Aris Darkness @arisdarkness - Tumblr Blog

Apr 5, 2024

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 (part 1)

✧˚ · . three minutes past his 27th birthday, the mass serial killer known as 'dawnbreaker' finally meets the girl from his dreams

✧˚ · . warnings:- dawnbreaker!zayne x fem!reader, reader is coded to be smaller and shorter than zayne, reader is coded to be feminine, canon typical violence, mentions of blood, HEAVY ANGST, mentions of food, reader is a baker, soft sex, cuddling, unprotected sex, size kink, brief mention of oral sex, petnames (darling, little one, my love), mentions of illnesses, talks of murders, zayne murders someone, suicide, spoilers for zayne's lore, alternative timeline, mentions of babies, mentions of pregnancies, nightmares, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IN THE NEXT PART

✧˚ · . dawn says: NO STANDARD HAPPY ENDINGS HERE !!

minors and ageless blogs do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption

✧˚ · . playlist

꒰ tagging @adelheidvonschicksal ꒱

Dreams.

Dreams are all he has of her.

That strange girl with a smile like the sun. Her bright cheeks, radiating warmth that touch his scarred hands which were unworthy to hold her.

He remembers kissing her; caressing her face. Tasting strawberries off her lips.

She haunts the crevices of his memories; toes the line between reality and part of his maladaptive dreams.

Sometimes, he swears he can hear her voice in the winds, smell her perfume when he stalks past a bed of wildflowers.

And to his dreams he seeks her out.

This time, she’s sitting on a park bench, handing him an apple.

Can you peel it for me? Her bright eyes quicken the pathetic beating in his chest. You need to give me an apple peeling lesson—no one does it like you, Zayne.

It’s been so long since anyone has uttered his name. She made it sound like the sweetest overture; vowels and consonants clashing together, tapping past palette, teeth and rolling off her tongue with a languid ease.

Zayne.

Zayne, you’re impossible, she scoffs, setting her cards down on the table with a scowl.

I thought you sent me those snowballs to make fun of me, Dr. Zayne.

Zayne… can I hold your hand?

I love you, Zayne.

The shape of her warps, and twists. Different hairstyles, seasons. Different shades of smiles she reserves only for him.

Sometimes, the pathways of his subconscious take a turn which leaves him reeling—her face, closer to him this time.

Curtains of her hair fall right into his warm cheeks, her mouth parted to exhale breathy whines.

Glancing down the length of his body, he sees the flushed folds of her tiny pussy wrapped around his cock; dribbling excitement down his pelvis and the bed they were fucking on.

“Zayne, I can feel you so deep in me,” she sounds breathier here and it notches up his insanity. “Oh, Zayne… you were made for me.”

She pulls him into her embrace, his cheek right on her chest. Thud, thud, thud.

Don’t ever let me go, Zayne. Her heartbeat calms him, soothes him deeper. But, it’s much too loud this time.

Thud, thud, thud.

Zayne stirs in his threadbare sheets, wincing. Awake from his dream.

Piercing sunlight dances in his eyes, and he blindly gropes for the curtains, knocking over a few pill bottles in his wake. They rattle, and roll under his bed, causing a ruckus which joins the cacophony of boots stomping overhead. His neighbours were fighting again, the husband throwing his usual tantrum.

He grimaces, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Despite the rays leaking into his room past the drapes, the sight before him is drab. Gray walls, a plastic chair and spindly table, his old monitor beeping joylessly in the background. Nothing stood out except for the bright orange wrappers of his current favorite chocolate brand.

It was tangier than the ones he tried—filled with an orange caramel which melted over his tongue the second he popped it into his mouth.

Once the sugar rush spiked his bloodstream, Zayne headed into the bathroom to shave and freshen up. His standard garb of black on black was completed with a black trench coat, and an additional pair of gloves.

They were a necessary accessory for today’s look.

After all, he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints behind once he was done with the job.

Casting a glance to his monitor, he narrows down the street he wants to explore, and the house whose entire circumference was covered in a glowing red.

A young man who had once served the army had been reporting massive migraines and hallucinations for the past few days. Doctors had tried to save him, but nothing they gave could make the ache in his head subside.

All signs point to a classic case of degeneration.

Initially, Zayne paid little attention to his case; there were so many of them, it was hard to keep track of. But, the young man was insistent. He had reached out to Zayne with a huge deposit and a will to pass along to his family.

Who am I to refuse him? He stares at the blinking red dot, committing the house number to memory. After all, they’re just checks to me at the end of the day.

Zayne straps a blade inside the hidden compartment of his worn down leather boots, patting his coat pockets for a spare gun just in case.

Check, check and check.

He was ready to start the day; ready to start another kill.

It was time for work.

Walking past the streets of this old town, something tickles his memories and gets him frowning.

Zayne racks his brain as he removes his gloves. After one furtive look around, he discards the blood-soaked covers into the closest bin, glad that he had the foresight to wear them in the morning.

The sky above is turning, a chill nipping on the tail end of a breeze. He tugs his coat tighter across his body, walking closer to the walls with his collar turned up.

Across the road, a pair of headlights cut through the foggy darkness, and he freezes, hiding himself in the shadows until the truck rolls by.

Exhaling quietly, he takes a corner, down an abandoned promenade. Signs tacked to boarded up windows flap in the passing breeze. He keeps his head down, hands tucked neatly in his coat pockets.

The air is still, only the sounds of his boots crunching under gravel.

Somewhere to the front, a neon sign flickers, catching his attention.

Special 4th of September sale: Chocolate cake!

Below, in a smaller font, it read: Open from 9PM-1AM.

His stomach rumbles, and he grabs at it with a scowl. Though it was much too late for a cafe to stay open, Zayne wonders what harm could he get into if he decided to make a pitstop. Considering it was only 15 minutes till midnight, he still had plenty of time to spare.

Thinking about the sleeping pills he was running low on and how he was going to get them restocked, Zayne ambles towards the glass door, pushing it open. The sound of a tinkling bell shatters the hushed peace.

Instantly, the scent of chocolate, vanilla and coffee hits him, fragrancing the air with a faint recollection of comfort he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Welcome to the Nightstar Diner!” A preppy blonde waitress gives him a smile and ushers him to a corner booth, where she saddles him with a menu and a whole stack of cheap napkins.

“Today’s Wednesday—Wellington Wednesday. We have a huge array of mains and sides for you to choose from, and you shouldn’t skimp out on dessert! The city’s best pastry chef has just returned from an excursion to Floris, so we can absolutely guarantee the best treats to satisfy your sweet tooth.”

Zayne hasn’t really frequented this place in town, so he actively listens.

As she prattles on, she flips the menu open, gesturing to the bestsellers.

Beef mushroom ragu, he decides. And for dessert—a chocolate cake.

That should be enough food to pass as a birthday celebration meal.

He points to the items he wants, lifting one finger up.

She pauses, blinks. “Oh. Give me a second,” she fishes a notepad and pen from her apron, writing down his order. “One Ragu Wonderland and BonBon delight, right?”

Zayne grunts in assent. She giggles, grabbing the menu from him with an enthusiastic nod.

“You got it, sir. Coming right up!”

Thankfully, she has enough sense to leave him alone. Most of them do, anyway.

Like a prey able to sniff out a predator, the normal ones would put a wide berth of space between them and him; sensing the implicit strangeness he carried around like a second skin.

Zayne casts his gaze towards the outside world, watching trees sway in the wind, a broken street light flickering in the distance.

It’s a nice neighborhood. He should make an effort to explore out of his comfort zone once in a while.

The waitress returns a few minutes later, carrying his main dish.

Here you go, she enthuses and Zayne wonders how her cheeks don’t split from all the smiling she does.

He nods his thanks and digs in, chewing slowly—trying to savor a rare flavor other than cloying sweetness.

The food is good.

Zayne doesn’t really have much of a fancy palette to brag about, but he can be picky with his food when he wants. That’s the main reason why a few carrots strips are hidden underneath his plate. Other than that, he supposes it was a solid dish.

He signals to the waitress for dessert. She cleans up after him, noting the neglected carrots with a laugh.

“Not a fan of your veggies, huh?”

Zayne blinks, and shakes his head lightly.

“... right.”

Evidently spooked by his lack of words, she picks up the heavy plate and swiftly cleans up the carrots with a cloth.

The next time she drops by with his cake, she doesn’t say another word, setting it down with a polite nod.

He remains mute, picking up the gilded silver spoon (a nice touch to make this place more upscale than what it actually is) and scoops up the soft chocolate mousse.

Before he can take a bite, his phone chimes, and he puts down the spoonful of cake; picks up his phone to check the spam message and the time.

Midnight right on the dot.

Happy birthday to me.

The world doesn’t change; doesn’t celebrate with him.

All it does is continue to bustle, deafen and destroy. Spinning on an axis while he stays still for a single second, absorbing the tranquility of this moment.

Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t last long.

The bell chimes again, breaking apart his concentration. Zayne notices a woman entering the shop, her entire face hidden by her hoodie.

“... sorry, I’m late.”

Chatty waitress breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you’re here.” She drops her voice to a whisper, but Zayne still catches every word crystal clear; her voice floating right over to him.

“I was getting scared for my life. That guy there—” He feels both their eyes on him; Zayne pretends not to notice and spoons more cake into his mouth. “—gives me major serial killer vibes. Like Dawnbreaker vibes, y'know? I was about to call the police. But, since you’re here, I can fucking relax.”

The dark-haired man freezes at the unexpected call out of his alias, anticipating the other woman to agree with her; tell her to stay put while she dials for the police.

Maybe the waitress recognises me from somewhere?

Zayne was a millisecond away from standing up and leaving, when he hears the other woman’s scoff and giggle.

“Don’t be silly. Him? He’s just a man eating alone. Not every guy who doesn’t flirt back with you is a stone cold killer, Serina.”

Stunned, he raises his eyes, curious about this poor judge of character when he completely freezes.

Her hoodie is down; hair falling right in her face.

Lightning strikes him, staking to the spot.

Oh, Zayne… you were made for me.

A lifetime of memories flash in his mind, all of them condensing right down to the sight of your pretty eyes locked right onto his.

Those eyes he had only seen in his dreams soften at the sight of him; the exact same color and shape he had memorized since she started haunting him fifteen years ago.

No… it can’t be.

She parts her mouth, and his mind flashes to her leaning on top of him. Her warm breath on his cheek, her lips slotted perfectly with his own.

“... are you alright, sir?”

Her voice echoes; rings faintly like someone had hit him over the head with a chair. Zayne snaps out of his stupor, realizing the bite of cake poised halfway into his mouth had freefallen off his spoon and splattered onto the table.

Those eyes were looking right through him. In his periphery, the waitress frowns.

But, he doesn’t bother noticing her.

His entire attention was locked onto you.

Before you could ask him again, he stands, chair scraping loudly in the resounding silence. Blonde waitress gasps, backing up when he approaches them, but he swerves straight for the glass door, setting a large bill on the counter; paying twice over for his meal.

Zayne’s lungs feel like bursting, white-hot flames engulfing his every breath. He stalks towards the shadows, swiveling around to hide in the darkness while he keeps his gaze trained on the tiny cafe in the distance. He sees you picking up the cash, a faint smile on your lips while chatty waitress scowls with her arms crossed.

Watchful green eyes follow your path to his table, the kitchen. Then, you disappear and Zayne feels the fever dream break.

He stands, as if in a stupor.

While his mind was playing catch up with what had happened, his hand was already reaching for his burner phone, snapping a picture of this idyllic cafe for future reference.

Zayne has half a mind to storm back in there and demand who you were; why you had been residing in his dreams for the better part of his life.

But, even someone like him is aware how crazy that sounds.

Plus, if he scares you, there is no telling what you would do—the thought of you walking away and being frightened of him leaves a strange lump in his throat.

Zayne swallows it down, peels his gaze to the tiny lit cafe for another glimpse of you.

You were missing, presumably back in the kitchen.

He waits, and waits, rooted to the spot. Time slips by without warning and soon, the waitress starts to clean up, dustpan and broom in hand. You appear, closing the shutters and switching off the lights. Zayne thaws from his frozen voyeurism, watching you walk to a parked bike, unlock it and straddle the seat.

You cycle away, and he fights back the urge to follow after you. To track you down and note your address.

It would be absurd.

His cover would be blown immediately.

Zayne couldn’t risk his entire identity hinging on a chance to speak to you; to ask you who you were and what you wanted from him.

So, he did the next best thing: note down the name of the cafe, the exact time he met you and the color of your bike.

Just in case he needed to find you again.

(He wanted to find you again).

The sleeping pills he normally ingests at this time remains on the floor, away from his restless gaze.

For the first time in a long while, he tries to drift off without those white, round-shaped crutches—unable to sleep a wink for the entire night.

Zayne wakes up and forgets about the beeping monitor and red lights. He debates between traveling back to the cafe or extending his research to find you. In the end, after a full day of staring at the water-stained wall, he snaps out of his funk, finding the clock flashing 9:05PM.

He dresses down in a black turtleneck and charcoal gray pants. Ditching his pristine coat, he chooses a black windbreaker instead, nervously running a hand through his dark locks.

The trip back to the cafe takes him more than an hour, but it was all worth it when those warmly lit windows came into view; he finally felt like he could breathe again.

Your bike was parked outside, locked with a standard clamp. He could see the top of your head from behind the counter. Despite his reservations, Zayne takes one step forward. And then another. He approaches the cafe, pushes the door open.

You immediately notice him, and a smile spreads across your lips. “Hello, sir. Welcome. What can I get for you?”

He tries to ignore how you basically push aside the blonde waitress to serve him, menu in hand. She huffs, but doesn’t say a word, going back to wiping down the counter methodically.

Zayne returns to what was quickly becoming his favorite booth, randomly pointing at a bowl of basil pasta. You smile, jotting it down. “A good choice, sir. Anything to drink?”

“Water.”

His voice is hoarse and low from long stretches of silence and he fights back a wince when you blink, taken aback.

“Oh. Of course. Long day, huh? I’ll make sure it’s extra chilled so you can quench your thirst, sir.”

You reach for the menu, and in the split second when he passes it to you, both your fingertips brush. A spark goes off, shooting into his skin like a mini lightning bolt. He grunts at the same time you gasp. You immediately follow up with a profuse apology: I’m sorry about that, sir.

He shakes his head, telling you without words that it was fine.

You shoot him another apologetic look and walk back to the kitchen. Your scent lingers around him—vanilla and strawberries—and despite himself, Zayne can’t help but lean forward, eyes closed and inhaling your wonderful fragrance.

His ruminations are cut off by a crisp click landing on his table; the blonde waitress giving him a tight smile as she sets down his glass of ice cold water.

Zayne drinks from it, unable to stop his eyes from darting to where you had disappeared to. He feels antsy; on edge. Like he had to know exactly where you were or else he would never feel at ease.

To take his mind off the unbearable distance, he drags a napkin towards him and fishes in his jacket pocket for a pen. Zayne doodles the first thing that comes to his mind; a cross section of a heart.

It’s intricate and uses up enough of his time for you to arrive back with his food.

“That’s pretty,” you muse, standing next to him with your head craned forward to catch more details. “Is that a human heart? It’s very detailed. You must be a surgeon.”

He blanches and shakes his head.

No, that will never be me. It’s him. That job will never be my reality.

Zayne clears his throat. “I… have a lot of interest in hearts.”

It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken in days. He hopes it doesn’t make him sound weird and off-putting. But, you smile, and then laugh.

“You know what, maybe Serina was right. You could most definitely pass as a serial killer.”

“I’m not charming enough.”

He never expects to make a joke, and judging from the surprised look on your face, neither did you.

“Well, that’s a reassurance, though I can vouch for it differently.” He blinks at your words, sharp mind coming to a hard pause. You continue on like you hadn’t just made him malfunction. “May I sit and watch you draw?”

Zayne hesitates, not for the reasons you’re thinking; he’s worried he would scare you away. However, your dilemma was different.

“I-It’s just we don’t get many customers at night… as you can see,” your cheeks surge with warmth and you point to the starkly empty cafe. “I won’t get in trouble and I promise I won’t distract you. I just like to watch people immersing themselves in art.”

You sit opposite of him while you speak, and he has to duck his head to hide the growing smile tugging on his thin lips.

“I see. And aren’t you worried in the slightest how your friend might perceive you?”

You feel Serina’s judgment burning into your back. Ignoring her, you shake your head.

“I don’t care.”

Whatever curiosity you ignited in him wasn’t as one-sided as he expected. Calming his racing heart, he picked the pen up and continued to draw.

"May I know your name, sir?"

He pauses, wondering if it would be perfectly fine to reveal this bit of himself to you.

It's just your name... no harm can come from it.

"Zayne."

"Zayne," you repeat.

His name passing through your lips is the sweetest sound he has ever heard in this life; it sends shivers up his spine, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand.

"Yes."

You smile, bright and inviting. "My name is Y/N. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He nods, and returns back to his sketch.

Feeling your eyes on him wasn’t the most nerve-wracking; it was how close you were that he could breathe you in.

The smell of strawberries and vanilla seemed to coat your every pore, diffusing across the table where Zayne could no longer ignore it.

“What perfume are you wearing?”

His question took you aback.

“I’m sorry,” you immediately apologized. “It’s a little too strong. I went heavy-handed with it.”

He shades in a pulmonary artery, humming. “It isn’t bad. Do not misunderstand me. I find it quite delightful.”

You exhale a laugh. “Strawberries and cream. A local perfumer. I can share with you his details if you would like.”

Zayne flits his eyes back to you, nodding.

You try (and fail) not to be mesmerized by the shade of green in his gaze; it reminds you of verdant trees swaying in the spring breeze.

A comfortable silence lapses around the both of you. Zayne eats while he puts the finishing touches to his masterpiece. You watch every stroke of his deft hand, notice the scars on his wrists.

Once he was done, he wordlessly hands you the decorated napkin, much to your surprise.

“I couldn’t—” you start hastily.

“Take it,” he interjects, standing up. Fishing in his pocket for a large bill, he hands it to you without another word.

You take care not to crumple his drawing in your hand, money in the other; watching the broad of his back grow smaller as he ambles towards the door.

“Will you come back?”

Your voice carries right over to him; Serina glances up from her phone, caught off guard by your eager question.

Zayne looks over his shoulder, an unfathomable emotion in his dark green eyes.

You hesitate, wanting to retract your sudden question. But, he stops your thoughts right in their tracks when he nods.

It warms you up instantly, and you break into a big smile.

Zayne doesn’t say anything else, turning on his heel and leaving the cafe.

The overhead bell tinkles, and the doors snap close. Serina pushes herself off the counter to give you an inscrutable look.

You don’t have to ask what’s on her mind; her sneer says it all.

“He’s bad news. I don’t trust him.”

Quietly, you pocket his drawing, standing up with resolution locked right on your shoulders.

“Too bad I do, then.” You walk back towards the kitchen, wondering how you were going to repay Zayne for his kindness.

Staring at your ingredient list, you get to work—pulling out an assortment of bowls and icings as your mind whirs from one recipe to another.

Apparently, Serina wasn’t done lecturing you. She tails you into the kitchen, arms stubbornly crossed over her chest.

“I have a bad feeling about him. I don’t think you should get closer.”

Something in her tone catches your attention. You take in those sour, pursed lips; the petulant look in her eyes. It all becomes clear when her envy starts to stink up the room.

Choosing your words carefully, you mumble, “You don’t have to worry about me.” With more confidence, you chuckle.

“If anything happens, I’ll run straight to you. I’m sure Detective Callaghan can help me.”

Her scowl deepens. “My dad would tell you to listen to me.”

You can’t help but smile at the childish lilt in her mumbled words.

Knowing how unwarranted your friend’s worry could be, you try to ease her concern as best as you could; softening your stance and voice.

“You’re right,” you say, plunging your hand in your pocket and feeling for the napkin; crumpling the edge between your forefinger and thumb.

“But, I can protect myself, Serina. You know I can.” You turn to face the counter, ignoring her gaping shock.

“Trust me when I say: I know in the very depths of my heart that he would never hurt me.”

Every night, like clockwork, Zayne would drop by the cafe at 9:05 PM on the dot.

You would greet him with a smile, and a nod, directing him to his favorite booth where he would order one main, one dessert, and you would both spend the night chatting in low tones about anything and everything under the sky.

Some days, it was drawing. Then, baking. Once, you brought up books, and that conversation had managed to span past closing time until Serina, fed up with waiting for you, had handed you the keys and stalked away with a flippant, “don’t forget to switch off the lights.”

Since it was almost two in the morning, Zayne offered to walk back with you to your apartment which was nearby, though you hastily told him it was fine and you could manage.

After that, you had assumed he was silently sending you off from the sensation of his eyes boring into your back, but when you turned around, he was already gone.

Today, the cafe is set up a little differently; blue balloons adorning walls, kids running around squealing. Adults were chattering and ordering dessert, and you had your hands full.

You could only speak in snatches to Zayne—running between the kitchen and tables with a notepad in hand and flour streaked on your cheek. However, your friend didn’t seem to mind; lost in his own thoughts while sipping a hazelnut latte.

Once the commotion settled down, you sidled into his booth, a tired smile on your face.

“Sorry about that,” you hummed. Wordlessly, he passed you a napkin, pointing right at your cheek.

You blink, swiping at the same spot he indicated, finding flour streaking the paper. “Oh. Thank you.”

He exhaled a humorless chuckle.

“Busy night?”

You hum, smiling at the family of four who were busy devouring some cake. “I love watching families celebrate special days. Makes me think of my own.”

There was a hint of sadness in your tone, one he couldn’t miss.

“Is your family… here?”

You shake your head, turning your gaze to the outside world. Zayne tightened his hands into fists, fighting back the urge to reach out and touch your face.

“They all died when I was a young girl. Wanderer attack.”

You force a smile, even when he could plainly see how much the memory still scarred you till this day.

“I’m… sorry. For your loss,” Zayne clears his throat and tries again. “Grief is strange. It doesn't become easy, but we grow a better capacity to withstand it. I would rather feel grief in its totality and learn to manage its burden than to never feel it at all.”

“You must have felt a lot of grief in your life.” He finds you smiling sadly at those words. “How about your family, then, Zayne?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have a family, either.”

The conversation suspends on a note of shared vulnerability and sadness. You twist your fingers, eyes glassy like you were a million miles away.

“I know this isn’t the best of times, but I made something for you.”

Before he can speak, you stand up and walk back to the kitchen. The family of four were already at the counter, paying for their meals. He sees a chubby boy nodding off to sleep against his father’s shoulder, while a cherubic baby babbles in his mother’s arms.

It must’ve been that little boy’s birthday.

He suddenly thinks of Georgie; how he would be thirteen if the Abomination hadn’t claimed him.

Those grave thoughts threatening to pull him under disappear when you return, a cake box in hand.

Opening it, you surprise him with a perfectly iced chocolate cake, made with a glaze that reflects back the cafe’s warm yellow lights.

“Hmm.” He tilts head to the side, studying the perfect icing technique. “This is nice. Did you make it?”

“Mhm hmm.” Your eyes twinkle when you say, “I saw your membership card information. We met on your birthday, right? And I thought—strange… you never had a cake. So, I made you one. And you seem to love chocolate, which is my favorite flavor, too.”

Shyly, you pass him a candle. “Do you want to light it up?”

Zayne stares at the cake. And stares at it some more.

“Zayne?”

He raises his eyes to find uncertainty flashing across your features. The lump in his throat thickens and he shakes his head, trying to stop your thoughts from jumping to hurtful conclusions.

“It is beautiful, it’s just…” the quiet man trails off, unsure of what else to say but the absolute truth. “... No one has ever celebrated my birthday before.”

Your eyes widen and they flash with something tender and pitiful. “Oh.” He expects for you to coo at his misfortune, like so many were prone to do. But, you giggle and stick a candle into the perfectly glazed dome, lighting it up with a flourish—like you had done this a million times before.

“Well, I’m happy to be the first one to celebrate it with you… even if it’s a week too late.”

He has to breathe a soundless laugh at your satisifed expression.

“A week later is better than none at all.”

You put your hands together, and quietly sing him a ‘Happy birthday’. Zayne finds it alluring and haunting how the flame dances over your face, throwing shadows across your pretty features.

You finish the song, and he awkwardly ducks his head, hoping you wouldn’t notice his bright red ears.

“Come on,” you cajole, gesturing at the candle. “Close your eyes and make a wish.”

He does as you say, although he knows it’s futile to wish on candles; why would he when his dream had already come true?

But, he goes along with the charade, eyes closed and hands clasped together under his chin. Once he pretends to make a wish, he blows out the candle, and tries not to laugh when you clap excitedly.

Moments later, you pass him two spoons, and the both of you dig into the cake.

He finds the cream a perfect balance between light and sweet; not too overpowering or cloying.

“Good?”

He nods. “Very.” Taking a generous bite of the chocolate, he fights back a smile. The perfect ratio of bitterness and indulgence. “You have a great talent for sweets.”

It was rare for Zayne to compliment you, and even rarer for you to be so affected by such simple words.

Your face burns, and you cough to hide your flustered expression. Zayne notices the dusting of warmth on your cheeks and fights the urge to reach out and pinch them.

“It’s getting late. Do you want me to walk you back home?”

This time, you take him aback by your enthusiastic nod.

“I would love some company.”

He waits for you to clean up, bears Serina’s eye roll and scoffs when she tosses the cafe keys at him with a curt, “goodnight”.

Feeling antsy, he tries to help you clean up his spot, to which you screech from the end of the kitchen: “Zayne, don’t you dare do my work for me!”

He pointedly ignores you, picking up stray plates and cups. Walking into the kitchen, it’s amusing how easily he weaves his way through the mess of boxes on the floor and piles of dishes. He puts them all in the sink, switches on the dishwasher when your back is turned.

“Zayne, please. This is my cafe and you’re my guest. You don’t have to help me!”

Petulance coats your every word, and again, he finds it hard not to chuckle.

What is she doing to me?

In a span of a few days, he had gone from stoic and stone-cold to laidback and languid. Those sleeping pills he used to rely on were stowed away in his medicine cabinet; his nights restful and calm.

No longer does he dream of her—of you—because you’re right here within reach.

Zayne doesn’t take such an occurrence lightly.

He treasures every moment with you; the boring mundane and the stretches of comfortable silence. If there was one thing he could live with in this bleak life, it was waking up with the thought of your smile.

“Thank you for walking me home,” you utter softly, bike wheels tinkling as you push the handles, walking in tandem with him. He slows down his pace to match yours, hands behind his back.

“Happy to be of service.”

You cast him a sly look, one which ignited his curiosity. “Is there something particularly on your mind?”

“Oh, nothing,” you mumble breezily. “Just that you remind me of a guard dog.”

A dip appears in between his brows. “Do I scare you?”

Snorting, you shake your head. “Of course, not, silly. It’s your demeanor.”

You pretend to puff out your chest, back ramrod straight to mimic his perfect posture. “You walk like this all the time. You could almost pass as a soldier.”

The corner of his lips twitch at your antics. “Fine. I will be a bit less guarded around you.”

“Why don’t you show me another side of you, then?” Your sudden quip makes you stop dead in your tracks, and he does, too. Zayne sees you struggling to put your thoughts into words. He wonders what exactly you mean by that question.

“Hmm?”

“It’s just,” there’s that flush on your cheeks he finds adorable again. You take a deep breath, and look him right in the eye. “It’s just—I really think you should ask me out on a date.”

Doubt flits in those gorgeous green eyes, and you nearly blanche, wishing you had a time machine to go back and smack yourself across the mouth for even uttering those words.

Without much preamble, Zayne lifts his hand, and you hold your breath. You expect him to caress your cheek, not tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch feels peculiar, if a little comfortable—like an abandoned house left behind years ago only to still feel like home the second you pass through the door.

“I can’t,” he sounds pained, as if the thought alone was forbidden. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You take a step back, perplexed. “What do you mean? Hurt me? I never thought you would.”

His hand withers to his side, expression unreadable. “I’m not…” It's his turn to struggle with his words. “... not who you think I am.”

Who I think he is…

You swallow hard, trying to hide the disappointment dragging your smile down.

His rejection stung harder than the time you sliced your index finger while handling a lemon meringue filling. It burns through you, drying up your hopes. Making you question the real intention of his presence in your life.

“Oh. I’m… sorry.” You duck your head, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremble in your lower lip. Zayne remains stock still, and like a statue, you couldn’t unearth what was going on behind his stony facade. “I was too bold. It w-won’t happen again.”

Regaining your composure again, you plaster on a smile, though he could plainly see it was fraying at the edges.

Zayne doesn’t know what else to say; how to patch up your hurt.

His silence is mistaken for indifference; fuelling more of your doubt and despair.

“Zayne… are you angry at me?”

He looks up, confusion written clearly in his gaze. “No. Why would I be?”

You’re floundering, unsure how else to remedy this situation. “It’s just… I gave you the green light to ask me out on a date and you’re telling me you can’t because I don’t know the real you—whatever that means. Come on. Give me something to work with. Isn’t it obvious? I really like you.”

Despite his hesitation, Zayne has to admit one thing: you had more courage than most people he knew.

Who else could stand there, shaking with their heart on their sleeve and still hope for the best?

Something in him snaps at the thought, and he’s sweeping you into his arms, much to your surprise. Your arms flail at your side, breath caught in your throat. You feel his lips in your hair, those shockingly warm palms flat on your back.

“You’re much too good for me,” he mumbles, sounding strained and breathless. “I don’t think I deserve such goodness.”

The scent of him lingers on your skin after he releases you, the look on his face dissolving the last of your resolve.

You reach for him, taking both of his hands, squeezing them tightly.

“I don’t care,” you rush the words, wanting them to hit and stick. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re a sweet person, Zayne. And I want you to know that. You do deserve goodness—every single drop of it. I hope you will allow yourself that for once.”

Your words, though innocent and pure, hit him right where it hurts. He clenches his fist, scared that he might accidentally crush your fingers with how tightly he was holding your hands.

“I’m not a good man,” he rasps, those green eyes gouging through your soul. “I’ve done a lot of things—”

“And I will be the judge of that.” You peer up at him, willing him to look away.

He doesn’t, keeping his gaze steadily on you.

Pursing your lips, you shake your head. “You give me so little faith, Zayne. I know a good person when I see one. If you let us take that step forward, I’ll make up my mind once I know the real you.”

Were you… challenging him?

You might be more insane than him; crazier than what he gave you credit for.

But, the ache inside of him doesn’t want to subside, and he’s reaching out to touch your cheeks, cupping your face fiercely in his grip. Softly, so he doesn’t scare you away, Zayne caresses your cheeks with his thumbs, feeling your skin divot and dip under his touch.

So fragile… so easy to ruin.

He would never ever hurt you; Zayne makes himself promise that over and over again when he leans close—close enough for his lips to brush yours with a chaste kiss.

Your breathing catches, lashes fluttering and tangling with his own. You don’t push into the kiss, letting him gauge the distance and test his self-control.

The pressure of his mouth feels nice; lips slightly chapped but warm and full.

He pulls back slightly, and you can taste the chocolate he had earlier; his cool breath stirring the loose locks of your hair.

“You have no idea how much I’ve longed to do that.”

To you, it may sound like the musings of a mad man, but to him, it was fifteen years of longing condensed into one moment.

Hungrily, you ache for more of him, and Zayne couldn’t say no.

Your shaky hands sink into the lapels of his jacket as you tug him closer into your orbit. He relents, falling into you like a new star about to shatter from a nebula—an explosion of want painting each hot breath as your lips meet over and over again.

Your bike tumbles to the ground, and you almost fall along with it, if it weren't for his strong grip on your arms.

Zayne steadies you, breathing hard.

“This is going too fast.”

His warning doesn’t phase you, not when he’s looking at you like you were a piece of forbidden fruit served to him on a silver platter

Since this world had been ravaged by the passage of time and destruction, the two of you were the only ones on the street. There would be no eyes witnessing this shocking indiscretion; no one to stop you from taking his hand and gesturing to your apartment complex in the distance.

“Would you like to come over to my place?” you exhale. The look in your eyes is breathtaking; rooting him to the spot.

Forgetting his fears and hesitation, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your cool knuckles.

“Lead the way, little one."

Zayne corners you against the wall the second your door falls close behind both your backs.

He’s in your space, breathing in your air, touch more possessive than you could ever imagine.

Those strong fingers grip your hips tightly, almost as if you might disintegrate if he loses his hold. You gasp when he pulls you flush to him, pressing his straining hardness right onto your clothed clit.

“I cannot be gentle with you, little one,” he murmurs, bucking his hips. Your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head at the spark of pleasure painfully zinging down your spine. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”

He devours the question on the tip of your tongue: What do you mean a long time?

Zayne doesn’t give you time to think. He’s kissing you like you were a glass of water in the middle of a desert that he had been denied gratification from; the fervor drives you dizzy.

Fuck, he groans, and it sounds tormented—coming from the depths of his chest. I need you, my little one.

You grapple at his shirt, his jacket, his hair; anything to pull him closer.

It’s borderline insane—sleeping with a man you had only known for a week. But, you couldn’t explain it.

Zayne feels safe. The moments in which you see him everyday softens you to the idea of him in your life; invites a warm feeling settling right in the hollow of your chest, just above your heart.

You might think you recognize him from somewhere—perhaps, your soul knew him even before your eyes did.

Whatever that strange feeling was, it culminated into you shakily gripping his face, looking deep into those green eyes that held a lifetime of secrets in them.

“Zayne… I’m not afraid.”

You take his scarred hand, guiding it to your chest where your heartbeat stuttered and throbbed under his splayed palm.

“I told you—you would never hurt me. I know you won’t.”

How ironic—a man with more blood stained on his hands, touching and caressing a precious bloom who had not yet lost her innocence.

If it wasn’t such poetic justice, he would’ve thought his life was made up to be one big fucking joke.

Even if you were his due punishment, Zayne wants to be trapped, like a moth to your flame; drowsily sinking deeper and deeper into your light.

His lips touch yours, cool from the autumn chill. You respond back, lips parting so he could slot his tongue past those plush barriers, going right into the heart of your mouth.

He’s never kissed anyone like this; where his soul was screaming to be poured right down your throat.

Everything about you was sin incarnate; close was never close enough when it came to consuming your passion.

Tightening your hold on his hand, you pull back with a soft gasp. The glow of the street lights outline your puffy lips in a hazy orange, and Zayne has to physically hold himself back from crashing his lips onto yours again.

You tug his hand, ripping his mind off the thought of taking you right against the wall, as you lead him down the hallway and straight into your room.

It’s cozier than he imagines; fluffy pillows and a soft teal bedspread.

You sit on the edge, and he eyes the empty spot beside you.

“Hey,” your hushed voice snaps him out of his reverie. “Come here.”

You stretch your hand towards him, a soft smile in place. Zayne thinks he’s never seen such significance in a single motion; the only woman he’s ever loved, reaching out beyond his fervent dreams and subconsciousness to show him that she was here.

That she was real.

He takes your hand carefully, allowing you to bring him back into your orbit. His back meets the bed, and you cautiously straddle his hips, getting used to the feel of him underneath you.

It’s nice—his edges fitting right with yours.

Closing the distance, you lean in, planting your lips on his once more.

The feral desire he feels at the doorway kicks up a notch, and the hunger he tries to tame can’t be controlled.

He grips your hips, turning on his side to push you down to the bed. Your hair splays out on the sheets, cheeks warm and lips swollen.

Zayne’s hands tremble when he reaches for your jumper, fisting the soft material and tugging it up slowly. He watches—waits for your reaction.

You keep on looking at him with those half-lidded eyes, begging him to take the leap.

Tugging the jumper up, he’s rewarded with stretches of soft skin as far as his eye could see; further up and the lacy cups of your bra reveal themselves.

You’re much too ripe. Much too alluring.

He can’t keep his eyes off your plush mounds, feeling like a complete idiot when he gapes at them for a second too long.

“You can touch them,” your soft quip makes him blink. Slowly, a hot flush creeps up his neck, and his ears grow warm.

Zayne figures it would be best to undress you; all these pesky layers were getting in the way of the true gift he wants.

Your jumper slides off your frame and onto the floor, and your pants follow suit. Left in a mismatched pair of lacy underwear, Zayne feels the heat going straight to his pelvis; pooling south and he’s painfully hard behind his restrictive slacks. You’re a dirty painting coming to life, wide doe-eyes watching his every move, plush lips parted and wet with a mixture of both your spit.

Zayne can’t take it any longer; he needs to taste you or else he would go insane.

“Ask me to undress you,” his voice comes out gravelly, low and urgent.

You lick your lips, darting your eyes from his mouth to his chest and back again. “Please,” it’s soft, and so, so sweet when those words roll off your tongue.

“Make me yours tonight, Zayne.”

Fuck. He feels a spike of lust going straight to his cock and heartstrings. His nostrils flare, and he grapples for your bra straps and band of your panties with those large, veiny hands.

“That’s not what I said, little one,” he says, and in the heat of the moment, it almost comes off as a growl.

You lift your hips high enough for him to slide off your skimpy lingerie; sit up for him to get rid of your bra.

The air is starting to shimmer with undeniable heat, and if you were a cold glass of water, condensation would be beading on your surface; trickling and seeping right into the mattress.

You’re much too exposed—naked for his scrutiny. There’s barely any light in the room, all brightness sucked in by those glorious green eyes darting up and down your body, stoking the fire in them that’s burning to frightening heights.

Without a second thought, you cross your arms in front of your chest, growing shyer.

He shakes his head, gently prying your arms away from your body. “Do not hide yourself from me. I want to see you—all of you.”

You barely have any time to prepare for what comes next: Zayne leaves kisses on your cheeks, neck, shoulders and chest. Making his way downwards where you needed him the most. Those warm lips press into your pelvis, your inner thighs, kissing the tension away.

A gasp slips past your defenses, the sharp nip of his teeth on your sensitive thighs bringing you back to the present.

It’s dizzying—you lean up to find his head of dark hair right in between your legs.

Zayne’s eyes are closed, a worshiper right at your altar, his cheek pressed to your inner thigh.

Puffs of warm exhales graze your skin, and you feel him right where you need him.

Finally, his tongue touches your clit, runs through your folds; sending shocks down your spine.

Zayne, you cry out his name. Oh God…

The pleasure is overwhelming, dragging you under. You reach for him, twining your fingers in his hair to anchor yourself.

Tastes delicious, he mumbles. Like the sweetest dessert I’ve ever had.

You whine, never expecting such a sentiment from him. He’s getting you so wet only to lap it all up; completely starving for you.

You always had an inkling that he was a giver, but here in your bed, Zayne doesn’t hesitate to offer you everything.

Pitchy whines and gasps were your reward for him; growing dizzier on his tongue.

You’re shaking, desperate and aching. And he’s unrestrained, clamping his hands on your thighs to stop you from squirming, keeping you nice and open for him.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “You’re so beautiful to me.”

It’s like he knows your body inside and out; how you like to be licked, how you twitch and gasp when he sucks on your bare clit. His groan resonates in your core, deep and carnal.

He needs you just as much as you need him.

“Zayne,” you mumble wetly, tugging on his hair. He lifts his head, green eyes almost dark with an unnamed emotion that makes your stomach flip in nerves. You bring him into your arms, twining him fast to your chest. In the darkness, you don’t see his scars or the brokenness lining his very being; only focused on how amazing he feels flush on you.

You’re much too close, and it should scare him.

Instead, Zayne finds himself entranced by your doe-eyes and wet, swollen lips. He wants to devour you piece by piece; eat you all up until you’re one with his bones.

Taming those emotions down, he touches your face instead, caressing the soft plush of your cheek.

“Tell me what you want,” his voice is soft, non-intrusive.

It warms you, makes you fall deeper into this trance he has you trapped in.

You’re trembling, he notices. Zayne guides you onto his lap, letting you take the lead. He doesn’t want you to be afraid; he would never forgive himself for hurting you.

He waits for you to become comfortable enough to meet his eyes, smaller palms gently folded on his chest.

“... I’m nervous.” Your teeth catch on your lower lip, mind caught in this tug of war. But, you’re dripping on him, sweet little pussy making a mess on his thigh.

Such conflict intoxicates him—makes him want to push your decisions so it would always be him, him, him.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, strong and reassuring.

Sweeping you to his chest, he adjusts his lower body, so that you feel it.

The tip of his cock, hidden from your view, prods your tightness. You freeze, and he shushes you.

“Little one… you know what’s going to happen, right?”

You nod, despite your anxiety. Zayne frowns and rubs your back.

“There is no need to be afraid. I will never harm you. You’re safe here.” With me.

“I know,” you shut your eyes, breathing in deeply. “It’s just…” You trail off, and determination lights your features.

You sit up, fully in control now. Zayne watches the determination unfurl; how you grasp him in your smaller hand and stroke him from base to tip. He fights back a hiss, head thumping back onto the soft bed.

That feels so good.

He’s much too big to fit in one go; you had to buy yourself some time to wrap your head around his sheer size.

Wetness coats your wrist, and you glance down, shocked to find a clear bead dribbling from his tip. Something urges you to taste him, and you are about to trail down his body; to repay him for his first selfless gesture, when he grasps your hand, shaking his head.

“I can read your intentions, little one. I do not think it would be wise.”

You pout, about to ask him why?

He doesn’t give you a moment to voice out your disappointment. Flipping you back to the bed, he pins your hands down, nudging your thighs wider so you’re spread out nicely for him.

With his free hand, he lines himself to you, dragging the heavy tip in between your folds. You’re so wet, it’s messing up on his cock and his resolve; messing with his mind.

Zayne fights to be gentle with you, resisting the urge to sheathe himself in one go—not wanting to hurt you.

“Please…” you whimper, shamelessly begging. “I need you, Zayne.”

You’re being so good for him, he wants to do nothing but stuff you full of him; his cock, fingers, tongue, love.

He pushes in, not wanting to delay another second longer. The stretch is tight, gets him gasping and groaning.

You squirm and shift, trying to get him all in. Sweat beads on your forehead, teeth gritted.

“Relax,” his voice is low and hoarse. You need to relax or else I can’t get in, darling.

He releases your hands, sinking down into your open arms. He cups your pussy, rubbing your clit with his thumb. You’re doing so well for me, beautiful. So, so well.

You wrap your arms and legs around him, keeping him in place, shaking from the stimulation.

He’s halfway in; your eyes start to fill with tears.

Zayne watches your every expression, stopping when you twist your head to the side.

“Does it hurt?” He almost pulls out, but you tighten your grip on him, furiously shaking your head.

“N-no.” The emotion is thick in your voice. “It’s…”

You hiccup, trailing off.

What is it, darling? Tell me. You can tell me anything.

“It’s… familiar. What we’re doing.” Your cheeks were warm, your flustered expression making something in his chest twinge. He leans close, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead.

“If it makes you feel any better—you’re driving me insane.”

He can hardly form proper words, cock so heavy it’s almost painful. But, he pulls the desire from overtaking him, from overwhelming you.

“You’re so beautiful… I must be dreaming.”

Zayne wants to spell his devotion on your skin, fill you up until he’s the only thing you can taste in the back of your throat.

You whine, trying to hide your face, but he won’t have it. He grabs your hands, lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the bed.

“Don’t hide from me,” he mumbles, unable to take his eyes off your parted lips and glossy eyes. “Never hide yourself from me again, my love.”

… My love.

You don’t have a second’s respite to take in that sweet nickname, your pussy stuffed to the brim with him.

Zayne sinks right down to the hilt with little resistance, giving you all of him.

He breathes sharply, breathes you in. Hips rocking, pumping deeply in and out of your little cunt; your wetness coats him from base to tip, a sweet squelch filling the air every time he shallowly fucks into you.

You’re gasping, arching your back. Fingers flexing in his strong grip. Zayne thinks your body was made to be poetry; the circle of your nipples hardening, shapely hips clipping with his; delicate throat exposed to his biting kisses.

He sucks your skin, leaves his marks of possession anywhere his lips could touch.

“Such a good little one,” he murmurs, pressing his face in the crook of your neck. Releasing his hold on your wrists. You latch onto him, arms around his shoulders and thighs wrapped around his waist; letting him rock you apart slowly.

Feels so good. You feel so good, Zayne.

Needy little gasps. You’re clenching down on him so well.

Zayne feels like he’s on cloud nine; lost in the hazy stupor of your body. Strawberries and cream swirl around him, drowning him in a fruity, lactonic coma.

He noses your pulse point, completely putty for you.

It’s a mess where your bodies meet; slick staining the sheets. He’s too out of it to realize he’s making love to you raw. Zayne fights back the fog—reminding himself to pull out. I can’t spill inside of you.

You’re making it hard for him to stick to that resolve, especially when you whine in protest.

I want it… need it inside of me, Zayne.

“Careful,” he grits out when you start to feel too good; squeezing down on his cock like your walls were made for him.

Like fast melting snowflakes, his will of steel is disintegrating right in your warm pussy.

Want to feel you all inside of me… make me yours, Zayne.

His breath catches, turning into a groan. It feels too good, he was a split second away from insanity.

Weak, a voice chimes in the back of his mind. You’re growing weaker for her. He wants to smother the apprehension; tunes into your breathy whimpers and moans.

You crave him—every low growl, every hard dig of his fingers into your fleshy hips.

You’re so sensitive, you can feel every twitch of his tip catching on your golden spot. His jaw grows slack, the pleasure building and building. Every stroke drives you closer to the edge, and you’re whimpering his name over and over again, blinded by the cresting pleasure.

“Zayne!” your mouth falls lax, cries bounding across the walls.

Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his biceps. The pinch of pain shoots straight to his cock, and Zayne has to bite down on the release threatening to burst into you.

Not yet… focus on her…

Your orgasm crashes into you when you least expect it. Shattering through your entire soul.

Zayne! Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You pant over and over again. So good, so good—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.

He’s not planning to, not when your contractions grow stronger and nearly pull him inside your body. He thinks you could steal his soul with how intense your pussy is squeezing down on him.

Fuck, little one, he gasps, eyes nearly rolling back into his head. S’like you were made for me.

You’re shaking, so sensitive from cumming. With how good his strokes feel, the sensation builds up again—this time faster and more intense—reaching its fever pitch like a wildfire.

Shit! Shit… again. I-I feel it again.

“One more?” he groans, sweat slicking his dark bangs to his forehead. Your eyes get hazy, lidded; mouth falling open and the tip of your tongue slightly lolling out.

You look so fucked out, Zayne thinks he should destroy the entire universe so he could be the only one to see you like this.

A dark rush of possession shoots through his veins, and you clamp down on him—tighter and growing more delirious.

Twinges of pain join in tandem with his strokes, the head of him bumping somewhere too deep inside of you to name. It sparks and withers, makes your thighs clench and toes curl.

But, you welcome the discomfort—beg him for more.

Harder, Zayne. Make it hurt.

He’s gritting his teeth, gorgeous green eyes so hazy it fogs up your mind. His cock splits you wide open, walls trembling every time he rams into you so hard you feel the pain shooting up your spine.

You cry out, start to sob.

More, more, more. Please, give me more.

“Cum for me, darling,” he says, and it’s not a request—it’s a command. Your body responds in kind, quick to bend and break just for him.

He has you in the palm of his hands; has you cumming again for him.

Zayne presses forward, fucking into you hard enough for the bed to shake. He gives it to you good, milking out as many pulsing contractions out of your body before you’re wrung dry.

You gasp and arch your back, till only your shoulders are touching the mattress. His thrusts grow harder. Sloppier and messier. One, final hard push.

Zayne breaks, spilling into you with an almost unbearable warmth. Pumping you to the brim with his load, he doesn’t let a single drop leak out of you, plugging you up and lifting your hips with those veiny, strong hands so you were full of him.

Fuck, little one… so good to me. His words are slurred into your throat, almost incoherent.

“God…” your voice is raw and hoarse. You touch his chest, glide your hands through the slick sweat coating his back.

Zayne remains deep inside of you, keeping you well plugged until you swear both your breaths become one.

He turns you to your side—reaching for your warmth and firmly lodging his face in the crook of your neck. Are you alright?

He holds you like this, your back to his chest, palms splayed possessively over your belly and chest.

You nod, completely exhausted.

“Zayne?”

“Hmm?”

This time, you’re not afraid to voice this part out; the part which hesitated for a split second before you let him consume you.

“Will you stay the night?”

He places a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth, lashes tickling your cheek.

“Only if you let me.”

Of course, you would. Irrational as it was, Zayne was a part of your life now. This stranger turned lover whose touch could bring you alive in so many ways.

“I do,” you whisper back. “For tonight… and perhaps… many more nights after this.”

He falls into a silence—far too quiet that you thought he might’ve dozed off.

But then, his arms pull you closer, and you think you might fold under the weight of his hold when his words fill you back up with all the light the universe has to offer.

“Yes,” he murmurs, certain and true.

“For as long as you let me, I would love to be here with you.”

Linkon City’s best cardiac surgeon stirs in his sleep, the beginnings of his nightmare locking him in place.

He dreams of him again—that darker, murderous version of himself. Those dreams always start the same; gray walls, cracked mirrors, dark leather gloves stained with blood. Bodies exploding into Protocore dust.

Each of them follow the same devastating pattern, and yet, his dreams feel different.

This time, there’s a girl in them. She’s smiling at him, playing with his fingers. Feeding him spoonfuls of cake. The images come to him like broken polaroid flashes; each one more intimate than the last.

Her bare thighs peeking from under his black shirt. Her palm on his heart. Her head on his chest—a familiar weight. He even dreams of her on her knees, tiny hands braced on his thighs, while her mouth wraps around his thickness.

Something ignites his curiosity, and when Zayne looks closer, he finds her more than familiar.

She was you.

Well, not quite you you.

This you felt more tragic than the one in his life; her smiles fainter, cracked with pain and the weight of an unknown burden.

Sadness coats those eyes of hers, though her lovesick expression never wavers.

Her arms feel like home, and he discerns that the other Zayne—the one who had haunted him since he was twelve—is far happier than he has ever been.

Zayne, do you ever want a family one day?

The both of them (him and you) were laying on a picnic blanket, watching the clouds shift and change. There’s a parked motorcycle with two helmets on the pillion seat nearby, a box of chocolates melting beside your hand. You lazily pick up one piece, unwrapping the foil and popping it into your mouth.

This Zayne glances at you, his eyes alight with curiosity.

“Why do you ask?”

You nudge his shoulder, beckoning him to follow your line of sight. He leans up on one arm, looking at where you were pointing.

A nest of caramel-colored bunnies appear by the bushes nearby—mama bunny in the front, with her little balls of fluff trailing right after her. Such a sight was rare in their world, and Zayne is shocked these tiny creatures have yet to be eaten by Wanderers.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” You take his hand, twining your fingers with his. “My mother always told me this old wives tale from long, long ago. If rabbits appear before two lovers, they would be blessed with a family. That’s why I asked.”

She is bold; bolder than you in his life.

The Zayne of this world tightens his grip on her hand. A look flits across his face, one which Zayne recognises as a fleeting desire and sadness.

He feels the other Zayne’s conflict; the yearning clashing with logical reasoning—a daily struggle he encounters even in this life.

But, unlike him, this Zayne was adamant in falling in love with his version of you.

He pulls you to his chest, nose buried in your hair, cheek pressed to your shoulder now. They must smell like strawberries—he knows that scent very well.

“I do,” he whispers, almost mouthing the words into your skin. “I want everything with you.”

Zayne jolts awake the second those words leave the other Zayne’s mouth.

He blinks, groggily taking in the darkness; broken by your steady snores beside him. It’s early—4AM in the morning and he has two more hours before he has to be up.

His heart is racing, but not for its usual reasons. Typically, those nightmares leave him incapacitated, frozen completely in fear until he forces himself to his feet, lunging towards the bathroom to scrub off the imaginary blood from underneath his nails.

But, this time, those dreams leave a hollow ache in his bones.

He glances over to where you lay, still sound asleep. You would be up an hour after him, dashing to the bathroom and tripping over your feet with your toothbrush clenched between your teeth; rushing to get ready for the day. Zayne knows this because he’s seen you doing it over and over again—across many different lives.

I want everything with you.

Zayne reaches over, gently draping an arm around your midsection. You mumble in your sleep when he pulls you closer, palm splayed protectively over your belly.

He lets himself imagine, for a split second, how you would look all swollen and full with his baby—the curve of your belly, your radiant skin and glowing smile.

The ache appears again.

Despite his reservation and hesitation, he thinks back to the Zayne in his dreams. How he would be feeling the same way—perhaps, with even more bitterness.

Linkon’s best cardiac surgeon mulls over that thought in his mind, and as he falls back asleep, he faintly hopes the other Zayne’s wish would come true.

The night stretches into a tolerable silence.

Zayne glances at his watch, waiting for his next customer to appear. Her profile reads as a widow who recently uncovered a coin size bulge on her arm. The signs had appeared soon after, her physical health rapidly deteriorating.

He’s supposed to meet her here tonight, at this alleyway a neighborhood away from your apartment, but it appears she’s late. Zayne glances at his burner phone, noting your text to him.

What time are you coming home tonight?

His heart warms, and a faint smile plays on his lips.

10PM. I'll wait for you, little one.

“Mr. Zayne?”

A hoarse voice cracks through the silence like a whip. Zayne immediately straightens, stowing his phone away and hides a gloved hand behind his back. Sharp and thin like a blade, the icicle appears in his grasp, poised for attack.

Her hair is in a disarray, eyes swollen with globs of black mascara streaking down her cheeks.

She walks with a limp, and he can tell the Abomination was overtaking her with each passing second.

Her ragged breathing fills the alleyway, and he swears her eyes shine indigo for a split second.

Someone like her was too far gone; couldn’t be saved.

The best thing he could do to help was to end her misery early. She stops, sways on her feet, and plunges a hand into her pocket to pull out a wad of cash, tossing it to him with defiant nonchalance. Zayne catches it, stows it in the lapel of his jacket.

Her eyes droop closed, and she goes completely still.

The night air crackles with tension, and Zayne swears he smells burning skin.

A tendril bursts from under her eye, and one more pierces through her cheek.

“Before you end me, Mr. Zayne… can I ask you something?”

Many of his paying customers would use this moment to share their last wishes and requests; or, to confess a sin they couldn’t bear to carry anymore before they greeted the grave.

He waits, a patient Grim Reaper for them to lay down their burdens on his already strained shoulders.

“Have you ever been in love?”

His mind immediately jumps to you. Zayne blinks, and his silence must’ve been some form of confirmation because she starts to smile. There’s bliss in her expression, even as a faint purple light halos around her face.

“I was in love… so in love with him… the sickness ended his life and he gave it to me. His name was Kai. We were married for 5 years when we discovered the symptoms. I was always there for him, and he, for me.”

She takes in a shuddering breath, and Zayne can’t rip his eyes from her. “If you have someone you love in this fucked up world, take care of them, Mr. Zayne. Nothing here is permanent. Everything here is… pain.” Her eyes leak fresh tears, and in this light, she almost looks fully human again.

But, Zayne knows what she is; what she is capable of. He has to end her before the sickness can fully set in.

“My only consolation is that I can see him again. I dream of him all the time, Mr. Zayne. He’s in a field. Waiting for me. Waiting for me to come to him. I’m paying you a lot of money so that you can send me straight to my Kai, do you understand me?”

Zayne nods, voice caught in the back of his throat.

She closes her eyes, and the fear morphes into peace; her expression serene and accepting like a dying saint.

Softly—so softly that he almost doesn't hear—she whispers her husband’s name.

The icicle in his hand solidifies, and he removes his arm from its hidden view behind his back, aiming the shard right for her heart.

Another tendril bursts from her stomach, and she cries out in pain.

Zayne takes it as his cue to lunge forward, pushing the entire chunk into her heart.

Her blood stains his hands, his coat. The pulsing purple light fades into the background and her body dissipates a second later; becoming one with the dust stirring his black boots.

Zayne gets onto one knee, inspecting the last few fragments of her. Evidently satisfied with his work, he stands, and makes the slow, arduous journey back to your apartment.

He doesn’t expect you would be home by the time he reaches—an hour earlier than what he had told you; nor to hear your gasp reverberate across the house when you notice his bloodstained clothes.

It’s too late to cover up now.

Zayne remains frozen in place, eyes wide and locked onto you.

You take one step towards him, and then another. You’re in his shirt and nothing else, hair freshly washed.

The smell of strawberries makes him dizzy, and he has to stop himself from rushing towards you—conscious of how he must look right now.

Like a monster standing under the lights, eyes frenzied and specks of blood coating his chin and chest.

“What happened?” You ball your hands into fists at your sides, expression wide and hurting. “Did something happen—”

“It is not my blood.”

His words stun you, and you take a step back, hands to your mouth. “Zayne…” you speak through the cracks of your fingers. “Did you… did you…”

Zayne can’t pretend with you, not when he wants you to see him fully for who he is.

“A monster stands before you,” he mumbles.

Daring himself to look into your eyes, he holds your gaze, throwing your words—your promises—back to your face. “You said you would be the judge of that—well, here is my truth.”

Zayne curls his shoulders forward, eyes to the ground to avoid your prodding gaze. “You may know me as Zayne, but I go by another name…”

He exhales it into the suffocating silence, shattering your hopes in him—your believe that he was a good man:

“Dawnbreaker.”