cookiedumper

Deep into Love and Deepspace (don’t get me out)

[cookiedumper]

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Master List ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹

Love and Deepspace

Sylus: What If They Never Left? (part 1) (part 2) I’ll Just Be Here

Zayne: Coming Soon!

Xavier: Coming Soon!

Rafayel: Undisturbed Morning

Caleb: Coming Soon!

The LADs Chat: Intro Crab Fight

art by me :)

[souliloqui]

ceo!sylus x secretary!reader

summary: late night work sessions lead to almosts.

series: one | two | three

At least twice a month, Sylus stays late in the office to comb through important data. His desk is flooded with charts and graphs and statistics that can be hard to understand. It spells a hard night ahead and despite offerings, Sylus always declines employees who ask if he needs assistance.

Especially Emcee who never moves until Sylus has to coax her with forced, sweet words.

"We can have lunch tomorrow?" Her eyes light up like stars. "Okay, SySy! You're right, I do need my beauty sleep for that." She giggles happily while walking out his open office door. "So it's a date then. Don't worry, I'll look extra cute for you, okay?" She blows him a kiss before trotting towards the elevators, aiming a nasty look your way as she passes your desk.

"Goodnight," you say cheerily, inwardly snickering at her rolling eyes. You wait until she's fully down the hall before looking towards Sylus' office. Just as you expect, he's leaning against the doorframe with loosely crossed arms, a few buttons on his shirt undone and a tired smile. "Sleepy already?"

"Exhausted," he corrects. "But work must continue."

You stand up from your desk, smoothing out the wrinkles in your pants. "If it helps, I ordered from that Greek restaurant you like." You pat his shoulder as you step into his office. "And yes, I did use your card."

Sylus' deep laughter trails behind you, curling around your shoulders like a warm embrace.

"Wouldn't have expected anything less."

—☆—

The night progresses fairly slowly, finding you on the plush carpet of Sylus' floor. You're poring over data that doesn't seem correct with your pen trapped between your teeth.

Sylus sits opposite you, long legs spread out as he leans on the firm wood of one of his desk legs. He's deeply focused, hasn't said a word in ten minutes and it'd be odd if it weren't so typically him. And if you didn't know him the way that you do.

You're marking a line with a question mark when Sylus' voice startles your flow.

"The twins told me what happened the other day," he says and that puzzles you.

"What happened the other day?" You repeat, looking at him with furrowed brows. "What do you—?"

Then it clicks.

Oh.

The fiasco with Emcee and the twins, one that devolved into the a fight between three angry children and yes, Emcee is counted as a child for her behaviour. But then again, that wouldn't be fair to the twins who, despite shouting, acted with far more maturity compared to Emcee, an adult.

You had tried to forget about that day and had told the twins to forget it too. It's an unpleasant memory that none of them needed to think about. Emotions were high, feelings fragile and realisations recognised. Nothing needed to be recalled in the slightest.

But apparently, the twins disagreed since Sylus is here bringing it up. And you refuse to fault them because they're kids and deserve to talk to their father about an unsettling matter.

You don't need or want to talk about it, though.

"Yeah, it was just Emcee being Emcee," you tell him. "You know what she's like. Always throwing a tantrum."

"Towards my kids, it seems," Sylus replies, a steely note to his tone. "I'm not horribly mad at that. I know my boys; they definitely give her the tongue lashing she needed."

You snort, vividly remembering how they made Emcee flushed pink and livid. "Oh absolutely, it was a beautiful sight. You should have been there."

"I wish I had been," Sylus agrees. "So I could have put her in her place and warn her to never claim motherhood over my children again."

His voice slices through the air, dangerously sharp with tempered fury. Your heart beat spikes, anxiety pulsing in your veins even though you know his anger isn't directed at you. But Sylus has a way to making you feel fear, despite it not being yours to carry.

"And what's worse is that she belittles you." Sylus' voice is a near growl, handsome face twisted in disdain. "Mocks you and tries to make you believe that you're not—" He restrains himself, words sitting locked behind his teeth and you're hit with sudden desperation.

That you're not...what?

What did he want to say?

You look at him—take him in for what he is at this moment in time.

He's just a man, yes, but he's so much more than that. In this moment, he's living, breathing fire that threatens to burn this building to the ground. An unstoppable force that can bring even the strongest man to his knees with only a single look.

Right now, he's Sylus Qin but not Sylus Qin, the indomitable reckoning but Sylus Qin, a man who's incensed on your behalf. Because someone made you feel lesser than and that doesn't sit well in his books.

Another realisation creeps up from hope lined with cobwebs.

You want to squash it down.

"Hey." You sound too loud to your own ears "Sylus."

He looks at you instantly, attentive. and it's actions like these that make that hope burn a bit too brightly.

"You don't have to get mad on my behalf," you assure him. "I'm used to Emcee and her mean girl act. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"But you shouldn't have to deal with it," Sylus shoots back. "Not with how amazing and wonderful you are."

Those words grind your mind to a halt.

Your eyes widen.

"...You think I'm...amazing and wonderful?" You ask softly, barely loud enough to be heard. But Sylus hears you, he always does, and he gives the slightest smile.

"I'd be a fool not to think that."

Your heartbeat spikes again.

Your skin feels too hot.

You both hold each other's gaze as if for an eternity and it's Sylus who goes to break it, licking his lips in a way that makes you think he's nervous.

"...I've been wanting to—" he starts but your phone rings, interrupting something surely special.

You look at your phone and see that it's the delivery driver.

Food is here.

"I gotta..." You gesture at the door.

Sylus nods. "Of course."

Fetching your order takes thirty minutes in total.

Five minutes goes towards you heading down the elevator, past security and outside to meet your delivery driver.

The rest is dedicated to you sitting on the building's steps, head in your hands while the food goes cold.

tags~☆: @blessdunrest @dissociativewriter @valiantchaosvalkyrie @beesin03 @potate07 @sorenflyinn @miffysoo @socialdisaastergirl @shippingtara @shinsukeee @avananabread @thechaoticarchivist @animegamerfox @tezooks @leighsartworks216 @youngphilosophertragedy @cirtruss @wildchild11106 @sourapplex @fruitymangoes @lazypostfandomer @teodoramaria1310

[cookiedumper]

Undisturbed Morning

Pairing: Rafayel x MC Genre: aftercare, suggestive, the morning after Warning: MDNI WC: 419

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟

The oceans waves could be heard as the seagulls set sail, looking for their next victim. Rafayel opened his eyes to be met with the calming figure of his muse. Sleeping on her side as half of her face is cushioned in the pillow. 

How could someone be this enchanting while asleep?

He reaches out and lightly brushes his fingers across her face. Lightly over her cheeks that turn bright red whenever he compliments her. Tracing over her cute nose, one that he can't help but poke whenever she's in a pout that stirs his cuteness aggression. Down to her lips, the ones he was devouring the night before, so lusciously soft and plump. 

But it wasn't just her features that caught his interest in the morning. He longed for when she would finally wake from her deep slumber and grace him with that melodious yawn that she claimed sounded like a goats cry. To him, it was the only way he liked his mornings to start. 

She shifted under his watchful eye, small head shakes before she slowly opened her eyes to meet his. Even with her groggy state, she was nothing short of stunning. A masterpiece worth worshipping and the newest inspiration to his newest painting. 

"G'morning."

"Good morning my muse." He tenderly kissed her forehead making her sigh in content. These are the mornings he lives for. When her work no longer demands her attention and can be redirected to him and him only. Where they can lounge in bed however long they desire. 

"How are you feeling?"

MC glares over at Rafayel, one he knows is only a playful act, "Like you wouldn't know what you did, you big fishie."

This only makes him laugh as he pulls her against his body. The warmth seeping into his bones that do more than just warm his skin. "I don't know what you're talking about Cutie, I was just pleasing you with all the… resources I had on hand."

MC starts to turn an adorable shade of pink he will be recreating later, "Rafayel!"

"Yes?" MC could only nuzzle herself further into his collar as his laugh rumbles into back rubs that she couldn't deny. His hands start to roam from her down, tracing down her body in slow waves that has her squirming against him. "What's wrong, Cutie? I thought you liked getting massages." His hand starts kneading her butt as his other hand starts to roam further south. 

"We've got all the time to ourselves."

notes: I don’t know if you can tell but my obsession with the mornings are just something else. I’m considering to make this into a series for all the LADs guys but I’m not sure yet.

[cookiedumper]

I’ll Just Be Here

Pairing: Sylus x MC Genre: pure domestic fluff Warnings: none WC: 367

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

"So… you want to stay here."

"Yes."

"With nothing to do but just watch me work."

"You'd be correct."

For all the daylights he could muster, Sylus couldn't wrap his head around the fact MC was willing to stay here as he works on his motorcycle doing nothing.

"Do you… not want me here?"

"No no, stay if you'd like. I don't mind." Sylus turned away to hide the not so hidden blush that had started its way up his neck. Worried that he was coming off as cold wasn't his intention. Heck, if MC wanted to stay here forever he would be more than thrilled. 

MC quietly giggles in the back. Who would know a surprise visit was the thing to catch him off guard. 

They only recently made it official that they are in a relationship. Girlfriend and boyfriend. Something Sylus thought would only happen in his dreams. Though they had a rocky start (maybe a bit more than rocky) he was glad to just be near her.

"What are you working on?"

"I'm working on my motorcycle."

"Is there something broken?"

"Not necessarily, just a quick change of the sprocket and a few custom touches"

As the minutes bled into hours, Sylus would work while talking aimlessly with MC. Conversation would go from topic to topic with no real end in sight. They could be talking about the brake pads one minute and be in a heated debate on the best methods to cook eggs. 

Throughout their conversation Sylus would sneak quick glances when MC was occupied in her thoughts. Her hair cascading down the side of the bench as her eyes traveled aimlessly around the room. The occasion frown washing over her when she started thinking long and hard on Sylus' burning questions. Oh how he just wanted to kiss it away.

"I don't think it would be useful to have such elaborate names for all those colors. Who really cares whether cherry red is better than apple red. What if I just want dark red and cherry and apple are used up?" He couldn't hold his amusement as he let out a soft laugh. There wasn't anywhere else he would rather be.

notes: I just looooove imagining Sylus and MC first going into a relationship. To think of all the awkward times they have. I might be getting onto something…

[cookiedumper]

The LADS Chat: Crab Fight

Rafayel: I SWEAR IM GONNA SUE YOU'RE ASS APPLEBOTTOMS

Caleb: what did I do? :)

Rafayel: dont play innocent with me

Rafayel: you ate the last plate of crab when I told you they are mine

Rafayel: M-I-N-E

Caleb: I didn't remember that :)

Xavier: That was your crab?

Rafayel: not you too?!

Rafayel: i trusted you!!!

Xavier: But that was from dinner 2 nites ago

Xavier: Isn't it technically our crab?

Zayne: Why are you all blowing up my phone at 1 pm?

Zayne: Don't you all have jobs?

Caleb: I am the boss, I get to do whatever I want :)

Zayne: …

Zayne: Why do I even talk to you?

Sylus: Why? Got your lab coat in a twist Dr. Li?

Rafayel: we are forgetting the important part

Rafayel: the crabs are all gone >_<

Xavier: Why can't you just buy more?

Rafayel: …

Rafayel: oh yeah

Sylus: All this bickering and you didn't think about buying it.

Sylus: Poor.

Rafayel: excuse me?!

heeyyyyyy, so I know it’s been a while (understatement of the year). I’m gonna try and get more into writing so expect more of these chats and more!

[heartofonychinus]

𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒖𝒔

pairing: husband!sylus x reader

genre: fluff, nostalgic memories, angst if you squint, hopeless romantic & dramatic sylus

a/n: sorry for the lack of updates recently, I'll be on holidays in three weeks, so I'll definitely have more time then to continue the dramatic sylus series.

You were halfway through organising Sylus’s absurdly cluttered study when you heard it, tap tap tap. You turned to find Mephisto, perched on a shelf like a dramatic little gremlin, staring down at you with his piercing red eyes. He tapped his beak again, this time on a dusty drawer and tilted his head with a look that screamed: “You missed a spot, human.”

“I’m literally doing you a favour,” you muttered. “He left you here like a rejected USB stick, and I’m the one feeding you.” Mephisto squawked, clearly unbothered by your sass, and hopped onto the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. He pecked at the corner of a folder on Sylus’s personal laptop, the screen still dim but unlocked. You paused.

“…What are you trying to show me, little spy?” You brushed your hands off, curiosity tugging harder than caution, and moved closer. The folder Mephisto had pecked at was unlabeled, just a long string of numbers.

Archived- MEPHISTO/Private Logs - MephistoSync

With a little huff, you clicked it open. A list of video files loaded one by one, all of them dated years back. Before you were married, before you kissed him for the first time after a gruesome mission, even before you realised you liked him.

You clicked the top one. The screen flickered. Your younger self appeared, looking visibly scared, sitting across from Sylus in what looked like a workshop. He had that familiar cold expression, tight jaw, narrowed eyes, voice sharp and clipped.

“On a subconscious level… she’s either rejecting you, scared of you… or disgusted by you,” the shopkeeper muttered, eyes fixed on the tools in his hands, never once meeting Sylus’s gaze.

You blinked, leaning closer to the screen as his expression shifted. The pain was quick, but unmistakable. “…Oh, Sylus,” you whispered, guilt creeping in. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

One clip bled into the next, training missions where you bickered, arguments mid-combat, him shoving you behind cover with a glare. And yet… there was something under it all. The intensity. The way his eyes never really left you. The way your voice faltered when you said his name.

And then came the clip where Sylus, off-duty, unguarded, talking to Mephisto alone,“She’ll never like me. Not someone like me. I don’t know why it hurts.”

Your breath caught, your fingers stilled on the trackpad, and just like that, you were crying. Your eyes stayed locked on the footage, lips parted, tears slipping silently down your cheeks as the memory unfolded in perfect, gut-wrenching clarity. 

“Leave. I’m going to bed.” Sylus had just pushed you out of his quarters, face like stone, voice a dagger. And that’s exactly the moment current Sylus walked in. The door creaked softly. Boots stopped short.

You didn’t notice until you heard his breath hitch, then a slam of movement. Before you could pause the video, he was there, reaching over you and snapping the laptop shut, nearly shaking.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said sharply, the panic creeping through his voice even though he was trying to bury it.

“Sylus...” He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze entirely. “Shit. No, I didn’t want you to… That wasn’t…” He swore under his breath again. “I didn’t want you to remember how I used to be.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I was horrible to you,” he whispered.

You stood slowly, letting the silence settle and letting him spiral for a moment because that’s what he did. When he couldn’t control something, when he felt too much, he turned it inward.

But you weren’t going to let him drown in that. So you crossed the space between you and gently reached up, cupping his face in your hands. He froze.

“I’m not crying because I’m upset,” you murmured, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. “I’m crying because I remember.” His eyes flicked to yours, confused. Vulnerable.

“I remember how hard it was. For both of us. And how far we’ve come.” You gave him the softest smile, even with glassy eyes. “That girl on the screen… she didn’t know what I know now.”

“…What do you know now?” he asked, voice barely audible. “That you love me,” you said simply. “That you never stopped trying, even when it didn’t look like it.” Sylus’s mouth parted, but no sound came out. You felt the tension drain out of his jaw under your fingertips.

“And I love you,” you whispered. “Even the version of you who thought pushing me away would protect me.” His forehead dropped against yours, breath shaking.

“I was so scared back then,” he admitted. “Scared you’d leave before I figured out how to let you in.”  “I never wanted to leave,” you said, brushing your nose against his.

“Even when I was… like that?” he asked, nodding toward the closed laptop. “Especially then,” you said, pulling him into your chest.

He held onto you like you were the last thing tethering him to solid ground, his face buried in your shoulder. You felt him nod against your skin, arms tightening. “…Mephisto’s a traitor,” he mumbled after a moment, voice muffled. You laughed softly through your tears. “You should probably stop leaving him behind.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t program him to explode.”

“Too late. He already blew your emotional defences wide open.”

Sylus groaned. “I hate you.”

You kissed his temple. “Liar.”

He smiled faintly, brushing his nose against yours. “Hopelessly. Desperately. Irrevocably yours.”

Later That Night…

After some coaxing and a lot of forehead kisses, you’d finally convinced Sylus to bring the laptop to bed. He still looked mildly betrayed every time Mephisto squawked like he was ready to project more trauma, but you promised only one more video. Just one. 

You were curled against his side now, wrapped in a soft throw, Mephisto docked quietly on the nightstand, behaving, for once. And then… the screen lit up, a recording flickered to life.

You instantly recognised the setting, Sylus’s weapon room, dimly lit and lined with polished steel and shadowed corners. He sat on the chair near you, methodically cleaning his gun, while your voice carried softly as you spoke to Luke and Kieran on the phone. The two of you sat, handcuffed together by an unstable linkage energy cuff, tension simmering beneath your calm.

There you were, eyes wide, raising a sarcastic brow.

"So… what’s your plan?" Present-day you immediately covered your face, groaning, "Oh no."

Video-Sylus,  younger, moodier, tenser shot a stone-cold look at the camera and deadpanned…

"Chop it off."

“SYLUS!” you wheezed, laughing so hard your stomach ached. “You were so dramatic.”

He turned his head smugly on the pillow, eyebrows raised. “I stand by it.”

You smacked his chest lightly. “We were literally stuck together for hours. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought you’d kill me,” he said seriously.

“I wanted to kill you!” you squealed, wiping tears from your eyes. 

You both dissolved into uncontrollable giggles, tangled in blankets and old memories. Eventually, the laughter quieted, replaced by the warmth of shared history and the sound of your steady breathing against his chest.

Sylus pressed a kiss to your forehead, then the tip of your nose. “Can’t believe all that mess turned into this,” he murmured.

“Can’t believe Mephisto’s been holding onto all our greatest hits,” you replied, reaching up to thread your fingers through his hair. He smirked. “We should delete them.”

You blinked. “What? No!” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re going to watch them all again, aren’t you?”

You gave him your most innocent smile. “Only when you’re on a mission.” He groaned. “I knew this bird was a traitor.”

Mephisto blinked at you both from the nightstand, ruffling his feathers dramatically, clearly unbothered.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine it starts the way storms always do in this city. Quiet, slow, creeping in like regret.

Imagine the way the sky bruises in the distance. The wind shifts. And just like that, the air feels too full. Like it's holding its breath.

Imagine you know this feeling. You remember it in your bones. The last time it stormed like this… He left.

but Imagine you're older now. Supposedly wiser. You have your own place, your own job, your own life stitched back together. But some things don't go away, they just go quiet. And then they find you again. In the rain.

Imagine Zayne stands across from you on a cracked sidewalk, years later, soaked to the skin. The rain doesn't seem to bother him. He looks like he belongs in it. Still wearing black. Still too calm. Still the boy who kissed you behind the gym after finals and told you he wanted to fix the world.

Imagine he always wanted to became a doctor. Just like he said he would. And you became something else. Something strong. Something solid. But not the version of yourself he got to see.

Imagine he left before that. And now, as thunder growls and the storm comes down harder, neither of you moves. It's like time caught up and then stalled out again, just to be cruel.

"You left during the storm." You say, voice thin but clear through the rain. "Why chase your dreams when I was drowning here, waiting for you?" Zayne's jaw tightens. He doesn't look away. He never looked away, not even back then. He just left. "Because staying meant losing myself." He says, each word deliberate. "I had to let go… Even if it meant losing you."

Imagine this is nothing new. It's not surprising. But hearing it now older, after all this time. It slices clean through the quiet place inside you where you still remember what his hands felt like in yours.

Imagine you stare at him. At the rain caught on his lashes. At the tired set of his shoulders. He's a man now. Not the boy who promised you forever with a borrowed ring and trembling hands.

"Do you remember." You asked low. "The promises we made before the rain came?" He doesn't answer right away. When he does, it's quiet. "I remember how they slipped through my fingers... Just like you did."

Imagine the words hit harder than they should. Because you weren't the only one who slipped. You look down. Your hands are clenched. You didn't even notice.

"I wrote you." You say, voice trembling. "I waited. For answers. For something. You didn't even say goodbye properly, Zayne. You just... Disappeared into med school and never looked back." "That's not true." "Isn't it?" You snap. "You never came home. Not for holidays. Not for breaks. Not for me."

Imagine the way he exhales sharply. "Because every time I looked back, I wanted to turn around." "Then why didn't you?" Your voice cracks. Finally. "Why wasn’t I worth one detour?"

Imagine the rain's relentless now. Your clothes cling to you, hair sticking to your face. But it doesn't matter. You're already drowning in everything you didn't say for years.

Imagine Zayne runs a hand through his wet hair, frustrated. "Because I didn't know how to be who you needed while becoming who I had to be. I didn't want you to wait for someone who could barely breathe under the weight of becoming."

Imagine the way you stare at him. "I didn't need you perfect." You say. "I just needed you present." A pause. "But I wasn't." He whispers. "And I couldn't be. Not then." That's when the silence lands. Heavy. Hollow.

and Imagine maybe that's the part that hurts the most. That he knows. That he always knew. That the leaving wasn't a mistake. It was a choice. A cost. He loved you. He still might. But he loved the future more.

"You know what the worst part is?" You say. "I never stopped being proud of you." Zayne looks like he's about to break. Finally. After all these years. "And I never stopped loving you." He replies, like it costs him everything. And it was drowned in the rain. Never reaching you.

Imagine the way the confession hangs between you. Unclaimed. Late. Too late. You both just stand there. In the rain. In the mess. In the space where a life together could've lived.

Inagine, maybe in another lifetime, you would've grown together instead of apart. Maybe in another lifetime, you both would've stayed. But here, under this storm, you realize some goodbyes don't come with closure. Some just echo, forever.

Imagine the way you take a shaky breath. And this time, you're the one who turns away first.

Imagine then you walk. The rain fills your ears, your vision, the ache in your throat. But it can't drown the pounding of your heart. Or the thought that's been sitting heavy in your chest since the moment you saw him again.

Imagine, he doesn't know. He'll never knew.

Imagine the way you grip the key tighter in your pocket. You left the porch light on. You always do, now. For her.

Imagine as you reach your door fumbling slightly as you unlock it. A soft light glows under the hallway, warm, golden and steady. All coming from the small room down the hall, you hear a quiet voice call.

"Mommy?" Your heart catches in your throat. She's up. Probably from the thunder. "I'm here, baby." You say, just loud enough for her to hear.

Imagine the way you close the door gently behind you, press your back to it and slide down slowly to the floor. And only then, as your soaked shoes leave muddy prints on the rug, does the truth rise in your chest like the storm outside.

Imagine, Zayne doesn't know he has a daughter. And tonight... You let him walk away without ever finding out.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: surprise, a hidden child au for zayne :D tbh thisbstarted with a angry confession in the rain prompt but as I got near the end I was like... I wanna see a plot twist, a hidden child.

[cookiedumper]

The LADs Chat

When all of the guys are added to a group chat where they get to know each other but on crack

CW: a couple self-deprecating jokes, verbal threats, MC was so done

WC: 574

Xavier added to chat

Rafayel added to chat 

Zayne added to chat

Sylus added to chat

Caleb added to chat

Zayne: Hello.

Rafayel: who are you ppl?

Caleb: I should be asking that question, who are all of you?

MC: Caleb 

Caleb: ok pipsqueak :) 

Rafayel: who is this pipsqueak you speak of? all i know is my cutie❤️

Sylus left chat

Sylus added to chat

MC: You can’t leave the chat!

Sylus: 🙄

MC: I want all of us to talk and get to know each other

MC: That way no one will fight the next person we coincidentally meet 😒

Caleb: …

Caleb: to be fair, fish boy made the face.

Rafayel: at least i dun dress like the homeless

Caleb: just because you have the fashion sense of a whale doesnt mean you can criticize mine.

Rafayel: oh? come and prove it cOLonEL 

Zayne: Would you both stop acting like children?

Caleb: thats bold coming from you zayne.

Caleb: who just got their fillings done? after eating all those macarons?

Zayne: My dental care is none of your business.

MC: QUIET!

MC: We are all gonna share something about ourselves along without names

Sylus: Kitten, that sounds like we’re having an orientation.

Sylus: This is text.

MC: Since you volunteered you can go first 

Sylus: …

MC: I’m waiting

Sylus: Sylus. owns a fruit business.

Caleb: …

Rafayel: …

Zayne: What is so confusing about fruit?

Zayne: Wasn’t there another person here?

Rafayel: oh yeah wheres star boy?

MC: Xavier is sleeping so he won’t be responding

Sylus: And how would you know that?

MC: …no reason

Rafayel: is that why you couldnt come to an art gallery with me?

Rafayel: im heartbroken cutie

Caleb: I can break it even more.

Rafayel: here he comes again

MC: No more fighting you two! 

MC: Rafayel you’re next

Rafayel: fine

Rafayel: rafayel

Rafayel: famous painter

MC: Thank you

MC: Caleb

Caleb: yeah yeah.

Caleb: caleb colonel of the farspace fleet.

Zayne: Zayne, cardiac heart surgeon.

MC: See that wasn’t so hard

Rafayel: who gonna do star boys intro?

Caleb: Ill do it.

MC: No

Rafayel: i will

MC: Even bigger no

MC: Xavier and he’s a hunter

Caleb: are we sure thats all he is?

Caleb: kind of sus if you ask me.

MC: I see nothing wrong with that

Caleb: you sure bout that?

MC: Yes

MC: Now we need to have a group chat name

Zayne: Working Adults

Caleb: boring as always. 

Caleb: 5 guys and the french fry.

Zayne: What is wrong with my suggestion? It fits.

Caleb: yeah but it has no character.

MC: Hold up, why am I the fry?

Caleb: because youre small just like a fry.

MC: 😐

MC: Screw you

Caleb: love you too.

Rafayel: save all that unrequited love you astronaut

Caleb: I am a colonel.

Caleb: what can a painter like you do?

Rafayel: sleep with one eye open tonight

MC: NO ONE IS SENDING THREATS!

Rafayel: he started it

Caleb: nu uh it was all you.

Sylus: Children 

Caleb: who are you calling a child old man.

Sylus: The same person being threatened by a fish.

Name changed to “6 people with a will to live”

Rafayel: r u sure about the will?

MC: Uggh

MC: I need to find the nearest bridge

Zayne: As a medical professional, I need confirmation you weren’t serious.

MC: …yes it was a joke

Zayne: It better be.

A/N: I hope this made sense. Looking through the messages to see how each guy texted was really interesting. I am rooting for the "5 guys and the french fry" name. I am still thinking about how to have Xavier text because he seems like the most laid back so arguments are harder for me to think so he sleeps for now. He will be in the next one, promise.

Likes and Reblogs are appreciated!

[abyssyby]

I need an aftermath of the watermelon seed incident🥹 please

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: HAHAHA i've sat on this for a bit, but the wrath the biggies would have to face isn't from sylus, it's actually from mama. thank you so much for all the love on the first one! please enjoy this hehe <3

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | comfort, fluff boydad&husband!sylus, mom!reader, bigbrother!luke&kieran, how mama grounds the family when they all fly off the handle ╰┈➤ part one — littles on: watermelon seeds

on a good day, home would be two little boys running to you to wrap themselves around your legs and sing strings of "welcome home, mama!" and "hi mama! hi!"s. no matter how long or short your trip away would be.

today is not a good day. today, home is your husband calling your name from the kitchen. where you find a picture reminiscent of days when your newborns would sob, and sylus would shush and rock them to safety.

kyros's hics and cries fill your ears. lucian is running back and forth like a headless chicken around his father's legs so fast that sylus is stomping around like a giant trying to avoid stepping on him.

your first course of action is to take the wailing wronged one from his arms. which he gladly gives while he goes to pick up the one zooming around in distress, before he runs into the wall.

"ky—"

"mama..." kyros whimpers, all cried out, voice raw and scratchy from coughing so much. your heart aches. he speaks as if he'd given up. as if he's waiting for the end. "i eat a deed. gon'espode."

"a deed?" you kiss his brow, wipe his tears. take your sleeve to your palm and squeeze his snotty nose. you cue for him to follow your breathing, just as he tries to explain himself.

he takes a few breaths, and then nods, "wodameyn."

"ah." you release a sigh of relief. on the phone, it had sounded rough—the twins sobbing, sylus's voice, his attempts at soothing the children overpowered by lucian's insistence that the big twins were never wrong (untrue, by the way). "let me see?"

he opens his mouth. you frown at the redness of his tonsils. sylus winces too when he and lucian come closer to look.

discreetly, your hand travels to a plate perched on the edge of a table. its watermelons still intact, your nails dig out a single seed. you make a show of tilting his chin, looking up and down his teeth. humming like you're actually discovering something.

"keero okay, mama?" lucian asks. each syllable wobbles with concern.

"oh!" you tilt his head down. use your other hand with the hidden seed and swipe the wall of his cheek with your nail lightly. as you take it out, you show him the seed he "ate" on the tip of your finger. "here it is."

kyros jumps, eyes wide as he slaps his mouth closed with both hands. never once has he felt such relief in his two and a half years.

"all better, angel?" you ask, ruffling his hair and placing a kiss on his forehead. he nods quietly. "let's get you something for your throat. then maybe we can talk about how plants grow, hm?"

he gets a bottle of warm milk, lucian too. tired from all the crying they've done, they take a premature nap. sylus allows it, despite them having to sleep through lunchtime.

and sylus—oh, he's in awe of you. he feels like he's watched a goddess come down to earth to perform a miracle. like you'd just bested a hurricane. like you'd leveled a city to the ground with barely a drop of sweat off your brow.

he's staring at you as you exit the twins' room. doesn't waste a second to engulf you in his embrace and plant the most tender kiss on your mouth he has ever given you all day. "amazing. you're amazing." is all he can say.

you don't get to respond before he's worshipping you in the ways you deserve.

𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

lucian wakes first. stomach grumbling from his missed meal.

he wriggles out of his blanket. climbs out of his crib, balances on his belly on its edge for a moment, and crawls into kyros's (a heartstopping treat for you to find later in mephisto's baby-cam recordings). "keero."

"huh," kyros murmurs, slapping away the hand that tickles his nose.

"keero, hungy." lucian insists. sure that if he's feeling it, then his brother must be too.

always one to agree with his twin, kyros mutters a "'kay." and sits up slowly. bleary eyes barely making sense of the shape of his twin before him.

"papa..." he all but cries, and sylus is already coming through the door to pick them up.

sylus pauses at seeing both in one bed. he wonders how lucian got out of his crib and into kyros's, but thinks that's a can of worms he doesn't want to open right now. no, today is for watermelons.

each son gifted a kiss, sylus walks them to the kitchen and straps them in their high chairs for a late lunch.

the lights were dimmer than usual, illuminating their papa's solemn features more... eerily than they can comprehend now. but the coldness on his face is thawed by how gently he handles them. brushing sleep-mussed hair away from their eyes, placing their bibs around their neck.

their visions are obstructed by their father's hulking form. so they only see the two figures under a harsh interrogation light kneeling before them when sylus stands and walks away.

behind the two, their mama stands guard in the dark, arms over her chest. the look on her face is the same as the one she gives them when they make a mess or do something naughty. but this time, it's not for them...

"we're sorry for telling you you're going to explode," kieran, the sensible one, you'd argue, starts. head bowed, his hair a mess from abruptly removing his mask and hood, right helix an angry red. with the way his words shudder, he's clearly been through horrors. "watermelon seeds don't do that."

"seeds only grow with water and sunlight and..." luke clears his throat, a matching throbbing mark on his opposite ear. trying to recall a script wasn't as easy when a wrathful boss-mama was looming over him. "and your inside bellies don't have that."

"we were meanies, and we're sorry, little bosses."

it's a wonder how the scene doesn't terrify the children. specially when they look behind them to see papa with the same look on his face as you. looming, ominous, scary.

but kyros sniffles, first to make sense of things. "you lie-ded?

luke winces. "yes. we thought it was silly."

lucian shakes his head. he chastises, so close to his father's tone it's haunting, "is not, wook."

"i know." luke nods. kieran bows lower. "sorry, boys."

"it 'kay, mama save me." kyros says, leaning forward on his chair and reaching for them. "no more espode."

"you don't..." luke sighs, standing on his feet (after receiving a nod from you) and lifting kyros in an embrace. "did you cry, roro?"

"a-huh." he nods, flopping over his shoulder, as their hugs go. "wa'scary."

luke nods, smiling bitterly. hating how what they thought was a harmless prank had gotten out of hand. "well, you were brave."

kieran had collected lucian in his arms too, under the watchful glare of sylus. listening to how lucian tried to explain his despair, how he was so scared of seeing his little brother turn to fire-bits and chunks.

but as such, the littles go without their high-chairs to enjoy their meals, preferring to sit on their brother's laps instead. all forgiven and forgotten.

because as much as they are terrorized by their biggies, they know that they'll always be loved. and what they'll figure later, is that for every prank they cannot yet match, mama is always there to even out the score.

hehehe thanks for reading! ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵)

✧˚ ⋆｡ part one | read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

[einawnimie-deactivated20260323]

𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗸 - sylus qin oneshot

summary — After getting rejected by your college crush back in freshman year, you swore off dating—why bother when it clearly wasn’t meant for you? Years later, thanks to a well-meaning setup by your friends, you find yourself on a blind date… only to come face-to-face with him again. Totally not awkward—until he suggests something that makes it even worse. Or… maybe not?

pairings — excrush!sylus x fem!reader

content/tags— fluff, angst if you squint REALLY hard, blind dates, reader is traumatized, classic 10 dates trope, tara and her bf is their cupid, timeskips, kissing, SFW, second chance romance + more!

words— 10k

—

“One caramel macchiato!”

The barista calls out your name, drawing your attention from the glow of your laptop screen for the first time since you sat down. You rise, stretching slightly as you make your way to the counter. She greets you with a warm smile, and you return it with a quiet one of your own before taking your coffee and slipping back into your seat.

After a few moments, the front door swings open with a soft chime, letting in a brief gust of warm air and the unmistakable voice of your co-worker.

“Hey!” Tara calls out, already grinning as she spots you.

You lift your head from your coffee with the energy of a drained phone battery, offering her a weak wave. She's radiant, as usual—like someone who actually slept last night and didn’t just survive on caffeine and deadlines.

She slides into the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation, eyes practically sparkling. That look. You know that look. You brace yourself.

“So,” she begins, drawing the word out like a plot twist. “You remember Ethan from accounting? Super cute, like ‘bakes-his-own-bread’ cute? Well—”

You groan softly, slumping forward until your forehead nearly kisses the table.

“Tara, I’m running on four hours of sleep and two existential crises. Please don’t set me up with someone who makes sourdough starters for fun.”

She just laughs, undeterred. “That’s exactly why you need someone! Balance, babe.”

You sip your coffee like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the mortal world.

“I’ve been single for almost my whole life, and I’m planning to be until I reach 35,” you reply flatly, sipping your coffee like it’s a shield.

Tara’s smile falters into a small frown, her brows knitting together. “Thirty-five? That’s so… specific. Why 35?”

“Because by then I’ll either have my life together,” you say, waving vaguely at your open laptop, “or I’ll be so far gone into the abyss of burnout that no one will want to date me anyway.”

She gasps like you just said you don’t believe in love or oat milk.

“That is the most depressing thing I’ve heard all week. And I sat through a budget meeting yesterday.”

You lift a brow. “And yet, you’re still trying to play Cupid.”

“Exactly!” She sits up straighter, suddenly energized. “Which is why you need someone before you become a recluse who hisses at the sunlight and lives off instant noodles.”

You squint at her over your mug. “That sounds like a dream, actually.”

“Oh my god,” she mutters, but she’s laughing. “You are impossible.”

“And yet, you keep trying.”

“Because I believe in love. And also because you’re too pretty to be left to your own self-sabotaging devices.”

You groan again and slump further into your seat.

““It’s Evan’s request!” she pouts, her lower lip jutting out like a child denied dessert.

You groan instantly at the mention of her beloved boyfriend. Of course. Of course she’d do anything for him. Ride or die—for his romantic fantasies involving you and some stranger.

“Who is it this time?” you deadpan. “A cousin? Colleague?” You narrow your eyes. “And before you say it—I’ve had enough of his friends. They’re all terrible on their first dates.”

You sigh and rest your cheek in your palm, memories flashing like a highlight reel of awkward handshakes, painfully long silences, and one guy who brought his résumé to dinner “just in case.”

Tara winces a little but pushes on like the soldier of love she is. “It’s his old college coursemate!” she insists, leaning forward dramatically.

“That means nothing to me.”

“He’s actually nice!” she protests. “Evan swears he’s not like the others.”

“You said that about the one who only talked about cryptocurrency.”

“Okay, that was a dark time. But this guy’s different. He reads books! He collects vinyls!”

You arch a tired brow. “So he’s a passionate adult. The bar is so low, Tara.”

She grins, undeterred. “Just one date?”

“I have deadlines.” You look at the report you have to finish before your meeting tomorrow morning before your boss starts to passive-agressively call you out, again.

“It’s coffee.”

“I already have coffee.” You lift your mug in emphasis.

“It’s free coffee, and he might be hot.”

You hesitate.

She sees it.

Victory blooms on her face like sunshine after rain.

“Fine, this is the last time.” You mutter, in which Tara smiles. “Yay! I really think this time it’s gonna be the one for you! I’ve seen his face and Evan told me things about him. He’s also very…” She made the classic money gesture—rubbing her thumb against her fingers—while grinning. “Cha-ching.”

You groaned harder at that. Fine, one last try.

By the time you finally cave and go on the date—mostly out of guilt, slight curiosity, and Tara’s relentless texting—you’re already bracing for disappointment. But nothing could have prepared you for this.

Because sitting across the table, casually sipping his drink like he didn’t just shatter your soul five years ago, is none other than your college crush from freshman year. The same guy you’d nursed a hopeless, head-over-heels attraction for. The same one you’d confessed to in a moment of naive bravery—and the same one who turned you down with that polite, almost apologetic smile that still haunts your occasional 3 a.m. spiral.

You stare at him, and he looks up with a pleasant smile, clearly having no idea who you are.

And that’s the moment it hits you.

Maybe love really isn’t for you. Maybe the universe is playing a long, humiliating game of romantic dodgeball, and you just got hit square in the face—again.

You force a smile, heart sinking into your gut as you stir your drink just to have something to do with your hands.

“So…” he says, leaning in slightly, “have we met before? You look kind of familiar.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Sylus Qin.” He offers you a handshake, his voice calm, smooth—like it hasn't shattered your ego once before.

You blink at him. The name confirms it, not that you needed it. You would’ve recognized that voice anywhere. The same one that used to echo down lecture halls and occasionally star in your daydreams back when love felt like something soft and full of promise.

Your hand hovers for a second too long before you take his. His grip is firm, warm. Too familiar.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like you’re a stranger with slightly interesting eyes.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat and slipping your hand back like it burned. “Nice to meet you… again.”

A small crease forms between his brows. “Mind reminding me where we met, Miss?”

Your smile tightens. “Freshman year. Psych class. I was the idiot who met you at the campus entrance and confessed and gave you a letter?”

His face stills. Then slowly—too slowly—his eyes widen with dawning recognition. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say, sipping your drink and praying for the floor to open up beneath you. “That girl.”

He opens his mouth to say something—maybe an apology, maybe nothing—but you cut in before he can gather a sentence.

“But don’t worry,” you add lightly, voice wrapped in practiced indifference. “I’m not here for a second chance. I was tricked into this by a mutual friend. Apparently Evan thinks we’d be great together.”

Sylus leans back, still watching you. “So… this is a blind date?”

“Unfortunately.”

He hums, gaze flicking over you with a hint of something unreadable. “Guess he forgot to mention the history.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Guess he didn’t know anything. It was a one second thing anyway”

The silence stretches—but it’s not exactly awkward. Just loaded.

And part of you already knows: this night is not going to go the way you expected.

And suddenly, you become extra conscious of what you’re wearing.

The blouse you’d thrown on in a rush this morning suddenly feels too casual, too slouchy. Your jeans, just slightly faded at the knees. Your hair—was it frizzy? Was there coffee foam on your lip?

Of all the days to run on autopilot.

You shift in your seat, subtly tugging at your sleeves like that’ll magically sharpen your entire look. But it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Really seen you.

Sylus watches you with a calm expression, but there's something unreadable in his eyes now—like he's reassessing, recalibrating. You don’t know whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. And you hate that it matters. But it does.

Because no matter how long it’s been, or how hard you tried to file him away as a “learning experience,” some tiny, ridiculous part of you still wants to be… enough.

Still wants to make him regret saying no back then.

You force yourself to sit up straighter, chin tilted, like you’re fine. Like your heart isn’t doing little nervous pirouettes.

“Anyway,” you say, breaking the silence with a half-laugh, “how ironic is this?”

He quirks a brow. “Ironic?”

“Fate clearly has a sense of humor.”

Sylus’s lips curl into a faint smile. “Maybe. Or maybe fate’s giving me a second chance to get it right.”

Your breath catches—just slightly. You tell yourself not to read into it.

But it’s too late for that, too.

“Uhm, moving on,” you say quickly, trying to shove the tension back into its box. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes fixed on the condensation forming on your glass. “What do you do now?”

Sylus leans back slightly, giving you a moment of reprieve from his steady gaze.

“I’m a software engineer,” he says, casually swirling his drink. “I mostly do freelance contract work. Apps, platforms, tech solutions for startups—you know, the usual keyboard warrior stuff.”

You nod, impressed despite yourself. “So you’re the guy everyone calls when their website crashes at 2 a.m.”

He chuckles softly. “Something like that. Less dramatic, more debugging-induced migraines.”

His laugh still sounds like it did years ago—low, easy, the kind that used to make you turn your head without meaning to.

You resist the urge to sigh.

“And you?” he asks, leaning in a little. “What did you end up doing?”

You shrug. “Marketing. Mostly brand copy and strategy. I sit in a lot of Zoom meetings, say ‘circle back’ more than I’d like, and write things that sound exciting but mean almost nothing.”

He grins. “Ah, professional illusionist. Respect.”

You huff a laugh. “Exactly.”

For a moment, there’s quiet—not awkward, just… contemplative. A shared pause between two people who were once on completely different pages, now reading from the same one without meaning to.

And though you’re still wary, still guarded, there’s a small flicker of something unspoken between you. Maybe.

You push it aside. For now.

You clear your throat, trying to push through the lingering weirdness. “So… you’re still based around here?”

“Mhm,” Sylus nods, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Moved back about a year ago. Needed a change of scenery. Or maybe I was subconsciously following a ghost from freshman year.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you stare at him over the rim of your glass.

“Relax,” he says with a lazy grin. “Joking.”

“Right,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Obviously.”

He leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin lightly on one hand. “You always get this flustered, or is it just me?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I am not flustered.”

“You’re stirring an empty cup,” he points out, amusement glittering in his eyes.

You glance down—and sure enough, you’re absentmindedly swirling your straw in a drink that’s been gone for five minutes.

You set it down a little too quickly. “It’s a nervous habit.”

“Cute one,” he murmurs.

You glare. “Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Tease people on blind dates?”

“Only the ones I rejected five years ago and then ran into completely by accident,” he says, smile widening. “It’s a rare demographic.”

You groan and drop your face into your hands for a second. “This is so weird.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s not terrible.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You think this is going well?”

“I mean, you’re adorable when you’re awkward,” he says without missing a beat. “And I don’t not want to be here.”

You blink. That’s… not what you expected.

Sylus shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Honestly? I think it’s kind of poetic. Terrible timing back then. Maybe this time the timing’s just… less terrible.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re still mentally stuck on “adorable.”

So instead, you reach for your glass again—forgetting it’s empty.

He laughs.

You roll your eyes. “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

“Nope,” he says, lifting his drink in a small toast. “But I am buying your next one.”

And despite yourself, despite everything—your lips twitch into a smile.

“What about dinner?” he suggests, casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him. “We’re… dragging this date?”

Sylus lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Dragging? That’s a strong word. I was thinking about extending.”

You squint at him suspiciously. “You sure this isn’t a social experiment? See how long you can tolerate the girl who confessed to you in college?”

He grins. “You keep bringing that up like I’m not flattered.”

You scoff. “You rejected me.”

“Regretfully,” he says, placing a hand over his chest with exaggerated sincerity. “I was young. Emotionally unavailable. Spiritually lost.”

You deadpan. “You were nineteen and dating a girl who made jewelry out of spoons.”

“Ah, Simone,” he says with a nostalgic sigh. “She had a vision.”

“She made you wear a fork necklace for a month.”

He laughs, and you hate that it sounds so nice. Like warm sunlight through a café window. Dangerous. “You know a lot about me, huh?”

“Knew. I literally had a crush on you.”

You glance at your watch. You could go home. Eat leftovers. Watch a true crime doc you’ll forget by morning. Or…

You exhale. “Fine. Dinner.”

He blinks. “That easy?” You didn’t reply when you stood up and he immediately followed you out.

The restaurant Sylus brings you to is tucked away on a quieter street—a cozy, dimly lit place with mismatched chairs and old jazz humming from a record player in the corner. Not fancy, but warm. Intentional.

“This feels… not like a first date spot,” you say as he pulls out a chair for you.

“That’s because it isn’t,” he replies, sliding into the seat across from you. “It’s a make-up-for-my-past-mistakes spot.”

You squint at him as you open the menu. “Do you have a designated restaurant for your emotional failures?”

“Only the meaningful ones.”

You snort. “So you bring a lot of people here.”

He winks. “Just you, actually.”

Your cheeks flush again—great—and you pretend to focus very hard on the pasta section. He watches you, though, openly and without shame, chin resting on his hand like he’s perfectly content just sitting across from you.

The waiter comes, and you place your orders. After he walks off, the silence between you settles again—but this time, it’s quieter. Softer.

“So…” you say, twirling the condensation on your glass, “you really didn’t remember me when you saw me at first?”

Sylus winces. “I remembered your face. Just… didn’t connect it right away.” You gave him a knowing look, in which he sighs.

"Fine, I knew it was you ever since I entered that cafe."

“Hm.”

“But when you brought up the confession and letter?” He taps the table lightly. “It all came back like it was yesterday. I even remember the pen color—dark green ink, right?”

Your eyes widen. “Okay, weird.”

“You wrote in cursive,” he continues, grinning. “All neat and swirly. I thought it was sweet.”

“And you read it after rejecting me?,” you asked him, stabbing a breadstick like it personally offended you.

He chuckles. “Hey, in my defense—I was an idiot. The kind who didn’t know what he wanted until years later.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, biting into the breadstick, “welcome to the club.”

Your food arrives midway through him telling a story about a client who paid him in garden vegetables. You’re genuinely laughing now—soft and a little surprised, like you forgot what it felt like to enjoy someone’s company this way.

Over dinner, the teasing doesn’t stop, but it shifts—less sharp, more playful. He leans in sometimes when you speak, nods like what you're saying matters. And every so often, he looks at you like maybe this was never just a coincidence.

When dessert comes, he casually pushes the plate of tiramisu toward you with a fork already ready.

“I didn’t order dessert,” you protest.

“You did,” he says, “you just didn’t know it yet.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet, here you are.”

You roll your eyes, but you do take a bite.

It’s unfairly good.

“...Damn it.”

“Exactly.” He smiles, slow and warm. “So... what do you say we drag this date a little longer?”

You stare at him, fork paused halfway to your mouth.

Then it hits you.

You can’t.

Not like this. Not with someone who clearly rejected you once, and maybe—just maybe—is only entertaining this out of guilt or curiosity. The warmth in his eyes, the way he leans in, the softness in his smile... it all feels too good, too dangerous.

And you've read some post on tiktok saying if a man rejected you once they shouldn't be in your life ever again. Even though you never really follow social media's advices, you're still unsure.

Because you remember exactly what it felt like to have hope, only to have it shut down with a kind smile and a polite “I’m sorry.”

And no matter how nice dinner is, no matter how different he seems now—you’re still you. And he’s still Sylus Qin.

The boy who took your letter and probably never really read the insides rather than a glance, and threw it out (That is what your dramatic heart convinced you happened)

You put the fork down slowly, like it's suddenly too heavy. “I can’t do this,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Sylus straightens slightly. “What?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between you two. “Dinner. The... date. Whatever this is.”

His brows draw together. “Did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head, looking down at the half-eaten tiramisu like it holds answers. “No. You were—you are fine. And that’s the problem.”

He blinks, clearly confused. “You lost me.”

You take a slow breath. “You don’t remember how that felt, do you? Being rejected by someone you genuinely liked—someone who barely noticed you until years later. Someone who now decides, over pasta and charming smiles, that maybe you're worth a shot.”

Sylus is quiet for a moment, no longer smiling.

“You think that’s why I’m here?” he asks, voice low.

You shrug, arms folding tightly across your chest. “I don’t know why you’re here. And that’s the part I don’t think I can handle.”

There’s a pause between you—long and sharp.

“I didn’t come here to mess with you,” he says, tone more serious now. “I didn’t remember right away, but once I did, I chose to stay. I’m not trying to make up for the past. I just... thought this could be something new.”

You look up at him, uncertain.

“I get it,” he adds gently. “If you don’t want to keep going, I won’t push. But I’m not that guy from freshman year anymore. And maybe you’re not that girl either.”

You hesitate, heart torn between a self-defense mechanism you’ve polished to perfection—and the stupid, stubborn flicker of curiosity he somehow reignited.

You glance down again, then quietly push the dessert plate back to him.

“I think I’m still her...and uhm, I need a little space,” you say.

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

The server returns with the check, and Sylus pays without question waving in dismissal at your attempt to sneak in your card as well. You both rise, the air between you heavier now, but honest.

He walks you to the door, hands in his pockets. “For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I’m glad I saw you again.”

You manage a small nod, already halfway out the door, already fighting the part of you that wants to turn back.

Maybe later.

Maybe next time.

Maybe.

One month later

The coffee shop’s the same.

Same mellow jazz humming from the speakers. Same barista who still gives you a warm smile and extra whipped cream when she thinks you look tired. Same seat by the window, where your laptop sits untouched, your fingers curled around a lukewarm mug of cappuccino.

But you’re not the same.

Not entirely.

Because ever since that dinner—since him—you haven’t quite been able to return to your emotional baseline. There’s a small ache under your ribs when you let your guard down. A lingering sense of something unfinished.

Tara drops into the seat across from you, smoothie in one hand, far too much energy in the other.

“You’re avoiding the question again,” she says, poking your arm with her straw.

You don’t look up. “What question?”

“The Sylus Question."

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You sigh. “There’s nothing to say.”

Tara leans in, unconvinced. “You were gone for almost three hours. You came back looking like you’d seen a ghost and then refused to talk about it. Something happened.”

You stay quiet, eyes fixed on the steam curling from your drink. And for a while, she just watches you—not pressing, for once.

Then quietly, you say, “I never told you about him, did I?”

She blinks. “Told me what?”

“Sylus wasn’t just some random guy Evan picked out of a lineup. I knew him. From college.”

Her brows lift. “Wait—what?”

You nod slowly, not quite meeting her eyes. “Freshman year. I had the biggest crush on him. We had psych class together. I wrote him this ridiculous handwritten confession letter like I was living in some second-rate teen drama.”

Tara’s jaw drops. “You wrote him a letter?”

“In green ink,” you mutter. “Cursive. I poured my heart out. He was nice about it. Rejected me politely. But still... it stuck with me.”

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “And you, out of all people just proceed with the date?”

You finally look up, your expression tight. “Because the moment he sat down and saw him smile like he didn’t even recognize me, it all came rushing back. I felt stupid. Like I was nineteen again, waiting for a reply that never came.”

Tara leans back slowly, eyes softer now. “You never said any of that.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing,” you murmur. “You were so excited to help me. And I thought I could handle it. I didn’t know it would be him!  But after the date... I don’t know. He was kind. Charming. All the things I used to like about him. And somehow that made it worse.”

She studies you for a long moment. “You didn’t ask Evan for his number?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t want to. Didn’t dare to. Because what if he was only being nice to be nice? What if he was curious? Or worse—what if it meant nothing at all to him and I just end up falling again?”

Tara exhales slowly. “Evan said Sylus asked about you. He didn’t push. Just wondered if you were okay.”

Your heart gives a quiet, reluctant thud.

“I think you’re still thinking about someone you saw once a month ago,” she says gently. “That kinda says everything.”

You fall silent, eyes drifting to the window where the light hits just right, shadowing the table in soft gold. You remember his smile. The way he looked at you—not like he was sorry, but like he wanted to know you again. For real this time.

“Do you think…” you start, then pause, swallowing. “Do you think I messed it up?”

Tara doesn’t even hesitate. She reaches for her phone and gives you a raised eyebrow. “Should I text Evan?”

You stare at the screen.

Maybe you should.

You stare at Tara’s phone like it’s a bomb she’s about to detonate.

“What would you even say?” you ask, cautiously.

Tara shrugs, already typing. “Something neutral. Friendly. Non-dramatic. ‘Hey, can you send Sylus’s number to [Name]? She forgot to get it that night.’”

“I didn’t forget.”

She glances up, grinning. “Exactly. That’s why it’ll sound innocent.”

You hesitate. Your fingers tighten around your cup.

Tara pauses, thumbs hovering. “Do you want me to hit send?”

There’s a pause. A long, uncertain one. But your silence is a maybe, and she knows you well enough to hear it.

Send.

“Done,” she says brightly, locking her phone like she didn’t just possibly alter the trajectory of your emotional well-being.

You groan and sink further into your seat. “You’re evil.”

“I’m efficient,” she corrects. “Also, you’re welcome.”

You don’t respond. Your mind’s already spinning—what you’ll say, how it’ll sound, what he’ll think. If he’ll even reply.

You don’t have to wait long.

Tara’s phone buzzes. She unlocks it, reads the message, then slides the phone across the table to you.

Evan: Yeah, sure. He’s actually been meaning to reach out, but didn’t want to push. Here’s his number. Hope she’s doing okay.

You stare at the number for a few seconds, your heart weirdly loud in your chest.

“He was going to reach out,” Tara says softly. “He was waiting for you.”

You don’t say anything. You just copy the number into your own phone. Your thumb hovers over the message screen for way too long. You delete three different drafts before settling on the simplest version possible.

You: Hey. It’s me. From that very extended blind date. Mind if we talk?

You hit send before you can overthink it.

Then you both wait.

A few agonizing minutes pass. You sip your now-cold coffee. Tara picks at her muffin like she’s trying not to stare too obviously. You check your phone again. Nothing.

And then—finally—your screen lights up.

Sylus: Hey. Wow. Hi.

Sylus: I was hoping you’d text. Where should we start—apologies or second chances?

Your breath catches, somewhere between a laugh and a nervous sigh. You glance up at Tara, eyes wide.

She grins. “Well?”

You look back down at the screen, smile tugging at your lips before you can stop it.

You: Maybe… coffee. One cup. No letters. No expectations.

Sylus: One cup. No letters. Just you. When?

And this time, you don’t hesitate.

You: Tomorrow? Same café, 4pm?

Sent.

You stare at the message, heart tapping against your ribs like it’s trying to make a run for it. Across from you, Tara’s holding her breath with a weirdly intense look.

“I asked him,” you murmur.

Tara’s hands shoot up in silent victory. “Yes. Finally.” Then her voice drops, more sincere. “You okay?”

You nod—small, uncertain. “I don’t know what I want from this.”

“Then start with what you don’t want,” she offers. “You don’t want it to end with silence. Again.”

Your phone buzzes.

Sylus: I’ll be there. And I promise not to pretend we’re strangers this time.

Your lips twitch. You hate how fast your fingers move when you type back.

You: Good. Because I’m done pretending too.

—

You sat at the coffee table, waiting—nervously fiddling with the rim of your cup as your eyes flicked toward the door every few seconds. The café felt louder than usual, or maybe it was just your thoughts making too much noise.

What were you even doing here?

A month had passed. You should’ve let it go. But something about the way he’d looked at you that night—surprised, yes, but not indifferent—kept looping in your head like an unfinished sentence.

Your fingers stilled.

The door chimed.

You didn’t turn right away, but you felt it—the shift. The quiet recognition, the way the barista paused mid-sentence to smile, how a familiar set of footsteps approached the table.

“Hey,” Sylus said.

You looked up.

He hadn’t changed, but something in his posture was different. Softer, maybe. Less guarded.

“Hey,” you replied, quieter than intended.

He glanced at the cup in front of you. “Did you order for me again?”

You smirked. “Habit.”

“Dangerous. I could’ve turned into someone who drinks oat milk lavender lattes.”

“Then we’d have a real problem.”

That made him laugh. And you hated how nice it still sounded.

He slid into the seat across from you, exhaling slowly like even he wasn’t sure what came next.

You both sat there for a moment, letting the silence settle—not awkward, not entirely comfortable either. Just real.

“So,” he started, eyes meeting yours, “are we pretending this is just coffee?”

You paused, then shook your head. “No pretending this time.”

His gaze lingered. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He smiled faintly. “Because maybe I was wrong about a lot of things back then. But mostly... because I don’t want to be wrong about you again.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to keep your tone even, but you can already feel your chest tightening.

Sylus gives a small, breathy laugh and looks down at his hands. “I mean I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Since that night.”

Your eyebrows lift, skeptical. “We barely talked.”

“That’s the thing,” he says, meeting your gaze. “Even when you weren’t saying much, I could feel it. That weight between us. Like there was more. Like you knew something I didn’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re not sure if you can. Because part of you wants to believe he means this, and another part still remembers the awkwardness of freshman year—of your letter, of his rejection, of everything that made you feel small.

Sylus seems to sense it.

“I know I didn’t handle things well back then,” he says. “And I don’t expect us to magically reset, or rewind. I just… wanted a chance. A real one this time. No setups, no pressure, no expectations.”

A beat.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You know this is kind of insane, right?”

He smiles softly. “The best things usually are.”

You stare at him—at his hopeful expression, at the way he’s sitting there with nothing but his words and his coffee and maybe.

You look away, jaw tightening. “If we hadn’t gone on that blind date, none of this would’ve happened.”

There's a pause. You expect him to deny it, to give some sweet romantic line about fate. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he says quietly, “You’re right.”

You glance back at him, surprised by the honesty.

“If we didn’t go on that blind date,” he continues, “we probably would’ve gone on living like strangers who once shared a college campus and a forgotten letter. But we did go. And I saw you again. And it... shifted something.”

You scoff under your breath. “You’re making it sound like a movie.”

“Yeah, well.” He gives a soft laugh. “I didn’t expect it either. I thought you’d be another awkward coffee and polite goodbye. But then you walked in and looked at me like you already knew who I was—and I couldn’t stop wondering why.”

You stay silent, the edge in your expression softening, but only slightly.

“You’re still mad,” he notes gently.

“I’m still trying to understand what this is,” you reply. “If it’s just guilt. Nostalgia. Or something you’ll forget in a week.”

Sylus leans back, eyes steady on yours.

“I don’t know what it is yet either,” he says honestly. “But I’d like to find out.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes slightly. “And how exactly are you going to find out? Expect me to write you a letter again?”

Sylus smiles—not smug, not overly confident. Just steady.

“While it doesn’t sound so bad to receive one from you again, I have another idea,” he says. “But how about this: ten dates.”

You blink. “What?”

“Ten dates,” he repeats. “Maybe romantic, but not dramatic. Just… ten chances. To talk. To laugh. To see if this—whatever this is—is real.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “That sounds like a really desperate Netflix series.”

“Yeah, well, desperate is fair,” he replies with a half-shrug. “You’re kind of terrifying.”

That almost makes you laugh, but you suppress it. “Why ten?”

“Because I’m stubborn,” he says, leaning forward just a little. “And because if I can’t convince you by the tenth, I’ll back off for good.”

You look down at your cup, pretending to think, though your heart is already pacing.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But so is the fact that I still remember what you wore when you gave me that letter.”

Your head snaps up, and he grins—caught you off guard again.

You sigh, long and tired. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be charming.”

He raises a brow. “So… that’s a yes?”

You pick up your drink and sip slowly. “It’s a maybe. A probationary date system. Conditional.”

Sylus holds up both hands in surrender. “I’ll take it.”

—

The rain drums lightly against the windows as you sit across from Sylus, sipping a warm chai latte in one of your favorite hideaway spots—a quiet bookstore café tucked behind a florist and barely staffed. You picked it on purpose. Familiar. Safe. Low stakes.

He’s dressed in a dark sweater and jeans, damp at the shoulders from the rain, hair slightly tousled like he ran a hand through it too many times on the way in. You hate that he still looks so... annoyingly good.

“You chose the most intimidating first date spot,” he comments, glancing around at the towering bookshelves and soft jazz playing overhead. “Is this a test?”

You raise a brow. “You said you wanted ten dates. I’m making sure you work for them.”

He chuckles. “So... trial by literature.”

“I heard you read a lot.” You reply as you look at him with a smile, in which he echoes.

“Making some research on me, huh?” He grins. 

“Evan.” 

“Oh, that guy. Was he giving you some biodata check before going on that blind date?”

“Just simple things like what you like, the fact that you collect vinyls amongst other things. Not too much to be considered as a Sylus Genius.” You say while sipping on your drink.

He clicked his tongue, “Then it is my duty to make you one, the only one, perhaps.”

You felt your cheeks grow warmer, what a stupid reason to be blushing, but still, he laughs.

“I like that expression,” He stares at you, eyes soft and bright. Something rare to see from someone like him, yet here you are eliciting it effortlessly.

You're flipping through a poetry book when Sylus suddenly sets his phone down between you both, screen facing up.

It’s a playlist. Titled: “For Date One, if she lets me.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

“I made it last night,” he says, sheepish. “In case conversation got awkward.”

“It already is awkward.”

“Exactly. I planned ahead.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small grin tugging at your lips. You tap the first track. Soft acoustic guitar filters through the speakers—he must’ve connected it to the café’s Bluetooth. You recognize the song. Something nostalgic, early 2000s indie, a little cheesy, a little perfect.

“You’re lucky I like this band,” you murmur.

“I know.” He rests his chin on his hand, watching you a little too closely. “I remembered.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, unsure how he means it—remembered like he Googled your old Spotify profile or remembered as in… back then.

Your stomach knots.

“What else do you remember?” you ask quietly, not fully meaning to say it aloud.

He doesn’t look away. “You always carried two pens to class. A black one for notes. A blue one for thoughts.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going. “You always tied your hair up during exams, even if you didn’t need to. Said it helped you think.”

You don’t respond.

“And you once cried in the back row after a presentation because someone laughed at your voice when you read your script.” He pauses. “I wanted to punch them.”

You blink hard, your throat suddenly tight.

“I wasn’t brave then,” he adds softly. “I should’ve said something. But I never forgot.”

You look away, blinking at the shelves, pretending to read the book in your hands. His words sit between you now, heavy but warm. Sincere.

After a long pause, you whisper, “Ten dates might not be enough.”

Sylus smiles—just barely. “That wasn’t me winning you over, was it?”

You shake your head, voice barely audible. “That was you... remembering me.”

He changes his seat from across you to beside you, before plugging one earphone in your ear while the other in his. “Decided not to let the whole cafe hear your little playlist?”

“Yeah, it’s special for you.”

—

On date two, you’re still not sure how he roped you into this.

“This is a terrible idea,” you say flatly, standing in the vegetable aisle with a shopping basket in hand while Sylus debates between two kinds of veggies like it’s a life-or-death decision.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “You said you wanted something low-key. What’s lower key than cooking?”

“You didn’t say I’d be cooking with you.”

“Technically, I said we would cook. Together.” He turns back to the mushrooms. “Also, you’re stalling.”

“I just don’t trust you to know the difference between coriander and parsley.”

“That’s fair,” he mutters, tossing the better-looking pack into the basket. “I Googled that this morning.”

You try not to smile, but it slips through anyway. He notices. You pretend not to see that he noticed.

His apartment is neat. Not obsessively clean, but clearly lived in. A jacket draped over a chair. A vinyl player in the corner. A pair of reading glasses on the coffee table you didn’t know he wore.

“You can put your stuff anywhere,” he says, motioning to the couch. “Shoes off if you want. I have house socks.”

You glance at him. “House socks?”

“Yeah, you know. Guest socks. Clean, fluffy, magical.”

“…You’re a menace.”

“You’ll thank me in five minutes.”

You do. They’re ridiculously soft.

Cooking is chaotic. He chops vegetables like he’s in a rush to win a knife skills competition. You end up laughing when he puts the pasta in before the water boils and looks genuinely shocked when you scold him.

At one point, you’re both standing shoulder to shoulder at the stove, close enough to feel the heat of his arm. He smells like citrus and something woodsy. Not cologne—like fabric softener and something more subtle.

You steal glances.

He catches one.

“What?”

You shrug. “Nothing.”

“You were looking.”

“Maybe.”

“You were definitely looking.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re cute when you’re trying to pretend this isn’t fun.”

You look up at him. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I know.” He says it gently. “But it means you’re here.”

Dinner is good. Surprisingly so. You eat on the couch, plates balanced on your laps, a dumb movie playing in the background that neither of you really watches.

Halfway through, you notice him watching you again.

“What now?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. You just… look comfortable.”

You pause. It feels like a compliment, but it sinks a little deeper than that.

“Do you want dessert?” he asks quickly, maybe sensing the shift.

You nod. “Only if it’s something you didn’t burn.”

He laughs. “Rude. I bought ice cream. Zero effort involved.”

He disappears into the kitchen. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself lean back into the couch, socks on your feet, a full plate on your lap—and a feeling creeping in that maybe, just maybe, letting go of the past isn’t the same as forgetting it.

It might even be… the start of something new.

—

It’s date seven.

The previous dates were all quiet and cozy, except for date five, where the both of you went to the amusement park. You've learnt that he hates rollercoasters due to their "anti-climatic" push when the controller decided to prolong the time at the top.

But for date seven?

You hadn’t expected a literal night market.

When Sylus texted you the location, you assumed it was a café or some quiet restaurant again — something low-key, in line with your still-fragile dynamic.

Instead, you’re standing in the middle of a lively crowd, colorful lanterns strung overhead and the scent of grilled meat, fried snacks, and sugary things thick in the air.

“Too much?” he asks, appearing beside you with two skewers in hand. One of them is unrecognizable and probably a challenge.

You take the safer one.

“I thought you were the introvert.”

“I am,” he says with a smirk. “But I figured if I keep taking you to quiet places, you’ll keep overthinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And now I’m supposed to... not overthink while holding a fishball skewer?”

“Exactly. It’s very grounding.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t hand it back.

The night air is warm, heavy with humidity and noise, but there’s something oddly comforting about being one small story in a sea of strangers. It makes things easier. Lighter.

Sylus walks beside you, not saying much, just letting the sights and sounds fill in the space between. Sometimes, his hand brushes yours — never on purpose, but never fully accidental either.

You pass a booth with handmade rings, mismatched and colorful.

He pauses. “Pick one.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Date seven deserves a souvenir.”

You glance at the table, then back at him. “If I pick one, are you going to analyze what it means?”

“Undoubtedly.”

You sigh, but eventually point to a silver one with a tiny moon charm.

“Cute,” he says, paying for it without asking.

He slides it onto your finger — careful, slow — and it makes you shiver, just a little.

“You good?” he asks, eyes glancing up at you from beneath his lashes.

“I’m not used to this,” you admit, voice barely audible above the crowd.

“To what?”

“To being… wanted. Again. Still.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then says, “You’ve always been wanted. I was just too late to realize it.”

You don’t respond. Just stare at the ring, then at the ground, then at him. Your heart’s too loud again. Too full of things you swore you’d buried.

Later, after sharing a cup of mango ice and pointing out constellations you can’t actually name, you find yourselves leaning against a closed-up stall. The market’s winding down. The crowd’s thinning.

He nudges your shoulder gently. “Date seven complete.”

You glance at him. “Three more, huh?”

He nods. “Unless you cancel the package early.”

You smile, just slightly. “What’s the return policy?”

“No refunds,” he says, voice low. “But… you could renew.”

You look away too quickly.

And he doesn’t press.

Just stands there beside you, hands in his pockets, like someone who’s willing to wait — even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

The night breeze makes you shiver as you’re wearing nothing more than a thin blouse — a poor choice, you realize now, when the heat of the crowd starts to fade and the open air settles in.

Sylus notices immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at you, then shrugs off his jacket.

“Here,” he says, holding it out.

You hesitate.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, though your arms betray you by hugging yourself tighter.

“You always say that,” he replies gently, stepping closer. “Let me do one nice thing without making it weird.”

You sigh, but don’t fight it when he drapes the jacket around your shoulders. It’s warm. Smells faintly like him — like cologne and comfort and something you wish you didn’t miss.

You clutch it closer anyway.

He doesn’t comment. Just gives you a small smile and walks beside you again, closer this time, like maybe his presence alone could shield you from the rest of the chill.

And for a second, just a second, you stop resisting how easy it is to lean a little closer.

And as if he’s trying to push his luck, he slowly takes your hand, and interlocks your fingers together, before bringing it in his pockets.

You glance at your hands together before looking up at him, while he looks up front, like whatever he did is natural and was clearly bound to happen for him.

“Seriously?”

He looks at you, “helping you warm up.” He smiles.

—

Date nine.

You hadn’t planned on letting Sylus into your apartment yet.

It’s too personal, too you — a space you’ve protected the way you’ve guarded your heart: meticulously. No loose ends, no open doors.

But it’s raining, and he showed up early with two bags of groceries and a sheepish grin.

“You said you missed home-cooked food,” he says, already toeing off his shoes. “I make a decent curry. Or edible. Let’s start there.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That was weeks ago.”

He shrugs. “I remember things.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. Not when he’s already heading toward your kitchen like he’s been here before — like this isn’t some emotional line being crossed.

The apartment smells like garlic and coconut milk within the hour. Rain taps against your windows. Soft music hums from your phone speaker, something low and jazzy that fills the silence without drowning it.

You lean on the counter as he stirs the pot, sleeves rolled up, focused.

He looks… settled here. Like he belongs in your kitchen. Like the space didn’t mind opening up to him.

It makes something ache in your chest.

“You cook often?” you ask.

“Sometimes. It’s... therapeutic. And cheaper than emotional damage.”

You snort. “You’re not wrong.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable.

Then you ask, “Why are you really doing this? The ten dates, I mean.”

He doesn’t look up at first. Just stirs slowly. Thoughtfully.

“Because I wanted to show you I could mean something to you,” he says quietly. “Without rushing. Without trying to fix what I broke before. Just… be there this time.”

You blink.

The honesty, the simplicity of it — it lands heavier than you expect.

“I don’t need fixing,” you murmur.

“I know.” He finally looks at you. “But you deserve someone who knows that.”

Dinner is warm. Slightly too spicy. You both laugh over it. You tease him for almost setting your pan on fire and he teases you for owning only two forks.

When he leaves later — umbrella in hand, jacket still with you — there’s a folded napkin left under your mug.

On it, in scribbled black ink: “You feel like home. Date Ten’s going to be dangerous.”

You stare at the note long after the door closes behind him.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel afraid of what’s next.

—

At least that’s what you thought you felt.

It has been two weeks, 14 days.

You hadn’t meant to pull away.

Work just... got in the way.

One last-minute project turned into two. A client call stretched past midnight. You started checking your phone less, replying slower. Not intentionally — just the kind of slow fade that happens when real life creeps in.

Sylus doesn’t push. He sends a meme here and there, a good morning text you forget to answer until lunch. A voice note one evening — gentle, teasing — asking if you’re still alive and if he should send a search party or just a very persistent delivery driver with bubble tea.

You laugh, but don’t reply right away.

When you finally do, it’s short. Something like, “Just swamped. Talk soon?”

He leaves it at that. No guilt. No pressure. But still — it lingers.

You miss him.

Worse, you realize it on a Tuesday night, forehead pressed against your desk, your laptop glowing 2:47 a.m. back at you, and all you can think about isn’t the project due at 8 a.m.

It’s that you haven’t seen Sylus in almost two weeks.

And you don’t know what Date Ten is supposed to be anymore.

That was until you heard your front doorbell ring.

You blink, groggy. It’s late. Not a normal time for someone to suddenly show up, but close enough that your heart stutters as you push up from your desk.

Padding to the door in mismatched socks and a hoodie you barely remember putting on, you glance through the peephole.

It’s Sylus.

Holding a paper bag, umbrella folded under his arm, hair damp like he walked the last few steps in the rain.

You hesitate for half a second before opening the door.

“Hi,” he says, voice soft. “I come bearing caffeine and snacks.”

You stare at him.

“I... you didn’t text,” you manage, your voice scratchy with fatigue and something that feels suspiciously like guilt.

“You weren’t replying,” he says simply, not accusing. Just... explaining. “And I figured if I waited for a calendar opening, I’d see you in October.”

That earns a weak laugh from you.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” you mumble, stepping aside to let him in. “Work’s been—”

“—hell. I know.” He toes off his shoes and heads to your kitchen like it’s routine now. “I figured you wouldn’t feed yourself properly either.”

You blink at the bag he sets down. Soup. Tea. A small pastry you once said you liked.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says again, but there’s no heat in it.

Just the same gentle, unshakeable Sylus from Date One through Nine. The same one who gave you space, and now—unexpectedly—shows up without asking for anything back.

You exhale slowly, walls slowly lowering.

“I forgot what day it was,” you say.

He smiles faintly. “It’s not Date Ten. Yet. This is just... a bonus round.”

You sit down at the counter. He pours you tea without asking. You watch him, warmth curling up beneath your ribs.

“You didn’t give up.”

“Nope,” he says. “I said ten dates. I’m not going anywhere until you get all ten.”

You look at him. Tired, but soft. Edges worn down by the weeks, but still holding space for him.

You reach for the tea. “Okay,” you murmur. “Let’s call this one... nine and a half.”

Sylus grins. “Nine-point-five. I’ll take it.”

You nurse the cup of tea slowly, letting the heat seep into your fingers. The apartment is dim except for your desk lamp, casting a soft glow across the space. Rain continues tapping against the window, steady and hushed.

Sylus sits on the other side of the counter, watching you — not in a way that makes you self-conscious, but like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“Your eyes get glassy when you’re running on four hours of sleep,” he says gently.

You raise a brow. “You make that sound factual.”

“Maybe it is,” he says, and he’s not joking.

There’s something weighted in the silence that follows, but not heavy. Just... full. Brimming with all the things neither of you have dared to say out loud since that blind date started everything again.

You look down at your tea. “I didn’t mean to pull away.”

“I know,” he says. “And I didn’t show up to make you feel bad.”

“Then why did you show up?”

He pauses. And then—

“Because I missed you,” he says, quiet but certain. “And I wanted you to remember what it feels like to be taken care of, even when your world’s on fire.”

You stare at him.

It hits in a strange place — the truth of it, the care, the timing. The softness in his voice that reaches you deeper than any grand gesture ever could.

And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s your exhaustion. Or maybe it’s the way he hasn’t stopped looking at you like you’re something fragile but worth holding onto.

But when you set your cup down, and say, “Come here,” your voice is steady.

He doesn’t question it. Just moves.

You meet him halfway around the counter. The rain hums in the background, steady and soft. He’s close now — warm, still damp at the edges from the walk over.

You look up at him. “This... doesn’t make us even,” you murmur.

“I’m not trying to settle a score.”

You hesitate. Then, finally—finally—you step into him.

And when you kiss him, it’s slow. Not rushed or desperate. Just a quiet press of lips in the middle of a rainy midnight, in an apartment that suddenly doesn’t feel so tired anymore.

His hand finds the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek. Yours curls into the front of his jacket like you need to hold onto something steady.

It’s not a first kiss full of fireworks or dramatic music.

It’s soft.

Earned.

Real.

And when you pull back, neither of you says anything right away. He just presses his forehead to yours and exhales the smallest, happiest breath.

You smile.

“Ten’s going to be dangerous,” you whisper.

He grins. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got nine and a half reasons to survive it.”

—

You wake up to sunlight sneaking through the curtains and the unmistakable scent of coffee.

For a moment, you think maybe you dreamed it all — the rain, the tea, the kiss.

But then you hear gentle clinking in the kitchen.

You push yourself up from the couch, blanket slipping off your shoulders, and find Sylus standing by your stove like he’s been there a hundred times. One of your mugs in hand. His hair still slightly messy from sleep.

He glances over when he hears you. “Morning.”

His voice is quiet. Familiar. Safe.

“You stayed,” you say, more like a thought than a question.

He tilts his head. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I kissed you and then fell asleep in the middle of your jacket, so I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

Sylus chuckles, crossing the room to hand you a fresh cup of coffee.

You take it with a small, grateful hum and sip. It’s perfect. Just how you like it.

He nods toward the table where he’s already laid out toast and eggs — simple but warm. Intentional.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “But I wanted the first morning after our nine-and-a-halfth date to start right.”

You pause. The phrase makes your chest tighten — not in a painful way. Just full. Softened.

“You’re very good at this, you know,” you murmur.

“What? Being your emergency food delivery guy?”

You give him a look, and he smirks, stepping closer until your hip’s pressed lightly against the counter and he’s standing in front of you.

“No,” you say. “At... making it feel easy.”

He shrugs, but there’s something fond in his eyes. “It is easy. When it’s you.”

That line shouldn’t make your heart skip, but it does. And before you can overthink it — again — he leans down and brushes a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips. This one slower, softer than the night before.

“Let me stay a little longer,” he murmurs when you part.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Because for once, you don’t feel the need to run ahead or fall behind. You just want this moment.

His.

A few hours later, Sylus left, and date ten starts.

You’re already suspicious when Sylus tells you not to wear anything too fancy, and even more so when he insists on picking you up himself.

“I swear, if this is a paintball arena—” “It’s not,” he laughs, hand warm around yours as he leads you down a quiet path.

It isn’t until you recognize the stone archway ahead that your heart stumbles. Your old campus.

You blink. “You didn’t.” He raises a brow. “Didn’t what?” “This is where I met you.” “It’s where I saw you,” he corrects gently. “You met me after tripping over your own feet trying to sit in the last row.”

You gasp in mock outrage. “That’s not—okay, that is accurate.”

He grins, tugging you toward one of the empty benches just outside the old lecture hall. The sun’s low, sky blushing gold and soft blue.

“There’s a picnic,” he says, motioning to the small setup — nothing over the top. A blanket, some pastries, cold brew in glass bottles, and a small stack of your favorite snacks.

You sit beside him, heart full and quiet.

“You remembered this place,” you murmur, looking out over the familiar quad where your lives once barely brushed each other’s.

“I remembered you in this place,” he says. “That matters more.”

You glance at him. His expression is soft, unreadable in the best way — like he’s still amazed you’re here.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice quieter, “if we didn’t go on that blind date... we might not have ever come back to this.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Maybe. But I think something else would’ve pulled us together eventually.”

You raise a brow. “That’s bold.” “That’s fate,” he says simply. “Stubborn. Annoying. Kind of like you, actually.”

You nudge him, trying not to laugh. “You just ruined the moment.”

He shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to fix it.”

And he kisses you.

Not a hesitant first. Not a sudden second. But a tenth-date kind of kiss — full of memory, promise, and quiet affection that doesn’t need to prove itself anymore.

When you pull away, you press your forehead to his.

“This is my favorite date,” you whisper.

“Mine too,” he replies. “But... I want to show you something.”

His voice has shifted — softer now, more careful.

You watch as Sylus reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a timeworn envelope. Cream-colored. Slightly bent at the corners. A familiar messy swirl of ink where your handwriting signed his name.

Your breath leaves you. “Is that—?”

He nods slowly. “Your letter. From freshman year.”

Your world tilts a little. “I—I thought I threw it away after… after you said no.”

He looks at the envelope like it’s fragile. Like it’s sacred. “You gave it to me after that group project, remember? You said I could read it or pretend it never existed. I was too much of a coward to say anything back then.”

“You folded it and put it in your backpack,” you murmur. “Didn’t even open it in front of me.”

“I read it that night,” he admits. “Twice.”

Your eyes sting.

“I was young. Stupid. Scared. You wrote something so sincere, and I didn’t know how to be what you deserved. So I told myself it was easier to say nothing than to mess anything up.”

You’re silent. The weight of years pressing in on you. On both of you.

He carefully opens the envelope, pulling out the folded pages inside. The paper’s softened over time, but your words are still there — full of nerves, and longing, and a kind of bravery you barely recognize anymore.

He starts to read it aloud. Not theatrically. Not to embarrass you. But like it matters. Like it’s still beating.

To. Sylus Qin.

This might be stupid, in fact, this may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever encountered in your life. But if I don’t write this down, I might have even more sleepless nights overthinking all these thoughts in my head.

I like you. I really do. Ever since the first day of psych class. It felt like love at first sight but I don’t want to be dramatic with this, I can’t help it. The way you can answer every question the Prof gave us, or when you seemed to laugh so freely at your friend’s awful jokes (I sometimes overheard you guys, he was being pretty loud), Or maybe when you held the door open for everyone that one rainy morning even though you were soaked.

It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just needed you to know. Because I want to be brave, and this letter is the only way I know how. 

You cringe at the words your past self wrote to him, burying your face in your hands with a soft groan. “Why did I have to say all that when I still got upset that you rejected me?”

Sylus chuckles, folding the letter back with surprising care before slipping it into his pocket again. “Because it was honest. And brave. And a little dramatic,” he adds, smirking.

You glare at him through your fingers. “I was nineteen.”

“And very articulate for someone confessing their heart and soul,” he teases. “Honestly, I think that’s when I started falling for you — I just didn’t know what to do with it back then.”

You lower your hands slowly, blinking. “Falling?”

“Don’t make me repeat it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “My pride’s already hanging by a thread.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That’s what you get for carrying emotional artifacts in your coat pocket.”

He grins. “That letter’s my proof that you liked me first.”

You laugh, swatting his shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But I’m here. And if you’re still mad about nineteen-year-old me being a dumbass... I can make it up to you.”

“Oh?” you raise a brow, suddenly wary. “How?”

He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of yours. “Ten more dates. Starting with breakfast tomorrow. I’ll even bring coffee and not screw up the order.”

You hesitate — heart twisting, tugged between the embarrassment of the past and the fragile wonder of now.

But then you smile, small and real.

“Only if I don’t have to write any more letters.”

Sylus leans in, nose nearly brushing yours. “No more letters. Just us.”

—

One Year Later

“You shrunk my sweater!” you shout from the bedroom, holding up the tiny, once-cozy piece of clothing like it's been murdered.

Sylus appears in the doorway, toothbrush in hand. “It said warm wash!”

You point an accusatory finger. “It said hand wash only, you chaos gremlin!”

He squints. “Are you sure?”

You shove the tag in his face. “Does this look unsure to you?”

He pauses, leans in, reads the tag, then slowly backs away like it might bite. “Okay. So I may have misread.”

“You may have committed a war crime.”

He raises a brow. “It’s just a sweater.”

“It was my comfort sweater. My post-long-day, rainy-night, sad-girl-hours sweater!”

Sylus tries not to smile. “Sad-girl-hours?”

You glare. “Don’t mock me in my time of grief.”

He disappears for a moment and returns with a hoodie — his hoodie. He tosses it at you.

You catch it and blink. “What’s this?”

“Official replacement,” he says with a shrug. “It’s softer. Smells better. Probably has my good boyfriend energy woven into the threads.”

You squint at him. “Bribery.”

“Compromise,” he says, smug. “Also, you look cuter in my clothes anyway.”

You roll your eyes and pull the hoodie on. It is soft. And warm. And kind of smells like him and cinnamon.

“…You’re lucky I’m forgiving,” you mumble.

“And you’re lucky I’m good at laundry 87% of the time.”

You shake your head, already smiling. “That 13% is dangerous.”

“I live on the edge,” he smirks, walking away.

You sigh dramatically, flopping onto the bed in your oversized hoodie.

“Next time,” you call out, “I’m making you sort socks for a week.”

“Babe!” he yells and comes back at you making you look up at him. “What now?”

He went to sit beside you on the bed, before suddenly crashing on top of you with all his weight. You let out an exaggerated oof as he smothered you like a human blanket.

“My hourly kiss,” he mumbled against your cheek, already pressing a noisy one there.

You squirm under him, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “You’re so heavy, Sylus—get off before my ribs turn into dust!”

“Nope,” he says, settling in even more like a cat refusing to move. “This is rent. You wore my hoodie. Now you pay in affection.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but your arms are already wrapping around him out of habit.

He lifts his head just enough to look down at you, his grin softening into something gentler. “You love it.”

You wrinkle your nose, but your heart betrays you. “I do.”

He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “Good. Now hurry and give me my kiss.”

You roll your eyes but oblige, lips brushing his in something far sweeter than the bickering that led to it.

And somehow, even after a year and countless ridiculous arguments, it still makes your heart race like it’s the first.

“Mmh..” He smiles into the kiss, like he always does.

You try to pull away, but his grip on you tightens and the kiss turns into something more rougher, more passionate.

“Not done,” Sylus murmurs, his voice low against your lips.

The next kiss catches you off guard—no longer playful, but deeper, rougher. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all day. His hand slides to the back of your neck, tilting your face toward him, anchoring you to the moment.

It makes your breath hitch, makes your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

It’s still Sylus—still familiar, still home—but there’s something new in the way he kisses you now. Like all the quiet moments, the bickering, the small touches and soft laughs have been building to this. Like he’s telling you something he hasn’t yet found the words for.

When you finally pull back, your lips are tingling and your heart is racing far too fast.

He’s staring at you like you hung the stars.

You swallow. “What was that for?”

He doesn’t smile—just brushes your hair behind your ear and says, “Felt like a good time to remind you.”

You blink. “Remind me of what?”

He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “That I’m in love with you. And I mean it every hour, not just the one with the kiss.”

Your chest tightens in the best way. You can’t quite speak, but your hand finds his, and that’s enough for now.

“I love you, baby.” He smiles.

And when you reply, he hugs you, wrapping your body in the warmth only he could provide for you. You sigh in his arms in content.

You’re happy, both of you are.

And you couldn't ask for more.

fin.

a/n: hmmm i didn’t expect it to be this long :\ but i hope you guys love this as much as i do! reblogs are very appreciated! do let me know what you guys think? 💭

[cookiedumper]

What If They Never Left? (Part 2)

What if Sylus never got the jewel In Grasssland Romance? What if they end up getting stuck there for the forseeable future? After Sylus unexpected lost against his opponent in a foriegn land, he and [reader] must figure out what happened and why. Spin off from the official card from the game (because domestic Sylus would be so cute)

CW: Verbal threats

WC: 1,347

The sun was just right, sitting on top of the trees as I sat with Sylus as he sharpened his knives and bow and arrow. I was weaving a basket from the twine that one of the ladies from the tribe gave me when I requested something to carry with. Even if we were stuck here, I can’t deny that the weather was really nice. 

The sun didn’t shine too much while the wind provided relief. Plus, there were no Wanderers that my hunters watch could detect. For miles and miles I rode a horse and couldn’t find any. While traces of protocores were detected here and there, it seemed as if this land lived in an era before the Chronorift Catastrophe. I just hope Tara isn’t too worried about my absence. 

“We should start looking into the son of the leader, the one who won the fight. From what I saw and what you described, he is fishy.” Sylus continues to polish his weapons as he thinks.

“A good start. But we need more than just him. He doesn’t seem like someone to work alone.”

“Why? He seems like he could come up with a plan.” Sylus turned to look at me.

“While he seems competent on the outside, he’s too cocky and impatient to think for himself.” I couldn’t help the snicker I let out from the dig. No doubt Sylus would have some beef with the guy. But something kept itching in the back of my mind. 

“What about your Evol? You said you couldn’t use it properly during the fight. When he pulled out the small knife it seemed to paralyze your Evol.” I looked around seeing if it gave me any thoughts. There was a chance a tribe could harbor something that suppresses Evol that significantly. 

“We will look into it, but for now we need to hunt for some food.” Sylus tosses me a bow and some arrows in a leather holder, “As long as we travel with the tribe we’ll be safe enough to continue investigating.”

As of now our lead was only the son, but at least it was something. I strap the arrows on along with the bow. Sylus was standing next to the horses holding the spear by his side. Shit that was hot. If only I had my phone to document it, if only it didn’t die last night.

Looking over at Sylus from the horse I had an idea. 

“First one to the forest gets the first dibs on prey,” I ushered the horse into a run leaving Sylus in the dust. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as the horse gallops toward the edge of the tree line. Right as I was approaching the trees, I hear a horse close behind. It feels as if he is breathing down my neck, but that just makes me work the reins even harder. Excitement courses through my body with the wind whipping my hair back.

To my right is Sylus with his horse neck at neck sporting his usual smirk. I was determined to wipe it off with my win. Focusing back to the path I flick the reins again causing a whine from the horse as we sped forward. Within seconds I made it to the forests edge decorated in tall slender trees hanging over like canopies. Sylus appears beside me with amusement swimming in his eyes. 

“What a feisty Kitten.” With a tone similar to pride. Riding on my high horse (pun intended) I smiled triumphantly as I dismounted. 

“I will be expecting my prize later, don’t be late,” I respond with a wink. We walk into the forest as the fresh air engulfs us. I couldn’t imagine the last time I had been in a proper forest. One without any traces of Wanderers or distress laid bare from wreckages of the past. The dirt path trailed from the edge into what resembled a long snake, weaving between trees and mounds of bushes. 

Venturing inside felt like stepping into a world of its own. The smell of wood and something distinct of the forest permeated the air more as we entered further. Once in a while, the bushes would rustle, responding to our footsteps. 

“How do you suppose your hunt will be?”

I look over seeing Sylus’ spear already hoisted, ready for his prey. “Don’t complain when my haul brings in more than yours, I am a hunter as titles go.” I say smugly, still riding the high from the race.

He lets out a soft chuckle, “I see the claws are out, let’s see how well you do.” We descend further into the woods with the birds chirping and trees as our witnesses.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The hazy sun’s glare between the trees paints the grass in lush waves. Resting against a tree with my loot lying beside me with the wind rustling my hair felt nice against the humidity of the forest. We had only been in the forest for what felt like a couple hours but our loot showed longer. Sylus had managed to strike a deer and a rabbit while I hit it off with a few ducks and an antelope. As far as hunting, I would call this a win. 

With food secured, I took a closer look around me. We’d ventured far enough that all you could see were trees and dirt. The sky was sparsely seen through the leaves, with the sun still high, signalling the afternoon. I started off towards a particularly nice stick when a flash of light struck my eye. Looking around, I spotted a small crest-like badge half buried in the dirt. Dusting off the dirt and retrieving it showed off the dark red and orange insignia decorated with a fox.

“What has conveniently caught your eye, Kitten?” his presence looms next to me as he eyes the shiny insignia badge. It looked shiny through wear and tear with threads popping out. 

“Is this for one of the tribes? It looks familiar.” Sylus takes the insignia, examining it quietly. “Maybe we should ask the Chief about the insignia? They must know something.”

“They should know who this belongs to.” He hands me the insignia back, “Let’s go back, we should clean up our spoils of war.” I pocket the insignia as we start heading back. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

After cutting up and storing our hunt I head towards the Chief’s tent, hoping for answers about the unknown insignia. Passing by a group of men I can overhear talking in loud voices. 

“It can’t be that easy right?”

“Why not? They aren’t gonna figure it out. They are the newbies so they have to learn from people like me.” Looking over my steps falter as I see the guy who fought in the competition. The same guy who cheated. I hide behind a nearby tend pretending to observe my outfit. “After all, who can win against me? My fighting stats beat everyone in this tribe.” His hands on his hips like a warrior on a mountain. 

“What was it like to win?” One of the guys asks in awe.

“It was so easy to win that competition. None of the other guys stood a chance at beating me.” 

“But what about that white hair dude? He looked pretty tough”

“Him? Oh please. I would win against him in a fight blindfolded. He doesn’t even have the stamina to keep up with my excellent fighting skills.” His thumb was pointing at himself as he continues rambling, “Honestly, I was even shocked he made it that far.”

Oh, he was so dead. Once I get my hands on him-

“But you know, to get that jewel? It was worth it. A pretty jewel like that is worth the effort I put into that damn fight.” He pulls out the red jewel, raising it up, “Wait till my father hears about this, he will be proud of me for months to come.”

As I was about to confront him, his arm turned just enough for me to see a familiar red and orange insignia.

Notes: I have never hunted any animals so if my description is off, I apologize for the inaccuracies. Also, I want to say I do not think anything negative about Sylus. It is only for the plot. Enjoy!

Reblogs are appreciated!

[cookiedumper]

What If They Never Left? (Part 1)

What if Sylus never got the jewel In Grasssland Romance? What if they end up getting stuck there for the forseeable future? After Sylus unexpected lost against his opponent in a foriegn land, he and [reader] must figure out what happened and why. Spin off from the official card from the game (because domestic Sylus would be so cute)

CW: Implied violence, fem reader

WC: 821

The sun fell onto the horizon as the fight calmed down. Where fists clashed for the jewel to bring them back. You could only watch as Sylus took the last blow that would end in defeat as the opponent, the son of a well-known leader who traveled here for the competition. 

Syluse looked up from where he fell and peered up at the man wearing a smug expression as he left the arena for the ceremony. The one he should’ve won. The only way back to their world was that jewel, and he failed. 

Sylus slowly gets up as you run to him. “What happened? Where are you hurt?” MC’s eyes start scanning his body for visible injuries that needed to be tended. The scrap against his knee. The bruises on his forearm, the cut on his shin. Wait, cut?

“The fight was rigged from the beginning.” You look up as Sylus looks slightly irritated, “He snuck in a concealed weapon. I wasn’t able to do anything against it.” The defeated look in his eyes stirred an uncomfortable feeling as you held his hand.

“It’s ok, as long as you are not hurt bad we will figure it out.”

“I know we will, Kitten” Sylus wraps you in his embrace as the sky turns a purple hue.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

You enter back into you and Sylus’ tent, where you notice he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s looking off into the distance as he holds a ceramic container you assume to be wine. “Sylus?” He doesn’t respond as he keeps looking at the wall. 

You walk around and see his eyes appeared he was deep in thought. “Sylus?” He focuses and looks at you with his signiture smirk.

“I see you’ve come back.”

“I have,” I sit next to him while he avoids my gaze sweeping to him. “Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” The tension in the room so thick I could cut it. I knew Sylus was dissapointed with the results, but what’s done is done. He shouldn’t blame himself.

“Do you want to go on a walk?”

“Sure” 

We walk towards the river close to the housing area. Similar to the time Sylus braided my hair, the river flowed while fish jumped up, landing back with a splash. 

“Sylus, are you sure you’re ok?” he keeps his eye trained on the fish like they held important secrets. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like forever. I lean to rest my head on his shoulder as he continues to watch the fish flop around. I’m not sure how long we stay like this. Peaceful and a bu sorrowful. 

As much as I want to go back, I can’t stop myself from worrying about Sylus. He’s been unusually quiet since the fight ended and I’m certain it has to do with the outcome. I need to investigate how they were able to smuggle any sharp objects. 

A gentle flick to my forehead brings me back to the river. Sylus looks at me with an unreadable expression. “Sweetie, you look like you’re about to wage a war on a poor soul.”

“Yeah, that poor soul is about to get all of my wrath.” he chuckles as he stares back at the river.

“I knew I could do better in that fight. I just couldn’t figure out why my Evol wasn’t working.” I look up to see Sylus examining a rock he picked up, “I dissapointed you and for that I’m sorry.”

I sit up and cup his face with my hands. “I may be disappointed, but not at you. Never at you.” I peck his nose, his cheek, and his forehead, making sure he feels my sincerity. “We may not be able to go back, but that doesn’t mean it’s all bad. This place is really nice and has a lot of things to keep us occupied.”

I settle back next to Sylus, making sure to keep my gaze on him. “Would you miss the N109 Zone?” he studies my face as a small smile graces his face. 

“Sweetie, do you remember what I told you before?” I nod as he continues, “I can adapt to any location and call it home.” He takes my hand in his, eyes trained on me. “But I have a condition, if you’re not there then I’m not interested.” My eyes got misty as we looked at each other, embraced by nature. 

“But what about Luke and Kieran? And Mephisto? And-” He cuts me off with a chaste kiss.

“They can handle themselves. What matters is us.” My smile couldn’t be restrained if I had tried. Leaning my head against his shoulder with some weight lifted off, I feel as if I can breathe again. Sylus moves his hand on mine with a firm grasp as if to tell me ‘it will all work out’ and for now, I feel like we could.

Notes: Thank you to all the readers! This is my first fic and I hope you enjoy!