You always wonder why, out of all the pretty and influential girls chasing after him, he chose you. It doesn't help how of a unit he is. Your typical perfect guy, popular, rich, and body that's comparable to a Greek God... and his voice— how you love his gentle and warm voice, there's just something about it that hypnotize you.
He always compliments you, shower you with affection, and be an absolute sweetheart. It gets you pissy. You don't know why you're always in a foul mood around him, he's not even doing anything that could trigger you. He takes a breath and you're already fuming. Grumbling profanities that he would laugh at wholeheartedly, like you didn't curse his entire being.
You hate how perfect he is. Hate how much you adore him. Hate how much you love him, and inside your mind you always question if he genuinely loves you. Maybe he's just playing with you? Waiting for the day he'd humiliate you, telling how you're too idiotic to even believe someone like him could ever love you.
That's probably why you're always cautious around him, you don't believe him enough to love an average girl like you.
***
He can't believe he's dating the cutest in the world. Everytime you scowl, show that adorable pout, he just wants to squish your cheeks together and kiss you plenty. Like a little kitty hissing when you sneer curses at him.
It's adorable really.
You'd say you didn't want to go to the movies he chose. Yet, you arrived earlier than expected, wearing a hint of makeup in that cute dress of yours. Makes him want to crush you. You put in the effort, took the time, even gave him the watch he'd been talking about—his favorite.
He really loves you. Really really loves you but why are you acting like he doesn't? He's confused. Hasn't he done enough to show you, tell how much he adores you? It makes him sad. Don't you know how much he's holding back? There's only so much he could take, you know. He could just take you everytime you run that cute foul mouth of you, shove his cock to make you shut up. But he's so patient with you because he loves you.
So don't push him too much, ok? Or else you might not like it when he finally show you his desire.
***
"You're late," you grumble, sending him a glare. Your arms are crossed, and your foot taps impatiently on the ground.
He chuckles, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I arrived just on time, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. "You're just too excited for our date, no?" His voice is teasing, but his eyes are warm, sparkling with affection.
You huff in response, but you can feel the corners of your mouth betraying you, tugging into a smile. He notices and takes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
"You're just so cute, you know? I really wanna crush— ow!" He hiss slightly as you swat his arm. He pouts a little, "You're strong, you're gonna leave a bruise."
You roll your eyes— as if that's gonna happen. Huffing you tug on his hand, "Let's go. I'm starving."
He smiles, looking at your back, "Ok, sweetie~."
Ah, you really are so cute.
He can't wait to fuck you.
***
"Why're you not eating, sweetie? Is the food not to your liking?"
Your appetite was gone the moment that waitress flirted with him, leaving you empty and bitter. This always happen. You're sick of it, sick of being jealous and feeling shitty for not looking like his girlfriend. Are you really worthless by his side? Do people not see you as his companion?
"Sweetie?"
You didn't want to lash out on him so you remained silent. Too bitter to talk. Even the food turned bitter, leaving you more upset.
He's such an idiot. But you're more of an idiot for being triggered by that stupid waitress, too much of a wuss to tell her he's taken, that he's yours. You're the idiot.
"I don't wanna eat anymore," you bitterly muttered, your face covered by the shadows of your hair, hiding that frown you wore he always seems to love on you.
He gets a sick twisted feeling in his guts, watching how jealous you get whenever some worthless wench tries to get his attention. It satisfies his urge, his sick thoughts hidden by his angelic face. You really love him, don't you? His lips curving into a sweet smile, eyes twinkling with desires. If only you know how much he gets off with you being jealous, you'd never doubted your pretty little self.
So… why are you saying such stupid things?
“Let’s break up.”
“Hm?”
“I said…” You take a breath, steadying your voice. “Let’s break up.”
For a moment, his smile wavers. Just a fraction. His right eye twitches ever so slightly, a crack in the carefully crafted mask he wears. But then, like a master of illusions, he recovers, his sweet facade sliding back into place, though something darker lingers beneath the surface.
“Now, now,” he says, his voice dripping with a saccharine softness that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. “What’s the matter?” His tone is gentle, almost soothing, but there’s a sharp edge to it—a venomous undercurrent that cuts through the air.
You don’t answer immediately, your chest tightening under his unblinking stare. It’s as if he’s waiting, watching every little twitch of your expression, trying to peel you apart without lifting a finger.
“I just think…” you start, your voice faltering as his head tilts slightly, his smile remaining unnervingly intact. “I-I think we’re not… good for each other anymore.”
His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, his gaze sharpens, a predator sizing up its prey. He takes a step closer, the air between you growing heavy. “Not good for each other?” he repeats, feigning confusion. “Sweetheart, where’s this nonsense coming from? Didn’t we promise forever?”
The sweetness in his tone sends a chill down your spine, but you hold your ground. “Forever shouldn’t feel like this,” you say, trying to steady your trembling hands.
It shouldn't make you feel bad about yourself, shouldn't make you anxious, shouldn't make feel... pressured.
For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes boring into yours. Then, his chuckle breaks the tension, soft and low. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. “You’re upset. That’s all. We’ll talk this through, won’t we?”
But his words aren’t a question—they’re a command, wrapped in the guise of concern. And as his smile lingers, you realize leaving might not be as simple as you hoped.
***
Why is this happening?
You thought he would accept and move on.
"Mmm, that's it sweetie. Take it deeper." He coaxes, his grip on your hair tightening. He starts to push forward, forcing more of his thick length past your stretched lips.
So why?
Your eyes squeeze shut tighter as he pushes in deeper, your throat convulsing around his invading cock. He throws his head back with a guttural moan.
"That's a good girl. Mhm, your throat feels so good wrapped around my dick." He grunts, starting to set a steady pace. Fucking into your mouth, using your face like a cock sleeve.
It was gross. He never did that to you.
Lewd, wet sounds fill the office as he picks up speed, his heavy balls slapping against your chin with each rough thrust. Drool escapes the seal of your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your messed up clothes.
He looks down, taking in the debauched sight of you on your knees, choking on his cock. His dick is spit-shined and glistening, streaked with their drool. Shit. The sight makes him thrust harder, faster, chasing his pleasure.
"Look at me," He demands breathlessly, wanting to see the tears and desperation in their eyes as he uses their mouth ruthlessly. He's close, so fucking close already from the intense, vice-like grip of your inexperienced throat. He grunts and curses, slamming forward one last time before pulling out abruptly.
Thick ropes of cum paint your face and hair, marking you as his. Some of it even lands in your eyes, making them sting and water.
"You're so pretty... You look so pretty covered in my cum," he whispers lovingly, smearing the head of his cock across your messy face, pushing the hot seed into their skin like makeup. "The prettiest girl in the world."
You were supposed to break up with him...
How did it escalated to this?
***
It's not like he's losing a lot... you aren't that special. So why is he acting this way? There are a lot of better options for him, prettier, smarter, and richer girls. Someone who can actually match him, who doesn't embarrass him, worthier to stand beside him.
Why is he fucking you like his life depends on it?
Your eyes already hazy and unfocused, breathing hard as you couldn't count how many times you've already come.
One of his hands snakes up your trembling body, finding a soft breast. He squeezes the supple mound roughly, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he kneads and gropes. He finds a pert nipple and pinches it cruelly between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging until it stands stiff and aching in the cool air of the room.
"Hm? Are you already tired? We're just starting," he coo, his hips slamming forward with renewed vigor. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck, sharp teeth sinking into the tender skin. He bites and sucks, determined to leave his mark on you, to claim you as his own. His. He can feel his orgasm building, his heavy balls tightening as he ruts into your abused cunt. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling fill the room, punctuated by the creaking of the bed and your cries. He's close, so fucking close to filling your cunt with his seed.
"Gonna... hngh... fill this pussy..." He grunts between clenched teeth, slamming home one last time. His cock throbs and pulses as he starts to come, thick ropes of hot cum painting your inner walls. He grinds against them, making sure they take every last drop as he marks your womb with his essence.
Finally, with a last shuddering groan, he collapses on top of you, his softening cock still buried deep inside your tender, cream-filled pussy. He pants harshly against the shell of their ear, his hands still groping and fondling your sensitive body.
"Y-You're an idiot..." You sniffle, "Why me? There's a lot of—."
He cuts you off, "You know, I would never cheat on you, right?" He whispers tenderly, kissing your ears as if assuring. "No matter who comes to me, I would never pay attention to them. Never. You're the only one I want." His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his intense, burning gaze.
It was the first time you ever heard his voice to be so... vulnerable.
"The only girl I want... So..." You can hear his voice shake, "Don't break up with me, ok?"
Your eyes glaze with tears, your heart tugging at his words. No, it wasn't supposed to end up like this. You made up your mind a few weeks ago, always nagging at the back of your mind. Ending your relationship would be the best for you two—.
He kisses you then, any doubts in your mind disappearing as his mouth claiming theirs in a brutal, dominating kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, plundering the warm cavern as he grinds his hips forward, rubbing his throbbing erection against your thigh.
Ah, you don't care anymore.
"Don't think anymore, ok? Just let me do it for you."
He starts to rub the broad head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your combined juices. "Tell you what, sweetheart. I'll be gentle like the usual... for now." He promises darkly, his voice rough with restrained lust. "I'll make this first part nice and slow, nice and easy for you."
"H-Huh?"
With that, he starts to push forward, the thick length of his cock slowly sinking into your tight, clutching heat. He has to fight the urge to slam forward, to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. But he resists, forcing himself to go slowly, to savor the exquisite feeling of your walls stretching around him.
"Ah, you're still so tight." He grits out through clenched teeth, his fingers flexing against your hips as he fights for control. "Such a perfect cunt."
"Too soon! I'm still... s-sensitive!" You cried out but he starts to move then, his hips rocking in a slow, sensual rhythm as he fucks into you with deep, deliberate strokes. Each thrust pushes him a little deeper, a little harder, until he's finally buried to the hilt inside you. He pauses for a moment, letting you feel the heavy weight of him, the way he's stretching you impossibly full.
"Hehe, sorry can't help it. Does that feel gentle enough for you, sweetie?" He asks, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, yet his angelic face covers it. "Or do you need me to be even more... careful?" He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust of his hips, grinding his pelvis against your clit.
Your brain short circuit by the overstimulation, all you could think about was him, and his big cock, "A-Ah, you— ish... so good~!"
He snarls in feral pleasure as he feels your pussy clench and ripple around his pistoning cock. The way you are moaning and crying out, begging him not to stop... it's the headiest fucking thing he's ever heard. It makes him want to ruin you, to fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll never forget the feeling of his cock splitting you open.
You came in surprise, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, chest heaving, "C-Can't too much..!"
"You can do it," He growls, his voice a dark, distorted rumble. He can feel his own release building, his balls drawing up tight as he fucks into you with wild abandon, "A-ah~ clench this greedy cunt around my dick, dollface. Milk it for all it's worth.
You never saw this side of him before, a more vulgar side to him. Spouting dirty words that's the opposite of his facade. Maybe, you didn't know your boyfriend that well? He was always gentleman to you in bed, always going with your pace and being mindful about his words but now...
"N-No~ I really ah! Can't!" You shake your head frantically, having enough of the sensitivity.
"Yes, you can! You will, sweetie~!"
He buries his face in the crook of her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin as he chases his pleasure. He wants to mark you, to leave his claim all over your body for everyone to see. He wants the whole world to know that you belong to him, that you're his to fuck and fill and love as he sees fit. The thought of another man putting his hand on you makes him mad, you're only his and he isn't afraid to take that way for you to be officially his.
"I'm gonna cum, sweetie." He grits out, his hips slamming forward with sharp, brutal thrusts. "I'm gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my seed, gonna breed this fucking cunt until it's dripping with my cum."
Breed?
He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing mercilessly at the sensitive bundle of nerves. "I want to feel you cum on my cock, sweetheart. I want to feel you shake and quake as I fill you with my my child."
Wait...!
His other hand slides up, wrapping around your throat and squeezing lightly. It's enough to make you gasp for air, pulse jumping wildly beneath his touch. It's enough to make you even tighter, body instinctively clenching down around him as he fucks into you with short, vicious thrusts.
Too much!
"Now, sweetie~ cum. Now." He commands, his voice a dark and sinful. And with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself balls deep inside her and starts to cum. His cock jerks and pulses as he paints your insides with thick ropes of his hot seed, filling you up just like he promised.
So full...
You gasp out, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. The room spins around you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as you struggle to catch your breath. Body aches all over, especially between your legs. The feeling of his cum painting your insides is strange, unsettling.
Your vision having black spots, your consciousness fading as you hear him murmur promises to you.
"I'll take responsibility whether we have a child or not, we'll get married and have a cute child."
You feel a warm kiss on your forehead.
"I love you. I love you more than anyone else, I only love you."
Hii, I loved all of your works, especially the Yandere Zayne one, and I was wondering what if Zayne suddenly woke up, and realises it was just a dream, he hadn't been assigned as mc's doctor, and yn was not scared of him yet. I kinda think if he was in that position, he would love to gently push her into his life, this time more naturally
A monster trying to claw at him. Screeching as they raised their mangy hands. Thirsty for his blood and with a flick of his hands. The monster were gone. The air's cold and misty as the tiny snowflakes descended in the ground and some melting on his palm.
Some of his dreams consists of the happy days with her. Stargazing in a summer night. Sticky hands from melted ice cream. Snowballs mayhem from when the chubby seals in the aquarium decided to toss them. The sound of her laughter bright as the day in his dreams.
But not all was filled with the warm memories of her. He remembers hurting her. Lying unconscious in the hospital bed as his Evol has gone out of control. That scared him more than anything else and until now, when years has passed and the osmanthus trees blooms again — it still haunts him.
Then came the piano keys ringing into a sweet melody. In the hallways were music are abundant. A blue torn ribbon stuck in the music sheets. Another girl came into his dream. He knows they didn't talk much like him. Polite greetings and smiles and sometimes a little mischief.
A smear of mud caking in their round cheeks. A hand reaching out for him to give him a ball of chocolate and in which he puts them in the pocket of his button shirt. The girl who will be telling him it was their little secret and he will soon learn that you're going to be his fiancée. Promised to him after surviving the cruelty of the womb that refused to birth her.
As if a reel from an old film that keeps rolling transitions to a future that is yet to exist. It was living in a nightmare. There he saw a car in the middle of the road. The hood crushed like a can while a nearby car is flipped in the side.
Behind the steering wheels, he saw you. Unconscious and bleeding. Multiple lacerations in your face and he knows there's more underneath your lower half. He desperately reaches out for you. A doctor administrating first aid but his feet won't move. He can only watch as you waited for someone to get you out.
He realizes he learned love too late for you. It only took of what they call a miracle for surviving that car crash. The argument resurfaced. The look in your face as you plead for him not to take you as someone that is stupid and not be so obvious as being treated as an obligation.
He saw pieces of what comes later after your accident. You were recovering at his house. The shared meals and the small talks. Trying to get closer to you but you remained firm. Distance grew and fed up with the sudden tenderness. Courage was never something you did growing up and when it came, it was full of hurt and the resignation of being so overlooked for so long that you start to fade.
You confessed — tearfully. All the hurt that came with loving him and what embers left of being able to bask in the presence of someone that you loved and then, you were breaking things with him. An act of love must never continue when you're hurting and it was the time to let go.
He never accepted it. For someone who can easily grasp situations, he never prepared for this one. Something twists and cracks inside him. His gaze darkened and the blood coursing through his veins burns hotly and without a second thought. No conscience running in his mind.
He did the unthinkable.
The late affection that you hoped for a long time came into fruition. A marriage and bore the twins that you resented and loved.
His dreams came into tangle. Skipping into scenes. A reel tangling and all he saw was your face. Tired and worn out while your cradle the babies that he forced on you. Your face stained with tears and repeatedly asking the question — why? Why Zayne?
Your voice grew louder and louder and he woke up.
Same ceilings, same bed.
The nightmares you lived with him. Crying and voiceless. Reduced to a body that only meant to bear his children. His selfishness brought you to this. His need of wanting you to stay for the love that came too late. The act of redemption filled with resentment and the trust that he can never have back.
He betrayed you.
Of all the people he could have done that he choose you even it was a dream. A dream. It's only a dream but it feels too real that his body felt it too. Is this the future that's been waiting for you and him? A future where he had hurt you.
He remains still in his cold bed. The sun light barely cracks through his curtains. If that was the future that awaits for you. He needs to stop it. Prevent it from happening. He could never lay a hand on you. He doesn't need to add the cruelty in your world. It was enough.
The phone in his bedside table vibrates. It could be the hospital but it was you.
۶۟ৎ: good morning, zayne. are you available for lunch?
His face softened and was followed by the look of guilt. It's always like this, always you who tried to connect with him. If it took you years and waited for that accident to happen to break things with him, he was an absolute prick.
Letting his fiancée, the one he's supposed to protect and love diminish herself of something lower.
He quickly types that he's going to pick you up for lunch. It's the bare minimum and he knows you deserve more but it's the start of making things right.
He didn't mean to but he did. The sight of you alive and bright and smiling at him made him want to kill himself at the spot cause why he would that to you in that dream.
“Zayne? Are you sick?” He hears you asking. Your voice muffled at his chest and you weakly returned the hug. Gentle tapping his back.
“No.” He answers. For the first time he touches you. Studies your face that he almost forgot how to care and protect. Staring at the eyes of you who trusts him so much. Putting so much faith in him that you sometimes forgot how to be you.
“Did something happen?” You ask again cause he knows this was a first for you. Your stoic fiancé who barely cracks a smile at you shows the first of affection let alone a hug.
He didn't say anything as he wraps his arms around you. Kissing the top of your head as he breathes in your scent. Tears almost pooling at the corner of his eyes cause you didn't deserve what happened in that dream. He can't let the world be cruel to someone as gentle as you.
He wants to apologize. For all the things including that didn't happen. “I will protect you.” Including from himself.
Imagine being prince! Caleb arranged marriage spouse.
Imagine you were not meant to be part of his story. That was the truth you learned the day your engagement was announced. When the palace bells rang too loudly, when the court smiled too widely, and when Caleb looked at you with eyes already full of someone else.
Imagine the way he told you on the morning of your wedding, not cruelly. Not dramatically. Just… Honestly. "My heart already belongs to another." You remember how still you felt. How calm. How something in you settled, as if you had already known long before he said it out loud.
Imagine you loved him anyway. Loved him the moment you first saw him at that ball five years ago, crowned in gold and light, laughter easy on his lips, eyes sharp but kind. Had you known then that his heart was promised, that his soul was already entwined with his childhood sweetheart, you would have looked away.
but Imagine love does not ask permission. And regret does not undo what has already rooted itself inside you.
so Imagine you made a choice. That you would never reach for what was never yours. You stood where you were placed, at his side when the court watched, a step behind when they didn't. You smiled when required, spoke when necessary, and vanished quietly whenever he sought her. You learned the art of absence. Learned how to be present without being intrusive.
Imagine you told yourself you were the villain in their fairytale. The foreign noble who arrived too late. The political necessity. The obstacle no one asked for. And perhaps that was true. But you were also necessary.
because Imagine your marriage secured alliances, calmed borders, strengthened his claim to the throne. You were not loved, but you were needed. And Caleb, for all his honesty, could never deny that.
Imagine at first, he was cold. Not unkind. Just distant. Careful. He made sure you understood that nothing would ever change. That no vow, no title, no shared bed would ever make him look at you the way he looked at her. He said it plainly, as if repeating it often enough would make it kinder. And you accepted it.
because Imagine even then, in a way that hurt to admit, you were still his. Not his heart. Not his first choice. But his spouse. By law. By duty. By fate's cruel sense of timing.
Imagine the way something shifted. Not love. Not yet. Trust.
Imagine you had became the person he turned to when council meetings stretched too long, when letters from the capital soured his mood, when sleepless nights drove him back to his study. You listened. You advised. You fought beside him, politically, strategically, silently.
Imagine the way he stopped treating you like a stranger. He started treating you like an ally.
Imagine you rode with him once a month, horses thundering side by side through open fields where titles meant nothing. You sat through weekly councils, speaking only when your voice would matter. You shared late night conversations, candles burning low as the world slept outside his chambers.
Imagine he was still careful. Still guarded. But warmer. And that frightened you more than his coldness ever did.
Imagine then you met her, MC. She was everything the stories promised. Kind. Elegant. Beautiful in a way that did not demand attention but received it anyway. She smiled at you gently, spoke to you politely, and loved Caleb with a sincerity that was impossible to resent.
Imagine you understood him then. Truly. And you understood why the world saw you as the other woman, even when you had never once tried to be. But sometimes, you caught something in her eyes. A flicker. Resentment. Envy. You never understood it. Because she had his heart. Entirely. What more could she fear?
Imagine you never crossed the line. Even when she paired you together. Even when the court whispered. Even when your own feelings grew heavier with each passing day. You saw how she looked at him. And how he looked back. You understood then why the court whispered about you like you were something shameful. And if you had been in their place, you would have whispered too.
so Imagine you never crossed the line. Even when Caleb began to rely on you. Even when he started coming to you first, not to confess love, but to confess exhaustion. Doubt. Anger he couldn't voice anywhere else. You listened. You advised. You stayed up late with him in his study, pretending not to notice how comfortable he had become with you.
Imagine you knew he still loved her. That was the rule. And rules mattered to him. And you were afraid of misreading it. So you stood still. Not moving forward. Not stepping back. Just existing between what was allowed and what was impossible.
then Imagine, the rebellion came. Fire and steel and betrayal in the dead of night. Plans scattered. Screams echoing through stone corridors. You stood with his vassals, mapping strategies, relaying orders until the message arrived like a blade to the chest.
Imagine MC had been taken. A bargaining piece. A demand for his surrender. You went with him without hesitation. A fighter, a hunter, a necessity, just like always.
Imagine you don't notice the blood at first. You notice the heat in your forearms, the way your muscles are burning so hard it feels like something is tearing inside them. You notice how your fingers don't quite feel like they belong to you anymore, how the stone beneath your hands is slick in a way it wasn't seconds ago.
Imagine, MC's body is heavy. Heavier than you expect. Unconscious bodies always are. They don't help. They don't brace. They don't understand when you shift your grip and whisper under your breath, please, please, like the cliff might listen.
Imagine the way your chest aches. Each breath scrapes shallow and sharp, like your lungs can't quite expand all the way. Your arms are shaking now, not the kind of trembling you can fight, but the small, betraying kind that means your strength is already running out.
Imaginr if you let go, even for a heartbeat, you'll both fall. So you press your fingers harder into the rock. Your skin gives way. You feel it split, feel warmth smear beneath your palms, but pain barely registers anymore. Pain is distant. Secondary. Keeping her from slipping isn't.
Imagine the way hou hear the battle behind you, steel striking steel, men shouting, someone screaming a name that doesn't matter. None of it feels real. The only real thing is the edge digging into your ribs and the weight dragging you forward, inch by inch.
then Imagine came the footsteps. Fast. Uneven. Caleb.
Imagine the way he drops beside you so hard the ground shifts beneath his knees. For one small, shameful moment, relief floods your body so violently your grip almost fails right then. He looks ruined, cheeks smeared with blood and dirt, hair stuck to his face with sweat, one eye swelling shut. His clothes are torn like he barely survived getting here at all.
"You- Don't move." He says, breathless. His voice cracks. "I've got you." You shake your head. Not because you're brave. Because you know your limits. "She's slipping." You say, and your voice comes out wrong, too calm, too steady, like it belongs to someone already resigned. "Take her first."
Imagine the way his eyes flick from your face to MC's limp body. He hesitates. It was barely a second. But your body feels everything. The weight shifts. MC's body pulls harder. Your fingers slide just a fraction, skin screaming as the rock grinds deeper into raw flesh. Your arms spasm violently now, a sharp jolt of pain tearing through your shoulders.
Imagine your vision blurs at the edges. You don't have much time left. "Please." You whisper. Its not a plea to be saved. It's an admission. He swears and lunges for her, hauling with everything he has. MC's body scrapes against the cliff, fabric tearing, her head lolling uselessly. For a terrible second you think she'll slip back down, that this will all be for nothing, then the weight leaves your arm.
and Imagine so suddenly your body jolts forward, chest slamming into the edge as your grip almost gives out entirely. Black spots burst across your vision. She's up. She's breathing. That relief is so intense it makes you dizzy. And that's when your fingers finally fail.
Imagine it was not dramatic. They don't just open. They slide. Slow, horrifying inches as blood and sweat betray you, as skin meets smooth stone and finds nothing to hold onto. Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.
and Imagine Caleb turns back immediately. He doesn't think. Doesn't hesitate. He just reaches. His hand closes around your wrist, warm, solid, familiar in a way that makes your throat tighten painfully. His grip is strong, desperate, anchoring.
"I've got you." He says again, louder now. Panicked. Fractured. Like he's trying to convince himself as much as you. For a moment, you’re suspended. Not falling. Not safe.
Imagine you were just hanging there, your entire body screaming, your arms numb and burning all at once. Your wrist throbs where he holds you, pain and comfort tangled together so tightly you can't tell them apart.
Imagine the way your body reacts before your mind can stop it. You relax. Just a little. Because it's him. Because you've trusted him for years. Because your body remembers safety in his hands, even when your heart knows better.
and Imagine in that tiny, fatal release, you understand something with terrible clarity. If he pulls you up, nothing will ever be the same. You will live. And keep standing between him and the life he thinks he owes someone else. You will keep loving him quietly, painfully, invisibly.
Imagine you look up at him. Really look. His face is twisted with fear, eyes wide and raw in a way you've never seen before, like something precious is slipping away and he's only just realized what it was worth.
and Imagine instead of panic, something inside you goes still. Calm settles over you, heavy and final. You smile. Not bravely. Not reassuringly. Content. Like someone finally laying down a weight they’ve been carrying for far too long. Like someone who has already made peace with the ending.
Imagine you don't want him to remember you begging. You don't want him to remember you terrified. You want him to remember this. That you were okay. That you chose this. That you let him go. "It's okay." You tell him softly, your voice barely audible over the wind. "You don't have to choose."
then Imagine there was a sudden, sharp sound, wet and wrong. His arm jerks violently. You feel it immediately, the way his grip spasms, the way his fingers lose strength without his permission. You see his face change, pain flashing through it, horror following close behind.
Imagine his hand slips. And then there is nothing beneath you. The air rushes up to meet you, cold and violent, tearing the breath from your lungs as your stomach drops. The cliff pulls away above you, shrinking rapidly.
Imagine the way time stretches. You see everything. The way his eyes widen impossibly. The way his mouth opens around your name. The way shock, fear, regret, and realization crash over his face all at once.
and Imagine, you keep smiling. Because this is the last thing you can give him. Because if he remembers you like this, calm, accepting, already letting him go. Then maybe he won't chase you into the dark.
so Imagine as the wind roars past your ears. The water rises fast. And then nothing at all.
[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°
:I miss PH, but I do enjoy TH :((((( I'm so sad and suffering nowadays so I shall share my pain with you guys, sorry. I have a morning shift tom.
: this started with me daydreaming the cliff scene otw to OJT at 4am in the morning and this has been on my mind the whole day :/// PS. Sleepy as fuck so apologies if it's quite messed up.
The sound of bone breaking had been so sharp, like a violin string snapping in the silence of a hall. Your scream rose with it, jagged and raw, but Xavier had only tightened his grip, his face wet with tears.
“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your hair even as you shook under him. “I’ll fix it. You’ll see. I’ll fix everything.”
But he didn’t fix. He ruined.
Your legs folded in wrong angles now, twisted beneath you like broken wings. He carried you after that — everywhere. To the garden, to the table, to the bed. His arms were both cradle and cage.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured every night, kissing the scars where your bones had betrayed you. “You don’t have to run anymore. You don’t have to leave me. We’re one body now — I’ll be your legs.”
And when you cried, he kissed the tears from your cheeks, tasting salt and despair as though it were communion wine.
⤷ ♡ RAFAYEL :
Jealousy came on him like fever.
The room smelled of roses, sweet and suffocating, and Rafayel’s hands trembled as he pressed you against the wall. His knife glinted under the light, not elegant in that moment, but desperate, sharp as his breath.
“You smiled at him,” he hissed, voice breaking. “You let him have what’s mine.”
You begged, voice shattering in the air, but he didn’t hear. Or maybe he didn’t want to. His hand pressed flat against your chest, over your heartbeat, and with the other he carved.
Letters.
Crooked, jagged letters.
His name.
R A F A Y E L
Blood welled up like crushed berries, staining his fingers. Your body convulsed, but his face… his face was serene. Almost holy.
When he finished, he pressed his lips to the wound, kissing each letter as though sanctifying it, painting his devotion into your skin.
“Now you’ll never forget,” he whispered, voice shaking with a manic kind of joy. “Even if you try to leave me, even if you look at another man, they’ll see. They’ll all see. You belong to me. Forever.”
⤷ ♡ ZAYNE :
tw. lobotomy
It wasn’t violence in the way you expected.
It was tenderness. It was surgical. It was quiet.
The smell of antiseptic lingered in the room, sharp enough to burn your throat. You were strapped to the chair, wrists raw against leather cuffs, while Zayne stood over you with calm, detached precision. His eyes were full of something worse than rage — conviction.
“You think too much,” he murmured, brushing your hair back, his hand shaking with gentleness. “All that doubt… all that fear. I can take it away. I can give you peace.”
The drill whined. The sound was insectile, gnawing at your skull before it even touched you. And when it did — oh, when it did — your vision split in lightning. Pain screamed through bone and blood, your body thrashing against its own prison.
But Zayne only shushed you, whispering like a lover.
“You’ll thank me,” he said, tears streaking his cheeks as bone dust speckled his gloves. “You’ll be happy. You’ll love me without fear, without hate. Just love. Only love.”
And when the world dimmed, when pieces of you were hollowed out, you felt him press a kiss to your temple, his lips wet with blood and devotion.
“I’ve freed you,” he whispered. “Now you’re mine completely.”
⤷ ♡ SYLUS :
He didn’t hurt you directly. Not at first.
He hurt everyone around you.
It began with whispers — small rumors at first, thin and weightless, like the fluttering of moth wings. But when you woke the next morning, your friend was gone. Their apartment ransacked, no sign of struggle, nothing but an empty room and the smell of blood that lingered in the walls.
You tried to scream, tried to run, but each time you reached out for someone, they were taken. Your family. Your friends. One by one. The world began to shrink — empty. Hollow.
Sylus watched, always from a distance. His eyes never wavered. He knew. He always knew. And when your last remaining ties to the world were cut — when there was no one left but him — he came to you.
He wrapped you in his arms like a shroud. You could feel his smile against your neck, feel his breath in your hair, and you knew. This is love. This is devotion.
“I’ve made you mine,” he whispered in your ear, his voice a purr of satisfaction. “No one can take you from me. Not even you.”
You couldn’t run. There was no one left to run to. He had erased every trace of your old life. And now, you were his, body and soul.
“You’ll see,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the scars where your heart had once beat for others. “Without them, you’ll have no choice but to love me.”
⤷ ♡ CALEB :
The cage was too beautiful to be a cage.
The velvet-lined walls were soft, the plushies scattered around like a child's dream, the delicate scent of lavender and rosewater filling the air. The cage wasn’t a cage. Not really. It was a sanctuary. Caleb had made sure of that.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Pipsqueak?” he asked, his voice soft and low, like he was whispering to a pet. His smile was warm, so warm, as he placed the last stuffed bunny beside you. “I’ve made it just for you. You’ll be safe here.”
It felt wrong. The plushies. The flowers. The golden bars that were somehow still just bars — no matter how gilded they were. Caleb’s hands were always gentle, always careful. He fed you, bathed you, brushed your hair, and held you when you cried. He was perfect. So perfect.
But it never stopped.
Every action, every smile, was a reminder that he never really cared about what you wanted.
You hated the cage. You hated the feeling of being kept. But every time you tried to pull away, Caleb only kissed your forehead, wiped away your tears, and held you closer. His fingers slid into your hair, threading through with a softness that made your skin crawl.
“Shh, don’t be scared,” he whispered as he stroked your cheek. “I only want what’s best for you. I’m giving you everything you need.”
But you didn’t need this. You didn’t need him. The world outside, the life you had before — it was all gone. Nothing was left but the plush walls and Caleb’s soft, gentle hand, pulling you deeper into the trap of his love.
It wasn’t love.
It was control.
And you were trapped.
do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms. thank you for reading :)
“and i’ll watch the sunset wearing all your clothes.”
he’s finally coming to terms with this new reality – a reality where you’re no longer in his life, you’re probably never coming back. he has to stop hoping you’ll come back.
it doesn't stop him from missing you, much less loving you.
he hears of your success in the art world from thomas, sometimes from his bodyguard. moments where hordes of fans wait in line to see your work, compliments showered towards you for your skills, your remarkable ability to freeze time in the form of a photo.
he, for one, had thought about visiting your exhibits once or twice to see everything for himself. that is, if you hadn’t moved to skyhaven, of all places.
he still keeps your polaroids scattered throughout his home, and on nights where the silence was too loud, he'd revisit your photo album. he’d stare at each photo for hours, not only imagining how you saw the world, but how so in love with him you were.
he was so blinded by destiny – the very concept of it. it was engraved in the bond they shared; it was all he’d ever known.
and at the time, he didn’t have the heart to admit the possibility of loving you, too.
maybe even more than his beloved. but now it’s cost him.
he’s playing the role all over again, but now it's not her he longs for. it’s you.
he’s frightened at the thought of forgetting your smile – your eyes. the way you laughed, the way your warmth enveloped him on nights where the pain of losing lemuria became too overbearing.
the way your eyes sparkled like diamonds when he promised he'd watch every single sunset with you.
if he saw you now, would it be too soon? would you reject him? ignore him? pretend that he didn’t exist?
you must hate him.
he hates himself for what he did you.
“i can feel you with me like i did before."
you’re dressed in a flowing white dress by the water, looking back at him, smiling like you did before.
he sees something nestled soundly in your arms, but he can't make it out clearly. it’s too hard to distinguish from where he stands.
something in him calls to walk towards you slowly, yet he hesitates, fearing that if he gets any nearer, you’ll vanish.
maybe you’ll disappear into the ocean and escape his grasp forever. and he’ll be stuck back in the abyss.
but a few more steps in your direction, you don’t move, still keeping that soft, darling smile he’s yearned for months on your face.
and your eyes – those eyes he adores – are so full of joy. there are tears in your eyes, but they’re not from sadness.
“look rafayel.” your voice is as soft as he remembers.
his eyes follow the tender curve of your arms, and that’s when he sees her.
a baby.
a little girl.
soft waves that resemble the same shade as yours falling around her tiny face. a button nose, eyes closed, decorated in lemurian attire as if she was born already belonging to the sea.
you whisper her awake, causing her to fuss for just a moment before your gentle voice soothes her. “it’s okay, baby, mommy’s here.”
slowly, you lift her upright, turning her toward the young sea god in front of you.
she stirs for just a second, then tilts her head with curiosity so pure, as though she’s studying the figure in front of her.
and when he finally gazes upon her, eyes catching his, he feels the world stop and something in him break.
soft, round eyes that mirrored the break of dawn. where the sun meets the ocean, just like his own.
and then a smile.
she was simply love incarnated.
his heart races, each beat pounding against his ribs so hard it hurts as the realization hits him. he can’t take it, faltering to the ground, knees giving in.
fingers grasping at the end of your dress, he holds on to it as if it were a lifeline.
he locks his gaze on you. only you.
“is she-,” the lump in his throat causes his voice to break. “is she ours?”
you nod, reaching down to grab his trembling hand, guiding him back to his feet.
now standing, you rest your forehead on his, a small giggle escaping you through the tears. “yeah, she’s ours.”
his own tears spill now, the weight of it all too much to keep in after your confirmation.
heart so full, love for you fully realized, he’s ready to devote his entire being to you – the one he adores most in this lifetime.
“look sienna,” he hears you say, watching as her tiny hand instinctively curls around your finger, you guide her gaze to look at rafayel once more, “it’s daddy.”
when he wakes up, there are tears in his eyes, and his chest is in sharp pain.
looking down at the source of his pain, he sees the bond he once shared with his beloved is no longer glowing a bright red.
no.
it’s glowing a different color – your favorite color.
and it was all just a dream.
“i’ll wait here tomorrow, outside your door.”
it’s a cold december day when rafayel involuntarily finds himself walking towards the hidden area of whitesand beach, an area that belonged only to you.
he remembers how happy you were, how you clung to his arms with the brightest smile on your face as you saw the cave, the crystal clear water washing over your feet, the glittering sand that you swore held diamonds in them.
he loved how much you enjoyed the beach, the ocean, all marine life; how woven it all was into your soul.
he’d never forget the expression you made as he kissed you before dragging you underwater, not even giving you an explanation.
where you had kicked and screamed thinking he was trying to drown you, all he could do was laugh as he held your hand, venturing deeper into the ocean's depths, becoming quiet as you realized the ruins before you were those of lemuria.
your eyes had glistened when he gifted you a decorated conch shell that belonged to a priestess.
you gleamed with giggles as he commanded the fish around you to kiss your fingertips.
you were amazed at the speed of the fantasia shark you rode on and how gentle its soul was, realizing it was the very last of its kind.
he hasn’t visited this part of whitesand beach in so long. and those memories resurfacing – haunting him – don't help.
but as he nears, the crashing waves from the shore soothe him.
there was no other soul on the beach, especially not this early in the morning, and the area here is considered hidden for a reason. it’s not a place where tourists venture, nor where locals visit for some quiet time.
and yet, the laughter of a young girl confuses him.
he hears her before he sees her, saying something to the crabs she’s chasing away.
the curls on her head flow wildly with the sea breeze, and he sees she’s wearing a thick sweater wrapped around her to combat the cold, but he notices how soaked her wetsuit is near her feet, indicating that she’s been splashing through the water.
she’s attempting to reach the sand crab before it escapes her, but she’s too late as it buries itself in the sand next to rafayel’s foot.
she finally notices the man in front of her, little toddler eyes looking up to him in curiosity.
that’s when the realization sets in.
her eyes.
the same eyes from his dreams.
so familiar.
and he sees you in her.
he doesn’t want to believe it, because what if he’s wrong?
what if this is another dream, another illusion? his mind whispers to him.
“hello.” said so innocently, it breaks him out of his thoughts.
“hi baby.” he tells her, crouching down to reach her eye level. “what are you doing here all by yourself?”
she doesn’t reply, instead pointing to the crabs scattered throughout the sand.
“do you want one for yourself?” he asks her.
she nods.
he picks one off the ground, blowing off the excess sand, and hands it to her, giggling from the way it scrambles to try and escape her grasp.
“now reddie has a friend!” she says.
“reddie?”
“it’s my mommy’s fishie, i’ll show you. wait here!” the little girl runs off before he’s able to process her words.
and after a moment, she appears from the rock structure ahead of him. her smile reaching ear to ear – it’s too familiar.
standing in front of him, she holds up the fish in the small container for him to see.
a red flammula, just like the one he gifted-
“see, it’s reddie.” she breaks through his thoughts once again, her eyes capturing his own. “he likes it when i sing songs to him, wanna hear?”
he shakes his head. “i think you should take reddie back to your mom, sweetheart, you don’t want her to miss him too much, right?
she doesn’t reply, only nodding before she runs off to where she appeared from. but the itching, the desire to follow consumes him.
he can’t let himself hope too much, can’t let a few coincidences grant him hope.
after a few minutes, the little toddler doesn’t return, and in defeat, he takes a seat on the sand, watching the waves crash onto shore, thoughts racing a mile a minute.
a few minutes turn into an hour, and he remains unmoving until he hears her laughter, that same smile from before still on her face.
“mister, look!” she points behind him, he hadn’t realized a group of sea turtles were hatching, navigating their way to the sea in front of them.
“what are those? where are they going?” she asks.
he explains it to her, but he can tell through her confusion that she doesn’t understand.
not until she follows him as they journey farther down the shore, where they find an injured baby sea turtle.
it’s struggling, unable to proceed with migrating.
“why isn’t it moving? is he hurt?”
“yes.”
“is he going to die?”
“what? no!”
he turns to her, hearing her sniffles, tears already welling up in her eyes.
“hey, hey. it’s okay. we just need to help him. he’s going to be okay.”
but before he knows it, she’s run off towards the same stretch of shore as before, her tiny voice shouting.
“okay, okay, sienna. mommy’s coming, slow down a little baby.”
it’s that name. sienna.
and when he turns at the sound of the voice, the same voice he’s longed to hear since the day he let you go, your eyes meeting his – something in him burns, bringing him to his knees.
and you freeze at the realization of who it is standing in front of you.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
a/n: i just want to say again how grateful i am for you guys enjoying my super, super self indulgent series that originated due to me having such a spiritual connection with it. and then seeing maria perform this live with so much melancholy i thought: "omg this is so raf x non mc coded". so thank you! i also do apologize for lying and saying i was going to upload this sooner, work and school this week have been kicking my ass these last two weeks and as much as i would love to spend all my time writing, it's so hard to </3.
anyways, here's part 3, and depending on the reactions, i may or may not have a final part with a proper conclusion in the works (typing this as if i don't have it already drafted). once again, ty guys so much for all your comments, likes, and reblogs :)
ps. having rafayel on quality time study mode while writing this was so evil. whole time i looked at him i was like "nooooo my fishie would never"
You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 4
PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader
SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.
WORD COUNT: 12.7k
NOTES: OH, WE'RE SO BACK!!! DID YOU GUYS MISS ME?
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part 3 | MASTERLIST | part 5
before the wedding
“Do you think this will work?”
His question cut through the hush of the waves, blunt in its honesty, and you remember almost stumbling on the sand because of it. He hadn’t looked at you when he said it — his gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the sea bled into dusk, as though the answer might be written there instead of in your mouth.
You had swallowed, the salt air stinging. “I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘this’.”
That had earned you the faintest flicker of his eyes, a glance sharp enough to feel. Then, quieter, as if the weight of it could crack the evening: “I mean us.”
The words lingered, heavy as the tide. You remember staring down at the foam crawling over your shoes, the way your heart pressed upward, insistent. For a moment you wanted to laugh, to make light of it — but you couldn’t. He hadn’t asked like a man hoping for reassurance; he had asked like someone bracing for truth.
So you had given him yours. “I don’t know.” A pause, then softer, more dangerous: “But I want it to.”
That stopped him in his stride. You felt it in the air before you turned—his stillness, the sudden gravity of him beside you. And when your eyes met, there was something unguarded in his, something raw behind all that discipline.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was deliberate, like both of you were marking the moment, setting it down as a line you could return to one day. He nodded, once, the movement subtle but resolute.
From then, the walk changed. His steps found yours without effort. He made some small remark about the way the gulls hovered in place against the wind, and you teased him for sounding too serious, too analytical even now. To your surprise, the edge of a smile broke across his face, fleeting but real.
By the time the sky had drowned itself in indigo, the distance between you felt less like a gulf and more like a thread. Still fragile, still uncertain—but there.
And even now, remembering, you realize: that was the first time the two of you stopped being strangers, and began—haltingly, awkwardly, almost without meaning to—to choose each other.
The mattress dipped under your weight, the quietest shift of springs, and you stared down at your injured hand as if it belonged to someone else. Bruised across the palm, with a thin, angry cut along the base of your thumb. It was nothing, really. Just a scrape. But Zayne looked at it like it was a page of text he needed to read line by line.
The antiseptic sting caught you off guard, sharp as betrayal, and you flinched before you could help yourself. His gaze lifted immediately, catching yours and holding it for a beat longer than necessary.
“I’ll be gentle,” he said. And he was. His hands, so used to holding lives between them, treated yours as though it were the most fragile thing in the room—though fragility had never been a word you wanted tethered to yourself.
You thought about telling him it didn’t hurt that much, that he didn’t have to take this much care. But you didn’t. Some part of you—quiet and stubborn—wanted him to keep touching you, even if the pretense was a cut that would heal in days.
He didn’t look up when he spoke next.
“Today, an intern started his residency at Akso Hospital.”
You blinked at him, thrown by the pivot. “Okay…?”
If he heard the hesitation in your voice, he didn’t acknowledge it.
“It was going well,” he continued. “For a first day, at least. He was attentive. Bright. Asked questions when he didn’t know something, which is rarer than it should be.” His hands slowed as he wound the bandage around your palm, as though the act of speaking demanded precision from his fingers too. “But later—during rounds—he was asked to double-check a set of blood vials. Cross-matching for a transfusion. Simple enough. Only he mislabeled two of them.”
You pictured it easily—the slip, the instant recognition, the stillness that follows a mistake made in a room where mistakes are not allowed.
Zayne’s voice dipped lower. “It was caught in time—by chance—but that small error…” He paused, exhaling slowly. “That window of carelessness could have cost a man his life.”
“When I pulled him aside,” he went on, “he fell apart and couldn’t meet my eyes. He told me he didn’t deserve to be there. That one mistake proved he should’ve never been allowed to touch a patient’s chart, let alone their body.”
You found yourself watching him closely now. Not just his face, but the way his words seemed to fall with deliberate weight, as if he were laying down stones across a riverbed. Leading you somewhere you weren’t sure you were ready to follow.
His eyes weren’t on you. They were fixed beyond the walls, beyond the quiet bedroom, somewhere in the sterile hum of hospital corridors. He rubbed a slow hand down his face, a gesture worn and reluctant, before—without looking—he reached for your uninjured hand. He held it in his, gentle but firm, like a man steadying himself on a ledge.
“Do you want to guess what I told him?”
You swallowed. “That… if his resolve was so easily shaken, maybe he shouldn’t have chosen that profession?”
A breath of sound left him—not quite laughter, not quite agreement.
“My sweet, beautiful wife,” he murmured, thumb tracing the curve of your knuckles, “you know me too well.”
The words tasted like honey. Sweet, golden, and warm. But like honey, they stuck—catching in the back of your throat, clinging to places you didn’t want to name.
He turned toward you then, his knee brushing yours.
“Well,” he said, “that, and I told him something else. That mistakes are inevitable. But it’s up to you—only you—whether they break you… or forge you into something better. A better man. A better doctor.”
His voice caught on man. Barely. But you heard it. Felt it, the weight of that shift. He had meant it.
And suddenly—like the delayed echo of a bell—it clicked.
You stared at him. At the man who could talk for hours about the technicalities of a heart valve, who could stand in front of the most complex surgeries without hesitation, and yet, when it came to you, could not bring himself to ask the simplest, rawest question outright.
He didn’t say don’t go.
He didn’t say please stay.
He said this: people make mistakes. And what we do after—that’s the only thing that matters.
You’d told him you wanted a divorce. That you were thinking of leaving. And now, here he was—sitting beside you, telling you about redemption and responsibility through the mask of a story. Not begging. Not bargaining. But offering you a truth you could take or leave.
Let me try again, he was saying without ever saying it. Let us.
And yet—his quiet presence beside you, the firm curl of his fingers around yours, the way he told that story with all the weight of a confession—that was his plea. A man like Zayne didn’t fall apart in chaos. No, he folded his anguish into neat corners. He organized it. Tamed it. Offered it up to you not as an ultimatum, but as a gift of trust.
You stared down at your hands—at his hand around yours—and realized you were trembling. Not because of the cold. Not because of fear. But because the ache in your chest had grown too large, too loud, too impossible to swallow down anymore.
And because now, in the quiet of this room with just the hum of the night outside and the rise and fall of your breathing, you realized that he hadn’t given up.
He hadn’t given up on you.
Your throat constricted, and you fought it back—fought the wave of longing and grief and all the messy things that love becomes when it grows in a wounded garden.
You didn’t deserve this man. This moment. This gentleness.
And yet here it was, in your palm, thudding alongside your pulse.
“…Why do you always do that?” you asked suddenly, voice so thin it nearly cracked under its own weight.
He glanced at you. “Do what?”
“Talk in metaphors,” you whispered. “Why can’t you just say what you feel?”
He was quiet for a beat. Then two. Then three.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. Careful.
“Because sometimes, what I feel… is too big for plain words.”
You blinked against the sudden sting in your eyes.
“And if I say it wrong,” he added, “I’m afraid I’ll break it. Or you.”
You turned to him then, finally meeting his eyes. They were quiet now, those eyes. Tired. But not empty. No, Zayne’s gaze had never been empty. It was full of unspoken things. Of words he didn’t know how to say and hopes he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold.
You realized that maybe you weren’t the only one who was afraid.
You pulled your hand from his slowly, but not to push him away. Instead, you rested it against his chest. Right over his heart. It beat steadily beneath your palm.
“Zayne,” you said, voice trembling with something you hadn’t yet named, “I don’t know how to fix this.”
His breath caught. But he didn’t pull back.
“I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for.”
The words hung between you, stark and ugly. Raw. Honest. You hated how they made you feel: stripped, trembling, open.
But Zayne just… closed his hand over yours, right there over his heart, and held it.
“You already are.”
You woke before the alarm.
The soft, tentative light of morning pooled across the bedroom floor in muted gold, spilling through the slats of the blinds. For a moment you lay still, your eyes closed, letting yourself feel the simple fact of here. The weight of the sheets. The faint scent of laundry powder and something warmer—his cologne lingering on the pillow beside you.
Zayne’s presence was tangible even when he wasn’t touching you. You could feel it in the shift of the mattress, in the quiet steadiness of his breathing. Your hands—bandaged and cared for—tingled faintly, as though some part of him remained pressed there in the dark.
You kept your eyes closed, afraid to look and find the spell broken. Afraid that the fragile stillness might crumble under the weight of movement.
But eventually, you heard him shift. Sheets rustled. The bed dipped and then lifted. His warmth receded.
You opened your eyes just enough to see him in the low light. Standing at the dresser, already half-dressed. Shirt crisp, cufflinks glinting faintly as he secured them with methodical precision. Even in the quiet intimacy of your bedroom, he looked like he was preparing to face the entire world—and win.
You should have turned away, closed your eyes again, pretended to be asleep. But you didn’t. You watched him in the mirror as he buttoned his vest, the movement slow and deliberate, every line of him pressed into order.
And then his gaze caught yours in the reflection.
He didn’t speak right away. Just paused, one hand on the knot of his tie—undone, hanging loose against his chest. There was a pause, almost imperceptible, before he turned fully toward you.
“Help me with my tie?”
You blinked at him from the bed, still wrapped in the warmth of your morning haze. “…I’ve never been good with ties.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth—so small you might have missed it if you weren’t already memorizing him. “That’s okay,” he said, voice smoother than it had any right to be this early. “I’ll guide you.”
You hesitated. Not because the request was strange, but because it wasn’t. Because it was too ordinary for the way your chest tightened.
Still, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding toward him in the same clothes you’d worn yesterday, hair a soft storm cloud of sleep. The contrast was almost laughable. He was immaculate. Every seam pressed, not a strand of hair out of place. You were… not. And yet, he didn’t look at you like you didn’t belong.
Your steps slowed as you drew near. It occurred to you—belatedly—that helping him meant standing close. Too close.
Chest to chest. Breath to breath.
Zayne tilted his head, the barest arch of an eyebrow. A quiet challenge.
You ducked your gaze quickly, heat rising to your ears. “Sorry,” you muttered, stepping forward and lifting the tie. The silk slid like water between your fingers. You draped it around his neck, trying to remember the motions—over, under, loop—but your coordination fizzled the moment you felt his eyes on you.
You barely managed to cross the ends before his hands came up, stilling yours.
Steady. Gentle. His scarred fingers wrapped around yours like they were made for it.
“This,” he murmured, lifting the thinner end between you, “is supposed to go under.”
His voice was low, instructional, but threaded with something darker. Something that reached for you beneath the words.
He stepped closer—not much, just enough that the remaining space between you disappeared.
And now he was close.
Too close.
The heat of him was a presence in itself. Through the space between your hands, through the thrum in your chest, through the stupid silk tie that suddenly felt like a lifeline.
“Here,” he said, guiding your hands, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “Under. Around. Pull through.”
You followed, breath shallow, lips parting slightly. He leaned nearer, speaking against your ear—not touching, but close enough that your skin prickled.
“Slower,” he murmured, tone dipping like he knew exactly what he was doing. “You’re too tense.”
You wanted to laugh—wanted to say whose fault is that?—but your tongue felt heavy.
The knot began to take shape under your clumsy fingers, his hands lingering longer than they needed to. The touch no longer purely correction but something else. Something that anchored.
You tightened the knot, neat and straight, shoulders drawn with effort.
He didn’t lpet go.
Instead, he exhaled softly, the sound brushing your cheek. “Good girl.”
The words landed in you like a spark against dry tinder.
Your grip faltered. Your pulse didn’t.
When he finally released your hands, it was only to let them fall—only for his palms to settle, without warning, at your waist. Large. Warm. Possessive.
Your breath stuttered.
He looked down at you with an expression you couldn’t read, dark eyes catching in the morning light. Every inch of you was aware of the distance (none), of the low hum in your blood, of the way his thumbs flexed slightly against your hips.
You started to lower your hands, certain that this was where the moment would break—where he’d step back and let you go.
But instead, he caught them. Lifted them. And placed them—deliberately—around his shoulders.
You froze.
He said nothing. Didn’t need to.
His hands stayed at your waist, light but unyielding. You stared up at him, feeling the steady strength under your palms, the restrained energy that lived in his body like a coiled spring.
“Stay,” he said. Just that. Quiet. Without force.
Your fingers curled faintly into the fabric of his shirt. “…Why are you doing this?”
“I never thought I’d get this close again,” he said, voice hoarse, raw in its honesty. “And now that I have you here…”
One of his thumbs skimmed the curve of your lower lip. “…I can’t seem to stop.”
Your heart thudded loud enough to fill the room.
“You’re going to be late.”
A smile ghosted over his mouth—slow, unbearably fond. “Let me be late.”
And for a fleeting moment, you saw not the surgeon, not the guarded man you’d spent years married to, but just Zayne. A man learning—painfully slowly—to want out loud.
He watched you, something soft blooming in his gaze, so open it made your breath catch. You thought—briefly—that he might lean down. That he might close the last of the space between you.
Instead, he bent his head and pressed his lips to your forehead.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fleeting.
It was a kiss of quiet promises and reclaimed time. His mouth lingered longer than it should have, warm and steady, like he was trying to breathe something into your bones.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your body leaned—without permission—into the touch.
When he drew back, he didn’t speak. Just studied you like he was trying to memorize you.
“You’ll be late,” you whispered again, softer this time.
His thumb brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll survive.”
And then—coat in hand—he left.
But the warmth of his lips stayed long after the door closed.
Zayne forgot his lunch.
You should’ve left it at that.
Really. Just placed the bento box on his desk like a civil, sensible adult and walked out like you had somewhere important to be. Like he wasn’t the very reason your pulse had been unsteady since seven in the morning.
But no. You had to stand there, staring at the polished nameplate on his desk like it meant something more than Chief Cardiac Surgeon. Like it meant husband. Like it still meant yours.
Your fingers had hovered over the neatly packed lunchbox for far too long, brushing invisible specks off it, trying to calm the burn in your chest.
You weren’t mad. Not exactly. You weren’t sad either. It was worse than that. You were confused. Conflicted. Completely undone by the ghost of his lips on your forehead this morning.
So you did what you were supposed to. You turned. Took a step. Two.
And froze.
You didn’t have to look behind you to know. The air changed when Zayne entered a room. Heavy. A gravitational shift.
“Well,” he said, voice low, unreadable, almost teasing. “This is a surprise.”
You swallowed the knot in your throat and turned around, not because you wanted to face him—but because the weight of his presence demanded it.
“Not really,” you tried to sound breezy. Light. Detached. “I was just dropping something off—”
Click.
The sound of the lock sliding into place was too deliberate. Too calm.
Zayne shrugged off his lab coat. The stark white fabric fell in slow motion over the back of the chair, and then he rolled his shoulders—tight, tired, tense. You watched his fingers unbutton his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves slowly, with practiced ease.
Curtains drawn. Room dimming. Silence folding over itself.
“I sincerely hope,” he murmured as he walked toward you, past you, pulling each curtain shut until the room felt private, secretive—dangerous, “it’s not another envelope.”
You stiffened. “Nope. Just lunch.”
Zayne turned then, smiling—and not the soft, quiet kind that sometimes melted your defenses. No, this one was sharp. Wolfish.
“How sweet,” he drawled, stepping toward you. “My wife, who wants to divorce me… also brings me lunch?”
He was close now. Too close. Towering. All expensive subtle cologne and controlled intensity. You forced yourself not to take a step back.
“Well,” you said, exhaling hard. “Your lunch is here, and I’ll be on my way—”
“Without your bag?”
You turned, and sure enough, there it was. In his hand. Dangling from his fingers like bait.
You reached for it instinctively. He didn’t hand it over.
“Come and take it yourself.”
His tone had dropped several octaves. Dangerous again.
You marched toward him, annoyed, flustered, tired of the games. “Zayne—”
But you hadn’t expected him to hold it out of reach. You stumbled. And suddenly his arm was around your waist, steadying you. Pulling you into him.
Your chest brushed his. Your breath caught. Your arms dropped to his shoulders.
His head dipped.
“If you wanted to hug me that badly,” he whispered, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “you could have just asked.”
Your face flamed. “Let me go.”
He did. Slowly. But not before his fingers slid across your waist like he was memorizing the feel of you. You snatched the bag from his hand and turned on your heel to leave—but you didn’t make it far.
His fingers curled around your wrist. First soft. Then firm. Then unrelenting.
You gasped when he spun you back around, back hitting the edge of his desk, his arms caging you in.
“You’re being shameless,” you muttered, your voice a half-hearted protest.
He smiled—God, that smile—like you’d just paid him a compliment. “I think the word you’re looking for is affectionate,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “My love.”
“No,” you said with a sharp, defiant breath. “Definitely shameless.”
He laughed, and the sound was warm, rich, and far too intimate. “Shall I show you what being shameless truly means?”
Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist and lifted you onto the desk in one smooth motion. Your hands braced the edge, heart galloping in your chest.
His head dipped. Lips centimeters from yours. His breath on your skin.
You put your palm against his mouth. “What are you doing?! Someone will see—”
He took your hand gently, kissing each knuckle, then turned it over and bit the sensitive inside of your wrist. Softly. Sinfully.
“Zayne!”
“Yes, love?”
“Are you even listening?!”
“Mmm.” His lips trailed up your arm like he was following a path he’d missed for too long. “You sound absolutely enchanting when you say my name like that.”
“Zayne!” You pushed at his shoulders. “I said someone will—”
“The curtains are drawn.” His voice was husky, intoxicating. “No one will be seeing anything.”
“But—your colleagues—”
“—know to mind their own business.”
You tried again, weakly, breath hitching as his hands slid to your thighs. “Don’t you have work—”
“It’s my lunch break.”
“You—”
His lips found your neck, nipping at the skin beneath your ear before dragging down to the pulse at your throat. You gasped, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
“Someone will hear,” you said, barely.
“Let them hear,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to enjoy my meal.”
You glared at him. “I—Your meal is on the desk.”
His mouth curled against your neck. “I know.”
And then he kissed you. A long, slow drag of lips and heat and hunger.
Your fingers loosened against his chest. “Zayne…”
“I shouldn’t have waited this long.” His hand curled around your nape. “To hold you. To talk to you. To fight for you.”
The way he said it made your spine tingle. There was no teasing in his tone now. Only gravity. Regret. Longing. Tears pricked your eyes, unexpected and unwanted.
“I didn’t bring lunch to fight,” you said, voice small. “I didn’t come here to talk about the divorce either.”
“Too bad,” he murmured, softer still—but with a finality that left no room for retreat. “Because I have no intention of letting you go.”
“You can't force me to stay by your side.”
“You’re right. I can’t.”
That earned your full attention. Your gaze snapped to his, searching for the trap in those words.
“Instead,” he continued, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’ll follow you wherever you go. If you can’t stay by my side, I’ll just move with you.”
Your heart stumbled over itself. “You’re impossible, Zayne.”
“You married me.”
“Technically, our parents—”
“Technically, nothing.” His tone sharpened, cutting through the air between you. “We’re married at the end of the day. And a married couple should stay together.”
“How—how childish!”
“And what do you call your own actions?” His eyes narrowed, but not with malice—more like hurt polished to steel. “Threatening to divorce me at every inconvenience. Is that maturity? Be merciful, my love,” he pressed your palm lightly over his chest, “my heart can only take so much damage.”
“You know why it’s necessary,” you whispered.
“No. I really don’t. I fail to understand how divorce is the only solution to our problems.”
You looked down, heat crawling up the back of your neck, shame an anchor in your chest.
Zayne lifted your chin with two lithe fingers. “Why won’t you look at me?”
“Because…” The word splintered in your mouth. “…because I can’t look at you and not see all that you deserve and everything I’m not.”
Silence fell like snow—soft, cold, muffling everything but the thrum of your pulse.
“It pains me,” you continued, “to see myself in your life. Every time you come home, you’re… on edge. You’ve never been at ease in your own house. Relaxed or smiling or laughing—nothing! It physically pains me to see you weigh your words before you even speak them, fearing the wrong combination might set me off. And it hurts, Zayne. It hurts to know my presence has brought you nothing but discomfort. I am the inconvenience. I am the only inconvenience in your life, and so I wish to rid you of—”
“Enough.”
The single word cut clean, his palm lifting between you like a barrier. “No more of this. I will not allow anyone to call my wife an inconvenience. Not even you. I forbid it.”
You flinched, not at the firmness in his tone, but at the way his eyes softened even as his jaw tightened.
“You are not an inconvenience,” he said. “Your presence doesn’t bring me discomfort. The only inconvenience is this nonsense you somehow believe wholeheartedly.”
Your lips trembled, but no sound came.
“Whatever scenario of ‘better’ you think I deserve,” he went on, voice quieter now, “forget it. Because I will not let it happen. I don’t want ‘better.’ I only want you. I don’t care if it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable, or even hell itself. If it’s with you, I want it all.”
Your breath caught, but his next words landed with the weight of a verdict.
“Don’t try to make excuses.”
“They’re not excuses,” you managed, though the defense felt thin, fraying.
“They sound like excuses to me. Excuses to leave me.” He took a step closer, his hands bracing the desk on either side of your hips, caging you without touching. “I will not play along to your whims a second time. If you’re intent on ending this marriage, then I’m hellbent on saving it. Know that my patience and tolerance for mending things far outclasses yours. I will not give up. No matter how far you try to run away from me.”
Your voice was barely a whisper. “Zayne… this is madness.”
His mouth curved—not into a smile, but something fiercer. “You haven’t seen the start of it.”
The door had shut softly behind you, but the silence it left was a violence of its own. Not a slammed door, not the finality of wood meeting frame with fury. No, that would have been easier to weather. Anger he could endure. Anger had edges, and edges he could touch, hold, even bleed against. Anger was alive, communicative in its brutality.
But this?
This soft closing, this near-gentleness—it was worse. It was absence turned tangible. A silence that rang louder than a scream.
Zayne remained at his desk, unmoving. His hands pressed flat to the polished surface, arms locked, as though the sheer physicality of bracing himself might hold him together. As though muscle and bone could cage the storm brewing under his ribs. His head dipped slightly, shadows cutting sharp over his brow. Anyone walking in would have mistaken him for a statue, carved in a moment of stillness. Only the whitened knuckles betrayed the truth.
He should move, there were duties yet undone, meetings scheduled, a routine waiting for him as faithfully as it always did. But he could not. Because you left, and though you had not taken anything of his with you, it felt as though he had been hollowed out.
He leaned back against the edge of his desk, eyes fixed on the closed door as though it might yield you back to him if he stared long enough. It did not. It never did.
How many nights had he endured like this? How many years? This terrible, endless practice of restraint. He had mastered restraint in all things—his body, his words, even his thoughts. But when it came to you, restraint was not mastery. It was torment.
He had wanted you from the beginning. Not in some shallow, careless way—but with a depth that frightened him. With a desperation so sharp it humbled him. He wanted you in every way a man could want a woman: your laugh, your breath, your quiet, your fire. He wanted your stubbornness, your softness, your anger, your despair. He wanted it all. He swore he still did. That wanting had not dulled with time—it had only burrowed deeper, burned hotter.
It burned him from the inside, that desire. Sometimes he wondered if anyone around him could smell the smoke, if they could sense how his self-control was nothing but a kindling holding back a wildfire. Every moment with you was another test of endurance. Every brush of your sleeve, every glance, every word—he lived in restraint. And it hollowed him.
But what choice did he have?
The love you had grown up with was not love—it was demand. He had seen it in your eyes, in the way you recoiled from kindness as though it were a trick. He had seen how your mother had shaped you into someone who gave and gave, until you did not know how to want. You were taught to serve, to endure, to bend yourself into shapes that pleased others. You had been made insecure by it, taught that your worth was tied to what you could give away. Codependent. Devoted. Exhausted.
And Zayne—God, Zayne had feared becoming another weight upon you.
He feared it so much it had become the core of him. That if he reached for you with all he felt, if he dared to claim you with the fullness of his need, he would smother you. He would take a woman already emptied by demands and hollow you out completely. It did not matter whether his intentions were tender or selfish—what mattered was that the result might be the same.
He could not bear that.
So he held back. Again and again. He placed walls where there should have been warmth, distance where there should have been closeness. He told himself it was for your sake, though it tortured him. He told himself that if he loved you, truly loved you, he had to let you find yourself first. You had to know what it meant to be whole before he ever asked you to share that wholeness with him.
Because he wanted you to choose him. Freely. On your own terms. Not out of duty. Not because your mother had pushed you into his arms, or because loneliness made you reach for the nearest hand. No—he wanted you to want him, to demand him. He wanted, for once, for you to be the one who wanted.
But like always nothing had ever worked in his favor.
He feared the day you would look at him and see not a man who had waited for you, but one who had wasted you. Who had let years slip by in silence, who had been too afraid, too cautious, too restrained. He feared the disgust in your eyes more than any scalpel, more than death itself. Because if you ever looked at him like that—like he was nothing but another cage—you would undo him completely.
And yet, for all his fear, his love had not waned. It was still there, terrible and humbling, clawing at him with a hunger he could not erase.
Zayne closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against them until stars flared in the dark. He wanted you. Still. Always. Wanted you so much he could scarcely breathe around it. Wanted you until it made him sick, until it made him weak, until it made him feel less like a man and more like a supplicant begging at an altar.
And perhaps that was what love was meant to be—humbling, desperate, ruinous.
But oh, how he feared you would never see it.
And yet, for all the ache lodged in his chest, something else coiled quietly within.
Hope.
The word startled him. It tasted foreign in his mouth, like a language he hadn’t spoken in years. Hope was not something he entertained recklessly, not when life had made a surgeon out of him, a pragmatist who believed more in sutures than serendipity. His world did not run on hope but on precision, skill, procedure. He trusted his hands, his scalpel, the weight of his choices measured against risk and outcome. Hope had no place in an operating theatre, nor in a life built on discipline. Hope belonged to fools and poets, and he was neither.
But today, he had glimpsed it. In you.
You thought you had hidden it, the way you always did—behind fire, behind defiance, behind that quicksilver tongue that lashed before it yielded. But when his lips had pressed to yours, when you had kissed him back, he had felt it: the tremor, the hunger, the dangerous edge of want.
Want.
It wasn’t surrender. But it was a fracture. A crack in the walls you had built in response to his.
And Zayne, if nothing else, knew how to work with cracks.
He could use that.
He knew you. Perhaps better than you wished him to. He had watched you sharpen yourself into something untouchable. Knew your jagged coping mechanisms, your instinct to deflect before you ever dared to soften. Knew, too, how the loneliness had etched hollows inside you. He had waited too long, let the silence stretch too thin.
And he recognized those hollow places because they lived inside him too.
That recognition cut him now. Because he had let them grow. He had stood by while your eyes dimmed, while your laughter—bright, startled, so rare—faded into memory. He had accepted distance as though it were easier than trying. A cowardice he named restraint, composure, pragmatism. He had hidden behind his role, his hours, his damnable professionalism, and in doing so, he had left you alone.
Three years of it. Three years of silence and politeness, of conversations clipped short, of a bed that became two. He had thought he was protecting you—no, protecting himself. He had convinced himself that what had been arranged could never become real.
But you had kissed him back. Not tenderly. Not sweetly. But with fury, with hunger, with the raw edge of someone who wanted and hated herself for wanting.
And for all the pain in it, it was enough. Enough to tell him he had not been wrong all along. Enough to make him realize how long he had starved himself, how long he had mistaken avoidance for survival.
He could work with that.
The plan formed in him even as his chest ached. Precision. Patience. Timing. The three things he trusted more than anything else. He could not storm your defenses. That would make you retreat, and once you retreated, he wasn’t sure he could bear the distance again. He could not demand. He could not coerce. You would never forgive that.
No. He would coax. Corner. Maneuver. A courtship disguised as reconciliation. He would offer you kindness in increments, patience like anesthesia, until you no longer feared the incision. Until you forgot that you had ever wanted to run.
It would not look like conquest. It would look like choice. Your choice. That was the only way it could last.
And still—inside, he was less surgeon than man. Beneath the strategy, his heart thundered with something rawer, more desperate. He wanted you. Wanted the sharpness of your words, the fire in your gaze, the ache you carried like a secret. Wanted to hold you until you broke against him, not in fury, but in trust.
For years, he had told himself he didn’t. For years, he had hidden behind restraint. But today had torn something loose, and he knew—he would not go back.
This was an operation with only one acceptable outcome.
Your heart, steady.
Your heart, tethered.
Your heart, bound to his.
Zayne drew a long breath. His hands loosened on the desk, leaving faint crescents in the wood. Slowly, deliberately, he straightened. On the surface, he was calm again—the composed man the world knew. His shoulders set, his expression smoothed, his body language spoke of control.
The door creaked open. He glanced up to see Yvonne slip inside.
“Dr. Zayne,” she began without preamble, flipping through notes. “Two of your post-ops need follow-up imaging, and the intern rotation schedule has a—”
“Yvonne.” His voice cut through hers, calm but deliberate.
She blinked, thrown off rhythm. “Yes?”
He looked up at her, expression unreadable but gaze steady. “I hear your cousin is a tennis player?”
Her pen froze mid-scratch. Then slowly, very slowly, her head lifted. “Dr. Zayne,” she said carefully, “eavesdropping on unsuspecting women is not a good habit.”
He did not look away. Did not even blink. The kind of stare that had made interns quake and board directors fall silent.
Yvonne clicked her tongue. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re not even going to deny it?”
He let the silence hang, unashamed.
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you looking to switch professions? Please don’t tell me it was the new intern. I swear—”
“It is not for me.” His interruption was cool, clipped.
For a beat, the nurse just stared. And then, perhaps against her better judgment, her mouth curved in the faintest smirk. “Ah. I see.”
He ignored the implication. “Well?”
She sighed like a woman resigned to indulging a difficult superior. “Yes. My cousin plays. Why?”
Zayne leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His pulse was steady, but in his chest—something quickened. The beginning of a plan.
“…Because,” he said at last, with a calmness that belied the weight of what he was setting into motion, “I need a favor.”
The morning unfurled like a held breath, soft light spilling over the skyline, burnishing glass windows gold. A hush seemed to hang over the city, the kind of silence only possible before the day began in earnest. You could hear it—the rhythm of sneakers against pavement, the measured cadence of breath, the faint rustle of leaves shivering under the touch of an early breeze.
Zayne ran ahead at first, his long strides eating the distance, his posture straight and disciplined even in this casual act. You followed, a half-step behind, your chest rising and falling in uneven patterns, not entirely from the exertion. It wasn’t the run that left you short of breath.
It was him.
Always him.
You had agreed—foolishly, you told yourself—to join him. He’d asked so simply, as if the request carried no weight at all. I’m going for my run. You should join me. His tone had been soft, but there was something underneath it, a challenge perhaps, or worse: hope. And you had nodded before you’d thought better of it, before you reminded yourself of everything you had said yesterday, the boundaries you had drawn, the walls you had reinforced.
Now here you were, watching his back, the broad line of his shoulders beneath the grey of his compression shirt, the steady rhythm of his arms swinging. Watching and remembering.
There was something absurdly domestic about it—running side by side, breath clouding the air, the steady thud of your sneakers against the asphalt. You found yourself memorizing the slope of his shoulders in the pale light, the way his hand occasionally flexed as if resisting the urge to reach for yours.
And maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the echo of yesterday’s kiss, but every brush of his arm against yours felt charged. A flicker of heat, restrained but undeniable.
You told yourself to focus on the run, on your breathing. But the truth was—your heart was already sprinting ahead of you.
“You’re keeping up well,” he remarked, voice tinged with the faintest trace of humor.
You shot him a sidelong look. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. Just impressed.”
The easy compliment slid under your skin before you could block it, warming you from the inside out. You turned your face away, hoping he wouldn’t notice the small, ridiculous smile threatening at your lips.
Zayne noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.
You were supposed to hate this—the way he looked like he belonged here, in your mornings, in your breaths, in your pulse. But your treacherous heart found something unbearably right in the picture.
He slowed suddenly, letting you catch up, and when your pace aligned, he glanced at you. A simple look. No words. Yet it pierced through you. He smiled—not wide, not teasing. Just small. Gentle. The kind of smile that made you want to cry, because you knew it was rare. Because you knew he wasn’t careless with his affection. Because when Zayne looked at you like that, you felt seen in a way you didn’t know how to bear.
The silence stretched, filled with the cadence of two hearts adjusting to each other. Then, without warning, he shifted direction, veering off the main path, guiding you toward a smaller trail lined with trees.
You frowned. “This isn’t part of your usual run, is it?”
He shook his head, breath steady. “No. But it’s… part of ours.”
You blinked, thrown off. “Ours?”
He slowed further until you were walking now, his eyes scanning the open park ahead. And then you recognized it—the fountain at the center, its water catching light in silver threads, the benches that circled it, the small café just beyond.
Your chest tightened.
“This,” he said, his voice low, his gaze lingering on the space as though it were sacred, “was where we had our first date. Remember?”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound startled you, like it didn’t belong to you anymore, but it came anyway, bubbling past the ache in your chest. “The second date, you mean. I believe the restaurant was our first.”
His composure cracked—just slightly. His ears flushed red, his lips parting as if he hadn’t expected you to challenge the memory. “...I thought we agreed the restaurant didn’t count.”
“Oh, but it does.” You tilted your head, your smile sharpening with mischief, though your heart pounded beneath it. “That’s where I got to know your true colors.”
His eyes widened faintly, a rare look of panic ghosting across his face. “Please don’t say it that way.”
You smirked, treasuring the flicker of vulnerability. “You assumed such wonderful things about me.”
“Can you blame me?” His tone was dry, but there was a softness in his gaze now. “Hearing about the outrageous demands for the wedding from your family, I thought they were yours.”
The memory lanced through you—the endless lists of florists, caterers, gown fittings, the suffocating extravagance demanded by your mother. You remembered the way his eyes had narrowed the first time he saw the bill for the centerpiece flowers, the disbelief in his voice when he asked, Are they constructing a garden or a wedding hall?
You exhaled, shaking your head. “Hmm. And then you so abruptly set up a date that my mother had no chance to intercept. I was wholly unprepared. Imagine—your almost-maybe-arranged fiancée, who had no interest in you prior, demanding to meet you.”
“You were quite offended,” he said, his voice dipping into amusement.
“As I should've been!”
He chuckled, the sound rich, vibrating into your chest. “You never got mad at me that way again. I almost miss it.”
Your lips twitched. “I can throw soup at you again if that’s what you want.”
The words slipped before you could catch them. The memory of that day surged up: your trembling hands, the bowl slipping, the bright orange splash across his shirt. The mortification that had clawed at your throat. And then—the shock when he had apologized. ...Forgive me; I startled you. I should have been more careful.
Zayne laughed now, freely, and you felt yourself unravel at the sound.
“My mother was so enamored with you,” he said after a beat, his tone shifting, softening, “it was as if she could find no fault in you. It…irked me.”
You turned your head, startled by the confession. His gaze was on you, unwavering, holding.
“I see now why that is,” he added.
The words landed heavy, as if they carried the weight of everything unsaid between you. Heat burned across your cheeks, and you looked away, pretending to study the path.
“I’m glad it happened,” you murmured, though your voice shook. “How else would I have seen the great Dr. Zayne stumble over his words trying to apologize?”
He huffed out a soft laugh. “That was the only time I’ve ever been truly speechless in my life.”
You slowed, your steps faltering, because the ache inside your chest was spreading too fast, too deep. And before you could stop yourself, the words spilled.
“I think the reason my mother gave your mother such a hard time,” you began, your voice low, hesitant, like the words had been pressing at the back of your throat for years, waiting for their chance to surface, “was because she was jealous of her.”
The air between you shifted at once, as though the weight of the confession thickened it. Zayne didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his stride slowed to match the tremor in your voice.
You pushed on, each word trembling but unflinching. “Your mother is… an accomplished woman. She has a thriving career, a loving husband, a son who—” you broke off, swallowing against the knot in your throat, “—a son who is devoted to her. She has all the things my mother never had. And I think—no, I know—that’s why she lashed out. She couldn’t bear to see it. To be reminded of what she wasn’t.”
Silence pressed down, broken only by the distant trickle of the fountain and the hush of wind threading through the trees.
You drew a shaky breath, daring to glance at him. His face was unreadable, carefully composed, but you saw the flicker—brief, fragile—of something raw in his eyes.
Your voice faltered into softer tones, confessional, confiding. “Even I, at times… preferred her over my own mother.” You winced at the admission, the betrayal it implied, though the truth had lived in your chest for years. “Because she—she never made me feel small. She never measured me against impossible expectations. She just… welcomed me, gave me kindness without asking for anything back.”
The words fell between you like stones dropped into still water, rippling out into the quiet morning.
“My mother couldn’t handle it. She saw it. She saw me—turning toward your family instead of hers. That’s why she created such a mess during our wedding. It wasn’t about flowers or gowns or the guest list. It was about her. Her fear of being eclipsed.”
Your throat tightened, your voice cracking as you forced the last truth into the open. “It was easier for her to ruin things than to admit she felt inadequate.”
You fell silent then, breath uneven, the admission hollowing you out as though you’d carved a piece of yourself and set it at his feet.
Zayne’s steps slowed until he stopped altogether. The path was quiet around you, the fountain’s spray catching threads of sunlight. He stood there, looking at you—not with judgment, not with pity, but with a solemn, searching intensity that made you want to look anywhere else but at him.
He said nothing at first. Just… breathed. Slow. Steady. The kind of restraint that told you he was holding back something sharp and complicated.
At last, his voice came, lower than usual, like it had been pulled from the deepest part of him. “You shouldn’t have had to feel that way.”
The words made your eyes sting, because it wasn’t absolution, not exactly, but a recognition. And somehow, that was worse—because it meant he understood. Because it meant he saw you.
You laughed weakly, shaking your head. “I think it’s why I clung to those boundaries so tightly, Zayne. Because if I didn’t, if I let myself—” your voice fractured, “—I was afraid I’d just… want to belong to your world instead.”
Your chest ached with the truth, unbearable in its nakedness.
Zayne’s jaw tightened, his eyes dark, haunted, though his expression never broke fully. But you could feel it—the quiet devastation thrumming beneath his calm, the way your confession was unraveling the control he prized so highly.
“You already do,” he murmured, voice barely above the fountain’s whisper.
—
The gravel crunched underfoot as he led you forward, your smaller hand swallowed inside his. His grip was steady, deliberate, as though by sheer pressure alone he could anchor you against every storm your mind might conjure.
The building loomed ahead, the glass reflecting the morning sun, the faint sound of tennis balls smacking against racquets carrying from within. Zayne’s chest swelled with a quiet pride. This was not just about sport. This was about giving you back something that had been wrongfully taken.
You asked softly, almost uncertainly, “Zayne… where are we?”
He didn’t look at you—if he did, he feared he’d lose his nerve. His gaze fixed ahead on the glass front of the building, its sign gleaming in the sun.
“A tennis club,” he said simply.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to knock the air out of him.
When he finally risked a glance, he saw it: the panic beginning to cloud your features, the way your fingers twitched as though they might slip from his, the tremor in your shoulders.
“I—what?” you stammered.
He squeezed your hand and guided you forward. He thought if he kept you moving, maybe momentum would keep the fear from swallowing you whole. But the moment you saw the courts beyond the glass, you froze.
Your voice cracked. “Zayne, I can’t!”
He stiffened. The force of your fear was like walking into a wall. Suddenly, both your hands latched onto his arm, gripping so tight he could feel your nails through his shirt. You tucked yourself behind him, trembling, trying to hide.
Zayne faltered. Just for a heartbeat. His chest ached. He cursed himself for this—bringing you here without asking, thinking that his stubbornness could overcome wounds you’d spent decades carrying. He cursed the woman who had once stood where he now stood, the one who had crushed your confidence so completely that you recoiled from the very thing you loved.
He had seen you—after that night on the court, the brokenness in your face when you held the racket, the way your breath shook. He knew this was no simple fear. This was scar tissue, thick and unyielding.
Maybe he should have asked. But if he had, he knew what you’d have done. You would have rejected the idea out of hand, shut the door, buried the part of you that had once loved the game before anyone else could.
And Zayne could not bear to let you keep burying pieces of yourself.
With deliberate gentleness, he pried your hands from his arm and turned to face you. The sight of you, wide-eyed and trembling, gutted him. You looked small, far too small for someone who had carried so much. Without thinking, he pulled you into his arms. His embrace was firm, protective, desperate.
You buried your face against his chest, and he pressed his chin to your hair, inhaling slowly, letting you take in his steadiness.
“…Is there a reason why we can’t go there?” His voice was quiet, coaxing, though inside his heart was a battlefield.
Your words came muffled, broken against him. “I can’t, I’m too old to play now. I haven’t played in decades. I don’t even know if I have the skills anymore. What if I’m bad at it? What if they mock me? I just can’t—”
Each excuse, each shred of fear, cut into him like a knife. How long had you been carrying these doubts? How many times had you silenced yourself before you could even begin?
He leaned back slightly, enough to look down at you, his hands still steady at your waist.
“I have met people in their sixties,” he said slowly, willing each word to land, “who are passionate about playing golf, soccer, basketball, cricket—every sport you can imagine. Why should tennis have an age limit?”
Your lashes fluttered, but you didn’t speak.
“People start somewhere. No one begins perfect. One mistake, one bad serve, one clumsy swing—that doesn’t mean the end of the world.” His voice grew firmer now, protective, threaded with a quiet wrath at anyone who had ever made you feel less. “So what if you’re bad at it? That doesn’t change anything. It only proves you have room to grow.”
He cupped your cheek then, tilting your face toward him, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Skills can be built if you work hard. But you—” his voice thickened, “you’ve already survived worse than missed serves.”
You blinked at him, tears gathering at the edges of your eyes.
“And if anyone here dares mock you,” he added, a dark edge flashing in his tone, “they will answer to me.”
Your breath hitched.
The silence stretched again. Zayne waited, steady, not pressing, not pushing. He would never force you, but he would not let you keep hiding either.
Finally, he softened, lowering his forehead until it nearly brushed yours. “So just try, hmm? If you hate it, we’ll go home immediately. I won’t bother you with this again.”
He meant it. And you knew he meant it.
You looked up at him then, eyes wide, your heart visibly trembling in your gaze. Your lips parted, and the smallest, most fragile whisper slipped out.
“Okay… I’ll try.”
The sound of it cracked something open inside him. Relief surged through his chest, fierce and consuming.
—
He had expected hesitation. Stumbling. Maybe even outright refusal once you crossed the threshold. But he had not expected the sheer silence that met him as you stood inside the club. The scent of fresh clay and varnished wood filled the air. The faint squeak of shoes, the rhythmic thwack-thwack of balls meeting racquets—it all seemed to tighten your spine, your hand clammy in his.
You were trembling like a child on the first day of school.
Zayne cursed under his breath, silently, internally. He had brought you here with the arrogance of a surgeon who thought healing was as simple as cutting away what was rotten and stitching the good parts together. He had not considered what it meant for you to stand here, naked of all defenses, facing ghosts only you could see.
But then—his hand tightened around yours, and something shifted.
You were still trembling. But you hadn’t run.
That, to Zayne, was victory.
The moment you step past the gates of the tennis club, the air changes. It carries that sharp green scent of freshly cut grass, faint echoes of laughter, the thwack of rackets connecting with balls like a pulse beating steady across the courts. For a second you forget your trembling knees and the panic still thrumming in your chest—until someone approaches.
She moves toward you with the easy confidence of someone at home here, shoulders loose, face open with warmth. Her ponytail bounces when she walks, and there’s something so unapologetically sunny about her that you almost feel the need to squint.
“Hi!” she says brightly, offering her hand before names have even been exchanged. “I’m Nora. Haven’t seen you here before.”
Your mouth opens, but your tongue feels clumsy. It takes you a second to remember how introductions are supposed to work. “I—I’m…” You glance toward Zayne for backup, and he stands beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, that inscrutable calm on his face. Except you notice it—the tiny twitch of his mouth, the faint glimmer of nerves. He’s watching you with quiet, almost imperceptible hope.
“I’m…” You steady yourself with a breath. “I’m new here. First day.”
Nora beams. “Perfect! You picked the best place. Don’t let the competitive types intimidate you, we’re mostly here to have fun. Want to hit a few balls? No pressure, I promise.”
Her energy is infectious, and something in you—something that has been curled tight for years—loosens. You glance back at Zayne. His expression is neutral, but you’ve lived long enough with his silences to see what he doesn’t say: go on, try.
Your throat is dry when you nod. “Sure. Why not?”
The match begins with shaky starts. Your racket feels heavier than you remembered, your hands slick with nerves. The first ball Nora lobs your way bounces past you before you’ve even moved. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t tease. She just calls out, cheerful as the sun, “Warm-up doesn’t count! Try again!”
Zayne leans against the fence, watching you. His arms are crossed, but his stance isn’t detached—it’s tethered, protective, as though every ball you miss grazes him too. His jaw relaxes each time you manage to return one.
And then it happens—something shifts. Nora’s optimism is relentless, an anchor you didn’t know you needed. Her cheer dissolves your self-consciousness piece by piece. Your swings sharpen, your feet remember how to move, and before long you’re not the trembling new kid anymore. You’re laughing, even teasing Nora back when you score a point.
It takes less than fifteen minutes. Less than fifteen minutes for you to transform from that small, nervous shadow at the entrance to someone who looks like they belong here.
“See?” Nora pants between rallies, smiling wide. “You’ve totally got this. You’re a natural.”
You laugh breathlessly, pushing stray hair from your face. For the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel like flattery—it feels true.
And then she’s introducing you to others. People wave, shake your hand, offer casual greetings as though you’ve been coming here for years. You’re drawn into their orbit, finding yourself smiling more easily than you thought you could.
Zayne stays back, letting you have this moment. Relief courses through him so strongly it nearly knocks the air out of his lungs. You don’t see it—the way his shoulders uncoil, the way his eyes soften at the sight of you laughing with strangers, how his chest rises and falls with a rhythm that isn’t weighed down anymore.
For once, he doesn’t need to orchestrate or protect. For once, you’re simply living, and it’s more beautiful than anything he could have planned.
—
Nora flopped down on the bench, patting the empty space beside her. “Come sit. You’re a natural, I swear. I’ll be bragging about you by dinner.”
You snorted, a sound so light it caught Zayne off guard. “Please don’t. I barely got through half the serves without missing.”
“And yet you kept going.” Nora raised her brows. “That’s what counts. You’re braver than most. Most people walk away the moment they mess up.”
You blinked, lips parting slightly as if those words hit deeper than she knew. Your gaze slid toward the ground, but your shoulders lifted just a fraction, as though a weight had shifted.
Nora launched into chatter about the club—the friendly competitions, the morning group who met for doubles, even the little café on the corner where they’d grab smoothies after. She painted pictures of camaraderie, of community, and every so often, you chimed in. Hesitant at first, then warmer. A question here, a laugh there.
Zayne’s heart clenched.
He stood a little apart, pretending to busy himself by checking the time, though really he was cataloging every detail—the subtle uncurling of your posture, the way your hand rested loosely on your racket instead of gripping it like a lifeline, the tentative but genuine smile that crept onto your lips.
It was like watching someone relearn how to breathe.
He thought of your words earlier—What if they mock me?—and something vicious flared in his chest. Who had taught you to expect mockery before kindness? Who had convinced you that every misstep was an invitation for ridicule instead of growth?
He already knew the answer.
His jaw tightened. Your mother’s face rose in his memory, sharp and cold, her words like barbs disguised as silk. He remembered how she dismissed you with veiled criticism, how she had turned every smile into a blade. He remembered how his own silence had made him complicit.
He had hated himself for that. For letting you stand there, alone, when you should have had an ally in him.
But here—today—he vowed silently that he would never again let you stand alone.
“Zayne?”
Your voice pulled him out of his reverie. You were standing now, a faint sheen of sweat on your forehead, racket dangling from your fingers. “Are you just going to lurk there forever?”
The tease in your voice was quiet but unmistakable.
Something inside him loosened. “Observing,” he said. “Making mental notes.”
“On what? My form?”
“On you,” he replied simply, and though his tone was even, the weight of the words hung between you.
Nora grinned. “Well, you should know she’s a quick learner. I haven’t seen someone catch on that fast in months. You better bring her back, or I’ll drag her here myself.”
You laughed, shaking your head, and Zayne felt the sound reverberate through him like a pulse.
“Noted,” he murmured. And it was more than a promise—it was a vow.
—
“I’ll be leaving now,” Zayne said, careful to keep his voice even, gentle. He didn’t want the moment to feel like abandonment, only an offering of choice. His gaze lingered on you, the curve of your shoulders no longer hunched with the wariness he had grown used to, but looser, almost free. “Do you want me to drop you home, or would you like to stay here?”
You hesitated only a fraction of a heartbeat before answering, “I want to stay.” You smiled faintly, the kind of smile that trembled on the edge of confidence. “Don’t worry about me.”
Those words—so small, so easily spoken—struck him with an ache he hadn’t expected. Don’t worry about me. But hadn’t that been all he had done? Worry, silently, from the corners of rooms and the edges of your shared life. He had worried and yet never moved quickly enough to act, never risked stepping into your orbit with both feet. Until now.
He nodded, though a part of him resisted leaving you even for an hour. “Very well,” he said softly. His eyes searched yours, memorizing the brightness there, committing it to memory as proof that today had been worth it. “I’ll come back for you later.”
Your gaze softened, and something like gratitude flickered there, though you didn’t voice it. Perhaps you couldn’t, not yet.
So he inclined his head, offered Nora a polite nod, and turned toward the exit.
You watched Zayne’s tall figure recede toward the gates, the confident stride of him unhurried, deliberate, as though even in leaving he wanted to assure you that he wasn’t truly gone. Something inside your chest ached as he disappeared past the hedges, that strange, invisible cord still tugging, binding you even when he wasn’t looking.
“Alright,” Nora clapped her hands once, decisive, like a general marshaling her troops. “You’re officially inducted. You don’t get to go home and brood now—you’re one of us.”
You blinked. “One of… who exactly?”
“Us,” said a voice behind you, smooth as honey, bold as brass.
You turned.
A woman with sharp green eyes and the kind of posture that screamed unbothered elegance strolled up, racket slung over her shoulder like a knight’s sword. Her hair was tied in a messy bun that looked too artfully careless to be an accident. She looked at you, assessed you in one sweep, then grinned like a cat who had already decided to keep the mouse alive just for play.
“This her?” she asked Nora. “The prodigy?”
Nora rolled her eyes. “She’s not a prodigy, Lara, don’t scare her.”
Lara smirked. “Please. The way she handled that last rally? Definitely prodigy.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you stammered something incoherent, but Lara only laughed, delighted, and hooked an arm through yours like you’d known each other for years.
“Don’t mind her,” came another voice—gentle, melodic.
This one was a vision in pastels: a pale pink skirt swishing around her knees, a lavender cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair pinned with pearl clips. Irene looked like a porcelain doll brought to life, soft and sweet. But her eyes—sharp, glinting with something keener than her sugar-spun exterior—gave her away.
“You’ll get used to Lara,” Irene said, her tone dripping with innocence. “She’s basically a feral cat we’ve all collectively decided to feed and now she won’t leave.”
Lara gasped dramatically, hand pressed to her chest. “The audacity! This is how you treat me in front of the new kid?!”
You bit back a laugh, a sound caught between disbelief and release.
Nora folded her arms, smug. “You’re literally proving her point right now.”
“Shut up, Nora.”
“See?” Irene said sweetly, and winked at you.
It happened so quickly you barely had time to resist: Lara still hooked around one arm, Irene suddenly taking the other, Nora following like the triumphant ringleader. They dragged you toward the benches with the force of a small hurricane.
“Wait—I—” you protested weakly, but your voice dissolved under their chatter, the way their banter ricocheted around you like firecrackers.
“Sit here, you look like you’re about to faint,” Lara ordered, shoving you onto the bench before plopping beside you with a racket thud.
“She doesn’t look like she’s going to faint, she looks like she’s trying to get away from you,” Irene corrected in that deceptively soft lilt.
“Oh not at all—”
“I was just kidding.”
You stared at them—all three, this whirlwind of warmth, sarcasm, and chaos—and for a moment, your throat burned. When had the last time been? The last time you sat with women your own age, laughing, chattering, being folded into a circle not because you belonged by default, but because you were wanted?
It almost felt unreal.
Lara nudged you with her shoulder, breaking your trance. “So. Tell us. Who’s the tall broody one that just walked out? Husband? Boyfriend? Secret service agent? Please don’t say cousin, I’ll throw myself into the fountain.”
You choked on air. “He’s my husband.”
Three sets of eyes widened with unholy delight.
“Husband?” Lara nearly shouted. “You mean you’re married to that? And you’re just casually standing here like you didn’t just drop the juiciest plot twist of the century?!”
Irene gasped softly, clutching your hand with theatrical innocence. “Is it a love marriage? An arranged one? Forbidden romance? Tell us everything.”
You opened your mouth, closed it, then shook your head helplessly. “It’s… complicated.”
“Oh my God,” Lara groaned, leaning back with a grin. “She said the word. Complicated. This is better than those K-dramas.”
Nora laughed, but gently patted your knee. “Ignore them. We’re just nosy. You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to.”
But you found yourself smiling—tiny, tremulous, but real. “It’s alright,” you murmured. “Complicated is… probably the right word.”
“Complicated is fun,” Lara declared. “Complicated means juicy drama. Which means, darling, you’ve just bought yourself three new best friends.”
“Whether you like it or not,” Irene added sweetly.
And that was how it began.
It started with smoothies.
Or at least, that’s what Nora claimed.
“One rule of the club,” she announced, standing with her racket slung like a sword of authority, “is that first-timers must be initiated with a post-game smoothie run.”
Before you could even think, Lara had already looped her arm through yours again, tugging you toward the gates with alarming strength for someone who claimed she was “only here for cardio.”
“I want mango,” she declared. “And I will duel anyone who tries to order the last one.”
“I’ll have strawberry,” Irene chimed in sweetly, walking on your other side. “With extra whipped cream. And a cherry.” Then she leaned closer to you, her voice dipping into conspiratorial mischief. “Watch Lara order the exact same thing once she sees mine.”
“Lies and slander,” Lara shot back.
“You’re predictable.”
“You’re manipulative.”
“You’re both loud,” Nora cut in, exasperated, but she was smiling.
You stumbled along between them, wide-eyed, bewildered, but—strangely—unresisting. Somewhere between the tug of Lara’s arm, Irene’s syrupy commentary, and Nora’s confident herding, you realized: you had been kidnapped.
A friendly kidnapping.
The smoothie shop was a tiny corner café tucked behind ivy-draped walls, the kind of place you might have walked past a hundred times without noticing. Inside, it was chaos: mismatched chairs, chalkboard menus, fairy lights strung haphazardly.
“Order whatever you want,” Nora said. “First round’s on me.”
“I love you,” Lara declared immediately. “I’ll take two smoothies. No, three. It’s bulking season.”
“You don’t even go to the gym,” Irene pointed out.
“Exactly. I need moral support.”
You stifled a laugh, glancing around nervously, but none of them seemed self-conscious about the noise. They claimed their space unapologetically, drawing looks and rolling with it.
Somewhere between debating smoothie flavors and mocking each other’s choices, Lara noticed your hesitation at the counter.
“What’ll it be, wife of tall-dark-and-broody?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
Heat rushed to your face. “I’ll just… get something simple. Banana?”
“Banana?” Lara looked offended. “Banana is not simple. Banana is a cry for help.”
You sputtered. “What does that even mean?”
“It means we’re ordering you something fun,” Irene said firmly. “You’re not allowed to hide behind bananas on your first girls’ date. That’s basically against the law.”
Nora leaned over the counter with the air of someone negotiating peace treaties. “Make that one passionfruit-strawberry blend with chia seeds. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
You opened your mouth to protest, then shut it. Because you realized—when was the last time someone had insisted you try something new without malice, without criticism, simply because they wanted you to enjoy it?
When the drinks arrived, Lara made a dramatic toast with her mango cup. “To our newest recruit,” she proclaimed. “May her backhand always be ruthless and her patience for husbands minimal.”
You nearly choked, Irene clapping delightedly as your face burned.
—
The chaos didn’t end at smoothies.
By some unspoken consensus, the four of you spilled out of the café and into the street, each idea more impulsive than the last. Lara dragged everyone into a thrift shop because “fashion is war and I intend to win.” Irene convinced you to try on a vintage tennis skirt that made you blush but earned a unanimous cheer. Nora bought a ridiculous sunhat just to prove she could pull it off.
“Photoshoot!” Irene declared, shoving the hat onto your head and snapping pictures with merciless glee.
Lara leaned in, half in the frame, making faces until you laughed so hard you doubled over. Nora, for all her exasperated sighing, didn’t stop them once.
Somehow, this wild, unplanned circuit carried you to the bookstore, then the gelato stand, then a riverside bench where you all sat in a heap, sticky with sugar, exhausted but buzzing.
It felt surreal—how fast the hours slipped by, how natural it became to be tugged into their orbit. Your voice joined theirs in the chaos, at first timidly, then louder, freer, until you were talking over each other too, adding to the noise instead of shrinking from it.
At one point, Irene leaned against your shoulder, voice softer. “See? Told you. No one here’s going to mock you. Not when you’re one of us.”
You blinked, throat tightening. Words tangled in your chest, but the only thing you could manage was a shaky, “Thank you.”
Lara immediately ruined the moment by dramatically fanning herself. “Ugh, feelings. Gross. Quick, someone say something inappropriate.”
“Your crush on the smoothie guy is inappropriate,” Nora deadpanned.
“He had forearms carved by Astra himself,” Lara retorted. “Don’t deny me my truth.”
You laughed—loud, unguarded, startling even yourself.
And for a fleeting second, you thought: so this is what it feels like to belong.
“Let's exchange numbers, I’ll add you to the group chat! We have specific days where we play doubles together. I’ll let you know ahead of schedule.” Irene said, already tapping at her phone like she was scheduling a summit.
You pulled yours out, screen lighting up. For a second, your hand stilled, something in the date today tugging sharp and strange at the edges of memory. You brushed it off, too fast, and typed in the digits before she could prod.
And then the buzz came again—his name blooming across the glass. Zayne.
Your voice betrayed you the moment you answered, too light, too eager, too unlike the cool restraint you swore you’d keep. He asked if he could come pick you up, his words as carefully measured as always, and you teased about needing rescue from the chaos of your new friends. His laugh curled through the line—low, unguarded, the kind of sound that left warmth in its wake. You said yes, far too quickly, and when the call ended, the girls pounced.
They were relentless. Lara clutched her chest like she’d witnessed a scandal; Irene practically sparkled with delight; Nora arched a brow like she’d been expecting this. Their teasing was merciless, but it didn’t sting—it wrapped you in warmth instead. And when you fired back with a retort sharp enough to make them double over with laughter, pride bloomed in your chest, fierce and unexpected. For once, you weren’t the quiet one circling the edge of other people’s joy—you were in it.
And then he arrived.
He walked toward you with that same deliberate stride, each step a study in restraint. His eyes locked on yours and did not waver, and the sound of the girls’ chatter dulled beneath the weight of his gaze. When he reached you, he took your hand in his and pressed his lips to the back of it, the gesture simple, devastating, old-fashioned in a way that made your breath catch.
“You look happy,” he says. The words are not a compliment thrown into the wind; they are a verdict, an observation that rearranges the light around you. The way he says it — simple, unequivocal — makes something in you level and tremble at once. You rise on a soft intake of breath because his hand has been steady in yours from the start, anchoring you as if the act of standing could be messy were it not for him.
You rose because his hand never let you falter, and the world felt steadier than it should have in that moment. Your friends gasped and sighed and shoved silly tokens into your hands—a glittery clip, a doodled heart on a napkin, the floppy sunhat shoved onto your head. Their mock protests only made the moment feel fuller, like you were being sent off with their noisy blessing.
He glanced at them with that half-smile of his, mischief ghosting the edges of tenderness. “Do you ladies mind if I steal my wife away?”
The chorus of groans that followed nearly drowned you, but there was fondness in every sound. They pushed you toward him, and you went, because there was no ownership in his touch—only choice, the quiet certainty of someone asking and claiming at once.
You tucked the glittery clip into your hair as you slid into the car. The door shut, the city blurred past, and you pressed your palm to the spot where his lips had lingered on your hand, trying to trap the warmth there.
It felt like a theft, this tenderness. A small, impossible theft you had allowed.
And when your phone screen lit again in your lap, the date stared back at you, impossible to ignore this time. In a few short weeks, it would be your third wedding anniversary.
you know what type of angst that i really love for the lads boys?
non-mc!fem!reader thinking that it's practically written in the stars that he (your specific lads boy) is meant to be with mc. it's the way that you perceive how he seems to gravitate towards her, as if there's an invisible pull controlling him, or that he's attached to mc with a string that you can't see—the red string of fate.
unknown to you, that's just your perception.
it's not the same for him.
sure, he treats mc as someone close, as family, as a sister.
but in his heart, there's only you. his mind is filled with you. every breath he inhales, every step he takes, his future, he builds it around you. the longing he has deep inside his chest is for you. he can't imagine having anyone else by his side—it has to be you.
he wants to date you, wants to marry you, wants to fucking grow old with you.
there's only ever been you.
you, you, you.
maybe he doesn't see it at first—how you think that he's meant to be with mc—but when he does? when he catches a glimpse that you reciprocate even an ounce of his feelings back? that your avoidance was due to this? it's all cards on deck.
he's relentlessly pursuing you, and if you push back because you still think that no, this isn't right, he's meant to be with mc... then you're in for a ride. for more chasing. for more courting. for more longing, deep yearning coming from him that you're forced to see that all he has ever wanted and needed is you. get it through your head.
it has always been you.
silly girl, why would he want mc when you're there?
there wasn't an "mc or you?" there weren't options.
it has always been you.
so quit pretending that you don't see how he'd defy fate and destiny themselves just to be able to have you, to hold you in his arms.
let him love you, let him cherish you, let him be yours.
and soon, you know that you do.
hehe, hiii, this is me coping from all the angst fics where lads boys are conflicted between mc and non-mc!reader
Excuse me, Mr Skye, I think this is yours. (Yes, you are.)
Summary: You get a weird package in your mailbox. Luckily, there’s a phone number attached so you can return it back to sender. Unfortunately, the sender gets attached in the process—and decides to keep you too.
Tags: oc x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, grumpy x sunshine trope, kinda ooc sylus, fluff, crack, heavy angst i’m kidding lol, strangers to friends to a secret third thing, thought of this while waiting for uber eats to arrive
A/N: Lmao, hi there. Here’s a brand-new series for y’all (just a lil refresher from Error asfklsdf I did NOT treat that motherfucker as chill writing, I fear). It’s just a short crackfic to alleviate my need to write something, so if I take this one seriously, pls god just shoot me point-blank. Enjoy!
Pt 1 - Pt 2
There’s a package sitting innocuously in your mailbox, wedged among the rows of metal lockers in the communal entrance of the residential complex.
You don’t notice it straight away. You’re too busy whistling an off-key 90s ballad on your way back home, juggling a tote stuffed with colorful balls of yarn and a paper bag full of bagels from the bakery down the street. The owner, Dmitriy – austere as ever in his early seventies – always slips in an extra piece, and always reminds you, less and less subtly each time, that his grandson from Moscow is single.
The blue-eyed boy is polite enough, if you don’t count the way he stares like he’s trying to see through your soul. There's this air of casual indifference to him that you’re not exactly into (You like loud declarations of love and being unapologetically affectionate in public), but also this sort of weird intensity whenever he thinks you're not looking.
Still, you never have the heart to turn down the old baker’s earnest attempt at matchmaking, so you put up with a few stilted conversations whenever you find his grandson milling behind the counter.
Now, back to the present.
You find yourself staring quizzically at the slim parcel you’ve pulled free from a bunch of junk mail littering the small compartment. It weighs almost nothing.
You give it a careful jiggle. Something rattles back at you.
(There's a faint sound emanating from when you shake it, almost as if it’s… ringing?)
The box itself is nondescript—except for the rectangular card laid on top, in 300gsm premium stock, one you’d expect to be used when announcing someone’s nuptials. It offers no other clue as to what’s inside. No return sender, no stamps.
Nothing at all, except for a short, elegant script written neatly across the front: Your end of the deal.
Any chance at ominous gravitas, though, is promptly ruined by the fluorescent pink Post-It slapped to the side. You peel off the bright sticky paper, squinting at the rushed scrawl: Send out ASAP to this location—your address and house number aggressively underlined—and I mean FAST. Call Jake at this number when you’re done.
And below, almost too helpfully, is the number of this Jake person.
You already chalk it up to a mix-up. Your area shares a postal code with another suburb, and the mailboxes around here have seen their fair share of misplaced deliveries. An easy enough mistake to make, if not exactly the most convenient.
Poor guy, you think sympathetically. Whoever Jake is, he must really need this package expedited if he’s placing a rush order for it.
With nothing else to go on, you decide the simplest thing is to call the man himself. You fish out your phone, punching in the digits. It picks up on the second ring.
“Y’sent it?” a gruff voice demands, loud in your ear.
You brighten instantly. “Hi! I think I have your package?”
Dead silence.
“…Um, hello?” you try again.
All at once, panicked whispers erupt through the line, and you catch two (maybe three?) voices talking over each other.
“Who the hell is that–”
“Did he—fuck! That motherfucker can’t do one FUCKING thing right, I swear–”
They sound frantic, the type of frantic that belongs to people who’ve just lost something they really, really shouldn’t have. You picture poor Jake at his wits end, probably tearing his hair out from all the worry.
You’re about to jump in and reassure them that the item is safe with you when the call drops. You glance at the home screen, bemused.
With a shrug, you head upstairs.
In the foyer, you tug your scarf loose and drop your things by the door. The matte black package sits cushioned between balls of indigo and baby-blue yarn, looking absurdly out of place. The sight makes you grin.
The door clicks shut behind you just as your phone buzzes again. You pick up with a chipper, “Y’ello!”
A distinctly masculine voice greets you without preamble. “Who gave you that number?”
You blink, the smooth baritone not what you were expecting. Definitely the voice of somebody who doesn’t belong on the other end of a misdial.
“Oh, hi! Is this Jake?” you guess, crouching to untie your shoes. You switch the call to speaker, balancing your phone on your knee. “There was a note stuck to the box, so I figured I’d call! Looks like the address got mixed up, but that’s okay—we get those sometimes, no biggie. I can send it back, or if you prefer, I can drop it at the post office–”
The man cuts straight through your rambling. “You will head to the location provided. Be there in thirty minutes.”
The line goes dead before you can get another word in. You stare at your phone, baffled, still crouched over one untied shoe. Geez, Louise.
Not even a minute later, you get a text—a long string of numbers, no explanation.
You frown, thumb hovering before you type: Sorry, I don’t get it? Is this some kind of code?
Almost instantly, another message comes through. A pinned location. You stare at it for a solid minute before it clicks. Oh. Coordinates! They’re coordinates, dummy.
...Whiiiiich is kind of a weird way to drop a meeting spot, but hey, you’re already getting the vibe that your mystery caller’s a little eccentric.
You react with a thumbs up and fire off one last reply—
Shoot, right! See you there, stranger! :)
I meant Jake, sorry! This is Jake, right? Just making sure I don’t get it wrong >.<
-
-
No dice. Oh, well.
_____
The meet-up spot your stranger acquaintance picked turns out to be a small park by a quiet riverbank.
Getting there is easy enough; just a short bus ride and a few minutes walk away, though the last stretch takes you a little off the main path—secluded, the kind of place you probably wouldn’t stumble into by chance. You don’t think much of it.
Now you’re on a bench, legs swinging while you scroll through your phone. Dusk has started to settle, the last bit of sunlight filtering through the trees, when the loud purr of an engine breaks you out of focus.
A black SUV pulls up, dragging your attention away from a strawberry roll cake recipe you’d just downloaded off Pinterest.
Two men—you assume—step out of the SUV synchronously, masks covering their faces. The design is quite avian, with the red-tipped beaks and slitted eyeholes, like something out of a Spirit Halloween clearance rack. They scan the perimeter with a certain vigilance that feels wasted here, considering the only company apart from yourself is a passing cyclist and a handful of frogs loitering by the water’s edge.
Another man emerges. Taller. Broader. Dressed immaculately in a pair of tailored suit trousers and a charcoal button-up, accentuated with a burgundy pattern that looks suspiciously like someone took a paintbrush to it. A shock of white hair gleams golden against the fading light, and the whole look reads more “high-end masquerade” than “novelty Samhain.”
Sharp red eyes zero in on you. Then on the package.
You light up, waving like you’ve just spotted a neighbor across the street. That must be him. “Hi there!”
His gaze snaps back, and there’s something almost clinical in the way he takes you in. The first thing that comes out of his mouth: “You opened it?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, no– of course not!”
This seems to put the reticent man at ease, if only by a fraction. Until you add—
“I, ah, shook it a little, though. It made this ringing sound.”
A beat.
Flatly, he repeats, “…You shook it.”
Your eyes widen, realizing too late that the object inside could’ve been more fragile than you thought. “Just a little!” you insist, earnest as ever. “Like, barely. I promise.”
He holds your gaze, inscrutable. Then, without warning, a crimson-black mist unfurls over the parcel in your lap. In the blink of an eye, the box is gone.
Your jaw drops. “Whoa, that’s amazing. How’d you do that?” Your eyes sparkle with unfiltered wonder. “Are you, like… a magician?”
He doesn’t deign to respond, looking exceedingly underwhelmed by the assumption.
You nod, undeterred by the lack of answer. “Right, right. Trade secret. Got it.” A magician never reveals his tricks, after all. Maybe they’re LARPers? Oh, maybe they’re a stage act!
While you’re busy puzzling over the man in front of you – and, by extension, the two others now milling by the water, idly weighing pebbles to skip – Sylus finds himself sharing the same sentiment, studying the… peculiar woman before him.
He already knows the facts; dug through the records, sifted every dull scrap of your life from the databases on the way over. A civilian. Unremarkable as they come. One of his men had been careless enough to place something highly classified in your hands. Careless enough to pay for it with his life. Still, he wants to be certain whether you’re truly as harmless as you appear.
He entertains the alternative, if only briefly. Sylus lingers on the wide, unguarded smile you’ve plastered on since his arrival, traces the offensively loud pattern of your jumper and the frankly horrendous article of clothing on your head. And perhaps it’s a front, some asinine attempt at lulling whoever’s on the other end of the phone into a false sense of security.
But then there are your eyes. Painfully guileless. Reminiscent, almost, of an innocent fawn. And that utter disregard for your own safety—naivety in its purest, stupidest form—makes something in his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t dare dignify with attention.
(How profoundly inconvenient.)
“If you know what’s best for you, you will not speak of what has transpired here today.”
You cock your head confusedly. “Wha– who would I tell?”
His expression doesn’t shift – save for the subtle twitch of his lips, gone before you can begin to register the reaction. “Go home, little doe.”
He turns, a sharp flick of his hand pulling the masked men from their pebble-skipping contest. They instantly fall in step behind him.
“Well… nice meeting you, Jake!” you call out.
That earns a pause mid-step. A short, incredulous huff slips out before he can stop it.
Glancing back, his mouth curves with the faintest trace of amusement. “Skye,” he corrects.
“Huh?” You tilt your head just so, and the resemblance is almost painful—like a puppy waiting for instructions it doesn’t understand. The baffling sensation in his chest returns.
“You can call me that.”
“Oh!” You perk up, and Sylus can almost imagine the tail wagging behind you. “Nice meeting you then, Skye!”
You don’t expect him to reply. You’ve already filed your mystery person as the stoic, quiet type. So it catches you off guard when he reluctantly parts with—
“…Likewise.”
And then he’s gone before you can even think to offer your own name.
What an odd guy, you muse. Still! You made a new friend today, and that always counts as a win in your books.
As you start to make your way back home, you find yourself idly wondering what kind of pastries Skye likes.
End A/N: I live ! (Sorry for going semi-awol 🥹 No go to Tumblr much lately… Just do some writing when Dobby finds the time… Hope you can forgive Dobby. Kk mwah fuck JK R*wling <3)
warnings: isekai, fem!reader, OOC, tooth-rotting fluff, reader being a simp for her favorite character.
Hello everyone and welcome to the long-awaited scenario for our residential cardiologist~! For those who may have not known, this prompt won by a landslide voting as to what I should attempt to write on my vacation. Needless to say, I should have already posted this last week, but Submergent Devotion threw me in the depths of a creative fervor.
Shout-out to both @dissociativewriter and @jinwoosbabyboo for beta-reading the earlier drafts of this piece and making sure I hadn't lost my touch while enjoying the white, sandy beaches up north lol.
You’ve played enough otome games to know that the protagonist is the one who can truly break through the love interest’s walls and encourage them to embrace being vulnerable, being human. Love and Deepspace was no different, minus more complex battling mechanisms and gatcha slots to collect five-star story routes called myths, depending on your affinity levels with the five love interests. You actually liked the protagonist and saw no reason to complain about her personality online. Why would you? Sure, she was reckless and spoke her mind with no filter whatsoever, but a protagonist isn’t supposed to be perfect. If she were perfect, then the game’s story would be dull and, by extension, the men who have crossed oceans of time to be with her again: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb.
Which is why - even after being transmigrated inside of the world’s most popular romance simulator game as an NPC - you were rooting for the protagonist to be with Zayne and find happiness with the cardiologist. He was your second favorite character in Love and Deepspace? Your number one favorite was a secret, and you planned to keep it that way as long as you lived in this pixelated world. For now, you were content with what you had; after your sudden death, you immediately took up the opportunity to finish school, and then towards a career in medicine, to become a nurse. Finding employment at any hospital was akin to fighting a gauntlet amongst your peers, and the teachers did not make it easy with countless essays, rotations, and exams.
But you accomplished it, and now you were working at Akso Hospital with a front-row view of Zayne’s developing romance with his childhood friend, the lovely Hunter and protagonist of Love and Deepspace. But even when you already have in-game knowledge of the cardiologist’s personality - and his past - why the heck was it taking him so long to sweep the MC off of her feet? Yes, Zayne struggled to express himself, a man of few words with an icy demeanor, but that is how he is at the beginning of the game.
By logging in daily to interact with him and getting lucky with the gatcha slots, the affinity level will go up. It would take a while, but eventually the player would realize that there is more to Zayne than just a young man committed to his studies in congenital heart abnormalities or the operating rooms. He cares for his patients more than he said, and always took it hard when he lost one. When that happened, it would almost always be the protagonist who would take his mind off of it. At least, that’s how you remembered it when playing Love and Deepspace.
“Nurse?”
You almost stumbled out of your seat when you heard your name being called. You looked up, seeing Zayne staring down at you with a frown. You let out a squeak in the back of your mind before you stood up, blurting out a greeting. “Good a-afternoon, doctor! How can I help you?” You stammered, swearing under your breath as you felt the heat rise in your cheeks. Great. Absolutely fantastic.
Zayne raised an eyebrow. “Did I need something?”
Now it was your turn to be confused. “Well, yes? I mean, are you looking for me? Or are you looking for Yvonne?” You glanced around the U-shaped central nursing station. “I haven’t seen her since rounds, but I can page her -”
“No,” Zayne blurted out, the sudden, sharp tone in his voice startling you. “No, I don’t need Yvonne. I just -” You watched his face scrunch in annoyance, irritation, before he continued. “Did you hear about the two podiatrists who left the practice?”
You blinked. Well, you couldn’t say the news surprised you. Doctors come and go from hospitals, whether it’s from burnout, the stress of administration burdens, hours being cut back, or the desire for a better work-life balance. Still, there would have been an email about it - and who would take their place. Feet were just as important as hips, legs, eyes, and hearts.
“Did you hear about the two podiatrists who left the practice?” He repeated. You slowly shook your head. “They became arch-enemies.” He said.
“…Okay?” You replied.
Zayne nodded and then walked off as if the most emotionally constipated man in the entire hospital hadn’t just told a joke before inhaling his morning coffee. This world gets stranger and stranger with each passing moment. You thought, opening up another tab on your work computer to contact a patient’s primary physician about the dosing for their daily meds when Grayson suddenly appeared by your side.
“What’d you do?” He asked.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Dr. Grayson,” You said, eyes focused on the screen as your fingers flew across the keyboard. “If it concerns Dr. Zayne possessing a sense of humor, then perhaps something good has happened to him this morning.” You honestly hoped that would be the case, because what else would be the reason behind his unusual behavior? When you sent off the message, Grayson was still standing there, mouth opening and closing before he took off as quickly as he had appeared.
Your break time rolled around like clockwork, and when you took the stairs down towards the cafeteria with your lunch, you saw MC confidently stride out through the lobby elevator, dressed to the nines in her Hunter uniform and smiling from ear to ear.
Guess her visit with the good doctor went well. You thought, feeling a grin of your own forming as you continued your trek to your usual spot. Finally, the main story was moving forward. You just hoped that her relationship with Zayne would not diminish in favor of the destined ties she had had with the other love interests.
What you didn’t realize was that a certain cardiologist is being reprimanded by Grayson for his very poor flirting tactics - not because he failed to make his childhood friend swoon, but you probably did not know he had made the joke to impress you.
Yvonne was not happy with him either, citing that while the joke was funny, words sometimes spoke louder than actions.
Zayne had planned on telling how he felt soon - he truly did, he just needed more time. More time to get to know the nurse who works tirelessly to make sure her patients get the best treatment with a smile and a stack of cartoony stationery inside her clipboard.
“Every wreath we’ve made, every quiet moment in the garden, every stolen look… my heart has belonged to you for longer than I even realized. I don’t want the crown, or the title. I want you.” ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Synopsis: You are the Lark of Philos, wedded to Zayne, who never truly sees you until it is too late. While his gaze lingers elsewhere, it is his adoptive brother, Prince Caleb, who loves you from the very first moment—and it is to him your heart quietly, irrevocably belongs.
Genre: Angst, Slowburn, Romance
AU: Royal!AU
Pairing(s): Prince!Zayne x NonMC!Reader, Prince!Caleb x NonMC!Reader (Reader is Xavier’s younger sister)
Warnings: Zayne is lowkey cold towards reader, so he’s very dismissive and mean (😭), Zayne angst in the end (I’M SORRY)
Note: Hi guys this is my first ever LADS fic on tumblr so excuse me for any mistakes or inaccuracies 😭 I’m trying out something new and this scenario popped right up before I slept, so I decided to make it a whole fic. Any reblog + like is definitely appreciated, I hope to bring more fics soon! Happy reading <3 (P.S: Yes I am using Enhypen photos because I couldn’t find any Zayne or Caleb pics that match the vibe of the fic)
From the moment you were born, your life was not your own.
As the younger sister of Xavier, one of the Paladins sworn to the crown of Linkon, you grew in the shadow of swords and vows, yet you were nothing like them. Where your brother’s name was etched into history with steel, yours was woven into song in the Kingdom of Philos.
They called you the Lark of Philos—a title that clung to you like perfume, carried from court to court, your beauty praised as though it were a thing both holy and untouchable.
No rival ever came close; none even tried.
It was little wonder, then, that when kingdoms trembled and treaties threatened to break, your hand became the offering.
A jewel for peace, a bride for alliance.
Thus you were given to Zayne, crown prince of Linkon and a Paladin, not out of love but of necessity.
Your marriage was an oath written in ink before it was ever spoken in vows, leaving you to wonder if the man at your side would ever truly see you.
Around him gathered the Paladins, the brothers bound by blood and by fate.
Zayne, the one who’s reserved yet cunning, Linkon’s heir to the throne. Caleb, Zayne’s adopted brother, whose eyes held a quiet fire that seemed to find danger no matter where it stood. Rafayel, ever mysterious, his presence heavy with grace. Sylus, who wore a smug smile like armor, masking truths beneath charm. And your own brother, Xavier, the steadfast shield of the realm.
Together, they were the kingdom of Linkon’s strength, its sworn protectors.
And you—bright, untouchable, yet bound—were placed among them like a caged bird in a gilded hall. Adored, admired, and yet unseen by the ones meant to love you most.
Caleb had always known his place.
Brought into the royal family of Linkon as a child, he grew in the shadow of Zayne, the rightful heir.
To the court, he was the adopted prince—the second son whose name carried courtesy but no crown. Yet Caleb never minded.
He never hungered for power, nor did he envy the weight of the throne that would one day rest on Zayne’s shoulders. He found his peace elsewhere: in the quiet halls of the palace library, in the practice yard where steel met steel, in the fleeting moments where duty was not a chain but a choice.
The day of your betrothal to his brother was one such moment—though it would haunt him for years.
The kingdom of Philos had long been an ally of Linkon, but alliances were fragile things, stitched together by marriages, treaties, and blood. You, the Lark of Philos, became that stitch.
The promise of unity. A bride for the future king.
Zayne had accepted the arrangement with the calm detachment expected of him. You, too, agreed, though your smile trembled like a candle against the wind.
The two of you stood side by side, your hands joined before the court as oaths were spoken.
But not everyone was so willing.
“Are you certain of this?” Xavier’s voice was low, taut with unease, as he pulled you aside after the announcement. His hand lingered on your shoulder, the weight of a brother torn between loyalty to his king and love for his sister.
“This is not a choice you make lightly. Zayne—he is a good man, but a Paladin first, a husband second. I have stood beside him on the battlefield. I know where his heart lies.”
You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with the steadiness of one who had already resigned herself.
“And I know where my duty lies. If this marriage strengthens both kingdoms, then it is not a burden—it is an honor. You need not fear for me, Xavier. I will be all right.”
Xavier studied you in silence, his jaw tight. At last, he exhaled, a reluctant nod breaking through his frown.
“You’ve always been braver than I give you credit for.” His voice softened, though it carried a note of warning. “But remember—if ever you are not all right, I will know.”
Across the chamber, Caleb watched this exchange quietly, his expression unreadable.
To the others, he was simply present—another Paladin among the four. But to him, it was the moment he first understood the depth of your resolve, and the quiet ache it carried.
Later, as the feast stretched into the evening, he found himself drawn to you—not in defiance, not in desire, but in wonder.
You sat beside Zayne, your beauty a flame in the candlelit hall, every smile perfectly measured, every word a note in a song carefully composed. You did not falter, though Caleb could see the way your fingers curled slightly against your lap, hidden beneath the tablecloth.
When he passed by, offering a polite bow, his eyes lingered on you for a fraction longer than was proper. And in that brief glance, you saw something you had not expected.
Not duty. Not admiration. But recognition.
As though he had looked at you—not as the Lark of Philos, not as the bride of a future king—but as a woman.
And in the silence between you, something fragile yet unspoken began to take root.
The morning sun struck the palace training grounds in a blaze of gold, the air thick with the sound of clashing steel and the low grunts of men sparring.
Caleb rolled his shoulders, sweat running down his temple, while Sylus laughed from across the ring, victorious over another unfortunate squire.
“Keep your guard up, Kieran” Sylus taunted, tossing his practice sword to the ground. “If you want to be a Paladin someday, you’ll need to stop leaving your ribs wide open.”
Rafayel only shook his head, leaning his weight against the hilt of his sword, ever the silent judge of the chaos around him.
It was then that the call came—a messenger rushing in, bowing low before the three men.
“Your Highnesses, the Princess of Philos has arrived at the port. You are summoned to escort her to the palace.”
Zayne was absent, of course. Off in the council chambers with matters “too important” to delay. But Caleb knew the truth: his brother’s heart lingered elsewhere, wrapped around Celestine, the courtier whose name was already on too many lips.
“I suppose it falls to us then,” Rafayel said, sliding his sword into its sheath. A wry smile tugged at his mouth.
“The famed Lark of Philos herself graces us with her presence once again. Have you heard the rumors? They say she’s the most beautiful woman in all of Deepspace. Her parents guarded her like a treasure, reluctant to marry her off to anyone. And after the wedding—well, I can see why.”
Sylus chuckled, slapping Caleb’s shoulder as they began to walk.
“You were there, Caleb. Don’t tell me you weren’t impressed. I swear, half the court forgot their vows when she stepped into the hall that day.”
Caleb gave only a small shrug, though his mind stirred at the memory. The wedding had been months ago, a blur of silks and vows, of stolen glances and formal smiles.
He remembered the candlelight against your hair, the way your voice had not wavered even once. He had thought you beautiful then—beautiful in the way one might admire a painting hung too high to ever touch.
But when the ship from Philos came into view that morning, he realized how poor a memory could be.
The vessel’s sails unfurled like wings, catching the sea breeze as it drew closer to the dock. The deck bustled with attendants, guards, and courtiers, but Caleb’s gaze found you instantly—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.
You stood at the railing, the sun gilding your hair, the salt air tugging at your hair.
Months had passed since your wedding day, but something about you had shifted, deepened. You no longer looked like the sheltered jewel whispered about in ballads—you looked like a queen who had crossed the sea with her head unbowed.
“I suppose Rafayel wasn’t lying,” Caleb thought, his breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “No wonder Xavier rarely speaks of her—how could he, when she’s grown into someone who could silence a court with a single glance?”
As the ship moored, Caleb stepped forward, schooling his face into the polite composure of a prince. Yet when your eyes met his, something unbidden flickered in his chest.
He smiled. Soft, warm, perhaps too personal for the moment.
“Welcome to the kingdom of Linkon, Princess,” he said as he offered his hand to help you down the gangway. His voice was steady, but inside, he wondered if you could feel the way his heart quickened.
You placed your hand in his, the coolness of your rings brushing against his skin.
“It has been some time, Your Highness,” you replied, your tone measured, though your gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than courtesy demanded. “I trust you’ve been well.”
Rafayel, ever the one to fill silences, stepped forward with a grin.
“Well enough, though our training grounds are far less bright without a lark’s song. The halls have been waiting for you.”
Sylus chuckles and greets Xavier before turning to you. “And so have the kitchens. Zayne’s already informed the cooks to prepare a feast, though I imagine half of it will go untouched while the court stares at you instead.”
Their banter pulled a quiet laugh from you, though your hand still rested lightly on Caleb’s arm as he escorted you toward the waiting carriage. He could feel the fragility of the moment, the way the air seemed to thrum with something unspoken.
For Caleb, the realization came swift and merciless: admiration had shifted into something more dangerous.
You were not just Zayne’s bride, nor the Lark of Philos. You were you—and from this moment onward, he would never look at you the same.
The journey from the port to the palace was swift, the streets lined with curious eyes and fluttering banners. Yet the grandeur of Linkon’s welcome faded the moment you stepped inside the castle walls.
The marble halls stretched tall and echoing, the tapestries whispering of victories long past.
You walked beside Caleb, your hand resting lightly on his offered arm, Xavier a steady presence at your back. For all the pomp and pageantry, your thoughts turned to one man only.
“Is my husband in?” you asked, your voice calm though your chest tightened with nerves.
Months apart had a way of fraying certainty. You wondered if he would smile, if he would reach for you, if perhaps—just perhaps—the bond could grow into something more.
Caleb’s gaze flickered, then steadied.
“He is,” he said, his voice even. “He’s expecting you.”
The words warmed you, even if you mistook the faint hesitation behind them.
Servants bowed low as you entered, whispering your title, their faces alight with curiosity and admiration. One of them hurried forward, bowing so low their forehead nearly touched the marble.
“Your Highness, the prince awaits you in his study.”
Relief softened your steps. At last, a reunion. At last, your husband.
But when you entered the chamber, you were met not with warmth—but with ice.
Zayne rose from behind his desk, his gaze flat and unreadable as his eyes swept over you. No joy, no softness, only the detached stare of a man inspecting a foreign envoy rather than his wife.
“Zayne,” you greeted brightly, forcing your voice into melody, as though sheer cheer might bridge the distance. “It’s been too long. Linkon has grown even more beautiful since I last stood within its walls.”
He regarded you in silence, his jaw set. Then, with a flick of his hand, he motioned toward the adjoining room. “Come.”
The door to his study shut behind you with a soft thud, sealing you in a silence so heavy it pressed against your ribs. You tried again, your smile faltering but not yet gone.
“I’ve missed you. Perhaps tonight we can walk the gardens together—there’s so much I’d like to—”
“Stop.”
The single word fell sharp, final.
You blinked, lips parting as if struck. “…Stop?”
Zayne’s expression did not shift. His voice was steady, almost weary, but merciless.
“Do not pretend at affection. You and I both know what this marriage is. An arrangement. A bond written on paper, not on hearts. I will not play the doting husband for the sake of appearances.”
You drew a slow breath, steadying the storm rising in your chest. “But we are husband and wife now. If not for affection, then for duty—at least respect—”
“I am in love with someone else.”
The words cut cleaner than any blade. He said them with no shame, no pause. Only truth, laid bare.
Your throat tightened, the air suddenly harder to draw. “…I see.”
Zayne’s eyes softened, but only slightly, and not in the way you longed for.
“You are free to do as you please here. Live as you wish. Hold your court, play your part. All I ask is that you stay out of my way. Do not meddle where your presence is not wanted.”
For a long moment, silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant hum of palace life beyond the door.
You wanted to argue, to plead, to ask why fate had tied you to a man whose heart was never yours. But you bit back the words.
Because you were not a girl anymore. You were a princess of Philos, a future queen of Linkon. You were in a foreign land where every eye waited for you to falter. You had Xavier, at least—your brother, your anchor.
That would be enough. It had to be.
Lifting your chin, you forced the pain down, burying it deep where it could not be seen.
“Very well,” you said, your voice steady, though your heart bled beneath it. “I will not trouble you.”
And though you smiled as you left his study, your hands trembled within your sleeves.
Outside, in the hall where shadows pooled, Caleb stood waiting. He looked up at you, and in that single glance, his eyes caught the crack in your armor—the hurt you so carefully tried to mask.
And for the first time since your arrival, you felt seen.
Caleb had felt it the moment Zayne beckoned you into his study.
Something about the stiffness in his brother’s shoulders, the way his voice held no warmth, had left a sour weight in Caleb’s chest. So he lingered in the hall, leaning against the stone wall as though he waited by chance.
Minutes passed. The door finally opened, and you stepped out with your smile perfectly in place. Too perfect.
Your eyes widened faintly when you saw him there.
“Oh? Prince Caleb. What are you doing here?” Your smile curved brighter, practiced, but Caleb caught the way it faltered around the edges.
He straightened, dipping his head slightly in courtesy, though his gaze did not waver from your face.
“I thought I might walk you back,” he said smoothly. Then, softer, almost too low to hear: “I wasn’t sure how long my brother would keep you.”
Something in your expression flickered, but you quickly smoothed it away. “That’s kind of you. But as you can see—” you gestured lightly to your smile, “—all is well.”
Caleb almost answered—almost asked what Zayne had said to put that shadow behind your eyes—but he swallowed the words.
It was not his place to pry. Not yet.
Instead, he offered his arm with a small, easy smile.
“If you’ll allow me, Your Highness, I’d rather show you something more pleasant than palace walls and council doors. You’ve come a long way from Philos. Let me give you a tour of your new home.”
Your brows lifted slightly. “A tour?”
“I heard from Xavier that you kept a garden in Philos,” Caleb said, his tone light but sincere. “He spoke of it often—of how you tended to it yourself, even when attendants could do it for you. If that’s true, then I think I know exactly where to take you.”
The faintest warmth touched your cheeks.
“Xavier told you that?”
Caleb’s lips curved, gentler now. “He did. Your dearest brother never shuts up about you, in fact.”
That earned a quiet laugh from you, soft and genuine, the first he’d heard since your arrival. And for Caleb, it felt like a small victory.
He led you through the marble corridors, his stride measured so yours would not quicken. He pointed out small things along the way—where Sylus had once broken a stained-glass window with an ill-aimed training sword, where Rafayel always paused beneath a particular tapestry as though the woven warriors could hear his thoughts.
His words were laced with humor, subtle stories that painted the palace not as a cage, but as a place with life within its stones.
At last, he guided you through a pair of wrought-iron gates into the palace gardens.
The air shifted immediately, fragrant with roses and jasmine, the quiet trickle of fountains weaving between hedges sculpted into elegant spirals. A soft breeze stirred the leaves, carrying the faintest birdsong.
Caleb stepped aside, letting you take it in.
“It’s not Philos,” he admitted, “but I thought you might like to see that beauty lives here too. Perhaps, in time, it could feel like yours.”
Your breath caught as you looked around, the memory of Zayne’s cold words still echoing in your heart. But here, surrounded by green and bloom, you allowed your smile to soften into something real.
You turned to Caleb. “Thank you,” you murmured.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
His gaze lingered on you, steady and warm, before he answered.
“Maybe I didn’t. But I wanted to.”
And though the ache of your husband’s rejection still weighed heavy, for the first time in Linkon, you felt the smallest spark of belonging.
The palace was a flurry of preparations for the evening’s banquet.
Servants hurried through the halls with trays of polished goblets, tapestries were shaken free of dust, and chandeliers glimmered like captured constellations above the grand hall.
Tonight was meant to be in your honor—the Princess of Philos, newly welcomed into Linkon. Yet as you watched from afar, you knew the gesture was not Zayne’s heart but his duty.
He had hardly looked at you these past weeks. When he did, his gaze slid away as though the sight of you burned.
His voice never cut sharp, never cruel—but each dismissal carried a weight that bruised in its own way.
You were there, and yet you were invisible.
In that loneliness, you found solace not in your husband, but in those who stood closest to him.
Sylus’s steady presence, Rafayel’s laughter, Xavier’s protective eye—all had become your circle of comfort. But it was Caleb who became something more.
Caleb who listened when words faltered, who filled silences with warmth rather than obligation. Caleb, whose quiet smiles eased the ache of being unseen.
That afternoon, with the banquet still hours away, you sought the gardens—the one place in Linkon that felt even a little like home. And, as he often did, Caleb joined you.
The sun dappled through the lattice of leaves, casting patterns across the marble path.
You walked beside him, skirts brushing the roses, your hair braided with blooms by attentive ladies earlier in the day.
The flowers wove through your braid like constellations, making you look less like a queen-in-waiting and more like some ethereal nymph the garden itself had conjured.
Still, your pout was anything but celestial.
“Tell me,” you said, pausing beneath an arch of ivy, “is your stepbrother always this closed off? It’s so hard to read him.”
Caleb blinked, then let out a low laugh. The sound was warm, rich, the kind that filled the air like sunlight.
“You pout like that, and people will start thinking the new princess is still a child.”
Your eyes narrowed in mock offense. “I am not pouting.”
“You are,” he countered, grinning, before reaching out to ruffle your braid, his fingers brushing lightly against the flowers. “But I suppose you’re allowed. You’ve had more patience with him than most would.”
You swatted his hand away, though your lips twitched with a smile. “So? Is he always like this?”
Caleb tilted his head, his expression softening.
“Zayne is…difficult, I’ll admit. Reserved. He keeps his thoughts close, even from those who know him best. He isn’t cruel, though—it isn’t in him to wound without cause. But he can be… hard to reach.”
His eyes lingered on you as he spoke, as though he wanted to say more. That Zayne’s distance wasn’t your fault. That anyone would be blind not to see you, to treasure you. But Caleb bit it back, the words lodged in his throat.
So instead, he smiled. “He’s hard on new faces, but he warms up eventually.”
You sighed, your gaze drifting to the roses. “Eventually,” you echoed, though doubt clung to your tone.
Caleb watched you, the way the sunlight kissed your skin, the way your fingers traced the petals as though speaking to them in secret.
You looked like an angel against the bloom, and it took everything in him not to reach for you—because he wanted to take his time. Because you deserved gentleness, not another man who rushed past your heart without seeing it.
“Don’t let it weigh on you,” he said finally, his voice low, meant only for you. “If Zayne cannot see what’s in front of him, that’s his failing. Not yours.”
Your lips parted, surprised, but before you could answer, the bells tolled in the distance—the signal that the banquet hour approached.
You exhaled, straightening your gown, the mask of composure slipping back into place. “Then I suppose we should play our parts.”
Caleb offered his arm. “At least you won’t play them alone.”
And when you placed your hand in his, you felt, for a fleeting moment, that you truly weren’t.
The palace was aglow that evening, its gilded chandeliers spilling golden light across polished marble floors. Musicians strummed a soft melody as nobles gathered, their silks and jewels shimmering in a kaleidoscope of color.
Tonight was meant to be your night — a banquet in honor of your arrival, your new role, your new life as the future queen of Linkon. But if the kingdom expected warmth between you and your husband, they would find only carefully constructed illusions.
Caleb stood near one of the towering pillars, with Rafayel and Xavier at his side, his eyes scanning the grand staircase where you were soon to appear.
Zayne, as ever, lingered across the room with Sylus, surrounded by a circle of advisers and older nobles.
The contrast between the two brothers was stark — Zayne, austere and impenetrable; Caleb, watchful, his heart already leaning toward someone he shouldn’t.
Then you came.
The room fell quiet, breaths stilled, and Caleb swore his chest tightened as though struck by something divine.
You descended slowly, each step deliberate yet graceful, your cream and baby blue ruffled ballgown catching the light like the sea at dawn.
Your hair was arranged in delicate curls, flowers and jewels woven through them like threads of heaven. And your smile — radiant, luminous — made the chandeliers above seem pale.
Caleb’s fingers curled into a fist at his side.
He cursed Zayne in silence, cursed his stepbrother’s indifference, cursed the way such beauty and light was being wasted on a man who barely looked your way.
How could he? How could anyone?
When you reached the foot of the stairs, Zayne was already waiting, duty pulling him forward.
For the sake of appearances, you both inclined your heads politely, a picture-perfect pair for the watching crowd.
Words were exchanged — pleasantries, hollow courtesies — and then, as soon as others were distracted, you drifted apart, severing the fragile performance as if it had burned your hands.
It was then Celestine approached, her presence bright and sweet. You greeted her with kindness, your smile as genuine as it could be under the weight you carried.
But Caleb’s observant eyes caught the flicker — the way your expression faltered when you noticed Zayne.
For once, his stone facade seemed to soften in Celestine’s presence, as though she alone could breach his walls.
Your own smile slipped.
Sylus noticed, sharp and calculating as always, and moved immediately. He guided you gently, firmly, toward your brother before any crack in the illusion could widen.
Caleb’s jaw tightened as he watched, helpless to intervene, his teeth gritting against the urge to storm across the hall and drag you away from all of it.
Xavier’s frown was thunderous as Sylus delivered you to him. He didn’t need words to understand. He simply offered his hand, protective and grounding.
“Do you want to get some fresh air for a while?” he asked softly, his tone a balm.
You nodded, though your eyes flicked — almost instinctively — to Caleb. He stood a short distance away, gaze steady, almost as if he’d been waiting for you.
“Can I go with Caleb?” you whispered, your voice fragile, uncertain. “We can talk later after the banquet.”
Xavier studied you for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. He ruffled your hair gently, in that older-brother way he always had.
“Fine. At least with him, I know you’re safe.” His frown lingered, but he let you go.
Caleb was already moving toward you when you turned. Without hesitation, he led you through the tall glass doors and into the night.
The garden was hushed, the air cool and fragrant with roses and lavender. The laughter and music of the banquet muffled behind you, as though you had stepped into a different world.
You sank onto the edge of the fountain, skirts pooling around you, shoulders slumped under a weight Caleb wished he could lift.
The moonlight cast a silver sheen over your gown, over your downturned face, and he thought you looked like something from the old songs — an angel wearied by mortal pain.
“He really loves her, doesn’t he?” you murmured, voice barely carrying above the fountain’s trickle. Your fingers twisted in your lap, restless, betraying the ache in your chest.
Caleb lowered himself beside you, careful, patient. He watched you for a long moment, his throat tight, before sighing and leaning slightly against you — enough that you might feel his presence, solid and grounding.
“He loves her,” he admitted quietly. The truth was a blade, but there was no point in offering lies. “…but that doesn’t make you any less lovable, Y/n.”
You gave a soft, broken laugh, bitter at the edges. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Caleb turned, his eyes narrowing with quiet anger — not at you, never at you, but at the man who had made you feel this way. He reached out, his hand steady as he brushed his knuckles against your cheek, forcing you to look at him.
“Stop looking so dejected. He shouldn’t act like this. You’re not some bargaining piece. You’re—” He broke off, biting back words he couldn’t say. Not yet.
You blinked up at him, eyes shimmering, and before you could turn away, tears slipped down your cheeks.
Caleb swore softly under his breath and fished out his handkerchief, pressing it into your hands before gently wiping at the tears himself.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered, his tone soft but firm. “You’re so much more than that idiot.”
You hiccuped, clutching the cloth.
“I’m tired,” you admitted, your voice cracking. “I know the banquet’s in my honor, but… I want to go to my room. I don’t think I can keep smiling tonight.”
Caleb’s heart twisted, but he nodded without hesitation. His hand lingered in your hair, patting it softly, tenderly, as though you might shatter if he pressed too hard.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Let me take you there. You don’t have to stay where you’re hurting.”
And in that moment, under the moonlight and away from the eyes of the kingdom, Caleb swore silently to himself.
If Zayne could not protect you, if he would not cherish you — then he would. Even if it meant stepping into dangerous shadows.
Caleb and you quietly approached Xavier after leaving the garden, the muffled music of the banquet still echoing down the marble halls.
You tugged lightly on your brother’s sleeve, and he immediately noticed the heaviness in your expression.
“Xay,” your voice wavered, just above a whisper, “he doesn’t love me. I know we’re doing this for Philos, I know why it had to be me—but I’m trying, I really am.”
Your throat tightened, betraying the rest of the tears you had been holding back all evening.
Xavier’s frown deepened, and before you could fall apart, he gathered you into his arms. His embrace was firm, protective, the kind you had clung to countless times as a child whenever the world felt too cruel.
Caleb, standing a step behind, watched as your brother’s hand cradled the back of your head, his thumb stroking comfort into your hair.
Something inside Caleb softened, even as his chest burned with quiet anger toward Zayne.
“You’re alright, Y/n,” Xavier murmured against your crown, his voice low, gentle but edged with frustration at the situation.
“He’s a fool for not loving you—or for not even trying. But listen to me, you’re not alone in this. I’m here. Caleb’s here. We won’t let you bear this by yourself.”
Your hands clutched at your brother’s coat, fingers trembling.
“But how long do I have to endure being treated like a burden? Like I’m just… a name on parchment?”
Xavier pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes soft but blazing with protective fire.
He brushed away a tear that had escaped down your cheek, and for a moment you saw the boy you grew up with—the boy who always promised to shield you from everything.
“Just hang on a little longer,” Xavier whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “We can go back to Philos soon enough. This isn’t forever. You’ll come home to us, to me. I swear it.”
Behind him, Caleb exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched to keep himself from speaking out of turn.
He wanted to tell you that you deserved more than a loveless marriage, more than cold stares and polite dismissals. He wanted to promise that he would never let you feel this unwanted again.
Instead, he stepped closer and gently laid a hand on your shoulder, grounding you between the two people who truly cared for you.
“Your brother’s right,” Caleb said softly, his usual playful tone replaced with rare sincerity. “Don’t lose yourself because of him, Y/n. You’re worth more than what his blind heart can see.”
You gave a shaky nod, your lips trembling into something that tried to resemble a smile.
With both Xavier’s arm still wrapped around you and Caleb’s hand steady at your side, you finally let yourself breathe—just a little easier—before Xavier led you toward your chambers, away from the glittering halls of celebration that felt so hollow.
Since that night, Caleb had silently vowed to himself that he would make it his mission to win your heart—and not only to win it, but to give you a reason to stay in Linkon and find happiness here, a happiness that was truly yours.
He had no grand schemes of stealing crowns or sparking scandal, no hunger for power or glory. That had never been who he was.
But with the way Zayne drifted farther from you each passing day, so unwilling to meet you halfway, Caleb felt fate was forcing his hand.
And yet, he didn’t resent it. Because for you, he would.
For you, he’d shoulder the risk, step into the storm, and fight for something greater than a throne. He didn’t need to become king—he only needed to become the man who treated you as though you were the most treasured thing in all the realms.
His parents, after long consideration, had given their blessing. Even Xavier, ever the protective brother, had fixed him with a searching stare before finally nodding, entrusting Caleb with what was most precious.
That was all the permission he needed.
Now, all that remained was for Caleb to show you.
To treat you with the devotion you had been denied, to make you laugh again, to braid flowers into your hair not because it made you look like an angel—but because you deserved to feel adored, cherished, seen.
And so, quietly, patiently, he began.
At the training grounds, when you came to visit, it was always Caleb who noticed you first.
He’d call out your name with that easy warmth of his, his squire Gideon trailing loyally at his side. He would make space for you, draw you into their conversation as though you belonged there.
Zayne, meanwhile, hardly spared you a glance, his focus locked on his sword or the men around him. And so, perhaps without even meaning to, you mirrored his indifference, your smiles and laughter saved for the other Paladins, for Caleb most of all.
More than once, Zayne’s brow lifted when he caught the shift—though he said nothing.
In the garden where you spent most of your time, Caleb began making it a habit to find you.
You would be sitting beneath the sunlight, a book in your hands, flowers braided into your hair, and he would drop down beside you with the familiar ease of someone who never needed permission.
“You’ll spoil me with that smile,” he would tease, before stretching out and letting his head rest in your lap, claiming he needed only a moment’s rest after a long mission.
You would huff and roll your eyes, though your fingers betrayed you—brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead, lingering there far too long.
And at night, when the halls were quiet and shadows stretched across the marble, it was always Caleb who walked you back to your chambers.
Sometimes the two of you would talk until you reached your door, other times you’d walk in companionable silence, his hand brushing ever so close to yours, just enough to make your heart ache.
It was… different with him.
Where Zayne had walls you could never climb, Caleb opened his arms and let you in without hesitation.
Where your husband dismissed you with silence, Caleb looked at you as though you were something fragile and precious, something he’d gladly spend his life protecting.
And slowly, against your better judgment, you felt your heart tilt toward him. Little by little, you began to realize what it meant to be cherished—and you found yourself falling.
The day of Zayne’s birthday banquet was filled with movement—servants rushing about, nobles arriving from neighboring kingdoms, musicians tuning their instruments—but you found yourself tucked away in your chambers with Xavier, the two of you surrounded by brightly wrapped boxes and folded silk.
Just a few days earlier, Caleb had insisted on taking you down to the village markets.
You hadn’t expected much, but he had spent the entire afternoon watching your eyes linger on things, quietly committing every little detail to memory.
Now, as you opened each gift, it became clear just how closely he had been paying attention.
A set of pressed flowers sealed in glass frames, the very blooms you had admired from a merchant’s stall. A shawl of Philosian weave, light but soft enough to remind you of home. And at the bottom of one box, a silver hair comb etched with intricate vines—almost identical to the ones your mother used to wear.
Xavier picked it up and let out a low whistle. “Caleb has a good eye on him, doesn’t he?”
You smiled faintly, running your fingers along the comb.
“He really does. It’s… thoughtful. More than I expected.”
A throat cleared at the doorway. Both you and Xavier turned, surprised, to see Zayne standing there.
His eyes flicked over the opened boxes, then to you, and though his expression was carefully guarded, the flicker of something unreadable—surprise? irritation?—crossed his face.
“Zayne,” Xavier greeted smoothly, rising to his feet. You followed suit, setting the comb gently back in its box.
“Your Highness,” you said softly. “What brings you here?”
Zayne hesitated, his gaze still lingering on the gifts. Gifts from Caleb.
“I… just wanted to check on you before tonight, that’s all.”
The air felt weighted, awkward. You gave him a polite nod, and Xavier, ever the protective brother, shifted slightly closer to you.
Zayne cleared his throat again, straightened his shoulders, and offered a clipped, “I’ll see you both at the banquet.”
Without another word, he turned and left, the faint echo of his boots fading down the corridor.
When the door closed, Xavier exchanged a look with you—half questioning, half amused. You, however, couldn’t help the strange rush in your chest.
For the first time, Zayne had sought you out, had seemed… unsettled. And though it was fleeting, it left you wondering if perhaps your indifference was finally being noticed.
Zayne couldn’t understand it.
The feeling gnawed at him every time he caught sight of you and Caleb together—something sharp, hot, and unrelenting, curling in his chest like a flame he couldn’t smother.
He told himself it was irritation, perhaps annoyance at Caleb’s recklessness, but deep down he knew it was neither.
Just days ago, he had passed by the training grounds and seen you offering Caleb a neatly folded handkerchief. 
He remembered how you smiled faintly, pointing out the embroidered apple you had stitched yourself.
Caleb had grinned, boyish and triumphant, before leaning down to kiss your forehead. “I’ll use it forever,” he’d promised.
Zayne had walked away before either of you noticed him lingering, but the image stayed, branded in his mind like a wound that refused to heal.
And then, in the gardens—always the gardens. You sat at the table with Xavier and Rafayel, tea cups steaming between you, laughter spilling into the quiet air.
Caleb sat at your side, a crown of woven daisies in his lap, his hands clumsy but determined as he followed your patient instructions.
When he placed the half-finished wreath against your hair, everyone laughed, even you, though you reached up to fix it. Zayne, watching from a distance, felt his jaw tighten.
Why did it bother him so much? Why did it feel like every smile you gave Caleb was one stolen from him? He wasn’t supposed to care. He had no right to. And yet—he did. The thought unsettled him more than he could admit, even to himself.
The banquet hall was alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets.
Servants wove through the crowd with silver trays, their movements almost as practiced as the noble smiles plastered across every face.
It was a celebration in Zayne’s honor, but for the first time in years, he felt like little more than a spectator.
Because across the room, all the grandeur, all the music, all the endless toasts—none of it mattered compared to the vision of you.
You were seated between Xavier and Caleb, head tilted in laughter as your gloved hand covered your smile.
The baby blue gown you wore shimmered beneath the golden chandeliers, each ruffle and thread of lace catching the light so perfectly it seemed you glowed from within.
Your hair, carefully pleated and adorned with tiny crystal pins, framed your face like something carved from marble and brought to life. Zayne’s chest tightened. Had you always been this radiant? Had he been blind all this time?
He raised his goblet, only to realize it was empty. Before he could summon a servant, a familiar voice murmured at his side, low enough to be meant only for him.
“Careful now.”
Zayne turned his head, brow furrowed.
Sylus leaned casually against the column beside him, wine glass in hand, his lips curved in that infuriating smirk. His gaze flicked toward you—still laughing softly as Caleb leaned close to whisper something.
“That’s your brother’s lover you’re staring at.”
Zayne’s grip tightened around his goblet until his knuckles went white.
“She is my wife,” he replied flatly, eyes forward, as though the words themselves could banish Sylus’s insinuation.
Sylus chuckled, a low and knowing sound, and swirled his wine lazily in the glass.
“On parchment, perhaps. Signed, sealed, and sanctioned by the crown.” He tilted his head, studying Zayne’s stony profile. “But the heart… ah, the heart does not obey ink or vows. And hers, my friend, is far from yours.”
The remark landed sharper than any blade. Zayne forced a scoff, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“You speak too boldly for a guest.”
“Do I?” Sylus arched a brow, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker. “I only speak what all here can see. Look at her.”
Against his will, Zayne’s gaze followed yours once more. Caleb had leaned back now, and your hand lingered on his shoulder in an absent, comfortable gesture.
A wreath of flowers you had crafted earlier rested at your side, but it was Caleb’s smile—the kind of smile a man wears when he knows he is cherished—that stung the most.
“Tell me, Zayne,” Sylus continued, voice soft as velvet but cutting like glass, “when was the last time she looked at you like that?”
Zayne said nothing. His throat had gone tight, and for a moment he could only hear the music, the laughter, the sound of his own pulse in his ears.
Sylus’s smirk deepened at his silence. He lifted his glass in mock salute.
“Do not glare at me as though I am your enemy. I am merely the messenger. And the truth—” he took a deliberate sip of his wine “—always leaves a bitter taste.”
Zayne clenched his jaw and finally tore his gaze away from you, forcing himself to face the hall, the nobles, the celebration that was meant to be his. But even as he tried to drown the rising anger, jealousy coiled in his gut like smoke.
You were his wife. His queen. And yet—
Sylus was right.
The banquet had ended in a haze of music and wine, the nobles retreating to their chambers, their laughter fading down the gilded halls.
Zayne stood for a long time in the empty hall, watching the last of the candles burn low, until even the musicians had gone.
It should have been a night of triumph, yet all he carried with him was the bitter weight of Sylus’s words, echoing mercilessly in his skull.
Her heart does not belong to you.
Later, as he walked through the corridor leading to your chambers, he slowed when he heard voices muffled through the carved oak doors. Caleb’s voice, warm and steady. Yours, softer, trembling.
Curiosity rooted him in place. And then, without meaning to, he found himself listening.
“I can’t keep it hidden anymore,” you whispered. The sound of fabric rustling—perhaps you had taken Caleb’s hands in yours. “Caleb, I’ve fallen for you.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Zayne’s heart stopped. His lungs seized. He pressed himself against the cold stone wall, every muscle locked.
Your voice came again, surer now, as though relief poured out with the truth. “I want to marry you. Not Zayne. Not anyone else. Just you.”
There was a sharp inhale, and then Caleb’s low voice, shaken but tender. “Are you certain? You’d give up everything for me?”
“I already have,” you said, almost laughing through tears.
“Every wreath we’ve made, every quiet moment in the garden, every stolen look… my heart has belonged to you for longer than I even realized. I don’t want the crown, or the title. I want you.”
Through the crack of the door, Zayne could hear movement—a forehead pressed to another, perhaps, or a soft kiss exchanged in the silence of your vow.
Zayne’s chest constricted, pain stabbing sharper than any blade. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into flesh, yet he could not tear himself away.
He had been too late.
The banquet, the vows, the crown—it all meant nothing now. He stood in the shadows of his own castle, hearing the truth that Sylus had already voiced, but which he had refused to believe until this very moment.
You had never been his.
And now, you never would be.
When Caleb murmured, “Then it’s settled. I’ll stand before the court, before the people, and claim what should have been ours all along,” Zayne shut his eyes.
His brother had his crown.
His brother had his kingdom.
And worst of all, his brother had you.
Zayne turned from the door at last, retreating silently into the endless, hollow corridors of his own palace.
How restless he is when he sleeps, tossing and turning, managing to wake you up in the process.
You worry about him and try to gently wake him from his nightmare, leaning over his and watching as he wakes.
You're concerned about him, he sees that in your eyes and it makes his heart beat that little faster.
Up until this point, you've not kissed him. You've just started sleeping in his bed after a bad thunderstorm scared you.
You lean down and press your lips to his, applying a tiny bit of pressure. It's a chaste kiss and doesn't last long but when you pull away, he's looking up at you with pleading eyes.
"Again," he begs.
He repeats it every single time you pull away. He's been desperate for you to kiss him and now that you have, he needs you to keep kissing him.
You don't get much sleep as you're too busy kissing him.
my first time doing request idk if im doing this right but i would love some small chested mc comfort by lads men
im feeling pretty insecure being so skinny and ive tried searching insecurity comfort by lads men but they are all for chubby people and i would appreciate som love for skinny girls!
it would also be interesting to hear their reactions if mc told them that she was thinking about implants ❤️
(its so sad for me when its a big headcannon in the fandom that my main sylus likes chubby girls and im like opposite to that💔no hate to that tho lol)
Soft as You Are
Setup: You tell them you’ve been thinking about implants. You expect teasing, maybe confusion. What you don’t expect is gentleness. What you don’t expect is love poured into every word, because to them, you’ve never needed to be more. To them, you’ve always been enough, soft as you are.
Pairing: LADs x skinny! small-chested! (MC!) reader
Genre: Fluff, Comfort
Writer's notes: I just got this request, even though I don't like to skip the order of request coming in, but this one I can't help but feel the need to address asap.
Listen, darling, I may not know how you feel about yourself in real life, but know that you're not alone in this. Even though my works have bigger girls in mind, it doesn't mean that I would look past girls on the slimmer side, and at the end of the day, these are all just headcanons, and if you ask me, the boys would have loved the love of their lives regardless of body shape and size. They're just wiped and down bad in love like that.
Also, society's beauty standards never remain the same; what may be unattractive now may be the new standard a decade from now. That's the reality, so fret not, as long as you love yourself, nothing else matters. 🫂❤️.
He meets your insecurity with mockery at first—until he sees the truth in your eyes. Then all that arrogance quiets, and Sylus shows you exactly how much you are wanted.
The moment you bring up implants, Sylus scoffs.
"What for? Are you planning to smuggle weapons in your chest?"
You roll your eyes, but he watches your reaction carefully.
Too carefully.
He frowned as he gently pulled you towards him, his arms snaking around your waist, tugging you into his lap.
"You really think I ever looked at you and thought you were missing something?"
He leans in until his lips brush your jaw.
"You know what I like? The way your shirts hang just off your shoulders. The way you fit under my coat. You look like trouble in the best possible way."
You mutter that sometimes you feel like a stick, like there isn’t enough of you to notice.
The amusement fades completely from his face.
"You’re the only thing I notice in a room. Always have."
His voice drops, all teasing gone.
"I’ve held a lot of things in this life. Power. Secrets. Even fear. But nothing fits in my hands like you do."
He presses his lips softly to your temple, then lets his forehead rest there.
"Don’t ever think I need you to be more. You're already my favourite thing to look at. My favourite person to come home to. My peace."
He lifts your hand, pressing it firmly to his chest, where his heartbeat thuds steadily and sure.
"You’re not just enough. You're it. For me."
The dramatic prince of fire might joke first, but when he sees you're serious? He drops the act. What remains is pure love, bold, unfiltered, and only for you.
"Implants?!" Rafayel gasps, eyes wide with mock horror.
"Are you trying to kill me? What if you lean over and I perish from shock?"
You laugh, but it cracks too easily.
His expression shifts.
"Wait. You’re serious."
The flamboyant mask drops. He takes your hands in his, thumbs stroking over your knuckles.
"Listen, cutie, you’re art to me. And not just because I’m a painter. You’re the kind of breathtaking that doesn’t need exaggeration or symmetry. You’re real. And I’d rather spend forever sketching your exact outline than chase some empty illusion."
He presses a kiss to your cheek, then another to your collarbone.
"I love your chest. I love your frame. I love you."
If you admit you feel too flat, too boyish, he cups your cheeks.
"Baby, please. You don’t need to be soft in some specific way to be held like you’re everything. You already are everything. I’m madly, helplessly in love with exactly how you fit against me."
He nuzzles into your neck with a groan.
"You have no idea how many versions of beauty I’ve seen in this world. But none of them made my heart ache the way you do."
Then, with a playful grin and an unshakable sincerity in his voice:
"You, my heart, are my muse. And I’ll worship every inch of you...exactly as you are."
He may be quiet, but he knows you better than you know yourself. And when you start to pull away, Zayne pulls you right back, with words gentler than you expected.
He notices right away when something’s off.
The way you keep tugging at your shirt. How your arms cross tighter than usual.
He doesn't press, just waits until you let the words out, barely above a whisper.
"I've been thinking about getting implants."
Zayne doesn't flinch, but his brows draw together in immediate concern.
Not judgment.
Just that focused Zayne sort of worry that always makes you feel both seen and fragile.
"If this is something you want for yourself, I won’t stand in your way," he says softly.
"But if this is because you think you’re not enough for me... then you’re wrong."
His hands find yours, grounding you.
"You don’t need to change to fit some imaginary ideal. You’re already... beautifully you. There’s a strength in your body that you don’t even see."
That night, he wraps his arms around you like you might disappear. His fingers trace the outline of your spine, slow and reverent.
"You’re not lacking," he whispers into your hair.
"You are enough. More than enough."
Then, in the dark, he adds the one thing he rarely says aloud:
"You’re the one person I don’t want to let go of. And not because of how you look. But because you’re the only place I feel at peace."
He holds you tighter.
"You’re it for me. Exactly as you are. Don’t ever doubt that."
He’s calm, collected, until the moment you doubt yourself. Then the weight of his loyalty hits you like gravity, firm, quiet, and unshakeably yours.
He doesn’t raise his voice.
He never does.
But his eyes go still.
Like a ripple cut off mid-wave.
"You think I haven’t noticed every detail about you already?"
His hand lifts, fingers brushing the side of your chest with the kind of care you only get from someone who’s memorized your shape by heart.
"You’re not invisible. Not to me. You never were."
When you say the word implants, he frowns—not angry, just distant.
Protective in that way he gets when he feels you slipping.
Later, you’re curled under his old DAA jacket, chin tucked to his chest. He speaks into your hair.
"You're soft where it counts. In the way you love. The way you forgive. The way you fight. Don’t let anyone tell you your body has to match some checklist."
A kiss to your temple. A slow inhale like he's breathing you in.
"I want the you who asked me that question. Because she trusted me. And she deserves to know she's already everything."
He moves so your hand rests above his heart, where the beat is steady and slow.
"You’re what grounds me. You’re my constant."
Then he whispers, so low you almost miss it:
"And I wouldn’t trade the way you are, not for a thousand galaxies of anyone else."
He doesn’t need many words. Just the weight of a gaze that sees through you, and a silence that holds you steady when you feel most unsure.
You expected teasing, maybe polite confusion.
What you didn’t expect was the way Xavier stares at you in stunned silence, like you’d just told him the stars were dimming.
"…You think you need to change for me?"
His hands find your waist. Not pulling, just steadying. Anchoring.
"The first time I saw you," he murmurs,
"You looked like a light I wasn’t meant to touch. So delicate. So clear. I remember how hard my heart hit my ribs when you smiled."
You blink rapidly, not expecting that kind of honesty.
He leans his forehead against yours.
"You’re everything soft to me. Even when the world feels hard."
And when you murmur that you feel like a stick, like there’s nothing feminine about you, he doesn’t argue.
He just lifts you gently into his arms and says,
"Then let me hold you like you're the only shape that fits me."
A long pause follows, his hand pressing lightly to your back.
"I don't fall for shapes. I fall for warmth. I fall for light. And all of that... comes from you."
Then, quietly:
"Please don’t try to change the body I already dream of holding every night."
He kisses the top of your head like a promise.
"You’re perfect. Just as you are. Just as I love you."
Sorry, it isn't as long as my other works, but I needed to go straight to the point to combat your justifiable insecurity, and I feel like the boys would have done the same. So I hope this fic helps you feel better about yourself, my lovely.