing at the same time, paint-stained fingers fisting in his shirt as he presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in like a promise.
The short walk to the boutique feels like a dream.
It is the same boutique as before. The same narrow street with its polite trees and cobblestones that remember more footsteps than they let on. The same tall windows, fogged faintly at the edges, glowing from within like a held breath. The same soft lighting once meant to flatter strangers and now, inexplicably, feels like it was calibrated for you alone.
Even the scent is the same—florals and silk and something warmer beneath it, like the ghost of incense clinging to fabric. It curls around you the moment you step inside, familiar enough to tug at memory, gentle enough not to hurt.
And the saleswoman—she looks up from the counter and beams, her face breaking open with recognition, with delight.
“Welcome!” she says, voice lilting, pleased in a way that feels personal. “It's good to see you again.”
You laugh, the sound slipping out of you before you can temper it. It’s embarrassed and bright all at once, a little disbelieving. As if you’re surprised she remembers you. As if you’re surprised that you remember this place without your chest tightening, without that old reflexive brace in your spine.
This time, there is no pressure.
This time, it’s just you.
You wander slowly, fingers drifting over racks of fabric, satin cool and smooth beneath your touch, lace like a held breath. You let yourself linger. You let yourself want without immediately interrogating the desire.
Zayne follows at an unhurried distance, hands folded behind his back, eyes observant but soft. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t steer you. He’s learned, you think—not through books or protocols or careful planning, but through watching you closely enough to understand when to step forward and when to simply be there.
You pause in front of a row of pale dresses. Ivory, pearl, cream—variations on the same theme. They glow gently, obediently, like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to be chosen.
“I never liked white wedding dresses,” you say, almost offhandedly. Your fingers brush past the hanger of one, the fabric pristine and untouched.
Zayne hums thoughtfully. It’s a small sound, contemplative. “Well,” he says, measured as ever, “it’s only a suggestion.” Then, after a beat—after the faintest shift in his expression, something mischievous threading through his calm—“But in my culture, brides traditionally wear red.”
You look up at him.
Red.
Bold. Defiant. Alive. Not something meant to erase you, but something meant to announce you.
You grin, something wild and delighted sparking in your chest. “Red it is, then.”
The dress you choose does not whisper. It does not apologize for existing.
It is rich and deep and unapologetic, a red that feels older than tradition and younger than rebellion. The fabric moves when you do, flowing around your body like it understands you—like it has no intention of making you smaller, quieter, more palatable.
When you step out of the dressing room, the saleswoman presses a hand to her mouth.
“Oh,” she breathes, eyes shining. “Oh, my.”
Zayne doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks. His gaze is steady, reverent without being possessive, warm without trying to claim.
For a moment, the room seems to hold its breath.
Then his mouth curves, slow and unmistakable. “Beautiful,” he says simply.
Something in you melts.
You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until that single word lands in your chest and splits you open. Tears sting your eyes, sudden and fierce, and you laugh as they spill over, mortified and overwhelmed and incandescently alive.
(You buy the black lingerie set as well; the saleswoman winks knowingly. This time, you don’t feel like you’re pretending to be someone braver, bolder, more entitled to desire than you are.)
When you finally step back out onto the street, the world feels too small to contain you.
You’re laughing, breathless, the dress fluttering around you, bouquet somehow already in your hand because the saleswoman had insisted earlier with the fierce certainty of someone who believes joy should be seized the moment it appears. Zayne, efficient and inscrutable, had made it happen without comment.
Zayne’s hand is firm around yours.
“Careful,” he warns fondly as you spin, dress swishing, joy bubbling out of you uncontrollably.
“I’m done being careful in my life,” you shoot back. People turn to look. They smile. Someone murmurs, What a cute couple.
You don’t shrink from it.
The sky darkens without warning. The first drops of rain splatter against the pavement, hesitant, curious.
Then the rain commits.
You gasp, delighted, dress darkening at the hem as water soaks in. Zayne smiles, pulling you closer instead of seeking shelter, your laughter tangling together as the world blurs into silver streaks. You dance in the rain. Your dress whips around your legs, hair plastering to your face, bouquet abandoned somewhere along the way. Zayne spins you, steady and sure, rain dripping from his lashes as he looks at you like you’re the miracle he never thought he was allowed to ask for.
The rain dripped relentlessly, yet all you felt was the heat of Zayne pressed against you. Your clothes clung, your hair stuck to your cheeks, and the world had narrowed until there was only him—the one who had haunted your heart, shadowed your days, and finally, now, held you in a way that made every ache you’d ever felt make sense.
You trembled in his arms, half from cold, half from the intensity of the moment, and the words you’d held for years bubbled up uncontrollably. “I love you,” you say breathlessly, words ripped straight from your chest. “I was so scared for so long. I thought love always meant losing myself. And you—I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He tilted his head slightly, rainwater streaking down his face, and cupped your cheek with both hands, his thumb brushing over the tear that had fallen. “I know,” he said softly, voice low, steady. “I know you didn’t.”
You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs, words spilling like a torrent. “I… I was hurt too,” you admitted. “We were already dealing with so much. You were always… so busy. I’d barely made it out of my mother’s clutches, and I don’t blame you—but your busy schedule didn’t make it any easier. The sudden independence felt like… abandonment. It was so lonely. I had no sense of purpose. I had no one but you. And when I looked to you for comfort, you were always so preoccupied.”
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the confession settle between you like the heavy rain around you. Then he whispered, a little hoarse, a little raw, “You were expecting from me to treat you how your mother treated you, even if you never outwardly said it.”
Your chest tightened. “I—I did not,” you stammered, voice small and uncertain, almost apologetic.
“You did,” he said, holding your gaze, thumb still brushing your cheek. His grip on your hand tightened gently, grounding both of you against the cold drizzle. “We both know how the first few months of our marriage went. I didn’t want to become your second oppressor. That’s why I distanced myself. Believing that if there was no one influencing your decisions, perhaps you’d find yourself.”
The words hung between you, jagged and true, and you could feel the weight of the lost months, the pain neither of you had fully voiced. “Zayne…” you began, voice breaking.
“I had seen a glimpse of the woman I met in that restaurant on our first date,” he interrupted softly, almost reverently. “So headstrong, fiercely protective, brave. And I saw her again during your match and… today. I have… most fervently missed you.” His forehead rested against yours, rain dripping between you, merging with tears neither of you could distinguish anymore.
You pressed closer, letting yourself finally melt into him. “I… I have missed you too,” you whispered, voice ragged, tremulous, honest. “Every day, Zayne. Every single day, I missed… us. Even when I was angry, even when I thought I had no one—I missed you. I—”
He shook his head slightly, cutting through your spiraling confessions, and tilted your chin up with a hand that was gentle yet insistent. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me anymore,” he said, voice trembling with emotion. “You don’t. You are here now, and that is enough. I don’t care about mistakes or silence or distance. I care about this moment, about you, and I have loved you through every single misstep, every single quiet hour when I did not touch you, when I wasn’t near you.”
Tears streaked down your cheeks freely now, mingling with the rain. You buried your face in his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that had never stopped, that had never wavered, even when you had. “I… I was so afraid,” you murmured, voice muffled, “that loving you would mean losing myself. I thought… I thought I had to shrink. I thought I would always be small for you. But you… you never let me be anything but myself, even when you were distant. You… you always believed in me, even when I didn’t.”
“I always have,” he whispered into your hair. “I always will. I never wanted you to feel less than the fire you are. I wanted you to burn brightly. And if it meant watching from a distance, if it meant bearing my own pain in silence, then so be it. I would endure it a thousand times over, if it meant one day I could hold you like this again. And now… here you are. So alive, so brave, so utterly, breathtakingly you.”
You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, rain dripping down your eyelashes, diluting and highlighting every fleck of color and light that made him, him. “I’ve waited for this,” you admitted, voice small but certain. “For honesty. For closeness. For you. For us. I’ve missed the warmth of you, the strength of you, the way you make me feel… unafraid.”
He cupped your face again, forehead resting against yours, eyes glistening. “And I have waited,” he said, every word deliberate and tender. “For your heart to trust me. For the storm between us to break and wash us clean. For you to let me in completely. I have loved you while we were apart, while we stumbled around each other, while fear and pride got in our way. I have loved you, and I will continue to love you, without pause, without hesitation, for the rest of our lives. That is a promise I make silently every day, but now… I will say it out loud. I love you. Every part of you. Even the parts that hurt. I love them all, because they are yours, and they are mine by extension. And I… will never let you feel alone again.”
Your hands threaded into his soaked hair, clinging, desperate, needing. “I love you,” you whispered back, voice cracking, trembling, but stronger than it had ever been. “I love you in ways I can’t even name. I love you so completely, Zayne, that it hurts. That it burns. But it also… it sets me free.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple, a chaste, trembling brush that somehow contained the weight of years. “You are my home and my peace.”
You pulled him closer, arms tight around his neck. “I don’t ever want to be anywhere else,” you admitted. “I want this—the two of us, the mess, the joy, the tears. I want… everything with you.”
“And you will have it,” he promised, voice low and unshakable. “All of it. And I will give you mine in return. Every day. Every single day. No more distance. No more walls. Only this… only us.”
The rain poured harder, soaking through clothes and skin, but the cold no longer mattered. You clung to him like your life depended on it, because, in that moment, it did. Not for survival, but for love—an unguarded, raw, unrelenting love that had endured everything and now, finally, shone in full.
And there, in the silver wash of rain, forehead pressed to his, arms locked, hearts thrumming together like a single drumbeat, you realized—through every tear, every word, every aching memory—that this was what it had always been.
You didn’t lose anything by loving him.
You found everything.
Zayne hasn't set you down.
Not when the rain is still dripping from your hair, not when your dress is damp and heavy, not when your joy is still trembling in your chest like a bell that’s been rung too hard to stop.
You’re cradled against him, one arm under your knees, the other firm at your back, his grip secure in the way that says I’ve got you without ever needing to announce it. Your head rests near his shoulder, close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, close enough to feel how grounded he is—how unshaken.
“So…” you say, peering up at him with a sheepish grin, rain-dark lashes clumped together, cheeks flushed. “Now what?”
He looks down at you, mouth tilting into something smug and infuriatingly handsome.
“Now,” Zayne says, voice smooth as silk dragged over steel, “we dry off.”
Your smile lingers for half a second.
Then it falters—just a little. “And after that?”
He hums, thoughtful, as if this is the most serious logistical question he’s faced all day. “After that,” he says lightly, “we go to bed.”
Your brows knit. “…and then?”
His eyes flicker. There it is—that glint. That knowing, mischievous spark that only ever shows itself when he’s fully aware he’s about to push you exactly where you’re most flustered.
“Then we sleep,” he says calmly.
You stare at him. Flat. Unamused. “Zayne.”
“Yes, love?” He sounds unbearably innocent.
“Stop teasing me.”
He chuckles—a low, warm sound that vibrates through his chest and into you. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare tease my wife.”
You scoff. “You are absolutely teasing me.”
“Nonsense.” He adjusts his hold slightly, drawing you closer, as though the argument itself is reason enough to keep you tucked against him. “I’m merely outlining our evening plans.”
“With suspicious omissions.”
“I prefer to think of them as… surprises.”
You narrow your eyes. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I waited a long time to earn that,” he says mildly. “Let me enjoy it.”
You huff, then soften despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, “you married me anyway.”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Touché.
He steps into the warmth of the building, the door closing behind you with a quiet finality that feels strangely ceremonial. The noise of the rain dulls to a distant hush. Everything smells like warmth and clean linen and the faint echo of flowers.
Zayne looks down at you again, his expression shifting—not losing its playfulness, but gaining something deeper beneath it. Something earnest. Intent.
“It seems,” he says smoothly, “I’ve caused doubts for my darling bride in regards to my marital duties.”
Your heart stutters.
“Fear not,” he continues, eyes dark with promise, lips curving slowly. “I intend to rewrite every upsetting memory with new, happy ones…”
He pauses deliberately.
“…right after I’m done ravishing you.”
Heat floods your face instantly. “Zayne!”
He laughs again, unabashed this time. “Too much?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And thoroughly devoted,” he counters, carrying you down the hallway as though this is the most natural thing in the world. As though you’ve always belonged here—in his arms, laughing, flustered, alive.
He slows near the bedroom, his tone gentler now, more sincere, threading through the humor like a steady heartbeat.
Your first and second wedding anniversaries had slipped by with quiet regrets, small disappointments, and unspoken tensions—days that should have been celebratory but instead felt heavy, hollow, like echoes of what could have been. Yet now, as you lie here, tangled in Zayne’s arms, the warmth of him pressing into you and the mischievous glint still lingering in his eyes, it occurs to you that this—this love, this closeness, this reckless joy—is the start of a different story.
Your third wedding anniversary will not be a day of quiet regrets. It will not be measured by what went wrong or what was lost. This day will be remembered, etched into the corners of your mind and heart with a vividness that makes every past misstep seem small in comparison. Today, love is bold and unafraid; it spills over, unstoppable, and you are its witness, its willing participant.
And as the famous saying goes, third time’s the charm.
Sylus could have bought the most expensive jewelry for mc, yet he chooses to forge a golden bracelet with his own hands and cooks for her himself, despite having chefs at his disposal. This deliberate act shows that true intimacy isn’t only measured by wealth or extravagance; it’s in the effort, attention, and personal touch. By crafting something himself and preparing food with his own hands, he transforms ordinary objects and actions into vessels of care and love, proving that no material richness can rival the depth of connection conveyed through handmade, thoughtful gestures. Sylus turns effort into love, embodying intimacy in its most genuine and unforgettable form. His efforts mean everything to me, Surely there’s no love purer than his!! 🩷
Thinking about Caleb taking care of his girl - mc/ fem!reader - so much, that he won’t put up with her spending any of her hard-earned money
After shutting your door for you, Caleb walks around the front of the car into the drivers seat, shuffling with the seatbelt as he turns the key in the ignition.
You hum to yourself in the meantime and find your lipstick in your bag—your new lipstick, a little more luxe this time, just the right shade to compliment your skin, a treat for yourself after finishing up a project at work. Just a little gift you deserved. You flip down the sun visor and open the mirror, making a pretty o with your lips to carefully apply it, stifling a smile when you feel Caleb watching.
“Where’s that from, baby?” he asks, a hand smoothing up your back.
“Hm?”
“The—uh…” His hand lifts, fingers hesitating near his lips as his eyes linger on yours. “The lipstick. That’s… new?”
You smile, the corners of your mouth tilting up. "Yeah. Just tried it now." You wrap your arms around his bicep for a quick, soft squeeze, then reach up to cradle his face, pecking his cheek - leaving soft pink mark behind. "You like it?"
He nods, almost absently, like he’s still trying to find the right words. Then, softer—surer:
“Yeah. It’s… pretty.”
A small pause.
“Looks good on you.”
But his smile falters, and it has you pouting.
“What?”
“Nothing…” He shrugs. “Just don’t remember buying it. You used my card, right?”
You shake your head. “No, I bought it myself. It wasn’t expensive, honey, I promise.” Half true, at the very least.
“Yeah?” He blinks, then gently shifts back just enough to reach into his coat pocket, fishing out the wad of cash that’s accumulated there. “How much was it, baby? I’ll pay you back.”
“Caleb, I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Yeah, well, I’m doing it anyway.” He counts out one, two, three twenties—
“Caleb, put that away—”
He looks up at you, raises his brows, dishes out a fourth and a fifth. “What?” He doesn’t hesitate for a second, folding the bills in half before leaning over the console to slip them into your purse. As he does, he presses a quick kiss to your cheek—light and teasing, knowing exactly what it’ll do.
He grins, just a little, watching the way your attention drifts. One hand rests casually on the wheel—strong, veined, just enough to make you pause—and the other gently holds your jaw, guiding you toward him. He kisses you again, this time softly at the corner of your mouth, careful not to mess up the lipstick. “Use my card next time, yeah? Doesn’t matter what it’s for.”
You frown. “But I feel bad . . . I make my own money, you know.”
“You’re not supposed to spend your money, baby, you’re supposed to spend mine.”
He lifts your chin with two fingers—gentle, but sure—guiding your gaze back to him when you try to look away. His eyes search yours, steady and soft.
“Let me take care of you, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to your lips—slow and certain, like a promise.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
And honestly… when he says it like that, it’s hard to do anything but let him.
𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc/mc. caleb dreams of having a baby, but you’re held back by fear—so what comes next when love wants to grow, but your body says no? w.c: 2.1k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – fluff, discussions about fear of pregnancy
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 – not proofread. this was a request !! this was wonderful, and very touching. i love being able to tackle stories like this, bc it's such a real real valid fear to have. i hope i did this story justice.
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.
you’re walking beside him, coffee in one hand and his fingers laced through the other, when he slows down just slightly.
it’s subtle—but you feel it in the way his thumb pauses along your knuckles. the way his gaze shifts from the storefronts ahead to the little scene playing out across the street.
a young couple, probably early thirties, standing outside a bakery with their toddler. the kid’s face is covered in crumbs and frosting, shirt stained with the evidence of a cupcake devoured in under a minute. the dad’s trying to clean her up with one of those flimsy napkins. the mom is laughing. the toddler keeps shrieking “nooo!” in between bites.
you watch caleb watch them and then, there it is. that soft, helpless little smile he doesn’t even realize he’s wearing. he tries to hide it—tilts his head a little, clears his throat like it was nothing. but you know him too well. you know that look.
you keep walking. two blocks later, there’s a group of school kids passing on a field trip. they’re all wearing matching t-shirts and most of them are holding hands in pairs. one of them stops to wave at you for no reason at all, like your face is familiar in a way only children understand.
caleb waves back. you raise a brow and he just shrugs, "what?" he says, far too casually. "they're cute." you hum. you don’t say anything.
a few more minutes pass, and you’re standing in line for ice cream when a baby starts crying behind you. caleb turns around like he’s been summoned. and the moment the baby quiets—those wide little eyes blinking up at the world like it’s too bright and too big—he grins.
you glance at him, he tries to fight it—he loses. "what is going on with you today?" you finally ask, nudging him gently with your elbow.
his ears tint a little red, “nothing,” he mumbles, then adds, “just... kids are cute.”
you eye him. then you realize— he has baby fever—hard.
and suddenly your heartbeat slows. not in a bad way. not exactly. just... heavy. thoughtful. like someone pulled a thread loose inside your chest, because you know what this means.
he’s thinking about it, maybe not this second. maybe not tomorrow, but he’s there.
and you’re not sure if you’ll ever be.
.
it’s later that evening, and you’re both curled up on the couch.
the lights are low. the tv’s playing something neither of you are really watching. his arm is around your shoulders, your legs tangled with his like it’s second nature by now. and it is.
his fingers trace soft shapes into the fabric of your sleeve, and you’ve just started to drift when he speaks, “can i ask you something?”
your eyes blink open, slow and sleepy, “yeah?” he waits a beat, his hand stills—“…have you ever thought about kids?”
the question isn’t sudden—not really. not after the way he looked at every baby today like they were made of stardust and giggles. but it still catches you off guard. still presses something cold and tight into your lungs.
you shift a little, straighten your spine like your body’s trying to shield itself. “i mean… yeah,” you say softly. “i’ve thought about it.” you don’t finish the sentence. you don’t say just not for me.
he doesn’t push. doesn’t pry. he just nods a little, his jaw tightening the way it does when he’s thinking carefully, “i don’t mean right now,” he says quickly. “i just—today made me think. that’s all.”
you nod too, but your throat feels too thick for something so simple, he notices.
“hey,” he says gently, his hand brushing along your side. “what is it?”
you try to smile but it wobbles, “it’s not you,” you whisper. “it’s not that i don’t love you. or the idea of a family. it’s just…”
you swallow hard, “pregnancy scares me.”
he’s quiet.
you keep going, voice lower now, as if admitting it too loud will make it heavier.
“it’s the pain… not just the pain, but what it does to your body. how it stretches you and tears you and changes you in ways you can’t take back. i’m terrified of that. of waking up and not recognizing myself. of losing pieces of me in the process. and the risk—god, what if i can’t carry the baby? what if my body fails? what if i fail?”
you pause,
“ —everyone talks about it like it’s this beautiful, sacred thing. but all i can think about is what it could take from me. what it might break. i’m scared, caleb. i’m scared down to my bones. emotionally. physically. in my mind. in my heart. it’s not that i don’t want to love something we make. i just… i don’t know if i’ll survive it.”
your voice trembles. his hand finds yours, “my body’s mine,” you breathe. “and the thought of it changing so permanently, maybe hurting in ways i can’t undo... it terrifies me.”
he says nothing, but his thumb runs slow circles over your knuckles. you look down, afraid to meet his eyes.
“do you think that makes me selfish?”
his answer is immediate—“no.”
you glance up. his expression is soft. Steady, “i think it makes you human,” he says. “and brave. for telling me.” you blink, eyes stinging suddenly, and he pulls you in closer, “we don’t have to have that conversation again unless you want to,” he murmurs. “but whenever you do—i’ll be here. no expectations. no pressure.” you bury your face in his chest and nod once. and in that moment, you believe him—even if the fear doesn’t go away.
.
a couple weeks go by, and the conversation never really comes back up — not out loud, but something in the air between you has shifted.
he doesn’t ask again. doesn’t push. and you… you let your guard down in different ways. softer ways. in letting him have those little moments he clearly craves. so now, when the two of you go out, you don’t roll your eyes when he slows down to watch a kid toddle past with chubby legs and wild hair.
you slow down with him. you wave at toddlers in strollers when they wave first. you compliment tiny sneakers and pigtails and help a mom pick up a fallen pacifier when it rolls too far under a bench. caleb always follows with that quietly awed look — the one where his heart is in his eyes and he probably doesn’t even know it.
at a park, you catch him smiling at a little girl who's clumsily throwing petals into the wind, giggling at the mess she’s making. you nudge him with your elbow.
“you gonna cry or something?”
“maybe,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving the scene. “look at her. she’s chaotic, but she thinks it’s fun.”
“you’re so whipped,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
he leans in closer, voice warm. “you’re the one who let me stop and wave at a five-year-old in a frog hat.” you shrug, “he had taste.” and when you see a baby in a shopping cart that locks eyes with caleb like they’ve known each other in a past life, and he whispers, “look at this one. future pilot, like me.” you don’t tease him for it.
you just smile.
and later that night, when you both get home and he wraps his arms around you from behind in the kitchen — cheek resting on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck — you know he’s not thinking about now.
he’s just imagining—and you let him. because even if you’re not there yet — even if you never are — you know that love doesn’t always mean saying yes.
the house is quiet, but not in that heavy, sharp way. it’s the kind of quiet that feels earned. safe. soft lamp glow spilling across the living room while your legs tangle lazily over his lap on the couch. one of your playlists hums low in the background — something acoustic, something steady. his hand rests over your shin, thumb tracing aimless shapes.
you’re half-asleep.
until you feel his voice more than hear it.
“can i tell you something?” he asks, low.
you open your eyes slowly, shifting just enough to meet his gaze. there’s a hesitation there. one you don’t see often. not in him. not like this.
“of course,” you whisper, he doesn’t look at you right away. just keeps tracing your skin. like it’s helping him think.
“i know it’s not something we’re ready for. or maybe not ever. and i’m not trying to reopen anything that hurts you.”
you sit up a little, brows creasing. “caleb—”
“just let me say this,” he breathes, and your chest tightens at the softness in his tone. “please.”
you nod, slowly, his hand stills, “i’ve been thinking a lot,” he says. “about what it really means. having a child. being a parent. and i realized something.”
he finally looks at you, and the look in his eyes makes your throat ache, “it’s not about the bloodline. it’s not about who they look like, or where...who, they come from, or what they inherit.”
his voice cracks, just a little, “it’s about what you give them. how you raise them. how you show up, every single day, even when it’s hard. even when it hurts. i think… i think one of the highest forms of love is deciding to raise a child together. to choose them. to choose to build something bigger than the two of us.”
your eyes sting, he swallows, jaw tight, but his hand comes to rest over yours.
“so if you ever… if you ever wanted to talk about adoption someday. not now. just—someday. i’d want that. with you.”
you stare at him, too full of something to speak, and his thumb rubs slow, steady circles over your knuckles, “because i don’t need you to give me a baby,” he whispers. “i just want us to give love to someone who needs it. that’s all i’ve ever wanted—with you.”
you’re crying now because he asked you to, because he didn’t, because he offered you something bigger than blood, he offered you choice, you lean forward, burying yourself in his chest, arms tight around his ribs, he holds you like it’s a promise and somehow, without pressure, without a timeline, you feel the fear loosen — just a little.
because you might not know what your body can give, but you know what your love can.
bonus:
the walls are pale green, trimmed in soft cream. sunlight spills through the sheer curtains and onto the little rug shaped like a leaf. there’s a shelf lined with storybooks, a small basket full of stuffed animals, a wooden mobile above the crib spinning slowly in the quiet.
you crouch near the doorway, hand outstretched, “this is your room, sweet pea.”
she waddles in with both hands gripping a plush plane (courtesy of caleb) twice the size of her face, her chubby legs stumbling a little over the rug before regaining balance. her pigtails are wild from the car ride, her shirt bunched slightly at the side from being carried in caleb’s arms. she’s two, but small for her age — full cheeks, button nose, eyes wide as they scan the newness around her.
“’s my bed?” she asks, looking up at you, and your heart catches in your throat. you nod, “yes, baby. this one’s all yours.”
caleb steps into the room behind her, one hand resting gently on your shoulder. he says nothing, just watches with that same soft look he’s worn since the moment they placed her in your arms. like he still can’t believe it. like this little person is made of starstuff.
your daughter toddles forward and presses her palms against the edge of the mattress.
“it’s soft,” she declares, “we made sure of it,” you say, brushing hair back from her temple. “caleb tested it himself.”
she gasps — the dramatic kind toddlers are so good at — and spins toward him, pointing. “dada, you sleep in baby bed?”
caleb crouches, smiling wide. “i gave it a try. didn’t fit.”
she giggles. loud and bright and perfect.
then she climbs in without asking, curls settling into the pillow like she was always meant to be there.
your chest swells, your throat aches, caleb’s hand slides into yours again, grounding.
“we did it,” you whisper, he nods, gaze still fixed on her, “we really did.”
she flops onto her side and hugs the plush close, little eyes blinking up at both of you, “mama, dada” she murmurs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
as you watch her eyes, caleb kisses your temple— reverently, and laughs gently against your hair.
