Summary: You tied your hair in a high ponytail that morning, and it was enough for the tip of your tattoo to be visible. You've had it for so long that you're used to it, and sometimes you forget it's there — plus, you forgot that they've never seen it before.
Words: 1716
Warnings: reader have tattoos. Platonic relationships. More like friendships.
Can you tell I have favorites? Only Isaac, Mozart, Jean, Arhur, Vincent, Theo, Napoleon and Sebastian show up. Le Comte is vaguely mentioned.
If you're curious to see the tattoos, I linked their images in their respective descriptions throughout the fanfic.
“What is that, mademoiselle?”
You're helping Sebastian with breakfast, moving around the dining room, but you’ve been feeling a strong stare for a while. You're already accustomed to everyone, so you don't mind. You knew that if it was Isaac trying to muster the courage to ask you something, he would eventually do it. But it’s Jean’s voice, and it catches your attention because he usually eats in silence; and he sounds unsure and curious.
You set Arthur’s coffee in front of him while you glance at the table and everything you and Sebastian made. Perhaps there's something he doesn't know, like when you baked him macarons, but today's menu is the same as usual.
“What is what?”
“That thing,” he points in your direction.
Isaac, Mozart, Vincent, and Theo are already having breakfast too, but they pause to glance at you, curious about what Jean is talking about. You feel a bit self-conscious and briefly inspect your clothes. Did you spill something? Fortunately, no.
“I don’t follow, Jean.”
“That thing you have here,” he points at his own back. “I’ve seen it since I sat here to eat, but I can’t understand.”
You raise an eyebrow at him and look over your shoulder, Arthur takes advantage that you’re still by his side to lean backwards on his chair and measure you up and down — and definitely stare at your ass.
“Stop it, perv,” you playfully spat the writer’s arm, earning a chuckle from him.
“Ah, I think Master Jean is talking about your tattoo,” Sebastian tries to help, pointing at his own nape.
Realization finally hits you. Since arriving at the mansion, you've been exclusively wearing long clothes that cover almost your entire body. However, summer started a few weeks ago, and you've been feeling the full force of the heat. It's scorching every day, and at times, you wake up covered in sweat. You've been yearning for an air conditioner or even just a simple fan. So you bought lighter clothes recently — aka Comte bought you a whole summer wardrobe as a gift. What you're wearing today is just an off-the-shoulder dress, so the front and back necklines are a bit lower than usual, but not by much. However, you tied your hair in a high ponytail that morning, and it was enough for the tip of your tattoo to be visible. You've had it for so long that you're used to it, and sometimes you forget it's there — plus, you forgot that they've never seen it before.
“What is that?” Jean is even more curious now, evident from the way he furrows his brow.
“It's a drawing on my body, made with a special kind of paint that never fades. It's a form of art.”
“Really?” You've piqued Theo's interest in art. “And what is it?”
“Music,” and now you’ve piqued Mozart’s interest in music. He doesn’t really show it, but you know him well enough to see when he’s curious. “Well, kinda. It goes a little down my spine, but it’s safe to show. Sebastian, can you help me, please?”
The butler nods and approaches you. You turn your back and move your ponytail to the side for a better view, while Sebastian lowers your neckline slightly so the others can satisfy their curiosity and see it.
It starts just at the end of your nape and goes 5 inches down. It’s an all-black DNA drawing with musical notes on the middle lines, a representation of a metronome pendulum on top, and a treble clef at the bottom. The middle actually has the same number of lines as a music sheet, and the notes can be read as the first five notes of your favorite song.
There’s only silence for a few moments, and as you turn around, you see that they're still staring at you. You think Theo hadn't even blinked until now because he suddenly blinks a lot, and his eyes meet yours.
“It’s pretty!” Vicent smiles like the angel he is. “Is it a real song?”
“It is,” Mozart hums the notes, his eyes conveying that he knows it’s your favorite song.
You've told him once, when you went to the music room to give him an afternoon snack. You were already friends (kind of), so when you saw he wasn't there at the moment, you knew he wouldn't mind if you sat down and softly played it; so you did. The next thing you knew, he was barging into the music room to scold whoever had the audacity to touch his piano, but he stopped when he saw you. He may have asked you to write down the notes so he could play it with you.
“Oh, yeah, you played it for us in the last banquet,” Isaac remembers.
“Does it hurt?” Jean asked, curious again.
“No, not anymore. It hurt when I was getting it done. Boy, that was one hell of a ride,” you laugh. “But it’s been years, so it’s all healed and okay now.”
“It suits you, hondje. Do you have more?”
“I do!” You beam at them, feeling all bubbly inside. It's lovely how they always show interest in anything about you and remember what you like. “It’s on my thigh.” You use the tip of your toes to put more leverage on your right leg, grabbing a fistful of the skirt of your dress. You lift it to show them your tattoo, but a hand stops you when it's reaching your knee.
“Nunuche, what the hell?”
Napoleon had just woken up and was joining you in the dining room. Did you say something about your thigh? He was still a little sleepy, so he thought he heard you wrong. But then you grabbed your dress… What the fuck do you think you’re doing? He was at your side in the blink of an eye, gripping your wrists tightly and looking at you with a panic expression. It’d certainly be red in a second, if the loud slap sound was any indication.
And that’s how you make vampires choke on their foods and drinks. You look at them, a confused expression on your face. Isaac spat his tea all over his plate and is now coughing to clear his throat. Jean dropped his fork, frozen in his chair. Mozart is blinking in a frenzy, his mug in such a tight grip on his hand that his knuckles are white. Vincent is blushing furiously, his mouth agape. Theo is actually amused, and you clearly heard Arthur complaining to Napoleon that it was just getting good.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, startled.
“MC, just remember we’re not in the 21st century,” Sebastian says, clearly holding a smirk.
You feel your entire face heat up. Oh my God! That was certainly an uncomfortable situation. But you were so used to them; they made you feel at home, so you didn’t really think about what you were doing.
“Oh, right, sorry,” You chuckle and blush under the intensity of their stares. “But it’s no big deal, really. Sebastian and le Comte have already seen it.”
“Say that again?” Theo asks as his gaze drifts to the butler, just like everyone else's.
“It’s nothing weird!” You can almost feel the emperor’s grip tightening. Sometimes he was so overprotective — they all were, and it was both endearing and funny. You huff. “We were talking about the 21st century, and I told Sebas that I have tattoos and showed him. Simple as that. Lots of people wear clothes that show a lot of skin in modern days. Do you think I would lift my dress to show the tattoo when I’m right next to Arthur if it wasn’t okay?” You deadpan Napoleon.
“Hey!” The writer complains, but everybody ignores him. You do have a point.
Napoleon frowns, but slowly releases you. You look at the others and just from a look they know you’ll be mad if they freak out again, so they try to act cool. Keyword: try. They’re staring so much you think they’ll open a hole in your thigh, but at least they’re quiet. You lift the dress just a little more and your tattoo is finally showing. It’s colorful and about the same size as the other. There’s white fine lines connecting dots, forming the Leo constellation, with a blue-purple watercolor background.
“Yes, luv! Now that’s a good breakfast,” Arthur smirks and places his elbow on the table to support his head as he looks at you. He’s so glad that Jean started this conversation while you were still beside him. Napoleon purses his lips and glares at the writer, but he knows better than to start a fight. His nunuche wouldn't let him live it down.
“What the fuck is that?” Theo raises an eyebrow. Don’t get him wrong, he likes the art, but he just doesn’t understand what it’s supposed to be.
“Theo, language,” Vincent scolds his brother. He doesn’t want you to think they don’t like it.
“Is it upside down?” Jean frowns and tilts his head, trying to get a different angle, but it doesn’t make a difference.
"It's the Leo constellation," you chuckle and glance at Isaac, knowing he would understand. He enjoyed stargazing and always invited you to join him, especially after discovering your shared interest — then he started rambling about physics and astronomy, and you were lost.
“Oh, the stars,” Vincent says.
"So," Theo begins, and you can tell from his amused tone that he's about to say something to make you blush, "you have one that resembles Mozart and another that resembles Isaac."
“No, no. It’d have to be an apple for Newt,” Arthur grins when the poor physicist blushes as red as… the mentioned fruit.
“You’re the worst,” Isaac mumbles under his breath.
You chuckle at their banter. “So that’s it,” you say, releasing your dress. “We have a lot of things to do. So finish your breakfasts quickly.” You clap your hands twice.
“Indeed,” Sebastian nods in agreement.
You have moments of silence after that and you go back to work, but you feel the stares the whole day. You know they still have so much to say and ask, but they stay quiet.
You have some “not-so-permanent tattoos” now — and they might have helped do some.
I don't have tattoos yet, but I really want it. I'd make the first one, but with colors.
have a little drabble, as a treat, while i celebrate that i finished my last exam for the year
content: injured mc/reader, blood loss, reader in denial, pre-relationship, loving Sylus, frequent use of "kitten", fits into the main storyline, not proofread, also posted to ao3
your safe haven is here
Silence followed as you limped through the N109 Zone. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, pausing on the empty street. You glanced left, right, hoping for the glimpse of headlights. But the silence—that empty, heavy lack of a bike’s roar—told you that you’d made a miscalculation. A big one.
Jenna had handed you a mission and a team first thing this morning. A team that you had refused, repeatedly. You’d promised—insisted—that the anomaly you were investigating was easily handled alone. A lie. You’d known immediately it would be a bad decision at best, a trap at worst. Your time in the N109 Zone had earned you a reputation and enemies.
But you were the N109 expert, and Jenna had let you go alone, just as you’d planned, because if you went in with a team, Sylus would keep his distance. And though you’d never admit it to anyone, not the stars or the bygone gods of destroyed worlds or even yourself, you wanted to see him again.
For a progress report, you told yourself, on Ever. On Gaia. On how N109 was faring after you’d destroyed it last month.
It hadn’t occurred to you that Sylus would have business of his own to attend to. It hadn’t occurred to you that he could have left the N109 Zone in such a state, so soon after catastrophe. You’d been picturing power grabs and vicious infighting. You’d been picturing streets on fire, buildings razed, bodies left to rot. You’d been picturing Sylus jumping into the fray, covered in blood and smiling like it turned him on.
Not that you knew what that looked like. Not that you wanted to know.
But he’d be here. You were certain. And so you’d marched into certain death utterly alone, sure he’d be there to save you.
He wasn’t.
You’d run. Taken a beating more brutal than anything you’d ever experienced and remembered, and then run for your life at the first chance when you finally lost hope and the thought He’s not coming for me hit you like a bell striking midnight.
The Wanderer’s roar had followed you through the streets until it faded to the ringing in your ears and then, eventually, to this heavy, cloying silence that seemed to mock you, to cling to your skin like salt.
He wasn’t coming. Because he wasn’t here.
You were certain of it. There may have been a time where he’d have let you fight alone, but there had never been a time that he’d leave you to find your way to him. And after last month…
His tenderness as you parted, your world cracked in two but somehow fuller now that you knew, had surfaced again and again in your dreams. The softness of his eyes, his touch. His reluctance to leave you alone.
After that, you knew he would never have abandoned you to die.
So he couldn’t have been in N109.
And if he was, you were going to kill him, as long as you didn’t first die yourself.
~❊~
The base was cold, unbearably cold. Or maybe that was just you, a hand pressed to your side in a pitiful attempt to staunch the blood. It was painful, you were dimly aware of that, but either you’d gotten so used to the pain that you no longer felt it, or you’d lost so much blood that you were losing consciousness and feeling.
With your free hand dragging along the wall, you searched the base. It was cursory, nothing you’d win awards for in the association’s re-training, but it would do for your purpose. As you wound your way through the base, aiming for the room Sylus had set up for you, you found no sign of him, or Mephisto, or the twins. The base was well and truly empty. Sylus wasn’t in the N109 Zone.
Well, at least that meant you didn’t have to kill him.
Dark fuzz swamped the sides of your vision. You swayed as you walked and stood still, pressing yourself against the wall. You glanced down at the wound in your side. Blood was seeping through your fingers, darker than it was supposed to be. “Shit,” you said again, because it was apparently the only word you could think of. Had the Wanderer been different? Could it have been poisonous?
While you steadied yourself, you made a list of your next steps. Clean the wound. Pack it, wrap it, use whatever medication you could find in Sylus’ medical cabinet. You knew he had several—there was one in your room, one in his, one in the public bathroom, one on the wall of the boxing ring. There was a smaller one, he’d told you, in the kitchen.
Once it was clean, once you were safe from infection and whatever was making your blood nearly black, then you could pass out. Preferably in the bed, not the bathroom.
You weren’t certain you’d make it that far.
Step by step, you wandered through the base. You hesitated outside Sylus’ bedroom door. The room he’d set up for you was further in the base, one of the most protected rooms he had, he’d told you. But… The idea of walking any further made your knees quake. Would he be upset? Would he yell at you, if you got blood on his bathroom tile, his carpet, his sheets? It was hard to imagine, this concept of Sylus raising his voice. He’d yelled at other people around you, but he’d always been so sweet to you. Soft, really.
You shook your head. What the hell were you on about? Maybe whatever the Wanderer had hit you with had already reached your brain.
But you still pushed open Sylus’ door and stumbled to his bathroom.
You weren’t totally sure how you managed it, ripping open the cabinet, yanking your shirt off one-handed, cleaning out the wound. Your vision came and went, your gritted teeth and sheer determination the only thing bringing it back again. Slowly but surely, you slathered the wound—a deep gash you had to pick bits of Wanderer rock out of—in creams and salves, packed it with gauze, and then bandaged it tightly. You knew you ought to wrap something around your entire torso to keep it in place, but you couldn’t find anything long enough. So you tripped your way back to the main room.
It looked like Sylus had either left in a hurry, or he was messier in his own space. There was a pile of clothes left beside the bed. From it, you fished out a shirt and wrapped it around yourself. You crawled onto his bed, slid between his sheets, and promptly let the darkness take you the moment your head hit the silk pillow.
~❊~
Sylus shrugged his suit jacket off and hung it in the entryway hall. The fabric was coated in blood, soaked in it. He sighed just looking at it. It was custom, ridiculously comfortable—the only piece he owned he’d always avoided bloodying up. Now it looked like he’d have to get back to the tailor to get a new one. Blood came out of clothes, but it changed them. They never sat just right again on his shoulders, his hips, once they’d been soaked in someone’s lifeblood.
“Take the night off,” he said to Luke and Kieran, trailing in behind him, roughhousing as they did. They paused to look at him.
“You sure, boss?” Luke asked.
“You don’t need us?” Kieran added.
Sylus cut them a quick glance. “I know where to find you if I do,” he said. “Take the night.”
“Yes, bossman!” they repeated together. They disappeared quickly into the shadows with a speed that unnerved him—always had, and always would.
Steps heavy, Sylus made his way to his bedroom. He paused in the hall, taking stock. His door was ajar, just slightly. The light was on, dim, so likely his bedside lamp. And the hallway smelled strongly of you.
Hope filled Sylus’ chest. You had come to him? And so soon after he’d last seen you… Something akin to giddiness danced in his heart. He could just picture the scene in his bedroom, you perched on the edge of his bed, perhaps rifling through his drawers as punishment for making you wait. Because of course you would pick the one time he had a pop-up emergency to choose to come to him.
He smoothed his hands over the fabric of his pants. Shit, he was covered in blood. Was it in his hair? On his face? Fuck, did his breath stink? Did he stink? He’d showered this morning (yesterday morning, really, with how late it was), but that was before he’d gotten doused and broke a sweat in a fight.
It was too late to try and make himself presentable. And maybe you wouldn’t care. Maybe you’d be so relieved to see him that the blood and sweat wouldn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered to you before.
Sylus pushed his door open.
There was a small lump in his bed, wrapped in his sheets. Sylus’ lips twitched into a smile. You’d made yourself at home. Again, that giddy joy fluttered in his chest. You trusted him. Finally.
“I’m home, kitten,” Sylus said—only just now hearing the exhaustion in his voice, making every word heavy.
But you, curled up in his bed, didn’t move.
Fighting a frown, Sylus approached his bed, sat on the edge of it. “Kitten?” Again, nothing. He reached a hesitant hand toward you, gently shaking you. You didn’t respond. Now Sylus did frown, leaning over you. Panic spiked his heart rate: you were pale, breaths shallow, your body limp and loose. Swallowing back his fear, Sylus pulled the sheets away, less gentle than he would have liked with his desperation.
His sheets were slick, a faint red glisten when he moved his stance to see the light shine on it. He adjusted you and hissed softly to himself at the sight of your bandaging: rushed, falling off your body, already stained a deep crimson.
How long had you been like this? How hadn’t he known? His security systems, they were meant to pick up anything, and his cameras were set up specifically to ping him when you showed up on his property—
A problem for later. Right now, he needed you get you patched up—properly.
Sylus scooped you up, careful not to jostle you and wake you. Frowning at the heat in your skin, he carried you slowly to the bathroom, laying you on the cool tile floor. You sighed in your sleep, body relaxing.
Pausing, Sylus took stock of you. You were wearing one of his button-down shirts, and it would have made him giddy if it weren’t for the wound marring the sight of you. Your pants were caked with your own blood, now firmly glued to your skin.
He knelt beside you and gently peeled what remained of your bandage off. You twitched suddenly, taking a sharp breath.
Sylus stroked your hair. “Shhh,” he soothed. “It’s alright. I’m here now. I’ll fix it.”
He hummed as he removed the gauze you’d used to try and stop the blood flow. He stared into the wound for a moment. It was deep, deeper than he had expected, but he wasn't put off by the gore of it. He scanned your injury, noting the creams you'd used, searching for signs of infection. Mercifully, there were none.
Sylus worked quickly, cleaning out the wound and packing it more effectively. His thoughts spun wildly. Had you been delirious from the blood loss? Was that why you hadn't been able to take care of your wound properly? Had you been seeking him out, desperate for help?
As if you could hear his racing mind, you mumbled, "Sylus..." You curled toward him, wincing as you disturbed your wound.
You whispered his name again, fingers curling around several of his fingers, placed near your hand. He adjusted, giving you a better grip, and rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand.
"It hurts, doesn't it," he murmured, not really asking your sleeping figure. "Let me help you."
He wet a cloth with warm water and squeezed until it was only damp. He wiped it across your skin, cleaning away the dried blood that stuck your pants to your skin. Gently, he tugged them off of you, leaving you in your undergarments and his shirt.
You looked softer, less pained, and something in his chest eased. "Come on. Let's get you back to bed, okay?"
Even more carefully than the first time, he lifted you again and carried you back to his room. He settled you on the clean side of the bed and stripped away the blood-soaked sheets, replacing them and moving you as necessary.
"I'll be right back," he said, covering you with the blankets.
Moving quickly, he stalked into his office, pulling up the video feed from his cameras. Why hadn't they alerted him? Why hadn't he known the instant you showed up on his doorstep—?
He watched until movement caught his eye. Ah, so that was it. You hadn't approached from the front of the base, but the back, your body curved inward and your hair obscuring your face. The defining details the camera had been programmed to catch were completely out of view.
As for the motion sensors, a flashing red light in the corner of the screen suggested it had been tampered with—broken. Sylus had been sure it had been in working order before he'd left... Perhaps someone had caught wind of his trip and hacked the system...
He straightened. It didn't matter, not right now. He'd fix it when you were up and walking again.
Sylus returned to his room. You hadn't moved from where he'd put you.
He slipped off his shoes and the blood soaked clothes, pulled on a soft cotton shirt, and slipped into the bed beside you. He tucked you against him carefully. You hummed, face buried in his shirt.
"Rest, sweetie," he murmured, a ghost of a kiss gracing your forehead. "I'll be here when you wake up."
~❊~
You woke slowly, body warm and cozy and reluctant to wake. You fought the sleep that dragged you back down, shifting with a groan. Pain bloomed on your right side, pulling a loud, nasty hiss from your mouth.
There was movement beside you. Only then did you realize you were being held against a very comfortable, very strong, very familiar chest.
Relief and embarrassment flooded you at the same time, the memory of making your way clumsily through his house and into his bed flashing behind your eyes.
"Sylus," you croaked.
His eyes cracked open. Fondness hummed through his body, then dissipated in a moment of pure relief. "Kitten," he murmured. "You're awake." He adjusted, hand moving to hover above the throbbing wound in your side. "How do you feel?"
"Hurts," you managed, squeezing your eyes shut again.
"Bad?"
You shook your head. "Just...there."
"Hold on." He shifted, leaning over you, and pulled back a moment later with pills in his hand. He handed those and a water bottle to you. "Take these, then go back to sleep."
You did as he ordered. As you let yourself be cradled by him again, you whispered, "I'm sorry."
"What for?" he murmured.
"Invading your bed."
Sylus chuckled. "I thought I made it perfectly clear, kitten. You're allowed wherever you'd like here." He tucked you more firmly against his body. "Especially when you're hurt."
You glanced up at him. Perhaps you were still delirious, because you said, "I needed you. And you weren't..."
"Here." He grimaced, looking guilty. "I'm sorry. There was an emergency that pulled me away, and...my security systems appear to have been broken." There was a dark edge in his voice that might have once scared you, but you knew now it wasn't directed at you. Would never be directed at you. "I'm sorry I wasn't here, kitten. But I am now, and I promise I won't leave you again."
You hummed, nuzzling into him. Your arms tightened around him. You felt his breath catch in his chest.
"Is that your acceptance of my apology?" he asked quietly.
You nodded.
"Alright," he said. He stroked your hair. "Just go back to sleep, kitten."
"You won't leave?"
Sylus shook his head. "I'll be here as long as you want me to be. Even if it's forever."
Warmth bubbled in your chest, and you let yourself be lulled back into a comfortable sleep, safe in his arms. Safe where you would always be, knowing his arms would never unwrap from around you.
☞ ❊ ☜
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You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 1
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: 6.5k
NOTES: so.. this ended up being way too angsty than the original blurb but oh well no regrets. fair warning, prepare some tissues! The tag list for this fic is CLOSED.
MASTERLIST | part 2
The day you chose to deliver the papers was grey. Not rainy. Not stormy. Just… grey.
A sky without conviction. Wind without bite. The kind of afternoon that felt as indecisive as you were pretending not to be.
You stood outside his office door for longer than you were proud of. Long enough to memorize the grain of the wood. Long enough to talk yourself into it, and then out of it, and then back in again.
You pushed the door open softly, already shrinking into yourself.
You weren’t sure what you expected when you came.
That he’d be behind his desk, maybe. Pen in hand, papers meticulously arranged in little towers like the ones he builds in your mind—precise, unreachable, always half-tilted toward something you’re not allowed to see.
You thought you might say something rehearsed but kind. A line you practiced in the mirror, gentle but final. You didn’t want to hurt him. You just wanted to end the slow bleeding before it became a hemorrhage.
But the office was empty.
The silence hit first.
Not a tranquil silence. Not the kind that invites rest.
This one was clinical. Dry. Like the room had forgotten how to hold a heartbeat.
Zayne wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t. He was rarely anywhere you were. You’d grown used to missing him like one grows used to an old injury—limping out of habit, not pain. Not anymore. Not really.
You stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. The room smelled like him—mint and paper, a trace of cologne sharp as memory. The blinds were half-drawn, the light filtering in like a sigh through cracked ribs.
You walked to his desk and placed the envelope down.
Gently. As if it were made of glass.
As if the act itself might shatter something irreversibly.
Why stay in this marriage when the instigator is already dead? It wasn’t a cruel thought. Just… practical. Your mother had orchestrated it all, hadn’t she? Down to the embroidered napkins and the painfully bright chandelier you never wanted. She'd made you both promises you never consented to, and now she was gone, buried in roses and obligations.
That question had come to you in the silence after her funeral, when the guests were gone and the condolences had dried into something brittle. You weren’t looking for liberation. You weren’t angry. But there was a kind of clarity that only grief could offer—harsh, clean-edged clarity that cut deeper the more you looked at it.
You stood there, staring at the divorce papers. The ink still smelled fresh. The curve of your own signature stared back at you like a challenge.
You didn’t hate Zayne.
God, if you hated him, maybe this would be easier.
But love had never bloomed between you. Not really. It had been all frost and formality, glances across long tables, the occasional brush of his coat sleeve as he passed you in the hallway. You learned his silences. He learned your smiles. But you never learned each other.
And even if Zayne had been mostly absent, even if he’d buried himself in work and left you to wander the quiet halls of your shared home like a ghost—well.
You weren’t completely blameless either.
You’d withdrawn before he could reject you. You’d built your own walls, brick by brick. You told yourself you were protecting yourself. But the truth was messier than that.
Maybe you’d been waiting. Hoping.
And when hope dried up, you folded your longing into politeness. Into pleasantries. Into dinner set for one.
Your fingers grazed the edge of the envelope again. He’ll see it when he comes in, you told yourself. He’ll understand.
He was good at understanding, wasn’t he?
But the part of you that still ached—the part that hadn’t quite given up—wished you didn’t have to do this alone. Wished he’d been here so you could have said something. Anything. So you wouldn’t have to walk out with your heart still clenched, still wondering if this was mercy or cowardice.
You turned toward the door slowly, letting your eyes sweep over the room one last time.
His chair was slightly angled toward the window. A mug of coffee sat abandoned on the side table, still half full. A scarf hung on the back of the chair, the one you once bought for him because he never remembered to dress warm in winter. He never wore it in front of you.
Maybe he wore it when he was alone.
Maybe he missed you, in his own quiet, useless way.
Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted either.
Maybe it was.
You didn’t wait to find out.
You slipped out of his office as softly as you had come. No tears. No dramatics. Just the sound of your heels clicking against the tile, carrying you away from the life you tried to build without being given the tools.
Behind you, the envelope sat motionless on his desk.
It would be the first thing he saw when he returned.
Or the last thing he expected.
Either way, the decision was made.
You just hoped he’d understand that it wasn’t born out of resentment.
It was born out of surrender.
And surrender, after all, was the only way you’d ever been allowed to love him.
You go about your day.
Mechanically, precisely. Like if you move fast enough, you won’t feel the weight of what you just did. Like if you keep your hands busy, they won’t remember how they trembled when you left the envelope on his desk.
You have dinner at a high-end restaurant downtown. The kind with mood lighting and cutlery that costs more than your first paycheck. The waiter greets you by name. You’ve been here before. Enough times to build a familiarity that feels almost like comfort.
You order your usual. A glass of wine, a dish too delicate for hunger. You smile when the waiter makes small talk. You nod when he compliments your dress. You even laugh—soft, practiced, hollow.
Around you, couples lean close, forks clinking gently against china, knees brushing under tables. You sip your wine and pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re above it all. That you chose this. That you’re fine.
You leave a generous tip and walk out alone.
You stop at a shop on the way home.
There’s a window display with crystals and tiny gilded mirrors and perfume bottles shaped like hearts. Useless things. Luxuries. Trinkets that mean nothing and say everything. You buy a pair of earrings that you’ll never wear, a satin ribbon you don’t need, and a music box that plays a lullaby you didn’t realize you remembered.
It doesn’t help. But it gives your hands something to hold.
By the time you return home, night has long folded itself over the city. You step out of your heels and into the silence, your keys landing with a metallic sigh in the tray by the door.
The house is spotless. Sterile. Like no one lives here. Like no one ever did.
You draw yourself a bath. You pick out the bath salts your mother once gifted you—lavender and sandalwood, soft and laced with memory. The water fogs the mirror, curls against your skin. You sink in, hoping the heat will coax something loose. The ache. The numbness. The way you still listen, stupidly, for the sound of the door opening behind you.
But there’s nothing. No footsteps. No voice calling your name.
Only the slow drip of a tap and the echo of your own breath.
After, you do your skincare. Layer after layer. Toner. Serum. Cream. A ritual. A mask. You look at your face in the mirror and wonder when you started looking so tired. You wonder if Zayne ever noticed. You wonder if he’d care.
You go to bed.
The sheets are cool, tucked too tightly. You lay there, stiff as porcelain, your eyes wide in the dark. The ceiling offers no answers. The night holds no comfort.
Your fingers find the empty side of the bed.
And stay there.
Still.
Quiet.
You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself. Because you made this choice, didn’t you?
You left the papers.
You left him.
But as sleep evades you and the silence tightens like a noose, you wonder if he’ll notice the way your perfume still lingers on the pillow.
And if he does—
You wonder if he’ll miss you.
Or just the absence.
You wake in the dark, unsure what pulls you from sleep. There is no noise, not exactly—just the strange pressure of being watched, the weight of something pressing too hard against your ribs.
Your eyes blink open slowly.
The room is dim, only the amber spill of the hallway light trailing in like a whisper beneath the door. The sheets have tangled around your waist, your body curled in that way it always is when you sleep alone, when there's too much space and too little warmth.
And then you see him.
Zayne.
Kneeling at your bedside.
His head is bowed, his hands gripping yours like lifelines, like they’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His shoulders are trembling. There are tear tracks on his cheeks—silent and luminous in the half-light. His palms are cold, clammy, too tight around your fingers, but you don’t pull away.
You can’t.
Because you’ve never seen him like this.
Not composed. Not distant. Not restrained behind the iron wall of manners and duty and that maddening, unreachable calm.
No. This is Zayne—undone.
“Please don’t leave me,” he breathes.
The words are so soft, they barely make it past his lips.
Your breath catches.
You stare at him, heart thudding with a terror you don’t understand. He’s not bleeding. Not wounded. Not dying.
But he looks like he is.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, voice breaking like something rusted. “I’m so—God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to be your husband. I didn’t even know if you wanted me to be. I thought—” His grip tightens, desperate. “I thought you were happier without me. I thought I was giving you space. I thought it was what you wanted.”
You try to sit up, but he’s still holding your hands, head bowed so low you can feel his breath against your skin. He presses his forehead to your knuckles like he’s praying. Or confessing.
“I saw the papers,” he says. “I came back and I saw them and—” A pause. A shudder. “I felt something inside me go still. Like the part of me that hoped you’d someday choose me… just stopped breathing.”
You swallow.
Your throat is dry. Your heart is loud. Your hands are still in his, small and warm and useless in the face of this.
Zayne’s never begged for anything. Not when you married. Not when you drifted. Not even when the silences stretched longer than the days.
But he’s begging now.
And it breaks something in you.
“I don’t care about the arrangement,” he says, lifting his eyes to yours for the first time, and—God. They’re red-rimmed and wet and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. Not even when his mentor died. Not even when yours forced a ring onto your finger. Because that's exactly what she was—a mentor before a mother.
“I don’t care who started it. I care that I can’t sleep knowing you won’t be there. That I won’t see your shoes in the hallway. Your cup in the sink. Your voice in the morning. I know I’ve been gone—I know I made you feel alone. But I never stopped—”
He cuts himself off, like the words are too big for him to hold.
“Don’t leave me,” he says again, hoarse. “Please. Tell me it’s not too late. Tell me I can try. Tell me I can love you better.”
And then he says it.
“Because I do—”
Soft. Crushed. Almost drowned in breath.
“—I do love you.”
You sit frozen, trembling with something that isn’t shock but grief—but hope—but disbelief.
Because you’d spent months mourning something that had never bloomed.
And now here he was. On his knees. With all his walls gone.
Waiting for you.
His words echo in your chest like footsteps in an empty hall. They don’t settle. They don’t land. They just… circle. Hover. Haunt.
And yet—your hands stay in his.
You want to pull away. You should pull away. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?
But your fingers won’t listen. They're traitors. Trembling, but curled around his like they still remember how to hold on.
Zayne’s eyes are still on you—pleading, ruined, impossibly gentle. And you hate him for it. You hate him for coming to you like this now, when your chest is raw and bandaged over with resignation, when your heart has learned to live with its hollow space.
You don’t know what to say.
You’ve always known what to say. You’ve always had something ready. A laugh, a line, a quiet deflection. You were raised to survive with poise, to never let the cracks show.
But now?
You don’t know how to speak through the knot lodged in your throat.
“I…” Your voice barely comes out. It sounds foreign. Bruised. “Zayne, I don’t—I don’t know.”
His brows draw together.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper. “You didn’t want me. You wanted peace. You wanted quiet. I gave you that.”
You’re breathing faster now, not from panic—but from all the things you’ve never let yourself say aloud.
“You weren’t there,” you murmur, looking somewhere past his shoulder. “Not when I waited for you to come home. Not when I made tea and poured two cups out of habit. Not when I cried so quietly I thought I’d go mad from the silence.”
He’s shaking his head, tears falling again.
“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you felt—”
“Because I didn’t tell you,” you say sharply. “Because I thought I didn’t have the right to want more. We weren’t in love. We were just… two people honoring a contract.”
Zayne looks like he’s in pain.
Real pain.
The kind that doesn’t bleed, just bruises the soul until everything aches.
“I’m not saying this to punish you,” you whisper. “I just—I need you to understand. I don’t know how to believe you now. I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering me, when all I’ve ever known is how to be alone in this marriage.”
He closes his eyes like he’s been struck.
“I’m not whole,” you add, voice cracking. “And I don’t know if I even know how to be loved anymore.”
There’s a pause.
A long, trembling pause.
Then, quietly—softly—Zayne presses your hands to his lips.
He kisses your knuckles like he’s asking permission to breathe.
“I don’t expect you to believe me right now,” he whispers. “Or tomorrow. Or the day after. I just want you to know—I’m not leaving. I won’t run from this again. From you. Even if you don’t forgive me. Even if you never say those words back.”
You stare at him.
Still unsure. Still aching. Still raw.
But something inside you shifts.
Not healed.
Not certain.
Just—listening.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
He stays kneeling for a long time.
Even after your fingers loosen in his grip. Even after your breathing slows and your eyes drop from his face to the twisted bedsheet between you. Even after the tears stop falling from both of you.
He stays. Like a man rooted. Like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll disappear.
Eventually, you whisper, “Get off the floor.”
It comes out hoarse. Less command, more tired breath. The words of someone too wrung out to carry this moment any further, but too tender to let it close alone.
He looks up at you, cautious. But the moment has passed for confessions. He knows it.
So he rises slowly, joints stiff, fabric creased and damp from where his knees met the floor. You shift aside, just a little—enough to make room without saying it aloud.
He doesn’t assume.
He stands for a beat longer than necessary. Hands fidgeting. Shoulders tense. And then he moves—quiet as snow—and slips beneath the covers, staying on top of them at first, as though unwilling to cross some unseen line.
The bed dips with his weight. You both lie there, backs half-turned, inches away and aching with silence again—but not the old kind. Not the lonely, echoing kind.
This one is... full. Thick with things unsaid but understood.
His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn't move. Neither do you.
You let your eyes close, but sleep doesn’t come.
Your mind is loud in the hush. Not with words. With fragments. Ghosts. That night at the wedding when your mother held your hand too tightly and whispered that love is just a fantasy. The first time you saw Zayne sleeping at his desk, collar loose, lashes brushing his cheek, more beautiful than anything you were allowed to say. The moment your fingers twitched toward him once, and you stopped yourself. Every almost. Every if.
You feel him shift beside you. Just a fraction.
Then his hand—a single scarred hand—moves slowly across the space between you. Hovers. Waits.
You don’t open your eyes. You don’t breathe.
And then, as gently as anything you’ve ever known, he rests his fingers on your wrist.
Barely a touch.
Just a presence.
I'm here, it says.
You don’t move. You don’t speak.
But you let him stay.
The sheets rustle as he slides down slightly, mirroring your position. His forehead brushes your shoulder. His breath warms the back of your arm. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist like an apology without words.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours.
You fall asleep like that.
Not in his arms. Not pressed close. Not healed.
Just… not alone.
For the longest time, your mother dictated the weather of your world.
She didn’t just control the room—she was the room. Her presence seeped into the walls, into the silence, into the decisions you hadn’t even made yet. She knew what you’d wear before you opened your closet. She could recite your schedule before you checked your calendar. She didn’t raise a daughter—she built a reflection.
And she expected that reflection to obey.
At first, it was subtle. Childhood rules disguised as safety.
“Don’t play in the sun, you’ll get too dark.”
“Keep your voice down, good girls don’t shout.”
“Smile when guests are around, don’t embarrass me.”
But over time, the rules turned into walls. And the walls became a prison. You learned to swallow words before they formed. To weigh your tone. To apologize for breathing too loudly.
It didn’t matter what you wanted. What mattered was what she thought you should want.
And then Zayne entered the picture.
A calm man. A blank page. A voice with the temperature of winter mornings—cool, crisp, distant. You hadn’t even fallen for him. You’d simply watched as your mother’s attention pivoted from micromanaging your life to orchestrating your marriage.
He was her dream son-in-law. A doctor. Unshakeable. Mannered. From a family she couldn’t nitpick.
She didn’t ask if you liked him.
She didn’t need to.
She assumed you would be grateful.
And in some ways, you were.
Because Zayne—unavailable as he was, emotionally constipated and always at the hospital—did one thing your mother never did.
He left you alone.
There was no suffocating presence. No list of expectations folded into every meal. He didn’t demand you dress a certain way. Didn’t police your volume, your mood, your silences. He didn’t ask much of you at all.
And in that eerie vacuum, you found something terrifyingly precious.
Autonomy.
Even if he barely spoke to you, even if he barely saw you, Zayne gave you the one thing you craved more than affection.
Freedom.
At home, your mother would barge into your room with unsolicited opinions. In Zayne’s apartment, you had a key to your own space. At home, your mother would correct you mid-sentence in front of relatives. Zayne would barely notice if you said something silly, let alone make you feel small for it.
He didn’t tether you.
And while that coldness carved an ache in your chest during sleepless nights, it also came with a strange sense of safety.
He was distant, yes.
But he was not cruel.
When your mother visited your new house for the first time after your wedding, you saw her try it—try to step into your space like she still owned it. She scanned your kitchen with sharp eyes, criticizing how you stored the spices. She told you you were putting on weight. That you needed to stop being lazy, that Zayne would leave you if you didn’t “keep up appearances.”
She said it lightly, like a joke.
Zayne was standing by the coffee machine.
He looked up, his gaze ice-cold.
“I didn’t marry her for appearances,” he said, voice clipped, face unreadable. “And if you’re done insulting my wife, you can go.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You remembered the way your mother blinked. Like someone had thrown cold water on her. She huffed, lips pursed, and left without another word. She didn’t even say goodbye.
And you…
You’d looked at him like he was a foreign language.
He didn’t look at you. Just poured his coffee and left for work without a second glance.
But you had stood there, rooted to the floor, hands shaking.
Because for the first time in your life, someone chose you.
Zayne had drawn a line in the sand.
And your mother had been on the wrong side of it.
You hadn’t cried then. Not even when the door slammed shut and silence filled the apartment again. But you remembered the tightness in your chest. The way you stared at the floor like you were thirteen again, except this time you weren’t helpless.
Because someone—your husband—had made it clear you were not to be messed with.
You still think about that moment. More than you probably should.
Because Zayne never brought it up again. Never mentioned her. Never asked how it made you feel.
But he didn’t apologize for defending you.
He didn’t make you feel like you owed him for it either.
And somehow, in his detachment, there was a kind of tenderness your mother had never offered you.
He gave you space.
He gave you a shield.
And somewhere in the folds of that cold, quiet marriage, you started seeing him not just as the stranger you were legally tied to—but the man who, even in silence, stood between you and the woman who broke your voice.
He might not have held your hand.
But he kept your name safe in a house that was finally your own.
And maybe that didn’t look like love in the way you were raised to recognize it.
But it was protection.
And for someone like you—raised to feel like a burden—that meant something.
You wake before the sun.
The room is still steeped in the heavy blue of early dawn, where everything looks softer than it really is. Blurred at the edges, like grief.
There’s a moment, a breath, where you forget. Where you wake as if from a dream and all is suspended. The air is cold against your cheek. The sheets heavy with the imprint of two. And there’s warmth behind you. A weight.
Zayne.
Not a memory. Not a phantom. Not another figment of wishful thinking conjured up by your loneliness.
He's still here.
The realization sinks in slowly, like tea bleeding into water. At some point in the night, he must’ve shifted closer. One of his arms is draped around your waist, tentative but real. His chest rises and falls against your back, the rhythm steady, anchoring. And his face—God, his face is tucked into your shoulder like it’s the only home he’s ever known.
You don’t move.
You just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, your body stiff with exhaustion and the kind of grief that has no name. You're not sure what it is you’re mourning. Only that it’s something vast. Something invisible. A version of this marriage you never got to live. A thousand versions of yourself you never got to be—with him, beside him, for him.
There’s a heaviness in your chest that isn’t pain. Not sharp, not sudden. Just... present. Like fog. Like longing left too long in the cold.
You think about the envelope still sitting on his desk. Signed. Final. As binding as a scar.
You think about how easy it would be to slip out from under his arm. Walk away before the sun catches you both in this quiet trespass. Before the ache turns into expectation. Before kindness gets mistaken for forgiveness.
And yet—you stay.
Not because anything has been resolved. Not because his whispered apology last night has undone the loneliness you watered for so long it grew roots inside you. But because you're tired. And his breath is warm. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re not waking up to a silence that only belongs to you.
He shifts slightly, his hand tightening instinctively on your waist. Just a twitch. Just enough to remind you: he feels you there.
The tears come before you can stop them.
Slow. Silent. The kind you don’t sob out loud. The kind you let slip into the pillow because you’re too proud to make a sound.
You wish you could hate him.
You wish he’d never said anything at all. That he hadn’t come into your room like that. That he’d left the papers on the desk and let the story end quietly.
Because now there’s a crack.
A crack in the coffin you tried to bury this marriage in.
And through it, something stirs.
Not hope. Not yet.
Just the unbearable truth that he’s still in there, somewhere—beneath all that absence. That maybe he always was. That maybe, just maybe, he had been mourning it too, all along, but in his own cold, closed, unreadable way.
Zayne breathes in deeply, then exhales with a small, uneven sigh. Still asleep.
You glance down at the hand around your waist. His fingers twitch once, like he’s dreaming of holding you tighter but doesn’t quite know how.
It hurts.
Not because he’s touching you—but because of how long you’ve wanted him to. Because of how gentle it is. Because tenderness, after all this time, feels like both a balm and a blade.
You close your eyes again.
You don’t move.
You don’t wake him.
There is a funeral between your ribs and a heartbeat beside you, and both feel sacred.
And maybe—just for this morning—that’s enough.
The eggs are overcooked.
Zayne stares down at the pan like it offended him personally, the browned edges curling up as if mocking the silence that’s wrapped itself around the kitchen. The yolks aren’t runny the way you like them. He used the wrong kind of salt. The tea might be too bitter. Everything’s a little off today.
Or maybe he is.
Zayne places the plate gently on the table, careful not to make too much noise. You’re sitting across from him, wrapped in your robe, a thin line between your brows as you butter your toast like it’s a task that requires precision. You haven’t spoken much. Not since waking up to find him still there, hovering in the doorway with eyes swollen from a night spent begging the universe to turn back time.
He watches you through the soft steam rising from the tea.
And he aches.
Not with longing, though that’s part of it.
No, this ache is older. Rooted in something he thought he buried years ago, back on that cursed mountain where blood froze faster than it could pool, and lives ended mid-sentence.
He shouldn’t be thinking about that morning—not here, not with you sitting across from him—but he is.
Because the divorce papers, the ones still waiting on his desk like an open grave, reminded him exactly how it felt to lose something you didn’t know how to hold.
That night on Mt. Eternal… years have passed since then, but the cold never really left his bones.
He still sees William’s face sometimes. In dreams. In the flicker of a hallway light. In the space between one breath and the next, when memory has no mercy.
He hadn’t known the man for long—barely a few months, a blip in the timeline of his tightly folded life—but William had burned bright. Reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly intuitive. He had a way of making people feel seen. A way of cutting through Zayne’s silence with nothing but presence.
And then—
Zayne remembers pressing his hand to William’s chest, trying to keep the life in. His own blood mixing with his friend’s. He remembers the way the air smelled—like frost and iron and finality.
He remembers thinking, If I survive this, I will never love anything fragile again.
And then he met you.
He looks up.
You’re chewing slowly, eyes unfocused. Lost in your own world of unspoken grief.
You hadn’t said anything last night after he fell asleep against your shoulder. You hadn’t moved away. But you hadn’t touched him, either.
Zayne doesn’t blame you.
He doesn’t know what to make of your silence—whether it’s resignation, or fear, or kindness. Whether he’s been forgiven, or whether you’re still too tired to fight.
He wishes he knew how to ask.
He wishes he were the kind of man who could reach across the table and take your hand, just to show you he's still here. That he finally wants to be here. But he isn't that man. Not yet.
And you deserve better than half-formed promises from someone still trying to dig his heart out from beneath layers of protocol and loss.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost without realizing it. The words come out hushed. Fragile.
You glance up.
Your eyes meet.
There’s no anger in them. But there’s no relief, either. Just tiredness. And something that looks too much like a mirror of his own sorrow.
Zayne swallows.
He wants to tell you everything. About the nightmares. About the way guilt has hardened in his chest like a scar tissue. About how hard it is to come home to a soft, warm bed after you've learned to sleep beside death. About how sometimes, when you smiled at him, he looked away not because he didn’t care—but because it hurt too much to hope.
But he doesn’t say any of it.
He takes a sip of tea. It’s scalding. Bitter. His throat burns.
He watches you spread jam on toast with careful, robotic movements before you casually reach over and add two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, and thinks—I should’ve told her sooner. I should’ve told her everything.
But he didn’t. And now, here you both are. Sitting in the ruins. Pretending it's breakfast.
There’s no music. No birdsong. Just the soft clink of ceramic and the breathing of two people who don’t know how to mourn what never had a name.
He looks at your hands—those same hands he held last night like a prayer—and wishes he could rewind time.
Just one month. One year. One heartbeat.
But he can’t.
So he lifts his fork. Cuts into the eggs. Forces himself to chew.
Because this is what it looks like, sometimes, when you try to make amends:
Burnt breakfast.
Too many silences.
A table full of ghosts.
And you—still here.
Not forgiving.
Not forgetting.
But here.
And for Zayne—for a man who’s only ever learned to grieve in private—that is a beginning worth mourning, too.
His phone vibrates against the table.
He flinches—guilt, maybe, or just the startle of being dragged out of a thought you didn’t want to leave.
You don't look up, still quietly chewing, lost in that dreamless place where sorrow goes to sleep in you like a second skin. But Zayne reaches for the phone, thumb swiping across the screen, half-expecting some emergency at the hospital. A late case. A consult. Another impossible situation to fix so he doesn’t have to fix himself.
But it’s a text from Greyson.
"You still coming to the charity gala? Need someone to block Dr. Malik from hijacking the auction with his ugly vintage duck paintings again."
He exhales—one short breath, barely a sound. The message is simple. Banter, really. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing.
He hasn’t replied to Greyson in weeks.
He hasn't thought about the gala either. Usually an excuse for donors to parade their goodwill in overpriced suits, for surgeons to trade horror stories over cocktails, for the hospital to raise enough funds to keep the rural outreach programs going another year.
Zayne’s gaze flickers upward.
You’re sipping your tea now. Still quiet. Still careful. But you’re here. Still in this kitchen. Still in his orbit.
Zayne lets a thought settle in his chest—tentative, unsteady, like a flame in high wind:
Perhaps not all is lost.
Maybe not everything has calcified into endings. Maybe not every door has shut. Maybe there's still a sliver of future that hasn’t collapsed beneath the weight of what went unsaid. You hadn’t kicked him out last night. You hadn't pulled your hand away when he clutched it like a lifeline in the dark.
And now, this. A small, ridiculous gala. The softest suggestion of routine, of life continuing.
He looks back at the message, thumb hovering over the reply field.
Maybe… maybe he could take you.
The thought startles him with its tenderness.
Would you even want to go? Would it feel like a poor excuse to make up for everything? A bandage over a bullet wound? Would you dress up just to stand beside a man who once vanished when you needed him most?
Zayne’s thumb lowers.
He doesn’t reply.
Instead, he watches you butter another piece of toast with slow, mechanical grace. He memorizes the way your lashes cast shadows down your cheeks. The way your hand trembles just slightly, like you’re barely holding yourself together.
You were so strong, always. And he—he let himself believe you didn’t need him. That your strength meant he could keep hiding inside his cold logic and call it love.
He knows better now.
Maybe it's too late to be the man you needed back then. But maybe… maybe he can still learn to be someone you don't have to heal from.
He slips the phone screen-down on the table.
Then, with hesitant hands, he reaches across the table and nudges the jar of jam closer to you. A quiet offering.
You glance at it.
He meets your eyes again.
And in that fleeting glance, something moves. The first light in a room long sealed shut.
The moment passes too quickly.
Your eyes lower again, lashes shuttering the fragile connection. You spread the jam he offered, slow and deliberate, as if trying not to let your hands betray you. Zayne watches the knife tremble ever so slightly in your grip. Not enough for someone else to notice. But he does. Of course he does.
He’s used to studying tremors for a living—on monitors, in pupils, in dying pulses beneath his palm.
And now, you.
You, trembling under all that quiet.
He clears his throat.
It’s not a loud sound, but it slices through the morning hush with a clean, surgical precision. You blink up at him, guarded again. As if waiting for him to say something devastating, or worse—dismissive.
Zayne presses his palms against the edge of the table. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t crowd you. He keeps his voice level. Gentle. Low.
“I, ah…” he starts, and immediately hates how uncertain he sounds.
You set your knife down.
Zayne exhales softly through his nose, schooling himself into coherence. He can do this. He speaks to grieving families, for God’s sake. Tells them about cardiac arrests and brain deaths and the final moments of their loved ones. He can string a sentence together.
But this—this is harder.
“The hospital is hosting its annual charity gala this weekend,” he finally says. “Greyson asked if I was coming.”
You tilt your head. Neutral. You say nothing, but he thinks you’re waiting. Letting him go on.
Zayne looks down at his mug, watching the swirl of steam curl like a vanishing thought.
“I was thinking,” he says carefully, “maybe you'd like to come with me.”
There.
He doesn’t look up immediately. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see your hesitation, your polite refusal, the way you’ll swallow your discomfort and say maybe next time when you know there won’t be one.
But then—
“Why?”
Your voice is not sharp. Not cruel. Just… tired.
Zayne looks up.
You’re watching him now, one brow faintly raised, lips parted slightly—not in expectation, but confusion. Sincere confusion. And something deeper beneath it—wariness, perhaps. The kind that comes from being wounded too many times in the same place.
He leans back in his chair. Not retreating. Just trying not to suffocate you with the closeness of his yearning.
“Because…” he begins, but the rest of the sentence gets tangled somewhere in his chest.
Because I want to be seen with you.Because I want to try again.Because I miss being beside you even when we weren’t really together.Because I can’t bear the thought of showing up alone and being reminded of what I let die between us.Because I want to be yours.
Instead, what comes out is softer. Smaller.
“Because I’d like you to be there.”
You don’t answer.
Instead, your eyes move over him—like you’re taking stock of the man across from you. Not the doctor. Not the public figure. Not the version of Zayne that the world sees. But him.
You study the way his hands are folded, the way his jaw is clenched not with arrogance but restraint. The hair still damp from his morning shower. The sleeves of his dress shirt slightly creased because he didn’t take the time to iron them.
He’s not posturing. Not performing.
He’s just… here. Holding out a hand through the quiet wreckage.
And finally—finally—your lips part.
“Is it black tie?” you ask, like you’re still testing the water, still waiting to see if this is real.
Zayne blinks.
Then breathes.
“Yes,” he says. “Full formal.”
You nod. Just once. A small thing. A quiet gesture that still manages to bloom something in his chest that almost feels like hope.
“Then I’ll need a new dress,” you murmur.
And Zayne doesn’t smile. Not fully. But something in his expression softens, loosens. The beginning of light behind stormclouds.
He knows it’s not forgiveness. But maybe, maybe—it’s the start of returning home.
Zayne finishes his tea in silence.
And as he stands to leave, brushing past your chair to take the dishes to the sink, he lets the faintest hope settle into the hollowness of his ribs.
a/n: sorry i had to make caleb suffer. he's also still kinda stupid, so read at ur own risk!! i kinda made myself sad so i'm gonna start working on fluff/smut.
pairing: non-MC!reader x caleb
content: self-indulgent, angst, emotional neglect, quiet breakup, fem!reader, avoidant!reader, i had to make caleb ooc, he's a basketball player, college au, hurt/no comfort, lots of caleb just spiraling and rotting in his own guilt
p.s this one isn't as bad.
——
Caleb didn't know.
You never yelled at him, never really told him what was wrong. You just shut down, then pretended everything was fine again. And when he pushed, you deflected.
He never meant to hurt you, he was just careless in a way he didn't understand. He saw it now.
It was too late, but he saw it.
He kept checking his phone. Kept biting the inside of his cheek and bouncing his leg every time he was met with an empty screen.
"She's not gonna text you."
Caleb glanced up at his teammate, shame creeping up his throat.
"I know."
It'd been a week since the breakup. But he kept checking his phone for new text messages. Kept staring at it in the morning, waiting for a good morning text that never came.
It was dumb.
The way he was always looking for you—in every crowd, in every coffee shop, in every library.
The past week had felt like a month. A month of torture—of replaying every interaction he ever had with you and finding his fault in every one.
"You gonna be good for the game next week?"
Caleb's eyes hardened just a fraction. "Why wouldn't I be?"
His friend stared at him, a little too knowingly. They both knew what he wanted to say. 'Because your girlfriend broke up with you, duh!' but his teammate just pressed his lips into a thin line and shrugged.
"You.. I dunno—You just haven't been that focused lately."
Caleb sighed, tearing his eyes away and tossing his phone in his bag. He wasn't even supposed to have it out; if his coach saw, he'd be running lines.
"I'll be fine," Caleb insisted, shuffling back onto the court as if that might give him some peace, but his teammate just followed him.
"Look, if you ever wanna talk—"
"I'm fine," Caleb bit out. "I'll—I'll be fine, alright?"
Silence. Then finally, his teammate sighed and shrugged.
"Alright."
But Caleb wasn't fine.
He was anything but.
At night, he'd lie in bed, his eyes burning from how long he stared at your guys' last texts. In the morning, with his eyes all red and puff from the night before, he'd rummage through his drawer to find something to wear and pause the Hello Kitty pajamas he'd bought for you two.
He'd stare at it too long—enough to feel his stomach curl and his chest tighten—then he'd stuff it to the back of his drawer. It always found its way back up when he looked through it the next day though.
The morning of his game, he found them again. Held it for a little too long. Rubbed his thumb over the fabric as he remembered the last time he wore them on a comfy night in with you.
Maybe that's why he missed the first shot. And the second. And the third.
Maybe that's why he kept looking in the crowd like he might find you there, in that little corner you loved so much. He always said it was hard to see you up there and you always said you got a better view of the game. Of him.
He'd smiled then. Never complained about it again, because how could he when your eyes were all soft like that?
"Caleb! What the hell?"
Caleb stumbled as his teammate nudged his arm. It was meant to be a light push, but he was caught off guard.
"What?" Caleb breathed out, but he knew. He didn't have to look at his teammate or even listen.
He was fucking up.
He was losing them the game. Like he lost you. Like he—
"What the hell are you doing? You said you'd be fine."
"I am," Caleb insisted, even as his eyes flicked to the stands again.
Fuck. Stop it.
They quickly darted back, but his teammate had already caught the look. Everyone knew what this was about.
His teammate looked like he was about to say something else before the whistle blew. Their heads snapped toward the bench where their coach was gesturing them over.
The minute Caleb got close enough, his coach immediately grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him onto the chair.
"Coach—"
"Are you kidding me?"
Caleb flinched. His tone stung more than he wanted to admit. Normally, he didn't care about things like this, but he was raw and exposed. And when Caleb met his eyes and saw the anger and disappointment, he couldn't bear to look anymore.
Shame.
That was all he felt.
Shame, shame, shame.
Shame for missing those shots. Shame for forcing his coach call a time out. Shame for not realizing he was losing you. Everything came back to you.
"How the hell are you missing those shots, Caleb? We need you and you think now is the best time to start half-assing..."
His voice trailed off. Or rather, Caleb wasn't listening anymore. He couldn't. Everything around him grew muffled. Fuzzy. Distant. It was just him and his thoughts.
He kept messing up.
He should've known. He should've seen when you were upset—he did—but you never told him what was wrong. You always brushed him off, why didn't you just—
No. It was his fault. He should've known. He should've—
"Sit the rest of the game out."
Caleb blinked, finally looking up. "What? No, I'm—"
"Hey, you, you're in."
Caleb's chest stung. But he didn't argue. Instead, he sat back, the chair creaking under his weight as he watched someone take his spot.
He was losing it.
Basketball used to make sense. It used to be his. Now he couldn't think straight. Couldn't find it in him to make the shots he was always valued for.
He watched the rest of the game in silence. Didn't cheer. Didn't speak. Not even in the huddles when his coach was glaring at him like the look alone might force some encouraging words out of him. He gave nothing.
He was too tired.
After the game, when MC approached him, he barely said a word—just followed her out the gym to walk her to her dorm. Usually, he would've been with you—his sweaty arm draped over your shoulder, you giggling softly when he ranted about his favorite plays or how nice you looked up there.
"That was..." MC thought for a second, then bluntly ended with, "bad."
Caleb scoffed. "Yeah. Pretty bad."
A beat of silence.
"You kept looking at the stands."
Caleb's jaw tensed, his grip on his duffel bag tightening. It was a reflex. He was used to finding you there.
"She's not there, Caleb."
Hoarsely, it came out, "I know." Even if he didn't act like it. Even if he still checked his phone or looked up at the stands, he knew.
"You miss her."
"..Yeah."
"So what happened?"
Caleb sighed. "Don't."
MC ignored him. "Why did you push her away?"
"I didn't—" Caleb bit back his exasperation. "I didn't mean to. I never meant to."
He swallowed hard. He could feel MC looking at him, waiting for some sort of explanation he wasn't sure he was ready to give because what the hell did he say besides, 'I fucked up'?
"I just—She was quiet. She got hurt, never talked to me about it, then pretended it never happened."
"So you're blaming it on her?"
Caleb's head snapped toward her, guilt burning in his veins. "No! That's not what I'm saying! I'm saying I didn't know."
He took a small breath, his voice softening. "I didn't know how much she was hurting."
Another quiet breath.
"I didn't mean to hurt her."
"But you did."
Caleb's throat tightened. "What are you doing?" he asked, his steps slowing to a halt. "Do you think I don't feel bad? That I don't know?"
MC stopped beside him, her eyes softening at the telltale tick in his jaw. "You know I love you, Caleb, but you were shitty."
He felt sick.
"I know that," he murmured.
"You treated her like a second thought."
Caleb felt a lump forming in his throat now. He could defend himself. Say he didn't mean to treat you like that, but at the end of the day, he did. So, he kept his mouth shut and let her continue.
"You know how embarrassing that is for a girl?"
Caleb let out a shaky breath. "MC—"
"People don't get this."
He blinked. "What?"
"They don't get our friendship. They don't understand that when you pat my head or grab my waist, it doesn't mean anything."
Caleb couldn't speak. He was too embarrassed.
He never thought it could look like flirting. With anyone else, sure, it would've been flirting. But with MC? It meant nothing. She was like a sister to him.
But you thought he—God, he was horrible.
"You mean well. I know you do, but you hurt her." A beat. Then, "So stop looking for her."
Caleb didn't say anything. He just stared, his throat a little too tight and his eyes a little too glassy to see right.
MC sighed, wrapping her arms around him in a quick hug. "I'm sorry. Goodnight, Caleb."
"..Night."
-
Caleb tried to stop looking for you. Maybe it would be better that way. For both you and him.
And that day, he really did. He kept his eyes down, fought the urge to whip his head the other way when he thought he saw someone who had your hair.
But then he actually saw you. It wasn't a figment of his imagination—no, you were there, walking down the sidewalk with a friend right in front of him.
He wanted to apologize. Blurt out whatever sad little story came out the second he got close enough.
But he didn't.
He didn't deserve that.
So he clutched his bag tighter and tensed his jaw to keep his mouth shut.
You wore a hoodie (not his, he noted), and your hair was pulled up in that hairstyle you did when you were too lazy to do it in the morning.
You looked pretty.
Too pretty.
And looking completely content as you laughed at something your friend said.
Then your eyes met his as you walked past, and it wrecked whatever illusion of composure he had left.
Because your smile didn't drop instantly. It was more of a natural stop, like the moment of laughter was over. Not because his presence did anything to you. No, like you just... didn't care.
Like he wasn't someone you shared a bed with or went on dates with. Like he wasn't the boy you told everything to at one point.
You looked at him as if he were a complete stranger, and finally, it hit him.
Really hit him.
He didn't lose you when you broke up. He'd lost you way before then. He was just too blind to see it.
Caleb had no right to feel hurt. No right at all, but it didn't stop the burn. The ache. If anything, it intensified it.
-
That night he stayed up until 2 a.m., drafting a text message to you. He wasn't even sure if he'd been blocked or not. He tried not to think about it too much.
Caleb reread it to himself over and over again, his finger hovering over the send button multiple times, but he couldn't do it.
He could hear MC now. "You cared too late."
It made his chest ache and his eyes sting.
He could hear you, too, crying on the phone with him that night, murmuring that quiet, "I'm tired."
God, he remembered too much.
The flashing lights, the crowd pressing in, the bass vibrating in his chest.
You, standing near the drink table, twisting the hem of your shirt. He thought you looked bored. He didn’t realize you were overwhelmed.
He should’ve known when you stopped reaching for his hand.
He tried. Even when everyone was joking and playing a shitty game of beer pong, he glanced over at you, tried deciphering whatever messages you were or weren't sending him.
He was stupid.
They were all right there.
Caleb had managed to slip away from the crowd and sit down beside you, carefully, as if you were some spooked animal.
"Hey.. You okay?"
You nodded, but you wouldn't quite meet his eyes. "I'm fine," you told him over the music, but your voice barely reached his ears.
He leaned in again, about to ask something else when his teammate grabbed him by his arm and started pulling him toward the beer pong, claiming it was his turn to play.
"Wait—Y/N is—"
"She'll be fine! Just one quick game!"
Caleb glanced over at you one last time. Even if he stayed, would you have told him what was wrong? His stomach curled. No, probably not, which is why he gave in with a grudging, "Just one game."
And when he came to check in later, he said, "Hey, you wanna get out of here?"
You'd smiled and said no.
Now, looking back, that smile felt rehearsed.
He should’ve known it was your way of saying please don’t make me spell this out for you.
He should’ve tried harder.
Fuck.
And then you left.
After that group picture—that was the last time he saw you. Caleb didn't notice it then, but he did now, and he felt it—the way you slipped away from him. Quick. A little too quick. Like you couldn't stand to be near him.
He looked around. He thought he spotted the top of your head as you nudged the crowd, but he didn't get a chance to go after you because his friends were fussing about how bad the picture was.
About how they needed another one.
Caleb swallowed hard. "Y/N isn't here—"
Flash!
Caleb blinked. He barely had time to speak again before his friends were nudging him.
"Dude! Smile!"
So he did. And when the picture was done with, he looked for you. But he couldn't find you. You weren't by the drinks. You weren't by the couch. You weren't in the bathroom. You weren't in any goddamn room he checked.
But maybe he just kept missing you.
So he texted you and started asking people about you.
No one knew where you were.
And when he checked his messages, he was left on read. Fucking read.
Dread filled his chest, like no matter how hard he tried to deny it, something was incredibly wrong.
But he kept texting you. He had to make sure you were okay, at least.
That's when you went on do not disturb.
It stung.
It made him wonder if you were okay (physically at least). If you were you still at the party. Because you wouldn't try and go home, right? He was your ride.
So, for hours, he spiraled.
He even texted Tara, your dormmate who also wouldn't answer.
Then everything else happened—
You finally responded and he—
You left.
Caleb clenched his jaw, fighting back the lump that crawled up his throat.
He stared at his texts, the letters glaring back at him. It almost felt like they were taunting him, laughing in his face for being so oblivious.
His finger trembled over the send button again.
He missed you. He missed you so much.
He reread his text one last time, trying to look for any typos through the blur of tears he'd fought so hard and failed to keep down.
'I know I was careless. I didn’t mean to make you feel small or forgotten. I don’t deserve another chance, but I wish I could take it all back. You meant more to me than I showed. I'm sorry.'
Caleb took a shaky breath, finally tapping the send with his thumb, and all at once, everything came crumbling down. His throat closed, his stomach tensed, his chest burned.
Not delivered.
He blinked rapidly, trying desperately to keep his everything down.
Maybe the wifi was acting up again.
He waited a second, refreshed his messages, turned his wifi on and off. Still not delivered.
No.
No, you—you didn't.
With a shaky finger, he pressed the call button.
He waited for the usual ring.
But it never came.
Instead, he got: 'The person you are trying to reach is not available.'
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
taglist. @inzanekillian @someonestopsoren @sweetieelilii @3rdslide2heaven @gabburabbu @moltensceptergambit @cherrysherryblossom @younbeanz @txtworlddom @glitterykingdomheart @applebrat9 @ephemeraleb @cherrybomb5000 @chartreuxxlikesboba @corvusmemoriae @toorulee @ilovecoffe8 @cordidy @younghideoutberserker @yesbiaswrecked @madnesslusy @bypanana @noosummert @littleappleorchard @anyeeyna @xie-hua (I apologize if I didn't add you! I always struggle with tagging on tumblr lol!)
childhood bestfriends caleb and nonMC!reader, who he's secretly in love with while she thinks he likes someone else
warnings. angst, fluff, rejection, she fell first he fell harder, caleb is down bad, groveling, miscommunication, caleb sucks at feelings, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, he gives her a nickname adjacent to pipsqueak
preview. "I love you," he says, pressing his forehead against yours. You want to tell him that it's not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you're sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room is not fair. "Then prove it to me."
wc. 8.4k (she's hefty...)
You proposed to Caleb for the first time when you were nine years old, with a flower ring.
The winter air had nipped at your flushed cheeks as you stepped into ice, holding it out to him. Your breath had puffed into the air like a dragon, and you nuzzled your chin further into the wool of your scarf to keep warm. It had been the only flower left after fall had faded away, yet its white petals stood brilliantly in between your fingertips, weathering against the cold.
The child in front of you was closed off. Eyes narrowed, fists balled inside his pockets, and usually adorning a solemn look on his face. Though, it had certainly gotten better since you first met him as one of Grandma Josephine’s adoptive children. Back then, he hadn’t even spoken much—only keeping MC tight at his side, as if she might disappear if he didn’t. He wasn’t rude by any means…just, cautious. Too aware for a child of his age.
But without a doubt in your mind, he was the most handsome boy you’d ever seen.
He’d raised his brows. “You just met me last week.”
“It’s love at first sight.”
He rejected you, naturally, but it did little to make a dent in your childish heart. Not when his purple hues gazed into your own, with a softness that didn’t seem intent on hurting you.
The next two decades becomes a perpetual cycle of this encounter—in which you learn that Caleb is a very caring person.
In that time, you learn a lot about him, aside from his gorgeous face. You find that he’s fond of nicknames. Pipsqueak for MC. Splints for you, when you launched yourself off a swing and broke your wrist trying to impress him. Safe to say, it didn’t impress anyone but your doctor, who was baffled you managed to fly so high into the air with your 11-year-old legs. Caleb held your other hand tight in the emergency room as you wailed helplessly, waiting for the doctor to ease the pain. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t cry just a tad longer to keep your hand in his.
“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”
“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”
“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”
He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”
The broken wrist is so worth it.
With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.
“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to.
By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.
“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”
“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”
You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”
“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”
It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”
“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”
At this, your ears perk.
“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”
He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”
Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you.
The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.
Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb.
MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.
You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment.
Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.
MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.
The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.
“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”
“Awful. I went through war.”
Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”
“Yours.”
“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”
“Even you can’t save me for this class.”
“Is that a challenge?”
He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food? “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”
Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”
“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”
He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”
You shrug. “You tell me.”
His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”
“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”
“With your friends?”
“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”
He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”
You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”
“I’m done studying.”
“Liar.”
Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.
You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.
The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.
A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.
You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper.
He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.
Because he’s not Caleb.
It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.
You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.
But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.
“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.
“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”
He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.
You nod again. Smile again.
Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.
You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.
The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.
You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.
No messages.
Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.
Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.
And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.
[you]: hi
The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.
[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?
[futre hubs <333]: i can
You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him.
It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.
You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.
Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.
The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good.
But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.
You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.
Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble.
A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her.
You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.
“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
“I told you to grab a jacket.”
“You nag too much.”
He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.
“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”
“You and your questions.”
“I want to know.”
He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”
You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”
“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”
“...Other than that.”
“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”
“Something else.”
“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”
Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens. “Splints?”
You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”
“I was just kidding around.”
“Jokes have some truth to them.”
“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”
Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.
Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.
But nothing comes.
The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.
You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct.
Caleb glances at you. Then away.
Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.
“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.
You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.
Another pause. God, it’s awkward.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”
Just not enough.
“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.
Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.
“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”
You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”
He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”
Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.
“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”
The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair.
Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.
“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”
Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.
Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.
So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.
The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.
The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.
“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”
He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.
Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner.
“I dunno.”
You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”
He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”
“Not hungry,” he mutters.
“Don’t care. Sit up.”
He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.
You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.
“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”
“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”
He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”
You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.
“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.
Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”
He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”
“Learned from the best.”
His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”
Your hand stills. “What?”
He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”
His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”
“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”
You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.
“Idiot,” you whisper.
He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.
“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”
“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”
You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.
“…Is she okay?”
It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.
“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.
“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”
You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.
“Like what?”
“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.
He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”
There it is. It’s always about her.
You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him.
“Does it matter?”
Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”
“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”
“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”
Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”
You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.
“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”
“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”
He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.
He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”
“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”
“You’re angry.”
You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”
“What?”
“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”
You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.
“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”
“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”
“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”
“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second.
“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”
“I am now.”
“What has gotten into you, splints?”
“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”
Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.
“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”
But you’re not over it. Not at all.
He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.
“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”
The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him.
You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.
“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”
But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips.
“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”
You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.
A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins.
Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.
Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.
His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.
Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.
“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave.
You don’t wait to see if he hears you.
The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by.
You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.
If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?
Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.
You press it and shut your eyes.
Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.
Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable?
Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.
“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.
“No.”
He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”
You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right.
As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.
“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”
“I don’t read them.”
Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”
Silence.
“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”
You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone.
[1:41PM]
[caleb]: are you eating well?
[caleb]: i made this today
[caleb]: [image attached]
[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later
[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho
[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)
[8:13AM]
[caleb]: hi splints :)
[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it
[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining
[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3
[5:32PM]
[caleb]: ranked first today
[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/
[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol
[caleb]: hope you’re okay
[11:23PM]
[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid
[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then
[caleb]: i still don’t
[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that
[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…
[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then
[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say
[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol
[caleb]: it was never about her
[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person
[caleb]: miss you a lot
[caleb]: sleep tight
You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.
“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech.
“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”
“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”
You don’t respond.
Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.
‘I love you.’
The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.
Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.
Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.
Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.
Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.
You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.
Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.
“…We’re a mess.”
A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”
“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.
Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod.
Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.
“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”
Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”
“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”
He grins, lopsided. “You should.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.
You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”
He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”
“You nag too much.”
He kisses your nose. “Hm?”
“You’re emotionally repressed.”
“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.
“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”
Your jawline.
“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”
“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.
Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”
“I will,” he whispers, just as his mouth slots against yours, and a warmth blooms throughout your chest. You melt into him, like you always have and you always will. “I’ll prove it to you for the rest of my life.”
@rosyangel95 here are some highlights from New Year in Kogyoku!
Kagari invites your group to enjoy the “first drill” of the year. You arrive and are immediately attacked by the yasha himself:
Kagari easily dances circles around them while Chev pushes you behind him for your protection, instead of joining in:
Kagari is disappointed that Chev won’t fight, while Licht remarks that if Chev and Riri did fight, they’d probably destroy everything.
Once Kagari has had enough fun, he clarifies that his attack isn’t the “drill” you thought it was, which makes Licht disappointed. He invites you into the castle, but you are required to make a quick costume change:
Leaving them all temporarily speechless:
You try to walk in your kimono and immediately trip. Yves catches you:
You find out that the “first drill” you’ve been invited to is actually a tea ceremony.
Next is Belle just observing Kagari picking up various tea ceremony items, not knowing what they are, and Chevalier explaining their names and uses.
Other than explaining things, Chev doesn’t really say much in this story, but it’s not as if he was ever super talkative.
Once the first batch of matcha is done, and you’ve tried a few sweets, Kagari plays a trick on you all:
Licht’s not having it:
The whole time, Keith is just used to all of this, because he’s known Kagari the longest:
Kagari finally gives you some proper matcha and more sweets, then reveals the reason he invited you all in the first place:
Basically, he wants to bless you with good health so he can fight you again!
Out of the three sets, I definitely liked the Tanzanite one the best because of all of the funny moments. The Achroite one would be my second favorite, because you’re walking around a winter market, there’s stuff to see and do, etc.
In this one, after the “battle,” you’re all just standing around talking in a room and then sitting down in a different room while MC points at things in wonder.
I did like the part where Licht and Keith have this little back and forth:
Context: Riri just served them bitter matcha
Licht: Well, at least you seem used to this, Keith 😒
(Kind) Keith: Just because I know a lot about herbs doesn’t mean I spend my nights scrounging around for plants to feed off of, Licht 😡
Licht: …How did you read that into my words? I only said it because Jade and Ruby have been allies for so long. I figured this wasn’t anything new to you
I was surprised Kind Keith had it in him to snap back at all!
Again, it’s a fine story, but it did kind of feel like “that’s it?” to me.
I think I would have felt disappointed if I bought it individually for the story itself. Fortunately, it does come with cute avatars and useful gacha tickets that can’t be purchased elsewhere.
Personally, I’m glad I got the 3-in-1 set because I got a lot of cute avatars and useful items, and I really enjoyed 2 of the 3 stories and view this one as a bonus.
“You have plenty of time. Therefore, it’s not necessary to overload yourself to the point of harming your health just for the sake of learning. I’m not in a hurry. I’ll wait patiently for you to reach your full potential.”
“I don’t mind making you my woman.”
“If you value your life, trust no one.”
“Allowing their deaths to be in vain would be an affront to those who utterly devoted themselves to the kingdom.” (—Chevalier talking about the dead soldiers to Emma)
“That’s how values work. Just because two ways of thinking are incompatible doesn’t mean one is right and the other is wrong.”
“If you ever feel like crying, tell me. I’ll torment you so thoroughly that you’ll forget how to cry.”
“Until I’d met her, I’d never have considered letting another person touch me.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
“Can a man read in peace without you staring at his face?”
“Don’t… say another man’s name… so much. It grates on my ears.”
“You’re quite graceless, you know? Your legs seem to be shaking.”
“You are my queen. It does not matter how many years go by, I have no intention of loving any other woman.”
“If the rabbit has time to spend with you, she’ll spend it with me instead.” (—Chevalier talking about Emma to Clavis)
“I had no intention of letting anyone complain about a commoner being in a relationship with royalty, and it didn’t bother me, either.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts)
“What might your hand be doing in your pocket? I dare you to throw one of those concoctions of yours at me. Just know I will kick you into the next century.” (—Chevalier to Clavis)
“Maids are servants. They follow their master or mistress’ orders, thus creating a clear discrepancy in power. But I do not wish you to be below me. What I desire is for us to be equals, serving each other in a cooperative and mutual manner.”
“…Now that I think about it, I was rather fond of you from the very beginning. (…) To begin with… is there any man who would barge into the room of a woman he doesn’t like? The palace is huge. There are many places… where I could go to spend leisure time, instead of expressly going to your room.”
“You look terrible. (…) There’s no need to feel ashamed. Not everything that has value is beautiful.”
“You’re the one at fault for leaving the covenant YOU created so open to interpretation. A shame.” (—Chevalier to Sariel)
“Currently, a servant manages the palace library, but he’s no expert, so his work is sloppy. I’ve been dissatisfied with it for a while now, but… you’re proficient at handling books, yes?”
“It’s not that you ‘can’ stay by my side, it’s that you 'will’ stay by my side.”
“(…) Do you think I would allow you to die so easily after you laid a hand on my lover? (…) I’ve said as much before, but dying is not what you should be doing. What you should be doing is returning home to your loved ones, no matter how shameful you look.” (—Chevalier to Flandre)
“Ever since I was a child, love had been the one thing I was most indifferent to. (…) My one and only reason is that I wanted to know what love was. Ridiculous, I know.”
“I’m not so famished that I’d eat something I don’t need. …I want you so much that I could just eat you all up right now.”
“(…) Any guest of Emma’s is a guest of mine as well.” (—Chevalier talking about an enemy to Clavis)
“…If you stay with me, many things will be taken away from you, and you’ll be limited in what you can do. Sometimes, you’ll have to bear the heavy responsibility of royalty, and occasionally your life may be threatened. You’ll be the target of scheming. Other people will look upon you either favorably or unfavorably—nothing in between. No picturesque world like those found in your romance books exists in a real palace. You’ll see it for yourself. Despite all that, do you still stand by the nonsense you spoke of earlier?”
“When every man in the kingdom knows you’re mine—they’ll stay away from you, lest they incur the wrath of the Bloody Tiger.”
“It wasn’t in an official capacity. It was personal time. I simply wanted to have you with me as always. You should be grateful. You don’t have much time left at the palace, and I’m going out of my way to spend time with you.”
“Hurry up and prove the value of love, simpleton. While we’re still able to be together like this.”
“It doesn’t matter to me what happens to them… But it matters to someone else.” (—Chevalier talking about Luke, Rio and Emma to Clavis)
“On the battlefield, you belong to the second prince. Remember, dying would be foolish, and even getting hurt would be a transgression.”
“I came to save you. …Did you think that’s what I would say, simpleton?”
“I’m not so idiotic that I’d let low-lives like those do me in. I’ll cut down every last person who rises up against me.”
“I never had any intention of letting an enemy nation have you.”
“You faced the Brutal Beast… so that you could fulfill your duty as Belle. We couldn’t understand each other because our values were polar opposites… yet you tried to meet halfway. You believed that the beast was a person and tried to discern his true nature. It was the first time I’d ever met… a woman with such strange tastes. Actually… even if I searched the entire kingdom, I wouldn’t find anyone as eccentric as you. 'I want the person I love to live, no matter the cost to me. I want to be by his side… I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. (…) I feel the same way. You call this emotion… 'love’, correct?”
“The king’s lover will most likely face many difficulties, but unfortunately, I have no desire to bestow my favor on anyone but you.”
“Emma, look at me. (…) You’re no longer Belle, right? (…) Is that the first time I used it? It’s not that big of a deal, is it?” (—Chevalier saying Emma’s name for the first time)
“I don’t want to be disturbed during mealtimes. I’ve decided to lock the door whenever you’re here.”
“Currently, only one woman is close to the king. There seem to be many fools who believe they can crush the leading candidate for queen and have their own daughter marry me instead.” (—Chevalier talking about Emma to Clavis)
“Do I look like I care? And do you really think I’m going to do something as stupid as losing such a valuable pawn?” (—Chevalier talking about Emma, in Gilbert’s route)
“Until now, the Obsidian royal family have had nothing but war on their minds, but through this we can rebuild our friendship. This is a sizable accomplishment. This accomplishment was achieved by just one woman… and we most certainly cannot disrespect what it means.” (—Chevalier to Emma, in Gilbert’s route)
“The only occasion I have spent time with another person and found worth in it… was with you.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
“She’s eager to hear whether I like the fragrance or not. But it is her own scent. There is no way I could dislike it.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
“I don’t need you to tell me my fool brother’s worth. I knew it from the start.” (—Chevalier talking about Clavis to Emma)
“As long as you were convinced you couldn’t win, there was no way for you to unlock your full potential. That’s why you never stopped failing. You were never going to win unless you believed in yourself.” (—Chevalier to Clavis)
“People are fools. Everyone is contradictory in some way, because they’re not perfect, and they can’t be. But you and my fool brother are both fine that way. (…) Someone who is free of contradictions, who always chooses the right path… cannot really be called human. They’re nothing more than a beast.” (—Chevalier talking about Emma, Clavis and himself, to Emma)
“I learned how from watching you do it countless times.” (—Chevalier talking about doing Emma’s hair)
“They have the kind of decoration my fool of a brother would like.” (—Chevalier talking about cookies with colorful and festive icing that Clavis would enjoy)
“…You’re the only one. The only woman who would take pleasure in being at my side.”
“Sometimes, you have quite violent coughing fits. I have a fool brother who gets ill a lot. The physician gives him this tea regularly, so I swiped some.” (—Young Chevalier giving rose tea to his 'childhood friend’)
“(…) keep cajoling him. You can shape the menace that he is.” (—Chevalier talking about Gilbert to Emma)
“…I knew I made the right choice when I chose you as my pawn.” (—Smiling Chevalier praising Emma, in Gilbert’s route)
“An auction master working in collaboration with the Obsidianites had an official document from the king of Benitoite. That’s quite a big catch, simpleton.” (—Chevalier praising Emma’s discovery, in Silvio’s route)
“…I want you so much that I could just eat you all up right now.”
“My clothes will be gone soon enough. After all, I have only one reason for locking a woman in a room like this. (…) Love me, Emma. This is an order from the king, and it’s absolute.”
“I recall you writing that you love hearing my voice. If that is what you want, you may hear it as much as you like.”
“Hundreds of medical books, both domestic and foreign, are stored in my head.”
“To have nerve enough to approach me… She’s quite the woman.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
“That gaze of hers struck me as straight as an arrow, and unneeded emotions began to well up within me.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
“Don’t be ridiculous. She would never be interested in the likes of you fools.” (—Angry Chevalier talking about Emma and his brothers to Leon)
“I would far prefer to have you to myself than let that man have you.” (—Chevalier talking about Gilbert)
“Indeed. I’m so vexed, I could throttle someone to death.” (—Chevalier teasing Emma)
“You are our Belle. You spend your time determining our worth. Use some of those skills for yourself too.” (—Chevalier telling Emma to care about herself more)
“I am not asking for a 'good’ drawing. I am asking for your drawing.”
“This is a Rhodolitian handshake. The more it hurts, the stronger your display of friendship.” (—Chevalier to Gilbert)
“I don’t believe I have ever seen Emma read it before. Perhaps I will recommend it to her. She cannot stay in the dark about it forever.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts while he’s picking a romance book for Emma to read)
“If 'lovable’ could be defined by any person, it would be her.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
“I had often read about this urge to dote, but I had not understood it until meeting her.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
“Theoretically, I have no use for romance novels now that I have Emma. However, thanks to her, I have learned how to enjoy them with no other motive.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts)
“I’ve become fond of seeing the variety of emotions on your face as you go through a book.”
“Hm? Ah. Don’t worry about the blood. I was just 'playing’ with my brother who’s made it his hobby to tease you.” (—Chevalier’s lobby dialogue)
“This absurdly lovely woman has my dearest affections.” (—Chevalier translating his words of love from another language to Emma)
“The reason I still function so well despite having discarded my humanity is because I have my fool brother. And conversely, the reason my fool brother can do as he pleases is because he knows I’ll always be there at the final moment.” (—Chevalier talking about Clavis to Emma)
“Severing your Achilles tendon shall do the trick.” (—Chevalier threatening Licht)
“I never had much chemistry with the twins. (…) They were just noisy children who cried if I so much as looked at them. However, one day, they stopped crying. No… If I think about it, there was a clear turning point.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts)
“It is true that you are useless right now, Licht, but you do not have to be that way forever. (—Chevalier’s thoughts)
"Even with the first aid I have given you, it would be in your best interest to put on a convincing act for your twin if you do not wish to shock him.” (—Chevalier to Licht)
“Oh? That was a much more thorough analysis than I would have expected from someone so heavily wounded. With some training, he could become an excellent commander.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Licht)
“Textbooks can be helpful, but not in the way that it obscures her lovely face.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
“I was never much one for drawing, but once during our childhood, Clavis pestered me to sketch something. Back then, I knew he suspected me to be a terrible artist, and asked me to do so in order to expose me. The resulting tantrum when his expectations were reversed was certainly memorable.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts)
“I would value this far beyond what any professional artist could draw. There is, however, something missing. (…) I must prepare a frame for this at once.” (—Chevalier adding a little bunny on Emma’s drawing of him as a tiger)
“I have never, ever laughed as much as I have with her. No wonder she is the one making my facial muscles exercise so much.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts)
“I want to do whatever it takes to see her entire spectrum of emotions.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts)
“Every second that ticked by was becoming another moment for me to cherish. I suddenly became overwhelmed by gratitude for being born the person I was. It won’t be long before the entire collection of my memories is overtaken by you. And it will be just the way I like it.” (—Chevalier’s thoughts about Emma)
