Chris

Love stars!! She/her

[ratrattierat]

study sketches with pierrot

[ratrattierat]

⭐️💚 I love drawing them

[chrisjw108]

SO PRETTY!!!!

[chrisjw108]

How about… Kid!Aizawa x ChildhoodFriend!Fem!Reader.

He had been raised in a house that lacked something essential—warmth.

His parents were there physically, but emotionally? They were distant shadows drifting through the halls of their apartment. No gentle reassurances. No comforting hugs. No soft kisses pressed to his forehead before school.

And every time Shota watched other parents fuss over their children—reminding them to eat properly, promising to pick them up on time, smoothing down messy hair—something inside his chest ached with a sharpness he could never explain.

Over time, he convinced himself this was normal.

They were just preparing him for the cruelty of the world.

A world he didn’t even want to belong to.

Day after day, he grew used to being overlooked. Ignored. Treated like something unpleasant sitting in the corner of the room. Slowly, he stopped craving connection altogether.

The night sky that once calmed his racing thoughts lost its color.

Children’s laughter became distant noise.

But the thoughts inside his head never stopped.

⸻

“What’s that shirt supposed to be, nerd?” a boy sneered, pointing at Shota’s chest. “Did your parents dig it out of a dumpster?”

Shota was used to comments like that.

Honestly, he could almost consider this the highlight of his day—at least someone was acknowledging his existence.

He kept his gaze lowered and tried to walk past them.

He actually liked this shirt.

Unfortunately, his silence only irritated the bully further.

The boy, Damian, grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the playground wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Shota’s instincts reacted before his brain could.

The color drained from the bully’s face.

Oh no.

No, no, no—

His quirk activated.

Shota immediately released it, panic clawing up his throat.

He always tried to hide his quirk. Even from teachers.

Because the reactions were always the same.

Fear.

Disgust.

Unease hidden behind forced smiles.

Like he was something dangerous.

Like he was a villain.

Whispers spread through the playground as children stared.

At him.

Only him.

His breathing turned uneven, chest tightening painfully as panic crept beneath his skin. The world suddenly felt too loud.

Then—

Splaat.

A clump of mud smacked directly into the bully’s face.

“Get away from him, you creep!” a loud voice shouted across the playground. “Can’t you see what you’re doing to him?!”

“Ew! Y/N, that’s disgusting!” the bully barked, instantly turning toward the newcomer. “You wanna end up like him too?!”

For the first time in a while, Shota lifted his eyes from the ground.

And there you were.

Y/N L/N.

“Only if my friend Muddy here gets to join us,” you replied cheerfully, scooping up another handful of mud and throwing it straight at him.

The horrified expression on Damian’s face was so ridiculous that, for the first time in what felt like forever, the corners of Shota’s mouth twitched upward.

Served him right.

What Shota hadn’t expected was the fight that broke out afterward.

Children yelling.

Teachers shouting.

Mud flying everywhere.

He didn’t want any part of it.

So he ran.

Did he feel guilty?

A little.

You had jumped into his problem without hesitation.

How irrational.

And yet… something about it settled strangely inside his chest.

When finally, it was the time when he could leave this place behind, he headed towards home.

What a strange day.

Lost in thought, Shota barely noticed the car speeding toward the crosswalk ahead.

His mind was too loud.

His eyes were fixed too firmly on the ground.

He never even realized how close he was to stepping directly into traffic.

“WATCH OUT!”

A hand yanked hard on his backpack.

The sudden force sent both of you tumbling onto the pavement.

Shota blinked in shock before looking over his shoulder.

You.

Again.

And this time, you looked furious.

“How irrational are you?!” you snapped, brushing dirt off your skirt as you stood. “First you let Damian treat you like trash, and now this?! You could’ve gotten hit!”

Irrational.

Shota hated that word.

No—

He hated how accurate it felt.

“I… I…”

You took a breath, your expression softening almost immediately.

“Sorry,” you mumbled awkwardly. “That came out harsher than I meant it to. I guess… maybe you’re just not used to standing up for yourself yet.”

You offered him a small smile before turning to leave.

Shota froze.

Say something, idiot.

She helped you.

Twice.

“T-Thank you for standing up for me!” he blurted out suddenly. “M-my name is Aizawa Shota.”

God, that sounded stupid.

You stopped mid-step. Turned around.

For one terrifying second, your face became unreadable.

Then you smiled.

Brightly.

Warmly.

The autumn breeze swept through your hair, sunlight catching against it like strands of gold. And for just a moment, Shota could’ve sworn the world regained a little of its lost color.

After a long time, Shota was able to… admire something, something that was just at the other side of that crosswalk.

“Hm… what a name for a cool kid like you.”

For the first time in years…

He was actually looking forward to tomorrow.

Hey guys! Another silly idea of mine!

Hope you liked it! Maybe a part two shall be posted??😝🙏

BTW THE MAIN INSPO IS THIS GOOFBALL-

[willowdrop]

"What about me?"

❀ Prologue/summary: You fall helplessly for Childe, a tender man with a charming sense of humor, but also a cold, ruthless harbinger. The whiplash between affection and neglect accumulates until it spills, until it becomes too painful to shoulder the burden of loving him.

❀ Pairing(s): Childe/Tartaglia/Ajax (Genshin Impact) x Shrine Maiden! Reader

❀ Themes/Warnings: Angsty Hurt to comfort, slight mentions of violence and blood.

Reblogs and replies are greatly appreciated! Please let me know what you think. <3

❀ masterlist (not yet posted) ✿ requested by: N/A, original concept

❀ word count: 5.5k

The sea remembers everything.

It carries them all, promises, salt, even the taste of heartbreak. It sweeps up names like prayer beads, rolling them between waves until they blur. Sometimes, when the wind is soft enough, (Y/n) could almost swear she hears the water call out for her.

There’s a small shrine overlooks that endless hymn, cedar and lightning-polished rock, painted eaves weathered by centuries of salt and devotion. It doesn’t catch your eye with an array of bright colors or remarkable displays, but still makes for a kind home to routine. (Y/n) loved the way the bell sounded at dawn, that low bronze note that seemed to settle inside her ribs and reside there. She loved the incense smoke, how it curled around the beams like soft fingers, and the feel of tatami under her knees when she bowed. Her life had a rhythm: sweep the steps, light the candles, arrange the offerings, recite the sutras, remember to breathe.

Devotion, the elders had taught her, was supposed to be quiet. It should settle like snow, not crash like thunder.

Then the storm climbed the mountain one day in muddy boots.

He arrived on a day when the sky couldn’t decide between drizzle and downpour, with an umbrella turned inside out and the expression of curiosity at the childlike carving in the gate. His trail stirred puddles within dips of stone steps, and drops from his hair pattered the bamboo mat with a wet stain as he entered the doorway.

“Nice place,” he said, gaze flickering around with wonder. His voice had a bright, boyish lilt, shameless and easy. “Smells holy. And smoky. Holy-smoky. Think the archons will smite me if I’m dripping on their floor, comrade?”

She straightened, broom still in hand. “If they do, please try not to fall on the offerings.”

He laughed, delighted, like she’d just handed him a prize. “Sharp tongue. I like it.”

He moved closer without really asking permission, all wind and heat and the faint smell of seawater and steel. From his coat pocket he fished out a shell, chipped, a little ugly, the inside pearly and soft pink.

“This is for you,” he said, holding it out on his palm with ridiculous ceremony. “So if I die somewhere stupid, you can glare at it and remember I owed you dinner.”

“That’s an awful thing to say in a shrine.” she murmured, but her fingers closed around the shell anyway. It was still warm from his hand.

“Relax.” He flashed her a grin, the kind that could talk thunderstorms into changing course. “I don’t die that easily. Name’s Childe. Tartaglia if we’re being formal. Ajax, if you really want to confuse my subordinates. And you are…?”

“(Y/n).”

He repeated it slowly, as if trying it on. The way he said her name made it sound like the start of trouble.

After that, he kept coming back.

She never saw him arrive with the same consistency. One afternoon the air would be empty, the next it would be full of him, like a sudden gust that had remembered it had somewhere important to be. He gave her terrible gifts: a scrap of banner from a ship he’d allegedly “won in a friendly not-so-friendly duel”, a feather he insisted matched the color of her hair, specifically “If you squint and the light’s bad.” And a smooth stone shaped vaguely like a lopsided heart.

He talked too much. About Inazuma, about Liyue, about some ridiculous incident in Snezhnaya involving a hot spring, three Harbingers, and a catastrophic misunderstanding with bathing etiquette. When she gave him tea, he drank it fast and burned his tongue, then pretended he absolutely had not.

She learned things in fragments. He liked a fight the way some people liked sweets. He was from Snezhnaya, where the snow bit back. He had siblings; a brother so stubborn it was apparently “actually an art form,” little sisters who wrote him letters that smelled faintly of home. When he spoke of them, his voice changed; the sharp edges dulled, the jokes softened. A man made of hurricanes briefly remembered he’d once been a boy.

“You should see Teucer,” he said once, grin going oddly gentle. “Little guy thinks I can beat the whole world. The day he realizes I’m just an idiot with good aim…” He laughed, but his eyes flickered. “Better keep winning until then, yeah?”

She watched him and thought, with the clarity of someone about to make a mistake on purpose.

I’m going to love him.

It wasn’t immediate. Love came in small, unsteady increments. In the way he sat on her porch with his elbows on his knees, watching the sea like it had personally insulted him. In how he would fish with comically poor patience, whooping when he finally caught something only to almost fall off the dock in the process. In the soft hum he made when she combed seawater out of his hair, head tilted, eyes closed like a cat basking in a patch of sun.

“Don’t you ever sit still?” she asked him once. He was pacing the walkway in front of the shrine, counting his steps like a game.

“Sit still?” He blinked, as if she’d suggested he try breathing underwater. “I’d die. Quietly. Of boredom. Tragic funeral, lots of tears. Terrible way to go.”

“You’re in a shrine. Most people come here to be still.”

“Yeah.” He rocketed back to her side, leaning sideways until his shoulder bumped hers. “But you’re here. So it’s not boring.”

Her heart did treacherous things at that.

Of course, he was still part of the Fatui. She knew that from the beginning. There was a certain way their agents moved through Inazuma, like they owned the ground and were only humorously tolerating the fact that they did not. Childe walked like that, but with a kind of careless grace that made it look less like arrogance and more like kinetic inevitability.

He talked about it flippantly. “I like a good challenge,” he’d say, shrugging off missions like minor errands. “If my blood’s not pumping, what’s the point? A Harbinger who naps all day is just… sad.”

“Isn’t serving the Tsaritsa supposed to be serious?” she asked.

“Oh, it is.” His eyes glinted. “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself.”

Beneath the jokes, though, she glimpsed something harder. Discipline. Hunger. A need to prove himself sharp enough, strong enough, relentless enough. He spoke of battle like it was both game and sacrament, something that fed the same place in him that other people filled with prayer.

She tried to reconcile it with the man who laughed when she accidentally smudged ash on his nose, or who listened, surprisingly solemn, when she explained the shrine’s rituals.

“You light incense every morning?” he’d asked once, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yes.”

“For who?”

“The Archon, visitors, the village. Myself.”

He’d considered that, face unusually thoughtful. “You ever light one for me, comrade?”

“Maybe.” she said, a little too quickly.

He’d grinned, unable to resist. “Better make it a strong one.”

The first departure that hurt came after the summer thunder festivals. They’d spent a week squeezed into the bright, noisy belly of the city. Lanterns swaying overhead, festival food staining his fingers, his hand warm and easy around hers. He’d kissed her under fireworks, his laugh rumbling against her mouth.

So when the summons came, it felt like someone had torn pages out of a book mid-sentence.

“Just a few days,” he said, fastening the clasp of his coat. There was an alertness in him now, the familiar itch for a fight. “I’ll be back before you can miss me.”

“You underestimate my efficiency.” she muttered.

He laughed, bent to press his forehead briefly against hers. “I’ll write,” he promised. “Try not to get too holy without me.”

But days stretched, and the shrine stayed the same. the bell tolled, incense burned, prayers were whispered, but the absence in the rooms grew a shape. Letters arrived: quick lines, messy ink, half a joke, a sketch of some blade he was excited about, a single sentence about how the snow in Snezhnaya “missed having competition from your glare.” What was that one even supposed to mean?

She kept them all in a drawer. Her fingers learned the grooves of his handwriting by heart.

When he returned, he did what he always did: burst in like a gust off the sea, arms wide, voice bright. The house filled with the smell of salt and metal and the faint undercurrent of something darker.

“Miss me?” he asked.

She wanted to say yes in all the ways it had hurt. Instead, she let him spin her in a circle and press his lips to her temple.

Later, when his head rested in her lap and sleep pulled at his lashes, she watched the frown that lingered even in rest. His hands twitched as if remembering a fight. When he woke, he shook off the heaviness with a joke.

He was here. That was supposed to be enough.

Time turned that pattern into something like a tide: come, go, return, repeat. Some visits were loud, full of jokes and dramatic retellings of battles that probably shouldn’t have been winnable. Others were quiet; he would arrive late and exhausted, let himself be peeled out of blood-stiff gloves, and stand at the basin while she scrubbed the stains from his fingers.

“Does it bother you?” he asked once, watching the water cloud pink.

“What?”

“This.” He flexed his hand. “What I do.”

“It scares me,” she said. She had never been much good at lying to him. “But what frightens me more is how alive you look when you talk about it.”

He huffed, half amused, half guilty. “You’d rather I was miserable?”

“I’d rather…” She trailed off, the words dissolving like salt in her mouth. “I’d rather you didn’t have to be both my gale and the world’s at the same time.”

He leaned over, bumping his shoulder gently against hers. “Hey. I come back to you, don’t I?” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “That’s gotta count for something.”

It did. Until, slowly, it didn’t feel like enough.

Autumn arrived in a rush of golden crimson, the air tasting like smoke and endings. Rumors slipped up the cliff path on the tongues of passing merchants: a new campaign, something in the north, something that made even other Fatui agents shift uneasily.

She saw the change in him before he said a word. He studied maps by lamplight, fingers tapping restless patterns on the paper. His gaze was far away even when he sat at her table.

“It’s a good opportunity,” he said one night, more to himself than to her. “Calculated risk. Right up my alley, eh?”

“How long?” she asked.

“If everything goes well?” He rolled his shoulders, affecting nonchalance. “Four months. Maybe less. We’ll wrap it up before winter gnaws my toes off.”

Four months. Her stomach sank. “I see.”

He caught the tremor in her voice, expression flickering. “Hey.” He nudged his chair closer, hooking a finger under her chin until she met his eyes. “I’ll come back. No theatrics. No vanishing into the snow forever. Promise.”

“You make a lot of promises,” she said quietly.

“I keep the important ones.”

He said it with such effortless certainty it made something inside her ache.

The world shrank while he was gone. The shrine steps were the same; the bell still crooned its old, patient note. She woke, swept, prayed, answered questions about small harvests and aching backs. She lit incense for visitors, for the village, for him. She started lighting extra, just in case one wasn’t enough to reach wherever he was.

Letters trickled in, then thinned. They grew shorter, more clipped. “Occupied.” he wrote once, the word heavy as stone in the middle of an otherwise flippant paragraph about blizzards and idiots who couldn’t hold their liquor. Another time: “Complications. Might be longer. Don’t worry.”

So of course she worried. She learned new forms of waiting: tracing the patterns of tatami with her eyes at night, staring at the horizon until her vision blurred, hearing phantom footsteps on the path and feeling foolish when no one actually appeared.

She tried to reassure herself. This was who he was. He ran towards danger; it was practically his hobby. She knew that when she’d let herself love him. You can’t love a storm and then complain about the rain.

Still, some nights she pressed his shell to her chest and whispered, “Come back” to an unresponsive piece of calcium and the unblinking eye of the moon.

When he finally returned, the evening felt wrong in that subtle way that marked a turning season. The air was too still. The sea seemed to be holding its breath.

She heard him before she saw him. The familiar clatter of boots, the muttered curse when he nearly tripped on the loose stone he always forgot about. Her heart tripped all the same.

He stood in the doorway, frame outlined by the last slant of sunset. Same coat. Same hair. Same grin- except it came a beat too late, like he’d had to pull it on.

“Miss me, comrade?” he asked.

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him before her mind could decide how she felt. He chuckled, arms closing around her, body solid and warm.

But when he pulled back, her gaze caught on the new lines around his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. There was a distance tucked in behind his irises, a space that hadn’t been there before.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Complications,” he said lightly. “You know, The usual. I’m here now. That’s what matters, right?”

Of course it was. And yet, as days passed, she noticed how sometimes his attention seemed to snag on invisible hooks. Memory, strategy, ghosts of fights he hadn’t stopped having. At meals, he sat physically present but half elsewhere, answering questions with absent hums, laughing a second too late.

She tried to talk about it. “You’re far away.” She said one night, sitting beside him on the steps. The sky was bruised with stars; the sea whispered below.

“Am I?” He stretched his legs out, hands braced behind him. “Feels like I’ve climbed across half of Teyvat to get here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He glanced at her, then away. “Yeah. I know.”

But knowing didn’t become changing.

The real crack settled itself over something she’d thought would help.

“You want to come?” Childe asked, stuffing the last of a rice ball into his mouth. “You, at a Fatui audience, with me?”

“Is that so surprising?” she asked, trying not to fidget with the edge of her sleeve. “You keep saying you wish I’d see your world. Let me see it.”

He swallowed, blinking. “It’s boring. Lots of posturing. Too much perfume. Not enough honest attempts at murder.”

“I spend my days listening to old men argue about whose neighbor’s rooster is more disrespectful,” she said dryly. “I’ll live.”

He barked a laugh. “All right. Your funeral, shrine girl.”

Part of her was genuinely curious. Part of her was tired of standing on the shore of his life, watching waves and never stepping in. If she understood this other side of his coin, maybe she could stop feeling like she loved two people in one body. One familiar, one somewhere off-limits.

…

The audience hall was all polished stone and polished smiles. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto polished boots. The air smelled like oil, incense, too-sweet wine, and tension held in check by etiquette.

Childe walked into it as if he’d been born there.

She watched the shift with a kind of slow, horrified fascination. His spine straightened. His smile sharpened. The lazy drawl in his speech turned precise, each word chosen like a blade. He joked, he teased, he played the room with practised ease, attention snapping to whoever held power at any given moment.

They adored him. Laughed too loudly at his jokes. Leaned in when he spoke, like withering flowers straining toward light.

He looked radiant, deadly, and completely in his element.

Standing at the fringes, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves, she felt suddenly transparent. If she vanished, would anyone notice? Would he?

When the formalities ended, the crowd flowed like a current around him. A fellow officer clapped a hand on his shoulder, said something; Childe threw his head back and laughed. Someone else sidled in, voice low and conspiratorial. He stayed, caught up, basking, talking tactics and politics and whatever else they traded in that gilded room.

He did not look for her even once.

She watched until her throat ached, then slipped away to a quieter corridor, the noise of the hall a muffled roar behind her.

You wanted to see his world, she told herself. Well, there it is.

He found her eventually, of course. He always did.

“There you are,” he said, relief bright in his voice as he rounded the corner. “You vanished. Thought one of those stuffed shirts kidnapped you for more small talk about tariffs.”

She looked up at him, hands folded too carefully in front of her. “I thought you were busy.”

“Eh.” He waved a hand. “They can talk about themselves for hours without me. How was the show? Ten out of ten? Need improvement? Less devastatingly handsome next time?”

The ache in her chest twisted. “You performed,” she said.

He blinked. “Well, yeah. That’s kind of the point. The Harbinger shows up, everyone expects a bit of drama-”

“You showed them exactly who they wanted you to be.” Her voice stayed level, but he must have heard something in it, because his smile faltered. “Charming. Dangerous. Brilliant. Untouchable.”

He shifted his weight, the playful air around him thinning. “…Is this a complaint or a compliment? I’m having trouble telling.”

“What about me?” she asked quietly.

Something in his posture went still. “You?”

“I stood there and watched you become someone else.” The words came slow, as if she was pulling them one by one out of something raw. “I thought bringing me would mean… I don’t know. That I’d understand you better. That I’d feel… included, maybe. Instead I felt like a stranger on my own-” Her voice broke. “You didn’t even look for me.”

His brows knit. “I knew you could handle yourself. I didn’t want to drag you into those conversations. They’re boring, and half of them are definitely treason.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” Frustration crept into his tone, quiet and sharp. “I invited you in, didn’t I? Didn’t hide anything. You saw me as I am there.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” she said. “What good is it to be with me if the world is always where you choose to show up?” And I…” She swallowed, suddenly furious at the sting in her eyes. “I felt unnecessary. Like I’d been brought along as decoration. Something to set down and forget while you do the real parts of your life.”

“That’s not fair,” he shot back, but it lacked his usual heat. “You know that’s not how I-”

“Do I?” she whispered.

The corridor suddenly felt too narrow. The air tasted like leftover incense and old stone, the echoes of laughter from the hall rubbing salt into the moment.

“You don’t even realize..” she said, voice trembling. “Every time you come back, you’re wearing another face. The one who kisses my hands and steals my tea, the one who talks about your siblings, the one who turns a battlefield into a game. I never know which one will walk through my door. I never know which one will leave.”

Childe’s jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, Tartaglia stood in front of her: the Harbinger, all calculation and control. Then he exhaled, and the edges blurred.

“I’m still me.” he said quietly. “In all of them.”

“But you’re not here.” she said. “Not really. Not all the way. Not in the way that… that counts.” Her eyes burned. “I’m tired of being the harbor you dock at out of habit. I want you to choose to be here. Not just between fights. Not just when it’s convenient.”

He stared at her. The silence stretched, brittle as glass.

When he finally spoke, his voice had none of his usual flamboyance. “That’s what this is about,” he said. “You think I don’t choose you.”

“Do you?” she asked.

He looked like she’d struck him. “Of course I do.”

“You choose the fight first,” she said, gentle and devastating. “You always have. The danger, the thrill, the proving of yourself. Then you come home and let me soothe what the world did to you. I light incense and sweep floors and pray, and you think that’s enough to count as being loved.”

“It is love,” he said, raw. “You are- archons, you have no idea how much I-” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I go out there and I carry you with me. You, and Teucer, and my sisters, and my stupid loud family, and even this ridiculous shrine of yours. You’re what keeps me from becoming just another monster who likes the sound of screams.”

She laughed, a small, painful sound. “Then I’m a memory. A conscience. A nice thought to hold when the blood starts to look the same.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” Her voice rose, surprising them both. “Because I don’t get to see that part. I get half of you, if I’m lucky. A version that’s already spent, already frayed. I’m not asking you to leave the Fatui.” She swallowed. “I’m not that naive. I’m asking you to show up when you’re here, with me. To let me in.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

For the first time since she’d met him, he looked… lost.

The realization scared her more than any rumor about Harbingers ever had.

When he finally found words, they were soft. “I don’t know how.” he admitted. “I know how to throw myself at an enemy that can tear me in half. I know how to strategize around seventy different ways to die. But this…” He gestured between them, hand unsteady. “This is harder.”

She let out a breath that shook. “Do you know what waiting feels like?” she asked, tears stinging the back of her irises. “Really waiting? Counting your days in tide and incense and wondering if the person you love is going to come back with the same eyes? Or at all?”

His face twisted, guilt flickering like a wound reopening.

“Of course you don’t,” she said, a little bitter. “You’re too busy running toward the next edge.”

“Hey.” It was barely more than a whisper. He stepped closer, careful, as if she were a cliff that might crumble. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk like you’re alone in this.” He hesitated. “I know I make things… intense. I know I chase fights I shouldn’t. It’s who I am. It’s how I’ve survived. But I’m not playing with you. I’m not…” His voice cracked. “You’re not a side quest, comrade.”

Something inside her flinched. Even now, even hurting, he could still make her want to laugh through the tears.

“That’s a terrible metaphor.” she said, because the alternative was saying I love you so much it scares me.

He smiled, shaky and small. “Yeah. I’m more of a boss battle type, anyway.”

She snorted despite herself. The sound made his shoulders loosen minutely.

“Look,” he said, stepping closer again. “You want honesty? Here it is: when I’m out there, I am at my best and worst. Every part of me that loves a challenge, every ugly little bit that enjoys the rush, it all comes out to play. I like it. I’m not going to pretend I don’t.” His eyes met hers, unflinching. “But the part of me that comes home? The part that sits on your floor and complains about the tea being too hot? That’s real too. That’s the part that remembers I have something to come back to. Someone.”

She swallowed. “It’s not enough to remember me.”

“I know.” He exhaled. The sound trembled. “You want more than a promise and a handful of lies I tell myself so I can sleep. You want proof. Consistency. Time I actually give you, not whatever’s left after I’m done bashing my head against the world.”

“Yes,” she said. The word felt like stepping off a ledge. “I want you to choose me in a way I can feel. Without having to translate it from blood and bruises.”

He hesitated. For once, no joke came to his rescue.

“Then teach me how.”

It wasn’t flippant, or thrown out to buy time. It came from a plain and earnest part of him, laid out on the floor tiles between them.

She stared at him. At the man who could grin at a dragon and call it a warm-up. At the Harbinger who felt most comfortable when the odds were wrong. At the boy who had, without asking, taken up residence in all the quiet corners of her life.

“You’re asking me to teach you how to love me?” she said.

“I already do.” His voice was barely above a breath. “I just… don’t always know how to show it in a way that doesn’t hurt.”

The words slid under her ribs like a knife and a balm both.

She stepped forward until there was almost no space between them. The hall’s distant clamor faded, replaced by the sound of her breathing and his.

“Then listen,” she said. “When you leave, tell me the truth about how long it might be. Don’t soften it so I’ll feel better. Write to me like I’m not a child you have to shield from the ugly details. When you come back, don’t walk through the new ghosts you brought home alone. Let me see them. And when you’re here,” Her throat thickened. “Be here. Put the maps away occasionally. Pretend the world doesn’t end if you stop planning its demise for one evening.”

A corner of his mouth curled. “Admit it. You like that I plan several demises.”

She glared. He sobered quickly.

“And you,” he said, a little more gently, “stop acting like asking for any of that makes you selfish. You’re allowed to want things that aren’t holy and patient all the time. You’re allowed to be mad at me. The Archons won’t smite you for it.”

She thought of incense, and the bell, and the patient sea. Thought of how easily she’d let herself be folded into waiting.

“...I’m mad at you now.” She said.

He huffed out something like a laugh. “Good. I deserve it.” His gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again. “But I still want to try. For you. With you. If you’ll let me.”

He sounded so uncharacteristically unsure that something in her chest eased, despite everything.

She reached up, fingers brushing a wet strand of hair away from his forehead. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, lashes trembling.

“You’re a terrible storm,” she murmured. “Messy. Loud. Inconvenient. Impossible to schedule.”

“Devastatingly handsome, though,” he said automatically.

She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes.”

“Ouch. Harsh.”

“You asked me to teach you,” she said softly. “Lesson one: being here starts with staying long enough to hear the answer, even when it isn’t what you want.”

His gaze met hers, wide-open, no jokes left to hide behind. “And your answer?” he asked.

She took a breath that felt like the first honest one in weeks.

“My answer is: I’m still here,” she said. “I’m still willing. But I need you to meet me halfway. No more disappearing into whatever version of yourself is easiest for everyone but me.”

He nodded. Once. Firm.

“Halfway,” he echoed. “I can do halfway.” A beat. “Maybe even sixty-forty, since I’m clearly the more difficult one.”

“You think very highly of yourself.”

“Someone has to.”

The small smile that tugged at her mouth this time didn’t hurt quite as much. He saw it and brightened, like a man catching sight of a shoreline he’d stopped believing in.

“Can we try again from the beginning?” he asked quietly. “Not the whole relationship. Just… this part. Tonight. I take you home. I sit where you tell me. You talk. I listen. I don’t bolt for the nearest excuse to punch a diplomatic problem in the face. Deal?”

She let herself imagine it. The two of them back at the shrine, tatami under their knees, incense burning, the world buzzing on at a manageable distance. Him, staying. Her, not shrinking.

It felt almost possible.

“Deal.” she said.

His shoulders dropped with something like relief. He reached for her hand hesitantly, fingers hovering before curling around hers. Warm. Calloused. Real.

She squeezed back.

Later, back at the shrine, he sat cross-legged by the altar like a very poorly disguised delinquent at confession, watching her with an oddly earnest expression.

“So,” he said. “Do I have to say sorry to each of the seven individually, or is there like a group package?”

She snorted. “You could start by apologizing to the one whose floor you keep dripping on.”

He glanced down at the damp patch beneath him. “Right. Sorry, floor god. My bad.”

She tried not to smile and failed.

They talked. Not about battles or strategies, but about little things. Where it hurt, when the loneliness had first started feeling like abandonment, how often he’d almost written her something honest and then changed his mind.

“I didn’t want you to worry.” he said.

“I worried anyway.” she replied.

“Yeah.” He grimaced. “Turns out that’s how it works.”

When he finally admitted, voice barely above a whisper, that stillness terrified him- that he’d spent so long measuring his worth in blood and victory that the idea of existing quietly felt like tempting erasure, she did not say It will be fine, instead her gaze softened. “That sounds exhausting.”

He stared at her, bewildered at first, then let out a long breath that shook. “It is,” he said. “Sometimes.”

“I’m not asking you to stop moving,” she said. “Just… learn to move with me instead of around me.”

He considered that, then nodded, as if accepting a new kind of mission.

Outside, the sea kept breathing, in and out, as if nothing had happened. But the wind shifted, carrying incense smoke out over the water like a fresh promise.

Later still, when the night had settled properly and the shrine was wrapped in its usual hush, she stood at the edge of the cliff, listening. He came up beside her, steps soft for once.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” he asked, nodding at the horizon.

“The sea?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “But then it does something like this.”

The moon had pulled a ribbon of silver across the water. The waves glowed faintly, breathing light to shore and back again. It looked endless and old as the first prayer anyone had ever whispered.

“Looks like it could eat the world.” Childe mused.

“That too.”

They stood without speaking for a while. The silence was different now, not empty, but shared.

“Hey,” he said finally. “When I’m gone next time-”

“So there will be a next time,” she said, because she preferred blunt edges now.

“Yes.” His hand found hers, fingers threading easily. “There will be. But I’ll tell you how long they’re really sending me for. I’ll send you letters that don’t read like I wrote them while dodging spears. I’ll… try to come back with fewer ghosts. Or at least let you meet them.”

“You can’t promise fewer ghosts.” she said softly.

“No.” He squeezed her hand. “But I can promise not to make you guess which ones I’m carrying.”

The ache in her chest didn’t vanish. But it changed shape, loosening into something she could almost breathe around.

“You’re still a storm.” she said.

“Yeah.” He smiled crookedly. “But maybe this time, I remember where I left my harbor.”

She leaned her shoulder into his. The contact was small, but it felt like choosing, again and again, in a world that could take everything. Openly, honestly.

Below them, the sea went on remembering. Names. Promises. The sound of a storm learning, gradually, how to come home.

@𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘳 | please credit if reposted! ♡

[chrisjw108]

I HAVE TO THANK U FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT TOWARDS THE AIZAWA FANFIC HEADCANNONS!

as a thank u gift I prepared a meal for you guys-

WARNING: Slightly suggestive art of Aizawa! (I was thirsty)

It’s not the best drawing I made but… at least something. ALSO THANK U GUYS- I am working on the first chapter of the fanfic, soooo. Stay tuned! 🩷

Hope y’all like it! Baiii!

[chrisjw108]

Aizawa seeing !AssistantFem!Reader! In formal wear! This tired man would be... Let's say baffled at least.

He was used to your comfy outfits — not quite revealing like other female pro heroes, but always carrying some kind of subtle pattern, a quiet sense of fashion.

The conference after the capture of Katsuki Bakugo had been a pain in the ass for days. Questions, paparazzi — it was starting to get too much. But with your comforting words, a precise manner, and sharp answers cutting through the annoying reporters, he thought he was starting to quite like you.

That day.

The conference hall was packed. Big mouths, small brains — he was starting to get anxious. After all, you were part of the problem too, and it would be unprofessional not to show up—

His half-lidded eyes searched the room for you. Did he forget to tell you to dress up for today? Fuck, it must’ve been the lack of sleep.

“Sensei Aizawa, I brought some notes. Would you like to check them? You know, being prepared in advance for those morons…” your professional voice cut through his thoughts.

Huh. Where did you come from?

How did he not see you?

He knows his eyesight isn’t in the same shape as in his younger years, but damn — you slipped right under his radar.

Fuck. You’re getting scary.

When he finally faced you, the answer stucked in his throat.

Aizawa was used to some… interesting turns of events. That’s what it takes to be a hero, after all.

But you — in formal attire.

A white blouse buttoned all the way up, no games. A pencil skirt complementing your figure just right.

You looked… different, to say the least. After all, it was the first time he had seen you in professional attire.

Aizawa is a man of few words when needed, always calculating before he even opens his mouth. But now he was lost. He should be concerned — you slipped under his sharp gaze, unnoticed. He should be wary.

Instead, he had the absurd urge to grab your hands just to check if you were even real.

You looked… stunning.

A smirk appeared on your delicate face, a dusting of makeup complementing your features. With a silent tease, you whispered:

“Not so bad for yourself, Sensei.”

Oh.

He was utterly fucked.

should I write series of Aizawa X assistant reader???

[cno-inbminor]

zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst (tw: miscommunication) wc: 3.2k

In a fantasy-like dreamscape, with petals painted in hues of ivory and rouge, you amble down the concrete trail that loops around the park.

You ignore the feeling of being out of place – after all, you’re still in your work blouse, skirt, and heels that are very impractical for a long walk. But in your numbing haze and cloudy mind, you’re welcome to any ache and sore that could keep you grounded to this forsaken planet. The music from your earbuds rings with melancholic songs from some movie soundtrack, though coincidental and fitting for the situation at hand. Eyes glassed over, steps slow and laborious, and shoulders slumped, you walk defeated.

A gust of wind releases the petals from their branches and blooms, a flurry scattering into the open air before flitting, twisting, turning, and gradually falling to the ground beneath your feet. They make you remember a happier time, one that seems to be a waste after all these years. When you look towards the sky, you recall a similar view when you were snug in a wedding dress while making your way down an aisle, your lips curved in a smile as onlookers threw white rose petals into the air. But when you tilt your head down to look in front of you, there is no man in a tailored, pressed suit waiting for you.

He settled by marrying you, a faint whisper reminds you in the back of your mind. You did this to yourself.

Perhaps you did.

There was always the chance that she would come back – you had always dreaded the day, but Zayne was adamant that there was nothing to worry about. He had moved on, and he loved you. There was nothing you needed to fix about yourself, he insisted. He loved you for who you were, and you were grateful – grateful that he still thought of you late at night when stuck in emergency surgeries, that he would buy you pastries anytime he visited the bakery, that he would welcome you into his office during lunch breaks when you had time to step away from your desk.

You were happy to be on his arm at awards and annual galas. You would bask in the moments when you would come out in a new dress and he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you. “You look beautiful,” he would say with reverence and adoration, and it was those moments that led you astray from your worries and insecurities. He chose you, and you could tell he didn’t regret choosing you.

That didn’t change until after a few months she returned.

The reason she had been gone for so long was because she had been transferred indefinitely to a remote city that had a massive shortage of Hunters and way too many Wanderers to deal with. From the get go, she had been advised to officially move out of her apartment and was even given a stipend to help with relocation costs. It was for a good cause, and she had always wanted to travel and see the world. Zayne, in all his infinite charity and kindness, made sure to discuss every detail possible with her new physician that would be looking after her and her heart condition. He even went as far as having her sign a release of information to him specifically so that he could access her records remotely.

You understood. Really, you did. She had even made it out to the wedding and stayed afterward to help with cleanup efforts.

But after her return, the more you fell asleep in and woke up to an empty bed, the less sleep you were getting.

How do I bring this up without sounding like a clingy partner? You had wracked your brain for weeks. Zayne was stressed enough as it was, and you really didn’t want to add to it. You had vowed to be the solid ground beneath his feet – to support and keep him stabilized – and not the storm that could topple him over.

But it was so hard.

Fewer texts, fewer check-in’s, fewer notes left behind reminding you of the little things. Fewer reminders that he was ever a tenant in this house – much less, your husband.

Zayne ran on a routine and schedule, but so much spontaneity happens in his daily life that he probably wouldn’t mind a surprise visit for lunch from you. You had picked up his favorite lunch set from the cafe down the street, as well as one for you, and walked towards the hospital. Familiar nurses and doctors greeted you as you did them, quick hello’s and slight nods of the heads. Yvonne recognized you without missing a beat and flashed you a small, but tired smile.

“Long day already?” you softly asked when you stopped at her station.

“Unfortunately, but nothing uncommon,” she joked before taking a look at the brown paper bag in your hand. “Good timing actually, he’s in his office and is free for the next 30 minutes. Dr. Grayson is in there, but it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Thank you,” you said in a grateful tone and smiled before rounding the corner to your husband’s office.

You slowed and softened your steps to minimize the noise from your heels, wanting to maintain the element of surprise. From down the hall, you could see that his door was cracked open just the slightest, both his and Dr. Grayson’s voices muffled but much clearer once you were in front of it. Just as you were about to push it open, you heard her name and froze.

“--she comes by a lot.”

You heard Zayne reply, “It’s been good catching up with her and being able to check on her condition. Her doctor from her time away should’ve done a better job, but at least nothing major happened.”

“I haven’t seen your wife in a while. More often than not, I’d see her here on your lunch breaks, but it feels like forever.”

Keyboard clicks fill the brief silence. “She’s been busy.”

Have you now?

“You know,” Dr. Grayson starts before pausing. “Wasn’t Emcee your first love or something like that?”

The keyboard clicks stop. “Why do you ask?”

You could hear the shrug in Dr. Grayson’s voice. “I just wonder if anything has changed now that she’s back permanently.”

“...I don’t follow.”

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

A beat passes. Two. Four.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-if’s.”

Your heart sank.

In the very next second, the panic began to course through you, your heartbeat dangerously high. You had a moment of clarity – a miracle, honestly – to step out of your heels and let them hang from your fingers as you walked back to where Yvonne was at a brisk pace. Hospital floor, dust, and infections be damned. Otherwise, the clacking of your heels would’ve alerted them, and that was the last thing you needed. All you thought of in that moment was the need to get out, away from this hospital, away from your husband.

Yvonne had no time to question your sudden return – she hadn’t expected to see you again for at least another 30 minutes – before you set the bag in front of you.

“They seem to be having a really important conversation,” you started, clenching your fists to stop the tremble in your body and trying to maintain a calm voice. “C-can I just leave this here for you to give to him later?”

“Yes, of course,” Yvonne said, picking the bag up to put behind her. Her tone was agreeable, but you could practically feel her confusion between the syllables. “But are you sure you don’t want to wait? Dr. Grayson should be out in a few minutes, if that’s the case.”

“Oh, uhh, I actually just got a text from my boss,” you lied and held up your phone, though it was still a dark screen. “He needs a document at the last minute, so I have to head back anyways. Thank you though!”

With a quick wave goodbye, you left Yvonne no chance to respond and disappeared towards the elevator. Every second that passed was too long, and you almost tripped while trying to slip your heels back on. Your steps were shaky, your frame shuttering with each step, and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. You should be stronger than this. You should be strong enough to hold yourself together and make it home before you absolutely break and burst at the seams.

Your hands wrung together as the elevator descended towards the ground floor at a snail’s pace. Luckily you were the only one in the compartment, so as soon as the doors had opened, you bolted out of there like someone was chasing you. And in a way, something was chasing you – one of your worst nightmares: the realization that Zayne felt he had no choice but to settle for you.

You crossed the lobby as fast as you could, blinders on and narrowed to nothing but the main doors. They couldn’t slide open fast enough for you, but it granted you a second to call your boss.

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

“I know this is really sudden, and you know I never do this, but I really, really need to take the afternoon off,” you begged, words rolling off your tongue a mile a minute.

“Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” you said with all the bluntness in the universe before you could say anything better. “But it’ll be fine, I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“Very well. Call me if you need help with anything.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“See you tomorrow, and you, too.”

Your thumb jabbed the ‘end call’ button as you stared at the street. Where should you go? What should you do? Do you go home?

And that’s how you ended up here, at the park, the skin on the back of your heels chafed horribly, and your brain at a complete loss of what to do now. You haven’t even cried yet because you were still in a state of shock, disassociation.

Aimless, unaware, and lost, you continue your endless journey and are unable to find it in yourself to even sit on one of the many park benches stationed around the path. Because if you sat, you would cry. And if you cry, you would think. And if you think, you would spiral. You would spiral down the black hole of questioning every single thing Zayne has ever done with you, if Zayne ever truly loved you.

Something in the universe says you’re not ready for that yet.

Your phone vibrates from your purse. You take it out with limp hands, slowly and unsure in every way possible, your heart pounding against your chest, as you read the notification on your lock screen.

Husband 💙:

Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry we couldn’t eat together.

Your feet scream in agony as you increase your pace in the direction of the main road. They were probably bleeding at this point, but that was an issue for another time. You flag down a taxi as soon as one appears, and you ask the driver to take you to that 24 hour bookstore-slash-library with the comfy chairs and a cafe attached to it. After all, if you couldn’t stand to be in this world, at least you could escape to another for a little bit of time.

Husband 💙:

Yvonne said you had some type of work emergency. Is everything okay?

-

Several hours passed, in which you were able to acquire a couple of bandaids and alcohol wiping pads, nibble on a biscotti, and dive into a book that you had been putting off for months. Unwillingly, you hear your phone vibrate in your purse. Based on the pattern alone, you know it’s Zayne calling. During your years of dating, you had assigned custom vibrations and ringtones for him and him only. That way, no matter what, you would know it was him calling without having to look at the screen. If this were a normal situation and a normal day, you would’ve picked up without missing a beat. Unfortunately, today has been anything but normal.

You press one of the volume buttons to stop it from vibrating, though his contact information is still splashed across the screen. Your infinite wisdom advises you to let the call run, make him think that you were simply too busy to pick up. Again, an ultra rare occurrence, but not impossible. Your phone screen switches back to your lock screen with a notification of a missed call, and you watch it with wary eyes to see if there would be any follow-up.

There is one in the form of a text.

Bzz-bzz. Make that two.

Husband 💙:

I called to see if you wanted to have dinner together. But as soon as it went to voicemail, we had an emergency surgery come up.

Are you evil to think that the universe has kindly granted you more time to not talk to your husband? It would be appalling to be thankful that someone was hurt enough to warrant an emergency surgery that required your husband’s skills, therefore buying you more time to get your shit together. Diabolical and heartless, someone would probably describe you.

Husband 💙:

Won’t be home til late. Don’t wait up.

But you could only be in a blouse and skirt for so long, and as much as you want to spend the night here, it’s time for you to go home.

At 11PM, there is still no other text or call from Zayne. The house is empty and quiet, much to your relief. His shoes are nowhere to be seen on the shoe rack, so you must be safe. You should have enough time to change, brush your teeth, go to bed, and either actually fall asleep or pretend to be asleep when he eventually makes it home. His messages have been left unread, his call not returned. Once you’re ready for bed and tucked under the covers, the exhaustion of everything pulls you into a deep sleep in record time.

-

You’re practically dead to the world when Zayne comes home, slinking in like a thief in the night. He knows you’re usually asleep at this time, and he doesn’t want to wake you. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but in the few minutes that he can see you, you seem more tired, more haggard. It seems like you’ve lost a little weight, too, but he just doesn’t have the time to ask more about it. All the things that were changing seemed like it’d be best to have a sitdown conversation on a day off, but he’s been so bogged down by work and the return of Emcee that a day off seemed impossible.

As he slips his shoes off, he glances at your heels positioned astray from the shoe rack. The work emergency must have been bad for you to leave them that way. It takes nothing to bring them together and put them away himself, but then his eyes catch onto something that makes him freeze.

Why in the world is there that much blood on the back of your heels?

Were you hurt?

What happened that made you walk around so much to the point that you would let yourself bleed without any attempt to cover them up, or at least put a bandaid over them?

Why would you neglect yourself like that?

Had you already been bleeding when you dropped off his lunch? And if you had, why hadn’t anyone noticed, much less done anything about it?

The bedroom door creaks the slightest bit when he pushes it open, the force behind his fingertips so soft, so afraid to wake you. His eyes cannot help but travel to the foot of the bed where one of your feet sticks out. A small sense of relief fills his chest when he spots the bandaid stuck to the back of your left heel. The closer he gets to you, the more he sees that the bandaid wasn’t applied carefully enough based on the gap between the cotton pad and your wound. Gently, he lifts the blanket up to get a look at your other foot. A matching bandaid is present on your right heel. But at second glance, any relief he had felt disappears into thin air.

He sees the faint indentations of where the leather of your high heels had dug into your skin, a subtle arch decorating the space at the base of your toes. The beginnings of blisters have formed on the side of a few of them as well. It’s no secret to anyone how worn out they seem, that they’ve seen a harder day than usual today. He doesn’t know the cause, and he doesn’t understand why you didn’t even tell him. Zayne fishes his phone out of his pocket and stares at the empty lock screen, showing that you had never responded to his earlier messages. That, in and of itself, was already highly unusual.

He shifts the blanket back over your feet, making sure to cover them both before retreating into their bathroom. Brushing his teeth, rinsing his hair under the sink faucet, and washing his face all feel so mechanical as his mind refuses to turn off, the growing worry spreading like spilled cabernet on a white tablecloth. As he slides into bed, he suddenly feels like a stranger in his own home – like he’s not supposed to be here, to consider this bed as his safe space.

He’ll ask you in the morning, Zayne decides as he falls into a fitful sleep. No surgeries had been scheduled for the morning, which meant he could finally wake up with you for the first time in months. You two would get ready together – you’d tie his tie, he’d help dry the ends of your wet hair fresh out of the shower, you’d pack his lunch, he’d make sure that you leave with a fresh coffee in hand – a routine he has learned to love. The thought of that helps him settle into the sheets, and they feel soft and familiar again. Yes, everything would be fine.

But Zayyne gets a call an hour before your alarm goes off, and is, once again, robbed of one of his most cherished routines. He can’t help but look at your heels again as he slips into his dress shoes. They must be a sign of something to come, something that he may need to be afraid of. He’s not ready for what that may be, but inside, he knows that there’s a countdown.

Zayne doesn’t want to think about the stakes, or the fact that his first prediction – fresh horror and torture – is you leaving him. He cannot let it happen.

[chrisjw108]

SO GOOOOD‼️‼️

[chrisjw108]

A Captivating Flavour

Chapter Two

Caleb x Non!MC Barista!Reader

Chapter One

Contains: Fluff!, Angst! Slightly suggestive!: description of human anatomy!

WORD COUNT: 7.5 k

AURHORS NOTE:

English is not my first language.

First ever written fanfic.

Not owning any mentioned character.

All characters are mature!

Y/N mentioned.

_________________________________________________

hey guys! I have to thank you in advance for your huge support! Thank you thank you! Unfortunately I won’t be able to publish update for this fanfic for few weeks, so I am giving you part two in advance!

Enjoy!

________________________________________

They split up.

This sentence was replaying in your mind since Zayne left.

You felt.. Weird.

Part of you was surprised, the other one… curious.

What could have happened between them?

After all, in everyone's eyes, they were the couple.

MC, always nice, charming, gorgeous, and polite.

Caleb, composed, loyal, rational, and stupidly handsome.

He was often the quietest person in the room - not because he lacked words, but because he measured them carefully. Even though he seemed emotionally distant sometimes, he was loyal and deeply feeling — someone who did not show affection loudly, but with unwavering depth.

MC is a good example, you remarked.

He had a scientific and rational mind, often coming across as analytical or guarded, especially when it came to his emotions.

But from a different perspective, if someone accidentally noticed your presence, somewhere behind the curtain, you were known as their third wheel. In your eyes, you were.. A friend.

Or so you thought.. You were just. There.

You.. just existed.

Your red eyes were praying to get exhaustion the better of you, but it could not help. Tossing sheets were heard in the room, hiding beneath them, using them as your shield from your racing thoughts.

A close memory settles as a sense of flavor on the tip of your tongue.

Sweet, a bit off bitterness, and then… emptiness.

MC.

You have just remembered her flavor.

But something was… Missing.

Then it clicked.

“What if I’ve always read her wrong?” You asked out loud, sitting upright.

What if the.. emptiness was the main key of the split up?

Even in the millions of no`s there was a small voice with a certain yes.

You shuffled from the bed, going to the kitchen with unsure steps, opening a shelf full of mugs.

You’ve always had a hard time throwing them away, so you decided to use them as a wide range of collection. You continued searching behind them for the thing in the box.

You diary.

Pages full of confessions, memories, stories, sketches of cups, endless possibilities of good mixed and flavoured coffees, and other drinks.

God, how could you forget?

Or even never trying out those combinations?

Your back leaned against the kitchen aisle, a small smile forming, after reading remarks on later-on-added bright pink sticky notes.

Was I such a feisty kid? You thought

A folded paper fell out of the pages of the diary, elegantly falling on the floor, waiting for you to pick it up.

This is it.

You crouch to get close to it, hand held out towards it slowly, fearing that any fast moment would burn you, again. Carefully, after taking a deep breath, unfolding not just the paper, but the memories in it.

Your eyes roamed all over it, reading names and their flavor.

Zayne, Dark brew, a high caffeine content, a tiny bit of sugar, and two cubes of ice.

Tara, honey, Yigarheffe flavoured caffeine, a large amount of sugar..

Sylus, Robusta coffee, bitter, earthy, two times the caffeine of Arabica beans.

Then him.. Caleb

You don't quite remember his flavour.

Now you know why.

Every time you tried to read him like that, you erased or scribbled over the original idea.

Why?

Was he hard to read?

Giving him the setting flavour?

Why did you scribble so hard, that it was simply impossible to read the original line?

Were you scared when you found out?

Were you mad you did not find out?

Was it only Caleb?

Were there multiple people?

Was his flavor always changing, and if yes, what was the cause?

Why do you still care?

This sentence has woken you up from your trance, making you take a look at the ticking sound.

Two in the morning, great.

You hoped you would get the right answers, to let your mind at ease, and get the remaining hours till sunrise of good sleep.

Now you are even more confused.

As you stood up, yet another laying paper on the ground caught your attention. It was not folded, it was ripped apart.

You crouched again, curiosity getting the better of you.

When you turned the paper around, your stomach ached.

A photo, definitely from last year of high school.

Stupid smiles, stupid promises..

Were you unlucky that this was the part of the photo where Caleb and Mira are?

Of course, they were close, and majestic, even in the photo.

You did not ask where the second half is, probably knowing the answer already.

Somewhere forgotten, somewhere behind…

A flood of memories consumed your whole brain, swallowing you in it, shaping you into someone different. Somebody naive.

Somebody you used to know

_______________________________________________

You tripped and almost fell.

Your fate could not make you suffer less even on the first day of the final year at high school.

MC immediately reacted, out of reflex, trying to catch you.

She laughed:

“Dude, school hasn't started yet and you want to call it a day?”

“My brain still has holidays!” You exclaimed with pain in your voice, not because of the trip, but because you have to unfortunately admit that the school break is over.

And yet, after hard thinking over your future, you still do not know which career to choose.

MC shook her head, holding tightly the straps of her bag, walking with confidence through the gate.

How is she doing this?

The only confidence of choice you have right now is the urge to throw up.

You were lost at the number of people in the halls, panicking about being late for their first class, the majority sending greetings towards you.

Well to her, to be exact.

But you did not mind, your priority was not knowing every single soul in shared corridor, but knowing where the next damn class is.

“I thought you would be late, again.”

You felt his gaze on you, from top to bottom.

Caleb

How could his voice get any deeper, more soothing?

As you turned around, your eyes met his chest.

Did you get short, or did he get uncharacteristically taller?

And when you met his eyes, then face, god, even hotter.

You were playing with your fingers, trying to formulate a good biting comeback at him, then you scoffed with a laugh.

“Oh please, I thought your attitude wouldn't fit through the door, smartass.”

“I thought I was speaking to a first grader-“ he fires back. A good one.

“Okay, listen up-“

“Who would be first to the class, minions?” MC shouted with a challenge, catching you and Caleb by surprise.

Well, only you, since he and Mira took immediate action. Cheater, he did not give you a head start. Pathetic.

You laughed then shouted:

“Wait for me!” and repeated the exact thing as they did.

Being on time in class.

As you ran, trying to at least get any closer to your finish line, before the ring went off, you accidentally ran into someone.

God, why was everyone so fricking tall?

You looked up, ready to apologise, only to find two sharp eyes meeting yours.

You paused, Zayne.

He also.. grew up.

God, were you getting too old? Or too small?

His mouth left a sigh, typical exhaustion set at the edge.

“Still careless..” he pushed his glass higher on his nose.

Oh, he won't get away from this.

“Says the one who was busy all holidays.” You crossed your arms, pouting, trying to make him feel a bit bad.

But all jokes aside, you missed him through the summer break, however, he was busy with his studies. And finding the right time to hang out was quite a difficult task. What was maybe a bit more difficult, was trying to understand, why he studied so hard. After all, Zayne is one of the smartest people you know. You’ve always admired him for the tough work and his broad horizon of knowledge.

“Says the one who tripped thanks to their shoe ties.”

“How did you know?” you slightly gasped.

“Classified.” He looked down at your shoes, finally not mocking your height anymore.

You followed his gaze, only to find out untied laces, again. A slight redness appeared on your cheeks from embarrassment, immediately taking action and trying to tie them up as fast as you could. He was lucky the ring went off, or your elbow would have made contact with his ribs.

Well even if you tried he would not budge.

But seriously, he grew up through the summer, lost the remaining baby fat in his cheeks, shaping them as sharp as his ryes..

You were trying to accept that your childhood friend was growing from a boy to.. a man.

You stuck your tongue out at him, immediately taking a rushed leave for a class.

As you walked through the door frame, you saw Tara, next to MC, already discussing her experiences that occurred over the summer. You laughed quietly at how animated she looked, and evidence of dread spreading over her face.

Huh.. So something unpleasant happened.

Or she is just as ‘excited’ for school as you are.

But since Mira was in deep-dive conversation with her, she remained at your seat.

So the only free remaining was next to…Caleb.

You heard footsteps behind you, immediately taking action and placing yourself beside him, not wanting to be scolded by a teacher on the first day.

Well, it would not make a big difference, since you gained a bit sore reputation in his eyes.

For just existing, thank you.

You felt his smirk forming on his face, like he heard you talking to yourself in your mind, Or probably because of how tiny you were compared to him.

This guy had the audacity to cross the half of your shared desk. Jerk.

“You seem upset, shortcake.” He quietly remarked, not wanting the teacher to notice.

You were prepared to fire back, to give him a reason for being upset.

But with one word, he disarmed you completely.

Your cheeks reddened, you were quite used to Caleb and Mira’s antics, calling each other by names.

But this was a new one, shortcake.

Why do you hate it and love it at the same time?

“What did you just call-“

“L/N, please keep your focus, since this is your first day of your last year of high school, the information I’ve been presenting is quite important for the remaining year.” The teacher's harsh voice interrupted your question.

You nodded, knowing you would stammer and make a bigger clown of yourself in this class.

Thanks to someone who literally called you a desert.

After a while of babbling, that soon turned into background noise, the words of your thoughts got louder.

He never called you like that, he smirked at you like that…

What was happening?

Then a touch, lingering, but oh you felt it.

He brushed his knee over yours, under the desk — not by accident, with intention.

“See? You should pay more attention, your attention span is quite short..” a while of pause.

“Short as your legs. Hope they carry you through the school year. After all, I would be really unfortunate if my shortcake would fail this class.” He added.

My shortcake.

You swear this guy, if it were possible, would make your ears bleed.

———————————————————————————

You woke up from the trip of memories, closing the diary harshly.

You remembered after all, all these years.. Your first day at school.

A warmth was permanent on your cheeks, leaving the diary on the kitchen counter. You rushed to the bed, to let yourself rest under the comfy blankets and hide away from those memories.

But in two things you were confident.

One, the meet-up does sound even more horrible, than before.

And two, finally remembering, why you hate cakes.

_______________________________________________

The start of your day can be described in two words:

Exhausting and endless.

You were starting to prepare the café for opening, which would be in half an hour. But you felt like it took an eternity.

Every day it was so easy, in fact, kind of relaxing to have everything under control and do your things in your own way and pace.

Today was different.

You were chaotic, afraid of losing control, which happened at two in the morning today, thank you very much.

Your thoughts were all over the place, in one moment you were trying to focus to prepare everything right as always, on the second, the other half of your brain was storming with memories, ideas, and emotions.

A doorbell sounded through your ears, only to be greeted by your coworker and friend, Garett.

You have known each other since you joined the Spring’s volunteer program in high school.

At first, you were scared of him, sometimes the over-the-top confidence was something you did not know how to feel about. But time showed that Garett is not just that.

He knew he had the charm.

A shiny long light brown hair, ending up on his lower back with soft curls at the end.

A washed-up green with a light contour of blue at the edges of his pupils.

A slightly pointed noise with gold piercing in it.

His looks weren’t the only admirable thing about him.

He was someone who helped you plant a seed of minimal confidence in yourself, which grew over time. And most importantly, was accepted into the volunteering program that later on, helped you set your fate as a barista, thanks to his help.

And over the years, you were more confident that you’d chosen the right path.

It helped you to feel at ease, feeling lucky you found a hobby and a career, at the same time.

You started to remember, thanks to the diary, how your high school was demanding, in knowing what you wanted to do, for the rest of your life.

Those were hard times for you, you felt like you were cornered by high expectations.

Steps were making their way towards the counter, putting a heavy bags on top of it.

“Guess, who is back from vacatiooon~.” Garett sang, in his confident, old-fashioned way.

A huff of laugh escaped your throat, turning towards him to greet him back.

“Thought you could not make it today.” You smiled, tried to hide your exhaustion, but nothing would sneak away under Garett’s gaze.

You saw how he checked you from head to toe, then a certain:

“You look like a wreck. Honey, did you not sleep well? You don’t have trouble sleeping, do you?”

He sounded sincere, a bit afraid laced in his voice.

A sigh escaped your mouth, and then you nodded as your answer.

Garett came closer to you, caressing your shoulder in a delicate grip.

“Oh honey, don’t you wanna clock out a bit earlier today? You’ve worked many shifts in a row. You must be exhausted, don’t you agree?”

I can’t.

If I would not work, my brain would be occupied by those damn memories.

I feel sick.

You did not want to bother him, tried to create the most convincing-reassuring smile on your face, only to be met with a frown, then a sigh.

“Fine, I don’t wanna push you. But, I am taking small tasks from your part, don’t overdo it. Sounds fair?” He smiled sweetly, understandingly.

He is awesome.

“Okay, thank you so much.” You appreciated, running a hand through your hair, only to end up groaning with the pain that pulsated in your head.

Maybe the clocking out earlier does not sound so bad after all.

____________________________________________

You were in the halfway of your shift and already felt like a total wreck.

You were so exhausted and mad at yourself.

You were misspelling the names of the customers, sometimes accidentally mistaking the orders, only to be saved by Garett at the last moment. Like he could see through you, understanding your frustration and your slips.

The customers were luckily okay today. Majority of them were students from Skyhaven University, or workers from Farspace Fleet, or the Hunters Association.

You were quite scared that some of them looked a bit important.

You heard stories from Garett’s boyfriend Thomas, who was your supplier for the shop, and for other associations. How a Farspace fleet had a bit shady.. tactics, which none of us knew about. If it were true, you were quite scared to even think about it.

Not because, you were afraid of knowing the truth, but someone in your past, who wanted to be part of that group, could be tied to this.

You were wondering if he ended up fulfilling his dreams. You two were the same, liking having things under control.

But you’ve always liked to be grounded, being safe and at peace with something you know.

But he always wanted to reach the unknown.

____________________________________________

You were tired, books lying all over the desk, catalogs full of empty offerings on the floor, yet not a single one caught your attention.

A cook.

A doctor?

A hunter?

You used to dream about being a hunter, but the part of not owning any Evol always crushed it.

Tara does not have one either, but she had something that you did not have.

Trust.

Bravery.

She knew she was capable without or with Evol.

You let your head rest against the desk, your thoughts and dilemmas filling up the silence.

Why choose now?

Why does this have to be the last moment in your life to choose what you wanna do? For the rest of it.

It scared you, what would you choose and that it must be the right decision. Although you still have some time left to think about it, the standards of your high school are asking for your decision in the next few weeks.

Stress caught up with the weird and heavy feeling in your chest, pulling you down into the dark madness.

Then a vibration woke you up from the trance.

Tara.

Tara: I can hear your brain braining loudly, don’t you wanna turn it down? :)

Sometimes you were scared of how well she knew you.

You: I can’t, must concentrate.

Tara: Why alone? Coming to your place in 10 minutes. :)

A laugh escaped your throat, she was right, a break is seriously needed.

Your path was to the kitchen, turning on the coffee machine and making yourself a coffee.

The final result was worth it, but the process of making it was so relaxing. For a second you have forgotten how stressful everything was around you, like the process of making simple coffee lets you feel free from the rough.

The sweet scent filled your lungs, pouring the right amount of cream and cinnamon on top of it.

God, it tastes good, the warm liquid pouring down your throat, soothing the stress in your chest.

You leaned against the counter, letting yourself relax and enjoy this fleeting quiet moment, only to be ruined by frantic knocking on the front door.

You opened up, seeing not only Tara but MC with beaming smiles and hands full of catalogs.

You love them.

When all of you were inside, being chaotically seated on the sofa in the living room, catalogs scattered all over the place, reading out loud all of the programs that colleges offered.

Sometimes you laughed loudly at how stupid some of the empty promises sounded.

“This school offers a prestige swimming pool in the yard. Guess what major it is.” Tara presented with an animatedly sarcastic voice, stroking her imaginary mustache with bouncing eyebrows to add the effect.

Sometimes you asked why she did not choose an acting career.

“Sports major?” MC guessed, knowing the answer is definitely.. something.

“Close enough, cook.”

“What the hell? That sounds like a cheap scam!”

“Don’t ask me!” All of you laughed, but you heard the tiredness and a bit of sore throats when the laugh came out of Tara’s and Mira’s mouths.

You stood up, walking up to the kitchen, taking two mugs out of a cupboard, and placing them on the kitchen counter.

One green, one pink.

You don’t have to double-guess to know for whom each one is.

You were staring at them, how they were still laughing about the nonsense on the paper.

Deep down you thought about what to make, not wanting too disrupt them and their moment.

The right amount of chocolate, the cream, the sugar..

Then you sensed it, for a fleeting moment, yet a strong sense to remember, at the tip of your tongue.

A flavour.

Mira, sweet, right amount of cream, whipped cream at the top, and dark chocolate.

Tara, two spoons of sugar, whipped cream at the top, white chocolate, and dried strawberries at the top.

Got it, you've got to work.

The process was so peaceful, like time stopped, just you, the soothing smell in the air, the whirring of the coffee machine, voices in the background, just you and your hands working the magic.

Was it something you enjoyed?

You don’t know.

You returned with two full mugs of hot cocoa in your hands, placing them gently at the table.

“You made this for us?” Mira looked at you, a pleasant surprise sounded in her voice.

“You added the dried strawberries!” Tara exclaimed then continued. “Wait… how did you know..” she hurried, for the mug, carefully and slowly taking a sip to taste, not wanting to burn her tongue.

Then she stopped.

Like her brain had malfunctioned.

Oh god, does she hate it?

“…This is perfect.” She proclaimed.

No high-pitched voice.

No exaggerating.

A truth.

You felt something fluttering in your chest, like it removed all the ache that was just there a few minutes ago.

It felt… good.

When MC tried out her cocoa, you swear you saw stars in her eyes. Both of them drank it in one go.

A shock… and warmth.

That is what you felt.

You created smiles on their faces, through the method you enjoyed.

Taste. Flavour.

“H-how did you make this? This is so.. good..” Mira added, after gently putting down the empty cup on the coffee table.

You shrugged, not knowing how to describe it in words.

Just a glance at them and then it felt.

You felt their personality, inner and outer being like a taste on the tip of your tongue.

Are you sick or just weird?

“Y/N..How.. How did you know my favorite flavour? And that I like white chocolate. Not just that, but even the.. details..” Tara asked gently, like she knew your answer would be… interesting.

“I..Double-guessed?” You stammered while playing nervously with your fingers.

Both of them exchanged looks, then smiled, not wanting to force the answer from you.

“I was also wondering if… You would be interested in the Skyhaven Fleet’s Academy Programme, since you have a passion for space, stars...” MC changed the topic smoothly, handing you a catalog with their college program.

Although she is right, your academic or athletic skills are.. manageable.

But the thought of going to the same college as Caleb stirred something inside you.

You felt your chest getting heavy.

Since the school year started, Caleb’s behavior has changed.. towards you.

You’ve felt he had a thing for MC, sharing his warm smile with a lingering gaze only for her, carrying her bag, insisting to help her..

All these small gestures, made you secretly wish it was you.

But you could not shake the undefined feeling inside you.

Caleb was… something to you.

First, he called you shortcake.

Not by name, but by a new-made nickname.

He called only her by nickname.

But he never called you like that in front of anyone.

And his behavior… It has quite changed.

You did not know how to feel, what to feel.

At some point, you felt like your friendship did not matter..

His calloused hands from the hard training brushing lightly against yours, his presence so close that you swore you felt his breath at your neck.

How he lazily smiled at you, how you felt his scent through the air.

You would like his attention, you would like to feel special.

Only to recall how he treated.. her.

The overthinking recalled a memory of… recent experience.

_________________________________________________

Days passed since that first day of highschool. You went shopping for school supplies. That’s what Tara told you, at least.

Textbooks, rulers.. anything on the list.

Or anything you’ve personally thought was important.

You must admit that your heart melted when MC and Tara were checking out the cute pink-shaded highlighters with glitter, making their mouths water and gasping every time they found something else cute.

You were behind them, a laugh escaped you every time you heard them squealing.

But, you were not the only one who was looking at the display in front of you.

Caleb stood next to you, a soft smile spreading on his lips.

He looked so.. at ease.

And his gaze.. with deep affection. Intimate.

Then it hit you, the lingering touches, silent teasing words meant.. nothing.

Like everything what happened was only for his show.

For his liking.

Caleb liked MC.

Not you.

You felt how the raw feelings settled deep in your chest, making breathing a hard task.

You were trying to keep your composure, not to draw attention to yourself, but realizing how things really are..

It was not easy.

You were so desperate to keep it together, not noticing the slipping textbook through your trembling hands.

Before the textbook would hit the ground, getting probably turning heads and gazes towards you, in mid-air familiar hands caught it.

With precision.

Not wanting to ruin the moment.

Their moment.

Hers.

After all, it was not about you.

The silent laugh echoed deep from his chest.

“Careful, shortcake. You are breathing faster. Am I making you nervous?”Oh, you felt his goddamned lazy smirk appear on his face.

He must have leaned near your ear, when you felt his chest hit your back, feeling his breath at your neck.

In the corner of your eye, you saw his lidded eyes, staring at you with something that screamed danger.

And how threateningly close he was.

God, he smelled amazing.

You could not put a finger on it, did he always smell this good?

Why did you never notice the captivating scent that flooded your lungs all day?

He smelled like something sacred, a blend of warmth and mystery, reflecting his dual nature. Initially, it carried a fresh and vibrant aroma, crisp air, symbolizing his approachable and friendly demeanor. However, this scent gradually transitioned into deeper, more complex - smoky, leathery, and grounding—hinting at the secrets he harbors and the weight of his experiences.

Why at one moment was he the sweetest boy on earth, only to be turned into something like this?..

Just into the shell of himself, that was hungry for your attention, watching with a smile, while you drowned in the sea of questions and confusion.

You snatch your textbook from his grip, giving him a slight elbow to his ribs, only to feel a smirk growing wider on his face.

You hated it.

You hated how he changed.

From something real to something unexpected.

You hated how his scent always changed.

You hated that his flavor always changed.

Luckily, Tara and MC were finished with picking their stuff, leading you and Caleb to separate and create the deep canyon that was not there mere seconds ago.

His smirk was long gone, replaced with his friendly smile that finally reached, now his not dull, but softness that filled his eyes. Eyes that lacked the beautiful hue of purple and the shining spark moments ago.

Moments with you.

When you left the shop, heading towards your homes, you noticed how close he was to her, carrying her bags.

It felt like he was burning the remains of bridges that were still trying to connect the two worlds, where the endless canyon was set between them.

Did he forget how close he was to you when she was not looking?

Was he trying to forget?

He was just so close, yet so far, in front of you and Tara, laughing warmly at whatever MC was talking about.

A laugh, low, filled with warmth, genuine, fluttering.. Feeling how it wrapped around her like a hug, lingering, intimate, protecting something sacred. Something his.

Tara smiled at them, leaning closer to you, only to whisper:

“They are pretty cute, don’t you think?” She beamed.

Something stabbed you deeply in your chest.

“Yeah, they are cute.”

_________________________________________________

Finally, you turned the sign towards the street with Closed written in bold red.

What an exhausting day.

Even if today, there were less of customers, you still felt like you did your shift and ran a marathon on top of it.

Your heart was racing, and worse, so were your thoughts.

Maybe you need a break.

Maybe you need to erase your memories.

You sighed, stretched your back to relax your muscles, and groaned at the discomforting pain in your back.

A sound of signing Garett cut through the silence

“Y/N… Are you really… okay? You seem distracted and exhausted today, are you really alright honey?” he asked with concern in his voice.

You felt so bad, the last thing, you wanted, was to make him feel bad, for your own mistakes.

You serously did not have to search for that goddamned diary.

You did not have to read through it.

You did not have to drown yourself in those memories.

You have to forget.

You shook your head, turning to him and replayed your role. Fake it. Hide it. You ended up smiling at him, trying to ease his concern.

“Garett, I.. Am really sorry for my behavior today. I was really distracted.. By something I am not ready to talk about. I appreciate your concern, but I can assure you it’s nothing.” while saying this you started to play unconsciously with your fingers again.

Great, that will assure him, really.

He seemed a bit taken back for a brief instant, yet he looked deeply you, searching for an answer, that was hidden inside you.

You were afraid he might find it, when he knowingly smiled after a bit of silence.

“I see… I get it Y/N, don’t worry.” He assured, turned towards the sink to continue washing the remaining dishes.

“But remember.. You always have a choice to make Y/N. Only by you, not by your feelings.” he added.

He really saw through you.

_______________________________________________

Again, one in the morning.

Perfect, just perfect.

You were exhausted and could not sleep.

You were hungry and could not eat.

After you’ve finally gotten back at your apartment, you head off to the kitchen to got some snack.

Only the first thing to greet you was that damned diary on the kitchen counter.

The cause of your problems.

You felt stupid and weak when you did not find the courage to even go near it, yet get something good out of the fridge. You know if you would get closer to it, your damned emotions would betray you, again, and take a peek in the pages.

You know you would get lost in your own written words, in your memories, in who told you who you were.

Who you are.

But your stomach said otherwise.

You need to eat something.

You groaned, frustrated with yourself, standing up and listening to your stomach’s inner wishes. You stopped at the door frame, eyeing how the diary was staring at you.

Mocking you, that you already know how this would end up.

Or begging you to see the truth.

You rushed to the fridge, frantically searching for something to eat, but the only thing racing on your mind was the fricking diary behind you.

Where it went wrong.

Remember.. You always have a choice to make Y/N.

Only by you, not by your feelings.

Her and he changed, Y/N.

So did I

So did you.

Meet-up in a week…

I wanted to look back, for a moment I want to go backwards, because I am starting to get exhausted by how my life goes only forward.

You swore you wanted to throw up.

You groaned, loudly, trying to persuade yourself that it’s alright, just pick the food and go to bed.

So why did you end up near the counter, hunger long forgotten and reading through the pages?

_________________________________________________

It was a few days after the shopping spree.

You were trying to distract yourself by burying yourself in your studies, choosing to find a career, and then procrastinating.

You hated yourself.

You hated how you had to take a little distance from MC.

She did nothing wrong.

But you were not ready to face her.

Not ready to face the truth.

Why did you always feel something heavy in your deepest part of your stomach when you had to talk to her?

And you didn’t mention Caleb yet.

Do you hate him.. or..

Does he hate you?

Maybe you should be glad you did not know the answer.

You found yourself in the girls' changing room, preparing yourself mentally and physically for the dreading class of PE.

Especially if you were not one of the favourites of Mr. Henderson.

“I bet my lunch that we'll run laps around the stadium.” Tara groaned while changing herself into sport uniform.

“I am actually looking forward to it.” MC commented, while her hands were busy tying up her hair.

“Of course athlete would.” You added with slight laugh, Tara nodding and getting an eyeroll from Mira.

All the way to the stadium you were praying.

Anything, but run laps.

And of course, the fate did not fulfill your inner wishes.

But something caught your attention, distracting you.

In the corner of your eye, you saw how the other half of class was playing basketball.

That would meant nothing to you, but then you saw him.

Caleb.

His masculine, tall form, complimented by his broad shoulders. A shirt fitting in all of the right places and flattering his physique.

The build of his arms, his tonned waist.

The sweat made his shiny hair stick to his forehead, where his calloused hands would run through it sooner or later. Heavy breaths leaving his muscular chest.

He looked so hot…

You were staring at him in awe.

He was probably in the middle of the game, exchanging with a other player on the benches.

When he sat down, he picked up his bottle, to drink its content down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow, creating a subtle rhythm.

However, he felt your intense gaze on him, only to lead him to find yours.

A redness appeared on your cheeks, a breath caught in your throat, and you became aware how the sun shined up even more.

Or were you just hot?

Your attention was caught up, you did not recognize a forming smirk on his face while you were so lost in his antics.

A smirk that held something.

An idea.

A tease.

He pulled his shirt up. Slowly, movement with precision to wipe off the sweat that was forming on his forehead, giving you a show. He knew what he was doing to you, because you swear all of the air left your lungs, cheeks reddening in deep red like they were on fire.

And making your brain malfunction.

He was so lean, toned in all of the displaying places, his tanned skin so smooth, glistening in the sun.

Oh god, your mouth was watering.

But the teacher ruined your shared fantasy.

“Y/N, would you be proper and repeat what I said to your classmates?” A doomed question.

You shook your head, feeling everyone gaze at you, at your form.

Trembling, playing nervously with fingers, red as tomato, a shallow but unbalanced breaths.

“D-doing a laps?” You meekly replied.

“Great, that would be seven then for you.” He added, blowing his whistle to start the race.

You swear you heard his loud laugh at the background.

Damn you Caleb.

Well, that would be seven laps then.

____________________________________________

It took you one hour and half to finish your laps.

Only remaining you and the teacher.

You remembered the apologetic gazes set on you, some mocking, some familiar.

When you ran through the finish line, fell to the ground, you declare you saw god at the moment.

“Perfect, you should get a grade at the end of the week.” The teacher replied, checking his timer with scoff, leaving you at the stadium alone.

You rolled on your back, facing the sky were the sun was preparing for sunset, painting the horizonnabove with pink, purple and orange hues.

You wanted to stay like this, at ease, catching you breath and laying.

“The stadium his closing in five minutes. Please rest of the students, don't forget your things and leave the platform. Thank you.”

“-Are you serious!” You shouted angrily, trying to enjoy the moment only to just get it interrupted, again.

You swore the remaining power in your legs were not yours, but the gods work. You almost trip multiple times how exhausted you were, making your way to locker rooms.

Your hot skin welcomed the running hot water from the shower, letting you to lean your head against the wall, let the shoulders relax and feel every drop of hot water that ran down your scalp, neck and down back.

As lulling as it was, it still did not wash down the thoughts, images of him.

The tanned skin, sparkling against the hot sun, giving you a can't-miss chance to see his torso in broad daylight.

Why did he kept doing this?

Why did he tease you so much behind Mira’s back and than act like total sunshine in the other?

He was so frustrating.

You stood out of the shower, letting your towel hug you in it, from everything. Imagining, it assured you, that everything will be fine.

But deep down knew, you were lying to yourself.

When you changed to your casual clothes, you headed out of the locker rooms, walking in the hallway, only to hear.

“You are trouble.”

Oh you felt the smug smirk in his voice.

You are not letting this one go.

“Because of you and putting your goddamn show at me!” You exclaimed, turning towards him, scoffing and crossing your arms, knowing you’ve already lost this argument.

“Woah, woah, feisty, me? I was just drying myself up. It’s not my fault you were staring at me..” He smiled ironically innocently with his too-perfect teeth, showing off his canines. They were surprisingly sharp.

Sharp as his attitude.

He leaned down, your breath hitched, when you felt his hand creeping up at your lower back, not touching it completely, but to let you feel the brush of it through the shirt.

“But I must say, I am quite surprised how fast your short legs carried you.. shortcake.” he replied, lowing his voice and send shiver down your spine.

He stood too close — enough to hear your breath, fast heartbeat, a small voice praying that this moment won’t end.

There are million of insults running in your head but your mouth left none.

His phone vibrated, immediately moving away from your shared presence.

A smug smirk was replaced with a gentle smile, when he read the text.

Right, you were the second.

You almost forgot.

“I have to go, pips is waiting for me at the library for study session. See you around.” As fast as he got the text, he left.

Left you standing like complete idiot, mess, not giving a you enough time to process what just happened.

You wanted to scream.

Shout at him that he did not tell you.

That he forgot about you.

That he left you, again.

Luckily you were not that mad, reminding yourself to still stickup to your previous plan KADFCFX, which stands for:

Keeping A Distance From Caleb Fucking Xia.

He really made you mad.

And make a study session with Zayne.

Wait a study session with Zayne.

That was supposed to be an hour ago.

Oh.

You gasped, running your hands through pockets of your bagpack frantically, trying to find your phone.

When the black screen turned up.

15 messages

3 calls

You gulped loudly. With trembling gut you opened your chat, scrolling through messages, frantically reading them.

Zayne: I would be in front of the building in 5 minutes.

Zayne: I am sorry for the short delay.

Zayne: are you going to be late?

Zayne: it’s okay, I’ll wait.

Zayne: Y/N, is everything alright?

Zayne: Where are you?

Zayne: Okay, I am going to look for you.

Zayne: Y/N, seriously, are you okay? You can’t make it?

Oh God, you feel so bad but then…

Zayne: Found you, you are at the stadium.

Zayne: Glad you are okay, even though you don’t look like that.

Zayne: Is the teacher bullying you? It seems like it.

A laugh escaped your throat at the and of the last sentence.

Zayne: I must say, it looks quite funny how you are trying to run.

Zayne: Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you then. Good luck.

I’ll wait for you then.

No rushing, no nothing of making you feel bad.

Even though you did.

He was so sweet, god. He looked out for you.

You ran through the halls, feeling like your legs would give up any moment.

I’ll wait.

God, why it sounded so… comforting. Making your stomach flatter.

You rushed through the school gate, your eyes caught Zayne, sitting under the tree, reading his book.

“Zayne!” You shouted, catching his attention.

You stopped thanks to the tree, leaning yourself against it, trying to catch your breath.

“I-“ Zayne began, only to be stopped by puting finger which was held in front of you, silencing him by action. Because you swear if you would say something, while catching your breath, you’re going to suffocate.

He patiently waited in silence to let collect yourself, and after a while you pushed and apology out of you in one breath.

“I am sorry, I kept you waiting! I know I am a bad friend, that I should let you know, but my fricking PE teacher that despise me and my three future generations gave me 7 laps. I am telling you even a o-one..” you started to lose the air, catching your breath again, only to leading to make him laugh.

You made him laugh.

Zayne Li laughed.

Although rearely, but when it happened it always felt.. Welcoming.

He fixed his glasses and an amused sigh left his mouth, trying to collect himself after your mild crash put.

“Are you okay?” He asked, a little laugh coming with it.

“I want to throw up…”

“Then that’s a yes.” He smiled, took your bag to let your tense shoulders relax.

_________________________________________________

You closed the diary with a small smile.

Zayne.

Even though this happened a long time ago, he truly never changed.

He was always so caring, so understanding…

So Zayne.

You did not expect this, a memory that made you feel whole. Something warm stirring up inside you.

You closed the diary, gently this time, setting it on the counter, walking up to the bed, and laid under the comfy blankets.

Letting yourself sleep.

Letting yourself dream.

Letting yourself smile at the memories.

———————————————————————————

Days passed, since you read another of many pages of your diary, and your demeanor changed to your old self. Concentrated, full of energy, ready to make other people smile.

You were not the only one who was glad, Garett seemed more relaxed around you and the customers.

Maybe the diary was not a bad thing..

After all, a good memories could be found in the lists of pages.

But deep inside you knew, that the curious would take control once more and convince you to read another page. And then another.

And your gut told you, you might regret it.

So you’ve kept yourself busy, chained away from the diary that was every morning, every evening, every day, fighting for every chance to repeat its existence your mind, lulling you to drown yourself in the pages, memories once more.

It wanted to make you addicted to it.

Just as you were putting the clear mugs at a right place on the shelf, the doorbell woke you up from your thoughts. Another customer, you turned around, greeting them with your beaming smile.

“Hello! Order whenever you are rea-“

When you focused your gaze, to spot who you are sending your greetings to, the remaining words of reciting many times sentence, caught up in your throat. You stopped in your tracks, and secretly wishing if you were imagining things.

That person.

Oh, how many times you prayed to not ever see him, again

Hearing his name. Feeling his heavy presence.

Someone you hoped you would never meet again.

The same figure, posture, gaze..

Caleb Xia.

_________________________________________________

Thank you guys for the reading! A like, reblog, comments, criticism are deeply appreciated! I hope you enjoyed! If you want to be added to taglist, feel free to let me know!

Drink, eat and have a nice day! <3

Taglist: @animegamerfox

[chrisjw108]

A Captivating Flavor

Chapter One

Caleb x Non!Mc Barista!Reader

Chapter Two

Contains: Pure Fluff! + bit of angst!

AUTHORS NOTE:

English is not my first language.

First even written fanfic.

Not owning any mentioned character.

All characters are adults!

Mentions of Y/N, MC’s full name is Mireille Cooper

Enjoy!

Chapter two

____________________________________

Whenever you ask why you moved here, your answer is always just above you.

The beautiful shining dots, at the night sky.

Eternity of different colors, sizes, Tragedies, and uncertainties of their future.

Each one of them is individual.

Each one of them has a flavor.

A captivating scent threaded through the air. For a moment you dazed in your thoughts and forgot a spilling cup of coffee just by an inch.

Quickly, you pulled out of your fantasies and looked by a shoulder at your every-evening customer, Tara.

A large amount of sugar

Bit of honey

A lot of cream and toppings.

And Yigarheffe flavor.

And a smiley face on top.

Describing person as a flavor of coffee was nothing new to you. In fact, you found some enjoyment in it.

It was a lost easier, you thought

The finished product was placed in front of her, a beaming smile which you won't ever get tired of was plastered on the girl's face.

“Same as always?” She beams.

“Why would be here any difference?” You replied with small laugh.

“Weeeell, since we are not meeting as regularly as before, I thought you would make something… Missing.” Her response was gentle, but you felt a bit of tension beneath it.

“I am not mixing my feelings in anyone's coffee, Tara. You should know it.” You tried to laugh it off, but deep inside you hold the right answer.

A silence stretched between you and her, not the uncomfortable one.

The one where both sides for trying to find a right words.

She huffed: “Look, I am really sorry we cannot meet up any-“

“No no no Tara! It's okay, I know you have a lot wor-“

“-more with you and her.”

You immediately folded your voice to silence.

Mireille Cooper.

MC

Since your graduation from high school, for a long time you prayed not to hear that name again.

But the memories and thoughts always betray your wishes.

Tara's voice brought you back to reality.

You need a coffee.

“I.. Know you did not have a good finale of high school, and I know I was at your side at the time. But.. People change, so Mira and Ca-“

You put down your coffee with a bit of harshness into it, was quite surprised you did not spill it. Tara noticed, stopped the middle of the sentence with a slight huff, but still found the words for continuing.

“-Her and he changed, Y/N, So did you, So did I. We made our mistakes, and luckily time partly healed us from that. And… In a week we have a high school meet-up-“

“I apologise Tara but I.. Have to decline.” You felt guilty, well some part of you did.

Not for another interrupt, but for saying no.

She sighed, apologeticly, but she composed herself and smiled, understanding your judgement. You could only stare, not at her, but at then warm coffee in your hands, cupping it in them and slowly captivate yourself in the looks of it.

You lost your taste in it since… that day.

Something you cherished, hated, maybe both, but it was still part of you. You build carefully walls, at the missing part, that was ripped out of you.

You tried to not to think about it, even a thought, a memory made those walls slightly weaker.

A warm hand, welcoming touch was set on your shoulder, Understanding yet firm.

“Y/N, you understand my decision to be friends with her. She is my colleague now and connections are important between our workers. But... I would be a bad friend if I did not understand your decisions, if you are the one respecting mine.” She smiled, warmly.

God, you love her.

She was always there for you, a shield, a quiet promise to watch your back.

You could not blame her though, Tara was always there for everyone, for you, Zayne, and.. her.

That part hurt the most in your friendship.

You know they would cross their paths again in the future, both of them were aiming for the same career.

A successful one.

Maybe you were pitiful, bitter thanks to the past.

Something that you fear will be hard to change

Your response was a simple smile, knowing there was no need for words.

After you exchanged your goodbyes to each other, her words still remained in your mind, repeating.

Her and he changed, so did you, so did I.

God, why is it so hard? To forget? To move on?

After all, they were your true friends, years spent creating unforgettable memories that, unfortunately, still lives rent-free in your brain.

You were sweeping the floor, preparing to close the cafe, and this emotional day.

A shutting of the door sounded in your ears, immediately looking at the victim, who with high possibility cannot read the sign with the red mark Closed.

Or you forgot to lock the door.

“I am sorry, we are unfortunately closing off toda-“ you stopped in mid sentence when you saw a familiar figure.

Tall, slightly slumbed shoulders from exhaustion yet still with precision.

Eyes sharp and ready to read anything suspicious around them.

Zayne.

You were suprised, not because he showed up at this hour, but that he did not let you know.

“Zayne !” You beamed, carefully setting the broom against the wall, hugging him gently.

You felt a small, yet real smile crept up on his face and then returning hug with warm.

You missed this.

You cherished those times, alone, silent and a memories creating the warm feeling inside you.

Even though Zayne could from the first glance feel distant, even cold, he was one of the nicest people you got to know deeply.

“Apologies, I did not let you know about my unexpected visit… But at the last minute my shifts changed.” He replied, tone that was screaming exhaustion.

You huffed, pulled away, and turned on the Coffee machine.

“Zayne, I am not a doctor, but even I would recommend you to take a break-“

“I am taking one this weekend.” He sighed, probably more tired about your suggestion that you were replaying every single time you’ve met.

He wasn’t angry, he was certaint you were right.

“Finally! And what are you planning to do? Count your patients in your sleep?” you slightly laughed, felt his gaze at your hands how they were working effortlessly.

Dark brew, a high caffeine content, a tiny bit of sugar, and two cubes of ice.

In other words, hard working, delicate, and calm.

Describing a person by your taste was always something different, cherished in a group of close ones.

You set the final product, then it hit you, Zayne did not answer yet. Like he was trying to find the right one.

Then uncertain..

“I am going to.. a meet-up, with our old high school classmates.” He sipped his coffee, adding the finishing touch to his confession.

“…what?”

You were starting to get a bit anxious. You did not want to go, because you wanted to miss something.

Now you felt if you won’t go, there would be something missing. Like a puzzle piece.

“I wanted to look back, for a moment I want to go backwards, because I am starting to get exhausted how my life goes only forward.”

He confessed.

You sighed, a last bit of resisment starting to crack.

“Zayne, I know you want me to go, but I made my mind. I don’t wanna meet those lovebir-“

“They split up.” He intervened.

Silence

There is no way Caleb and MC-

“…excuse me?”

You hated yourself that you still cared.

________________________________________________

Eat, drink and have a nice day! <3

Hope you enjoyed!

[chrisjw108]

A Captivating Flavor

Caleb x Non!Mc Reader

Chapter One is up!

________________________________________________

Been obsessed with and idea of starting fanfic with

Caleb and Non!Mc Barista Reader at Skyhaven!

‼️ATTENTION‼️ the content ahead is JUST A DRAFT.

English is not my first language (far from it.)

This is my FIRST fanfic.

I am writing this on phone with spiderweb all over the display.

So please keep that in mind and also I would like some comeback or criticism in the comments!

Content: Fluff! + A bit of Angst

Scenario is set in universe where both characters are mature, in the final year of high school, dealing with their future, aka colleges.

Hope you enjoy!!

_________________________________________________

You sat on the roof of the car, silent breaths filling the silence, like if they were any louder, they break something inner.

Something innocent..

Something peaceful..

Something fragile.

Still, your brain did not found the right words, how to express those delicate parts of you out loud. You were scared, if you should fear of or cherish your future.

“Why don’t you come with me?” That question did not break the silence.

It broke something in you, resentment? Dismay?

“Huh?” your replied.

“You said you want to be towards them.” you looked at Caleb, just to saw him comfortably and silently looking above. You followed the path of his eyes, ending up smiling to see that near, yet far away a sacred place.

The stars.

“I don’t want to reach them, Caleb. I wanna see them. “

“But that feels distant.” He replied with certainty.

“Yet, not if you want to.” You replied with smile.

God, you loved those moments, with together, like the fate finally set the world for only you two.

You liked that both of you have forgotten about sleeping Michaela, just few steps away.

The peace, the understanding of it.

You felt his gaze linger on you, for a bit too long, then:

“Show me.”

You blinked few times, trying to understand his command.

“S..Show what?” You looked at him and god, you breath caught in your throat.

Those beautiful, purple eyes. Without resistment, without sharpness.

A soft gaze, that let you search deepness in it.

A hurt, reliability, and certitude.

That was Caleb, not the flirting grown up boy, with lazy smile, unoccupied posture, always saying sweet nothings to MC, always reliable at her side.

This was… different.

Those stars, in that moment, were just beside you. They were so close, yet so far away from you. If he was a star, you would be his moon.

And MC probably his sun.

You scoffed in your head at that remark.

After a long pause, where you two were lost in each other, you wanted to show him.

How somethings can be close, from the right perspective.

You jumped from the roof, gently taking his wrist in your linger touch.

“Then follow me” you gently smiled, with low voice, not wanting to ruin the moment.

He followed after you, feeling his gaze on the connection. And then you felt, how his hand was snatched away from you.

But not harshly, instead intended with care.

Just as your turned around, to see what is going on, you saw how he held your wrist.

So gently, precise with care, like you were something fragile, that can be broken so easily.

A breath was cough in your throat, you gasped silently, eyes locked were your connection was made.

He laughed, not lazily, amusingly.

“what? You were slipping away from me.”

You scoffed, then laughed, knowing there is no place left for an argument.

After a few minutes, walking in the forest, you found yourselves on meadow, where the view was priceless.

You saw it, stunned Caleb, watching, trying to believe it, and yet it happened.

His shoulders relaxed, slightly moving when the silent breath came out. Smile was created on your face, slightly turning towards him, but as you did, you stopped in your tracks.

The stars were beautifully reflecting themselves in his eyes.

Like they were also lost in those eyes.

You did not say nothing, action spoke louder than words. You sat down, the higher grass hugging your body and little shining fragments flying towards the sky from that movement.

Fireflies.

The fate really loved you today.

Caleb set his gaze on you, a deep with soft edges. You felt..

You could not describe it. You felt like his eyes had only you in them.

You.

Y/N.

Not MC.

He smiled, really smiled, and ran his hand trough the grass, creating motion to set the fireflies flying. It was beautiful.

His calmness, laugh…

No, he was beautiful.

After a while, he sat down, beside you, still looking up.

Then silent, thank you, you heard.

Your gaze was set up on him, when you heard those fragile words, especially from his mouth.

Your gaze was set up on him, when you heard those blessing two words, creating some reaction inside you.

Warm?..

Was it… love?

Everything stopped, you felt so light, unreal, like it was this moment just build for you two. Like the world didn’t revolve around her, just you and him.

It would be so easy, to lean in, set the fate and place your connection on those lips.

Little did you know, his phone vibrated.

Caleb immediately checked up.

You take everything back, tha fate hates you.

His smiled faltered, his sharp eyes filling the last bits of softness in it, he stood up turning his back.

Before you could manage, what is happening, you caught his wrist gently, hoping it would have the same effects before.

“Where are you going?” you asked, with gentleness, but with something beneath it. Fear.

He stopped, looking still to his phone and yet again, he snatched his wrist away. Not softly with intention, but harshly with obsession.

“Michaela has woken up, she is asking where I am. She is scared.. She is alone..”

“Caleb I-“

“Because I am here.” He did not ended his sentence.

He killed the moment.

You were… stunned, only few moments before, there was the sweet boy, and then turning into the creature with obsession by protecting something in his eyes cherished. Sacred.

Before you could mustered up anything, words, feeling, emotions, he left.

Leaving you with clouds of emotions…

And Sea in your eyes..

———————————————————————————

Hope you like it!

Reblogs, criticism, likes, comments reaaaaallly appreciated!!

Eat, drink and have a nice day! <3

[eelliotss]

— Borrowed time, part 4

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“Use me.”

word count = 8.5k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

also, i finally got to write the scene i wanted to 😭—took me over 10k words to get here but ugh finallyyyy

part 1 | masterlist

Peace has never felt more profound. Wrapped in the quiet hush of evening, the cool hum of the air conditioner, and the soft duvet cocooning your body, the weight of the world loosens its grip. The storm of thoughts, the heaviness pressing against your ribs—it all quiets, dissolving into the stillness.

Only when left alone, surrendered to the depths of sleep, do you finally feel light. Free. At ease.

But of course, peace was never meant to last. Not when you agreed to this trip.

Three knocks at the door. A soft beep of the lock.

“Yn? Are you still sleeping?”

MC’s voice pulls you from the haze of slumber, gentle but insistent. The mattress dips slightly as she steps closer.

You groan, turning away from the sound, but she only huffs.

“It’s already seven. You haven’t eaten anything all day.” Concern laces her words as she reaches out, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. A soft smile tugs at her lips. “You’re not burning up anymore.”

Blinking against the lingering blur of sleep, you rub your eyes, squinting up at her.

“Mhmm,” you mumble, barely coherent.

The tension in her shoulders eases at your response, the worry fading as a familiar brightness returns to her face.

“Here—eat.” She sets a bowl in your hands, warmth seeping through the ceramic. Steam rises, carrying the scent of something unmistakably familiar.

Dark green seaweed sways in golden broth, delicate strands floating between pieces of soft tofu.

Your brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Caleb made it.” She grins. “He was adamant about you finishing every last drop, so you better eat up.”

The words settle heavily in your chest.

You know this dish.

It’s the same soup you once made for him when he was too sick to get out of bed, voice hoarse, fever clouding his mind. The same one he had groggily murmured was the best thing he had ever tasted.

The warmth of the memory seeps in before you can stop it.

Back then, his voice had been hoarse, barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion.

“Caleb, you should eat.”

“Mmnh… not hungry…” He mumbled, shifting away from the dish in your hands, cheek pressed against the pillow.

You huffed, exasperated but unwilling to let him get away with it. “I promise it’ll make you feel better. Seaweed soups are the best for colds. Trust me.”

It took a few more tries to convince him. A few more weak protests before you had enough.

“Bzz, the airplane’s coming!” You guided the spoon toward his lips, making an exaggerated motion.

A smile flickered across his face, slow and lazy, before it stretched into something wider. “Pfft—Stop acting like I’m five!”

His laughter was bright, warm. It tugged at your heart in ways you didn’t want to admit.

“You’re acting like one, so I must treat you as one,” you countered, puffing your cheeks. “Now open up!”

His shoulders shook from suppressed giggles, but he relented, raising a mock defensive hand. “Okay, okay! Pfft—”

His laughter was cut off by a fit of coughs, his body curling in on itself slightly. Your expression immediately shifted, a deeper frown settling between your brows.

“Stop playing around. This is my secret recipe. It’ll stop you from starting another pandemic,” you scolded, pushing the spoon toward him again.

He groaned, but finally obeyed, letting the warmth of the soup settle in his mouth.

His eyes widened, lips parting in surprise.

“You weren’t joking,” he muttered, almost in awe. “This is really good.”

Fatigue seemed to lift slightly from his face, a softness settling in its place.

“See?” You huffed, victorious.

But then—his gaze softened in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

“Thank you, shortcake,” he murmured, reaching up with sluggish movements to ruffle your hair. His touch was light, absentminded. Familiar.

Your heart had tugged—just slightly.

Now, staring at the same soup, the warmth of the past curling in your chest like a ghost of something you no longer recognize, you swallow down whatever unspoken feeling rises in your throat.

“Well?” MC grins, nudging you. “Eat up before it gets cold.”

You hesitate, just for a moment, then lift the spoon to your lips.

It tastes the same.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t.

You take another spoonful, swallowing the warmth down along with the lump in your throat.

MC, oblivious to the thoughts stirring in your head, plops down beside you, stretching her limbs dramatically.

“God, today was exhausting,” she groans, tilting her head back. “I swear, if I have to redo that crying scene one more time, I might actually start sobbing for real.”

You hum absentmindedly, stirring the soup with your spoon.

“And Caleb—ugh, don’t get me started on him. He seemed really out of it today.” she continues, rolling onto her side to face you. “Like, he kept missing his queues, kept dazing in the middle of the shoot. Kept asking me if you ate, made me go shop for the soup’s ingredients with him, double-check the soup, even told me it was your favorite like I didn’t already know that.”

Your hand stills over the bowl.

MC doesn’t notice.

She sighs dramatically, propping her head up with one hand. “He even snapped at me earlier. Like, Caleb snapped at me. Can you believe that?”

You glance at her, arching a brow. “What did he say?”

She huffs. “I was teasing him, you know? Asking if he’s finally realizing he’s in love with you or whatever. And he just looked at me—like, seriously looked at me—and said, ‘She’s sick, Michaela.’ Like, what?”

Something sharp presses against your chest, but you don’t acknowledge it.

MC groans again, stretching her arms before flopping back onto the bed. “I get it, though,” she sighs, rolling onto her side to face you. Then, without warning, she grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly.

“I was worried sick about you too, Yn.” Her voice softens, the teasing gone. “Don’t go fainting like that again, okay? You gotta tell me if you’re too tired. I need you to be okay.”

You stare at her, her fingers warm against yours, grounding you in a way nothing else has. The weight in your chest—the anger, the ache that’s been gnawing at you since this trip began—fades, just a little.

Because this is MC.

Bright, infuriating, golden MC, who always means it when she says she cares.

And you love her for it.

You love her.

You always have.

So despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the way the world has been tilting under your feet—you smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur, squeezing her hand back. “I know.”

Her lips curl into a grin, her eyes gleaming like the sun itself. And just like that, just for a second, the world feels a little lighter.

“Anyways, enough about that. You need to catch up on all the drama you missed today. And—”

She launches into a rant, animated as ever, filling the room with stories of the ‘earth-shattering’ events you somehow survived without.

Somewhere between her exaggerated retellings and her scandalized gasps, you find yourself laughing.

And just like that, the fatigue melts away.

You only realize you’ve finished the soup when MC casually plucks the empty bowl from your hands, setting it on the table without missing a beat.

She keeps talking, her words tumbling out in a steady, animated stream—until they don’t.

You notice it immediately.

The slight stutter. The way her voice falters mid-sentence. The way her fingers suddenly fidget with the loose threads of the blanket. The way a soft, barely-there pink dusts her cheeks.

Your brows furrow slightly. “MC?”

She clears her throat, forcing a casual laugh. “Sorry, I just—uh—” she waves a hand, trying to dismiss whatever just flustered her, but you catch it. You always catch it.

The way her lips press together. The way her eyes flicker away, focusing anywhere but you.

Suspicion creeps in. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“MC.”

She groans dramatically, covering her face with her hands before peeking through her fingers, her voice dropping ever so slightly.

“It’s just—I was practicing lines with Sylus today, and—”

She hesitates, the words caught somewhere between reluctance and amusement.

Your brows lift.

Sylus?

Of course, you know he’s popular. You’ve seen the way girls linger around him, how they find excuses to talk to him. But MC?

Your lips part slightly, but before you can say anything, something else creeps in—unbidden.

The warmth of his body on the tip of your fingers.

The sharp scent of rain clinging to his skin.

The steady grip of his hand, pulling you away from the storm.

The way he leaned against the wall, damp silver strands falling over his eyes, a towel draped over his shoulders, sharp and unbothered.

The quiet turn of a page, his presence steady, grounding, when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow.

The memories pass in a flash, leaving behind something you don’t quite understand.

MC doesn’t notice your silence. She groans again, shaking her head.

“Ugh, never mind. It’s not a big deal,” she mutters, but there’s a warmth on her face she can’t quite hide.

Your lips twitch.

“Oh my god,” you gasp dramatically, eyes widening as you lean in closer. “Are you blushing?”

MC swats at you with a pillow, groaning into her hands. “I said never mind!”

That only makes your grin widen.

“No, no, this is important information,” you tease, nudging her shoulder. “MC, do you have a crush on Sylus?”

She groans even louder, flopping onto the bed in defeat.

“Shut up, Yn. My character has a crush on his character. I’m just way too immersed in the acting!”

You laugh, the sound light, genuine.

•

The next few days go by like a blur.

You wake up to MC’s blaring alarm.

You get ready.

You practice your part.

You film.

You watch MC film.

You watch her cheeks flush a little more in scenes she shares with Sylus.

You watch their characters develop.

You eat.

You listen to her rants.

You enjoy the sunset, alone.

You sleep.

Like clockwork, everything plays out like it did yesterday.

And just like everything else, he is on replay, too.

His voice weaves itself into your routine, persistent and unrelenting. A teasing remark over breakfast. A lazy greeting when he passes by. A nudge here, a comment there. Always casual. Always acting as if nothing happened.

“Still mad, shortcake?”

“Damn, I didn’t know you had this much endurance. Impressive.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t respond.

“Was today tiring?”

You don’t acknowledge him.

“Are you hungry?”

You don’t even look at him.

“Someone’s making a full-time career out of dodging me.”

It’s almost comical, how hard he’s trying to act like things are fine. Like you didn’t stand there, glaring at him with every ounce of anger you could muster just a few nights ago. Like you weren’t left in the rain, stranded in a memory of him choosing her, again.

But that’s Caleb. Always brushing things off, playing it cool, making it seem like nothing ever really matters.

And maybe if you weren’t still seething, it would’ve worked.

And to an extent, maybe it has.

Because the desperation in his eyes seems to seep out a little more with every interaction.

And when he leans a little too close one afternoon, when his fingers brush against your wrist as he tries to catch your attention, your heart still skips. But the scene of that night haunts you. The line cutting, her laughter, his tender eyes looking at her. So you snatch your hand away, sharp and final.

The laughter in his eyes dims, if only for a second.

“Damn. Harsh.” His playful tone faltering a little.

You don’t answer.

And after each of these interactions, your eyes always somehow find its way to the man lingering on the side. And more often than not, you meet his gaze. His ruby eyes pierces through you with a smug smirk plastered on his face.

Oh how much you hate that smug face of his.

It’s a look that says he’s watching. That he’s amused.

Like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. Like he already knows how this game ends.

You tear your gaze away, but it’s too late. That smirk is already burned into your mind, curling at the edges of your thoughts, creeping under your skin.

Sylus never says much. He lingers—always just far enough to be uninvolved, yet close enough to witness everything.

Though every single time, he holds your gaze just long enough to let you know that he sees you.

And maybe that should feel comforting.

Maybe it should make you feel like you’re finally being seen.

But with him—with the way his eyes glint like he’s one step ahead, like he’s entertained by something you don’t even understand yet—

it doesn’t feel like comfort.

It feels like a warning.

•

“Hey! Can someone grab more drinks?”

“On it!” you shout.

Being done with all of your scenes, you try to help out around the set where you can. You walk away from the beach and to the parking lot where the tents and coolers are set under the trees’ shades. The bickers and chatters fade into the heat as you approach the swaying canopy. The air is heavier here—thicker, still carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen but now mixed with the plasticky cool of stored ice.

You crouch by one of the coolers, popping the lid open, letting a gust of chilled air wash over your arms.

The silence here is different.

Less alive, less buzzing.

You should be relieved.

But instead, all you can hear is the echo of their voices.

“She’s pretty good at acting,” someone says.

“She does her job well,” another agrees.

“We should’ve given her another role. She could’ve pulled off a character with more significance.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. She acts well, but she doesn’t shine. Not like her.”

You exhale, pressing your lips together.

Something inside you tenses.

The other laughs in response. “Of course, I wasn’t comparing her to Machela. Their auras are very different. One’s the main character, the other’s a decent supporting. You can’t compare them.”

Your brows knit together.

You keep your hands still, your breath steady. You don’t react, don’t turn, don’t acknowledge the way the words settle against your skin like grains of sand—light and fleeting, but impossible to shake off

It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

They’re just opinions, just talk.

You don’t care. You’ve never cared.

You know your role. You know your place.

And yet—your gaze betrays you.

Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flicker to the beach, to her.

MC stands effortlessly at the center of it all, bathed in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by the main characters, the ones who make the scene come alive.

Even among them, she stands out.

She doesn’t try to shine, she doesn’t try to call for attention—she just does.

And then there’s you, just there.

Blending so well into the background that no one even notices you listening.

You swallow, pushing away the uncomfortable weight creeping up your throat.

A breeze stirs the trees, making the tents flutter. You reach into the ice, grabbing a handful of cans, the cold biting against your fingertips.

You exhale, force your shoulders to relax, and do what you always do.

You shake it off. You move.

You quickly grab as many drinks as you can hold and hurry back to the set.

“Who wants water?” Your voice bright, easy.

You step back onto the sand, the heat pressing down on your skin, the voices of the crew and cast swelling around you once more. The coolness of the shade lingers faintly on your fingertips, already fading as you carry the drinks back.

But the words silently follow your trails.

“Oh my god, you’re a life saver!”

MC’s voice snaps you out of it as she practically lunges for one of the cans in your hands, tearing it open like she’s been stranded on this beach for days. She presses it to her cheek, sighing dramatically.

“I’m dying,” she groans, tipping her head back for a long gulp. “Why did I agree to film on a beach? Who thought this was a good idea?”

Before you can answer, another shadow falls over you.

A shift in the air. A presence that arrives so smoothly, so effortlessly, that you don’t even notice until he’s already there.

Sylus.

He reaches out and plucks a drink from your hand, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing the condensation-slick surface.

Then—he opens it.

The sound is sharp against the hazy heat, a crisp hiss that barely lingers before he tips the can back.

And you watch.

The way his throat moves as he drinks, slow and deep, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The way a bead of sweat drips from his temple, trailing down the sharp line of his jaw, catching in the dip of his collarbone before disappearing beneath his shirt.

For a second, the world feels too slow.

When he lowers the can, he’s already looking at you.

“What?” he says, voice smooth, amused, a smirk tugging lazily at his lips. “Not for me?”

Your face immediately scrunches up.

Not a word leaves your mouth, but the reaction is enough.

Sylus chuckles, taking another sip like he’s entertained by something only he understands.

Then, just as effortlessly as he arrived, he turns and walks off, the warm breeze ruffling through his hair, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace of cool metal and salt air.

Silence settles between you and MC.

It takes you a second to notice it—the fact that she hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word.

You glance at her. The red dusting her face. The way she presses her lips together, eyes darting everywhere but where Sylus just stood.

Something tugs at your chest.

A feeling—small, unclear, curling at the edges of your ribs like an itch you can’t quite scratch.

You don’t exactly understand it, nor do you want to.

So you push it down, bury it deep, shove it away before it can take shape.

“Oh,” you hum, forcing a smirk on your lips.

MC immediately stiffens. “No.”

“Ohhh.”

“No, no, no!” She flails her hands in front of her face like she can physically push the accusation away.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You totally are.”

She lets out a strangled noise, shaking her head so fast her hair whips around her shoulders. “I—I’m not crushing!” she wails, throwing her hands up. “I’m just—ugh, it’s the next scene, okay?!”

You pause.

The next scene.

The kiss scene.

With Sylus.

You blink, then grin. “That’s what you’re nervous about?”

MC groans, dragging a hand down her face. “He’s so annoying,” she grumbles. “How am I supposed to do this with someone who just—oozes arrogance?” She gulps down the drink in her hands, turning away.

“Try not to melt, yeah? Would be real awkward if the crew had to scrape you off the floor after this.” A playful voice interrupts your conversation.

Caleb.

He strides toward the two of you, effortless as always, plucking a can from your hands and popping it open with a crisp hiss. His smirk is there—light, teasing, the same one he always wears when he’s messing around.

But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

His gaze flicks to the spot where Sylus had just been.

Something in his jaw tightens.

Others might have missed it, but you know him too well. You’re well too accustomed to watching him, seeing all his micro movements when he interacts with MC.

His fingers curl just a little too tightly around the can, knuckles faintly stiff.

Still, he plays it off.

“So,” he drawls, turning back to MC, forcing that smirk back into place. “How long are you gonna make us suffer through this? You practicing, or are we just skipping to the part where you swoon?”

MC snaps to attention, the red still fresh on her face. “I don’t—shut up.”

Caleb clicks his tongue, mockingly thoughtful. “Huh. So defensive. Makes you wonder.”

“You wonder too much,” she fires back, narrowing her eyes.

“Nah,” he grins, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I just have an eye for lost causes.”

And then, before she can dodge, he presses the cold can against her cheek.

MC yelps, jerking away. “Caleb—what the hell!”

“Thought you were overheating,” he muses, completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t want you fainting before the big scene.”

MC glares, rubbing at her cheek like he’s personally offended her. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Still a better option than him.”

MC groans. “Are you seriously insulting Sylus right now?”

“I’m just saying,” Caleb shrugs, casual. “The guy looks like he bites.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re gonna let him lick your face in front of all of us.”

“It’s a kiss, you idiot—”

“Same difference.”

Before MC can strangle him, the director’s voice cuts through the chatter.

“Alright, places, everyone! Let’s run the scene.”

MC freezes.

The teasing dies.

Caleb hums. “Uh-oh. That’s your cue.”

She exhales sharply, smoothing down her clothes like that’ll somehow fix her nerves.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says lightly, taking another sip. “It’s just a scene, right?”

MC glares at him, muttering something under her breath before stomping toward the set.

His eyes follow her form, watching her go.

Caleb’s smirk lingers, but it’s hollow now—more muscle memory than anything else.

Then, without a word, he crushes the empty can in his fist.

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there, staring at the crumpled metal in his hand, feeling the weight of everything he isn’t saying.

The sharp crunch of aluminum still lingers in the air when you finally take a step back, about to turn away—

But before you can, his hand grabs your wrist.

Firm. Unrelenting.

Your breath catches.

“Come here,” he mutters, low, rough, before pulling you with him.

You barely have time to react before you’re being led away from the crowd, past the chatter, past the cameras and the blinding sun.

He doesn’t stop until you’re tucked into the shadows of a secluded corner, hidden behind a wall where no one can see.

Only then does he let go.

Only then does he turn to you, dark eyes burning with something too raw, too intense.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks.

The words hit the air, heavier than they should be.

You blink. “What—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice is frustrated, breath uneven. “I know I messed up. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”

He stops himself, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s barely holding something together.

Then, before you can move—

His hands press against the wall, caging you in.

Not touching you. But close.

Too close.

His scent fills your senses—something warm, sharp, unmistakably him.

“You can’t convince yourself to hate me with every fiber of your being, wouldn’t you agree?” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less desperate. “I’ll eventually find a way to make things right. As long as…” he pauses. His breaths are shuddering.

Your heart stutters.

“You’re by my side,” he whispers.

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting—

And then, softer, rougher—

“Please.”

A breath.

“I need you now more than ever.”

The words sink into your skin, settle into your chest, and God—

It hurts.

Because you know.

You know this isn’t about you.

Not really.

Not in the way you want it to be.

He’s frustrated. He’s angry. Not at you—but at something else, at someone else, at the way things are slipping through his fingers.

And here you are.

Pulled into the scene like always.

Here to fill in the gaps.

Here to be the character he needs in this moment.

Your throat tightens.

Your fingers curl into fists.

You don’t shove him away.

You don’t give in, either.

You just look at him.

At the tension in his jaw. At the way his chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

“Action!”

The director’s voice rings out.

Like a snapped thread, Caleb pulls away.

Your attention shifts

And you see it.

The perfect scene unfolding before you.

The setting sun drenches the world in gold, soft and warm, casting a glow over the sand, the ocean, the two figures at the center of it all.

MC and Sylus.

MC in the center, like always.

Sylus’s hands rest on her waist, firm but careful. His fingers trace along the curve of her back, pulling her closer, into him, into his world. His head tilts, his smirk faint, unreadable—like he’s in control of every beat of this moment.

MC leans in.

Slow, hesitant, shy.

Like a girl falling into the gravity of a man she can’t escape.

The light catches the soft parting of her lips, the uncertainty, the delicate trust in her expression.

Sylus’s fingers tighten, and he closes the distance.

Their lips brush—light at first—before she melts into him, hands lifting to his chest.

It’s effortless.

Beautiful.

The kind of moment people will remember.

The picture-perfect romance.

A story falling into place.

Your stomach twists.

It’s not the kiss itself that gets to you. It’s the way the scene feels like fate, the way it’s framed, the way the world seems to bend itself around her like she was always meant to be at the center.

Like everything happens for her.

And, as if to prove your point—you gaze shifts.

And you see Caleb.

He’s watching the scene.

Watching her.

His breaths are coming even more uneven than before.

Not obvious, not noticeable to most.

But, caged between his arms, you see it.

The way his chest rises just a little too fast, the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, the way his jaw locks so tightly you swear he might break something.

And your chest burns more than ever.

You hate it. You hate everything about this.

You hate how, no matter what happens—this world, this story, this entire thing, bends itself around her.

That all of you—you, Caleb, and even Sylus— are just pieces in the grand design of her narrative.

That no matter where you stand, no matter what you do—

MC is the one the light falls on.

She is the one everything happens for.

She is the one whose all her wishes come true.

You hate it. You hate how you’re just here.

Always here.

Always playing a role in someone else’s story.

And you hate it most that your eyes are turning green looking at her.

That the jealousy creeping up your throat, curling tight in your chest, isn’t just about the scene or the way Sylus or Caleb seem to orbit around her.

It’s about the way the world chooses her, time and time again.

And the fact that you’re bitter about it—

That you feel this way at all—

God, you hate it.

“You don’t need me, Caleb.” your voice much weaker than you want it to be.

You push him out, and quickly turn away, walking off, leaving the beach, the golden sunset, the picture-perfect scene.

And if Caleb calls after you—you don’t hear it.

You don’t want to.

•

The night air presses against your skin, cool but not enough. Not enough to wash away the tension in your chest, not enough to erase the way your own voice had echoed back at you—

The long walk you took should’ve made you feel lighter.

You should feel relieved.

But you don’t.

Instead, the weight follows you, pressing against your ribs with every step, every breath, every slow drag of the tide pulling at the shore. The muffled sounds of the set fade behind you, swallowed by the darkness of the beach.

Only when you get closer to the resort do you start hearing the music.

It starts as a distant thrum, pulsing faintly through the heavy night air. A low bassline reverberating from somewhere ahead, blending with the sound of crashing waves. It takes a second to register, for your feet to slow, for the familiar heat of it to sink in.

The afterparty.

It’s inside the main house, a sprawling beachfront villa that serves as the cast and crew’s retreat after long filming days. The windows glow golden and inviting, the silhouette of moving bodies visible through the sheer curtains.

You hover near the doorway.

Inside, the world is warmer, hazier, looser.

The weight of the evening still sits heavy on your shoulders, but no one else seems to notice. No one else cares.

People are sprawled across couches, tucked into booths, pressed against walls, drinks in hand, faces flushed from alcohol and laughter. The lighting is low, a mixture of dim lamps and fairy lights strung along the ceiling, flickering against the glass like trapped fireflies. The scent of spilled liquor, cheap cologne, and the lingering trace of bonfire smoke fills the air.

MC is somewhere in the center of it all.

You see her immediately.

Perched on the arm of a couch, grinning, draped in warmth and attention, her head tilting back in laughter as someone hands her another drink. She looks effortless, as if the day never happened, as if the weight of the scene she filmed with Sylus didn’t still cling to her like it does to you.

She glows.

Like she always does.

And for the first time, you don’t want to be anywhere near her.

Not tonight.

You turn away, slipping past the clusters of people, past the thrumming energy, and find a quiet corner.

A small table sits against the wall, lined with bottles, a stack of plastic cups haphazardly placed beside them.

You grab one.

Then a bottle.

The first drink goes down too fast. The second burns, but you barely react. The third is easier, a slow warmth spreading through your limbs, seeping into your fingers, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts.

You lean back against the wall, fingers wrapped loosely around the cup, and watch as the night moves on without you.

MC is spinning, giggling, spilling half her drink as she sways to the music. Someone reaches for her waist, catching her just before she loses her balance. Caleb.

He’s there, as always.

Steadying her, teasing her, watching her.

You tip your cup back, draining the rest of your drink.

The music swells, the bass thrumming against your skin. The alcohol curls deeper into your system, warm and heady, numbing the part of you that still feels too present, too aware.

You don’t want to be aware.

You just want to sit here in this corner, where no one is watching, where no one is expecting anything from you.

And for a while, you do.

Drink after drink, until the night feels softer at the edges, until the sound of laughter no longer feels like it belongs to a world you can’t touch.

But then, a loud clap pierces through the room and the music lowers.

The music lowers.

“Alright, listen up! It’s time to bring some romance to life!”

The energy shifts.

People perk up, some groaning, some cheering, all of them gravitating toward the center of the room.

You barely react, swirling the last bit of alcohol in your cup.

But then, you hear it.

“Seven minutes in heaven, baby! Who’s in?”

Your fingers tighten around your drink.

MC perks up immediately, eyes gleaming with the kind of reckless excitement that only comes with being several drinks in.

Caleb groans, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning.

Meanwhile, you simply sigh as your gaze falls back to the cup in your hand.

Because of course it’s this.

Of course this night, like everything else, will find a way to make her the center of it.

“We’re going to spice things up a little bit,” someone announces over the music, their voice dripping with amusement. A cup filled with rolled-up pieces of paper rattles in their hands as they shake it for emphasis.

“Instead of randomly drawing two names, only one name will be called.”

A pause. Anticipation thickens the air, curious murmurs rippling through the crowd.

The person smirks. “Once that name is called, you’ll be given ten seconds to either volunteer yourself or—” they tilt the cup teasingly, “your friend to be their partner.”

A wave of excitement rolls through the room. Some people cheer, some groan, some exchange knowing glances. A few shove their friends forward, already laughing at the thought of throwing them into the game.

The first name is drawn.

Someone calls it out, and there’s a brief, charged pause before someone steps forward, dramatically throwing their hands up. The crowd erupts as they disappear behind the door, laughter and wolf whistles chasing after them.

Then another name.

And another.

Each round follows the same pattern—a pause, then cheering, then the shuffle of two people slipping into the closet.

Some stumble back out minutes later, flushed and breathless, met with hollers and teasing. Others laugh it off, shaking their heads, grinning like they’ve just escaped something ridiculous.

The alcohol, the music, the flickering lights—everything feels looser, bolder, dipping further into recklessness with each passing round.

People egg each other on, nudging shoulders, calling out names before they’re even drawn, spurring the night forward like a challenge.

And then—

Another name is pulled.

The voice rings loud over the noise.

And your heart stops.

“Yn!”

Heads turn. Conversations pause. A slow wave of curiosity and anticipation ripples through the crowd as people glance around, searching for you.

“There she is!”

A pair of hands grab your wrist before you can even think about running.

Laughter spills around you as you’re dragged through the throng of people, the heat of bodies pressing in from all sides. Your pulse spikes, the alcohol in your system making everything feel sluggish yet sharp all at once—like you’re wading through a dream you can’t control.

They stop right in front of the closet.

Someone swings an arm over your shoulders, grinning.

“Sooo,” they drawl, their voice dripping with mischief, “who’d like to partner up with her?”

A beat of silence follows.

A moment—thick, expectant.

And then—

The crowd parts.

The shift is subtle at first, a presence cutting through the sea of bodies, slow, unhurried, inevitable.

Then you see him.

He steps forward with the kind of effortless confidence that demands attention—shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his fitted black slacks, the faintest smirk curling at his lips.

The room reacts before you do.

A low hum of interest, a few knowing whistles, someone muttering “Oh, shit.”

And God, does he know what he’s doing.

His stride is measured, each step slow and deliberate, the kind that makes you feel like he’s taking his time just to make a statement. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows along his jawline, highlighting the sculpted edges of his face—the messily tousled silver hair, the piercing crimson eyes that lock onto yours like a brand.

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t waver.

Just watches you as he approaches, like he’s already decided—like this was never even up for discussion.

Then, finally—

He stops right in front of you.

Too close.

The warmth of him seeps into the space between you, a contrast to the cool scent of his cologne—something crisp, dark, dangerous in a way that makes your stomach twist.

He tilts his head, the movement slow, teasing.

“What?” his voice is smooth, low enough that only you can hear. “Not for me?”

The words slam into you like a punch to the gut—because he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

The room erupts around you, people whooping, clapping, some downright losing their minds over the fact that Sylus fucking Qin just stepped forward for this game.

You swallow.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your pulse spikes, heat curling at the edges of your skin—not just from the alcohol, not just from the intensity of his gaze, but from the sheer presence of him.

Your eyes flicker around the room, anxious of all the cheering going on. Though, it lands on her. On MC.

Your breath catches.

She is staring. Not laughing. Not cheering like the others.

And for the first time tonight, she looks shocked.

Like this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Like this wasn’t part of the story she had in her head.

Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your spine.

However, you were quickly pulled out of your daze when someone claps you on the back, pushing you forward.

The crowd cheers louder and the closet door swings open.

Darkness yawns before you.

Sylus steps forward first, his hand brushing against your lower back as he guides you inside. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done this before. Like he’s leading you somewhere only he understands.

The door clicks shut.

And the world is swallowed whole.

The music, the voices, the party—it all fades, muffled by the thick wooden walls, leaving only this.

Only him.

Your breath comes uneven, your pulse a heavy drumbeat in your ears, because suddenly, the space around you feels too small. The darkness presses in from all sides, thick and stifling, and the only thing clouding your senses—

Is him.

Sylus leans back against the door, his presence unshakable, his scent thick in the air.

Woody. Dark. A hint of spice laced with something richer, smokier.

Cigar musk and worn leather. Something dangerously smooth, something that lingers.

You can’t see him, but you feel him.

Feel the warmth of his body just inches away. Feel the gravity of him, the way he takes up space without even trying.

The realization of your positions slams into you, sharp and sudden, sending heat curling through your stomach.

You take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go—the closet is too small, too tight, too suffocatingly intimate.

A chuckle. Low, amused, sinful.

“Already nervous?” His voice is pure velvet, thick with the kind of arrogance that makes your stomach tighten.

You swallow, your fingers twitching at your sides.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Mm.” He hums, unconvinced.

The air between you is loaded, heavy, charged with something you don’t know how to name.

And then—

A shift.

A quiet creak of leather. A faint rustle of fabric.

He moves.

Closer.

You don’t even hear him step forward, don’t see him in the thick darkness—but you feel it. The way the space tightens. The way his heat licks at your skin, close enough to touch.

Close enough that if you just reached out—

A warm breath skims along your jaw.

You freeze.

Not touching. Not yet. But so close it doesn’t even matter.

Your own breath hitches, and that’s when you feel it—

His smirk.

You can’t see it. But you can feel it.

The way the air shifts between you, the way the silence stretches, the way his head tilts just slightly, like he’s waiting.

Like he’s playing with his food.

The muscles in your stomach tighten.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice dipping even lower, more intimate, like a secret meant only for you. “Not used to being this close to me?”

Your fingers curl into fists, nails biting into your palms.

And God, you hate him for this.

For the way he gets under your skin without even trying.

For the way he makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous, something uncontrollable, something that might swallow you whole if you let it.

The air between you is charged, electric, the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too hot, too tight.

A low chuckle erupts from his chest, its vibrations reaching yours. He leans down towards your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

“Use me.”

The words hit the air like a match against gasoline.

Your breath catches.

A smirk curves against the dark. He knows.

Of course he knows.

“Use me to make him jealous.”

Your stomach tightens, heat spreading through your limbs like liquid fire.

You swallow. “That’s—”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” His voice dips lower, a soft, taunting hum, stepping closer, just enough that you catch the faintest trace of clean linen and something sharp beneath it.

You hate that your pulse spikes.

You hate that he’s right.

You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how effortlessly he peels you open without even touching you.

You part your lips to deny it, but—

“Or,” he muses, tilting his head slightly, voice edged with something wicked, something dangerous, something that makes your knees feel weak—

“If you’d rather make it more interesting…”

A pause. A shift. A fraction of movement, barely there—

But you feel it.

The brush of his breath against your skin, the slow, unbearable closeness.

“…Use me to make her jealous.”

Your breath stutters.

He sees it.

He feels it.

And the slow, lazy smirk that tugs at his lips—it’s lethal.

Like he’s already won.

Like he knows exactly what buttons he’s pushing.

Like he’s daring you to say yes.

Your fingers curl into fists. Heat rolls beneath your skin, something dangerous, something reckless.

You should tell him to fuck off.

You should shove him away.

You should—

But you don’t.

Because in this moment, in this dark, stifling space—

You don’t know what you want more.

To prove him wrong.

Or to let him be right.

Perhaps it’s the pain you’ve been swallowing for months, the way it’s settled deep in your ribs, pressing against your lungs like a bruise that refuses to fade.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, heavy in your bloodstream, loosening your grip on restraint, making you weak to the things you never let yourself touch.

Or maybe—maybe—it’s the way your stomach twists at the memory of her face.

MC’s wide, stunned eyes. The sharp sting of betrayal flashing across her features.

And as much as you hate it, as much as that look should send you crumbling—

Some twisted part of you puffs.

Some part of you, buried beneath layers of resentment, self-doubt, and the endless role of being cast in the background, thrives on it.

Because for once—for once—she is not the one standing in the center of the world.

For once, you have something she doesn’t.

And maybe it’s wrong. Maybe you’ll hate yourself for this later.

But right now—right now—

The weight of Sylus’s heat against you, the scent of smoke and clean linen and something sharp curling into your senses, pressing into the empty spaces inside you—

It’s stopping you from thinking straight.

And when his lips part, when his breath brushes over your skin, when the last thread of tension pulls taut between you—

You stop thinking altogether.

Because before you can second-guess yourself—

You grab him.

Fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, yanking him down, crashing into him like you’ve lost control of gravity itself.

Heat.

Pressure.

It is all you can feel.

His lips crash against yours, and everything ignites.

Your lips slowly move, and his follow suit. You can feel the smirk on his lips.

That damned smirk.

But your mind is wiped clean as soon as he tilts his head, the kiss turning hungrier. The tension builds, unraveling into something desperate, something heavy, something neither of you have the willpower to stop anymore.

Sylus lets out a low, dark chuckle against your mouth, but you swallow it whole.

He recovers quickly—of course he does—because the moment you give in, he’s already taking.

His hands slam against the wall behind you, pinning you between him and nothing else, his body pressing in, heat bleeding through his clothes and onto your skin.

The kiss is rough, deliberate, his lips moving against yours with slow precision, dragging, teasing, tasting.

Like he’s memorizing you.

Like he’s proving a point.

Your breath shudders when he bites, just enough to sting, just enough to make your knees buckle.

You hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Hate that he’s making you melt so easily.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, gripping him tight, using it as leverage when you press your body flush against his.

A sharp inhale from him.

A brief pause.

His fingers dive into your hair, twisting, tugging, tilting your head back as his mouth slants over yours, harder this time.

Deeper.

His other hand slides down, skimming over your ribs, tracing heat into your skin through your clothes before settling at your waist.

Firm. Possessive.

You don’t even realize you’ve been backing up until your back hits the closet wall and he presses in, caging you there, forcing you to feel every inch of him.

Your head spins.

The alcohol, the heat, the weight of him—it’s too much. But not enough.

A low groan rumbles deep in his chest when you tug at his hair, nails raking lightly against his scalp.

And then, his lips break away from yours—just barely, just enough to breathe against your mouth, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his swollen lips.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he murmurs, voice thick, husky, laced with something dangerous.

You exhale, your own lips tingling, your chest rising and falling too fast.

“Shut up.”

His teeth flash in the dimness, his breath hot against your lips.

Your grip tightens on his shirt, but it does nothing to steady you.

Sylus moves slowly—deliberate, like he’s savoring this moment, like he has all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

His hands dip beneath your shirt, fingers curling against your waist, his touch cool against the heat of your skin.

You shudder, a sharp inhale betraying you as his fingers start to move—slow, teasing strokes, tracing along the sensitive dip of your spine, mapping you out like he’s memorizing you by touch alone.

His mouth hovers just over yours, his breath fanning against your lips, his smirk felt more than seen in the heavy darkness.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice a low hum of amusement, his fingers pressing just slightly harder into your waist.

You bite your lip, hating the way your body responds to him, the way his touch burns through the fabric of your self-control.

“I’m not shaking.”

Sylus laughs, a deep, satisfied sound, his grip flexing slightly—his thumbs skimming just beneath the curve of your ribs, fingertips lingering dangerously close to places they shouldn’t be.

“Sure,” he muses, tilting his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then—he shifts.

A slow, taunting drag of his mouth, skimming along the curve of your jaw, down to the edge of your throat.

You swallow hard, your pulse thundering beneath his lips.

“You still thinking about them?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something dark, coaxing, his fingers spreading wider, pressing into the dip of your lower back, pulling you flush against him.

The sharp heat of his body bleeds through your clothes, overwhelming, intoxicating, making it impossible to focus on anything other than him.

His mouth brushes against your neck—just barely, just enough—and a low, approving hum vibrates from his chest when he feels your breath catch.

“Good,” he whispers, voice dark with satisfaction.

His hands trail higher, warmer, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, his touch searing against your bare skin.

His fingers splay over the curve of your spine, pressing in just enough to make you arch, just enough to remind you that he has full control of this moment.

“You know,” he murmurs, lips grazing against your throat, voice thick with amusement, “when I said to use me…”

His hands continue their slow ascent, fingertips tracing along the delicate line of your ribs, slipping under the thin strap of your bra, his knuckles brushing dangerously close to places that would mean no turning back.

“I was talking about simply making it seem like we did something.”

He pauses.

A teasing smirk curls against your skin.

“Didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”

Your breath stutters.

A sharp mix of heat and indignation surges through you, twisting deep in your stomach, because he’s playing with you.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and he loves every second of it.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tighter, a silent warning, a desperate attempt to keep yourself together.

He just chuckles—low, dark, sinful.

“Getting shy now?” His voice is all arrogance, his hands still skimming, still testing, still pushing you to the edge of losing control completely.

You hate him.

God, you hate him.

But you hate yourself more for the way your body leans into him, for the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze your pulse, for the way his heat drowns you whole.

And the worst part?

He knows.

He always knows.

His lips ghost over your skin, the smirk never leaving.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice velvet-smooth, “if I slipped my hands a little lower, would you stop me?”

Your stomach flips.

Your grip tightens.

But you don’t answer.

And that silence is exactly what he needs.

Sylus hums, a low, knowing sound, his fingers tightening against your spine, dragging heat along your skin as they trail downward again—slow, teasing, excruciating.

And then, his lips move, lower—tracing just barely along the column of your throat, hovering, not quite touching, not quite giving in.

“No protest?” His voice is mocking, rich with amusement and something darker, something heavier.

His fingers skim along the waistband of your jeans, just a whisper of pressure, enough to send a jolt through your system, enough to make your nails bite into his shirt, into his skin beneath it.

Your pulse hammers, every muscle in your body coiled so tightly you swear you might snap.

His breath brushes against your ear, soft, deliberate, taunting.

“Still not stopping me?”

You should.

You should.

But your body betrays you, tilting into his touch, into his heat, into the danger of him.

Sylus hums, a deep, satisfied sound, his fingers hooking onto the waistband of your jeans—

A knock shatters the daze you were in.

Loud. Sharp.

The closet door rattles slightly.

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” someone calls, muffled through the wood.

Everything freezes.

Your breath catches.

Sylus doesn’t move, not immediately.

For a long, tense second, his fingers linger—just barely pressing into your skin, his body still flush against yours, his lips hovering just over your jaw.

Though slowly, deliberately, devastatingly—he pulls back.

Just enough for you to breathe again.

Just enough to make you ache from the loss.

Sylus stretches, rolling his shoulders lazily before throwing you a look that’s pure, wicked satisfaction. He runs his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s still tasting you there.

The door finally swings open, and light floods in.

His voice is low, smooth as silk, but dripping with mocking amusement, he whispers before he steps out of the closet—

“Shame. I was just getting started.”

[chrisjw108]

THE WAY IT MATCHES!!

I am so amused how the author has the talent to write EXACTLY how the characters would be.

EXCITED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER I AM GONNA EXPLODE-

[chrisjw108]

Trying to draw the mighty lord megatron in Spiderverse style (i tried).

A good procrastinated 30 minutes ‼️