âĄâžâž Learn to Share (ft. Ashveil and Boothill)
You thought it'd be funny to make a little joke about sleeping with both Boothill and his boss, but for some reason the cowboy decides that he'd actually quite like to see that. Now you're being put to the test, trapped between a cyborg cowboy with limitless stamina and a gluttonous detective with an insatiable appetite.
â„ïž content - ashveil x fem!reader x boothill. everyone is a bisexual switch in this fic LOL. no plot whatsoever, just a whoooole bunch of smut (MDNI). teasing. vaginal sex. vaginal fingering. oral (f/m receiving). come eating. cuckolding. mild dacryphilia. masturbation. mating press. prone bone. orgasm denial. double creampie. biting. choking. aftercare. written prior to 4.1 update. AO3 link.
a/n - y'all⊠don't look at me oh my god, this is so self-indulgent i'm a bit embarrassed to be sharing it pfftâ it's not at all related to ashfayehill (like my first post about it implied) and was purely written for x reader purposes. i fear their fic would have been way too complicated and long-winded LOL. anyway, i hope you enjoy !! i may be a pervert, but my heart is full of love and whimsy âȘ
â„ïž wc 9.8k
The golden sun dips below the city's skyline, stretching its amber rays gracefully between the harsh, rigid edges of the many commercial buildings that comprise Dovebrook district. The remaining arcs of light cling like honey to the pale walls of a dimly lit hotel room as you and Boothill embrace in comfortable â almost romantic â silence.
Boothill sat at the edge of the massive, king-sized bed that lay parallel with floor-to-ceiling windows and centered against the room's eastern wall. He held you close, arms wrapped securely around your waist and ribcage, as you straddled his sturdy, leather-clad thighs. You were hanging from his shoulders with your face hidden against his neck, breath soft and shallow. You seemed tense.
Though, truthfully, anybody in your position would have their stomach in knots. After all, you had agreed to a trial of sorts. One that involved the man you had met only a few weeks ago. And one that you never could have fathomed becoming your reality. All you did was confess to Boothill that his "boss" was quite the looker, joking that you wouldn't mind sharing a bed with two rangers if given the chance. You really didn't mean anything by it â it was only a joke! But Boothill had other ideas and put everything into motion. Mostly as a courtesy to the lonely, old wolf, but also because he was genuinely curious where things could go from here.
Now you were sat in his lap, steeling yourself for the appointment that was rapidly approaching as Boothill mistook your silence for apprehension. Placing soft kisses into the crook of your neck and along the exposed skin of your shoulder, the cowboy does his best to calm your nerves. Completely oblivious to the possibility that his actions would only serve to set you further on the edge.
"We can call it off if you like," Boothill reassures. "You know I won't force ya to do anything you don't want to. Just say the word, sugar, and I'll send him on his way."
Only a moment passes before you raise your head, leaning back to look Boothill in the eye as you shake your head in gentle disagreement.
"I'm okay, love. It's just⊠a little nerve-racking. I've never done anything like this before." Despite being the truth, your reply comes out sounding a little too uncertain to his ears. This sets a pout on your cowboy's face.
"Just promise me you'll holler if ya change yer mind?"
"I promise," you coo at him, sounding much more self-assured this time while giving him a sweet smile.
"Good," his warm breath fans your lips as he nuzzles his nose against yours, causing you to giggle.
Your response was one he was willing to accept, reminding himself that he could trust you to tell him the truth. Your comfort and safety are of utmost importance to him, and he refused to have it any other way. He pecks gingerly at the corner of your mouth before he pulls back to get a good look at you, practically purring at the sight that he'd already seen just moments prior. Heck, he even watched you get dressed and still behaved like he was just seeing it for the first time.
Perched on his lap and squirming under his searing gaze, you wore a thin, silken nightgown with a lacy trim. Creamy and off-white in color, it framed your figure perfectly, emphasizing the curves and slopes of your body in a way that engaged the imagination. Invigorated the appetite. He would never tire of basking in your beauty, draped in delicate fabrics.
He could only hope that tonight's new participant would also share this same appreciation.
Sudden knocking at the door breaks Boothill from his reverie and makes you jump slightly in his grasp. Your awaited guest has finally arrived.
You wait in silence, now alone on the bed as Boothill had left to draw the curtains and welcome the visitor at the door. The main room is deafeningly quiet as you listen closely to the greetings being exchanged between the two men; however, you couldn't quite make out their words. They were only moments away from entering your bed and you couldn't control the ceaseless flow of sinful images that were conjured in your mind. Your head was spinning, thighs instinctually pressing together, impatient and needy, the longer you were forced to wait.
After what felt like an entire amber era, Boothill reappears, sauntering back into view with his crosshair eyes locked onto you. Following close behind is none other than Ashveil. His approach is more timid than the cowboy's, clutching his brimmed hat to his chest as if it could calm the beating of his heart. When his silver eyes finally meet yours, his cheeks immediately bloom with a rosy, red hue â the esteemed ashen detective can't possibly be this adorable!
"Detective," you address him smoothly, having successfully subdued the urge to pounce him right then and there. Part of you wants to see him melt into a puddle of embarrassment, and the other wants to see if there's something else hidden beyond those innocent, blushing cheeks. Something greedy, ravenous, or starved of intimacy.
When he doesn't immediately respond, you begin to suspect that the former would be the most probable outcome.
"C'mon boss! No point in getting shy now," Boothill nudges at Ashveil's arm teasingly. "It'd be awfully rude to leave this beauty hangin'."
The detective sputters briefly before collecting himself, brows furrowed and face burning as he sucks in a grounding breath.
"M-my apologies," he shifts his bashful gaze from you to Boothill, and then back to you. "I suppose I'm just a bit out of practice. You really must forgive me."
"WellâŠwe can help you with that," Boothill smirks, flashing you a glance that tells you everything you need to know. He's given you an opening, and you're taking the bait.
The two of you close in on the detective, like wolves upon a defenseless lamb.
Boothill frees Ashveil's hands of his hat and cane, nimbly removes his outer coat, and sets them all neatly to the side. From the edge of the bed, you take Ashveil's hand and gently guide him to your side, making sure to not rush him on his bad leg. Once he's comfortably seated on the bed beside you, he allows himself to take a proper look at you. You follow his gaze as it travels lasciviously across the exposed skin of your body, at the suggestion of form beneath your loosely fitted garment.
For several seconds, he does nothing but take in the sight before him, and while that's all well and good, it isn't what you've set out to do. Emboldened by the way he's devouring you with his eyes, you take his gloved hand into yours.
"Don't worry, detective. This isn't a crime scene." Serving as his guide, you place his hand in the space just below your breasts. "You can touch me as much as you want."
A shaky breath escapes his lips as you encouragingly press his hand further up your body. It was honestly shocking how inexperienced and shy he was under your instruction. A man as beautiful as him was sure to have many admirers vying for his attention, so why are his movements so restrained and unsure?
Boothill takes his place behind you and interrupts your train of thought.
"Wouldja like a demonstration? I can show ya how she likes it," the cowboy drawls. His familiar cockiness riling you up and sending heat straight to your gut even without seeing the devilish smirk that's undoubtedly plastered to his face.
Ashveil's eyes leave your body for the first time to acknowledge Boothill's offer. "Please," is all he says. A brief nod and the withdrawal of his own hand to further indicate his answer.
Boothill chuckles at the gesture and suddenly he's leaned over your shoulder, hands reaching around you to grope your breasts. You sigh needily, but his touch is fleeting as they travel upward to grab hold of the lacy straps of your gown. With deft fingers, he drags the straps down your shoulders until they hang by your elbows, leaving the remaining fabric to just barely cling to the mound of your chest. He's deliberately moving at a snail's pace, making sure to breathe hot against your neck and ear, wanting to tease both you and his audience of one. And unfortunately for you, it's working exceptionally well.
Boothill delights in the way Ashveil looks at you. Attention unbroken, lips slightly parted, and an increasingly obvious tent in his slacks. You've definitely noticed it too. You swallow thickly at the thought of him getting aroused just from looking at you. Your folded legs begin to shift restlessly beneath you, barely able to withstand the tension that's building between the three of you â it's almost tangible, thick and viscous as it deprives your lungs of oxygen.
After deciding you've been patient enough, the cowboy follows through with his task and pulls your gown's neckline down to pool below your now exposed breasts. He fulfills your silent pleas for contact by cupping them in his hands while his lips latch onto the sensitive skin of your shoulder. You gasp at the initial chill of his metallic fingers, but they quickly inherit your warmth as he begins kneading your tender flesh. You were soft and pliant under his hard and unyielding touch.
You can't help it when your lungs begin to falter. Boothill knew exactly where your sweet spots were, and he didn't plan on playing fair. But what made everything feel so much more intense was the all-consuming gaze of Ashveil. He hadn't even done anything to you yet, but his presence alone was enough to heighten your senses. A whine escapes your lips, and it's clear that you want more.
Boothill's lips withdraw from your shoulder to press against the shell of your ear, his hands continuing their motions: massaging, pinching, pulling.
"What's the matter, darlin'?" The huskiness of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. "If ya want somethin', just say it. Otherwise, this old wolf might get stuck as an observer all night."
Understanding that Boothill is referring to him, Ashveil flushes an even deeper red. "Don't mock me," he warns, but it lacks any danger.
A rumble of laughter erupts from Boothill's chest and subsequently dampens the spot between your legs.
"I'm only pullin' yer tail. But you'd best do somethin' quick before I decide I want her all to myself." Upon delivering his advice, he licks sloppily into your ear, ripping an uncontainable moan from your throat as a means of spurring his senior into action.
And it does.
Ashveil, having finally mustered the courage, shifts his seated position until he can comfortably lean closer to you, hovering mere inches from your face.
"May I kiss you?" He asks for your permission, appearing determined and almost apologetic in his advances. The contrast between the behaviors of the two men bracketing you makes your mind fuzzy, and arouses you to no end. You can hardly form a coherent thought in your current state of impatience, so you opt to respond with your actions instead.
You quickly close the gap between your lips, crashing into him with unabated fervor. His lips are remarkably soft and plush against your own, and you can feel yourself become instantly addicted to the sensation. You're all too eager to deepen the kiss â dying to keep your mouth and tongue occupied while Boothill continues toying with your breasts â and Ashveil does his best to keep up with your pace. You part your lips to let him in, allowing him to lap at your open mouth as he slowly begins to realize his own growing appetite.
Your tongues mingle hastily, saliva now dripping past your lips, clinging to your chin, and the sound is downright filthy. Ashveil's hand had found its way to rest on your jaw at some point, but you've only just become aware of it because his grip has tightened. Holding you firmly in place, he nips and sucks at your lower lip, drawing out various moans and whines; some of which were his. The sound of his arousal sends blood rushing to your cheeks. It's hot and heady, and appears to have an affect on both you and Boothill.
The numerous lewd sounds have gotten to the cyborg behind you, and he becomes aware of his own waning patience. He'd simply been waiting for the cue that would allow him to take things to the next level, and when he hears Ashveil moan into your mouth, he knows it's time. He hurriedly drops his hands to where the hem of your garment sits and gathers the fabric between his fingers as he hikes it up to sit around your waist. Without preamble, his fingers dips below the waistband of your panties, desperately seeking out your dripping core.
A bolt of electricity shoots through your body when he finds it; smooth, silver fingers drag slowly between your folds, coating themselves in your slick. You gasp into Ashveil's mouth, jolting in his grasp as his junior strokes at your cunt.
The detective's eyes open to see your lashes fluttering in ecstasy. He pulls back from your parted lips to peer down between your legs, and what he finds there snaps the final thread of humility and self-restraint he'd been clinging to. He watches for a moment as Boothill's hand maneuvers steadily beneath the lacy material of your underwear; as your stomach flexes and trembles with pleasure; as your hands scramble for purchase among the sheets; as your mouth hangs open with pretty, airy whimpers spilling from your lips.
"Fuck," he utters under his breath. His eyes have darkened considerably, and his once shy demeanor is now slowly melting away.
But you don't hear nor see this. Your head is thrown back over Boothill's shoulder, eyes shut as you concentrate on the movement of his fingers. You're hungry for his attention, but he's still holding back. He does nothing but repeat the same slow and languid strokes with no intention of speeding up. He's really only aiming to cruelly string you along until you're begging for more.
Before you can even verbalize your annoyance, your eyes shoot open at the feeling of Boothill's hands leaving you only to then see your nightgown being recklessly torn from you body, followed quickly by your panties. The men seem to have reached a silent agreement when you weren't looking as they haul your body to the center of the bed, where you now lay with your back against Boothill's chest; bare and ready for Ashveil's taking.
"Since yer the guest of honor, I'll let you dig in first," Boothill says coolly. He hooks his hands under your knees and spreads you wide for his senior. Your face is burning up with embarrassment at being presented in such a compromising manner, but you don't resist it. You want this. Your cunt clenches around nothing at the sight of the fully dressed detective lowering himself in front of your naked body, an appreciative sigh leaving his chest.
"Aeons you're gorgeous," he breathes against your inner thigh. "And already so wet. Did you really want this that badly?" His hands steadying himself on the backs of your thighs â careful not to poke you with the seal-binding nail that protrudes beneath his right wrist â as he brings his face within a hair's breadth of you. You swear you're already dripping onto the sheets below when he inhales your scent deeply, his hot exhale against your most sensitive spot making you squirm in Boothill's vice-like grip.
You've been so distracted, observing him in painful expectancy, that you had completely forgotten about his question. He has to nip at your thigh with his sharp canines to bring you back to your senses, shooting you a dark and demanding look from between your legs. "Is this what you want, pretty girl?"
"Yes," you breathe, exasperated. You've got the most pitifully needy look on your face and it stirs something within Ashveil's chest. "Please, I can't wait any longer."
And with that, he eagerly obliges.
He dives in, flattening his tongue against the entirety of your cunt before licking a thick stripe up to your clit; a hungry groan vibrates against you. You cry out, finally getting closer to the feeling you've been chasing. Your hands immediately tangle in his dark hair, pulling him close enough to smother him, but he doesn't mind it. In fact, he revels in it. His mouth obediently suckling at your sensitive bundle of nerves and messily drooling all over your weeping folds. He moans when he laps at the juices that leak from your slit â the flavor heavenly on his taste buds. He whimpers when you tug at his hair after he's buried his tongue between your walls. He's diligent in his deduction of what gets you going, cataloguing each of your reactions in the back of his mind for safe keeping.
The way he's slurping at you is pornographic. Wet pops and guttural groans fill the cool, conditioned air of the room and you swears it's begun to spin. He's eating like a man starved; gulping down your essence like you're the last oasis in an endlessly sun-scorched desert.
Boothill is straining against your lower back at his point, his silicone prosthetic testing the stretch of the black leather that confines him. He wets his parched lips when he notices you're getting close, envying Ashveil's position. Your legs are shaking in his hands, hips bucking against Ashveil's rapacious mouth on instinct. He wants to be the one to drink you down, but he can learn to share if it means he gets to watch your face twist in pleasure.
"Go on, sweet girl. Cum for us. Give the boss a good taste of ya," his voice comes out gravelly, teetering on the edge of a growl.
This rapidly ushers you to the precipice of your release when, without warning, Ashveil presses a gloved digit into you, curling to repeatedly graze your g-spot with terrifying precision. And with that, you're sent instantly spiraling. A broken moan tears from your lungs as you convulse against the solid chest and hands of the cowboy as he licks and nips at your ear, studying the shift in your expression when the rolling tides of your first orgasm wash over you.
The man between your thighs continues his steady ministrations, but begins to reluctantly ease up the pace. Only when you start to whine from the encroaching overstimulation does he withdraw his now drenched finger. He places one last open-mouthed kiss to your twitching lower lips, trailing lighter pecks along your inner thigh before gently biting you. When you whine in response, he has to grapple with himself to overcome the animalistic urge to sink his teeth even further. Unwillingly, he lets your supple flesh escape his jaws as he pulls back from you.
Breathless, you go limp against Boothill. Your eyes shut as you're left reeling from your devastating high before you're gently shifted to lay on the plush comforter of the bed. You feel the bed dip with Boothill's departure from your side, but his destination remains unclear to you.
Your heart leaps into your throat when you hear the rustling of clothes being undone; the familiar jingle of a belt buckle coming loose. Curiosity gets the best of you as your eyelids flicker open, but what you don't expect to see is the two rangers now undressing each other. Boothill greedily tongues at Ashveil's mouth, chasing the lingering flavor of you on his lips and your jaw nearly drops through the floor at the filthy scene you're witnessing. It's so unbelievably hot that your body instantly perks up again; desire burning anew.
Their lips part, a string of their saliva mixed with your slick stretching between them as Boothill pulls Ashveil's compression shirt up and over his head, revealing one of the most alluring torsos you've ever seen â perhaps even rivaling Boothill's. His large, muscular chest tapers down to an obscenely slim waist that disappears beneath his high-waisted pants. But the thing that catches your eyes is the blackened skin of his right side. It consumes all of his right arm and shoulder, interrupted by winding streaks of silver along his forearm; it cascades down his chest and onto his stomach, vanishing into his waistband. You wonder just how far it goes. If it would feel any different against your skin.
You watch them with intense focus, heart hammering in your chest as they continue making out, hands fumbling with each other's buttons and zippers, desperate to shed the layers that separate them. Ashveil is the first to succeed in freeing Boothill; his proud, silicone cock finally springing from its restraints. You suck in a steadying breath, eyes glazing over at the sight of your lover's deliciously sleek curvature. Saliva pooling around your tongue with the eagerness to feel him filling your mouth.
Boothill tuts against Ashveil's lips when the latter tries to push his leather pants further down his steely legs, nudging his hands away while breaking their kiss for the last time. In one continuous movement, Boothill removes his own pants and tosses them across the room with no decorum, leaving his body completely bare. And instead of returning to stand in front of the detective, he drops to a kneel between his legs before turning to catch your eyes, knowing you had been watching their every move â ever the showman.
"C'mere sweetheart, I'd like yer help with somethin'," he calls sweetly to you.
You obediently crawl to where Ashveil stands with the backs of his legs against the bed, taking a seat just off to his right while holding Boothill's gaze the whole way. He gives you a sharp-toothed grin before taking your hand in his.
"Could ya take care of this fer me?" He brings your knuckles to his lips to kiss them lovingly. It's so gutwrenchingly sweet that your heart skips a beat; pure, unabashed adoration filling your senses regardless of what he just requested of you. But he doesn't even need to ask, you'd do anything for him.
You hum warmly in response, love blossoming in your chest as your hands find their way to the front of Ashveil's pants. Lifting your gaze from Boothill, you seek out Ashveil's to gauge his reactions to the favor you're about to fulfill. He's currently looking at your hands where they rest teasingly along his waistband, his swollen and glistening lips parted in anticipation. Spontaneously deciding you'd like to bully him just a little, you drop your hands to the spot where he's most pent up.
He stiffens, biting his bottom lip to silence a whimper as your hands work at his clothed boner. You snicker deviously beside him when his hips start to twitch, but not wanting to keep Boothill waiting too long, you return to the task at hand. Your fingers are nimble as you unbutton, unzip, and tug his pants and underwear down his thighs, graciously releasing him from his confines. You grin wickedly when his eyebrows furrow at the sudden chill of the room, his member already leaking with excitement.
"Have a seat, detective," you instruct seductively. He obeys without hesitation, the bed dipping from his weight as he sits next to you. Boothill takes it upon himself to free the rest of Ashveil's legs, the discarded pants joining the rest of the clothes that lay strewn about the room.
With his body now completely nude, you follow his altered, black skin down below his waistline. You note how it continues to descend on a jagged path past his right knee. Your inquisitiveness urges your hands forward to drag along his side and you're shocked to discover that it's smooth â unnaturally lacking imperfections. It's similar to how wounded flesh never fully returns to its natural state, but in a way that doesn't feel quite human. But you're not at all unsettled by this; it only piques your interest further. Your hands continue their survey as they drag along his chest, shoulder, back, and finally his arm where your fingers meet the bits of silver that wind around his forearm.
The contrast is stark. From smooth black to solid silvery planes that jut slightly from the surface of his skin. They remind you of the steel panels of Boothill's body, but they bend and curve with him as though they're one with his organic flesh.
You notice that he's begun to tremble beneath your touch and you're suddenly struck with a realization: this could very well be an injury and your inconsiderate touch might be causing him some degree of discomfort.
"Does it hurt?" You lift your eyes to his face again, but he doesn't meet your gaze nor answer your question. Instead, he seems entirely focused on something happening below him.
Guided by his line of sight, you see it.
Boothill has Ashveil's cock grasped in one hand as his tongue travels from the base to the tip. His glowing red eye is honing in on every minute change in Ashveil's countenance, but briefly shifting to lock onto you as you join the action. Your cheeks burn under his piercing gaze and the air is stolen straight from your lungs. Fuck. You've never experienced penis envy as severely as you do in this moment.
But you also wouldn't mind being in Boothill's place either. Ashveil looks absolutely delectable as your lover continues to lick stripes along the underside of his shaft, lathering him in spit.
For a moment, you live vicariously through both of them, pressing your chest into Ashveil while the heat swirls in your gut again. The needy, breathy whines from Ashveil; the slurping and dragging of Boothill's lips. They're both so intoxicating and you can't just sit back and watch for long.
With Ashveil resting most of his weight on his arms, he's leaned back just enough to allow you some wiggle room. You bend down, the side of your head resting against his lower stomach as you come face-to-face with Boothill, mouth full and eye lidded. The angle is awkward and a bit uncomfortable, but you don't want to be anywhere else.
Boothill frees his lips with a pop before he smirks at you. "Come to get a taste, princess?" He asks, but it isn't a question.
Leaning around the member that divides you, he plants a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your expectant lips. His tongue is salty when it slides against yours and you moan into his mouth. You're desperately licking further into his wet cavern when he slowly guides you back to where Ashveil stands, waiting and twitching at the thought of two tongues working at him while simultaneously working at each other. The two of you part just enough for his tip to slot itself between you again and the scene is utter debauchery.
You can feel Ashveil's abdomen tighten against your temple when you and Boothill begin licking in tandem, moans muffled against his cock as his intoxicating taste and smell overwhelm your senses. He is quickly unraveling above you, his chest heaving and breath staggering as he fights to contain himself for even a second longer. He doesn't want to finish yet.
But he can't help himself when your tongue bullies the sensitive spot just below the upper ridge of the head. One of his hands tangles roughly in your hair to hold you in place as he shudders, white ropes of his release erupt between your lips and fall messily against your cheek. You let him grind himself along your parted lips as he rides out his orgasm, your eyes hooded and glassy as they remain locked with Boothill's while he licks away whatever is left on the tip.
When Ashveil's hips have stilled and his hand leaves your hair, you slowly return to your seated position, licking your lips clean of his salty, sweet essence.
Boothill ogles you as some of the stickiness drips from your cheek and onto your lap, your hair mussed and cheeks rosy. You look absolutely divine and he's going to ravage you next. He doesn't even waste a second before he's on you. His mouth licks your thighs clean of Ashveil before he moves to do the same to your cheek. The substance gathers on his tongue before he presses it into your mouth, your lashes fluttering shut in response, accepting his advances in earnest and without protest. Arms come up to encompass his neck as you cling to him.
Within a few seconds, he's corralled you back to the center of the bed, never interrupting your kiss until he's resting between your legs. You can feel him pressed firmly against you â in the place where you need him the most â and before he even has the chance to do anything about it, you're whining like a bitch in heat.
"Boothill, please, inside⊠I need you inside me, now." You beg without even being told to and he chuckles at how good you behave for him.
"Patience, sweet girl. Let me get prepared first," he coos reassuringly. His fingers come up to rest against your bottom lip, waiting for admittance when he breathes a command. "Open up."
You obediently take his fingers into your mouth and begin lathering him with spit, licking between each silvery digit and coating him generously. When he deems them wet enough, your arms drop to your chest as he sits back on his heels and brings his hand down to pump at his erection. He does his best to transfer your saliva from his hand to his length, but decides that he'd best be thorough for the sake of your comfort â or at least that's what he convinces himself to believe, free of ulterior motives.
To get the extra lubrication, he lays the underside of his cock flat against your soaked pussy and grinds on you. The slippery squelch that rings through the air makes you whimper. He drags himself through your wetness once, then twice, and then again and again. Your hands have taken hold of his shoulders and your nails scrape at his metal. You're trying so hard to suppress the suspicion that he's purposely dragging this out longer than he needs to just to piss you off, but he incriminates himself when he smirks at you with that damned cocky glint in his eye.
Bastard, you think as you chew at your bottom lip, doing your best to endure his torment for a little while longer.
Boothill takes great pleasure in the way that your eyes narrow at him, how your eyebrows quiver as they struggle to decide whether to be satisfied or upset. He'd absolutely love to give you a chance to cuss him out, to wrestle pointlessly against his immovable body, but he can hardly endure another moment of his own teasing. He needs to feel you swallowing him whole.
Just as you're about to open your mouth to get bratty with him, he pulls his hips back, a hand to steady himself as he presses against your entrance in earnest. Not once does he break eye contact with you as he slips past the threshold with astonishing ease; a line pinched between his brows, his pupil starts to glow red again with every inch that gets buried within you. The overwhelming warmth of your walls is familiar and yet it still drives him wild each time he sinks to the hilt, breathing out sighs of satisfaction at how perfectly you squeeze him.
Your hands have begun running along the grooves of his perfect, steel body. The one you've come to know by heart from the seconds, minutes, hours you've spent admiring his immaculate form. A soft moan dies behind your lip as you continue to hold it firmly between your teeth.
"That won't do, sweetheart. Let us hear you," Ashveil chimes in.
He'd been observing you and Boothill being sweet on each other for some time now, only needing a moment to recover before deciding he's ready to get a closer look. Settling by your side, he nuzzles his nose against your ear sweetly before cruelly mirroring what he saw Boothill do to you earlier in the night. His tongue darts from his lips and swirls lewdly in your ear, and just like before, the sensation, combined with the feeling of Boothill's completely engulfed shaft, tears an unbridled moan from your lips.
"Good girl," he praises and has you moaning again with only the sultry husk of his voice in your ear.
After hearing you announce your pleasure, Boothill is propelled into action. His hips start a steady pace, pulling back until only the tip remains before leisurely sinking back into you until he's fully engulfed again; each drag of his cock along your walls has him moaning back to you, but he only allows you a moment to re-acclimate to the stretch before he's craving a deeper angle, wanting you to suck him in even further. He momentarily interrupts his own rhythm to draws yours knees up to your chest, resting your ankles against his shoulders as he kisses affectionately at the skin of your calves.
You mewl at his blatant display of affection while he's completely buried in your cunt, absolutely savoring his sweetness despite there being no shortage of it.
Once he's had his fill of body worship, Boothill leans down, arms planted firmly at your side, to capture your lips in a searing kiss. Your mouths fit together like puzzle pieces and your tongues converse like old friends. Your hands comb through his black and white hair before they take hold at the back of his neck, rubbing and scratching pleasantly at his skin as if to beckon him closer. Without needing to adjourn the kiss, Boothill begins to thrust into your heat again, moving with purpose and intent as he strives to give you everything he has to offer. The new pace that he sets isn't rough by any means, but it still has you crying into his mouth at the sheer pressure of him in your gut.
Always so observant, Ashveil had halted his singular attack on your ear to fully witness what was unfolding before him. He could see just about everything from where he lay at your side and he grew hard at the sight of Boothill folding you into a mating press; which gave him a clear view of your point of connection. His mouth watered when he saw Boothill disappear into you, your body so eager to envelop him over and over again. His pulse and temperature rise exponentially as yours and Boothill's combined moans and the wet sounds of separation ring through his ears. Being part of the lonely audience is driving the detective crazy with need, and if he doesn't find something to distract himself soon, he fears he might spontaneously combust. To remedy himself, he decides to resume his previous activity and attaches himself to your ear again.
Your ears have always been especially sensitive, so the abrupt attack from Ashveil has you babbling, moaning, and whining incoherently into Boothill's mouth. The complete and prolonged bombardment by these two men spells your imminent undoing as you fight to remain coherent in spite of their onslaught. The relentless plunge of Boothill's hips as he effortlessly hits the right spot, the overwhelming sound of Ashveil licking and sucking at your ear, it all becomes so oppressive that tears begin rapidly building at your lash line. They stream down your cheeks when you squeeze your eyes closed, thinking to yourself that maybe if you can't see anything, you would be able to reel yourself back to safety; to ground yourself and minimize the damage of the earth-shattering climax you're about to experience. But Boothill won't let you.
"Look at me, baby," his voice is so soft and pleading against your lips that you comply without question â or without much thought at all â, effectively sealing your fate when you see that he's looking at you with hearts in his eyes. His expression is so utterly lost in pleasure, in the feeling of you, that you're instantly done in at the first sight of him.
The tether snaps and you're sent hurtling across space and time with no lifeline in sight. You thrust your head back into the pillows beneath you as your mouth hangs open in a silent scream, body shaking and hands gripping at Boothill's roots as though they could anchor you to reality. He groans in response and your walls spasm violently around him, innately seeking to wring him of everything he's worth. Your second orgasm rips through your body, igniting every inch of your nervous system and setting your skin ablaze. Finally, your voice returns as broken, shaky cries escape you.
Boothill grits his teeth when he feels his own peak closing in on him, grunting and groaning in concentration to keep himself from expiring too quickly. Only when your moans begin to regulate does he let himself go. With a long, drawn out moan, his hips stutter against you. Pumping one last time with his full range of motion before he's spilling, hot and sticky, into your womb. He goes rigid, breathing heavily as your cunt swallows up all that it can from his leaking member.
Tears continue streaming from the corners of your eyes, past your temples and into your hairline, as Boothill kisses them away and rocks into you steadily to ride out both of your highs. It takes a while for your tense muscles to relax again, your body no longer trembling, but still occasionally jolting in response to his gentle movements. You can feel his excess dripping from your folds each time he moves against you, only to push what remained deeper into your core. Your cheeks burn at the thought.
When your breathing returns to normal, Boothill pulls out, the most obscene squelch announcing his departure. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, but are grateful for this moment of rest when he removes your legs from their inclined position at his shoulders. He slumps at your side, opposite of Ashveil, as he cuddles into you; kissing at your shoulder, jaw, and cheek before settling to nuzzle into your hair.
"I love you," he whispers. Your heart fluttering innocently as you turn to him and respond in kind.
"I love you too."
At some point during your climax, Ashveil had withdrawn from you to address his own arousal. He'd been pumping incessantly at himself to no avail. He needed something more to sate his appetite, but he's polite enough to give you time to recover and canoodle with your lover. Instead of outright stating his need and requesting your immediate attention, he opts to mouth and nibble at your shoulder, hoping you'll turn his way sooner rather than later.
Only about a minute had passed before you turn to look at him, suddenly feeling guilty for having left him unattended for so long. You're still a bit spacey, but you've never struggled with stamina or want before; even with a cyborg, built for power and endurance, as your partner. Perhaps you could be labeled a nymphomaniac, but you didn't care.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, detective," you coo as you fully turn your body to face him. "Can I help you with anything?"
Your voice is soft and breathy, body heavenly as you lay tantalizingly pressed into his chest. One hand rests at his collarbone while the other strokes lightly at his jawline. He clenches his teeth to calm the beast within him that wants to devour you.
"I want to feel you⊠please, use me however you like. I just need to feel you on me." He sounds a bit pathetic, but in a way that makes you want to ruin him. You want to make him beg and cry and whimper for more, so that's exactly what you'll do.
You sling your leg around his waist before hoisting yourself upright to straddle him, your hands planted on either side of his head and trapping him where he is. Remnants of Boothill drip onto his lower stomach and his hardened shaft nudges at your ass. You smirk at how he's already biting back a whine.
"You're so polite. I suppose I do owe you a reward for being so well-behaved," you ponder aloud as you lean down to press your chest against his. "But be warned, I don't play very nice from up here."
His eyes widen at your threat, but instantly shut when your lips collide. You bite and tug at his bottom lip before shoving your tongue into his mouth. He moans against you and his hands fly to your hips as he bucks into you on instinct, but this earns him a particularly harsh nip to his lip.
"Careful, wolfie," you warn. "You're not the one in charge hereâŠ"
He whimpers like an abandoned puppy, if he had wolf ears they would have flopped to the side of his head in defeat.
"If you keep up your good behavior, I'll let you take over when I'm done," you bargain with him and suddenly his make-believe wolf ears perk up again.
Your lips return to his, licking and prodding at him as you please. You let him squeeze at the flesh of your hips as you drown yourself in his plush kisses. The sounds he makes as he works to maintain focus are so infuriatingly sexy that you can no longer ignore the way you're pulsing with desire again. Only able to last for a few minutes against his whiny lips, you lift your hips and grasp his throbbing cock in your hand, parting from the kiss.
He nearly cries out at your tight hold on him, but successfully bites it back behind his canines. His gorgeous incisors pressing brutally against his lower lip. When you hold him directly to your entrance his eyes screw shut, his toned abdomen hardening beneath you as he readies himself for what's to come.
"Open your eyes," you demand. When his pretty lashes flutter open again, you immediately collapse onto him, burying him within your walls in a split second. Fortunately for you, being on top gives you more control and thus improves your resolve substantially. You can toy with him like this without worry of succumbing to the pleasure too quickly.
Ashveil moans loudly, unable to bite it back this time. His nails dig into your hips as he struggles to get used to the tight fit; the nails of his prosthetic fingers leave red half-moons in your skin when he slowly starts to loosen his hold. However, he can't quite catch his breath, and you aren't considerate enough to let him return to baseline before you repeatedly raise and drop your hips on him like a tamping rammer.
Boothill watches, amusedly, from the sidelines. He loves it when you get like this, though he pities the man under you as he's laboring tremendously just to breathe. He didn't realize the boss was so high-strung. Even if he hasn't taken anyone to bed in a while, surely he couldn't have gotten this pent up, right?
The cowboy simply wasn't aware of how wrong he was. The broken-legged wolf hasn't had the time nor energy to lay with someone â much less court someone â in the last several decades. When he isn't on a case, eating his delivery meals, or out drinking with his old buddies, the detective is busy hibernating in the cryotherapy refrigerator that sits in the corner of his cramped office. He hasn't felt the touch of a lover in Lan knows how long. One could only imagine how much the voracity within him aches to be fed.
Tears begin to well up in his eyes, threatening to slip past his lashes. The clap of your ass against his lap is wicked, and he wants so badly to match your rhythm from below. But he remains bound to your agreement, hanging onto the deal you struck like it's the only undeniable truth left in this world. He reminds himself that the payout will be well worth the hell of idleness that he must endure. His tears fall as his moans become ragged, chest heaving while he ogles your breasts while they bounce tauntingly in front of him.
"Tell me what you want," you demand.
Without so much as a thought, he whines breathlessly. "Please. I want to fuck you. Please. Please let me fuck you."
"Fuck. Be a good boy, and I will," you chew at your bottom lip to calm yourself as best as you can; you hadn't expected such a quick and easy answer. His unabashed response took you by surprise and honestly made it really difficult for you to remain stoic in your endeavors.
His needy sobs fill the air, punctuated by the moist slap of skin and your breathy sighs. He's obeying you so thoroughly and crying so prettily that your authority is beginning to falter. Since the silent acceptance of your pact, he hasn't acted on his instincts at all, save for his hands that claw at your skin. He wants this badly.
As you approach your third, you're beyond ready to pass him the torch. With a few final bounces, you clamp down on him and moan as you hit a shallow, but satisfying peak.
You crumple against his chest, face pressed into the crook of his neck and realization settles in his stomach. He swallows thickly at the thought. It was finally his turn to take control.
"Is⊠that all?" He inquires jokingly between puffs of staggered breaths.
"Can it, mutt," you cover his mouth with your hand, an utter lack of heat in your words.
He grins against your palm, collecting himself with a few steadying inhales before he laps wetly into your hand. You squeal at his offense, but before you can tear your hand away from him, his fingers firmly encircle your wrist. He holds you still as he starts to playfully nibble at the space between your pointer and thumb.
"Well, I hope you're ready. You've only made my hunger worse," he noses at your fingers. "And I'm playing by your rules, so don't expect me to be gentle."
The last bit comes out as a low growl, his teeth bared and grazing your palm. Your heart drops in your chest. A chuckle rumbles through him when he feels you clenching in response.
With a huff of air through his nostrils, he rolls over to trap you beneath him, still completely sheathed. Finding your second wrist, he raises both to pin them above your head in a single, vise-like grip. His eyes are dark as they scan your frame, a dangerous grin splayed on his lips as he comes into his dominance. He dips his head to lick a thick stripe along the center of your chest, pausing at the space where your clavicles meet.
"There's only so much bullying an old wolf can take," he sighs, mostly to himself, but loud enough for you to hear it.
You're about to open your mouth to apologize to him, but your words instantly die in your throat when he inhales deeply against your jugular, his eyes closed as he hones in on your scent. You suddenly feel like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. His nose drags along the exposed skin of your arms and chest, stopping at seemingly random points along their route to simply sniff, like a bloodhound on a trail. The uncertainty of his intentions makes your breaths shallow, your heart stuttering in your chest as you go completely still to let him continue searching without interruption.
Boothill is looking on in awe at this point. He knew his senior wasn't someone you should take lightly, but this side of him was completely new to him and honestly had the cowboy a bit on edge. He wasn't entirely sure of where this was going, so he makes it a point to keep his guard up in the event that he has to step in. His eyes constantly darting between your face and Ashveil's to get a proper read on the situation.
When Ashveil's nose halts at your breastbone, you hold your breath as you await his verdict.
A final breath heaves from his chest, as if letting himself off a leash, when his eyes meet yours. His once silvery orbs have disappeared and given way to something much darker. They're abyssal, but his pupils have a reddish-pink glow. They no longer look like they belong to the shy detective who couldn't even meet your gaze without blushing. The man above you felt like an entirely different person, but you're not given time to ponder any further when he bares his beastly fangs and engulfs one of your breasts without warning. You yelp out in shock â your heart nearly leaping out of your chest â at the sudden pressure as he holds you between his sharp teeth and swirls his thick tongue across your supple flesh. His hips begin moving again, establishing a brutal pace while his free hand clutches at your unattended breast.
You scream and strain against Ashveil's unshakeable hold, the sensations too abrupt and profound for you to really process what is happening. But you do know one thing with absolute certainty: you're really fucking excited. The apprehension had morphed into a morbid arousal when you realized that there was, in fact, something frightening lurking beneath Ashveil's mask. Something voracious.
Your cowboy is just about ready to pull the plug on your behalf when he hears your initial scream, but pauses halfway when it turns into strangled moans. He blinks at you, leaning in closer and thoroughly studying your countenance to better gauge your current state. He notes that your eyes are screwed shut, brows creased, and face impossibly flushed as your mouth hangs open in overwhelming satisfaction. A huff of relief leaves his lungs, understanding that you're doing perfectly fine despite how rough Ashveil is being. For the time being, he decides to settle closer to your side, silently keeping a close eye on you.
Ashveil, not noticing Boothill's proximity, releases your breast and moves on to leaving bite marks across the expanse of your chest. His pace hasn't wavered, his cravings far from being satisfied as he continues to ram into you. You're scrambling to catch your breath and your arms are still wrestling for freedom, but he doesn't care; entirely focused on marking your chest to his liking. The only thing that catches his attention in the end is your body signaling to him that you're on the brink of yet another climax. He raises his hungry gaze to watch your face as he gets you painfully close to the edge before cruelly withdrawing from you.
A labored sob escapes your lips and your eyes fly open to look at him as he leaves you high and dry. Your hips buck uselessly in search of him, only to earn a predatory chuckle from the perpetrator.
"Ashveil," you whine, voice going hoarse from all your screams and gasps. "S'no fair!"
"You started it, dear. Now turn around," he commands as he releases your wrists.
Hardly comprehending his request, you blink cluelessly at him; your mind still reeling from his prior mistreatment. Your inaction seems to agitate him as he impatiently tugs and pushes you into his desired position: flat on your stomach.
While reorienting yourself, you're met with Boothill's comforting visage as he lay propped up on an elbow beside you. Your teary eyes are captivated by his familiar beauty as he leans in to kiss you.
You sigh longingly when he breaks the kiss to speak. "Ya farin' alright?" He asks and to which you nod the affirmative.
However, your moment of respite is cut short when Ashveil bullies his way back into your cunt from behind. The weight of his body pressing into your back as he bottoms out with an animalistic groan. You gasp at the sheer fullness you feel â not just between your legs, but all the way up to your lungs and throat.
The starving beast on top of you picks up where he left off, his hips snapping ruthlessly against your rear as he fucks you deeper into the bed below. Your mind goes blank as he hammers into you, using your body as a means to an end. If you could form any coherent thoughts, you'd be going wild over the idea of being used by such a pretty man. Instead, you're fucked senseless and left with your eyes rolled back and jaw hanging open in a silent "oh".
When Ashveil's peak is finally within reach, he lets you know by biting down on your shoulder hard. It isn't quite enough to draw blood, but you'll definitely be bruised in the morning. You scream out in protest, but your inner muscles tighten violently around him; constricting him as he chases after his high. In one swift movement, his arm snakes up the front of your body to capture your throat in his claws. Your lashes flutter as he squeezes at your jugular, restricting the flow of blood to your brain.
His growls are fragmented against the aching flesh of your shoulder and his thrusts have become desperate and erratic. He's huffing exasperated breaths through his nostrils and into your hair when suddenly he stalls, hips jerking sporadically when he empties into your already filled womb. He mixes shamelessly with Boothill at your core.
Feeling the hot mess oozing from your cunt, onto your thighs and the sheets below, sends you over your own edge. Boothill, having watched over every second of this encounter, recognizes your approach and kisses at your gaping mouth, trailing across your lips and along your jaw. He soothingly talks you through it with repeated encouragements like: just like that, you're doing so well, you're perfect, and don't hold back.
Your final release is rapturous as you choke on your moans, mind fuzzy from the lack of blood flow and the severe dichotomy between the actions of the two men before you. The sheets below you are sure to be soaked through as you gush around the cock that remains buried to the base. Ashveil had finished, but he continued to grind against your ass to let you revel in your high for a while longer.
Loosening his hold on your neck and releasing your shoulder from his maw, having returned to a state of clarity, the sated wolf licks apologetically at the indents left by his teeth. He feels a bit guilty for letting himself go to such an extent, but your quivering body and soft mewls calm his anxieties. When your sounds subside and devolve into stable, heaving breaths, he removes himself from you and collapses at your side. A hand remaining at the small of your back to rub affectionate shapes into the damp skin.
Boothill continues peppering your face with kisses when you fall into the pillows below you. He brushes your hair behind your ear, looking at you adoringly before he leans in to nuzzle and kiss at your moist temple. "You alright, love?"
You don't open your eyes, still absolutely wrecked, but you hum pleasantly in response.
With one last kiss, Boothill shifts to leave the bed. In a few moments he's returned to your side with towels and a bottle of water. He breaks the seal on the bottle, but leaves it closed near your hand while he busies himself with wiping you down. You sigh contentedly at his gentle strokes across your forehead and cheeks.
Ashveil recovers himself and aids Boothill in cleaning you up. They work together to delicately maneuver your body, treating you like precious porcelain and making sure they don't miss a single inch of your skin. Occasionally they'd pause to press their lips against your figure in an act of reverence. By the time they've completed their self-imposed assignment, you've recuperated enough to take a couple of sips from the water bottle Boothill had left you.
The two excuse themselves briefly to take care of the residue left on their own bodies before they reunite with your sides; Boothill on your right and Ashveil to your left. Both of them nestle against your neck, breathing in your scent. Boothill pulls a fresh blanket over your bodies before his arm wraps around your ribcage, resting just below your breasts as his hand rubs soothing circles into your skin. Ashveil intentionally remains outside of the covers, but his arm rests at your hipbone, massaging you through the blanket to the best of his ability. Tranquil silence hangs over all of you like a gossamer canopy, filling the spaces in-between with intimate breaths.
Ashveil is the first to break the silence.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whimpers, his warm breath fanning your jugular. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I completely understand if you never want to seeâ"
You interrupt him before he can finish his rambling. "I'm okay, Ashveil. You don't have to apologize."
A small sound escapes him when you bring your hand up to pet at the side of his head. He sniffles lightly under your reassuring touch, so relieved that he's moved to tears.
You giggle when you realize he's crying for the second time tonight. "Y'know, for such a powerful man, you really are quite sensitive." This earns you a weak grumble as he buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck. "I think it's cute."
"He is pretty cute when he's being a crybaby," Boothill chimes in. "Though I must admit, ya really threw me for a loop when ya got on top."
The detective, knowing Boothill is addressing him, raises his head to look in the cowboy's direction. A look of genuine concern on his face. "Why didn't you stop me?"
"She was enjoying it," he answers plainly.
Your cheeks burn at how his statement leaves his lips with such nonchalance. You don't add anything to the conversation as you hide your face in your hands.
"Aw sweetheart, feelin' shy even after everything's been said and done?"
Ashveil is also left speechless, a flush on his cheeks as he processes what's been said.
"Oh c'mon, why're ya both bein' so bashful all of a sudden?" The cowboy continues to poke fun at you two.
But you can't handle anymore of his taunting and clap a hand against his lips to shut him up. "Leave us alone!"
He laughs warmly against your palm before kissing into your fingers.
"I'm just joking, baby."
The three of you continue to bicker and joke for some time before you start to doze off between them. Perfectly comfortable in their combined embrace. You didn't have to say it, but each of you knew that this wouldn't be the last time a meeting like this would take place.
Pairing: Ray x F!Vigilante!Reader
Tags: Maybe found family (??), undercover
Note:
I really like this game, and I love RayRay so much that I want to write something for him. One of the things I enjoy most about the game is how some of the things the in-game MC says really make me question whatâs going on in their mind and how they arrive at those conclusions. It gives the MC a sense of imperfection and realism that feels very human, something I donât see often in many games nowadays, especially for main characters rather than love interests.
Masterlist
<next chapter>
You were a vigilante. At least, thatâs what people called you, wasnât it? Because truthfully, you werenât even sure which category you fit into.
You lived at the edge of the law. You never really crossed paths with those heroes on the news, but you were not exactly allied with villains either.
You worked on your own, flying solo most of the time, taking on outsourced jobs. Whoever paid you handsomely or offered the better deal, you worked for them.
Yes, you werenât loyal, because you had no one to be loyal to. But you had a reputation to uphold, didnât you? This was business, after all. So if you accepted a commission, you would do everything in your power to complete it. If you couldnât, you would refund the commissioner.
But across your entire line of work, you had never failed a single job. So it was safe to say you were doing well for yourself. At the very least, you were comfortable enough to live for quite some time without taking on any new commissions.
Then one day, a particular request caught your interest.
It was a commission to find someone. An anonymous one, to be more precise, as you scrolled through the list of requests.
This person has lost contact with a close friend and is requesting your help to locate them.
Budget: negotiable.
They claimed they would accept any price, as long as you could find their missing friend.
You were skeptical at first. Most missing person cases you had taken, especially those with high payouts, ended badly. The person was often already dead, or if you did manage to find them, they were in such a terrible situation that there was nothing you could do to help or save them.
But the request was only to find the person, not rescue them. That still counted as a âsuccessâ in your line of work, which was exactly why you rarely accepted these kinds of cases.
They were not good for your mental state. And the amount of effort and resources you had to pour into them was rarely worth the money, if you were being honest.
But what made you pay attention to this particular commission was the fact that you knew the person who was missing.
It was your old mentor.
You had lost contact with him a long time ago, after the two of you went your separate ways. It did not end on bad terms or anything like that. You simply had very different ways of seeing the world, and your philosophies did not align. In the end, he let you walk your own path.
And stubborn as you were, you would have done that anyway. It was not like he could control your life.
Still, you never imagined he would go missing to the point that someone had to commission you to find him.
That was what truly caught your attention.
You knew your mentor had been involved in plenty of shady work, even back when you were still with him. But he had kept you in the dark most of the time. That was also one of the reasons you left him for good. He always treated you like a child, never trusting you enough to share his burdens.
So what exactly happened to him? What kind of trouble had he gotten himself into and who was most likely involved?
You did not know.
It had been years since you had last spoken to him or even seen him.
Still, you took the commission.
You started by digging through whatever information you still had about him from back then. Then you returned to the last place you had met, hoping to find some kind of clue. But nothing turned up, nothing useful, at least.
You even tracked down some of his old acquaintances but they gave you nothing. None of them knew where he was. Even worse, they did not even know he was missing.
The last trace you had of him led you to a city you eventually had to move to. You took up a job as a journalist at a small editorial office. It was not anything big, but it was the kind of job that made it easier for you to snoop around without raising suspicion in the area.
Unfortunately, your boss was terrible. He was always breathing down your neck, constantly demanding more news and higher numbers.
He was so demanding that it felt like your brain was about to jump out of your head. Even when you already had plenty of stories prepared for the paper, you still had to go out and gather news the ânormalâ way if you did not want to stir anything beneath the surface.
Because, unfortunately for you, this city seemed to be crawling with heroes. Either the place was such a mess that it constantly needed supervision, or the heroes were so active that no villain even dared to set foot here.
Either way, it was not a good sign for you.
You were not exactly a villain, but a lot of what you did was not exactly legal either. And the heroes here had a rigid mindset. They were not as flexible as the vigilantes you had encountered before.
So it was better for you to lay low and do your work the old fashioned way if you did not want them breathing down your neck just like your boss did.
Which was how you ended up in your current situation.
You had been trying to dig up some information about a celebrity in town, but you were accidentally discovered by security. That mistake quickly turned into you running through alleys and cutting across buildings while they chased after you.
Fucking hell. These bastards were relentless, chasing you like wild dogs.
As you turned into another alley, you saw that it was blocked by a grille gate. It looked rusty and covered in dust, slightly crooked as if it had been neglected for years. You did not think much of it. You jumped, grabbed onto it and hauled yourself over without slowing down.
You landed on the other side and kept running into the dark alley, taking turn after turn at each building corner in the hope of shaking them off. However, as your footsteps echoed louder in the narrow space, you could hear another set of footsteps behind you.
Were they actually dogs? How the hell were they still on your tail when you had already led them into a dead end earlier?
As you burst out onto a street, you realized you had reached the downtown area. The alleys here opened into a livelier part of the city, packed with bars and clubs.Â
There were a lot of people around, and that worked in your favor.
If the crowd was thick enough, you could blend in and disappear.
You quickened your pace and slipped into the street, where people were walking, talking, and laughing. Voices overlapped, laughter filled the air, and music pulsed faintly from nearby clubs. The noise and movement wrapped around you like a shield.
Once you were in the middle of it, you slowed down just enough to catch your breath, trying to look as normal as possible.
But even then, it did not take long before you noticed them.
From a distance, you could already see several tall, broad men forcing their way through the crowd. They were speaking into their surveillance headsets, scanning the area as they moved.
You almost groaned out loud at the sight.
So you kept moving, slipping through the crowd before turning into the back alley of a random club. You took corner after corner without thinking, just trying to put distance between you and the men chasing you. At this point, you had no idea where you were anymore. The streetlights grew dimmer with every turn you made, their glow fading until the darkness almost swallowed the alley whole.
A smoky scent filled your lungs as you instinctively looked up, only to meet the gaze of a blond man. You could not see his face clearly in the darkness, but his presence was solid. From the distance, you could still hear loud voices shouting.
Those bastards were getting closer.
You reacted immediately and you shoved the man back a step, quickly pulling off your coat and bag before tossing them into a nearby trash can. Then you grabbed him by the front of his loose sweatshirt. He seemed caught off guard by your sudden actions, not even managing to say a word.
âSorry, sir. Can you help me out for a bit?â
You did not wait for an answer. You pulled him closer by his shirt, pressing yourself back against the stone wall behind you. Your grip tightened, and he stumbled slightly with the force of your movement. His hands came up instinctively, bracing on either side of your head as his tall frame loomed over you, effectively shielding you from view.
The dim light flickering at the corner of the alley only made everything feel more tense. The voices were getting closer.
You tried to press yourself further into the wall, as if you could somehow melt into it and disappear.
Your heart was pounding hard in your chest, a mix of nerves and adrenaline. Your breathing was uneven and heavy, and your eyes darted around, searching for any sign of danger.
Then you felt the man in front of you lean down slightly.
His face moved closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. The faint smell of nicotine lingered in the air as he finally spoke.
âThey will hear you if you keep panicking like that.â
His voice was low and deep, the words barely above a whisper as they brushed past your ear.
Your gaze shifted from the alley to him, and finally meeting his eyes.
Even now, you could not make out much of his face. Most of his features were hidden in shadow as he looked down at you.
You were about to respond, but he moved first.
He stepped closer, closing what little distance remained between you. His chest nearly pressed against yours, and only then did you fully realize just how tall he was. Even leaning down this close, he still towered over you by nearly a foot.
âShh.â He did not say anything further as one of his arms pressed against the wall behind you, shielding you completely from the scene outside.
His body blocked whatever faint light had been reaching you earlier, and for a moment, it felt like the only thing you could hear was the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady and close to yours.
âWrap your hands around my neck.â
His words left you momentarily stunned.
âWhat?â you asked, your tone filled with confusion.
âTrust me.â
His voice was more reassuring than it had any right to be and before you could question it further, you heard footsteps approaching the corner.
You did as he said.
Your palms were damp with sweat as your hands reached up and wrapped around his neck. His hair was slightly long and you could feel the soft strands slipping between your fingers.
His face leaned in close, but you had no time to think about that. Your heart was racing, panic clawing at your chest as the fear of being caught settled heavily over you.
Then the men reached the corner.
From their perspective, all they saw was a couple pressed together in the back alley of a club, locked in an intimate moment.
They hesitated and clearly caught off guard by the scene, and you heard one of them curse under his breath.
The man in front of you, however, seemed completely at ease, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He moved so naturally and effortlessly playing the part.
He lifted his head slightly, as if annoyed at being interrupted, and turned just enough to glance back at them.
Meanwhile, your hands tightened slightly against him, your breathing faltering.
âWhat can I help you with?â he asked, his tone slow and casual, yet carrying a weight. There was authority in it, edged with a quiet warning.
Even you felt a slight shiver at the shift in his voice. It was nothing like the low whisper he had used with you earlier.
The men exchanged awkward looks before one of them spoke, explaining that they were chasing a girl and asking if he had seen anyone run through.
âNo, Iâm afraid I canât help with that,â he replied and a low chuckle slipping into his voice. âAs you can see, Iâm a bit occupied.â
His other hand moved then sliding down to your waist. His large palm hovered briefly before settling lightly against your hip. The touch was minimal, but it still made you tense, your body reacting before you could stop it.
To the men watching, it only reinforced the image. It looked like the person in his arms was reacting to being interrupted in the middle of something private.
The men cleared their throats awkwardly, muttering apologies for the disturbance. Within seconds, they turned and walked away, continuing their search for someone who was no longer there.
When they were finally gone, you let your hands slip away from the manâs neck. You were about to step back, to finally put some space between the two of you, when his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you in place.
âThey havenât gone far yet.â
You looked up at him, confusion flickering across your face. From where you stood, there was no way to tell how far those men had gone. You could not hear their footsteps anymore nor their voices.
Yet he sounded certain, as if he could still track them beyond what your senses could reach.
You hesitated,m but you did not pull away. Instead, you stayed where you were, forcing yourself to trust his judgment.
His head remained slightly turned toward the alleyâs entrance, his attention still fixed there as though he was quietly observing something you could not see. Only after a few more seconds passed did the tension in his posture ease. His fingers loosened around your wrist before he let go completely.
He stepped back and you immediately took the chance to put distance between you.
You turned toward the trash can and reached inside to retrieve your coat and bag. The moment you pulled them out, the smell hit you hard.
Great. Now they smelled like dead rat and sewer.
You muttered a quiet curse under your breath, giving them a small shake even though it did nothing to help. When you glanced back at him, he had not moved at all.
He was still standing where you had left him, half hidden in the shadows.
There was something strangely unreal about the way he stood there. The dim light barely touched him, leaving most of his figure swallowed by darkness. For a brief moment, it felt as if he did not quite belong to the scene, like something that might fade away the second the light shifted.
You looked away, focusing on your things instead.
âThank you for helping me back there,â you said, your voice still carrying a trace of adrenaline.
He did not respond right away. You slipped your bag back over your shoulder and adjusted your grip on your coat.
âYouâre bleeding.â
His voice came calmly and almost casually, yet it made you pause. You followed his gaze down to your hand and finally noticed the blood. It had spread across your palm, dark and sticky liquid, slowly trailing down your fingers.
Right. That grille gate.
You must have scraped yourself while climbing over it. The metal had looked old enough to fall apart, so it was not surprising.
Still, it was nothing serious. You had dealt with far worse than this.
âIâm fine. Itâs just a scratch,â you said, trying to brush it off as you shifted your weight, ready to leave.
But he stepped forward before you could take another step.
This time, he moved fully into the reach of the faint streetlight, and you finally saw him properly.
His hair fell to his neck in straight strands, a pale blond that almost seemed to catch what little light there was. Up close, it was clearer now that it was not as soft as it had first felt beneath your fingers earlier. It had a natural weight to it, the kind that shifted slightly when he moved, though it still held its shape neatly.
The shadows still lingered across parts of his face, but they no longer hid him completely. His features were sharp in a way that felt unusual, as if every line had been carved with intention. His eyes, though under the dimly lit, held a steady focus when they settled on you, giving you the strange sense that he was paying far more attention than he let on.
âYou asked me to help,â he said, his voice low and even, carrying a quiet confidence that did not feel forced. âI should see it through to the end, donât you think?â
There was a small smile resting at the corner of his lips, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you were not looking directly at him.
For a moment, you did not know what to say.
Then something else crossed your mind, and your expression shifted.
âWait⊠I think I got blood on your hair.â
You stepped closer without thinking, reaching up instinctively to check. But he moved just slightly, not in a way that felt abrupt, just enough to keep the back of his head out of your reach.
âItâs fine,â he said, the faint smile still there, as if it had never left. âYouâre worrying about the wrong thing.â
His gaze dropped briefly to your hand before returning to your face.
âYou should take care of that first,â he continued, his tone softer now but still steady. âIt doesnât look deep but leaving it like that isnât a great idea.â
He did not reach for you this time, but the way he stood there and waiting, made it clear he was not about to simply walk away and leave you to deal with it alone.
It sounded less like a question and more like a quiet decision he had already made for the both of you. You found yourself watching him, caught in the way his gaze met yours without hesitation.
Up close, his eyes looked darker than you first thought, deep enough that the light could not fully reach them, yet they still held a faint reflection. His lashes were long, casting soft shadows that blurred the line between light and dark across his expression. There was a gentleness to the curve of his smile, something subdued and almost distant, like a portrait left untouched for years, its colors softened but its presence still lingering.
In the low light, there was something about him that felt difficult to grasp. It's not unsettling but elusive. Strands of pale blond hair fell loosely around his face and brushing against his cheek. Even without much brightness in his eyes, you could still see yourself reflected there.
You did not even notice when you gave a small nod.
That was how you ended up sitting on a worn bench at a bus stop while he took care of your hand.
You had told him more than once that it was not necessary, that you could manage it yourself, but he did not seem the type to back down once he had decided something. There was a quiet insistence in the way he carried himself, enough that he had gone out of his way to stop by a nearby convenience store to pick up basic supplies.
Now you sat beside him, turned slightly in his direction, your injured hand resting in his grasp.
His hands were noticeably larger and his fingers steady as he worked. He cleaned the wound with care, making sure the disinfectant reached every part of the scrape before wrapping a clean bandage around your palm. Each movement was measured and carried out with an ease.
There was a softness in the way he handled you, something unfamiliar and disarming to you. At the same time, his pace remained efficient, he never lingering longer than necessary, as though he had done this countless times before.
âYouâre good at this,â you said, your voice quieter.
He did not look up, his attention still fixed on your hand as he adjusted the bandage.
âIt comes with what I do,â he replied, his tone easy and some what offhand.
A few strands of his hair slipped forward as he lowered his head, catching the dim streetlight and giving them a faint glow.
You tilted your head slightly, trying to place him. Someone in the medical field, maybe or something close to it. But there was something about him that did not quite fit that image.
Now that you could actually study him under the streetlight, more details came into focus.
His skin was fair, though not pale in a fragile way. There was a subtle warmth beneath it, a natural tone that softened the overall look and gave him a more grounded presence. It complemented his height and the broadness of his frame, making him seem both composed and solid in a way that was hard to ignore.
Scattered across his skin were small beauty marks, very noticeable when you looked closely. They added texture to his appearance, something real beneath the otherwise polished impression he gave.
As if sensing your attention, he lifted his head once he finished securing the bandage. His gaze met yours again, and this time the smile on his lips deepened slightly, no longer as distant as before.
You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of how long you had been looking.
His nose had a distinct structure, the bridge slightly raised with a subtle dorsal curve that gave his profile a sharper and more defined character. It was the kind of feature that naturally drew the eye and stayed in memory. His eyebrows were thick and well shaped, framing his eyes with a certain intensity, yet when he smiled, they softened just enough to ease the sharpness of his expression.
It was only now, seeing him this close, that it truly registered.
He was not just noticeable. He was striking in a way that did not rely on effort, the kind of presence that revealed itself more the longer you looked.
âIs there something on my face?â he asked, a quiet chuckle slipping into his voice.
The sound alone made you want to sink into the ground.
âNothing,â you said quickly, then paused before deciding not to take it back. âI just think youâre very handsome.â
The words came out more bluntly than you intended but it only earned a deeper laugh from him.
It was warm, the kind of sound that lingered. It reminded you of something comforting, like honey stirred into tea, leaving behind a softness that settled in your chest.
A smile suited him. It changed his whole face in a way that made it hard to look away. Even when he had been indifferent earlier, there had already been something appealing about him. Maybe it was simply because he fit your type a little too well.
It did not matter anyway. You said it because you believed you would never cross paths with him again.
He was just a stranger who happened to help you. Nothing more, nothing less.
His gaze shifted slightly and for a brief moment, you thought you imagined it, but his eyes seemed to darken just a little before he spoke again.
âCan I ask why you were being chased like that?â
His tone was gentle, touched with something that sounded like concern, yet there was a faint edge beneath it that you could not quite place. It was subtle but it lingered enough to make you notice.
You leaned back slightly, resting your arm behind you on the bench as you tilted your head with a faint and exaggerated sigh.
âIâm a journalist,â you said, offering him a small, somewhat troublesome smile.
âAnd you probably know how that goes.â
You did not bother explaining further. Most people understood the moment they heard it. Some even distanced themselves the second you introduced your job.
You could not entirely blame them. People did not like the idea of being observed, of being turned into a story without knowing how it might be used. Still, it would be nice if they showed a bit more respect for the work.
The man in front of you, however, did not seem bothered at all. Instead, his lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
âTough job,â he said, more like a quiet observation than a question.
âYou could say that.â You lifted your bandaged hand slightly in his direction and the two of you let out a small laugh. âBut itâs not always bad. I get to enjoy the thrill sometimes.â
Sometimes?
More like most of the time.
Still, you were not sure what kind of person he was or what he did, so you chose not to go into too much detail.
He listened closely, more than most people would, and there was a certain attentiveness in the way he watched you, as if he was picking up on more than just your words.
âFigured you wouldnât be out this late for nothing,â he said, his tone casual, though there was a hint of curiosity beneath it. âLooks like you managed to get yourself into trouble over something you picked up.â
You let out a quiet groan and buried your face in your hand. The faint sting of disinfectant still lingered beneath the bandage as you spoke.
âWell, if my boss didnât keep nagging me, I wouldnât even be out here.â
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Why were you telling all of this to a stranger?
The answer was simple. Because he was a stranger. He did not know anything about you and there was a very low chance you would ever see him again. That made it easier to talk, easier to let things out without worrying about consequences.
âThey wanted you to get something for a story?â he asked.
You nodded, a helpless sort of agreement.
âNew numbers, new series and even if I manage to get something, itâs never good enough. Too boring, not eye catching, not dramatic enough. I can already hear him going on about it.â
You almost mimicked your bossâs voice as you spoke, the irritation slipping naturally into your tone.
âAnd now Iâve run out of ideas on what to even chase next.â
You pressed your face into your palm again, letting out a tired sigh, heavier than you intended. It was only then that you noticed how quiet he had become.
âSorry⊠I think Iâve been talking too much,â you added, a bit awkwardly.
He only smiled.
âItâs fine. I understand,â he said, carrying a note of quiet amusement. âIâm not exactly a fan of my work either.â
That caught your attention.
You tilted your head slightly, curiosity taking over. âOh? What do you do?â
His smile lingered as he answered, almost as if he found your reaction amusing before it even happened.
âYou could say itâs⊠somewhat related to law enforcement.â
You nearly jolted in your seat, your eyes widening as you stared at him. He let out a soft laugh at your reaction.
âWhatâs with that look?â
Your mind immediately started running through possibilities, one after another, none of them quite fitting. You shook your head, trying to piece something together that made sense.
âYou just⊠donât really look like someone who works in that kind of field,â you said carefully, choosing your words so you would not come off as rude.
He only chuckled and unfazed by your words.
âYouâre not the first person to say that.â
So you were not the only one who thought that.
A cool breeze passed through the bus stop, carrying the chill of the night with it. It brushed through his hair, lifting a few strands away from his face. For a brief moment, it revealed a small piercing at his earlobe, a detail that somehow made him seem even less like the type to sit behind a desk arguing legal cases.
No, he definitely did not give off the impression of a lawyer.
If anything, it only made you more curious.
What exactly did he do?
Your thoughts took a sharp turn and your eyes widened slightly again.
Donât tell me heâs some kind of undercover cop.
The idea hit you so suddenly that you almost reacted out loud. Considering how often you had run into trouble with undercover agents, it was the last thing you wanted to deal with right now.
He let out another quiet laugh, clearly catching the shift in your expression.
âWhatever youâre thinking, itâs probably not that,â he said, his tone slow and teasing.
You straightened slightly, trying to compose yourself.
âIâm not jumping to conclusions,â you said, though it sounded more like you were defending yourself. âItâs just⊠hard to connect the dots.â
He simply smiled, as if he found that answer more entertaining than anything else.
âWell, you seem a bit stuck right now.â
His sudden shift in topic caught you off guard for a second. You blinked then let out a quiet sigh as you followed along.
âYeah⊠you know how it is. Without connections, itâs really hard to survive in this industry.â
You lied through your teeth.
It was not like you had no network. If anything, yours was more like a tangled web, built from years of moving through places most people would never step into. Still, that was not something he needed to know. This man was just a civilian. There was no reason to drag him into that side of your life.
âAll the nepo babies already have their positions secured, so people like me have to work twice as hard for goals weâre not even sure exist.â
You said it with a small, self aware smile.
Half of what you were saying sounded lame even to your own ears. It was the kind of complaint most people would tune out after a few sentences. Yet he listened and his attention steady, as if you were telling him something far more interesting than it actually was.
âOh? What do you usually write about?â he asked.
You tilted your head slightly before answering.
âCelebrities, public figures and⊠heroes.â
The last word left your tongue slower than the rest. It carried a weight you did not quite expect, settling somewhere in your chest and tightening your throat just a little.
âNot a big fan of heroes either, I take it.â
The way he said it made you look up.
His gaze had shifted again. It felt deeper somehow and more focused, like it was trying to read something beneath the surface rather than just your expression.
His tone was still calm and even gentle, but there was something else layered underneath. Something that felt cold, though it never fully showed itself.
âEither?â you repeated, catching onto his wording.
He smiled but it did not quite answer your question.
âWhat do you think about heroes?â
The question came so suddenly that it left you momentarily blank.
What did you think about heroes?
You had never really sat down and thought about it before. Most of your life had been spent dealing with more immediate concerns, things that demanded your attention right away.
Heroes were just⊠there.
Most of them had abilities that set them apart, something that made them different from ordinary people. Some would even call them âabnormalâ.
But then again, what counted as normal anymore?
If being different made someone abnormal, then did that not mean most people were, in their own way, abnormal too?
You fell quiet, actually considering the question instead of brushing it off. It lingered in your mind longer than you expected.
âIâve never really thought about it,â you admitted honestly.
That was the truth. Most of the time, you avoided heroes whenever you could. Crossing paths with them usually meant trouble. Maybe not the kind they reserved for dangerous criminals but enough to make your life difficult. After all, what you did was not exactly clean either.
âWhat about you?â you asked, tossing the question back to him.
He looked at you for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he was weighing his answer.
For once, he did not respond right away.
âI think most of them probably have PR writers.â
His answer caught you off guard and a laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
âYeah, not just most. Probably all of them,â you corrected, your smile widening just a little.
He returned it with ease.
âSounds like youâre speaking from experience.â
There was something in the way he said it that tugged at your attention, though you did not linger on it for long before he continued.
âSo⊠why donât you write more about them?â
âHeroes, you mean?â you asked, just to make sure.
He gave a small nod.
âWell, mostly because itâs a hassle,â you admitted, letting out a quiet breath as you leaned back against the bench. Your shoulders sank into it, the tension in your body finally loosening. âOne article about them can bring in a lot, sure, but itâs not easy to land an interview.â
Your gaze drifted upward, following the faint glow of the streetlight above.
âTheyâve got more important things to deal with than standing around answering questions from reporters,â you went on, your tone turning a little dry. âAnd honestly, the pay isnât even that great unless you manage to get something exclusive.â
He listened with steady focus, his attention never wavering as you spoke.
âWould you want one?â he asked.
You blinked and momentarily thrown off.
âAn exclusive interview,â he added, as if to make sure you understood.
You paused and actually considering it this time.
âWell⊠it would definitely make things easier for me,â you admitted, áșĄ selfbaware smile forming on your lip. âBut a small editorial office like mine doesnât really stand a chance. There are plenty of bigger, more reputable companies already lining up for that kind of opportunity.â
He fell quiet after that.
His gaze stayed on you, but there was a shift in it, subtle yet noticeable, as though his thoughts had wandered somewhere else entirely. The silence between you stretched, itâs not heavy but present enough to make you aware of it.
A light breeze passed through the bus stop, brushing against him and stirring his hair. The strands lifted and fell again, softer now under the streetlight. In that moment, the details of his appearance stood out more clearly.
The pale blond of his hair carried a muted sheen under the dim light, each strand catching just enough brightness to give it depth instead of washing it out. It framed his face in a way that felt unintentional yet fitting, some pieces falling close to his cheek before slipping back with the movement of the wind.Â
His eyes seemed more defined now. The shadows no longer hid them completely, allowing you to see the quiet focus in them, the way they remained fixed on you even when he said nothing. His expression had softened again, the faint curve of his lips returning as if it belonged there naturally.
You glanced down at your watch and realized how late it had gotten.
You had work tomorrow.
âI should get going,â you said, pushing yourself up as you gathered your things.
He shifted as well, rising from the bench at an unhurried pace.
âThank you⊠really,â you added, your voice quieter now, more sincere than before. âAnd sorry for dragging you into all of this.â
âIt wasnât any trouble,â he replied, a low chuckle following his words as he slipped his hands into his pockets. âNot every night I get to meet a cute journalist.â
Heat crept up your face at how casually and directly he said it. You could only offer a small smile in return, unsure of what else to do with that kind of comment.
Soon after, the two of you parted ways, heading in opposite directions.
As you walked back to your apartment, you pulled out your phone, absentmindedly checking the time again. It was only then that a thought struck you.
You did not know his name.
Not once had it come up and you had not even thought to ask.
Maybe it was better that way. Fair, in a sense. He did not know your name either.
Roommate!caleb and non mc reader teaching each otherâs their regional recipes after each caught the other cooking something and was interested in each other cooking.
Omg Nonnie!!! You are absolutely cooking with that idea!!!! (Heheh see what i did there đđ)
Also you asked perfectly in time because i just got home too and i miss my mom's cooking hehe
:
You are homesick, and work's been stressing you out lately. You just got off from a phonecall with your mom and it makes you even more homesick. So you resort to the next best thing - imitating her cooking. Sure the taste is a little different but it's your comfort food and brings you a semblance of home.
Roommate! Caleb who just got home from work too and is greeted by the scent of perfectly blended aromatics wafting in the air. He walks towards the kitchen and he sees you in the most comfiest pair of shorts and shirt he has seen you in. You are humming to yourself, mixing some soup in the pan.
"That smells great... " His voice almost makes you jump. He chuckles at your reaction before rounding the corner and stands beside you. You don't really notice how close he is, or that his arm is slung over your waist. You bring the laddle to your lips to taste. It's perfect. You blow the steam from the soup a few times before bringing it near his lips. He absentmindedly pulls you by the hips and slurps everything in the laddle. It's a new taste, sure but it's not bad, he genuinely like sour food too!
He tells you if he can eat it with you and the smile you let out almost makes him melt. You eagerly turn off the stove and proceed to gather both of your soup bowl. You tell him how you used to eat it -- with rice (preferably the ones left overnight) but you offer him a fresh batch. You tell him about elementary lunch breaks as a child, you tell him about found memories. You tell him about home.
He eagerly copies the way you eat it and his eyes light up, he understand why you like it and you both realize that you have the same food taste.
Roommate! Caleb who wakes you up the next weekend with scent of his cooking. You just wokeup but the clanking of pans and whatnot intrigues you. You hop down your bunk only to be greeted by the glorious scent of his cooking. You are hen greeted by an equally glorious view of his bare back -- that shit wakes you fully. It's almkst as if he senses your presence. He slightly turns (and smirks) to you before turning back to his cooking. You ask him what's he cooking and he tells you it's his favorite, one of his grandma's secret recipes. He tells you how she trusts him more than his little sister, kitchenwise. And this is his hometown's signature dish.
He reaches his arm over to your general direction and almost lifts you to make you scooch closer to him (his skin is warm) he takes a meat chunk with a fork and you almost audibly gasp by how tender it is. He blows on it, testing it on his lips first before bringing it to yours. Healmost laughs at how big you open your mouth. The taste is so good you get away from his grasp only to bring your own plate over. You gesture for him to put more. He gestures to the table -- two plates and two mugs of fresh coffee.
"Lazy weekend? " He invites.
"Lazy weekend. "
The box of handwritten recipes in both of your handwriting grows each week.
Synopsis : After two years of a secret affair with the Federation's High Marshal, Caleb, he betrays you by marrying your sister, the Empress, under the guise of securing peace. Heartbroken, you turn to Khaosi's sovereign Sylus to exact your revenge.
Pairing (brief): Caleb Ă Reader (non-MC), later Sylus Ă Reader (non-MC), featuring MC
Content: The Empire, the Federation and Khaosi are all enemies. MC is only mentioned (not the main character). The readerâs name is Luna, MCâs younger adopted sister. Evol exists in this universe.
TW: Alternate Universe (AU), angst, mention of sexual intercourse (no explicit smut until later parts)
a/n: This is my first time writing a fanfic, not just Love and Deepspace-related, but fanfiction in general. The story is inspired by Calebâs card Imperial Thronesong and Sylusâs card Primordial Chaos from the multi-banner Throne of Eros. If you havenât seen them yet, I recommend checking them out before reading this.
Word count: 1,096
Ongoing (part 2 of X)
Part 1
REVENGE OF THE HEART
Part 2
The journey to Khaosi is a treacherous one, thanks to the magnetic field interference surrounding the galaxy. Wave after wave of turbulence sends your spaceship lurching violently. Lights flicker erratically. Warnings blur across the console advising you to turn back.
You rely on a steady hand fueled by anger as you push through. Thank the Gods you spent so many years honing your piloting skills in an attempt to impress Caleb and win his favor. Not to mention the countless trips you made across the galaxy on Empire business.
You land your ship. The airlock kicks up red sand as you step out. Despite your spacesuit you can feel the scorching heat burning against your skin. The whole planet looks like a desolate wasteland desert.
The ground shakes beneath your feet. You look up to see planets colliding and exploding overhead, fragments crashing down through the sky. The thunderous noise makes your ears ring. Through your helmet visor, you scan the surrounding landscape. In the distance, you spot Khaosiâs inhabitants collecting erythrostones. The stones produce a heatwave mist that withers nearby vegetation and leaves the inhabitants covered in corrosive wounds. The planetâs surface is truly nothing more than chaos and destruction.
Since youâve arrived during an erythrostone shower, the capital is currently underground. A floating platform carries you into darkness, descending for what feels like an eternity before light finally appears.
Youâre greeted by dozens of soldiers, all very kindly pointing their guns at your head.
Not bothered in the slightest, you remove your helmet and with a firm raised voice declare, âI am Lady Luna of the Galactic Empire and I seek an audience with your sovereign.â
Nobody speaks.
âSomeone can either lead me to him,â you continue, âor Iâll find my own way.â
Youâd think you would at least have one bullet in your head as you casually walk past the herd of soldiers, but instead they remain frozen in place - as if someone or something were controlling their movements like puppets on strings.
You swing your leg over a nearby hoverbike and ride off toward the center of the city. The sovereignâs residence is impossible to miss, marked by a dragon-shaped erythrostone emblem glimmering at the highest point.
The elevator chimes as you reach the highest floor of the residence. Having encountered no soldiers you are not surprised to find a dark figure waiting, back turned as he gazes out through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
What you didnât expect was for your breath to hitch and your pupils to widen as the figure, known by name as Sylus, slowly turns to face you.
Back at the Empire, you had made it your sole priority to know everything there is to know about everyone and everything, believing knowledge to be the ultimate power. Khaosi was no exception. Yet no description of Khaosiâs sovereign could have done him justice. He stood nearly two meters tall, with broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist, chiseled features, and a sculpted physique. Silver strands of hair fell across his forehead, framing red ruby eyes that seemed to pierce directly into your soul. If one word could describe him most would say 'terrifying'. For you, it would be 'mesmerizing'.
For a brief moment, you notice one of his eyes glowing more intensely. At first you think youâre imagining it, until you realize he has an aether core embedded in his right eye. Fascinating. Aside from yourself you have never met another being with an aether core. An aether core is the most potent type of protocore, a source of unlimited energy, something one is never simply born with. Your own diamond-shaped aether core with a deep purple hue, rests visually at your sternum.
âTo what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, my lady?â Gods, even his voice is alluring.
âI am not here on behalf of the Empire, but merely as myself. I wish to form an alliance with Khaosi.â
âOh? And for what purpose?â Sylusâs tone carries a hint of curiosity.
âAs Iâm sure you are aware, the Empire and the Federation have joined forces, sealing their so-called unity and peace via marriage. I believe this to be nothing more than deception.â You pause, letting the weight of your words sink in. âThe Federation and the Empire have been at each otherâs throats for decades. The Federation consists of those dissatisfied with the Empireâs rules - in other words, traitors. Only a fool would believe decades of war could be soothed over by a marriage pact. The Federation plans to get close, catch us off guard, and overthrow us from within. I will not allow it.â
âAnd what is it you need Khaosi to do?â Sylus asks.
âWhat the Empress and all her predecessors failed to accomplish: bring the Federation to extinction. It should never have grown into such a powerful adversary. And what better strength to help me achieve that than Khaosi?â
Sylus lets out a rich laugh. âAs much as I would like to see the Federation kneel, that is no more than a fantasy now, especially with their union with the Empire. I may be ruthless, but I am not suicidal. Such a task is a one-way ticket to an early grave.â
You move to take a seat in an armchair, crossing your legs.
âAs far as I recall, Khaosi is the only nation with erythrostones, making all weapons indestructible. Combine that with my knowledge and Iâd say we have a fair chance of success.â You tap the armrest with your nails. âDeal with the Federation and its High Marshal as you see fit. I only ask that no harm comes to my sister.â
âNegotiations always come at a price,â Sylus smirks. âWhat exactly can you offer?â
âWith the Federation gone, the Empire will be open to a new partnership. You may fool others but I know the real reason you seek the Empire. Each day, Khaosi edges closer to destruction. The Empire is your refuge.â
âThe Empire is not yours to give,â Sylus replies bluntly.
âMy sister may wear the crown but she is merely a symbol. Her kindness is her downfall. She avoids conflict like the plague, choosing compromise over strength. I am the one who truly commands the Empire - a guiding hand acting from the shadows.â A smug smile curls across your lips.
Sylus steps closer, towering over you like a mountain. He takes your hand, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of your palm. You mentally curse yourself as your heart skips a beat.
synopsis : You hadnât just held a candle for him. Youâd built entire constellations.
content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus
now playing : Slow dancing in a burning room - John Mayer(Live in L.A.), In the stars - Benson Boone and Those Eyes - New West toward the ending
part | one | two
âWeâre coming to you live from the hometown of rising basketball star, Sylusââ
The TV buzzed faintly in the background, but you werenât listening. Not really.
âLittle Ziera~â you cooed, cradling the squishy eight-month-old in your lap. She giggled up at you, wide-eyed and drooling, her tiny hands reaching for your face like you were the funniest person alive.
You chuckled, gently pinching her fingers. âSheâs way too cute to be your kid.â
Shaiya scowled, tossing a cushion at your side. âAt least sheâs mine. Whereâs yours, huh?â
You rolled your eyes. âIâm perfectly content as a single, thanks.â You turned your attention back to the baby, who was now trying to eat your finger.
But thenâquietly, like she was just thinking aloudâShaiya said, âItâs because of him, isnât it?â
Your hands paused for just a beat. Then you smiled again, letting Ziera curl her fingers around yours.
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
Shaiya scoffed. Again. Loudly.
Honestly, you were beginning to think it was her love language. âSure. That good boy from collegeâXavier, right? You dumped him outta nowhere, said you wanted to âfocus on your career.ââ
She gave you a look. âY/N, Iâve known you since we were fifteen.â
You sighed, eyes flicking to her out the corner of your eye. She wasnât wrong. âItâs not because of Sylus,â you said.
But your voice cracked on the lie.
Another scoffâShaiya should bottle them by now.
âItâs been seven years, Y/N.â Her tone softened. âArenât you tired? Zayne and I⊠we worry about you.â
You clicked your tongue, a little sharper than you meant to. âNot everyone gets to meet the love of their life in high school, Shaiya.â
That came out harsher than intended.
But the truth was, you were tired. Tired of pretending the past didnât claw at your chest every time you let yourself breathe.
Seven years.
Thatâs how long itâd been since you walked away. Since you packed your bags, left the town, the memories, him.
You had everything nowâgraduated with a degree in art history, landed a solid career at a museum, built a life.
You shouldâve been proud. You were, most days.
But then the nights came.
Nights where you stayed late restoring paintings under soft lamplight, and somethingâalways somethingâwould trigger it.
A shade of gray, the exact tone of his hair when the gym lights hit it just right.
A cluster of rubies embedded in an old frameâthe same red as his eyes.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just color. Just coincidence.
Until the night you couldnât hold it anymoreâdrunk, curled up on Shaiyaâs couch, sobbing into her shirt while she held you like she used in high school.
You didnât even know why you were crying.
He was just a childhood friend.
Just a boy who made you laugh at the worst times.
Just someone who promised you the stars and gave you silence instead.
Just someone.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because when it came down to it, he had looked at youâeyes you swore once saw your soulâand called you just someone.
And no matter how far you ran, how many museums you worked in, or how many masterpieces you restoredâŠ
The little girl in you still ached.
Still waited.
Still wanted to be held and told she wasnât just someone.
She wanted to hear she was enough.
You sighed, pulled back into the present as you shifted Ziera into your arms. She settled easily against your chest, warm and safe, her tiny breaths brushing your collarbone.
âIâm sorry,â you murmured, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead. âItâs justââ
The words caught in your throat for a second. You hesitated. Thought about leaving it there.
But then, softly, âMaybe itâs because Iâve always held a candle for him, you know?â
You glanced at Shaiya.
She didnât say anythingâjust nodded. The kind of quiet nod only best friends give, when they donât need you to explain further.
âAnd it hurts,â you added, voice barely above a whisper, âbecause I really thought he felt the same.â
And for a moment, that truth just hung thereâbetween the two of you.
Quiet, and heavy, and real.
That night, after Shaiya and Ziera had gone home, you sat by the window with a cup of tea, lukewarm and untouched.
The television was still on.
Static humming from a sports channel running a rerun of the same segment. His name blinked across the bottom of the screen.
Sylus. Local hero. Rising star.
You didnât even have to look to know which footage theyâd chosenâhis college tryout game, the one where he scored at the buzzer, the crowd on their feet.
His smile had been blinding that day. And distant.
You reached up to close the window, but stopped.
The breeze carried something soft through the screenâa faint echo of summer air, gymnasium sweat, and old laughter.
It was almost cruel how memory worked.
How your body still knew the sound of his laugh even if your heart had tried to forget.
Your fingers curled tighter around the mug.
You werenât supposed to be here, still thinking about him.
You werenât supposed to flinch every time you heard his name in passingânot supposed to feel like this.
You told yourself youâd moved on. That what happened in high school was just a chapter.
But the truth was, heâd never really ended. Just... paused.
Like some song you couldnât stop humming in quiet moments.
Your phone buzzed beside you, dragging you back. A message from your museum supervisorâsomething about the new restoration project starting tomorrow.
You stared at it blankly for a moment before locking the screen again. You werenât ready to return to a world where red paint made your breath catch.
Outside, the street was quiet. Not even the moon felt like it wanted to watch you tonight.
You leaned your head against the cool glass.
Seven years. And still somehowâ
You missed him like it had only been yesterday.
âSo, what do you like to do?â
The question echoed like a crack in glassâsudden, sharp, uninvited.
You blinked, and suddenly you werenât sitting by the window anymore.
You were ten again, barefoot on sun-warmed pavement, fingers sticky with popsicle syrup.
He had looked down at you, taller even then, shadows of mischief in his eyes.
âUhm⊠drawing. I like to draw dragons.â Youâd said it softly, barely above a whisper, clutching your sketchbook to your chest like it was something sacred.
Heâd grinnedâwide, toothy. âCool. I think thatâs the first time you said more than five words to me.â
You remember blushing, shoving him lightly, and the way he laughed like it was the best thing in the world.
Back then, it was simple.
Back then, he made you feel like your shy little worldâquiet sketches and messy water coloursâmattered.
You blinked again, the present folding over the memory like a sheet pulled over a bed.
Your tea had gone cold. Your heart, colder still.
It was stupid, how one memory could unravel you. How one boy could still live in all the soft places you thought youâd outgrown.
You curled in tighter by the window, knees pulled to your chest, eyes fluttering shut.
You hadnât just held a candle for him.
Youâd built entire constellations.
The morning was gray.
Muted light filtered through your window as you pulled your coat tighter around you, bag slung loosely over your shoulder.
The streets were still quiet, the city not yet fully awake. Just the soft murmur of passing cars and the gentle hush of your boots against pavement.
You didnât mind the silence.
It gave you time to think.
To breathe.
To feel the ache you kept neatly folded beneath your clothes.
Halfway to the museum, your phone buzzed. You glanced downâMom.
You answered with a small smile already tugging at your lips.
âHi, Mama.â
âY/N, good morning, sweetpea,â came the warm voice on the other end, the one that always sounded like a hug, no matter how far you were.
You shifted your phone between shoulder and cheek. âHowâs Dad? Is he still trying to fix the garage door himself?â
Your mother huffed out a laugh. âHe refuses to admit defeat. Says retirement hasnât dulled him a bit.â
You smiled to yourself, rounding a quiet corner as you neared the main avenue. âTell him to be careful. Last time he nearly threw his back out.â
There was a pause. Then her voice softened, like she was already switching gears.
âOh, I almost forgot. I bumped into Mrs. Qin the other day at the grocerâs. She said Sylus just got featured in some sports articleâlocal paper did a full spread.â
Your smile faltered.
You didnât say anything.
Your mother, oblivious, continued, âHeâs doing so well, that boy. She says heâs still in town. Isnât that something?â
You gave a noncommittal hum. âYeah⊠something.â
âShe wanted to pass along her regards,â your mother added. âSaid she misses the days you two ran around like stray cats. Honestly, I donât think she knows how to cook dinner for less than five people.â
You laughedâquiet, breathy.
Your mother didnât know what happened between you.
No one really did.
And that was how you preferred it.
Because the moment youâd try to explainâreally explainâit would sound pathetic.
Like you hadnât grown past it. Like your heart hadnât aged with you.
And how could you tell your mother, of all people, that the boy she still calls sweet had once looked at you like you were nothing?
So you didnât.
You never did.
You let her memories live in peace. Preserved in the way all mothers choose to remember thingsâsofter, warmer, easier.
âAnyway,â she chirped after a moment, âyour father and I are settling just fine. Itâs nice being back. Quiet. Familiar.â
Your breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.
Back.
You knew they had moved in recent months. Something about the coast getting too loud, too expensive. A small town would be better now that your father had retired.
Back to where it all started.
Of course.
You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing against your collarbones. âIâm glad,â you said quietly. âYou deserve the quiet.â
âWe do,â she agreed, and you could hear her smile through the phone. âAlright, darling, Iâll let you go. Be safe at work, hmm? And eat something. You sound too thin.â
âI love you,â you said softly.
âLove you more.â
The call ended, and for a moment, you stood still beneath the streetlight.
Sylus.
Of course you knew what he was doing.
You always knew.
You didnât have to stalk his socials, didnât have to ask around.
Your mother was more than happy to fill in the gaps. She thought she was doing you a kindnessâkeeping you connected, reminding you of simpler times.
But all it ever did was open old wounds in quiet, invisible ways.
He was doing great.
Of course he was.
Living his dream, chasing the future, smiling for cameras and shaking hands with people who only knew the part of him he allowed them to see.
Not the boy who once cried on your shoulder when his father got sick.
Not the boy who made you laugh so hard your sides hurt on rainy days.
Not the boy who said you were just someone.
You inhaled slowly.
Then you turned and continued walking, the museum finally coming into view through the morning mist.
It stood like it always didâstill, ancient, beautiful in its faded elegance.
Your sanctuary.
Your second skin.
And even though your heart was still somewhere between yesterday and never again, your hands knew what to do.
They always did.
You slipped off your coat and tossed it over your bag, offering a tired smile as you greeted your coworkers.
A few nodded back, some mid-sip in their coffees, others too focused on their stations to look up. The usual.
Sliding into your spot, you pushed up your sleeves, snapped your gloves on, and leaned over the covered piece waiting on your desk.
âWhat are we working on today?â
Your colleague turned with a grin that said youâre not ready.
âThe Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. The original.â His voice held a hint of reverence.
You blinked, processing. âWaitâthe one? From the Brooklyn Museum?â
He nodded, practically bouncing. âMmhmm.â
You stepped closer, the curiosity already pulling you in. âHowâd it end up here?â
He shrugged like it didnât matter. âNo idea. Word is, the chief wants you on it specifically. Said he needed your touch.â
He nudged your shoulder, and you shook your head, amused.
When you peeled the cloth back, your breath caught a little.
There it wasâdelicate, dark, divine. The paper had aged, but the power in the strokes still pulsed like a heartbeat.
You leaned in, careful. âThis piece is so light-sensitive. I donât even want to know what they had to do to get it here safely.â
And yet, here it was.
Fragile. Faded. Still here.
Still waiting to be restored.
âUV lampânow.â You flicked a hand toward the supply cabinet. Your colleague tossed you a mock salute and halfâjogged off to fetch it.
When the violet glow finally washed over the paper, you held your breath, moving the beam as delicately as a fingertip tracing silk.
Hairline fractures spiderâwebbed beneath the surface and the varnish had yellowed into the color of old honey.
âItâs a miracle itâs still holding together,â you murmured, shoulders tense. âIâm afraid to even breathe on it, let alone touch.â
You set to work with that quiet, unwavering focus people always praisedâsteady hands, breath held soft.
Outside, daylight bled into twilight, then into ink.
One by one the overhead lamps clicked off as colleagues drifted home, until only your desk lamp burned, a lone circle of gold in the cavernous studio.
By the time the last door shut, you were alone with the Dragonâbrush poised, silence thick, night pressing its palms against the windows.
You sighed, stepping back from the table, eyes sweeping over the painting with a tired kind of pride.
It was still far from whole, but something about it already breathed easier.
A quick glance at your watch made your stomach drop. âShit,â you muttered. It was lateâtoo late.
You peeled off your gloves, fingers stiff, and tied your hair into a loose bun as you moved around the room, quietly packing up your tools, storing everything with the care you always gave your work.
On your way out, you ducked into the bathroom, intent on washing the day from your face before heading home.
Back in the dim studio, the painting remained where you left itâbattered and beautiful, raw in its incompletion.
Like it was asking the world to see it.
Look at me.
Even like this.
Especially like this.
You were halfway out the studio when you stopped cold in the hallway.
âMy phone.â
Of course. Youâd left it on the desk again.
With a sigh, you turned back, your steps echoing softly in the empty corridor.
The room was quiet when you re-entered, humming with the silence of things left unfinished.
You spotted your phone easily enough, tucked near your sketch pad.
But just as you reached for it, something tugged at you.
Your gaze shifted.
To the box.
To it.
Just one more look.
You told yourself it wouldnât matter.
But it did.
Because the moment your eyes found the painting again, the breath left your chest.
The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun.
And suddenly, you were thirteen againâflat on the pavement after tripping over your own feet, and him, Sylus, standing above you with that crooked grin.
âYouâre so clumsy,â heâd laughed, offering his hand. âBut damn if you donât fall like itâs poetry.â
It was bright that day too.
Sunlight catching in your hair.
His shadow falling over you.
And you, smiling like the world wasnât heavy yet.
Your fingers hovered above the paper now, inches from the Dragonâs wings. They curled like tension incarnate, massive and wild.
The red used in his form was so vivid it almost bledârage, desire, hunger. He loomed over the woman below, poised to consume.
And yet the womanâradiant, untouchedâwas bathed in golden light, her figure fragile but unyielding.
Like hope.
Like the kind of faith that doesnât flinch even in the face of ruin.
Your lips twitched slightly.
Funny.
It almost looked like the two of youâhow he was always the storm that never quite swallowed you, how you were always the light that refused to dim, even when it hurt.
You stepped closer, eyes drifting from the Dragonâs horns to the space where the woman stood, untouched but watched.
Desired, but distant.
Blake had painted divine conflictâmanâs hunger for purity, the beastâs need to possess what it could not reach.
And maybe thatâs what it was with Sylus, too.
He had looked at you like that once.
Like you were something too sacred to hold, too precious to keep.
And still, he let you go.
You pressed your hand lightly to your chest, heart aching in that slow, familiar way.
Maybe that was the tragedy.
You had always wanted to be chosen.
And he had always feared breaking what he loved.
ââą
"Hey, you made it, man. And I donât just mean the trophies or interviews.â
His friend grinned, throwing an arm over Sylusâ shoulder like no time had passed at all. Like they were still in high school, ditching practice to watch sunsets on cracked bleachers. âLook at you. Big shot.â
Sylus huffed a quiet laugh, head tilting just slightly. âSorry. Iâve been... busy.â
His friend gasped, hand flying to his chest in mock betrayal. âDamn. You sound like an adult. Since when do you apologise, Sylus? What happened to that brooding teen who quoted Nietzsche during suicide drills?â
Sylus smirked, eyes glinting with something dry and familiar. âHe still quotes Nietzsche.â
âThank god,â his friend exhaled dramatically. âThought for a second you grew out of your villain arc.â
âDonât get your hopes up.â
Sylus bumped him lightly with his shoulder, the kind of nudge that said I missed this without having to say it at all. The rooftop party carried on behind themâmusic floating into the night, glasses clinking, the occasional cheer breaking through.
But up here, tucked just slightly out of reach, time felt slower. Softer.
âYouâve changed, though,â Sylus said after a moment, watching him from the side. âLess of an annoying gnat.â
His friend snorted. âMarriage does that to a man. That, and budgeting spreadsheets.â
Sylus laughedâjust a breath of it, low and worn-in. He leaned against the railing, city lights flickering against his jaw, casting him half in gold, half in shadow.
Then came the silence.
The kind that wasnât awkward. Just familiar.
The kind that curled in the spaces where memories lived.
âYou ever think about those days?â his friend asked quietly. âBefore everything?â
Sylus didnât answer right away. His eyes were still on the skyline, but it was clear he wasnât really seeing it.
âSometimes. When itâs quiet enough,â he said eventually. âNot often. It hurts.â
His friend nodded, something softer settling over him. âYou always carried more than you let on.â
Another pause.
âYou ever think about her?â
Sylus stilledânot noticeably. Just a flicker. But his friend noticed. Of course he did.
âYeah,â he said, voice barely above the wind. âMore than I should.â
His friend didnât push. He just let the quiet stretch, like the space between heartbeats.
âDo you regret it?â he asked, gently.
Sylus was silent again. Long enough for the city below to change shape. Long enough to feel like the answer wasnât easyâbecause it wasnât.
âYes,â he breathed. âBut itâs the kind of regret you learn to carry. Like it belongs to you.â
His friend looked at him for a long second, then sighed.
âDamn. You really did grow up.â
Sylus smiled faintly, still watching something only he could see. âDonât tell anyone,â he murmured. âIâve got a reputation to uphold.â
His friend leaned against the railing beside him, shoulders just brushing, the wind curling around them like the edge of a memory.
âYou ever think about that day?â he asked, voice quiet. âBack of the school. When you pulled her aside.â
Sylus didnât look at him. He didnât need to ask which day.
Of course he remembered.
âIt was quiet,â he said, after a moment. âShe looked at me like she believedâjust this onceâI might choose her out loud.â
His fingers curled around the railing, knuckles whitening.
âAnd I almost did.â
His friend said nothing.
âI wanted to,â Sylus continued, voice low, fraying at the edges. âShe was standing there, waiting. Not saying anything, but⊠you could see it in her eyes. She just wanted me to say something. To give her a reason to stay.â
He paused. Let the ache stretch.
âAnd then Colin showed up. Laughing like he always did. Loud enough for the whole world to hear.â
He exhaled, bitter. âAnd suddenly I felt itâall their eyes on me. Watching. Judging. Waiting to see if I'd cave.â
A humorless laugh slipped through his teeth.
âSo I did what I thought would protect me.â
He stared up at the sky, like the stars might offer penance.
âI let her go. Stepped back. Said she was just someone.â
His friend winced but stayed silent.
âColin was always watching,â Sylus said, quieter now. âPicking at me. âYouâre too soft, man.â Like caring made me something less. And I let him in. Let his voice sound louder than hers.â
His jaw clenched.
âI was seventeen. Thought being loved was a weakness. Thought wanting her made me small.â
The rooftop pulsed faintly with music behind themâvoices, footsteps, laughterâbut it all felt far away. A different world.
âI watched her walk away,â Sylus said. âAgain and again. Every time I didnât say the truth⊠I lost her a little more.â
His friend glanced at him, gentler now. âAnd what was the truth?â
Sylus turned, just slightly. His eyes were far-off, distant with the weight of what-ifs.
âThat she was never just someone,â he said. âNot even close. She was⊠the only thing that ever felt real.â
His voice dropped to something hoarse, something wrecked.
âAnd I buried it. Smothered it. All so I could look untouchable to a boy who hasnât mattered in years.â
His friend studied him for a long moment, then asked, softly, âDo you regret it?â
Sylus didnât speak at first. The silence said enough.
Then, at lastâ
âEvery version of me that failed her still lives inside me.â
He breathed out slowly, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of it.
âAnd when I dream of herâŠâ
His voice broke, just faintly. âItâs always the same. Sheâs standing there, waiting. Same look on her face. And I still canât say it. Still canât move.â
His friend swallowed. âAnd if you could?â
Sylus looked out at the skyline, eyes softening like dusk.
âIâd tell her Iâm sorryâfor every moment I made her feel small. For every time I let silence answer when she needed something more.â
A pause.
âIâd tell her I loved her. That maybe I still do.â
Another breath.
âThat she was the only thing I was ever sure of. And I let her think she was forgettable.â
The wind shifted.
The city lights blinked on like stars waking up too late.
But you were gone now, weren't you?
Gone in the way people leave when theyâve waited too long.
Gone in the way things breakânot with a sound, but a silence too deep to fix.
And the boy who once stood behind the school, heart in his throat, was still here.
Only now, he finally knew what he shouldâve said.
His words faded into the wind, swallowed by the quiet hum of the city.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then, after a long pauseâ
âI did try to warn you,â his friend said, nudging Sylus with his shoulder. âTold you back then you were a dumbass. Pretty sure I said it with love.â
Sylus huffed out a breathâalmost a laugh. It caught in his throat.
âYou said a lot of things,â he muttered, shaking his head.
âYeah, well, I was a genius ahead of my time.â
Sylus gave him a look, dry and unimpressed.
His friend grinned. âCome on, you remember. I told you, straight upââOne day sheâs gonna walk, and youâre gonna hate yourself for letting her.â What did you say back? Something moody and dramatic, probably.â
Sylus stared out at the skyline, jaw tight, but the corners of his mouth pulled upwardâjust slightly.
âI think I told you to shut up,â he murmured.
âClassic.â His friend laughed. âAnd then you probably quoted some depressing philosopher about how love is a social construct and solitude is eternal.â
Sylus exhaled, almost smiling. âI was unbearable.â
âOh, completely,â his friend agreed. âBut she loved you anyway. That was the miracle.â
The words hit gently, but they landed all the same.
Sylus went quiet again, the ghost of that almost-smile fading.
âI didnât deserve it,â he said.
His friend shrugged. âMaybe not. But she gave it to you anyway.â
There was a pause.
âAnd thatâs the thing about love, man. Itâs not about earning it. Itâs about not running from it when itâs right in front of you.â
Sylus didnât respond.
He just leaned forward on the railing, eyes following the moving lights below, the wind tugging softly at his sleeves.
âYou think sheâs happy?â he asked, so quietly it almost got lost in the noise.
His friend didnât answer right away. He didnât pretend to know.
âI think,â he said, âshe found a way to live without you. Doesnât mean she stopped carrying it.â
Sylus nodded, once. Like he already knew.
âThen I hope,â he whispered, âsheâs carrying it gently.â
His friend looked at himâreally lookedâand for a moment, he saw not the man Sylus had become, but the boy who once stood behind the school, paralysed by fear, and too proud to say stay.
So he softened his voice.
âYouâre not that kid anymore, you know.â
Sylus let out a slow breath.
âNo,â he murmured. âBut the damage he did still follows me.â
His friend clapped a hand on his shoulder. âThen stop walking in circles. Say what you needed to say. Even if she never hears it.â
Sylus closed his eyes.
And for the first time in years, he let the words rise to the surfaceânot for you, not for forgivenessâ
But for himself.
âI loved her,â he whispered. âNot the way people write about in books. Not in fireworks or storms. Just⊠the kind that stays. The kind that never leaves.â
His friend didnât speak again.
And they stood there together, in the silence that followedâ
Two boys who had grown into men.
One of them still learning how to hold a love that had already slipped through his fingers.
The bus rumbled to a halt outside the stone-fronted building, its tall archways casting long shadows across the pavement. Sylus stepped off last, his duffle slung over one shoulder, hoodie up, the curve of his jaw set in quiet disinterest.
He barely looked up as his teammates filed out in front of him, laughing, stretching, nudging each other like boys who had never had to carry silence the way he did.
He didnât want to be here.
Team trip, they said. Something educational. A museum visit arranged by one of the girlfriendâs contactsâsome kind of PR move, a filler day in the middle of the travel schedule.
He had tuned most of it out, earbuds in and hood drawn. The only reason heâd come was because the coach had raised an eyebrow and said, âItâll look good on your record.â
So he came.
And then he stepped inside.
The museum was quiet in the way sacred places always are. Light pooled in through high skylights, catching in the stillness of glass displays and the matte sheen of aged canvases.
Footsteps echoed softly across the floor. Voices were hushed.
He thought itâd be boring. Forgettable.
Instead, something in the air caught him off guard.
It wasnât anything big. Just a shiftâlike walking into a dream already in motion. Like heâd been here before, in some other life, though he knew he hadnât.
He stayed at the back of the group, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
The tour guide was saying something about Renaissance anatomy studies, but Sylus wasnât listening. His eyes moved slowly across the walls, the halls, the corners.
And thenâ
He saw you.
By accident. Through a pane of glass.
He hadnât even realised where he was standing until his gaze drifted beyond the sculpture in front of him, to the adjacent exhibit room across the way. The angle was odd, warped slightly by reflection.
Butâ
It was you.
Or someone who looked so much like you that his heart stopped, just for a second.
You were focused on somethingâframing a sketch beneath a mount, your gloves brushing delicately along the edge of paper. Your hair was tied back, slightly messy, like it always was when you worked.
You werenât speaking. Just moving with that quiet kind of precision youâd always had.
The same posture. The same shape of your hands.
His chest pulled tight.
He blinked once. Hard.
But you were still there.
He hadnât imagined it.
It was you.
You didnât see him. Of course you didnât.
You were half-turned, too busy with whatever task had your attention, the same way youâd always beenâlosing hours in careful work while the world spun unnoticed around you.
He hadnât seen your face in seven years. Not in real life. Just fragments. Photos he couldnât stop from surfacing online. Sketches. Dreams.
He stood frozen, barely breathing.
He wasnât ready for this.
Wasnât ready for how much it would undo himâjust the sight of you.
You looked... the same. Not in the literal sense, maybe. But in the way that mattered. Like memory hadnât gotten it wrong. Like time hadnât eroded who you were.
His teammates had moved on without him, rounding the corner toward the next room, oblivious.
He remained rooted, eyes fixed on the sliver of you he could still see.
Something ached deep in his chestâsharp and quiet and familiar.
He had no idea you worked here. No one had told him. No one had mentioned the city, the museum, the chance.
It wasnât planned. It wasnât fate in some grand, poetic sense.
It was accident.
Cruel. Perfect. Unbearable.
Eventually, you stepped out of view. Just like that. Gone again.
And Sylus was left standing there, feeling like seventeen all over againâlike heâd let something slip through his hands before he even had the courage to hold it.
He didnât follow.
Not then.
He walked the rest of the tour like a ghost. Nodded when his name was called. Laughed, once or twice, when someone elbowed him in the ribs.
But his thoughts were somewhere else. Still trapped behind that glass, in the brief glimpse of someone he thought he'd never see again.
When they reached the front entrance, the team began to pile toward the waiting bus. Some were still talking about the exhibit. One had picked up a souvenir book. Someone else joked about stealing one of the miniature busts.
Sylus was the last to approach the doors.
He hesitated.
One foot on the step. One hand on the bar.
This was the part where he walked away again. Quietly. Predictably. Like he always had.
But his hand dropped.
And without another word, he turned around and ran.
Back through the glass doors. Back through the marble halls.
He didnât know where youâd gone. Or if youâd even still be there.
But this timeâhe couldnât walk away.
Not again.
Never again.
He pushed through the glass doors, barely registering the startled glance from the staff at the front desk.
The museum had begun to empty out, the soft lull between exhibits settling over the air like dust. The quiet made every footstep echo too loud. Every breath sounded like it didnât belong.
He didnât know where youâd gone.
Only that heâd seen you. That you were real.
That maybeâmaybeâthis was his one chance to say something before silence caught up again.
Sylus ran.
Through the corridor lined with oil portraits, past the faded sculpture garden, around corners he didnât recognise, past velvet ropes and signs that blurred as he passed them.
He didnât care where he was going.
Only that you were here.
Somewhere.
His hood had fallen off. His breath hitched in his chest, fast and ragged. The air was cool but it burned in his lungs.
You couldnât have gone far.
He skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a display of 17th-century ceramics. A few heads turned. He didnât look back.
She was here. I saw her. It was her.
His thoughts were fragmented. Uneven.
Memories bled into the walls as he ranâyour laughter echoing behind him like the sound of shoes on tile, your voice layered over faint museum ambience.
He half-expected to see you every time he turned a corner. Half-feared youâd already left.
What would he even say?
Iâm sorry?
I never stopped thinking about you?
You were never just someone?
None of it felt like enough. But he ran anyway.
He turned another cornerâtoo fast this timeâand his shoulder clipped the edge of a glass panel. He winced, stumbled, righted himself.
Still nothing. Just walls. Art. Names that didnât matter.
Untilâ
There.
Down a narrow hall, where the light fell in soft gold, you were standing in front of a newly installed piece, clipboard in hand. You were scribbling something. Focused. Calm. Unknowing.
And suddenly, he couldnât move.
His steps slowed. Each one heavier than the last.
You hadnât seen him yet.
But he saw youâfully this time. No glass. No tricks of light. No doubt.
Just you.
You were older now.
But there was still something achingly familiar in the way you tilted your head when you studied art. In the crease between your brows. In the gentleness of your hands.
His chest rose and fell, breath uneven.
He stood a few feet behind you, like he had all those years agoâtoo afraid to cross the distance. Too afraid to speak.
But this timeâŠ
He stepped forward.
The sound of his shoes made you stiffen slightly, sensing someone behind you.
You turned.
Your eyes met his.
And for the first time in seven years, Sylus looked at you without hiding.
He didnât say a word.
Just stood there, chest heaving, heart loud in his ears, as everything he shouldâve said a lifetime ago swelled in the silence between you.
synopsis : You were kids onceâmud-streaked promises, pinky swears, laughter echoing through summer nights. He said heâd never change. He lied.
content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus
part one
He hadnât meant to walk through the door.
He told himself he wouldnât. Told his mom he had things to doâanything to get out of sitting at that table again. In that house. With you.
But somehow, his feet still led him there. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was something he didnât have the language for.
And when you opened the doorâ
He forgot how to breathe.
You looked different. Not in the way people mean when they say that.
You looked distant.
Like the girl who used to knock on his window was a lifetime behind you.
Like he was just someone you had to be polite to.
And he supposed he was.
He slipped inside quietly. Sat at the table like he still belonged there.
But he didnât.
Everything looked the sameâyour momâs dishes, the chipped ceramic bowl in the center, the floral napkins folded at every plateâbut it all felt off. Tilted. Like stepping into a memory that no longer fit right.
When your mom brought him a plate and smiled like nothing had changed, he nodded.
âI couldnât miss out on the fun. Sorry,âthe words felt foreign in his mouth.
âYouâre always welcome here,â she said. âYou practically grew up with Y/N.â
And thatâs when it started.
The tightening in his chest.
He glanced at you. Just for a moment.
You flinched.
It was subtleâbarely noticeable to anyone elseâbut he saw it. The small twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes dropped to your soup like it suddenly demanded your full attention.
It was like watching a bridge collapse that he had spent years pretending was still standing.
He said nothing.
What could he say?
That he missed you? That he was sorry? That every time he saw your name on his phone, he wanted to respond, but the guilt sat so heavy in his stomach that he couldnât even move?
He didnât know how to explain the fear. The way heâd watched himself become the person he swore heâd never beâand then chose to stay silent because it was easier than admitting heâd already lost you.
The table erupted into laughter. Stories from childhood. The time heâd fallen from the treehouse. The brownies you once insisted had magical powers. The mud monster incident in the front yard.
You didnât laugh.
You smiled, a tight little thing that didnât quite reach your eyes. And then you went quiet again.
He stared at his plate.
He wanted to leave.
But he couldnât.
Not when you were sitting across from him.
Not when every second was another echo of the past he didnât know how to let go of.
Then your father said it.
Weâre moving.
And the world tipped on its axis.
Your motherâs hand smoothed over your hair, pride in her voice as she said youâd gotten a full scholarship.
That you were leaving.
That this placeâthis table, this townâwould soon be behind you.
His mother turned to him, smiling. âBoy, wonât you congratulate her?â
His head lifted.
And your eyes met his.
He saw it all in a heartbeat.
The hurt. The history. The question.
Do you still care?
He wanted to tell you that he never stopped caring.
That he didnât know how to say it anymore without sounding like a lie.
That everything heâd pushed down, buried under pride and fear and time, was clawing its way to the surface now that you were slipping through his fingers.
Instead, he swallowed it down.
ââGrats,â he said.
Barely above a whisper. As if the word itself tasted like ash.
He didnât dare look at you again.
Because he knewâdeep in the pit of his chestâthat if he did, he might fall apart.
ââą
âWelcome to your first class of Art HistoryâŠâ
Your new lecturerâs voice droned somewhere in the background, muffled and distant, like it was coming from underwater.
You barely registered the words as you sat in your seat near the window, head tilted slightly, gaze fixed on the unfamiliar skyline outside.
New city.
New campus.
New beginning.
And yet, you felt hollow.
The kind of hollow that textbooks couldnât fill. The kind that sat quietly in your chest, not loud enough to break youâbut present enough to remind you of what once was.
Class ended in a blurânames you wouldnât remember, voices that didnât belong to anyone yet.
You gathered your books and slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping through the crowded hallway without a word.
Your new home wasnât far. Your parents had moved againâcloser this time, just ten minutes from the college. They said it would make the transition easier.
You werenât sure if anything could make it easier.
The sun was beginning to set as you stepped outside, casting the sky in shades of orange and soft gold.
You walked slowly, letting the light press against your skin, letting it warm the spaces inside you that still ached when they remembered.
It had been a year.
A year since you stood on that sidewalk. Since Sylus looked at you like he might say somethingâbut didnât.
Since you told him you were moving on.
You tilted your face toward the sky, breathing in the evening air.
The light touched the rooftops like it was trying to hold onto something.
It was a day like this when you last saw him.
You wondered, fleetingly, where he was. What he looked like now. If he still wore that stupid smirk when he didnât know what to say.
If he still wasted his time chasing things that didnât matter.
If he remembered you.
If you were still just someone.
Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration in your pocket. You reached for your phone, swiping right without glancing at the screen.
âHello?â
âY/N!â
You flinched slightly, pulling the phone a few inches from your ear at the sudden volume. You smiled despite yourself.
âJeez. Watch it, my ears,â you murmured, soft amusement lacing your tone.
âSorry!â your old friend laughed on the other end, her voice familiar, grounding.
Then another voice came through, gentler.
âHey. Howâs your first day?â
Zayne.
You felt your expression soften, your gaze dropping to the pavement as a shy smile pulled at your lips.
âYeah, it was great,â you said dryly. âNew faces and strangers. Always fun.â
They both chuckled, and you could almost see them, hear them as if they were beside you againâback in that hallway, leaning against lockers, teasing each other before the world changed.
And just like that, the ache in your chest didnât feel quite as heavy.
Not gone.
But not unbearable, either.
You kicked at the pebbles scattered beneath your shoes, the crunch of gravel beneath your steps grounding you as your thoughts driftedâuninvitedâback to that night.
The night where the ache finally spilled over.
The night where your heart stopped pretending it was fine.
You hadnât meant to cry. Not in front of him. Not like that.
But Zayne had caught you anyway, steady and quiet as your knees buckled beneath the weight youâd carried alone for too long.
You remembered the way he didnât flinch when your tears soaked into his shirt.
The way he said nothing as you gripped the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.
The movie you were supposed to see faded into irrelevance. You never even made it to the ticket booth.
Instead, he led you to a nearby park, settled you gently onto a weathered bench under a flickering streetlamp, and disappeared for a momentâonly to return with a popsicle.
Your favorite flavor.
You didnât even know he remembered.
He didnât ask.
Didnât push.
He just sat there, beside you, his presence soft and unwavering. The kind of comfort that didnât need words to mean everything.
Your fingers curled around the cold plastic wrapper, eyes still stinging as you looked up at him through the blur.
âIâm sorry, Zayne,â you whispered, voice thin and barely there.
You didnât elaborate.
You didnât have to.
He understood.
I canât love you. Not when a part of me is still grieving someone who let me go too late.
He looked at you for a moment, quiet.
And then he smiled. Gentle. Knowing.
âI know,â he said softly.
And that was it.
No bitterness. No disappointment.
Just a boy sitting beside a girl whose heart was still in piecesâoffering her something sweet to hold onto, even if it would melt between her fingers.
âZayne and I are moving some stuff into our new apartment,â she said over the phone, her voice bright with barely-contained excitement.
You smiled to yourself, already picturing her bouncing around the living room with energy she couldnât contain, while Zayneâpatient and unbotheredâquietly did all the heavy lifting.
âIâm happy for you guys,â you said, and you meant it.
Not long after that night at the parkâthe night you fell apart in Zayneâs arms without needing to explainâsomething between them had shifted.
It was sudden.
So sudden, in fact, that when they told you they were officially dating, youâd nearly dropped your cup. Your jaw had hit the metaphorical floor and stayed there for a solid minute.
But you werenât bitter.
Not even a little.
You were surprised, sure. But not hurt. Not jealous. Just⊠oddly relieved.
You were happy for them.
Truly.
They deserved something soft. Something steady.
And as for youâ
You were still learning how to carry the ache without letting it define you.
You were still learning how to grieve Sylus in the quiet momentsâwithout clinging to what never had the chance to become anything more.
Now, there was no pressure. No guilt curled beneath your ribs whenever Zayne looked at you a little too long.
No unspoken tension waiting for answers you didnât have.
Just space.
To breathe.
To feel.
To heal.
And maybe that, in its own quiet way, was progress.
âI canât believe youâre not going to college,â you sighed teasingly into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as your steps echoed down the quiet street.
On the other end, she scoffed without missing a beat.
âIâm going to be an influencer. Donât need a degree to go viral, babe.â
You laughed, the sound soft, fond. âSure. Just donât forget me when youâre famous.â
You could practically hear her salute through the phone, the way she probably struck a dramatic pose in the mirror while doing it.
You smiled.
These were the moments that felt easyâuntouched by everything youâd left behind.
âOkay, Iâm almost home,â you murmured as the familiar building came into view, its windows catching the last blush of evening light. âMiss you guys. Talk soon.â
Their voices overlapped in a mix of muffled Okays and Good lucks, and thenâ
Silence.
The call ended.
And you were alone again.
But for once, the quiet didnât feel heavy.
Just⊠different.
A stillness that came after the storm.
âHoney, how was your first day?â your mom asked as you set your bag down on the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh.
She placed her cup of tea aside and moved toward you, arms already wrapping around your shoulders before you could answer.
Her embrace was warm and familiarâsteady in the way only a motherâs could be. She pulled back just enough to ruffle your hair.
You groaned. âI spent two hours on that.â
âOh, look at you,â she teased, smiling. âAlready talking back to your mother.â
You watched as she moved around the counter, opening the fridge with that habitual grace as if this home wasnât new and she knows exactly where everything was.
She pulled out a small plate and set it in front of you.
Cheesecake.
The good kind.
She leaned on her elbows across the counter, her expression playful as she wiggled her brows.
âSo,â she said, voice laced with mischief, âany cute college boys Iâll be meeting soon?â
You scowled, grabbing your fork and taking a bite without answering.
âMom. Donât be gross.â
She laughedâsoft and easy, like it was her favorite thing in the world to tease you.
And maybe it was.
A small part of you was grateful for it.
Because after everything, thisâyour parents, home, cheesecakeâfelt safe.
And you were learning to find comfort in the small things again.
âClass was âaight,â you said with a shrug, leaning your elbows on the kitchen counter. âThough⊠I do miss our old place.â
It wasnât a lie. But it wasnât the whole truth either.
You missed more than the house.
You missed the memories carved into its walls.
The boy with silver-white hair who used to chase dandelions with you, laughing breathlessly as they floated just out of reach.
The front porch swing at his house, where youâd both sit cross-legged and argue over who cheated at checkers.
The warmth of late afternoons and the way time used to feel like it belonged to you.
But you didnât say any of that.
You didnât say his name.
Didnât admit that sometimes, when the wind caught the edge of your sleeve just right, it felt like you were still back thereâstill ten years old and unaware that people grow apart even when they promise not to.
You werenât going to admit you missed him.
Not out loud.
Some feelings were quieter than words.
And some losses hurt more when spoken.
ââą
He didnât plan to pull you away.
He didnât even know what heâd say.
He just saw youâstanding there, laughing beside someone elseâand everything inside him twisted. Like something old and raw had been torn open again.
So he did what he always does.
He acted without thinking.
He dragged you behind the school like a coward looking for somewhere to hide his guilt.
You yanked your hand away the moment you stopped. Your voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
âWhat the hell?â
He didnât flinch. Just stared. Trying to memorize the shape of your anger.
You lookedâŠ
God, you looked like everything he used to know.
âYou canât justââ
âCanât just what?â he cut you off. Not because he didnât want to hear it.
But because he already knew.
He knew what heâd done.
He just wasnât ready to hear it from your lips.
Then your finger jabbed into his chest.
âDonât act like you donât know why.â
Your voice was shaking.
So was he.
âYou donât get to stand here and play victim. You donât get to act like you werenât the one who walked away.â
And you were right. Every word.
Still, he stood there. Still, he said nothing.
For a second, just a second, the air shifted.
You looked at him like you used to. But not with love. Not anymore.
With grief. With betrayal. With the kind of pain that comes from being forgotten.
âHow long has it been?â you demanded. âHow many years? How many nights have I spent alone just because you couldnât bother to reply?â
He wanted to say something. Anything.
But his throat closed around the truth.
He saw every message.
He wanted to reply.
But the longer he stayed silent, the harder it became to come back.
And he hated himself for it.
You turned away. He thought you were done.
But you werenât.
âNot cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?â
He snapped out of it then, stepped closer before the shame could pin him in place.
âYouâre not them,â he growled, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
You couldnât have been further from the truth.
You scoffed. âThen what am I, Sylus?â
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Because what were you, really?
The girl he thought about every time his phone lit up with a message he didnât answer.
The one he still checked the window for at night out of a habit he never broke.
The only person who ever made him feel like more than just a name passed around by people who liked him for what he wasnât.
He wanted to say everything.
Thatâs what you were.
You were everything.
But the words lodged themselves in his throat, too sharp to speak.
And thenâ
A laugh, loud and careless, broke through the clearing.
A group of guys rounded the corner, the familiar cadence of their voices cutting into the quiet like a blade.
One of them spotted Sylus, grinned.
âYo, Sylus,â he called, his eyes flicking to you. âWhoâs that? Your new girlfriend?â
You turned to Sylus, and in that instant, he felt your stare land like a weight on his chest.
Waiting. Again.
You were always waiting for him to say the right thing.
And he?
He was always too scared to give it.
So the smirk slid onto his faceâautomatic, defensive, false.
He heard himself say, âNo sheâs⊠just someone.â
The moment it left his mouth, he knew.
He knew heâd just ripped something fragile to shreds.
He knew your silence would come nextânot because you had nothing to say, but because you had finally given up.
Your laugh was quiet. Not amused. Not bitter. Just⊠tired.
âJust someone, huh?â you said, voice light but hollow. âI hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.â
Then you stepped around him.
And he didnât stop you.
Not because he didnât want toâ
But because his friends were still there. Because his mouth was still twisted into that damn smile.
Because he didnât know how to reach for you without unmaking himself in front of everyone.
So he stood there.
Frozen.
They kept talking, teasing him, nudging his shoulder like none of it mattered.
But he didnât hear them.
Didnât move.
Because his eyes were still fixed on your retreating figure.
And for the first time in a long time, Sylus felt something shatterâquietly, irreversiblyâinside him.
You werenât his anymore.
He wasnât sure you ever were.
But more than that now, he wasnât even sure he had the right to miss you.
His friends clapped him on the back, loud and oblivious. âCome on, manâcoach wants us there for the farewell speech.â
He opened his mouth to protest, to stall, to say not nowâbut they were already dragging him forward, laughter echoing in his ears like static.
The clearing faded behind him.
You were gone.
He turned once, just over his shoulder, hoping for a glimpseâone last lookâbut all that met him was the emptiness where you used to stand.
Still, he felt the eyes on him. Expectation. Performance.
So he straightened up. Let the smirk slide back into place like armor.
âAlright,â he said, voice light.
And just like that, he followed them inside.
Leaving the truthâand youâbehind.
That night, he lay in bed, phone in hand, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light.
Your contact was still there.
Still saved under the name Kitten.
Still untouched.
Still yours.
His brow furrowed, thumb hovering just above the call buttonâso close. Too close.
He stared at the name like it might say something first, like it might make the decision for him.
But he didnât know what he would say if you answered.
Didnât know if he even had the right.
Iâm sorry felt too small.
I miss you felt too late.
So he didnât call.
His hand fell away, fingers curling into a fist before he shut the screen off and tossed the phone across the room, where it landed with a dull thud.
The silence that followed was louder than anything.
His hands clutched the hoodie you had returned, the fabric wrinkled from how tightly he held it.
It still smelled faintly like your roomâlike something warm, like something that used to feel like home.
He exhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat as he stared down at the worn cotton, the one thing youâd keptâuntil now.
âIdiot,â he muttered under his breath, cursing himself.
Cursing the silence.
Cursing how easy it had been to become everything he once swore he wouldnât.
Because somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your friend.
And started being a stranger who hurt you.
âI donât need it anymore.â
You had said it so clearly, so firmlyâlike a full stop at the end of a sentence heâd refused to read for years.
But he heard it.
Not just the words, but everything underneath.
The years of silence. The weight of being forgotten. The way your voice trembled just enough to betray what you still hadnât said.
And he saw it too.
The way the light in your eyes dimmedânot from anger, but from exhaustion. From the kind of pain that doesnât scream, only lingers.
His chest ached.
His hands flew to his face, fingers tangling in his hair as he let out a shaky breath.
âFuck,â he whispered into the silence, voice cracking.
He shouldâve stopped you.
Shouldâve said somethingâanything.
But he hadnât.
And now the only thing he could do was sit with the echo of your goodbye.
âYou think weâd still be friends when we go to high school?â
Your voice echoed in his mind, soft, hopeful, laced with the kind of innocence that didnât know what distance felt like yet.
The streets were empty now, save for the dull pound of his footsteps hitting the pavement. He ranânot toward anything, but away. From the weight. From himself.
Back then, heâd linked his pinkie with yours without hesitation.
âI promise,â heâd said. âWeâll still be friends.â
A car honked somewhere in the distance, jarring him back for a breath.
âI wonât turn into a jock,â his memory added, almost bitterly now.
A door creaked open across the street. A light switched on in someoneâs hallway.
And then it hit him. The one memory louder than all the others.
âDonât worry. Iâm used to it.â
His pace slowed.
His breath caught.
He hadnât realized what you meant in the moment. Hadnât heard the quiet fracture in your voice, the way your eyes didnât meet his when you said it.
But now?
Now he knew.
You werenât used to being ignored.
You werenât born expecting to be left behind.
He made you that way.
With every unanswered message.
Every silence.
Every time he turned away when he shouldâve held on.
He made you used to him being gone.
And now that you were leavingâ
He had no one to blame but himself.
And now, he was left with nothing but regret.
Heavy. Constant.
The kind that clings to your ribs, that colors every corner of memory in a dull, aching gray.
Heâd told himself he wouldnât see you again.
That maybe it was better that way.
He didnât deserve another chanceânot after the silences, the shoulder shrugs, not after he said you were âjust someone.â
But thenâ
He turned the corner.
And there you were.
Just standing there.
Dressed in jeans and that lazy, thrown-on t-shirtâlike you always wore on weekends when he used to show up at your door with a half-burnt DVD and snacks neither of you ended up eating.
His breath caught.
Everything else stilled.
You hadnât seen him yet.
And he let himself look. Just for a moment.
God, you were still you.
But different now. Lighter, somehow. Not because you werenât hurtingâhe knew you wereâbut because you had made peace with the hurt.
Moved through it.
Past him.
Then your eyes met his.
It was like being cracked open in silence.
âHey,â he said, voice rough, uncertainâlike it didnât belong to him anymore.
âHâHey.â
You blinked, glanced away, and suddenly the sidewalk was the most fascinating thing in the world.
âHow long?â he asked. It came out too fast.
You rubbed your neck, the way you always did when you were nervous.
âA week.â
A week.
Seven days before he would never see you again, never hear your voice or even get the chance to make things right.
Seven days where you would finally be rid of him.
And he hated that he couldnât stop it.
But he nodded. Looked down.
âIââ you started, and he straightened.
You paused, choosing your words with care.
âI donât care about all that anymore.â
His heart stuttered.
You looked at him when you said itâreally looked. And he knew.
You meant it.
And that hurt in a way he didnât know how to name.
âIâm going to move on now,â you added, voice quieter. âA new life and all that.â
He wanted to say donât.
He wanted to reach for you.
To take it all back. To beg.
But the words never made it past his throat.
âI hope you get all the things you want in life, Sylus.â
And you smiled. Soft. Final.
Then you lifted your hand, gave him a small wave, and stepped aside.
Let him pass.
Let him go.
He turned to watch youâhoping, foolishly, that youâd glance back.
But you didnât.
Because you were no longer waiting.
You were no longer his.
And heâŠ
He stood there long after you disappeared from view, aching in the quiet, wondering if heâd ever be able to forgive himself for the way he lost youâ
Not in one moment,
But in all the ones where he stayed silent.
âSylus, Iâm open!â
The sharp squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym, followed by the rhythmic thud of a basketball against polished wood.
âThanks,â Sylus muttered, tossing a quick pass before jogging toward the bench.
He collapsed onto it, chest rising and falling with every breath, sweat clinging to his skin like second skin. A bottle of water was thrust into his hand. He took it without a word, downing half of it in seconds.
It had been a year.
A year since you leftâwithout goodbyes, without a backward glance. A year since you walked out of his life and took the sun with you.
His teammate plopped down on the floor in front of him, breath ragged, staring up at the ceiling.
âYouâre killing it today,â he said between pants. âI can barely guard you. Youâre a machine.â
Sylus let out a low chuckle, the kind that didnât quite reach his eyes. âYouâre just small.â
âFuck off,â his friend laughed, tossing a towel at him.
Basketball had become his refuge. Since the day you left, Sylus threw himself into the game like it was the only thing holding him together.
Hours bled into days in the gym. He skipped college applications, skipped birthdays, skipped chances at moving on.
This was simpler.
This was better.
At least on the court, he didnât have to think about you.
His friend peeked at him from the corner of his eye, the laughter fading as something more serious took its place.
âYou still havenât contacted her, huh.â
It wasnât a jab. Just an observation. But it hit harder than any shove on the court.
Sylus stilled.
The bottle in his hands crinkled slightly under his grip. Sweat dripped down his temple, trailing along his jaw as he stared at the floor.
âNo.â
Quiet. Like a confession. Like he was finally admitting to something he couldnât undo.
His friend let out a breath, not surprised. âYou shouldâve just told her from the start, man.â
There was no malice in his voice. Just the kind of tired honesty that came from watching someone spiral.
He looked at Sylus then, more gently this time. âHate to say it, but⊠I told you so.â
Any other day, Sylus wouldâve rolled his eyes, thrown a towel at his face, maybe cracked a joke about height.
But not this time.
This time, he didnât say anything.
Because this time, he knew.
He knew his friend was right.
He glanced at his friendâsame look on his face as that day on the bleachers. The day he saw you across the court, laughing with Zayne like you didnât used to be his.
Sylus let out a breath, low and quiet. âI know,â he murmured.
His friend huffed a short laugh, standing as he offered a hand. âCome on. Break timeâs over.â
Sylus finished the last of his water, the plastic crumpling in his grip. Then he took the hand, let himself be pulled back into the court.
Where it was easier to run than to feel.
ââą
Sylus dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud before sinking into the couch.
The sun had already slipped past the rooftops, leaving the living room in a soft, fading gold.
He leaned his head back against the cushions, muscles aching, the weight of the day settling into his bones.
âSylus has been doing great! Heâs actually trying out for a local team soonââ
His motherâs voice echoed down the stairs, light and proud.
He cracked one eye open to watch her descend, phone pressed to her ear, smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of him.
She always spoke like that. Like he was doing just fine.
Like he hadnât spent a year trying to outrun everything he never said to you.
Sylus sat up slightly when his mother gave his leg a light tap, where it lay stretched across the coffee table.
âWhat about Y/N? Howâs she doing over there?â she asked casually, her voice bright.
But the moment your name passed her lips, something in him stilled.
His ears perked up, almost involuntarily, and he found himself leaning in just a littleâjust enough to catch the faint sound of your motherâs voice through the speaker.
âSheâs doing well. First day went great, sheâs upstairs studying nowââ
That was all he caught. But it was enough.
Enough to stir something sharp in his chest.
He didnât know if he should be relieved, knowing you were okay. Or heartbroken, knowing you were okay without him.
Youâd moved on. Quietly, gracefully. Just like you always did.
And yet his heart twisted all the same.
Soon, he was lost in thoughts of you.
Did you still look the same?
He pictured youâbrows furrowed, hunched over your desk with a pen in hand, sketching or scribbling notes the way you used to.
The soft light of your room casting shadows on your cheek, hair tied up in that lazy knot you always wore when you were focused.
Were you smiling now?
Were you lighterâfreerânow that he wasnât in the picture?
He swallowed hard, the thought settling like lead in his chest.
Maybe you were happy.
Maybe you were better off, now that you no longer had to carry the weight of loving someone who didnât know how to hold you right.
âIâm just saying, manâif you hadnât let Colinâs bullshit get to you, you wouldnât even be in this mess.â
His friendâs voice crackled over the speakerphone, cutting through the silence of Sylusâ room.
Sylus didnât answer right away. He just stared at the mirror across from him, at the fading polaroid tucked into the frameâ
You, smiling. Him, slightly out of focus beside you, hand on your shoulder.
He exhaled, voice low. âI thought I was doing the right thing.â
There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. âYeah, well⊠thereâs no point sulking over it now. Itâs been a year.â
Sylus flopped onto his bed, the mattress creaking beneath him as he pressed the phone to his ear. His friendâs voice carried on, unfazed.
âI mean, werenât you the one who said you promised her? That youâd never be like the others? Then you got into high school and suddenly, being one of the cool kids mattered more.â
Sylusâs jaw tensed. âHey, cut me some slack, will you?â
A scoff crackled through the speaker. âDude, Iâve been cutting you slack. Any less and I wouldâve dragged your sorry ass to Y/Nâs front door years ago.â
Sylus grunted, thumb hovering before he ended the call. The phone fell beside him on the bed with a soft thud as he dragged both hands down his face.
His friend was right. He didnât need to hear it again to know.
Somewhere along the way, his pride had started speaking louder than you ever did. His image, his place, his need to belongâit all started to matter more than how you felt.
And the worst part?
He knew.
Heâd known for a long time now.
But knowing didnât change anything.
Not when you were already gone.
His eyes drifted to the hoodie draped over the bedrestâthe one he had once given you, the one you threw back at him that day without a word.
It still sat there, untouched.
The scent of your home had long faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of his room. Only a faint trace of something remainedâsomething like old warmth, something like grief.
Just memories now.
Faded fabric, frayed edges, and the weight of promises he never kept.
And in that stillness, with nothing but the echo of your absence clinging to the walls, Sylus finally whispered the words he shouldâve said years ago.
âIâm sorry.â
Soft. Barely audible.
Meant only for the ghost of you that still lingered in the room.
But itâs too late for apologies now, isnât it?
Too late for words to fix what silence already broke.
synopsis : You met him when you were childrenâshy, innocent and full of dreams. Now, you werenât so sure if he was the same person anymore.
content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus
part two
âHey, dude. Looks like Y/N is talking to someone.â
The voice came from somewhere behind Sylus, half amused, half smug, as if it were meant to sting.
He lowered himself onto the bleachers without looking back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. âSo what?â
But when his gaze drifted across the fieldâalmost involuntarilyâhis breath caught.
There you were.
On the opposite side, sunlight tangled in your hair as you laughed at something some guyâsome forgettable boyâhad said. He leaned a little too close.
And you⊠you didnât lean away.
The smirk faltered.
His fingers curled into fists on his lap as he turned back to his friend, expression smooth, voice cool.
âShe can do what she wants.â
But the words tasted like ash.
You can most definitely not do what you want.
ââą
You barely managed to draw in a breath when your back slammed into a locker, the metal echoing a hollow clang down the hallway.
Blinking, you looked up, only to find the all-too-familiar crimson eyes locked onto yours, strands of white hair falling messily over his brow.
His grip was tightâdesperate, evenâfingers pressing into your arms like he was afraid youâd disappear.
âSylus,â you spat his name, your voice shaking more from confusion than fear. âWhat the hell?â
He didnât speak at first, jaw clenched. You watched the storm move behind his eyes, red glowing under the flickering hallway lights.
Anger, yes. But beneath itâsomething else. A tremor.
âWho was he?â
Your brows furrowed. âExcuse me?â
âThat guy,â he hissed, his voice low. âWho was he?â
Your eyes narrowed. âNone of your damn business.â
You shoved him off, harder than necessary, and he stumbled back a stepânot from your strength, but from the surprise of it.
Of you not yielding. Not anymore.
His face twisted with something unreadable before he looked away, his voice brittle as he muttered, âFine.â
Then he turned, the hallway swallowing him whole as he walked away without looking back.
And you stood there, the ghost of his grip still lingering on your skin. You breathed in, shallow, like it might ease the tightness in your chest. But it didnât. It never did.
Your heart was a knot of old memories, unraveling too fast to gather.
You remembered a boy who used to knock on your door holding Tupperware full of food, cheeks red from the cold, smile too wide for his face.
âWe brought extra,â heâd say, lifting the foil-covered tray. âMom says you should come over, too.â
You were ten, shy, new in town, and he was the only light you knew in this strange neighborhood. Youâd whispered, âSure,â and heâd grinned like youâd given him the world.
Back then, heâd sit with you for hours building forts out of pillows or sharing snacks during movie nights in your living room. Heâd laugh so loudly it made your parents chuckle from the next room.
But then the years passed, and so did something between you.
First, he stopped knocking. Then, he stopped answering your texts. Pretended not to be home when he clearly wasâcurtains moving, lights flickering, silence too intentional.
Time moved without permission. And now, in your final year of high school, the boy who once brought you dinner and made you laugh until your stomach hurt had become a stranger wearing the same face.
A boy wrapped in the shell of someone you once trustedâlouder now, cockier, swarmed by friends and girls and empty laughter.
He had become exactly the kind of boy he once promised heâd never be.
You stared after him for a moment longer, chest aching with something that didnât have a name.
Then you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, blinked away the burn behind your eyes, and walked toward your next class.
Some things arenât worth chasing.
Even if they once were everything.
ââą
Your pen paused mid-sentence the moment you heard your motherâs voice float gently through the crack of your bedroom door.
âSylusâ parents are coming over for dinner,â she said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.
You looked up, blinking as the words settled slowly into your chest. They didnât stingânot right away. They just lingered, like something unfinished. Something forgotten until now.
You turned in your chair to face the door, brows pulling together. âWhatâs the occasion? Itâs been a while.â
She stepped inside, her expression soft with nostalgia, the kind that lived in the corners of her smile. She crossed to your bed and sat down, smoothing out the blanket with idle fingers.
âWell, you know Sylusâ father was sick for a while,â she said gently. âNow that heâs better, your dad and I thought⊠maybe weâd invite them over. Just to celebrate. Like old times.â
Old times.
Your eyes dropped back to the open page in front of you, though the words had stopped making sense minutes ago.
You swallowed and gave a quiet nod.
âOkay,â you murmured.
âJust dinner,â she added, as if to soothe something in you she hadnât realized had been stirred. âA little wine, a little catching up. Donât spend the whole evening with your nose in a textbook, honey.â
You didnât answer, not really.
She reached over to ruffle your hair in that familiar wayâgentle, affectionate, unchangedâand you let her, even as your body tensed beneath her touch.
You whined softly in protest, and she chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple before rising to leave.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And suddenly, the quiet felt too loud. Too sharp.
You sat still for a long time, the pages of your notebook blurring before your eyes.
Your thoughts driftedâunwelcomeâto the boy with silver-white hair and crimson eyes. The one who used to steal olives off your plate.
The one who stopped knocking.
You hadnât seen him in your house in years.
And now he was coming back, like nothing had changed.
Like your silence hadnât grown into distance.
Like your memories hadnât grown heavy with time.
You werenât sure which version of Sylus would walk through the door tonightâ
The boy who once made you laugh until your sides hurt,
Or the stranger who now looked at you like you were just another face in the crowd.
You werenât sure if you missed the way he used to look at youâor the way you used to look back.
Either way, part of you already knewâ
This night wasnât going to be easy.
Rising from your chair, you walked toward the bathroom, each step echoing more than it should. The hallway stretched before you like a memory you werenât ready to face.
ââą
Your footsteps padded softly down the stairs, the wood cool beneath your soles.
The house was quiet, bathed in the pale gold of a setting sun that streamed through the living room windows.
Your father sat on the couch, glasses perched on his nose, fingers moving steadily across his laptop keyboard.
He glanced up when he heard you, smiling gently as you slumped down beside him with a tired sigh.
âHey, kiddo,â he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in that familiar, grounding way. âArenât you excited for your final school year?â
You let out a groan, head tipping back against the cushions. âI donât even know where Iâm applying for college yet.â
He chuckled, the sound warm, yet tinged with something elseâsomething you couldnât quite place.
Then his eyes lit with a hint of mischief as he leaned forward slightly.
âWell,â he said, tapping at his laptop, âI have a surprise for you.â
You blinked, shifting to look at him. âHuh?â
He turned the screen toward you. âWeâre moving.â
The words landed before you even registered what was on the screen. Your gaze drifted down to the email displayed there:
Weâd be delighted to fund your childâs education at **** College.
You read it again, slower this time. Your heart gave a faint stutter.
âThe companyâs transferring me,â he explained, voice softer now, more careful. âI tried to declineâtold them about your studies, that your friends were here. ButâŠâ
He trailed off, watching you.
But. The unspoken things always sat louder in the silence.
You swallowed. The couch felt too solid beneath you now, too familiar for what was being asked.
A new place. A new school. An entirely different life.
And somewhere in that fog of uncertainty⊠Sylus.
Would he even care if you left?
You nodded absently, eyes still fixed on the glowing screen. âWhen?â
âEnd of this term,â he said gently. âThen youâd start freshman year there.â
You tried to smile. Tried to make it seem like you werenât thinking about the hallway locker, or the way his voice had dropped when he asked who that boy was.
You tried not to think about how long it had been since he looked at you the way he used toâlike you were home.
Because maybeâŠ
Maybe this was the universeâs way of saying it was time to let go.
âThatâs niceâŠâ you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, the weight of it still settling on your shoulders.
Before the quiet could thicken, the doorbell rangâsharp, bright, and far too normal for the way your world had just shifted.
Your mother peeked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. âY/N, honey, could you get that?â
You nodded, already moving toward the door.
You pulled it open with a practiced smile, one you hadnât worn in years but still remembered how to shape.
âHey, Mr. and Mrs. Qin,â you greeted softly.
Mrs. Qinâs face lit up the moment she saw you. She stepped forward immediately, arm linked gently through her husbandâs as she reached to cup your cheek, just like she used to when you were small.
âOh, darling,â she beamed. âLook how much youâve grown.â
You ducked your head slightly, a shy smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness in your chest. âYeah⊠itâs been a while.â
Mr. Qin chuckled beside her. âPractically a grown woman now,â he said warmly, giving your shoulder a light pat. âTell meâshould I start worrying about you stealing hearts yet?â
It was the kind of teasing that mightâve made you blush, once. The kind Sylus would have rolled his eyes at before elbowing his father and dragging you away.
But this time, you noticed it immediately.
The absence.
He wasnât with them.
No tall frame leaning in the background, no flash of silver hair or tired smirk, no sidelong glance as if he couldnât decide whether to speak to you or ignore you altogether.
Just the two of them. And silence behind.
You hesitated, your smile flickering at the edges. âIsââ
You caught yourself, the question dying on your tongue.
You didnât ask. You already knew.
âCome in,â you said instead, stepping aside.
Mrs. Qin walked past you, her perfume still the sameâsoft, floral, familiar. âItâs so lovely to be here again,â she said, her voice wistful. âFeels like nothingâs changed.â
You didnât have the heart to tell her how wrong that was.
Mr. Qin followed her in, chuckling. âWell, maybe one thingâs changed. Our boy seems to think heâs too grown up for family dinners these days.â
There was a lightness in his voice, but you heard the note beneath it.
And your heart sankâquietly, invisibly.
You closed the door gently behind them, the evening air fading as it latched shut.
And in that stillness, you felt it againâ
The empty space where Sylus should have stood.
Where he used to stand beside you.
But not tonight.
Not anymore.
Everyone had begun to settle into the dining room, familiar laughter echoing against the clink of plates and the scent of warm food curling in the air.
Your parents and the Qins greeted each other with fond smiles and soft embraces, voices threaded with nostalgia.
You lingered near your seat, about to ease into it, when the doorbell rang againâsharp and unexpected.
Your brows furrowed as you glanced toward your parents. âAre we expecting someone else?â
The question hung there for a beat too long.
Your mother paused mid-pour of wine, exchanging a glance with your father. Across the table, Mr. and Mrs. Qin looked just as puzzled. Four heads shook slowly.
âNo, we arenât,â your father said.
You were halfway seated before you stood again, the unease too subtle to name.
âIâll go check. Probably just the mailman running late.â
You offered it casually, brushing invisible lint from your sleeves as you turned away.
But something tugged in your chestâa quiet pull of instinct or memory, you couldnât tell.
The hallway stretched ahead, dimmer than before. Your footsteps were soft on the hardwood floor, and for a fleeting second, you felt the weight of time pressing against your backâlike the house itself was holding its breath.
You reached for the door, heart ticking just a little faster.
When you swung open the door, the breath caught in your throat before you could even stop it.
Because standing thereâleaning against the frame like he hadnât just slammed you against a locker earlier today, like he hadnât vanished and left you behindâwas Sylus.
His silver-white hair had grown out a little since you last really looked at him, falling in loose strands across his brow. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, posture easy, casual⊠cocky.
That same crooked smirk played on his lips, the one he wore now like armor.
âHey,â he said, voice low, amusedâlike this was all some inside joke you werenât in on.
For a moment, all you could do was stare.
Because no matter how much he changed, how much he morphed into this version of himself that you barely recognized, some part of you still saw the boy with the tray of brownies.
The boy who once said he hoped youâd be friends.
You blinked, collecting your breath as if it had betrayed you.
âI thought you werenât coming,â you managed, tone quieter than you meant it to be.
He shrugged. âDecided last minute.â
Of course he did.
Typical Sylusâalways appearing when youâve just begun to convince yourself youâre fine without him.
You stepped aside, not trusting your voice, not trusting yourself.
He brushed past, the cold air following him like a shadowâlike the past you thought you were done mourning.
And as he walked through the doorway like it meant nothing, like he hadnât once meant everything, you realizedâ
This night was going to hurt in ways you werenât prepared for.
âBoy, I thought you said you werenât joining us,â Mr. Qin said with a laugh as Sylus eased into the empty chair beside him, sliding in like he belonged there.
You sat down across from him, stiffly, your movements careful. Too careful.
Your mother chuckled from the kitchen doorway. âItâs alright. I prepared enough for an extra.â She set down a new plate and cutlery in front of him with the same warmth she always used to.
âI couldnât miss out on the fun. Sorry,â Sylus said, turning to her.
She waved him off with a grin. âNonsense. Youâre always welcome hereâyou practically grew up with Y/N.â
Your spoon paused mid-air.
That sentence settled over the table like dust.
Across from you, Sylus tilted his head slightly, eyes catching yours with that same knowing smirk he wore like a second skin.
You forced a smile, brittle at the edges. âOh, yes. Of course.â
You dropped your gaze to your bowl, the surface of the soup trembling slightly from the tremor in your hand. You tightened your grip around the spoon and took another sip, hoping the warmth would do somethingâanythingâto soften the knot in your chest.
Mrs. Qinâs voice rose, sweet and reminiscing. âThey used to be so adorable as children, werenât they?â
Your father laughed, shaking his head. âI remember having to patch up Sylusâ knees every other week when theyâd run around out back. That treehouse incident? God, we thought he broke something.â
The table bloomed with laughterâgentle, nostalgic, painfully sincere.
You couldnât bring yourself to join in.
Each memory laid out like that, stripped and served like something sacred, made your heart sink further beneath the floorboards. These were the moments you used to cherish.
Now, they felt like ghosts with kind faces and cruel timing.
Sylus didnât say much. But he didnât have to.
He just watched youâcalm, unreadable, amused by your discomfort. And maybe, beneath that smirk, something else lingered.
Something quieter. Sadder.
But you didnât look long enough to know for sure.
The conversation rolled on, voices growing louder with warmth and wine. But all you could feel was the silence building inside you, folding in on itself like paper.
The boy from your memories was gone. And yetâhe was sitting right across from you, in your home, eating from your motherâs dishes, still chasing laughter from your past like it meant nothing had changed.
But everything had.
You had.
So did he.
As the laughter slowly faded, the clink of cutlery and glasses giving way to a lull in conversation, your father took a quiet sip of wine, then cleared his throat.
âWeâre going to be moving soon,â he said.
The words dropped like a stone into still water.
Sylusâs head turned immediately. His easy posture didnât changeâbut under the table, his fists clenched, so tight his knuckles paled.
Mr. Qin set his glass down with a soft thud, brows lifting. âOh? Another company transfer?â
Mrs. Qin leaned toward your mother, her voice tinged with gentle disappointment. âAw, thatâs a pity.â
âWe can keep in touch,â your mom said, offering a warm smile as she reached out to squeeze Mrs. Qinâs handâone of those quiet gestures only old friends shared.
But even through the hum of old laughter and clinking glasses, you felt itâthat subtle shift.
The way silence braced itself, waiting for something to fall apart.
Sylus hadnât spoken. Hadnât moved.
Then your mother turned to you, smoothing a hand over your hair with pride warming her tone. âY/N here will be attending school there. Full scholarship.â
You glanced down, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of eyes on you.
âOh, thatâs wonderful news,â Mrs. Qin beamed. Then, turning to her son, âBoy, wonât you congratulate her?â
For a moment, Sylus looked like he hadnât heard. Like his mind had gone somewhere far away.
Then his gaze lifted, locking with yours across the table.
It was quiet, that look. Quiet and strange and heavy in the worst way.
Your breath hitched.
He blinked once, slowly, and noddedâalmost imperceptibly. There was something hollow in the motion. Something tired. As if he was surrendering.
ââGrats,â he said, voice low. Barely above a whisper.
And for the first time that night, the cockiness faded from his face.
What remained was something elseâsomething like grief.
ââą
Your room was quietâtoo quiet.
The kind of quiet that pressed into your skin, the kind that made you aware of every small sound.
The steady hum of the air conditioning, the occasional creak of old floorboards, the scratch of your pen dragging across paper as you copied notes youâd already memorized twice over.
Behind you, Sylus sat on the beanbag, his tall frame folded awkwardly as his fingers toyed with the strings of his hoodie.
He hadnât said a word since you left the table. Just followed you up the stairs like a shadow, heavy and uninvited.
You hadnât wanted this.
You had told your parents you needed to studyâan excuse they accepted without question, though your mother, in all her well-meaning cluelessness, had smiled and said, âOh, Sylus should join you. We wouldnât want him bored to death with our adult conversations.â
Youâd scowled inwardly, biting back every protest that rose to your tongue.
Instead, youâd smiled. Tightly. âOkay.â
You hadnât looked at him once.
Your fists had curled at your sides the moment his footsteps followed yours down the hallway.
Now he sat there, breathing the same quiet air, unraveling the tension youâd tried so hard to knot away.
You stared at your notes. The words blurred together.
Then you sighedâa little too loudly.
Behind you, you heard the subtle shift of fabric. Sylus stilled. You could almost feel his eyes on your back.
His mouth opened, then closed.
Like he was about to say something. Like the silence between you was too heavy now to ignoreâbut he didnât know how to lift it.
You didnât turn around.
Because if you did, you werenât sure what youâd find on his face.
And you werenât sure what yours would show in return.
Your breath hitchedâdamn itâwhen you heard the shift of fabric behind you.
Then footsteps. Quiet, hesitant.
Each one heavier than the last.
You didnât look up.
Didnât even blink.
Your eyes stayed glued to your notebook, even though the words on the page had started to blur into nothing.
âSo,â he said, voice lowârougher than before. âYouâre going away.â
He said it like he was still trying to believe it. Like the words sat heavy on his tongue and tasted like loss.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. âYeah,â you murmured, scribbling something down that didnât mean anything.
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Stifling. It filled every corner of the room, curling around your lungs.
Then he cleared his throat.
âIâm sorry. About the hallway.â
You raised an eyebrow, your grip tightening around the pen.
Still, you didnât look at him.
Thatâs what he was apologizing for?
Out of everythingâevery unanswered message, every broken promise, every quiet moment where he looked through you like you were just airâthatâs what he chose?
âDonât worry,â you said, the words slipping out too bitter, too raw. âIâm used to it anyway.â
You didnât mean to sound that hurt. But you did.
And Sylus⊠Sylus looked like heâd just been punched in the chest.
He exhaled sharply, jaw tight. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
Your pen stilled mid-stroke.
This time, you turned.
You turned slowly, deliberately, and looked up at himâat the boy who once knew you better than anyone else, now standing there like a stranger wearing pieces of your past.
âIt means exactly what I said,â you replied, your voice hard, brittle. Your glare cut through the tension like glass.
Sylus blinked, visibly thrown. As if he hadnât expected you to fight back. As if he was the one hurting.
The gall of it made you scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.
Of course he looked wounded.
Of course he flinched at the edges of your anger, like you were being cruel for daring to hold him accountable.
And for a split second, you hated how beautiful he still looked even when he was stunned into silence.
You hated that a part of you still hoped heâd give you something real. Something honest.
But Sylus had always been too good at building wallsâ
And you were always the one left outside them.
You could see itâthe slow turn of gears behind his eyes, the struggle to piece together something, anything, that would make this moment easier.
His mouth opened, then closed, words faltering on the edge of his lips before they ever saw the light.
But it was too late for words.
Without warning, you stood. The chair scraped against the floor, sharp in the stillness. You looked him in the eyeâreally lookedâand for a second, neither of you breathed.
And in that breathless space between glances, you searched his faceânot for answers anymore, but for closure.
Whatever you were hoping to find⊠it wasnât there.
You moved past him without another word and crossed the room. Opened your closet. Your hand found it immediatelyâthe faded hoodie tucked in the back, the one he gave you all those years ago.
âHelps with the nightmares,â he had murmured once, when your voice had trembled over the phone at 2 a.m.
âIt smells like you,â you had whispered, holding it tight to your chest.
But now, it was just another ghost in fabric form. A threadbare monument to a friendship that had been slowly unraveling for years.
You tossed it toward him without ceremony.
He caught it clumsily, eyes narrowing in confusion as he looked down at it. Then at you.
His brows drew together. âWhy are youââ
âTake it back,â you said, quiet but steady. âI donât need it anymore.â
There was more beneath those wordsâso much more.
You didnât need it.
You didnât need the comfort it used to bring.
You didnât need the boy who gave it to you.
You didnât need him anymore.
But you didnât say any of that aloud. You didnât have to.
Because Sylusâs expression faltered the moment he understood. His fingers gripped the fabric tighter, like he wanted to hold on to somethingâanythingâbut it was already slipping.
He stood there in your room, hoodie in hand, the silence thick between you.
And for once, he had no smugness to hide behind.
Just the look of someone realising too late what he had lost.
âThanks for having us. Y/N, lovely to see you again,â Mrs. Qin said warmly, wrapping you in a soft hug that smelled faintly of lavender and memory.
You returned it gently, the smile on your lips practiced, steady.
Behind her, Mr. Qin chuckled, patting your shoulder. âGood luck with your future studies, young lady. Make us proud.â
You murmured your thanks, the words catching faintly in your throat.
Sylus stood a few steps away, quiet and withdrawn, shoulders hunched slightly like the night had grown too heavy for him to carry.
He kept his gaze on the ground, avoiding conversation, avoiding you.
Your parents stood on either side of you, waving as Mrs. Qin offered a cheerful, âWeâll see you soon!â and your mother called after her, âIâll be sure to call!â
They got into the car, voices muffled behind closed doors, the engine humming softly into the stillness of the night.
Your parents turned to go back inside, chatting quietly between themselves, and you started to followâuntil something made you glance over your shoulder.
And there he was.
Through the glass, seated in the back of the car, Sylus was staring at you.
Not smirking.
Not smug.
Just lookingâlike he was trying to memorize your face, like he already knew he wouldnât see it like this again.
His expression was unreadable. But his eyes⊠they looked a little too lost for someone who had always pretended to be so sure of himself.
You met his gaze one last time.
There was so much you could have said.
So much he never did.
But instead, you let out a quiet sighâone that trembled more than you wanted it to. Not for him. Not anymore.
You turned, the weight of his stare clinging to your back like a question that would never be answered.
ââą
âOh, boyâIâm so worried about my results,â your friend groaned beside you, clutching her books like a lifeline.
You chuckled softly, shifting the weight of your own books against your chest. âIâm not. I studied hard for this.â
The hallway buzzed around you, filled with post-exam chatter, slamming lockers, laughter echoing off walls. The air smelled faintly of summer, freedom just at the edge of everyoneâs fingertips.
Your friend shot you a playful look. âThatâs because youâre a nerd.â
You grinned, but before you could reply, her expression shifted, like something had just clicked into place.
âOh! Are you still talking to Zayne?â
You froze mid-step.
Zayne.
The name felt like a gentle knock against your heartâfamiliar, soft, and suddenly distant. You blinked, the hallway noise fading for a second as you pulled out your phone.
One missed call.
âShit,â you whispered, thumb hovering over the screen. You hadnât replied. Hadnât spoken to him since that day on the bleachers. It had completely slipped your mind.
Your friend laughed, nudging your shoulder. âOh my god, Y/N the heartbreaker.â
You rolled your eyes and swatted at her, quickly typing out a message.
âHey, sorryâbeen busy studying. Letâs meet up after school?â
You barely had time to second-guess it before your screen lit up with a reply.
You let out a quiet breath, relief loosening your shoulders.
Your friend glanced at you, teasing glint still in her eyes as you both started walking again.
âWhy donât you just tell him youâre not into him?â she asked as you reached your lockers.
You shrugged, avoiding her gaze as you opened yours. âBecause weâre not like that. We just got close after he helped me with econ.â
You began stacking your books away, trying to keep your tone neutral.
She scoffed behind you. âRight. Friends who text good morning, share inside jokes even I donât understand, and look at each other like youâre the only two people in the room. Sure, Y/N.â
You shot her a glare over your shoulder, but didnât argue. Because what was there to say?
Zayne was a good friend. Heâd never pushed. Never pried. And in a time when you were still quietly mourning a boy who no longer looked at you the same way, Zayne had shown up without asking for anything in return.
You met him sometime after that summerâafter you stopped going over to Sylusâs house, after the silence between you and your childhood friend turned permanent. Zayne had sat next to you in calculus when no one else had wanted to partner up.
He never asked about your past. You never asked about his.
Things just⊠clicked.
And for a while, it was nice. Simple. Easy.
But as you slid your locker shut, you couldnât ignore the twist of guilt curling beneath your ribs.
Because maybe, somewhere deep down, a part of you had only clung to Zayne to fill the space Sylus had left behind.
And maybeâjust maybeâyou were still doing it.
Not out of cruelty.
But out of the desperate need to not feel forgotten.
âSo, where are youââ your friendâs sentence faltered, her voice trailing off as her eyes fixed on something behind you. Her fingers curled around your shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.
You blinked, confused. âWhat?â
Then you turned.
And froze.
Sylus was walking down the hallway, weaving through the crowd like it wasnât even there. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, jaw tense, eyes locked on youâlike the rest of the world had fallen away.
He stopped right in front of you. Didnât glance at your friend. Didnât say hello.
Just, âLetâs talk.â
Casual.
Like he hadnât been avoiding you for years.
Like he hadnât watched you walk away from him without ever calling you back.
You stared at him, jaw clenched. âWhat is there to talk about?â
His gaze didnât falter, but his voice grew quieter. âCan you not be difficult right now?â
You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. âIâm difficult?â
His expression flickeredâjust for a second. Then he looked to your friend, acknowledging her presence with a brief glance, before turning back to you.
âFine,â he muttered.
Then he reached forward and grabbed your wristânot harsh, not painful, but firm. Like he was afraid youâd slip through his fingers if he didnât hold on.
You barely had time to react before he tugged you with him down the hallway.
Your friend stood there, stunned, watching you disappear into the tide of students.
When you reached the quiet clearing behind the schoolâthe one where no one ever really wandered during breaksâyou yanked your hand from his grasp like it burned.
Air rushed into your lungs as if youâd forgotten how to breathe.
âWhat the hell, Sylus?â you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. Anger laced with something more fragile underneath.
He stopped a few feet away, hands still in his pockets, shoulders rising and falling with the weight of everything unspoken. His expression was unreadable, eyes too still.
âYou canât justââ you started, running a hand through your hair, pacing half a step before turning back to him, heart racing.
âCanât just what?â he cut in, voice low and tight.
And there it was again.
That edge in his tone. Like he was the one whoâd been hurt. Like he couldnât understand why you were angryâwhy youâd ever be angry.
You stared at him, stunned for a second.
But the words?
They were already rising in your chest like a storm.
You jabbed a finger into his chest, hard. âDonât act like you donât know why.â
Your voice shook, not from fearâbut from the weight of every word youâd never been given the chance to say. Your eyes burned, red-hot and unrelenting.
âYou donât get to stand here and play victim,â you hissed. âYou donât get to act like youâre the one who was left behindâwhen you were the one who walked away.â
For a moment, his expression cracked.
Just a flicker.
The mask slipped, and beneath itâthere he was. The boy you used to know. The one who used to sit beside you at lunch and knock on your door with homemade muffins and a lopsided grin.
He looked like heâd just been kicked.
But you didnât stop.
You couldnât.
âDo you even know how long itâs been?â your voice rose, trembling with grief you didnât know how to hold anymore. âHow many years Iâve waited for you to show up again? How many nights I stared at my phone, wondering if youâd just say somethingâanything?â
He went still.
Silent.
His head lowered, eyes cast to the side, jaw tight like he was trying not to let anything slip through the cracks.
You turned away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, then spun back to face him. The words came tumbling out, bitter and helpless.
âWas I not good enough for you?â Your voice broke. âNot cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?â
Thatâs when his eyes snapped to yours. Something flared behind them.
He stepped forward.
âYouâre not them,â he said, barely above a whisper.
It sounded like a confession.
You scoffed, blinking back the sting in your eyes. âThen what am I, Sylus?â
The question hung in the air like smoke.
And he said nothing.
No excuse.
No explanation.
Just silence.
Because even nowâespecially nowâhe still didnât have the words.
You looked at himâreally looked at himâand for a moment, the anger unraveled, leaving something raw and helpless in its place.
âWell?â you whispered, voice low and brittle.
One word. That was all you needed.
One answer. One truth.
But he stood there, unmoving, mouth parted like the words were there, caught in the back of his throatâtoo fragile or too damning to say.
And you realized, with a hollow sort of clarity, that this was always how it went.
You waited.
Waited for him to show up.
Waited for him to speak.
Waited for him to care enough to stay.
And you hated it.
You hated how familiar this ache had become.
How you were always reaching, always hoping, always waitingâfor a boy who never knew how to meet you halfway.
âFine.â
The word slipped out on a breath, quiet and frayed at the edges. You exhaled, blinking fast as the tears threatened to spill.
âI get it,â you said, voice trembling. âI really do.â
You turned to go, the ache pressing against your chest like a closing door. You were done waiting. Done hoping.
âWait, Iââ
His voice caught behind you, reachingâbut not quite enough.
But before he could finish, a group of students rounded the corner, their laughter echoing too loudly in the stillness. One of them spotted Sylus, grin spreading like gasoline to flame.
âYo, Sylus,â the guy called, eyes drifting to you. âWhoâs that? Your new girlfriend?â
You turned, slowly.
Looked at Sylus.
Waited.
For a second, he looked back at you. Something uncertain flickering in his gaze.
And thenâit was gone.
The smirk returned. That old, familiar armor snapping back into place. The kind of expression that kept people at a distance. The one he wore when he didnât know how to feel anything real.
âNo sheâs,â he said, voice light, casual. âJust someone.â
Just someone.
Your breath hitched, and you almost laughedâalmost.
Because of course heâd say that.
Of course heâd reduce you to nothing in front of his crowd.
You stared at him for a beat longer, letting the sting settle in your bones.
Then, with a scoff and a bitter smile curling at the corners of your mouth, âJust someone, huh? Well. I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.â
And you turned, walked away without looking back. Not this time. Not again.
He shouldâve stopped you.
Shouldâve said somethingâanything.
But he didnât.
He stood there, frozen, as his friends clapped him on the back, laughing, teasing.
And still, his eyes followed your retreating figure, even long after you were gone.
ââą
âSo,â your dad said as he sank into the couch beside you, stretching out with a groan, âwhat do you wanna do in your last summer here, kiddo?â
You looked up from your sketchbook, pencil paused between shading strokes. The question lingered in the air like dust caught in golden afternoon light. You tilted your head, thoughtful.
âI donât really know,â you murmured. âMaybe hang out with some friends⊠Zayneâs been bothering me about going to the movies.â
Your dad chuckled, reaching over to ruffle your hair before standing up again. âZayneâs a good kid,â he said, already walking toward the hallway. âYou should bring him over for dinner sometime.â
Then he winked.
You groaned, wrinkling your nose. âDad, gross.â
His laugh echoed back to you as he disappeared down the hall.
You turned your attention back to your sketchbook, dragging your pencil gently over the paper, shading the delicate wings of a butterfly. Lines and curves took shape beneath your hand, and you let out a quiet sigh.
It had been nearly two weeks since the clearing.
Since the last words spoken between you and Sylus.
Since just someone.
The days had blurred since thenâfinal exams, end-of-year photos, hallway laughter that didnât sting anymore.
Youâd spent those days with Zayne, sitting on the bleachers and dreaming out loud about the future. College. Change. Anything but the past.
And slowly, Sylus had begun to fade.
A little more each day.
His name didnât sting as much now.
You had your answer, after all. He gave it to you, plain and cold.
You werenât as important as you thought.
You were just someone.
Someone he had outgrown.
And maybe that hurt. Maybe it would always hurt, just a little.
But you didnât care. Not anymore.
You were leaving this town.
You were going to study art history.
You were going to build something newâsomething that didnât trace back to him.
Your phone buzzed beside you.
You glanced at the screen.
âI got us tickets. 7 p.m. Donât be late.â
You smiled, soft and small. Rolled your eyes.
âWhen have I ever been?â
Sliding off the couch, you made your way to the bathroom, the rhythm of familiarity steadying you. The shower was warm, the steam curling like comfort around your shoulders. You dressed, grabbed your bag, and headed toward the door.
âDad, Iâm heading out!â you called into the house, already pulling on your shoes.
A beat later, his voice echoed faintly back, âOkay!â
You smiled as you closed the door behind you.
The porch steps felt lighter beneath your feet.
The summer air smelled like new beginnings.
And you walked toward the theatreâskipping a little as you went.
But then⊠your footsteps slowed.
As if pulled by muscle memory rather than intent, you found yourself pausing in front of a house that once felt like a second home.
His house.
Sylusâ.
Your eyes drifted toward the front yard, overgrown in places now, the grass curling at the edges of the walkway. But you didnât see weeds or time.
You saw mud.
Splattered shoes. Dirty hands. Giddy chaos.
You saw yourself, younger, wilder, laughing so hard your sides ached.
âIâm the mud monster!â youâd screamed, arms flailing as you lunged toward a smaller Sylus, who let out a dramatic, fake shriek and ran. His laughter had echoed through the summer air, filling every corner of the yard like sunlight.
Your chest tightened.
You shook your head and started walking again, trying to leave it behind.
But then your gaze caught againâon the porch this time.
The swing.
Still there. Still creaking faintly in the breeze, swaying back and forth like someone had just left it.
You stopped again.
You could almost see itâthe two of you sitting side by side, pinkies linked like a vow only kids believed in. His shoulder brushing yours as the swing rocked lazily beneath you.
âI promise,â heâd said back then, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. âWeâll still be friends. I wonât turn into a jock.â
Heâd laughedâboyish and unguardedâbefore nudging you playfully. âIf you promise you wonât become a mean girl.â
Youâd snorted, flicking his arm. âUh, yeah. Sure. Me, a mean girl? Thatâs terrifying.â
You could almost hear it againâthe innocence, the hope. The sound of two hearts that thought theyâd always beat beside each other.
But that was a long time ago.
The swing creaked.
The porch sat empty.
And the boy who once made you promises now barely remembered how to say your name without making it hurt.
You blinked the memory away, swallowed hard, and turned back toward the road.
The past wasnât your home anymore.
And it was time to stop standing in its yard.
You were just about to turn the corner onto the main road, heart light with the thought of the evening aheadâwhen you stopped dead in your tracks.
Because there he was.
Sylus.
The very boy you had promised yourself you were done thinking about.
The ghost of every half-spoken word and every memory you tried to bury now stood, very real, very solid, right in front of you.
He towered above you like he always had, but something was different.
Red eyes met yoursâstill sharp, but dulled now. Hollowed out by something you didnât recognize. Or maybe⊠something you did.
His hair was tousled, styled but undone, like heâd been running. Like this wasnât where he intended to beâbut he ended up here anyway.
You couldnât speak.
Neither could he.
The silence stretched between you, trembling with everything you hadnât said.
And thenâhis voice, quiet. Rough. Almost like he forgot how to use it.
âHey.â
You blinked, breath catching.
âH-Hey,â you replied, and your voice felt too small, too tight in your throat.
Suddenly, your shoes were fascinating. You stared down, shuffling your feet slightly, hand rising to rub at the back of your neck, anything to ground yourself.
âHow long?â he asked, the question breaking through the stillness like a pebble tossed into water.
You looked up, slowly. The question caught you off guard, though you knew exactly what he meant.
âA week,â you answered, soft but honest.
He nodded. Just once. Looking down like he couldnât quite meet your eyes anymore.
âI see.â
Two words. So simple. So heavy.
The kind of heaviness that comes when itâs already too late.
You glanced down at your phone, checking the time.
Zayne was probably already at the theatre.
You hesitated for a moment, then looked up at Sylus againâat the boy who once felt like your whole world and now stood in front of you like a closed chapter you hadnât quite finished reading.
âHey, look, Iââ you started, the words catching for a beat before you steadied them with a breath.
Then you offered a small smile, one that didnât tremble this time.
âI donât care about all that anymore.â
His head snapped up.
His eyes searched yours, wide, startled. There was something in themâshock, disbelief, and something softer you couldnât name. Maybe regret. Maybe relief. Maybe it was both.
âIâm moving on,â you said quietly. âA new life and all that.â
You tucked your hands into your pockets, suddenly shy. âI just⊠I hope you get everything youâre looking for, Sylus.â
For a moment, the world seemed to pause around you.
Then, gently, you raised your hand in a small wave.
synopsis : Fate may draw the lines, but it is choice that colors the heart.
content : soulmate!au, zayne x reader x sylus, zayne x non-mc!reader, unrequited love, angst (light or not, you decide)
note : here is a short peek into readerâs life after the events of through the fire and red. This was super short because I kinda just ran out of ideas, forgive me loveliesđ„č
âOw,â you groaned softly as the tiny needle pricked your wrist.
A low chuckle came from beside you. Sylus leaned back in his chair, holding up his arm. âI already got yours tattooed. Besides, this was your idea.â
âI know,â you muttered, trying not to flinch. âBut it hurts.â
The tattoo artist grinned beneath her mask. âWonât be long now.â
âThatâs what you said thirty minutes ago,â you grumbled, earning laughter from both of them.
ââą
You stared at your wrist, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief.
There it was. His name. Sylus.
Written in bold black ink, permanent against your reddened skin.
Beside you, he smirked and slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you close without a word.
âHowâs it feel?â he asked.
You glanced up at him. âItchy.â
He laughed.
âAt least itâs my name,â he said, looking ahead with a rare softness in his voice.
You followed his gaze, then grinned, bumping your shoulder against his.
âYeah,â you said quietly. âI guess so.â
Suddenly, the world around you fell quiet.
The hum of the city faded into a comfortable stillness as you and Sylus walked side by side beneath the soft glow of the evening lights.
There was no rush. No need to fill the silence. Just the sound of your steps, the breeze brushing past, and the warmth of his hand resting gently at your waist.
He turned to you, eyes softer than usual, the sharp edges of his expression dulled by something quieter.
âHow are you feeling?â he asked.
You looked up to meet his gazeâthose deep crimson eyes that had once unsettled you, now familiar, mesmerizing.
You reached down, letting your hand rest atop his, grounding yourself in the moment.
âTo be honest,â you began, your voice calm, steady, âit was empty at first. I had to get used to not feeling the pull⊠the ache.â
You smiled gently, not bitter, just honest.
âBut Iâm here with you now. And itâs my choice.â
You paused, the weight of those words settling between you like a vow.
âItâs⊠liberating.â
Sylus said nothing at firstâjust looked at you, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours, steady and sure.
And in that silence, you both understood.
This wasnât fate.
It was something better.
You leaned your head gently against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as the quiet between you settled deeper.
âThank you,â you murmured.
A lazy smirk tugged at his lips.
âHavenât you thanked me enough?â he drawled, voice low, amused.
You chuckled softly, the sound warm against the cool evening air.
âI donât think a lifetime of âthank youâs will ever be enough.â
He glanced down at you, the teasing glint in his eyes softening just slightly.
âGood,â he said, a hint of fondness lacing his words.
âGuess Iâll stick around to collect them all.â
It had been almost a year since you walked away from it all.
The heartbreak.
The mark.
The unbearable weight of loving someone who could never choose you back.
Now, your days were quiet. Peaceful in ways they hadnât been in years.
Life with Sylus wasnât perfectânothing ever truly wasâbut it was real.
There were still nights when the past reached out with ghostly fingers.
Times when youâd turn away from his touch, not because you didnât want him, but because the emptiness still echoed too loud.
Your body had been trained to ache for someone else.
To mourn.
To burn.
Choosing Sylus hadnât been easy.
But he never rushed you. Never pulled when you needed space.
He waited. With the kind of patience only someone who understood pain could offer.
And little by little, you let yourself lean into him.
You let his hands steady you, his voice soothe the cracks, his presence remind you what it felt like to be wantedânot by fate, but by choice.
Now, there was no one you trusted more.
He knew you in ways no one else did.
He understood the quiet battles. The loneliness that crept in when the lights went out. The guilt that lingered like a scar.
And still, he stayed.
Not because he had to.
But because he chose to.
Just like you did.
Shaiya still called, every now and then.
The first time, you had finally felt strong enough to answer. To explain why youâd vanished without a word.
You remembered sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, the phone pressed against your ear as her voice broke on the other end.
She cried.
She apologizedâagain and againâfor something that was never hers to carry.
You had only listened.
Because what could you say?
That it hurt more to know she cared? That her kindness made the healing harder?
You never once blamed her. You never could.
But ZayneâŠ
You hadnât spoken to him. Not once.
Not because you didnât want to.
But because some things are better left untouchedâlike old letters in a drawer or wounds that have just stopped bleeding.
The surgery had taken away the physical painâthe pull, the burnâbut not the years of quiet devotion.
That kind of love didnât vanish with ink or tissue.
And that was enough.
For you, and for him.
Shaiya had mentioned they got married. No fanfare. Just a small gathering, vows exchanged quietly with people they trusted.
Youâd smiled faintly at the news.
âCongratulations,â youâd said softly, fingers brushing over Sylusâs as he sat beside you.
He didnât say anythingâjust watched you with that ever-present smirk, his thumb lazily tracing slow circles against your palm like he was reminding you of his presence.
And now, things were steady. Familiar. Whole.
Until Shaiyaâs voice rang from the other end of the call again, âIâm going to be in town for work. Do you wanna meet for coffee?â
You glanced at Sylus. Heâd already heard.
He arched an eyebrow, not saying a wordâjust letting you choose.
You smiled into the phone.
âSure. Iâd like that.â
Shaiya clapped, the sound muffled but full of joy. âOkay! See you soon!â
The call ended.
You lowered the phone, and Sylus leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder, his fingers still tangled with yours.
No questions. No tension. Just presence.
And for the first time in a long time, you were at peace with the past.
Your eyes drifted down to his wrist, to the place where your name was inked in dark, permanent linesâetched into him like a promise.
You reached out, running your finger over it gently, tracing each letter with a quiet kind of reverence.
âIâll never get used to seeing it,â you whispered, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
Sylus chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm as he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against the curve of your neck.
âI know,â he murmured, as if heâd been waiting for you to say it.
And you both stayed like thatâentwined in each otherâs warmth, your heartbeats slow and steady beneath the quiet hum of the room.
No strings pulled by fate.
No ache left behind.
Just two people, holding on.
Not fate.
Choice.
ââą
âSy, stop it.â
âWhat?â he replied innocently, even as his fingers continued their relentless missionâpinching your cheek with maddening precision.
âStop doing that!â you huffed, swatting at his hand, your pout deepening as you tried to glare at him.
He just laughed, completely unfazed. âHow intimidating,â he teased, his voice low and amused.
You groaned in defeat, crossing your arms dramatically as he leaned back, clearly proud of himself.
The two of you were sitting outside a quiet little coffee shop, tucked beneath a striped awning, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees.
You were waiting for Shaiya, but somehow, with Sylus next to you, it didnât feel like waiting at all.
Just another soft, easy momentâwith a side of cheek-pinching torment.
He only stopped when he caught movement from the corner of his eyeâShaiya, approaching with a bright smile and an excited wave, her footsteps light as always.
Sylus lowered his hand, finally releasing your cheek, though his signature lazy smirk remained firmly in place.
You turned at the same moment, catching the familiar warmth in her expression, and your features softened.
You lifted your hand to wave back, fondness blooming quietly in your chest.
Beside you, Sylus leaned back in his chair, still watching you, but now with something gentler behind the teasing glint in his eyesâlike he could see the weight of everything this meeting meant.
And for a moment, the world felt still again.
Steady. Safe.
You stood as she reached you, pulling her into a hug that was tighter than expectedâtight enough to steal a bit of your breath, but you welcomed it all the same.
âHow are you?â she asked, her voice laced with concern and hope all at once.
You pulled back just enough to smile, then glanced over your shoulder at Sylus, who was still lounging in his seat with one arm lifted in a lazy wave.
âNever been better,â you replied, the words easy, true.
Shaiyaâs face lit up, her smile blooming wide as she took your hand and gave it a squeeze.
Then the three of you sat, the air light with something like peace.
No ghosts. No ache.
Just the quiet comfort of healing, and how far youâd come.
âZayne couldnât come,â Shaiya said, reaching into her bag, âbut he asked me to give you this.â
She placed a small box on the table in front of you.
You stared at it, unmoving. First at the box, then up at her, then finally at Sylus.
He met your gaze calmly, offering only a small shrug, as if to say, Itâs okay. If you want to open it, do.
With a steadying breath, you lifted the lid.
Your fingers stilled.
Inside was your doctorâs tag.
The one you hadnât seen since the day you left. The one you were sure had been lost in the shuffle of your quiet escape.
Your breath caught.
Shock flickered across your face, tangled with confusion.
Shaiyaâs expression softened. âHe said youâd need it. If youâre going away.â
Your eyes lifted to hers again, searching.
She smiled gently. âHe had me search your old apartment top to bottom to find it.â
You looked down at the tag again, the weight of it suddenly heavier than its size should allow.
Memories pressed at the edges, but beside you, Sylus reached out under the table, resting his hand on your kneeâgrounding, steady.
You exhaled.
Not everything had to hurt.
Some things could just be part of the journey you left behind.
And maybe, a small piece of it could come with you as you moved forward.
You understood what he meant.
This was his way of saying goodbyeâquietly, gently.
Of apologising, to tell you heâs let go.
There was no letter, no grand parting speech. Just a small, familiar tag. A memory returned, so you could finally move forward without looking back.
You blinked back the emotion gathering in your chest and turned to Shaiya with a soft, grateful smile.
âThank you,â you whispered.
She only nodded, eyes warm and knowing.
And beside you, Sylus gave your hand a gentle squeezeâno words needed.
You were free now.
And finally, you were ready to be.
ââą
Soon, you returned to work.
It felt strange at firstâstepping back into that world, but something inside you had settled. Healed.
With your resume and years of experience, the hospital welcomed you without hesitation. Chief surgeon. Yeah, just like that.
You were still wrapping your head around it when Sylus let something slip, far too casually, over dinner.
âI might have made a few calls,â he said, swirling the wine in his glass with a smug tilt of his head.
You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously.
âYouâre full of secrets, arenât you?â you teased, leaning forward. âFirst, you lied about your soul mark. Then you decided to casually reveal that you own this city.â
He arched a brow, unbothered.
âIs there more I should know?â you asked, grinning.
He smirked, that signature lazy curl of his lips.
âOh, probably.â
He leans in close.
âLike how Iâm exceptionally good in bed,â he said with a straight face, though his eyes gleamed with mischief.
You didnât miss a beat. âI know that already.â
He smirked, undeterred. âHow I ride bikes?â
You raised a brow. âThat too.â
He leaned in closer, grinning now. âThen that means you know everything already.â
You chuckled, resting your chin in your hand as you met his gaze.
âHardly,â you said, lips curling into a smirk of your own. âYouâre an open book with missing pages, Sylus.â
He tilted his head, clearly amused. âGuess youâll just have to keep reading, wonât you?â
You tilt your head back laughing as he smirks at you.
Your heart felt warm.
There was someone who finally saw you.
And you arenât ever letting that go.
Soul marks be damned.
That night, as you lay in bed with Sylus, wrapped in the quiet hush of the room, you couldnât remember a time youâd felt more at peace.
His arm was around you, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek in a slow, steady rhythm. You listened to the sound of his heartbeatâcalm, unwaveringâlike the world outside couldnât touch you here.
Then, you felt the soft press of his lips against your wrist.
You let out a quiet chuckle, warmth blooming in your chest. âWhat are you doing?â
He smiled against your skin, not lifting his head. âKissing my name,â he murmured, voice low and fond. âThe one thatâs on my love.â
Your breath caught.
And for a moment, the world disappeared.
Just his voice, his touch, and the way your heart skipped a beatâreminding you that this, here, with him, was real.
Not fate.
Not obligation.
But love.
Chosen, freely and entirely.
âSy?â
He turned to you instantly, eyes softening the moment they met yoursâgentle, steady, like he was always ready to listen when it came to you.
âYeah?â
You hesitated for only a breath, then reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his cheek.
âI love you,â you whispered.
The words settled in the space between you like they belonged there.
His eyes didnât widen. He didnât freeze.
He just smiled. Slow, warm, and so full of something that made your heart ache in the best way.
âI know,â he murmured, voice quiet with affection. âIâve been waiting to hear that.â
And he pulled you closerâlike you were already home.
synopsis : Fate chose another, but his heart never stopped choosing you.
content : soulmate!au, zayne x reader x sylus, zayne x non-mc!reader, unrequited love, angst (light or not, you decide)
read : through the fire
Shaiya
Zayne stared at the name etched into his skin, barely brushing his fingers over the letters as if touching it would somehow make it less real.
Silence crashed around him like a wave. The world dimmed.
No, he thought, chest tightening. It shouldâve been her name.
Yours.
He wanted to claw at it, to tear it off and rewrite the universe.
But all he did was stareâstill, quiet, unreadable. His face gave nothing away, though his heart was screaming.
You didnât cry when he told you.
He had expected the silence. Maybe even anger.
But not the way you reached for him, pulling him into a soft embrace as if you were the one offering comfort.
As if you were the one letting go.
You smiled.
And that broke him in ways he couldnât explain.
He held you too tightly for a moment too long, afraid that if he let go, everything between you would unravel.
Then he forced a smileâcalm, polite, practiced. Like he was happy. Like this wasnât the end of something sacred.
But he wasnât.
He didnât love Shaiyaânot then. There was no spark, no fireworks when he first saw her in the park.
There was just you.
You, with your quiet steadiness, your silent understanding. You, who noticed every flicker of emotion on his face, even when no one else did. You, who knew how to wait through his silences.
But something kept pulling him back to Shaiya. A whisper in his gut. A gravitational force he couldnât explain.
So he went.
And when she laughed, something in him stirred. When she smiled, he felt breathless. Her presence, soft and bright, wrapped around him like a tether he hadnât asked forâbut couldnât ignore.
It wasnât like with you.
With you, it was slow, quiet, real.
With her, it was suddenâlike being caught in a current he couldnât swim against.
And yet, even as he sat beside Shaiya, laughing at something she said, he couldnât stop his thoughts from drifting.
Back to you.
Back to the way you smiled without expectation. Back to the warmth of your hug.
Back to everything he was afraid heâd just lost.
ââą
âZayne? You there?â
He jolted upright at the sound of Shaiyaâs voice through the phone, pulled sharply from the spiral of thoughts he hadnât realized heâd fallen into.
He cleared his throat, forcing steadiness into his voice. âYeah. SorryâI was signing some reports.â
A lie, smooth and effortless.
Shaiya laughed lightly, the sound soft through the speaker.
âItâs okay.â
Then, after a beat, her tone shifted, quieter. Concerned. âIâm a little worried about Y/N. Sheâs been⊠distant lately.â
That made him still. Completely.
âWhat do you mean?â he asked, voice low. His fingers curled against the edge of the desk.
Shaiya hesitated. âShe spaces out sometimes. When I talk to her, she smiles but it doesnât reach her eyes. I caught her clutching her wrist the other dayâI think she might be hurt, but she brushed it off.â
Zayne didnât hear the rest. Her voice faded under the weight of his thoughts.
How hadnât he noticed?
You, the one person he thought he always saw clearly. The one whose silences he understood. Heâd been so caught in the chaos of his own confusion that he hadnât seen you unraveling in the quiet.
He swallowed, guilt settling in like a stone. âIâll talk to her,â he murmured.
âOkay,â Shaiya replied, her voice soft again. âIâm heading to bed nowâearly shift tomorrow. Donât forget to eat after yours.â
The line disconnected, and silence bloomed in the space it left behind.
He sat for a moment, staring at nothing. Then he stood.
Before he could talk himself out of it, his feet carried him across the corridor.
He stopped in front of your door. Raised his hand. Hesitated.
Did you have a mark yet?
The thought hit him like a wave.
And somewhereâdeep and cruel and honestâa voice inside him whispered that he hoped you didnât. That maybe, if fate had overlooked you too, youâd still stay.
That youâd still look at him the way you always had.
That he wouldnât lose you completely.
But even he knew that was selfish.
So he knocked, softly.
No reply.
The door creaked open.
He stepped inside, meaning to call your name, to ask if you were alrightâbut the words never made it past his lips.
You were asleep, curled up at your desk, your breathing steady. Peaceful.
And then he saw it.
A flash of red ink on your wrist.
His name.
His breath caught.
Everything in him stilled.
Thisâthis wasnât how it was supposed to go.
His name was on your skin. In red. And he hadnât even known.
He stumbled back like the air had turned to fire, his legs moving before he could think.
The door slammed behind him as he pressed his back against it, chest rising and falling in erratic waves.
Thatâs why.
Thatâs why youâd been pulling away. Why you smiled like it hurt. Why you never said a word.
Because it did hurt.
And all this time, heâd been too blind to see it.
Tears stung his eyes, blurring the fluorescent lights of his office as he clenched his fists at his sides.
You had been burning alone. Crying alone.
And now that he knewâ
There was still nothing he could do.
ââą
He saw you.
It was lateâclose to midnightâwhen he stepped out of his car, bone-tired from another shift.
The streets were quiet, bathed in the soft yellow haze of flickering streetlamps.
And there you were.
Leaving your apartment, coat hastily thrown on, arms folded tightly around yourself like you were holding yourself together.
Zayne froze, half in the shadow of the trees lining the sidewalk.
He meant to call out. Your name was already on the tip of his tongue.
But then he saw your face.
Not just the weariness, but something sharperâsomething broken.
Sadness. Anger. Resignation.
And suddenly, he couldnât speak.
Because he knewâ
He knew it was because of him.
So he stayed silent.
Just watched.
He followed your steps with his eyes as you crossed the street, your pace slow, unsteady.
The city was quiet around you, but inside, you were a storm. He could see it. He felt it in the way your shoulders sank.
You disappeared into the dim glow of a small pub tucked between closed storefronts.
He didnât go in.
He stood across the street, leaning against the hood of his car like a coward, watching through the window as you made your way to the bar.
Sluggish. Heavy.
He saw your hand signal the bartender. Saw the first drink vanish. Then the second. Then the third.
His chest tightened with every empty glass.
Because it was his fault.
He was the reason you were unraveling one drink at a time. The reason your mark burned red with his name while he bore someone elseâs in black.
Thenâ
He saw him.
A stranger. Tall. Pale hair that glinted under the barâs low lighting.
Zayneâs breath caught as he watched the man slide onto the stool beside you, say something with a smile, and slide across a piece of paper.
He saw your smile falter. Saw the pain flicker across your features like lightning.
Saw the way your body flinched, just barely, like a wound had been pressed too hard.
And Zayne saw it all.
Every agonizing detail.
But he didnât move.
Didnât cross the street. Didnât pull open the door.
He couldnât.
Because what would he say?
What right did he have?
He stood there, paralyzed in the dark, watching you turn away from the man politely, watching you order another drink with trembling fingers.
And he hated himself more with every breath.
ââą
Two days later, he stepped into your office.
The door clicked softly behind him, and for a moment, he simply stood thereâwatching you work, your shoulders tense, eyes tired in that way only he seemed to notice.
He cleared his throat gently. âLong day?â
His voice was calm, casual, as he placed a cup of coffee on your desk like it was just another routine between colleagues.
You looked up and offered him a smileâsoft, warm, as if nothing had changed. As if nothing had shattered between you.
âThanks,â you said quietly, fingers curling around the warmth of the cup.
It hurt.
Because he saw it nowâwhat heâd missed before.
The subtle flinch when your skin brushed the sleeve of your sweater.
The split-second delay in your smile. The way you didnât quite meet his eyes.
He swallowed. The words slipped out before he could stop them.
âI saw you out. Two nights ago.â
The air shifted.
You stilled for a fraction of a second, but didnât look away.
He wished he hadnât said it, but he couldnât help himself. He wasnât just worried. He was jealous.
His jaw tightened as he brought his coffee to his lips. âWere you drinking again?â
His voice crackedâjust barelyâbut enough to betray him.
You blinked. Then turned your gaze to the window, your voice barely above a whisper.
âJust needed some air. Thatâs all.â
And then, as if your body hadnât yet caught up with your lie, your fingers drifted down, brushing against your wristâso faintly it wouldâve gone unnoticed.
But he saw it.
He always saw you.
He opened his mouth, something sharp and aching rising in his throat.
But he bit it back.
The truth. The apology. The longing.
None of it would fix what fate had done.
So he stepped back.
âDonât overwork yourself,â he said, turning on his heel before the tremble in his voice could betray him again.
And he walked away.
Because what else could he say?
When it was his name on your wrist.
And someone elseâs on his.
ââą
A week later, he stood motionless in his office, staring blankly at the floor.
Shaiyaâs voice still echoed in his ears.
âShe found her soulmate.â
His heart didnât sinkâit clenched. Like something inside him had braced for a blow and still wasnât ready for the impact.
He didnât believe it.
Not for a second.
Because he knew you.
Knew the kind of lies people told when they were trying to protect themselves from pain.
Before reason could stop him, his body had already moved. He found himself standing in front of your office again, just like he had so many times beforeâonly now there was something different clinging to the air.
A desperation he couldnât admit.
He wanted to shake you. To ask why.
Why you were doing this to yourself. To him.
Why you were pretending this didnât hurt when everything in your eyes told him otherwise.
But he said none of that.
Instead, he knocked gently and stepped in.
You looked up at him, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.
Because you smiled. Small. Warm.
As if nothing had changed.
As if it didnât ache.
And that only made it worse.
âI heard from Shaiya,â he said, voice low, too even. âYou found him?â
You nodded, the gesture soft, almost apologetic. âYeah.â
His mouth parted slightly, like there was something he needed to sayâbut the words caught halfway.
âThatâs⊠good,â he said finally. But the pause before the word good was a wound all on its own.
It hung in the air. Heavy.
And it wasnât joy that colored his tone. Not even relief.
There was something else.
You blinked, startled by the hollowness of it. âIs everything okay?â
Zayne looked at you, long and quiet, his gaze searching your face like it held an answer to something he couldnât name.
Then, slowly, the mask returned.
A neutral expression. The kind he wore in operating rooms. In grief.
âYes,â he replied, forcing the edges of his mouth to lift. âIâm just⊠glad for you.â
But even you could hear it.
The tremor beneath the stillness. The way glad didnât quite land.
Silence stretched.
Zayne looked away for a moment, then backâeyes flickering with something raw, something not yet buried deep enough.
And stillâhe said nothing.
Because what could he say, when it was his name on your skinâ
And someone elseâs story you were trying to live?
When Zayne stepped out of your office, his chest tight and throat dry, he nearly walked past himâ
The man from the bar.
Tall, silver-haired, with that same calm presence that had unsettled him days ago.
This time, he stood waiting. Expecting him.
âIâm Sylus,â the man said coolly, offering nothing more than his nameâbecause he knew it was enough.
Zayne stopped mid-stride.
His eyes widened for a brief second before narrowing into something colder. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
He remembered that night.
The flash of your pain. The way Sylus had leaned in, close but careful, like he knew exactly how much space to take.
Zayneâs jaw tightened.
âTake care of her,â he said, voice sharp but restrained. Controlled. Like a blade held at the throat but never pressed in.
Then he turned without waiting for a reply, shoulders stiff, the weight of what he couldnât say trailing behind him like a shadow.
But if he had stayed just a second longerâ
He wouldâve seen it.
The slow, knowing smirk tugging at Sylusâs lips.
Not arrogant, not mockingâjust assured.
A look that said he would.
And maybe even more than thatâ
That he already was.
ââą
The hospital hallway was quiet at this hourâjust the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of distant footsteps.
Zayne stood alone in the on-call room, the door shut behind him, the walls far too close.
He leaned against the locker, head tipped back, eyes closed.
But the silence wasnât peace.
It was suffocating.
She found someone.
She said she found her soulmate.
The words circled in his mind like vultures, tearing into the edges of his restraint.
He clenched his fists, breathing slowâtoo slow, like he was trying to stay afloat in his own chest.
Sylus.
The name had weight now. It wasnât just a stranger from the bar anymoreâit was someone you had chosen. Someone who made you smile, even through the ache.
Someone who could stand beside you without carrying the guilt Zayne did.
His hand lifted without thinking, pressing to his chest like he could calm the sharp, twisting ache there.
He didnât understand it.
Why did the mark choose Shaiya?
Why not her?
Why not you?
Because if the universe had any sense of justice, it wouldâve branded your name into his skin.
Not someone elseâs.
Not someone he had to learn to care about.
Not someone who wasnât you.
Zayne sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair.
His shoulders hunched in on himself, like the weight of everything was finally catching up.
All the moments heâd brushed aside.
The quiet hurt in your eyes.
The way you smiled like you were trying to protect him.
He remembered the night he saw you drinking, the way you flinched when Sylus got too close, the pain you thought no one saw.
And he had done nothing.
He had stood there, watching.
Helpless.
His name was on your wrist. In red.
And it didnât matter.
Because fate had already played its cruel jokeâand he had laughed along with it, pretending he could live with it. Pretending he was fine.
But he wasnât.
He had spent so long mastering silence, mastering stillnessâhe didnât know how to fight for something that wasnât supposed to be his.
His breath trembled, a rare crack in the mask he wore even when no one was watching.
He wanted to scream.
To demand answers from whatever force had decided this was how the story would end.
But all he could do was sit there.
In a quiet room.
With your name echoing like a phantom in his chest.
synopsis : In a world where soulmate marks appear on your skin, yours arrives in redâthe color of unrequited love. And the name written there is the last one you ever wanted to see: Zayne.
content : soulmate!au, unrequited love, angst
You stared at the name scrawled in red across your forearm.
Zayne.
So small. So cruel. So final.
Your breath caught in your throat, a trembling whisper slipping past your lips.
âWhy is it his?â
The question barely made a sound, yet it rang loud in the silence of your apartment, echoing off the sterile white walls and the clinical smell of hospital-grade soap still lingering on your skin.
You pressed your palm over the name like you could smudge it away.
But red ink never fades. It brands.
It condemns.
A red soulmate mark.
You had seen the pamphlets beforeâthose rare anomalies that happen once in a few hundred thousand people.
The ones born defective, the ones whose soulmates were already claimed by someone else.
Fated to ache. Fated to long. Fated to never be loved back.
You always thought it was tragic in a distant, abstract sort of way.
Until now.
Until it was his name.
Until it was Zayne.
Your Zayne.
Your friend. Your colleague.
The man who offered you coffee the day you transferred, when everyone else couldnât be bothered to remember your name.
The one who knew when your hands shook after a 12-hour surgery and would silently leave your favorite chocolate mousse in the breakroom fridge.
The one who walked you home after night shifts, even though his apartment was one floor above yours.
The one you tried not to love.
You tried.
God, you tried.
Because his mark had already appeared months agoâin black. Like it was supposed to. Permanent. True. Undeniable.
You remembered how he told you.
How he looked almost dazed, fingers brushing over his skin like he couldnât believe he was lucky enough to find her.
You had smiled. You had said you were happy for him. You had even helped him pick out a gift for their anniversary.
And maybe you were happy.
A small, pure part of you had been.
But the rest of you was bleeding.
But you didnât expect this.
You didnât expect the universe to be so cruel.
Because months later, your body chose him.
As if fate wanted to mock you.
As if it wanted you to watch him belong to someone else, forever just one floor above you, one breath out of reach.
Red meant doomed.
Red meant defect.
Red meant you would love someone who was never yours to begin with.
Your fingers trembled as you traced over the ink again.
You imagined what it would feel like to show him.
To watch his face crumble, or worseâpity you. To be told, gently and with unbearable softness, that he loved someone else.
That his heart already belonged to the woman whose name was etched into his skin in perfect, black permanence.
You would never be that name.
You would never be enough.
So you rolled down your sleeve and turned away from the mirror.
The name still burned beneath the fabric.
And in the quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to breakâsilently, like you always did.
Because even the stars knew.
You were never meant to be loved.
Only to love.
ââą
Day by day, you saw him.
In break rooms and bustling hallways, beside you during rounds, across you during late-night debriefs.
He was always thereâsmiling softly, offering you coffee in the way only he knew you liked it.
Asking about your day with that quiet warmth that made your chest ache.
He never noticed the way your fingers twitched when you took the cup.
Never saw how you always kept your sleeves pulled just a little too low.
Never questioned the stiffness in your smile.
It had been months.
You had become an expert at hiding the truthâan actress in your own life, wearing ease like armor.
You laughed when he teased you.
Teased him back when he tried to guess your soulmateâs identity.
âHe probably doesnât live around here,â youâd say with a light shrug, the same one youâd perfected in the mirror.
And heâd nod, gentle and non-intrusive, never the type to pry.
And maybe that made it worse.
That he was kind.
That he was always kind.
His soulmate didnât make things any easier either.
She was bright, and sweet, and unbearably thoughtful. The kind of person you couldnât bring yourself to hate, even if it would make surviving this easier.
She brought you takeout after long shifts, remembered your favorite boba order, got you a little potted plant for your birthday and left a sticky note on your locker that read, âFor when life gets too sterile.â
Just like now.
You sit quietly at your desk, the hospital gone still with night, overhead lights buzzing low.
The sky outside is a deep, velvet black, rain tapping gently against the window.
She hums softly as she unpacks the sushi she brought, setting it out like you were her little sister she needed to fuss over.
âYou need to eat properly,â she scolds, her voice warm, mothering.
You smile up at her, gratitude in your eyes.
You mean it. You really do.
Even as your wrist pulses beneath your sleeveâraw, restless, unbearably red.
Even as your soul screams a name it can never say aloud.
You thank her.
You eat.
And you pretend not to feel the burn.
âAny luck yet?â she asks gently, nodding toward your wrist as she takes a sip of water.
You follow her gaze, pulse ticking beneath the fabric, and force a smile that doesnât quite reach your eyes.
âNo,â you say, voice light, practiced. âMaybe Iâm just destined to be alone.â
A half-truth.
The kind that slips out easily when the full one is too cruel to name.
Because what could you say?
That the name on your wrist has been there for months?
That it burns with a devotion that will never be returned?
That itâs his nameâher soulmateâs nameâwritten in red?
That while she buys you dinner and worries over your health, your heart quietly bleeds for the man who kisses her forehead and saves his smiles for her?
So instead, you say nothing.
You stir the soy sauce into your rice and let the lie settle between youâgentle, unspoken, and unbearable.
She offers you a sympathetic smile, her voice soft with well-meaning hope.
âYouâll meet him someday.â
And there it is.
The ache.
Low and sharp, blooming beneath your ribs like something cruel and familiar.
You nod, because itâs easier than telling the truth.
Because sheâs looking at you with such kindness, such sincerityânever realizing that her comfort is the wound.
She doesnât know.
She canât.
That youâve already met him.
That heâs just down the hall, finishing up his reports, waiting to walk her home.
That the universe gave you a name and then watched you unravel.
So you smile again.
The kind that feels more like a wince.
âYeah,â you whisper. âMaybe.â
ââą
âIâll see you around, Y/N.â
She smiles, radiant and unaware, her arm wrapped easily around his as the two of you stand face to face.
Your mark flares beneath your sleeve, a slow, burning throb that pulls your eyes to where her hand restsâlight, familiar, rightâagainst his.
And Zayneâ
He looks down at her like she hung the stars.
With that quiet kind of fondness that once lived in his gaze for you, before the universe chose to remind you of your place.
Before the mark.
Before everything changed.
He told you once, in passing, how they met.
At a park. A lost puppy.
Heâd helped her look for it, stayed with her until it was found. Said it felt ordinary. Nothing sparked then.
Not until a week later, when her name bloomed black on his wrist.
You remember the way his voice softened when he said it.
âShaiya.â
Like it meant something holy.
Like it made sense.
You had smiled back then too.
And you do it again now, a practiced expression, polished by months of pretending.
âYeah,â you say, voice steady. âSee you.â
She waves, content.
Zayne glances at you, just for a secondâjust long enough for your heart to betray you.
Then they turn.
And youâre left behind.
As always.
Your mark burns again as you watch them walk awayâslow, steady, inseparable.
It always flares like this when you start to ache for him.
When you let yourself want him, even for a moment.
As if fate itself is reprimanding you.
As if the pain is a reminder: You were never meant to be his.
Just a defect. A flaw in the system.
But you ignore it.
Youâve learned how to live with fire under your skin.
Instead, you cling to the memoriesâthe ones that feel softer in hindsight, even if they hurt now.
âI hope your name appears on my wrist someday,â heâd said once, offhandedly, turning his head to glance at you with a quiet smile.
You had laughed, heart skipping despite yourself.
âIf I was your soulmate, youâd probably end up with a headache from dealing with me.â
It was meant as a joke. Lighthearted.
But nowâ
Now, it tastes like irony.
Because it did appear.
Your name did show up.
Just not where it was supposed to.
Not on him.
ââą
You didnât quite know how you ended up here.
Maybe it was the silence of your apartment. Maybe it was the way your wrist still throbbed beneath your sleeve like a wound that wouldnât close.
Or maybeâjust maybeâyou were tired of pretending you were okay.
So you found yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind where no one asked questions and the music was low enough to disappear into.
You sat near the bar, shoulders hunched in a way you hadnât noticed until your reflection caught you in the mirror.
One hand wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the other idly pushing ice cubes in lazy circles.
âHereâs to unrequited love,â you mutter to no one, raising your glass like a toast to the cruel stars above.
You take a slow sip. Let the burn settle in your throat. Let yourself feel itâjust for tonight.
Thenâ
A scent. Sharp. Clean.
Masculine and strangely grounding, like rain on stone.
It hits you all at once.
And before you can turn, an arm slides across the bar beside youâunhurried, confident.
He settles into the stool next to yours like it was always meant to be his.
You catch a glimpse.
Whiteâno, silverâhair catches the low light. Almost too perfect. Almost otherworldly.
âGin. On the rocks,â he says, voice low and smooth, like smoke rolling over velvet.
You glance at him, just for a moment.
And somehow, you felt drawn.
You let your gaze drift to the stranger beside you, curiosity outweighing caution.
He was striking in a way that demanded attentionâdangerous, almost.
Red eyes, sharp and unflinching, stared ahead with the kind of focus that made the world seem like background noise to him.
His hair was a mess of white-silver strands, tousled and unruly, falling just above his brows like they had been kissed by moonlight.
And his mouthâcurved in an easy, knowing smirkâlooked as though it had never forgotten how to charm.
As if he was always just about to say something wicked.
There was an ease in the way he occupied the space, like he wasnât merely sitting at the barâbut claiming it.
You stared a beat too long.
And thenâ
A sharp sting.
Your mark flared beneath your sleeve, searing hot.
You flinched, barely, teeth gritting as the pain sliced through the moment like glass.
Of course.
Even nowâeven with someone like him sitting beside youâthe universe couldnât let you forget.
You were still branded.
Still trapped.
Still hopelessly tethered to someone who would never be yours.
And the burn beneath your skin felt like fate laughing.
You cursed under your breath, the word slipping out low and bitter as the sting pulsed through your wrist like a cruel reminder.
You took another sip, letting the whiskey scorch its way down, hoping it would dull somethingâanything.
It didnât.
Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him shift.
The stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for those crimson eyes to find you.
There was something unreadable in his gazeâsharp, deliberate.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just⊠intrigued.
âRough night?â he asked, voice low and laced with dry amusement.
You didnât answer right away.
Just stared into your glass, watching the ice crack quietly beneath the amber.
âSomething like that,â you muttered, not looking at him.
But he didnât look away.
And somehow, you felt seen.
Not pitied. Not judged. Just⊠noticed.
Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, someone wasnât looking through you.
He chuckles, a low, rough sound that wraps around the edges of your exhaustion like velvet trimmed in iron.
âSame here,â he murmurs, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking a slow sip of his gin.
Thereâs a beat of silence.
ThenââIâm Sylus,â he says, turning slightly to face you now.
Thereâs something in the way he says itâeasy, but deliberate. Like his name is a secret he only offers to a select few. Like heâs giving you a choice. To take it or donât.
You glance at him again.
That silver hair, those red eyes. The quiet confidence that radiates off him in waves.
He doesnât ask for your name.
He just waits.
And for reasons you donât fully understand, you give it.
âY/N,â you say quietly, your voice barely above the clink of glass and the murmur of conversations behind you.
Sylus nods, as if the name fits. As if he already knew.
âNice to meet you, Y/N,â he says, and somehow, it doesnât feel empty.
Somehow, it feels like the night has started over.
You blink slowly, eyes fixed on the amber swirl in your glass.
âAll my nights are rough,â you murmur, your lips curving into a tired, self-deprecating smile. âNot just this one.â
You take another sip, let the warmth settle into your bones like armor.
Beside you, Sylus raises a browâcurious, maybe, but respectful. He doesnât ask. Doesnât press.
And somehow, thatâs more comforting than if he had.
So you both sit there, shoulder to shoulder, in a silence that feels oddly natural.
Not forced. Not heavy.
Just⊠there.
The sting on your wrist begins to fade, slowlyâlike a held breath finally exhaled.
Maybe itâs the alcohol.
Maybe itâs his presence.
Maybe itâs just that for once, you donât feel so unbearably alone.
A sudden courage bubbles upâliquid and reckless.
You keep your eyes forward, voice casual.
âWhat do you think of people with red marks?â
You feel him glance your way.
Thereâs a pause. Barely a second. But in it, something passesâsomething unsaid.
He seems a little surprised by the question, but his expression remains unchanged. Calm. Measured.
âI wouldnât know,â he says after a sip of his gin. âMineâs never shown.â
He shrugs like it means nothing. Like fate hasnât touched him at all.
And somehow, you envy that.
âGood for you,â you say, a little too flat, a little too bitter around the edges.
A beat of silence follows.
Thenâa chuckle, low and quiet, rumbles from his chest.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
Just⊠amused.
Knowing.
âInteresting,â is all he says.
The word lingers between you, heavier than it should be.
Like heâs already pieced something together. Like he sees more than you intended to show.
You donât look at him, but you feel his presence beside youâsteady, unbothered.
As if your pain isnât a burden here.
As if your broken pieces donât make you harder to hold, only more worth noticing.
And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesnât feel so tight.
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and a penâmoves smooth, unhurried.
You watch as he scribbles something down, his handwriting sharp and elegant, like everything about him.
Then he slides it across the bar toward you, the paper curling slightly at the corners as it stops in front of your glass.
He doesnât look at you right awayâjust takes another sip of his gin, eyes still trained on the bottles lined across the shelves.
âI am fully aware of stranger danger,â he drawls, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, âbut do call if you need⊠company.â
His voice lingers on the last word, smoky and deliberate.
Not suggestive.
Not empty.
Just a quiet offering from one broken night to another.
You glance down at the number.
It looks oddly out of place between your fingersâthis small, absurd lifeline.
But itâs there.
And so is he.
You give a small, tired smile, the kind that doesnât reach your eyes but feels a little more genuine than the others tonight.
âMaybe I will,â you say, tucking the slip of paper between your fingers like a secret.
He doesnât respond, but thereâs a glint in his crimson eyes as he raises his glass, as if to toast to unspoken things.
To bruised hearts.
To broken fates.
To strangers who feel a little less like strangers.
You both drink in silence after that, letting the night bleed slow and quiet around you.
No questions. No confessions.
Just the comfort of existing beside someone who doesnât ask you to pretend.
When you finally step back into your apartment, the stillness greets you like an old friend.
Familiar. Too familiar.
You loosen your coat, kick off your shoes, and sit at the edge of your bed, the quiet pressing in.
The mark on your wrist is calm nowâdormant, for once.
You pull the slip of paper from your pocket, smoothing the crease with your thumb.
Sylus.
You murmur the name to yourself, letting it linger in the dark.
As if, maybe this time, fate might finally listen.
ââą
You sigh, long and weary, as you sink into your desk chair.
Every part of you achesâyour back, your hands, your mind.
Eight hours in the operating room, eight hours of focus and tension and the weight of someone elseâs life resting in your palms.
You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around you.
Thenâ
A knock at the door.
Soft. Familiar.
Before you can even answer, it opens just enough to let him in.
Zayne.
His dark hair falls slightly into his hazel-green eyes, coat still dusted with rain from outside.
He walks in with quiet purpose, holding out a paper cupâyour usual coffee order, still warm.
âLong day?â he asks, voice calm and steady, like always.
Your chest tightens.
And then it comesâthe burn.
That same, awful heat radiating from your wrist, seeping into your bones.
You clench your jaw, forcing a tired smile as you take the cup from him.
âThanks,â you murmur, hoping your fingers donât brush too long against his.
He doesnât notice the wince you try to hide.
Doesnât see how tightly youâre holding your sleeve.
Because to him, itâs just kindness.
To you, itâs agony.
You both sit in silence, the kind that would feel companionable if it didnât ache so much.
The coffee sits warm between your hands, grounding you in the momentâkeeping you from unraveling.
Then he speaks.
âI saw you out two nights ago.â
His tone is casual, but thereâs something underneath itâcuriosity, maybe. Concern, even.
You glance at him.
He doesnât look at you. Just takes a sip from his own cup, as if the words donât mean much.
âWere you drinking again?â
You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the paper cup.
The truth sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspoken.
You look down at your wrist, still hidden beneath your sleeve, the phantom sting of the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat.
So many things you could say.
Yes. Because pretending Iâm fine all the time is exhausting.
Because I watched you walk away with her again and smiled like it didnât kill me.
Because my mark wonât stop burning, and I donât know how to live with this kind of love.
But instead, you offer a small shrug.
âJust needed some air,â you say quietly. âThatâs all.â
A lie.
But itâs one he wonât press.
Because he trusts you.
Because he doesnât know.
He gives you that small, familiar smileâthe one that always undoes you more than it should.
âDonât overwork yourself,â he says softly, like itâs second nature to worry about you.
Then he turns, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you with the smell of coffee, the echo of his voice, and the quiet devastation heâll never see.
Your fingers curl around the cup.
Tight. Too tight.
As if holding on to something will keep you from breaking.
But your mark burns hotter now, searing through your skin like punishment.
As if itâs angry.
As if itâs jealous.
And for a moment, you wonder why it hasnât bled.
Why it doesnât just split open and spill all this hurt onto the floor where everyone can finally see it.
âStop being so kind to me,â you whisper into the silence, your voice shaking.
But thereâs no one left to hear it.
Only the sterile hum of the lights overhead, and the sound of your heart breakingâquiet and familiarâas tears trace down your cheeks, uninvited and unstoppable.
Somehow, without really thinking, you found yourself at his doorstep.
The city was quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, your coat clutched tight around you like it could hold the pieces of you together.
Your wrist still ached beneath your sleeve, raw and restless, but you had long since stopped trying to soothe it.
Sylus had texted you the address after your callâshort, clipped, and straightforward, like him.
And now youâre here, standing in front of a door you never expected to seek out, uncertain of what youâre hoping to find on the other side.
Healing?
Distraction?
A place where your mark doesnât matter?
You raise your hand to knock, hesitating for a moment as your breath fogs in the cold.
Then, before you can lose the nerve, your knuckles meet wood.
One. Two. Three quiet raps.
A pause.
Then the door clicks open.
And there he isâSylus.
Silver hair a little messier than usual, a glass still in his hand, red eyes sharp but softer than youâve ever seen them.
No questions. No judgment.
ââą
He didnât say a word.
Just nodded once, slow and understanding, and led you inside.
Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of his worn leather couch, a respectful distance apart, the fire crackling gently between you like a heartbeat neither of you wants to claim.
The room is dim, shadows dancing along the walls, the only light coming from the flicker of flames and the occasional glint in Sylusâs eyes when he turns his head slightly to look at youâthen away again.
Youâre still.
Tired.
The kind of tired that no sleep could ever fix.
The tears have long since dried, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache in your chest, like grief carved a space in your ribs and decided to stay.
And your markâ
Still there.
Still burning beneath your skin.
You stare into the fire, your hands loosely clasped in your lap, and for the first time in days, you breatheâslow, deep, and unguarded.
Sylus doesnât speak.
Doesnât pry.
He just sits there, presence steady, like a wall you can finally lean against without fear of collapsing.
And in that silence, something shifts.
Not healed. Not whole.
But a little less alone.
You turn your head slightly, eyes drifting from the fire to him. His profile is lit in warm goldâsharp, unreadable, but not unkind.
âSorry,â you say softly, the word catching at the edges of your throat.
For what exactly, youâre not sure.
For showing up. For falling apart.
For being the kind of person who calls a near-stranger because no one else feels safe anymore.
He doesnât flinch. Doesnât turn to look at you.
Just gives a small shrug and takes a slow sip from his glass.
âItâs good company,â he replies, casual, like itâs nothing.
Like you arenât a burden.
Like thisâthe silence, the ache, the weight of everything you canât sayâis somehow welcome.
You exhale quietly, some small part of your heart unclenching.
Maybe thatâs what you needed.
Not comfort. Not words.
Just someone who doesnât mind the quiet, even when itâs heavy.
âI can understand.â
His voice breaks the stillness, low and quietâalmost like an afterthought, but it sinks deep.
Your eyes dart to him.
Sylus is still facing the fire, his expression unreadable, the flames dancing across the sharp lines of his face.
âI love someone,â he says, slowly, deliberately. âBut her name isnât on my wrist.â
He takes a sip of his drink, his fingers steady around the glass.
âThereâs another name on hers.â
The words hang in the air like smokeâsoft, but heavy with weight.
And suddenly, you understand why his silence felt so familiar. Why he never asked questions. Why he didnât flinch at your pain.
Because he knows.
He knows what itâs like to love without being chosen.
To look at someone and see a future theyâll never see with you.
To exist in the quiet spaces between their laughterâwanted, but not meant.
You swallow hard, the ache in your chest mirroring his.
Your voice is barely a whisper.
âDoes she know?â
A pause.
âNo,â he murmurs. âAnd Iâm not sure I want her to.â
And for a moment, youâre not two strangers on a couch.
Youâre two people clinging to the same kind of hurt.
And somehow, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.
âHow does it work?â you ask, barely above a whisper.
Your eyes stay fixed on the fire, but your voice trembles with something deeperâsomething raw.
âLove. How does it work?â
Thereâs a pause.
Sylus doesnât answer right away. He sets his glass down on the table, the faint clink of glass on wood echoing in the quiet.
You finally glance at him.
Heâs staring into the flames, brows drawn slightly, as if the question has rooted itself somewhere inside him.
âI donât think it does,â he says at last, voice low and unfiltered. âNot the way weâre told it should.â
His gaze flicks to you, slow and steady.
âEveryone talks about fate. About destiny. About names on skin and inevitability.â
He leans back, resting an arm on the back of the couch, red eyes glinting.
âBut loveâitâs messy. Itâs inconvenient. It doesnât follow rules or timing or marks.â
You swallow, something stirring painfully in your chest.
âThen why does it still hurt this much?â you whisper.
He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, but with understanding so deep it feels like a balm.
âBecause you love honestly,â he says. âAnd honest love never goes unpunished.â
âI just want it to stop burning,â you whisper, the words escaping before you can take them back.
Youâre not looking at himâyour gaze stays fixed on the fire, on the flicker and hiss of flame. Itâs easier than meeting his eyes.
âItâs not the unrequited part,â you continue, voice low and frayed at the edges. âI always knew it would be like this. I never expected anything more from him.â
You inhale shakily, pressing your hands tighter around your knees as if that could steady the tremble in your chest.
âBut the markâit burns every time I think of him. Every time I miss him, want him, remember him.â
The heat isnât just under your skin. Itâs inside your lungs, your throat, your heart.
A fire that reminds you with every spark that your love is a mistake written in red.
âI just want it to stop hurting every time I feel something.â
A quiet hush follows, broken only by the crackling of the fire.
Then, Sylus speaks. His voice is softer than youâve ever heard it.
âLove shouldnât feel like a wound,â he says.
You glance at him. And for once, thereâs no teasing in his expression. No smirk, no defense. Just something quiet. Something honest.
âAnd yet,â you murmur, âit always does.â
He doesnât offer easy comfort. Doesnât pretend to have answers.
Instead, he leans back, watching the flames for a moment.
âMaybe,â he says slowly, âthe pain wonât go away completely. But it can dull. If you let someone help carry it.â
Your chest tightens, but this time, itâs not from the burn.
Itâs from the way he says it. Like he means it.
Like he would.
He steps toward youâunhurried, deliberate. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his crimson eyes.
âI may not know you,â he says slowly, voice low and steady, âbut I know your pain.â
His words settle over you like a weighted blanketânot too heavy, not too light. Just enough to be felt.
Thenâ
He extends a hand.
Open.
Unassuming.
Offered without expectation.
Not to fix you.
Not to save you.
Just to stand with you in the wreckage.
You stare at it for a moment, your breath caught between resistance and the aching need for somethingâsomeoneâto anchor you.
And somehow, in the quiet of that moment, it doesnât matter that heâs a stranger.
Because pain recognizes pain.
And for the first time in a long while⊠you donât feel alone in it.
You hesitateâjust for a breathâthen slip your hand into his.
His grip is firm, warm, steady.
He pulls you gently to your feet, the motion smooth, careful, as though you might break if he moved too fast.
And thenâ
The mark flares.
A sharp, scalding pain radiates up your arm, and you flinch, breath hitching as the heat sinks into your bones like fire licking at old wounds.
But before you can pull away, his arms are around you. Solid. Certain. Anchoring.
âLet it burn for a bit,â he murmurs, voice close, low, and rough with something almost tender.
Then he guides your head to his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath your ear.
No rush. No pressure. Just presence.
And in that quiet, flickering roomâwith the fire crackling, your heart aching, and his arms holding you like a promiseâ
you let it burn.
ââą
âY/N? Are you listening?â
The sharp snap of fingers in front of your face jolts you back to the present.
You blink, startled, eyes locking onto Shaiyaâs concerned expression across the table. Her brows are slightly furrowed, lips tugged into a gentle frown.
How you let yourself lean in, even when the mark warmed beneath your skin like a quiet warning.
âSorry,â you murmur, straightening in your seat. âI was⊠thinking.â
Shaiya softens, letting out a small sigh as she reaches for her drink.
âYouâve been spacing out a lot lately,â she says gently, not accusingâjust noticing.
You force a small smile, fingers curling around your mug to hide the slight tremble.
If only she knew who you were thinking of.
And how much it wasnât her soulmate.
âJust⊠soulmate,â you blurt, the word tumbling out before you can catch it.
Your heart stutters in your chest the moment you say it, the regret immediate and sharp.
Shaiyaâs face lights up, eyes wide with surprise and sudden excitement.
Her hands nearly drop her fork, and she leans in, voice hushed but eager.
âDid you find him?â she asks, a hopeful smile blooming across her face.
You freeze.
Thereâs a secondâa split, breathless secondâwhere the truth rises in your throat like a wave.
That yes, you found him.
That itâs not a matter of who, but how painful itâs been.
That his name is carved in red into your skin.
And that her name is written on his.
But you donât say any of that.
You just force a smile, one you hope doesnât look too broken at the edges.
âNot exactly,â you say softly. âItâs complicated.â
How do you explain being lovedâheldâby someone who might be more than a stranger⊠but isnât quite fate?
Suddenly, an arm wraps around your shouldersâcasual, confidentâand your breath catches in your throat.
The scent hits you first. That same sharp, clean cologne.
Then the warmth.
Then the voice.
âWhy donât you just tell her you did?â he drawls, low and unbothered, his tone laced with a kind of amused defiance that only he could make sound like an invitation.
Your heart stumbles.
You turn your head slowly and catch the now-familiar glint of white hair falling just over crimson eyes that look too pleased with themselves for someone who walked into your unraveling.
Sylus.
Of course itâs him.
Youâre frozen, stunned, as your mark flares beneath your sleeveâburning a little brighter, a little wilder, as if it recognizes the chaos heâs just dropped into.
Shaiyaâs eyes widen as she looks between the two of you.
âOh,â she breathes, lips parting in surprise. âIs thisâŠ?â
And still, Sylus doesnât move his arm.
He just smirks.
And youâ
You canât decide if you want to run, scream, or lean into him and let the world burn.
Sylus doesnât miss a beat.
He gives a small, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable but his voice smooth as silk.
âYes,â he says calmly. âIâm Y/Nâs soulmate.â
The words land like a strike of lightning.
Shaiya freezes, her eyes wide, mouth parting in shock as she looks at himâthen to youâthen back again, like her mind is trying to catch up with the reality laid out in front of her.
You feel the burn instantlyâsharp, searing, a violent protest beneath your skin.
Your mark is screaming.
But you smile anyway.
You lie through the pain like youâve always done.
With practiced ease, you reach for Sylusâs arm, pulling him down to sit beside you.
His body is warm beside yours, grounding and steady in a way that only makes the burn worse.
âYeah,â you say, your voice soft, your lips curled into a sheepish smile. âWeâve been⊠keeping it quiet.â
Shaiya blinks, still stunned, still searching your face for some confirmation that she hasnât stepped into a dream.
You glance at Sylus, who is already watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.
And all you can do is smile.
Even as your wrist burns like a brand.
Even as your heart threatens to give out beneath the weight of the lie.
Because in this momentâright here, right nowâyou just wanted to be chosen, even if it was a lie.
âOh, thatâs great! How did you guys meet?â Shaiya beams, already clutching your hands in excitement.
You glance toward Sylus, your heart a tangled mess of gratitude and quiet devastation.
He smirks faintly, unbothered.
âAt a bar,â he says smoothly. âShe toasted to unrequited love.â
You laugh softly, a breath too close to breaking.
âYeah,â you say, eyes on him. âAnd he didnât walk away.â
Shaiya claps her hands, practically glowing.
âOh, I have to tell Zayne!â she exclaims, already pulling out her phone.
Your breath catches.
You stare at her, helpless, your pulse thudding in your ears.
Thereâs a flicker of panicâof heartbreakâjust beneath the surface.
And then you feel it.
Sylusâs hand, warm and steady, closing over yours.
Silent. Certain. There.
You glance at him, and he doesnât say anythingâjust holds your gaze, letting you borrow his strength.
So you smile.
Small. Fragile.
But real.
Even as the pain coils in your chest and your mark burns beneath your sleeve like a wound that wonât heal.
On your lunch break, slipping you your favorite pastry like it was nothing.
You didnât complain.
Even when your mark burned with every glance, every word, every moment spent too close.
Because his presenceâwhile painfulâwas constant. Steady. Like a shield between you and everything else you couldnât bear to face alone.
Now, you were in your office, signing off reports, when the door creaked open.
Zayne.
You looked up, startled, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but there was something thereâsomething frayed at the edges.
Conflicted.
Still, for the first time in what felt like forever, you smiled at him.
Your mark responded immediately, pulsing beneath your sleeve.
âI heard from Shaiya,â he said, voice calm, measured. âYou finally found him?â
You nodded, sheepish. âYeah.â
He opens his mouthâstops. Looks at you.
âThatâs⊠good,â he finishes, but it lands flat. Like he meant something else. Like he almost said it.
You ask, carefully, âIs everything okay?â
He nods. Smiles. Too polite.
âYes. Iâm just⊠glad.â
And as he turns to leave, your mark pulsesânot from yearning this time, but from something worse, realization.
Youâre left in the quiet hum of your office, with the sting of your mark flaring and a new ache settling deep in your chest.
Because this time, it wasnât just unrequited.
It was almost.
Sylus enters not long after, silent as ever.
The room doesnât announce himâhe simply is, like a shadow slipping into light.
His eyes find you instantly.
You expect the usual smirk, the dry remark perched on his lips.
But insteadâ
He just looks at you.
And something in his expression softens.
Like all the sharp edges of him have momentarily dulled.
Like seeing youâtired, unraveling, still trying to hold it togetherâmatters.
He doesnât say a word.
He doesnât need to.
âWhy was he looking at me like that?â you ask, your voice cracking under the weight of it.
The question isnât really for Sylus, but he hears it anyway.
It slips out before you can stop itâraw, unguarded, aching.
Youâre not sure what hurts more.
The look in Zayneâs eyes, or the fact that it came too late.
Too late, when youâd already chosen to pretend.
Too late, when someone else had stepped in to hold you through the burn.
Sylus doesnât answer right away.
He just steps closer, his gaze steadyânever pitying.
âBecause,â he says softly, âheâs starting to see what he never let himself feel.â
And the worst part is⊠youâre not sure that changes anything.
âThatâs worse,â you whisper, the words breaking as they leave you. âThat means he knew.â
The realization crashes over you like a waveâsharp, cold, merciless.
All this time.
All those quiet moments.
All the silence between your smiles.
He knewâand still chose someone else.
The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, then another, and suddenly youâre unravelingâslow, quiet, but completely.
And without a secondâs hesitation, Sylus is beside you.
No questions. No hesitation.
Just arms around you, solid and warm, pulling you into him like heâs done this beforeâlike he knows this pain.
You bury your face in his chest as the sobs come, muffled and broken, and he holds you tighter.
One hand in your hair, the other against your back, grounding you.
âIâve got you,â he murmurs.
And for once, you believe it.
You look up at him, eyes glassy, voice trembling.
âThat means he had a choice,â you whisper. âThat the soulmate mark⊠meant nothing.â
The words feel heavy in your mouth, bitter and raw.
Because if Zayne knewâif he saw your love and still turned awayâthen the mark wasnât fate.
It was just a cruel joke.
Something to cling to while he chose someone else.
Sylus holds your gaze, his own expression unreadable for a momentâquiet, intense.
Then he speaks, voice low and steady.
âIt means the mark doesnât make the choice. We do.â
He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle in a way that undoes you.
âAnd he didnât choose you,â he adds, soft but honest.
âBut I would.â
You choke on a breath, barely able to speak past the lump in your throat.
âBut you⊠you donât have a mark. Not yet.â
Your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.
Sylus doesnât flinch.
Instead, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lipsâwry, almost sad.
âI had mine removed,â he says, like itâs nothing. Like it didnât once cost him something.
âYears ago.â
You blink, stunned. âWhy?â
His gaze lingers on you, softer now.
âBecause I didnât want fate to decide who I could love.â
Then, quieterâjust for you:
âI wanted the choice to be mine.â
âThen⊠the girl,â you murmur, barely above a breath. âThe one you lovedâŠâ
Your voice falters, unsure if you want to know the rest. But the question hangs there between you, fragile and trembling.
Sylusâs eyes dim slightly, the usual spark giving way to something quieterâsomething older.
âShe never chose me,â he says, his voice low, steady. âEven before the mark showed up, I think I knew.â
He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting somewhere distant.
âAnd when it finally appeared,â he continues, âI already made a choice.â
The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating.
You feel itâthe familiar sting of being almost enough.
And as he looks back at you, something in your chest eases.
Not because the pain is gone.
But because he understands.
You wanted to feel happy.
Wanted to let Sylusâs words wrap around you, ease the ache, soften the hollow in your chest.
But the mark burnedâsharp and relentlessâlike it knew you were trying to let go.
Like it refused to be ignored.
A cruel reminder that no matter how gently Sylus held you, no matter how steady his presence or how kind his eyesâ
your heart still belonged somewhere else.
To someone who never asked for it.
And never wanted it.
And that was the worst part.
Because for once, someone was choosing you.
And still, some part of you couldnât stop choosing him.
Sylus watched you quietly, his gaze lingering not on your tears, not on your mark, but on youâthe part of you that still hadnât healed.
He saw the way your fingers twitched, the way your eyes dropped to the floor like you were ashamed of your own heart.
And then, softlyâgentlyâhe spoke.
âI know,â he said. âYou donât have to choose me now.â
No pressure. No expectation.
Just understanding.
Because he knew what it was like to love someone who couldnât let go of someone else.
And still, he stayed.
Not to replace. Not to compete.
But simply to be there.
You didnât say anything.
You just leaned into him.
And Sylus opened his arms without a word, holding you like heâd been waitingâlike he knew you would break again, and heâd already decided heâd be the one to catch you.
You let yourself cry.
Not the quiet, hidden kind, but the raw, aching sobs that shook your shoulders and spilled everything youâd been trying to bury.
He didnât flinch.
He didnât pull away.
He just held you.
Steady. Solid. Safe.
And in his arms, for the first time in a long while, you let yourself feel it all.
ââą
You stared up at the white ceiling, its endless blankness strangely comforting.
Sterile. Still. Silent.
The soft, steady beep of the machine beside you was the only sound in the room, each pulse reminding you that time was still moving forward, even if part of you hadnât caught up yet.
It had been three months.
Three months since you stood in front of Zayne and smiled through your breaking heart.
Three months since Sylus stepped into your life with his sharp words and soft hands and gave you something you didnât know you neededâspace to fall apart.
Three months since everything changed.
And Sylus never left.
Not once.
He stayed through the confusion, through the aching nights when you couldnât sleep and the mornings when the mark burned so violently you thought it might consume you.
He was there when you made the decisionâtired, tremblingâto pack your things and leave it all behind.
Zayne.
The hospital that held too many memories.
The city that never stopped reminding you of what you couldnât have.
You moved somewhere quieter.
Somewhere you could breathe.
And now you were hereâlying on a padded bed in a clean, white room, moments away from erasing the mark that had defined you for far too long.
You werenât doing it to forget him.
You werenât doing it out of spite.
You were doing it to reclaim your skin.
To stop punishing yourself for loving too much.
To stop letting fate write a story you never agreed to.
There was fear, yesâlingering at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow.
But there was peace, too.
Because this time, the choice was yours.
And just beyond the clinic door, waiting in the hallway like he always did, was Sylus.
Waitingânot to save you.
Just to be there when you returned. Whole. Scarred. Free.
The procedure wasnât just to erase ink from your skin.
It was to quiet the fire.
To silence the part of you that still, after everything, ached for Zayne.
The part that stirred when you heard his voice in a memory, that still wondered what if, even when you knew the answer.
At first, you were afraid.
Afraid of what youâd lose.
Afraid that without the burn, without the mark, you might feel nothingâor worse, that the emptiness would linger.
But then you thought of him.
Of Sylus.
Of how he stayed when he had every reason not to.
Of the way he never asked you to love him, only to let him stand beside you.
And somehow, that gave you strength.
You closed your eyes, letting out a slow, shaking breath as the doctors moved around you.
The bed shifted beneath you as they began to wheel you away, the lights overhead passing in soft, distant flickers.
You didnât cry.
You didnât look back.
But just before you crossed into the next room, you whispered itâsoft, steady, final.
SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Calebâ your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, youâve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.
So you learned to endure it.
You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be readâletters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.
Years later, fate intervenes.
Caleb returnsâbroader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what youâve been hiding. He looks at you like youâre the one heâs been waiting forâand you canât tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.
You try to pull away. Youâve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.
But Caleb doesnât let go.
Because now that heâs seen the truthâevery broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered âI love youâ you never dared say out loudâheâs not just here to catch up.
Heâs here to chase you down.
And he wonât stop until youâre his.
WORD COUNT: 11.1k
NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28â29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.
You used to love love.
Not just the idea of itâbut the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.
You believed in love the way children believe in magic.
But you grew up.
And love? It grew fangs.
Now, you love to hate it.
You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping heâd look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didnât. He never did. Calebâs heart was always spoken for.
So you buried your own.
Youâve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. Youâre not heartlessâyouâre just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.
You fill your time with things that donât require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimesânot out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.
And stillâŠ
Despite it allâŠ
Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.
To be wanted so much itâs terrifying. To be chosen first.
You donât dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.
Because if love ever finds you againâŠ
Youâre not sure if youâll run away from itâ
Or straight into its arms.
You hear his voice before you see him.
Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward itâpulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. Youâve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters youâll never admit you still read.
You turn slowly.
And there he is.
Caleb.
Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyesâstill storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.
He sees you.
Really sees you.
And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.
A beat passes.
â...Itâs been a while,â he says, and Godâhe smiles.
That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But thereâs something different now. Less boyish charm, more⊠reverence. Like heâs looking at a relic he thought lost forever and canât quite believe is real.
You swallow, throat tight. âYeah. A while.â
Thereâs so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.
Caleb steps forwardâclose enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.
He looks you up and down slowly, like heâs taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.
âYou lookâŠâ His gaze softens. âYou look like trouble.â
You scoffâtoo sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. âAnd you still talk like youâre trying to land a date in a bar.â
His grin flashes wider. âWould it work if I was?â
God, heâs flirting.
Like you werenât just background noise to him once. Like you didnât spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.
You narrow your eyes. âWhy are you here, Caleb?â
He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice dropsâlower, rougher.
âBecause I missed you.â
You blink. That wasnât the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyesâpart hungry, part haunted, all real.
And just like that, the careful walls youâve built start to shake.
You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.
âI almost didnât recognize you,â Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. âYou look... different.â
You donât turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.
âYeah, well. Years pass. People change.â
âSome people stay exactly the same,â he murmurs. âYou still lean to the left when youâre uncomfortable.â
You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.
God. Heâs unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potentâless boyish charm, more devastating man.
You cross your arms. âYouâre observant now. Thatâs new.â
He chuckles. âIâve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.â
He walks closerâtoo closeâand you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.
âHow long has it been?â he asks softly.
âSince you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?â
His jaw tenses. âI deserved that.â
âYou did.â
Thereâs a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things youâre too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.
You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit acrossâbut no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âWhat about Emcee?â you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. âYou two live happily ever after or what?â
His brow furrows. âEmcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.â
Your heart skips. âOh.â
âYou sound disappointed.â
âIâm not.â Lie. âJust surprised.â
âGood,â he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. âBecause I didnât come here to talk about her. I came here for you.â
Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. âWow, Caleb. Youâve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?â
He grins. âI could still use one, if youâre nostalgic. But I figured youâve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.â
âSmart of you.â
And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isnât helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.
Youâre not sure whatâs worseâthat heâs this charming now, or that itâs working.
Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to âsee you soonâ and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.
Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.
The letters.
Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.
Especially not Caleb.
But fate, of course, doesnât care what you want.
The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.
âIâm perfectly capable,â you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.
Caleb just laughs, leaning in. âI know. Doesnât mean I donât want to help.â
His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.
âThatâs a no, then,â he says smugly, sipping his drink.
You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. âWhy are you asking?â
âJust making sure Iâm not stepping on any toes,â he murmurs, then adds, âwhen I kiss you.â
Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. âYouâre not kissing me.â
âNot today, maybe,â he says easily. âBut eventually.â
You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.
â
The third time is worse.
Youâve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. Heâs on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.
He watches you over the rim of his glass. âWhy do you keep flinching when I touch you?â
âI donât flinch.â
âYou do. Like youâre scared Iâm not real.â
You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. âIâm just trying to figure out what you want.â
His voice goes quiet. âYou.â
The word hits you like a punch.
âYou wanted Emcee for years.â
âI was stupid for years.â
You meet his eyes. Theyâre clearer than theyâve ever beenâfocused, almost painfully sincere.
âThatâs convenient,â you say coldly.
He sets his glass down, leans in. âNo. Itâs fate finally letting me try again.â
His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. Heâs so close you can feel the heat of his breath.
You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wantedâbut you donât trust it. Not yet.
You turn your head. Just barely.
Calebâs jaw clenches, his hand falling away.
He sits back without a word.
â
The fourth time, itâs raining.
He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.
âYou didnât have to walk in this weather,â you mutter, taking the drink anyway.
âI wanted to.â His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. âYouâre still not letting me in.â
âWould you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?â
His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. âI wouldnât. But Iâd want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.â
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charmâa bent paper star you made him in high school.
That might be the worst thing heâs ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you werenât the only one suffering in silence.
Because it means heâs telling the truth.
You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.
He doesnât follow.
But he waits.
He always waits now.
And thatâs more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.
You agree to go with him to the observatory.
Big mistake.
Itâs late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.
You donât take it.
So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like youâre his.
âIt looks better on you,â he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.
âDonât start,â you murmur, but thereâs no real bite to it.
âStart what?â His smirk is all mischief. âBeing nice? Canât help it. You bring it out of me.â
You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like youâre the constellation heâs been chasing all his life.
âI used to come here when I missed you,â you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadnât.
The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.
âWhen you missed me?â His voice is different nowâserious. Dangerous. âHow often did that happen?â
You laugh, tight and brittle. âOnly every time I breathed.â
His head tilts slightly, like heâs not sure he heard you right.
Then: âSay that again.â
âNo.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause youâll use it against me.â
He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.
âDo you really think Iâd take something that precious and weaponize it?â
âI donât know what youâd do anymore.â
âThen let me show you,â he says, and for a terrifying second, you think heâs going to kiss you.
But he doesnât.
His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.
âI dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.â
Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.
âThen why didnât you do anything?â you whisper.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. âBecause I was stupid. And I thought you didnât feel the same.â
You snort. âWell. You were wrong.â
âI know,â he growls. âI know that now. And youâre still keeping me at armâs length.â
âDamn right I am.â
His smile is tight, hungry. âFine. You want to make me work for it? Iâll work.â
âI want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.â
He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.
âThen run, sweetheart. Iâll catch up.â
You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.
And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.
Itâs late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.
The old piano room is still your secret solaceâdusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.
Except for one person.
You don't hear him at first. Youâre too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. Itâs the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.
I didn't opt in to be your odd man out
I founded the club she's heard great things about
I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath
Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.
I stopped CPR, after all it's no use
The spirit was gone, we would never come to
And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free
Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Thenâ
âYou always did sound beautiful when you were sad.â
You jump.
Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.
âDidnât mean to startle you,â he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. âOld habits die hard, I guess.â
You blink. âYou heard that?â
âI always do.â
Of course he did.
You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. âThat song⊠itâs new?â
You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. âJust something I was playing around with.â
He hums. âRight. Totally not about anyone in particular.â
You bristle. âDid I say that?â
âNope. But you donât have to. You forgetâI know your voice. I know when itâs for fun. And when itâs ripping you open.â
You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. âYou're being dramatic.â
He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, heâs too close again. Always too close.
âYou used to do this all the time,â he murmurs. âSneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didnât know I followed.â
Your heart stutters. âYou never said anything.â
âWhy would I ruin it?â His gaze darkens. âHearing you like thatâit was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.â
âI didnât sing those songs for you,â you lie.
Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. âThen why are your cheeks red?â
You shove away from the piano, muttering, âYou're insufferable.â
He follows, not missing a beat. âYouâre blushing, songbird.â
âShut up.â
âMake me.â
You stop. He almost slams into you.
You glare up at him. âYou think youâre so clever.â
He leans in, smirking. âNo. I think Iâve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that Iâm here, Iâm not backing off.â
The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.
But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.
âYou heard the song,â you say, voice low. âThatâs enough.â
His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. Heâs not smiling anymore.
âNo,â Caleb whispers. âItâs not.â
You should have locked the damn drawer.
You donât even know what made you checkâbut something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Calebâs hands, your heart stops cold.
No. No.
His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.
And your world implodes.
Heâs seated on your couch like heâs carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.
Heâs holding your soul in his hands.
The lettersâdozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and griefâyou recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.
Your breath catches. Your throat closes.
âIâThatâs notâYou werenât supposed toââ Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.
Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.
âI read every single one,â he says softly.
âPut them away,â you whisper, voice hollow. âPlease, just⊠put them away.â
âI canât.â
You turn to bolt, pure instinct.
And thatâs when gravity betrays you.
A weight presses against your bodyânot crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol.Â
Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but youâre floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.
âCalebâ!â
âI need you to hear me,â he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.
Your back hits the wall.
He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like heâs starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.
âI didnât know,â he says, his voice ragged. âI never knew.â
You shake your head. âYou werenât supposed to.â
His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. âIâve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped⊠You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.â
Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. âCalebâdonâtââ
âAnd I was in love with you,â he breathes. âAll this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.â
You look away. âYou didnât want me. You wanted her. You chose her.â
âI didnât choose anyone,â he growls. âI was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.â
âYou werenât,â you whisper. âYou were destroying me.â
The look in his eyes breaks something in you.
âI memorized your words,â he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. âEvery line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.â
You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believeâbut terrified to let yourself fall.
âI donât know if I can forgive you,â you whisper.
âIâm not asking you to,â he murmurs. âNot yet.â
His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you donât move.
His mouth brushes against your temple.
âI just want to earn you. All of you. Like I shouldâve from the start.â
You donât kiss him.
But you donât pull away either.
You canât.
Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.
Youâre burning.
He stays.
Even when you tell him to leaveâquietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warningâCaleb stays.
âYou shouldnât be here,â you whisper, not meeting his eyes.
âI shouldâve been here years ago,â he murmurs. âDonât you get it? Iâm not leaving again.â
You shove him.
He barely budges.
You shove him again.
This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firmâcalm.
You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.
âLet me go,â you say, breathless.
âNo.â
Your breath hitches.
âNo?â you echo.
His voice drops. âNot until you stop pretending you donât want me to stay.â
You glare up at him, furious. âYou think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?â
âNo,â he says again. âBut Iâll keep proving myself until they do.â
You twist out of his gripânearlyâbefore he suddenly pulls you in.
And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like theyâve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.
His eyes search yours.
And then, Caleb whispers, âTell me to stop.â
You open your mouth.
But nothing comes out.
So he kisses you.
Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.
Itâs a claiming.
Itâs all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. Itâs every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's himâfinally, truly, desperatelyâhere.
Your fingers fist in his shirt like youâre angry, like youâre clinging to something you swore youâd never need again.
And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you sayâ
âI hate you.â
He smiles, soft and ruined. âI know.â
âI hate how much I wanted that.â
âI hope you did.â
âIâm still not making this easy.â
Calebâs lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. âYouâve never made anything easy, sweetheart. Thatâs why youâre worth everything.â
And stillâ
Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.
âYouâll have to fight for this,â you warn him.
His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. âThen prepare to be relentlessly pursued.â
You never agreed to date him.
But apparently, Calebâs taking ârelentless pursuitâ as a blood oath.
He shows up at your place the next morning with coffeeâyour actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesnât say how he remembers. You donât ask.
That night, he texts you at 2am.
Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but thatâs not important (it is).
You throw your phone across the bed.
The next day, heâs waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think heâs here for some kind of mission.
Nope.
Just here to take you to lunch.
âDonât say this is a date,â you grumble.
âWouldnât dream of it,â he says, offering his hand. âBut hold on tight anyway.â
You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.
â
Caleb doesnât just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.
He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
âI love your voice. Especially when you donât realize youâre humming.â
âYou roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. Itâs kind of adorable.â
âYou donât have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.â
He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
You hold strongâfor a while.
Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.
You try to nudge him awake.
You fail.
Hard.
He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like itâs a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.
You donât sleep.
Your body is screaming.
But your heart?
Itâs terrified.
â
When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.
You freeze in the doorway.
He sees you.
And smiles.
Like youâre not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like heâs not here to crack it wide open.
You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.
Youâre not.
Because Caleb is everywhere now.
Heâs in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. Heâs draped across your couch like itâs his favorite place in the world. Heâs in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like youâre the only thing keeping him grounded.
You keep your walls up.
But he keeps coming.
Like he knows youâre lying every time you act unaffected.
â
One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.
You open the door.
He doesnât say a wordâjust walks past you, breath ragged.
You follow him into your living room. âCaleb?â
âI thought I lost you again,â he says, voice low.
Your stomach drops. âWhat?â
He turns to face you, and itâs like the air shifts. Thickens.
âI heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.â
You cross your arms. âI made it out fine.â
âI didnât know that,â he snaps. âAnd for a second, I thoughtââ He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
You exhale. âIâm used to people not checking in.â
âIâm not people.â
He stalks closer.
You step back.
He follows.
âI donât care how many times you push me away. You donât get to disappear on me.â
âAnd what am I supposed to do?â you throw back. âPretend like none of this hurts? Like I didnât bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?â
âI know.â
âDo you?â Your voice cracks. âBecause I canât let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.â
He grabs your wrist.
Not rough. Just certain.
âLook at me.â
You donât.
So he tips your chin up with two fingers.
His eyes are burning.
âI am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. Iâll still be right here.â
âWhy?â you whisper, eyes glossy. âWhy now?â
âBecause Iâve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,â he breathes. âAnd Iâm done pretending I donât want every single part of you.â
His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.
Your breath hitches.
You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.
The heat between you is unbearable.
One tilt of your head and youâd be kissing him again.
You want to.
God, you ache to.
But instead, you whisper, âThis changes nothing.â
He leans in, nose brushing yours.
âWrong,â Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. âIt changes everything.â
But he doesnât kiss you.
Not this time.
He lets you go.
And itâs infuriatingâbecause now you want him even more.
The first thing you notice is the lightâsoft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.
The second thing you notice is the heat.
Not the weather. Not the blanket.
Him.
Your breath stills.
Because Calebâs wrapped around you like he owns you.
Whichâhe doesnât.
He shouldnât.
And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasnât loosened even in sleep.
You remember falling asleep with your back to him.
You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.
Then there's his thighâwedged between your legs like it lives there.
Your cheeks burn.
âOkay,â you whisper to yourself. âTime to get out before you completely lose your mind.â
You try to slip away quietly.
You wiggle.
No movement.
You nudge his hand.
His grip tightens.
You try prying his fingers from your waist. Itâs like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.
You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll awayâbut the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightlyâ
And then he nibbles.
You whimper.
It betrays you instantly.
That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.
Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.
And thenâ
âMm... morning,â he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.
You go still.
âCaleb,â you say, your voice a warning.
His lips find your pulse point. âYou smell good,â he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.
His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.
You squeak.
His arms tighten like steel bands.
Heâs caging you in.
âC-Caleb, get offâthis isâthis is not appropriate!â
Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. âYouâre so warm.â
Your brain short-circuits.
âYouâre dreaming,â you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. âThis is a dream. Youâre dreaming. Let me go.â
He chucklesâchuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. âIf Iâm dreaming, Iâm never waking up.â
Then his hips shift. Just barely.
But enough.
âCaleb!â
His eyes snap open.
You expect guilt.
What you get is heat.
Raw, focused, and dangerous.
He blinks once. Then twice. Thenâ
His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.
âI was trying to be good,â Caleb murmurs. âYou have no idea how hard itâs been.â
You do, actually.
Because itâs been hell for you, too.
Youâre seconds from giving inâcompletely, helplesslyâwhen you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.
Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. âWhat? You gonna pretend you didnât enjoy that?â
You throw a pillow at his face.
âOut,â you snap.
He catches it effortlessly. âNo breakfast first?â
You march to the door.
âFine, fine. But next time?â He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. âYouâll beg me to stay.â
You slam the door in his face.
It doesnât stop your knees from buckling.
It happens fast.
Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls youâve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.
One moment youâre arguingâagain. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. Youâre trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensiveâ
And then Caleb moves.
He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.
You gasp.
His eyes meet yours.
They are ravenous.
âI canât do this anymore,â Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. âI canât keep pretending I donât want to devour you.â
Your breath catches.
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
Not sweet. Not tentative.
Possessive.
Like heâs claiming what was always his.
Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist freeânot to escape, but because itâs too much, all-consuming, desperate.
He doesnât let you go.
He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.
You break away for airâjust for a secondâand he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.
âCalebââ you manage, but it comes out a whimper.
His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.
âOh godââ
âThatâs it,â he groans against your skin. âThat sound. Iâve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.â
His hands leave your wristsâonly to slide down your arms, your sides, until theyâre clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.
Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.
But your body?
Your body is already his.
âTell me to stop,â Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.
You donât.
You canât.
Thereâs no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.
Because the truth isâhe touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.
His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.
His self-control shatters.
And you let it.
Because thereâs no going back now.
Thereâs a momentâbarely a breathâafter that kiss.
His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.
He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like heâs tasting the weight of it for the first time.
Then he moves.
Your legs wrap around his waist without thoughtâinstinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.
The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhereâanchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard heâs holding back.
He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he followsâsolid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.
His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.
âYou still gonna pretend you donât want this?â he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.
You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throatâemotion, maybe. Want, definitely.
His mouth presses to your skin in a trail thatâs less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.
He whispers things youâll remember laterâsoft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.
And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.
Everything else fades.
There are no sharp lines, only sensationâheat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like youâll fall apart without him there to catch you.
You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.
After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesnât let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like heâs terrified youâll vanish if he opens his eyes.
âThis isnât over,â he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything heâs never said aloud. âIâm not letting you go. Not this time.â
And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.
Not because of what just happened.
But because of everything that didnât need to.
You lost track of how long ago the sun set.
The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. Youâre boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.
And Caleb?
Caleb is still going.
He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starvedâlike heâs been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesnât know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.
âWeâre not done,â he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. âNot yet.â
You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.
He smilesâsoft, wicked, reverent.
And leans in to kiss you like itâs the first time all over again.
You're floating.
Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Calebâs body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.
Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.
And yetâeven now, even after hoursâhe wonât stop touching.
Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now itâs worship.
He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs thingsâsome unintelligible, some far too intimate.
âYouâre perfect,â he whispers against your skin.
âI missed you.â
âIâll never let you go again.â
Youâre too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.
Eventually, he gets upâonly to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.
When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.
But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.
He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. Youâre exhausted, wreckedâand heâs still hard beneath you.
You give him a look thatâs half horror, half disbelief.
He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. âI told you, Iâm not finished.â
âCalebââ
âI owe you,â he says, voice dipping low. âFor every year I didnât touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I shouldâve read sooner.â
Your breath hitches.
And then his lips descend againâslow, tender, reverent. As if heâs trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.
Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.
And just when you think heâs finally doneâ
He shifts again.
Rolls you beneath him.
âYouâre not going to let me sleep?â you rasp.
His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.
âNo,â he breathes against your ear. âYouâre not sleeping until Iâve claimed every inch of you. Until you canât think of anything but me.â
You should tell him to stop.
You donât.
Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.
And now?
Heâs going to make sure you never forget it.
The morning after feels⊠dangerous.
Not because youâre in any real perilâbut because itâs blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.
You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?
Oh, you want to punch him.
Or kiss him.
Or both.
âYouâre up,â he says, voice as smug as the day is long.
âI tried to stay asleep,â you deadpan. âBut someone kept me up all night.â
He chucklesâlow and wickedâand sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.
âConsider it payback.â
You squint at him. âFor what?â
His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.
âFor every letter you wrote and never gave me.â
Your stomach drops.
The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.
Youâd almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.
And yet, here he isâutterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didnât spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.
âYou read them all,â you say, not quite a question.
He looks at you over his shoulder. âMemorized. Studied. Jerkââ
âDo not finish that sentence, Caleb.â
He only grins wider.
You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like youâre not reliving every desperate, depraved word heâs now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But heâs already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.
âThere's one you missed,â you murmur before you can stop yourself.
He freezes.
Slowly, slowly, he turns. âWhere?â
You bite your lip.
âThe drawer by my bed. Bottom one.â
Heâs gone before you even blink.
Your heart is pounding.
By the time you stumble after him, heâs already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. Itâs the last one. The one you wrote when you thought youâd never see him again. It was raw, feralâfilled with longing so thick it could drown you.
He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adamâs apple bobs hard.
When he finishes, he just looks at you.
Youâre not sure what you expect.
But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.
âIâm going to ruin you again,â he says, voice low. âAnd this time, it wonât stop until you beg me to believe youâre mine.â
Your knees buckle.
But heâs already crossing the room.
Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.
âCalebââ you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss thatâs pure possession.
âNo more running. No more letters.â He grinds against you, voice rasping. âYou want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.â
And you do.
God help you, you do.
â
You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeperâsomething dangerous in its quiet intensity.
Heâs seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. Youâre half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyoneâespecially himâto see.
You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.
You can feel his eyes on the pageâbut his attention is on you.
âYou wrote this two years ago,â he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. âI was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldnât sleep that night. I felt⊠off. Like I was missing something.â
You glance down, ashamed. âDonât romanticize it.â
âIâm not,â he replies simply. âIâm aligning timelines.â
Your heart stutters. His hand stills.
âDo you want me to stop reading?â he asks, genuine this time.
You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.
He nods, kisses your temple.
Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.
Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:
âI should have known,â he mutters, âyou liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?â
You remember.
And you remember how heâd always let you winâjust enoughâbefore pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.
You squirm, face heating. âThatâs different.â
âIt was always you,â he says softly. âEven when I didnât know what I was looking for. Iâd follow you through fields, parks, school halls. Youâd run, Iâd chase. Every time.â
His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. âYou were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.â
Your throat tightens.
âAnd I did.â He sets the letter aside. âFinally.â
The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.
âNo more letters,â he murmurs. âIf thereâs something you want⊠tell me. If you need something⊠Iâll listen. If you feel too muchâgood. So do I.â
You try to look away, but he wonât let you.
âYouâve already stripped yourself bare,â he whispers, brushing your hair back. âNow let me carry the weight.â
And just like that, your defenses crumbleâslowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.
You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. Thereâs no urgency. No fire.
Just heat. Banked and waiting.
And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breathâyou swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.
The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.
âHey! Give that back!â you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, whoâs casually sauntering around your kitchenâyour kitchenâholding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.
Bastard.Â
âThis?â Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. âYou mean our mug now. Community property.â
âThatâs not how this works!â You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like heâs enjoying this a little too much.
Maybe itâs the fact that heâs only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe itâs the way he looks at youâlike youâre the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.
âCaleb, I swearââ you lunge for him again.
He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops youâfresh soap, coffee, and something thatâs just him.
âSay please,â he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.
You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Calebâs arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.
You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.
Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. âCareful, sweetheart. Youâre playing with fire this early in the morning.â
âYou started it,â you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.
He grins lazily, shameless. âIâll finish it, too.â
Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think youâre safeâuntil he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.
âCaleb! Put me down!â you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but heâs unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.
âShhh. Weâre doing Sunday properly,â he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. âCoffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.â
You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.
You can feel the tension humming between youâthick, electricâbut somehow, it doesnât feel urgent. It feels⊠safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.
You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.
âThis isnât fair,â you grumble.
âWhatâs not fair?â he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
âYou being so⊠soâŠâ You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?
âSo what?â he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.
You groan into his chest. âEverything.â
He laughsâreally laughsâand the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You canât help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself youâd be careful.
âYouâre stuck with me now, sweetheart,â Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. âMight as well get used to it.â
Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you donât have a snarky reply. Just thisâthis impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.
Maybe you are stuck with him.
Maybe you want to be.
And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lipsâtender, warm, unbearably sweetâyou know youâre completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.
And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.
Your lunch is burning.
You know it isâbecause you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetablesâand yet, you canât do anything about it.
Because Caleb.
Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.
Because Caleb, who somehowâsomehowâhas memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.
You try not to die of embarrassment right there.
âYou know,â Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, âyou were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something likeââ he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, ââDear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then youâll stop being so full of yourself.ââ
You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. âStopppp.â Youâre basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.
But Calebâs laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like heâs won the lottery.
âAnd thenâthen,â he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, âin high school, when I got a little popular⊠You wrote, âCongratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day youâll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. Iâm totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.ââ
He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.
âOh my God, Caleb,â you hiss, trying to hide your face again. âShut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didnât know anything about anything!â
He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. âYou knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,â he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasingâthe raw affection.
You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.
You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. âYouâre so annoying.â
His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like youâre the only thing in the entire world.
âNot done yet,â he murmurs.
Your stomach drops.
You already know what's coming. The worst part.
Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, âAnd then there were the ones where you couldnât stop thinking about me at night.â
You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.
âYou had so many thoughts about me,â he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. âAbout what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.â He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.
âI can quote those too, if you want,â he teases mercilessly. âMaybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical beltââ
âCALEB!!â you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.
You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, âIâm going to die. Iâm actually going to die.â
âNo, youâre not,â he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.
You risk peeking up at himâand freeze.
Heâs staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.
âYouâre my life,â Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. âYouâve always been my life. You just didnât know it yet.â
You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.
Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.
Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.
The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing youâve ever had.
âGuess Iâm stuck with you, huh?â you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.
Calebâs smile turns crooked, boyish.
âForever, sweetheart,â he murmurs.
And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise heâs waited a lifetime to keep.
â
Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.
Youâre half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Calebâs chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.
Youâre just about to slip under completely whenâ
You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.
"What's this? Another letter?"
You tense immediately.
No.
No no no.
Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.
You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.
"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can'tâ!"
He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.
âI think the people deserve to hear this one,â he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. âSpecifically, me.â
He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.
"âItâs not fair,â" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "âItâs not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I canât stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neckââ"
"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.
But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.
"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "âHow I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.â"
Your soul tries to physically leave your body.
You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.
"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stopâ"
But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.
âYou really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,â he says, eyes smoldering. "Wouldâve saved us a lot of time."
You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.
Calebâs smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.
"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."
Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.
You can't look away from himâthose devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.
He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.
âYouâre mine,â Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. âYou always were.â
You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against himâas youâve always been.
"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.
He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smileâand promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.
You scream his name, half furious, half in love.
Caleb just laughs like itâs the happiest sound in the world.
Itâs late.
Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheetsânot in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.
Vulnerability.
Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look againâthe one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he canât stop touching you even now. Like heâs making sure youâre still here.
âI shouldâve reached out sooner,â he says.
You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.
âI didnât date her,â he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.
You blink.
âWhat?â
âShe wasnât mine,â he says. âNever was. I thoughtâŠâ He hesitates. âI thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.â
Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.
âThen why didnât you call? Or message? Orâanything, Caleb? You just vanished.â
He exhales, slow and jagged.
âI was afraid,â he admits.
You glance up, surprised.
He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. âNot of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, Iâd drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I wouldâve been done for.â
Your heart twists painfully.
âYou idiot,â you whisper. âI wouldâve taken you. In any form.â
âI didnât want you to take less of me.â He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. âI wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.â
You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.
âYou were worthy, Caleb. You just⊠didnât believe it.â
A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.
He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.
Stronger now.
Steady.
âFor the record,â he murmurs, âwhen I read the one about the lakeâwhen we were sixteenâI nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didnât know what to do with the way I felt back then.â
You squeeze his hand. âYou pushed me into the water.â
âYou screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.â
You smile despite yourself.
Then softer, quieter:
âI used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.â
âAnd now that I have?â
Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.
âI donât want dreams anymore,â you whisper.
âGood,â Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. âBecause Iâm not leaving this time. And I donât need letters. I have you.â
And when he kisses you, itâs not a claim.
Itâs a promise.
The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometownâfamiliar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.
Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.
Then, quietly: âItâs smaller than I remember.â
You huff a laugh. âBecause weâre bigger now.â
He looks at youâreally looks. âYou are.â
Thereâs a weight to those words you donât touch yet. Not here. Not now.
The town unfolds before you like a photographâfaded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where youâd play tag until dusk.
âI remember this tree,â Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. âYou used to climb it like a gremlin.â
âYou fell out of it once,â you remind him. âCried for hours.â
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. âAnd you didnât leave my side.â
A beat of silence.
âYou always stayed,â he says.
You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. âYou just didnât always notice.â
His jaw tightens, but he doesnât argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.
You donât let go.
The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.
âI remember sneaking out through your window,â he says with a crooked grin. âYou made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldnât get caught.â
âYou always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,â you mutter. âWe always got caught.â
âWorth it,â he murmurs. âEvery single time.â
You donât speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lakeâthe one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.
The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.
You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.
âI didnât know you loved me then,â he says, voice quiet. âBut I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didnât have the words.â
Your throat tightens.
âI didnât either,â you say. âSo I wrote them instead.â
He turns to you slowly. âNo more letters,â he whispers.
Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.
You close your eyes.
The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.
Just two people who finally stopped running.
NOTES: guys I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I posted the unedited version!!! I didn't like how instead of talking through their issues these two went to bang instead, AHHH this is so embarrassing!!!
Synopsis: You were supposed to die quietly. Sick since birth, youâve spent your life in a hospital bed, surrounded by white walls and kind hands. And then thereâs Dr. Zayneâthe one who never looks at you for too long.
Until you see him with a corpse. Until he sees you.
He doesnât kill you. He tells you he willâjust not yet. Youâre already dying, after all.
You are no longer a patient. Youâre a specimen. And Zayne is still deciding what to do with you.
Tags: psychological horror, death, body gore, body abuse, mental abuse, dark romance ( hopefully), medical horror, obsessive behavior, sadistic male lead, slow descent into madness, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, toxic dynamics
A/N: Happy New Year! For this years 2026 I had to post the next chapter of your favortie story. I think Burning Hearts and Tied Soul will be next, and then, maybe The Weight fo Wanting You Season II shall arrive. I hope you will enjoy today's chapter.
<- Previous Chapter
Chapter V: What Bleeds, Belongs.
Milo didnât speak at first.
He just stared at you, sitting there on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest, your voice still echoing in the air between you like something broken that hadnât finished falling yet. His mouth was slightly open, as if heâd meant to interrupt you somewhere around the scalpel, or the chair, or the way Zayne whispered to you like he was teaching you how to breathe wrongâbut every time heâd tried, the words had piled on top of each other until there had been no place left to step in.
You had told him everything.
About the sub-basement. About the body. About the way Zayne touched you, spoke to you, made you beg, made you believe. About the hoodie. About waking up convinced you had killed him.
And now Milo was looking at you like heâd never really seen you beforeânot with humor, not with teasing affection, not with that lazy grin he wore like armor, but with something raw and stunned, like someone trying to process the moment a familiar shape suddenly reveals teeth.
For a long time, the only sound was the distant hum of the hospital, the steady beeping of machines down the hall, the proof that life was still going on somewhere else. Then Milo swallowed.
Hard.
âYouâŠâ His voice came out rough, stripped of its usual ease, and he had to stop, run a hand through his hair, drag in a breath like his lungs werenât cooperating anymore. âYouâre not joking.â
It wasnât a question.
His eyes flicked over you again, really looking this timeâthe way your hands shook even now, the way your shoulders were hunched like you were bracing for a blow, the way you kept glancing toward the door like you expected it to open at any second. And something in his expression shifted, the last traces of disbelief draining away and leaving behind something colder, heavier.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For you.
Were you sure about it? Why would he be afraid for you? You killed a man. You dug your knife into his chest just like Dr.Zayne taught you. And he was so proud of you.
âHey,â he said finally, quieter, carefully, like you might shatter if he spoke too loud. âHey. Look at me.â
But even as he reached out, even as his fingers hovered near your arm, you could see it in his faceâthe dawning understanding that whatever Dr. Zayne had done to you hadnât ended in the basement.
Or maybe he didnât want to touch someone as disgusting as you? You had blood on your hands, soon, will his blood decorate you?
You watched Miloâs face change, and with every second that passed without him speaking, something tight and ugly began to coil in your chest.
His eyes werenât on you anymore. They were unfocused, distant, like he was replaying everything youâd said and couldnât decide where it stopped being real. His jaw clenched, unclenched. His fingers flexed against the floor, restless, useless. He looked⊠lost.
And that scared you more than if heâd laughed.
Because silence meant doubt.
You told yourself you could see it written all over himâthat careful stillness people get when theyâre humoring a story they donât believe, when theyâre trying to be gentle with someone fragile. You imagined what he must be thinking: Sheâs sick. Sheâs confused. She attacked a nurse. Of course she made this up.
Your stomach twisted.
He didnât look angry. He didnât look horrified. He looked like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether the ground beneath him was solid or imaginary.
He thinks Iâm lying.
The thought slid into you smoothly, easily, like it had been waiting there all along.
Or worseâyou realized with a sharp, breathless acheâhe thought you believed it, and that was enough to pity you.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown, nails biting into your palms. You wanted him to say something. Anything. To interrupt the silence before it swallowed you whole. But fear glued your tongue to the roof of your mouth.
You lowered your gaze, heart racing, already bracing yourself for the sound of disbelief. For the careful words. For the soft voice people use when they think youâre broken beyond repair.
Donât look at me like that, you wanted to say. Donât decide Iâm crazy before you even ask.
But Milo still hadnât spoken.
And the longer he stayed silent, the more certain you became that you had just handed him another reason to leave you behind.
The silence stretched, and your mind filled it with knives.
You replayed your own words over and over, each sentence twisting itself into something uglier the longer it lingered. I held the blade. I cut him. There was blood on my hands. You hadnât said forced enough times. Or maybe you had, but it didnât matter. Maybe Milo only heard what everyone else would hear.
A patient admitting to murder.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. You imagined the way the story must sound coming from youâyour shaking voice, your wild eyes, the way you kept flinching like the room itself might hurt you. Maybe to him, you didnât look like a victim at all. Maybe you looked dangerous. Unstable. Someone to be reported.
Your throat tightened painfully.
What if he thinks I wanted it?
The thought made you feel sick. Zayneâs voice slithered back into your head, calm and precise, telling you how to hold the blade, how to cut, how to breathe. You did it. You could almost hear him now, amused, satisfied. See? Theyâll blame you.
You imagined Milo standing in a white hallway, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, trying to sound casual while telling someoneâtelling Zayneâthat a patient had been spreading disturbing rumors. That sheâd said strange things. Violent things. That she needed to be watched.
Your chest constricted until it hurt.
Heâll believe him, you thought wildly. Everyone believes him.
You pictured Zayne hearing it, that faint smirk appearing, already knowing how this would end. Already knowing you had delivered yourself neatly back into his hands. The good doctor. The liar. The murderer. You.
Your fingers dug into your arms, grounding yourself in the sting, because your thoughts were slipping, sliding into places you couldnât follow anymore. You didnât notice when your breathing sped up again, when your vision blurred at the edges.
Milo still hadnât spoken.
And the longer he stayed silent, the more certain you became that you had just crossed a line you could never uncrossâthat in trying to save yourself, you had only proved Zayne right.
That no matter how hard you screamed the truth, it would always sound like madness coming from your mouth.
Milo finally looked at you.
Really looked.
Not at the floor. Not at the wall. Not at the version of you his mind had been trying to rearrange into something safer. His eyes lifted slowly, like it cost him something to do it, and when they met yours there was fear thereâreal fear, unmaskedâbut not the kind youâd been bracing for.
Not fear of you.
Fear for you.
And thenâbarely there, like a fragile thing he didnât trust himself to hold too tightlyâhis mouth twitched.
It wasnât his usual grin. It didnât have teeth. It didnât have swagger or sarcasm or that lazy confidence he wore like armor. It was small. Careful. The kind of smile people use when theyâre standing in the wreckage and trying not to scare the person bleeding beside them.
âWell,â he said quietly.
Your chest tightened. The word landed like the beginning of a sentence you didnât want to hear the end of.
âWell,â he repeated, swallowing. His voice wobbled just a little, like he was walking on ice he didnât trust. âThatâs⊠thatâs definitely above the pay grade of this place.â
You flinched.
Here it comes, you thought. The joke that means I donât believe you. The deflection. The soft laugh that tells you heâs already decided youâre too far gone.
But he didnât laugh.
Instead, he leaned back on his hands, staring at the ceiling for half a second like he needed permission to say the next part. When he looked back at you, his eyes were shinyânot with tears, but with something sharp and scared and stubborn all at once.
âWe need a new hospital,â he said.
You blinked.
âWhat?â Your voice came out thin, scraped raw from the spiral you were still half trapped in.
âThis oneâs busted,â Milo went on, nodding faintly like he was talking through a problem heâd already decided to solve. âBad wiring. Bad doctors. One especially bad doctor.â His jaw tightened at that, just for a second, before he forced the tension back down. âSo yeah. Weâre not getting better here.â
Your heart stuttered.
We.
Not you.
Not you need help.
We.
You shook your head, the motion small and frantic. âMilo, IâI told youâif Iâm wrong, if I made it up, ifââ
âHey.â His voice cut in gently, immediately, not sharp but firm enough to stop the thought mid-spiral. âNo. Donât do that thing.â
Your fingers curled tighter into your gown. âWhat thing?â
âThat thing where you start prosecuting yourself,â he said softly. âYou already had one psychopath doing that. You donât need to take over his job.â
Your breath hitched.
He shifted closer, slow enough that you couldâve told him to stop at any point. He didnât touch you yet. Just moved into your space like someone approaching a skittish animal, careful not to startle.
âI donât know everything,â Milo continued, honest in a way that made your chest ache. âI donât know how deep this goes, or how he got away with it, or how long heâs been messing with your head.â His mouth pressed into a thin line. âBut I know you. And this?â He gestured vaguely between the two of you, at your shaking hands, your hunched shoulders, the way your eyes kept darting to the door. âThis isnât someone making shit up for attention.â
You swallowed hard, vision blurring. âWhat if I hurt someone?â you whispered. âWhat if I really did something and I justâchanged the story so I could live with it?â
Miloâs face cracked at that.
Not breakingâcracking.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly for a second like he didnât know what to do with them. âOkay,â he said quietly. âFirst of all? That is exactly what someone whoâs been manipulated sounds like when theyâre trying to survive. Secondââ He inhaled, steadying himself. âIf you were dangerous, you wouldnât be this scared of being dangerous.â
The words hit you harder than anything youâd said yourself.
You let out a broken sound that wasnât quite a sob and wasnât quite a laugh, your shoulders folding inward like you were finally losing the strength to hold yourself together. Your gaze dropped to the floor.
âIâm so tired,â you whispered.
Milo didnât hesitate anymore.
He shifted closer and wrapped his arms around youânot fast, not tight, not sudden. Just slow. Careful. Like he was afraid you might splinter if he held you the wrong way. His chest was warm through the thin fabric of your gown, solid and real in a way that made your breath catch painfully.
You stiffened for half a second, instinct screaming trap, bite, priceâ
But nothing happened. He didnât demand anything. Didnât correct you. Didnât test you. He just held you. âThere,â he murmured, his chin resting lightly near your temple. âOkay. Iâve got you. Iâm not going anywhere.â
Your hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure if you were allowed to touch him back. Then, slowly, like you were relearning how gravity worked, your fingers curled into the back of his hoodie.
He let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like relief.
âSee?â he said softly, a ghost of his old teasing tone slipping through the fear. âThis is why you need me. Your emotional supportâs boyfriend.â He paused, then added, gentler, âOccupational hazard.â
A strangled sound escaped youâhalf laugh, half sobâas your forehead pressed into his shoulder.
âYouâre not⊠youâre not scared of me?â you asked, the question barely audible.
Milo tightened his arms just a fraction. âOh, Iâm terrified,â he admitted. âBut not of you.â He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his expression earnest, scared, but unflinching. âIâm scared for you. Big difference.â
Your throat burned.
âI believe you,â he said quietly. No fanfare. No drama. Just the truth, placed carefully between you. âAnd if staying here means he keeps getting closer, keeps whispering in your ear until you donât know which thoughts are yours anymore?â His jaw set. âThen yeah. Weâre leaving. Weâll find another hospital. Another doctor. Another city if we have to.â
Your chest heaved, breath coming uneven, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasnât only panic driving it.
âYou wonât leave me?â you asked.
Milo huffed softly, a sad little smile tugging at his mouth. âYou kidding? I already signed up for this gig.â He squeezed you again, careful, grounding. âSupportâs boyfriend. Remember? Comes with terrible hours and emotional heavy lifting.â
You clung to him, shaking, crying quietly into his shoulder. And for the first time since the basement, since the scalpel, since the voice that had taught you how to breathe wrongâ
The spiral slowed. Not gone. Not healed. But interrupted. A small sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Not a laugh. Not really.
More like⊠a wobble. A thin, unsteady giggle that startled you as much as it startled Milo. It bubbled up from somewhere sore and bruised in your chest, cracked at the edges, like your body didnât remember how laughter was supposed to work anymore.
âThis isâŠâ you breathed, the sound breaking again, your forehead still pressed against his shoulder. âThis is the best hospital.â
Milo stilled.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes too bright, your smile crooked and wrong, the kind that came from exhaustion more than humor. âIt is,â you insisted softly, like you were trying to convince yourself. âIt has everything. The machines. The doctors. The meds.â Your laugh hitched again, uneven. âWe need it. To stay alive.â
His brow furrowed, concern deepening. âHeyââ
âAnd after your heart attack,â you rushed on, words tumbling over each other, afraid that if you stopped theyâd turn on you, âafter a few days ago, when you collapsed, when you couldnât breatheââ Your voice thinned, the memory cutting sharp. âI donât want you anywhere unsafe. I donât want you moving. I donât want you taking risks because of me.â
Your hands tightened in his hoodie like you could anchor him there.
Milo inhaled slowly, deliberately, like he was choosing calm on purpose.
âI am safe,â he said.
You shook your head, the motion small but frantic. âYou say that, butââ
âNo,â he interrupted gently, but firmly this time. He pulled back just enough that you had to look at him. His hands stayed on your arms, warm, steady. âI am safe.â
You searched his face, fear clawing up your ribs.
âI donât have him,â Milo continued. âDr. Zayneâs not my personal doctor. He never was.â His mouth twisted faintly, something hard flashing behind his eyes. âAnd now⊠he doesnât know that I know. Not yet.â
The words landed slowly, one by one.
He doesnât know. But Dr. Zayne knows everything? Everything.
Your breath caught.
Milo watched your reaction closely, reading every micro-flinch, every twitch of panic. âWhich means,â he added quietly, âwe donât do anything stupid right now. We donât confront. We donât panic. We donât give him a reason to look too closely.â
Your giggle died completely this time.
âWe wait,â he said. âJust a little. Until things settle. Until everyone stops watching so hard.â He hesitated, then offered you a small, crooked smileâthe closest thing to teasing youâd seen since before everything broke. âThen we make a plan.â
A plan.
The word felt foreign. Dangerous. Hope-shaped.
You swallowed hard. âPlans get people killed,â you whispered. Zayneâs voice echoed immediately, smug and certain. Interference leads to consequences.
Miloâs grip tightened, grounding you again. âBad plans do,â he said. âWeâll make a boring one. The kind psychopaths hate.â
That earned another small, broken sound from youâthis one closer to a laugh.
âYouâre really not scared heâllâŠâ You trailed off, unable to finish.
âCome after me?â Milo finished quietly. He shrugged, but there was steel under it. âI am. But Iâm more scared of what happens to you if we pretend everythingâs fine.â
Your chest squeezed painfully.
âI donât want to lose you,â you whispered.
Miloâs expression softened in a way that almost hurt to look at. âYeah,â he said gently. âSame. Thatâs kind of why Iâm still here.â
He pulled you back into his arms, slower this time, firmer, like he was reminding both of you that he was real. Alive. Breathing.
âWeâll stay,â he murmured into your hair. âFor now. We play nice. We keep you breathing. We keep me breathing.â A pause. Then, quieter: âAnd we donât let him isolate you again.â
Your fingers curled into his hoodie, your breathing slowly, shakily syncing with his. The hospital lights hummed. Machines beeped. Life continued. And somewhere far awayâtoo far to hear, but not far enough to forgetâsomething dangerous remained unaware that the story had just changed.
Not loudly. Not cleanly. But enough. Milo seemed to make a decision then. Not a big one. Not a brave one. Just⊠a quiet, human one.
âOkay,â he said softly, releasing you just enough to reach into the pocket of his hoodie. âEmergency protocol.â
You sniffed, swiping at your face with the back of your sleeve. âWhat kind of emergency?â
âThe yellow, square, under-the-sea kind,â he replied, already unlocking his phone.
You huffed weakly despite yourself. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âI prefer lifesaving,â he said, solemnly. Then, with the faintest glimmer of his old grin, âAlso, I told you. I know every episode by heart. This is basically medicine.â
He scrolled with practiced ease, thumb barely hesitating before tapping the screen. The familiar jingle burst out softly, tinny through the phone speakerâbright, ridiculous, painfully out of place in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and fear.
Your chest tightened.
âOh my god,â you murmured. âThatâs a new Patrickâs backgroundâŠYou really werenât lying.â
âNever would,â he said, mock-offended. âSeason two. Best era. Emotional depth. Narrative excellence.â
You let out a small, breathy laughâthe kind that felt like it might fall apart if you pushed it too hard. Milo nudged you gently toward the bed. âCâmon. Sit before your legs give up on you.â
You hesitated for half a second, old instincts flaringâdonât lie down, donât be vulnerableâbut he didnât rush you. Just waited, holding the phone out so you could see SpongeBob running across the screen, yelling something incomprehensible and joyful.
Eventually, you climbed back onto the bed.
The sheets were cool. Too clean. But Milo sat on the edge first, grounding the space, then carefully eased you down until your head hit the pillow. He stayed close, close enough that you could feel his presence without him crowding you.
He angled the phone so you could both see it, lowering the volume to a gentle murmur. The bright colors filled your visionâabsurd, safe, familiar. Your breathing started to slow without you even noticing it.
âThere,â Milo murmured. âNo thinking allowed. Brainâs on vacation.â
âI donât think my brain knows how to do that anymore,â you whispered.
âThatâs okay,â he said easily. âIâll do the thinking for both of us tonight. Iâm very qualified. I once thought SpongeBob was a documentary.â
You smiled. A real one this time, faint but there.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. The episode rolled on, characters shouting and laughing and resetting their world every eleven minutes like nothing bad could ever stick.
Your eyelids grew heavy.
At some point, Milo shifted closer, careful not to jostle you, his shoulder brushing yours. You tensed instinctivelyâthen relaxed when nothing followed. No expectation. No price. Just warmth.
He noticed anyway.
âHey,â he whispered. âYouâre okay. Iâm not going anywhere.â Your fingers twitched against the sheet, then slowly curled into the fabric of his hoodie sleeve. He stayed still, letting you decide. Eventually, your grip tightened just a little. âThatâs it,â he murmured, almost to himself. âSleep.â
The voices from the phone blurred into background noise. Your thoughts tried to pull you back underâplans, danger, Zayneâbut they were slower now, dulled by exhaustion and the steady rise and fall of Miloâs breathing beside you.
The last thing you registered was SpongeBob laughing at something impossibly stupid, and Milo quietly reciting the next line under his breath, perfectly in sync.
Then the screen dimmed.
Miloâs head tipped gently against the side of the bed, phone still loose in his hand as his eyes slid shut tooâguard down just enough to rest.
Two patients.
One bed.
Still alive.
And for a few fragile hours, wrapped in cartoon colors and shared breathing, the night passed without teeth.
Your eyes opened slowly.
Too slowly.
For one soft, treacherous second, you thought you were still dreamingâstill floating somewhere between SpongeBobâs bright colors and the steady rise and fall of Miloâs breathing beside you. The room was dark now, washed in that muted blue-gray glow hospitals never quite let go of at night. The monitor hummed. The curtains barely stirred.
Then you saw him.
Dr. Zayne was standing at the foot of the bed.
You froze.
Every muscle locked at once, your body going utterly, horrifyingly still, like a prey animal that had just realized the shadow above it had teeth. Your breath caught halfway in, shallow and silent, your heart slamming so hard against your ribs you were sure the monitor would betray you.
He hadnât startled you on purpose.
That was the worst part.
Zayne stood perfectly still, hands folded loosely behind his back, white coat immaculate even in the dim light. His posture was relaxedâalmost casualâlike a man observing a painting heâd already memorized. The overhead glow carved sharp lines into his face: the straight nose, the calm mouth, the eyes catching just enough light to gleam.
Those eyes.
They were fixed on the bed.
On you.
On Milo, still asleep beside you, his head tipped awkwardly near the mattress, phone dark and loose in his hand.
Zayneâs gaze moved between the two of you slowly, deliberately, like he was cataloguing details. The way Miloâs shoulder leaned close to yours. The way your fingers were still twisted faintly in the fabric of his hoodie. The undeniable intimacy of itânot romantic, not sexual, but real. Protective. Chosen.
Something shifted behind Zayneâs eyes. Not anger. Not surprise.
Interest.
Your throat tightened painfully. Donât move. Donât breathe. Donât wake Milo.
Zayne tilted his head a fraction, studying the scene from a new angle, like a surgeon adjusting his view before an incision. The corner of his mouth liftedânot into a smile, not quiteâbut into that faint, knowing curve youâd learned to fear.
âHow touching,â he murmured softly.
The sound of his voice in the dark sent ice straight down your spine.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to shake Milo awake, drag him away, warn himâbut your body refused to obey. You lay there, heart racing, lungs barely pulling in air, trapped beneath Zayneâs gaze like a pinned specimen.
His eyes returned to your face. They sharpened.
âAwake?â he asked gently, as if he hadnât caught you in something forbidden. As if he hadnât found you wrapped around someone who wasnât him.
He stepped closer.
One quiet footstep. Then another.
You felt it in your bones more than you heard itâthe way the air changed as he entered your space, the way your skin prickled as though your body recognized the danger before your mind could catch up.
Zayne stopped at the bedside.
Close enough now that you could see the faint reflection of the monitorâs light in his eyes. Close enough that if you moved, even a little, he would notice.
His gaze dipped briefly to Milo. Lingering. Calculating.
Then back to you.
âDid you sleep well?â he asked.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
Your pulse thundered, your chest tight, panic clawing to the surfaceâbut you forced it down, remembering Miloâs arms around you, his voice steady, his promise still warm in your chest.
Zayne watched the effort with quiet fascination.
âMy,â he murmured, voice low, almost pleased. âYouâre learning control.â His eyes flicked once more to Miloâsleeping, vulnerable, unaware. Then, softly, almost thoughtfully: âWe should talk.â
Your stomach dropped. Not a demand. An inevitability. And as Zayne straightened, still watching you with that calm, predatory patience, one terrifying truth settled into place:
He had seen everything. And he was very, very curious.
He didnât move right away. He just watched you. Long enough for your pulse to start screaming again, for your skin to prickle with the certainty that he could hear it, count it, enjoy it. Then, softly:
âDid you tell him everything?â
The question was almost polite.
You swallowed. Your tongue felt too big for your mouth, your thoughts slipping over each other like wet glass. Milo was still asleep beside you, chest rising and falling, unaware of the man standing so close he could end him before he ever woke.
âNo,â you whispered.
The lie tasted wrong the moment it left you. Zayneâs gaze sharpenedânot angry, not offended. Amused. Like a man watching a child make the same mistake twice.
âOh,â he murmured. âThatâs disappointing.â Your fingers curled into the sheet. âI thought we were past that.â
Your stomach dropped.
He leaned closer, resting one hand lightly on the foot of the bed. Casual. Intimate. His eyes never left your face. âDo you remember our games?â he asked.
Your breath caught painfully. The word games opened something inside you that had never really closed. The basement. His voice, calm and precise. The rules.
You shook your head weakly. âI donâtââ
âYou do,â he said gently. âYou always do. You just donât like what remembering costs.â
His hand slid from the bed and lifted. A scalpel caught the dim light. Clean. Familiar. Almost comforting in how predictable it was.
Your vision blurred.
âIf you lie,â Zayne continued conversationally, as if explaining the steps of a procedure, âsomething innocent gets hurt. That was the rule.â His eyes flicked briefly to the doorway, then back to you. âYou liked that one. It made honesty feel⊠urgent.â
Your chest constricted. âThereâs nothing to hurt,â you whispered. âYou killed my cat. Itâs gone.â
For a fraction of a second, something like delight flickered across his face. âDid I?â he asked softly.
Your breath stuttered. âYou let a Wanderer eat her,â you whispered, the memory sharp and unreal. âYou watched her die.â
He smiled then. Not wide. Not cruel. Just enough. âYou didnât save her,â he said. âThat was fascinating.â
But you were sure you heard her mewling, and Dr.Zayne had confirmed to hear it tooâŠRight? Maybe she was still alive?
âYou see,â he went on, lowering the scalpel slightly, âtruth is flexible when the mind is under stress. Youâve already learned that.â His gaze slid, unhurried, to Milo. Your heart slammed so hard it hurt. âBut weâre evolving,â Zayne said. âCats are⊠replaceable.â
You shook your head violently. âNo.â
âMilo,â he corrected calmly. âHeâs warm. He breathes. He makes decisions for you.â His eyes returned to yours, sharp and bright. âHe also collapses easily. Weak heart. A history of incidents.â You could barely breathe. âIf something were to happen to him,â Zayne continued, voice steady, âpeople would look for patterns.â He tilted his head. âA distressed patient. A documented outburst. A nurse attacked.â His mouth curved faintly. âYou donât remember that part, do you?â
Your stomach lurched.
âI didnâtââ Your voice cracked. âI would neverââ
âYou donât remember,â he repeated softly, and that was worse than an accusation. âWhich makes it so convenient.â Your body went cold. âThey would say you panicked,â Zayne went on. âThat you hallucinated. That you confused fear with threat.â He glanced down at the scalpel, thoughtful. âThat you acted.â
Milo shifted in his sleep, a quiet sound leaving him. Your entire body screamed. Zayne noticed. Of course he did. He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it barely stirred the air between you. âSo,â he whispered, âIâll ask again. Did you tell him everything?â
Your mouth opened. No sound came out. Your mind raced, images collidingâblood that wasnât yours, hands you didnât remember using, a body on the floor and everyone looking at you. Zayne watched it all play across your face like a film heâd already seen. âCareful,â he murmured. âThis is the part where you choose which reality survives.â
The scalpel gleamed softly. Milo slept on. And you understood, with sickening clarity, what Zayne was really offering you:
Silence. Or another sacrifice.
You nodded.
It wasnât a decisive motion. It was small, brokenâyour chin dipping once as if your neck could barely hold the weight of it. Tears slid down your cheeks unchecked, soaking into the pillow, blurring the dim light until everything looked wrong and smeared.
âI told him,â you whispered. Your voice shook so badly it barely sounded like it belonged to you. âI told him everything.â
The words felt like a confession and a betrayal all at once. For a moment, Zayne said nothing. He simply watched the tears fall. Then he sighedâsoftly, almost indulgently.
âOh,â he murmured. âYou really are stupid.â The word wasnât shouted. It wasnât sharp. It was delivered the way a doctor might inform a patient of an unfortunate but obvious diagnosis. Cold. Certain. Final. âAnd selfish,â he added calmly.
Your chest hitched.
âIâI justâheâs my friend,â you choked out, desperate now, the words tumbling over each other. âHe believes me. He wants to help. Heâs not likeâheâs not like everyone else.â
Zayneâs gaze flicked, slow and deliberate, to Miloâs sleeping form.
Friend.
The corner of his mouth curvedânot quite a smile, but something close enough to make your stomach drop. âDoes he?â Zayne asked softly. âDoes he believe you⊠or does he believe the version of you that needs saving?â
You shook your head weakly, tears blinding you. âHe knows I wouldnât lie. He trusts me.â
Zayne stepped closer.
Too close.
You felt the shift in the air before you felt himâhis presence pressing down on you, familiar and suffocating. He reached out, not hurried, not rough, and brushed his fingers beneath your chin, lifting your face despite the way you tried to pull away.
âLook at you,â he murmured, tilting your head side to side as if examining a specimen. His thumb dragged slowly across your cheek, wiping away a tear only to smear it back into your skin. âStill clinging to that fantasy.â
His touch wasnât violent. That was what made it worse.
âYou really think this ends with him holding your hand and everything becoming simple?â Zayne went on, voice smooth, almost conversational. âThat he wonât start sacrificing himself for you the moment you cry a little harder? He already did, didnât he?â His eyes flicked back to Milo. âCollapsed. Pushed his body past its limits. All for you. Youâve given him a role he canât survive,â
Your throat closed.
âHeâll keep doing it,â Zayne said. âAgain and again. Missing meds. Ignoring symptoms. Burning himself down because he thinks heâs protecting something fragile.â His grip tightened just a fraction under your chinâenough to remind you he could control where you looked, where you breathed. âAnd one day,â he continued quietly, âheâll realize something doesnât add up.â
Your heart pounded wildly.
âThat thereâs no proof,â Zayne said. âNo bodies. No records. No witnesses who arenât compromised.â His thumb traced lazily along your jaw, condescending, almost fond. âJust you. A patient with a history of hallucinations. A documented violent episode you donât even remember.â
âI didnâtââ you whispered.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to something almost gentle. âYou donât remember attacking that nurse either. Isnât that fascinating?â Your breath stuttered. âWhen Milo starts asking questions,â Zayne went on, âwhen doctors tell him youâre unstable, when they show him the reportsââ His eyes locked on yours, sharp and unblinking. âWho do you think heâll believe?â
You sobbed quietly now, the sound breaking out of you despite your efforts to stay silent.
âHeâll tell himself you lied,â Zayne said. âThat you exaggerated. That you confused fear with reality.â His thumb pressed under your chin again, lifting your face so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. âAnd the worst part?â
You shook your head, helpless.
âHe wonât even hate you,â Zayne finished softly. âHeâll pity you.â
The words hollowed you out. Zayne released your chin at last, straightening as if the interaction had been nothing more than a brief consultation. He glanced once more at Milo, asleep and unaware, then back to you.
âSo yes,â he said calmly. âYou were very brave. Very loyal. Very foolish.â He stepped back, already retreating into his usual composure, his voice cool and precise once more. âAnd now,â he added, almost kindly, âyouâll watch him destroy himself trying to save youâuntil he realizes the truth is too heavy to carry.â
Zayne paused at the foot of the bed, turning his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.
âAnd when that happens,â he murmured, âyouâll come back to me.â
Because despite everythingâdespite Miloâs body next to you, despite the cartoons and the plans and the fragile hopeâyou already knew the cruelest part of what Zayne was saying:
He wasnât predicting the future. He was describing the trap heâd built.
You stared back at him.
Right into his eyes, past the calm surface youâd learned to fear, past the cold precision, searchingâdesperate, recklessâfor something human. Your lips trembled as the last of your resistance bled out of you, leaving only terror and a fragile, aching hope.
âPlease,â you whispered. The word scraped your throat raw. âPlease⊠leave him alone.â
Your voice broke completely then, the sound barely more than breath. âHe didnât do anything. He doesnât know how dangerous you are. Heâs sick, heâs fragileâhe canâtââ You shook your head, tears spilling faster now. âIf you hurt him, I wonât survive it. I wonât.â
For a heartbeat, Zayne didnât respond. He simply held your gaze. And in that stillnessâso brief you almost convinced yourself it hadnât happenedâyou thought you saw it.
A flicker. Something dark and sharp tightening behind his eyes. Not anger. Not pleasure.
Possession.
Jealousy?
It vanished almost instantly, buried under his usual composure, but it left your stomach twisting because you knew what youâd seen. You hadnât imagined it. You couldnât have. It was there, just long enough to betray him.
Zayne leaned closer.
Too close.
You felt his breath against your cheek, cool and steady, his presence eclipsing everything else in the room. He reached up again, fingers brushing your hair back with infuriating gentleness, tucking a loose strand behind your ear like you were something delicate he owned.
âShh,â he murmured. His lips hovered near your ear, his voice dropping until it vibrated straight through you. âYou still donât understand.â
His fingers slid from your hair to your jaw, tilting your face just enough to force you to listen. His touch was slow, deliberate, condescendingâlike reassurance given to a child who didnât know better.
âNo one,â Zayne whispered, âin this life can hold you together the way I can.â Your breath hitched. âNo one can break you the way I can,â he continued, almost reverent now, as if he were reciting a truth carved into him long before you existed. His thumb pressed lightly beneath your chin, a reminder of control disguised as care. âAnd no oneâno oneâcan save you the way I can.â
Your chest seized painfully.
âMilo canât,â Zayne said softly, cruel certainty wrapped in silk. âHe wants to. Thatâs the tragedy. But wanting isnât enough.â His eyes flicked once more to Miloâs sleeping form, dismissive, almost bored. âHeâll burn himself down trying. And when he fails, heâll blame you. Or himself. Or both.â
Zayneâs mouth curved faintly.
âI wonât,â he said. Your vision swam. âA patient,â he went on calmly, âis saved or doomed by their doctor.â His gaze locked back onto yours, unblinking, absolute. âAnd I can do both.â
The words settled over you like a sentence.
His grip loosened at last, his hand falling away as though heâd already taken everything he wanted from the exchange. But he didnât step back. He stayed close, his shadow still wrapped around you, his presence pressing into your lungs until every breath felt borrowed.
âYou begged very prettily,â Zayne murmured. âThat almost makes me want to be kind.â
Almost.
He straightened slowly, composure sliding back into place like a mask locking shut. But before he turned away, he leaned in one final time, his lips brushing so close to your ear that it felt like a promise instead of a threat.
âSleep,â he whispered. âYouâll need your strength. Healing is⊠exhausting.â
Then he stepped back, already retreating into the dark, leaving you trembling beside Miloâs warmthâyour tears silent now, your body rigid, your mind echoing with the most terrifying truth of all: Some part of you believed him. Because he hadnât said he would save you.
Heâd said he was the only one who could.
And in the quiet that followed, with Milo still breathing softly beside you, you lay awake knowing exactly how dangerous that belief wasâ
and how tightly it had already wrapped itself around your heart.
Morning came softly, like it was trying not to startle you.
You woke to the quiet hum of the hospital and the dull ache behind your eyesâthe kind that made it hard to tell whether youâd slept at all or just drifted in shallow loops of half-consciousness. For a few terrifying seconds, you didnât move.Â
Milo.
He wasnât laying next to youâ
A knock sounded at your door, light and careful.
âHey,â Milo said, poking his head in before you could answer. He looked cleaner than the night before, hoodie swapped for another hoodie, hair still damp like heâd rushed through a shower. His smile came easyâbut you could see the effort behind it now, the way he watched you like he was checking for cracks. âYou awake, or just⊠spiritually present?â
You pushed yourself up slowly. The room tilted, then settled. âI think Iâm awake,â you said. âIâm not sure about the rest.â
âGood enough,â he replied. âBecause Iâve decided youâre coming with me to the cafeteria.â
Your stomach clenched.
âI donâtââ
âNope,â Milo cut in gently, already stepping fully inside. âNon-negotiable. You need food. I need food. And if we stay in this room any longer, Iâm going to start hallucinating the walls closing in.â
That made something in your chest twitch. You nodded, even though the idea of being seenâof moving through the hospital under fluorescent lightsâmade your skin crawl.
On the way out, you caught your reflection in the darkened glass of a display case. Your eyes looked too sharp, too bright, like they didnât quite belong to your face anymore. For a split second, you wondered if this was what people meant when they said someone was losing itânot screaming, not crying, just quietly slipping out of alignment with themselves.
Milo talked the whole way down the hall.
About the coffee in the cafeteria being legally classified as a war crime. About how SpongeBob wouldâve handled hospital food better. About how, if you survived this place, he was demanding pancakes as compensation.
You laughed at the right moments. You thought you did, anyway. The sound felt slightly delayed, like it had to travel farther to reach your mouth.
âYouâre doing that thing again,â Milo said lightly, glancing at you.
âWhat thing?â
âThe thousand-yard stare,â he replied. âVery intimidating. Makes people think you know how theyâre going to die.â
Your laugh came out thin. âDo I?â
âPlease,â he scoffed. âIf you did, youâd look way more smug.â
The cafeteria doors were just ahead when you bumped into someone.
Literally.
âWhoaâsorry,â the woman said, steadying herself before you even fully registered the collision.
You froze.
The Hunter from last time stood in front of you, dressed in her usual dark coat, posture relaxed, expression open and warm. Her eyes flicked from you to Milo and back again, recognition blooming almost immediately.
âOh,â she said, smiling. âYouâre up and walking. Thatâs good.â
Your throat tightened.
Milo blinked. âUhâhi?â
She laughed softly. âSorry. Iâm being rude. Iâm the Hunter that was there when you protected your friend⊠You were very brave and you have a powerful Ecvol. Iâm sorry I couldnât help more.â Her gaze settled on you again, assessing in a way that felt professional but kind. âIâm glad to see you out of bed. After everything youâve been throughâŠâ
Her voice trailed off gently, respectful. Sympathetic.
Every word scraped.
âWeâre heading to the cafeteria,â Milo said, instinctively stepping just a fraction closer to youânot blocking, not aggressive, just there. âDoctorâs orders. Or, uh. Boyfriendâs orders. Emotional support division.â
Hunter smiled wider at that. âI like him already.â
You managed a nod, your fingers curling into the sleeve of the sweater Milo had forced you to wear. Your heart was beating too fast again. You wondered if she could see it.
âI was just coming from seeing Zayne,â The woman added casually, like she was commenting on the weather. âHe mentioned you might be up today. Heâs been⊠attentive.â
The word landed wrong.
Your vision narrowed, a faint ringing filling your ears. Miloâs smile didnât falter, but you felt his shoulder tense beside you. âYeah?â he said lightly. âMust be nice to have such a dedicated doctor.â
She nodded, completely sincere. âHeâs always been like that. Brilliant, too. Quiet, but deeply committed to his patients.â She glanced at you again, softer now. âYouâre in very capable hands.â
Your stomach turned. For a moment, you thought you might laugh. Or cry. Or say something you couldnât take back. Instead, you swallowed and forced your lips to curve upward.
âThatâs what everyone says,â you murmured.
The Hunter didnât notice the way your hands were shaking.
She smiled once more, wished you both a good breakfast, and moved past you toward the hallwayâconfident, untroubled, carrying an image of Zayne that felt grotesquely incompatible with the man who had whispered ownership into your ear the night before.
As the cafeteria doors swung open, Milo leaned closer, his voice low.
âOkay,â he said gently. âYou still with me?â
You nodded.
But as you stepped inside, surrounded by noise and people and the smell of burnt coffee, one thought kept looping in your mind, sharp and relentless:
If everyone sees a savior⊠how do you convince them thereâs a monster standing in his place?
The cafeteria hit you all at once.
The noise wasnât loud so much as everywhereâvoices overlapping, trays clattering, chairs scraping, a laugh bursting too sharp somewhere to your left. The lights were too white, too high, pressing down on your skull like hands. The smell of coffee and grease turned your stomach.
Your breath hitched.
Milo noticed immediately.
âHeyâhey, itâs okay,â he said, already turning you gently toward him before you even realized youâd stopped walking. âToo much, yeah?â
You nodded, words caught somewhere behind your teeth. Your vision felt wrong around the edges, like the room was tilting just slightly out of sync with your body.
Milo didnât hesitate. He slipped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you inânot tight, not trapping, just firm enough to remind you where you were. His other hand came up to your back, warm and steady.
âIâve got you,â he murmured close to your ear. âJust breathe with me, okay?â
He started to sway, slow and rhythmic, side to side like a lullaby you didnât remember learning. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing that would draw attention. Just enough movement to give your body something simple to follow.
âIn,â he said quietly. âOut.â
You tried to match him. Your breaths were shallow at first, uneven, but he didnât rush you. He stayed where he was, grounding you with his weight, his warmth, the familiar rise and fall of his chest.
âThere you go,â he whispered. âYouâre doing great. Just us. Cafeteriaâs not real. Itâs a simulation. Bad graphics.â
A weak sound slipped out of you that mightâve been a laugh. Your shoulders slowly lowered. The pressure in your chest eased a fraction. The noise blurred, receded, like someone turning down the volume knob on the world.
You clutched the front of his jacket without thinking. And for a few precious seconds, it worked. Then you heard it.
Not clearly. Not distinctly. Just⊠enough.
Two nurses near the counter. Their voices low, their heads angled together. You couldnât hear the words, not reallyâbut you felt them. The glance that flicked toward you. Toward Miloâs arms around you. The soft tilt of one womanâs mouth, sympathetic.
Your stomach dropped.
Poor guy, your mind supplied instantly.
Must be hard. Putting up with her.
Your grip tightened.
The calm shattered like thin glass.
You pulled back slightly, breath stuttering again, your gaze darting toward the nurses even though you knew you shouldnât look. Their faces were neutral now, busy with their workâbut it was too late. The damage was done.
You could hear Zayneâs voice like it was right behind your eyes.
They pity the ones who stay. They admire the ones who endure you.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them. âIâIâm ruining your morning. Theyâre staring. They thinkââ
âHey.â Milo immediately shifted, blocking your line of sight without making it obvious. He dipped his head so you had to look at him instead. âNope. Stop.â
Your chest burned. âThey feel bad for you. I heard it. They think youâreââ Your voice broke. âThat youâre stuck with me.â
Milo frownedânot at you, but toward the room, like he was trying to triangulate what you meant. Then his attention snapped fully back to you, expression firm but gentle.
âOkay,â he said calmly. âFirst of all, if anyoneâs thinking anything, itâs probably âwow, that guyâs incredibly handsome and heroic.â Secondââ His thumb brushed your sleeve in a small, grounding motion. âYou donât get to decide what people think when your brainâs in red-alert mode. That thing lies.â
You shook your head, tears stinging. âYou donât hear it like I do.â
âI donât,â he agreed softly. âWhich is why you get to borrow my version right now.â
He pulled you back in, a little closer this time, resting his forehead lightly against the side of your head. He resumed the slow sway, steady and unembarrassed, like the rest of the cafeteria had ceased to exist.
âLook at me,â he murmured. âIâm not embarrassed. Iâm not burdened. I chose to come here with you. I chose to hold you.â A pause. âAnd Iâd do it again, even if the entire hospital started a commentary track.â
Your breath shook.
âTheyâre not inside at this moment,â Milo continued. âWe are. And right now, the only thing that matters is keeping you upright and breathing.â
The noise was still there. The lights were still too bright. But his voice cut through it, anchoring you just enough to keep you from slipping under. You clung to him, shame and relief twisting painfully together in your chest. And even as you let yourself lean into Miloâs steadiness, a cold thought crept in, uninvited and poisonous:
This is what Zayne meant.
Not that Milo didnât care.
But that caring came with witnesses. With pity. With eyes that judged who was strongâand who was being carried. And the fear settled deep, quiet and corrosive:
How long before Milo starts hearing it too?
Milo didnât argue with the spiral.
He redirected it.
âOkay,â he murmured, already steering you gently away from the center of the cafeteria. âField tripâs over. Weâre relocating to a quieter ecosystem.â
He guided you toward a small table tucked near the wall, half-hidden by a pillar and far enough from the main flow that the noise dulled into something manageable. The lights felt softer there, less aggressive. He pulled out a chair for youânot dramatically, just casually, like this was the most normal thing in the worldâand waited until you sat before moving away.
âDonât move,â he said, holding up a finger. âI will return with sustenance.â
You managed a weak smile. âIâm not going anywhere.â
âExcellent. Ideal patient compliance.â
He came back a minute later with a tray that looked almost comically gentle: a banana, a small yogurt, a piece of toast cut in half. Nothing heavy. Nothing sharp. Nothing that required effort.
âBehold,â he announced quietly as he set it down. âFood that will not fight back.â
You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop yourself.
Milo sat beside youânot across, not distantâclose enough that your knees almost touched. He angled his chair toward you like his attention had nowhere else to be. âOkay,â he said softly. âOne bite. You donât have to finish it. You just have to prove to your body that the world hasnât ended.â
You picked up the spoon with fingers that still trembled slightly and took a cautious bite. It tasted bland. Safe. Real.
âSee?â Milo murmured. âSurvivable.â
As you chewed, his hand drifted toward yours, slow and unassuming. He didnât grab it. Just nudged your pinky with his, then hooked it gently, like he was testing whether youâd pull away. When you didnât, he smiled. He started tracing little shapes on the side of your finger with his thumbâabsent-minded, rhythmic. Circles. Lines. A tiny star that was lopsided on purpose.
âGuess what this is,â he whispered.
You squinted at your hand. âA⊠very sad snowflake?â
âWrong,â he said solemnly. âItâs a map.â
âA map of what?â
âOur escape plan,â he replied, eyes glinting faintly. âWhen this is all over.â
Your chest tightenedânot painfully this time, but with something warmer. âYou really think thereâs an âafterâ?â
Milo looked at you, really looked at you, his expression softening into something achingly sincere. âYeah,â he said. âI do.â He squeezed your finger lightly, grounding. âIâm thinking we start small. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with bad cell service so no one can call us with medical opinions.â
You smiled despite yourself. âYou hate being offline.â
âI hate hospitals more,â he countered. âPriorities change.â
âAnd,â he added, eyes warm, âIâm pretty sure thereâs a cat there.â
Your breath caught for just a second. Milo noticed immediately. He didnât stop smiling, but his thumb paused, then resumed its gentle tracing, slower now.
âA hypothetical cat,â he clarified carefully. âOne that does not live in basements or disappear mysteriously.â
You laughedâa real laugh this time, soft and shaky, but yours.
âIâd like that,â you said.
Miloâs gaze lingered on you, fond and steady, like he was memorizing the sound. âYeah,â he murmured. âMe too.â
For a moment, the cafeteria faded completely.
There was just the small table. The quiet corner. His hand warm against yours. His eyes on your face like thisâlike you were something worth protecting, not something to endure. And even though fear still lived under your skin, coiled and waiting, you let yourself sit in that moment a little longer. Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be held together by kindness instead of control.
Milo watched you for a moment, the way he did nowâquietly, attentivelyâlike he was listening to something you hadnât said yet.
âHey,â he said softly. âTry something for me.â
You glanced at him. âWhat?â
âJust⊠imagine it,â he replied. âThe future. Not the scary, medical, paperwork kind. The boring one. The one where nothing bad is happening.â
You hesitated. That part of your mind felt fragile, like glass youâd been told not to touch. The future had become a dangerous place latelyâfull of contingencies and warnings and Zayne-shaped shadows. But Milo didnât rush you. He kept tracing slow patterns on your finger, grounding, patient.
So you closed your eyes.
At first, there was nothing. Just static. Then, slowly, something softer edged inâlight that wasnât fluorescent, air that didnât smell like antiseptic. A place where your shoulders werenât permanently braced. You thought about it longer than you expected to.
When you opened your eyes again, Milo was watching you with that same quiet care, his expression open and a little hopeful. âWell?â he asked gently. âWhat do you see?â
You swallowed, then looked at himâreally looked at him. At the way his ears were just a little pink already, like he knew something was coming. At the way his thumb had never stopped moving, as if anchoring you was second nature now.
âIâŠâ You smiled, small and shy and very real. âI hope youâre there.â
Milo blinked.
ââŠHuh?â
âIn all the futures,â you clarified softly. âAll the possible ones. I hope youâre there in them.â
For a split second, he just stared at you. Then his face went completely red.
âOhâoh my god,â he blurted, immediately ducking his head and bringing a hand up to cover his face. âWhy would youâwhy would you say that so calmly? Thatâs notâpeople donât justââ He turned slightly away in his chair, shoulders hunching as he mumbled something incoherent under his breath. You caught fragments.
ââheart conditionââ
ââemotional ambushââ
ââillegal levels of sincerityââ
You let out a soft laugh, warmth spreading through your chest at the sight of him so thoroughly flustered. It felt⊠normal. Sweet. Disarmingly human.
âMilo,â you said gently.
He peeked at you through his fingers, eyes wide and embarrassed. âIâm fine,â he insisted, voice cracking just a little. âTotally fine. Justâprocessing. Very fast. Extremely fast.â
His ears were still red. You smiled again, a little wider this time.
âI just meant,â you added, careful, âthat you make things feel⊠survivable.â
That did him in. He dropped his hand with a groan and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him. âYouâre not allowed to say stuff like that before noon,â he muttered. âItâs against the rules.â
You laughedâsoft, genuineâand the sound made him glance back at you, his expression melting into something fond and flustered all at once.
ââŠYeah,â he said quietly, after a moment. âIâll be there.â Then, even quieter, almost shy: âAs many futures as youâll have me.â
And for the first time in a while, when you imagined the days ahead, the picture didnât fracture. It held. You watched Milo instead. Orâyou tried to.
He was very clearly pretending nothing had happened, shoulders hunched slightly as he focused way too hard on his food. His ears were still pink. Not subtle about it, either. Every few seconds heâd shovel another bite into his mouth like it might distract his face into behaving.
You smiled to yourself, small and quiet.
Then something shifted in the room.
You felt it before you saw itâthe way your spine stiffened, the way your stomach dropped like youâd missed a step. Your gaze lifted on instinct, searching without meaning to.
And there he was.
Dr. Zayne entered the cafeteria alongside Dr. Greyson, both of them walking with the easy confidence of men who belonged everywhere they stepped. Greyson was talking, gesturing lightly with a coffee cup in hand, his expression relaxed. Zayne listened, head slightly inclined, white coat immaculate, posture flawless.
He looked⊠normal.
Calm. Detached. Professional.
Your breath caught.
You froze with your spoon halfway to your mouth, eyes locked on him without meaning to be. Part of youâtraitorous, aching, conditionedâwaited.
Waited for his gaze to lift.
Waited for that precise, knowing look.
Waited to be seen.
You told yourself you didnât want it.
But your body remembered.
You tracked him unconsciously as he moved through the cafeteria, the crowd parting around him without resistance. He didnât look toward your table. Not once. His attention stayed on Greyson, on the counter, on some unseen point far beyond you.
He passed.
And didnât look back.
Something hollowed out in your chest.
The feeling surprised you with its sharpnessâan ugly, sinking ache that bloomed before you could stop it. Like being forgotten. Like being dismissed. Like suddenly not existing at all.
Your fingers tightened around the spoon.
Of course he didnât look, you told yourself. Thatâs good. Thatâs what you wanted.
So why did it hurt?
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look back down at your tray. The yogurt had gone untouched. The toast sat cold. Milo glanced at you, immediately noticing the shift. âHey,â he said softly. âYou okay?â
You nodded too quickly. âYeah. I justâgot distracted.â
âBy what?â he asked, casual but attentive.
You hesitated, then shook your head. âNothing.â
Milo didnât push. He went back to eating, though his leg nudged yours under the tableâsubtle, grounding.
Across the room, Zayne laughed quietly at something Greyson said. The sound wasnât loud, but it slid under your skin anyway, familiar and wrong. You hated that some part of you still listened for him. Hated that his indifference felt worse than his attention.
Hated that the absence of his gaze made you feel⊠unmoored. Smaller. Like youâd done something wrong without knowing what rule youâd broken.
You told yourself it didnât matter. You told yourself this was freedom. But as Milo chewed beside you, warm and real and blushing faintly over his food, you couldnât shake the unsettling truth curling in your chest:
If Dr. Zayne didnât need to look at you anymore. You didnât know who you would be.
The nurse approached quietly.
It was the same one. You recognized her immediatelyâthe set of her mouth, the careful softness she wore like armor. The one youâd convinced yourself had been pitying Milo earlier.
âMilo?â she said gently. âI need you to come with me. Itâs time for your exams.â
The word exams landed like a stone.
Milo blinked, then nodded automatically. âOhâyeah. Okay.â He pushed his chair back, already standing, already doing the responsible thing without thinking twice. Your hand moved before your mind caught up.
You grabbed his.
Not tight. Not dramatic. Just enough to stop him.
âMilo,â you whispered.
He looked down at you immediately, concern flashing across his face. âHey. Itâs okay. Iâll be back in, likeâan hour? Two, max.â
The nurse paused, watching the two of you with careful neutrality.
Your chest tightened. The cafeteria noise faded into a dull roar. All you could feel was his hand in yoursâwarm, solid, realâand the sudden, irrational terror that if you let go, something terrible would happen.
âCanât you⊠do it later?â you asked softly, hating how small your voice sounded. âJust this once?â
Milo hesitated. You felt itâthe split second where he weighed it. Where he considered it. Where the instinct to stay, to protect, to choose you kicked in.
âI mean,â he said slowly, glancing at the nurse, then back at you. âIf itâs not urgentââ
And suddenly, Zayneâs voice cut cleanly through your head.
Heâll burn himself down trying to save you. Heâll sacrifice his health. And youâll let him.
Your stomach dropped. Your fingers went numb. You saw it all at onceâthe pattern snapping into focus like a cruel joke. Milo skipping tests. Milo delaying care. Milo choosing you over his own body, over and over, until one day it wasnât a choice anymore. Until one day he collapsed again.
Because of you.
Your grip loosened.
Noâmore than that.
You forced your hand away.
âGo,â you said quickly. The word came out sharper than you meant, brittle at the edges. You pushed his hand toward him, like it burned. âGo. You should go.â
Milo frowned. âHeyâwhat? I donât mind waiting.â
âI do,â you said, too fast. You plastered a smile onto your face, felt it stretch unnaturally. âItâs fine. Really. Weâll see each other soon.â
Your chest ached as you said it. The smile didnât reach your eyes. You knew he could see that.
âYouâre sure?â he asked quietly.
You nodded. Again. Too many times. âYeah. Iâll justârest. Eat. Be normal.â You let out a weak, rehearsed laugh. âYou know. Model patient behavior.â
Milo didnât move for a moment. Then he sighed, resigned, and squeezed your hand once more before letting go. âOkay,â he said gently. âIâll come back as soon as I can. Donât disappear on me.â
âI wonât,â you promised, even though something in your chest twisted at the lie.
The nurse gestured, and Milo followed her, glancing back over his shoulder twice before the crowd swallowed him. You stayed seated.
Smiling. Holding it together.
Only when he was gone did your shoulders slump, the tension crashing down all at once. Your hands curled into your lap, nails biting into your palms as you stared at the empty chair beside you.
You told yourself youâd done the right thing. But as the cafeteria noise crept back in and the warmth beside you faded, one bitter thought echoed louder than the rest:
Zayne had been right.
You could make people sacrifice themselves for you. And the most terrifying part was how natural it had felt.
You stood up too fast.
The chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing a few glances you didnât have the strength to care about. Your pulse was already racing as you pushed past tables, past noise, past lightâyour body moving on instinct alone, like it knew exactly where it needed to go even if you didnât want to admit it.
The hallway swallowed you whole.
Each step away from the cafeteria loosened something in your chest and tightened something else. Your breathing came shallow, uneven, your hand pressed flat against your sternum as if you could physically hold your heart in place.
In. Out. In. Out.
The elevator felt too slow. The stairwell smelled like concrete and old disinfectant. By the time you reached the door to the sub-basement, your hands were shaking so badly you had to brace yourself against the wall before pushing it open.
The air down there was colder.
Heavier.
You leaned back against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, head tipped forward, eyes squeezed shut. âItâs not real,â you whispered to yourself, barely audible. âYouâre fine. Youâre breathing. Itâs just a place.â
Your breath rasped in and out of you, uneven but slowly settling. Thenâ
A sound.
Soft.
High.
Familiar.
Your eyes snapped open.
You didnât turn right away. Some part of you knew better. Some part of you was already screaming donât look, because you knew exactly what it would be.
âMmh,â you whispered instead, voice shaking. âYouâre not real.â
The mewl came again. You lifted your head. Your cat sat a few feet away from you, right in the middle of the concrete floor.
Whole.
Clean.
Alive.
She was sitting calmly, tail wrapped around her paws, eyes half-lidded as she lifted one leg and began to lick herself, utterly unconcerned with the fact that she shouldnât exist. Her fur caught the dim light just the way it always had. Even the small notch in her ear was there.
Your breath hitched, but you didnât move.
You didnât reach for her. You didnât crawl closer or stretch out a trembling hand like last time. You stayed where you were, back against the wall, as if crossing the distance would shatter something delicate.
ââŠHey,â you whispered. The cat paused mid-lick, glanced at you briefly, then went right back to grooming herself. A shaky laugh escaped you, thin and almost soundless. âYeah. Of course. Youâre mad at me.â
Your knees drew up toward your chest as you slid down the wall, careful to keep your distance. âI know youâre not supposed to be here,â you told her quietly. âI know what happened. I remember.â
The image flickered behind your eyesâclaws, teeth, blood, the way your scream had caught in your throat. You swallowed hard.
âYou died,â you said simply. Saying it felt like pressing on a bruise. âYou were eaten. I saw it. I didnât imagine that part.â The cat finished licking her paw and shook her head lightly, ears flicking. Then she looked at you again, eyes bright and untroubled. You let out a slow breath. âBut youâre here anyway.â
Your fingers dug into your sleeves, grounding yourself in the fabric. âIâm not going to touch you,â you promised softly. âIâm not going to pretend youâre real. I just⊠needed to see you.â
The cat yawned, wide and unapologetic, then curled her tail tighter around herself. Your throat burned. âI messed up,â you whispered to her. âI did the thing he said I would. I almost kept Milo from taking care of himself.â Your voice cracked. âI let go. But it didnât feel like winning.â
The cat blinked slowly at you.
You stared back, tears pooling but not falling. âEveryone keeps saying Iâm being saved,â you murmured. âBut it feels like Iâm just⊠being held together badly. Like if I relax for one second, Iâll come apart.â Your breath shook. âYouâd hate this place,â you added quietly. âToo loud. Too bright. Too many people pretending they know whatâs best.â
The cat resumed licking herself, entirely unimpressed. That made another small, broken laugh slip out of you. âYeah,â you said. âThat tracks.â You sat there with herâreal or notâlistening to the hum of the building overhead, the cold seeping through your clothes, your breathing finally slowing into something almost normal.
You didnât reach. You didnât chase. You just talked. And somewhere deep in your chest, a terrifying thought took shape, calm and clear:
If sheâs still here when I know sheâs gone⊠then the problem isnât that Iâm weak.
Itâs that someone taught your mind how to survive by lying to itself. And for the first time since the basement, that thought didnât feel like madness.
It felt like a clue;
Were you finally mad?
The question drifted through your mind without panic, without dramaâjust quiet, almost curious. You watched the cat as she sat there, immaculate and impossible, and wondered whether this was what breaking actually felt like. Not chaos. Not screaming.
Adaptation.
âMaybe this is just my brain,â you murmured, voice echoing softly off concrete. âTrying to keep me alive.â The cat flicked an ear. âYou know,â you went on, speaking to her the way you used to when she was still alive, âthey say the mind will do anything to survive. Fill in the gaps. Soften the edges.â Your mouth twisted. âLie.â
Your chest tightened as the thought settled. Or maybe you really are sick.
You rose slowly, legs heavy but steady, and the cat stood too, stretching lazily before padding after you at a distance. She didnât brush against your legs. Didnât demand attention. She just followed, silent and watchful.
âIâm scared,â you admitted quietly as you walked. âAll the time. Even when Iâm not.â
The corridor opened up, familiar in the way nightmares are familiar. The door. The room. You pushed it open without resistance.
Spotless.
Of course it was.
No blood. No chair overturned. No evidence that anything had ever happened there at all. The lights hummed softly, indifferent. The air smelled clean, clinical, wrong. Your cat sat near the wall, tail wrapped neatly around her paws.
You stepped inside.
âI donât know how to live like this,â you said, your voice barely above a whisper now. âI donât know how to get out. Every time I think Iâm choosing right, it just turns into another trap.â
Your gaze drifted to the counter. The instruments were laid out with obsessive precision. You reached for one without hesitation. The scalpel felt familiar in your handâlight, balanced, almost reassuring in its simplicity. You turned it slowly, watching the blade catch the light.
âIf this is all my fault,â you whispered, âmaybe I should stop it.â
The cat watched you.
You lifted the scalpel and pressed the flat of it gently against your lips. The metal was cold. Shockingly so. It grounded you in a way nothing else had all day.
âDo you think I should?â you asked her softly. âWould that make it stop?â The cat didnât answer. She only sat there, watching.
A chair creaked behind you. Your entire body locked. You didnât turn right away. You didnât have to. You knew.
Dr. Zayne was sitting in the chair.
He hadnât made a sound you could remember hearing. One moment the room had been empty. The next, he was thereâlegs crossed neatly, hands resting on his knees, posture relaxed like heâd been waiting for you to arrive.
He didnât speak.
He just looked at you.
His gaze moved slowlyâfrom the scalpel at your mouth, to your trembling fingers, to your face. His expression was unreadable, composed, almost serene.
The silence stretched. Your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could hear it. You lowered the scalpel a fraction, breath shallow. âHow long have you been there?â you whispered.
Zayne didnât answer. He tilted his head slightly instead, eyes sharp with interest, as if he were watching a particularly compelling experiment reach its most delicate stage.
The cat sat between you and him. Or maybe she didnât.
Zayneâs gaze never flicked toward her.
Not once.
And in that moment, colder than fear, heavier than panic, you understood something with absolute clarity: He wasnât surprised. He wasnât alarmed. He wasnât here to stop you. He was here to see what you would choose.
A sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.
A giggle.
Thin. Unsteady. Completely wrong for the room you were standing in.
It startled even youâbubbling up from somewhere hollow and frayed inside your chest, carrying too much air and not enough joy, the kind of laughter that happened when your mind could no longer tell the difference between fear and relief.
Zayneâs eyes flicked up at the sound.
And slowlyâdeliberatelyâhis mouth curved.
It wasnât warm. It wasnât cruel either. It was mocking in the quietest way possible, like a mirror tilted just enough to show you something ugly about yourself. A private smile, reserved just for you, as if the two of you were sharing a joke no one else could understand.
You laughed again, a little louder this time, breath hitching as the scalpel rested against your lips, the cold edge kissing skin that already felt too thin to protect you.
âHi,â you said brightly, the word stretched thin with something almost⊠delighted. Your eyes shone too much. âYouâre early.â
Zayne said nothing.
He only watched, his gaze following the rise and fall of your chest, the slight tremor in your fingers, the way the blade caught the light when you shifted it just a fraction. You tilted your head, studying him the way he always studied you, curiosity blooming alongside terror that had taken root inside your own soul.
âWhat would you do,â you asked lightly, voice lilting, almost playful, âif I cut myself right now?â The question landed in the air between you, obscene in its calmness. You smiled wider, teeth showing. âRight here. In front of you.â You lifted the scalpel a little, letting the metal graze your lower lip just enough to sting. âWould you stop me?â
Zayneâs smile deepened.
Not fast. Not startled.
Amused.
Something dark flickered behind his eyes, sharp and hungry, but threaded through it was something disturbingly close to fondnessâas if youâd just asked him a clever question, as if he was proud youâd finally reached this point.
âOh,â he said softly at last. His voice was smooth. Unhurried. Almost gentle. âI wouldnât rush you.â
Your breath stuttered, but you didnât look away.
He leaned back slightly in the chair, posture relaxed, completely at ease in a room where you were holding a blade to your own mouth. His eyes never left your face.
âIâd be very interested to see how you did it,â Zayne continued, eyes tracking the scalpel with quiet fascination. âWhether you hesitated. Whether you chose pain or precision. Whether you were trying to hurt yourself⊠or trying to be seen.â
Your smile twitched.
âIf you cut,â Zayne went on, eyes bright now, intent and alive in a way that made your skin prickle, âIâd note how deep you go. How steady your hand is. Whether you look at me while you do it.â His mouth curved again, softer, almost indulgent. âThose details matter.â
Your laugh came out breathless. âYouâre sick.â
âYes,â he agreed easily. âBut so are you.â
He rose from the chair then, slow and unthreatening, closing the distance between you without urgency, as if there were no danger at all. He stopped just short of touching you, close enough that you could smell him, feel the quiet gravity of his presence.
âIf you cut yourself,â he said quietly, lowering his voice until it seemed to slide directly under your skin, âIâd clean the wound. Iâd document it. Iâd make sure everyone knew it was another unfortunate episode.â His gaze dropped briefly to the scalpel, then returned to your eyes. âAnd Iâd ask you what you were hoping would happen.â
You swallowed, heart pounding.
âWould you like it?â you asked, voice light, almost teasing, begging for him to watch you, though your eyes burned. Zayne tilted his head, studying you with something dangerously close to affection.
âI already do,â he murmured. âYou came to me instead of disappearing quietly. That tells me everything.â His hand lifted slowly, not touching you yet, hovering just beneath your wrist, patient and expectant. âBut if youâre asking whether Iâd let you die,â Zayne said quietly, almost kindly, âno.â
Your chest tightened.
âI wouldnât,â he repeated. âNot because it would upset me. And not because it would be wrong.â His gaze was steady, unwavering. âBut because youâre not finished.â The words settled over you like a verdict. âAnd neither am I.â
He held your eyes, that faint, maniac amusement still curving his mouth, as if thisâthis moment, this question, this edge you were standing onâwas exactly where he wanted you.
Waiting.
Watching.
Patient as ever.
The sound that tore out of you this time wasnât even pretending to be laughter anymore.
It was high and breathless and broken straight down the middle, a manic little giggle that shook your shoulders as tears streamed freely down your face, hot and relentless, blurring the room until everything felt unreal and too sharp at the same time. Your grip loosened on the scalpel as your body decided for you, feet carrying you forward on unsteady legs, drawn toward him the way metal was drawn to a blade.
âI donât know whatâs wrong with me,â you said through the laughter, the words tumbling over each other, incoherent and desperate, as if saying them fast enough might make them mean something else. âI think Iâmââ You shook your head hard, still smiling, still crying. âI think Iâm past fixing.â
You closed the distance between you and him before fear could catch up.
Zayne didnât move, letting you move toward your executor, as if heâd known exactly when youâd break, exactly how many seconds it would take. His arms came around you without hesitation, firm and sure, and for one awful, devastating moment it felt like reliefâlike being caught instead of falling.
His hand slid to the back of your neck.
Not gripping. Not forcing.
Just there.
Warm. Controlling. Intimate in a way that made your breath hitch and your knees threaten to give out. His fingers spread gently at the base of your skull, thumb resting along your hairline, holding you in place like he was steadying something fragile and precious rather than a person coming apart.
âThere you are,â he murmured. The words were almost affectionate.
You pressed into his chest, your laughter dissolving into something wet and breathless as your forehead rested against his shoulder. You shook in his arms, tears soaking into his coat, your fingers clutching weakly at the fabric like you needed proof that he was solid, that he was really there.
He made a soft sound above you.
A coo. Low. Slow. Soothing in the most unsettling way, like one you might use on a frightened animal that didnât understand how close it was to the knife.
âOh,â Zayne whispered, his voice vibrating against you. âYouâre so overstimulated.â
His hand at your neck shifted slightly, fingers pressing just enough to guide your head back, forcing you to look up at him without ever feeling like restraint. His eyes searched your face with rapt attention, drinking in the tears, the broken smile, the way your body leaned into him despite everything.
âLook at you,â he said softly. âLaughing and crying at the same time. Your nervous system doesnât know what it wants anymore.â Your breath came in short, shuddering bursts. He tilted his head, studying you the way he always did when he thought he was close to something important, something true. âDo you want me to help?â Zayne asked gently.
The question slid into you like a blade wrapped in velvet.
His thumb brushed the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, tracing your pulse where it jumped wildly beneath his touch. âDo you want me to make it quiet?â he murmured. âTo open you up and see where it all went wrong?â
Your giggle broke again, manic and fragile, tears spilling faster as your hands twisted in his coat.
âI could do it so carefully,â he continued, voice low and almost tender. âI know exactly where to cut. Exactly how deep.â His mouth curved faintly, that same amused, dangerous fondness flickering in his eyes. âI wouldnât let you die. Not unless you asked very nicely.â His forehead rested briefly against yours, the intimacy dizzying, suffocating. âTell me,â Zayne whispered. âDo you want me to cut you open?â
He held you there, hand steady at the back of your neck, waitingânot with urgency, not with concern, but with the calm patience of a man who believed, completely and terrifyingly, that whatever answer you gave would belong to him anyway.
You nodded.
It wasnât hesitation. It wasnât fear. It was quiet, resigned consentâthe kind that came from exhaustion so deep it felt like clarity. Your body followed his guidance without resistance as he steered you down, one hand firm at your shoulder, the other still at the back of your neck, easing you onto the cold floor like he was arranging a body rather than a person. The concrete seeped through your clothes immediately, grounding and numbing all at once, the overhead light glaring down with clinical indifference.
You stared up at him from there, hair fanned messily around your head, tears drying hot on your skin while fresh ones gathered anyway, your chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow.
âDo you bleed?â you asked suddenly.
The question slipped out softly, almost curiously, like a child asking about anatomy from a book they didnât fully understand yet.
Zayne paused. Not because the question surprised himâbut because it interested him. He tilted his head, studying you from above, his expression unreadable in that careful, controlled way that always made your stomach twist. âWhy do you ask?â he said calmly, genuinely curious.
You swallowed, eyes never leaving his face. âBecause monsters donât,â you murmured. âAnd I was wondering if you were a real monster. â
The words hung between you, fragile and dangerous. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then Zayne chuckled.
It was low and soft and deeply wrongânot mocking, not angry, but entertained, like youâd said something clever that pleased him. He crouched down slowly, bringing himself closer to your level, coat whispering against the floor as he did.
âIs that what you think I am?â he asked lightly. âA real monster?â
You nodded again, just as calmly as before. âI think monsters donât bleed,only humans.â you repeated. âSo if you do⊠then maybe Iâm wrong.â
Zayneâs smile widened a fraction. âHow very scientific of you,â he murmured. He straightened slightly, then did something that made your breath catch hard in your throat. He placed it in your hand. Carefully. Deliberately. Closing your fingers around it like this was a lesson, not a weapon. âGo on,â Zayne said lightly, amusement curling through his voice. âIf youâre curious.â
His eyes met yours, unblinking, utterly unafraid.
âSee for yourself.â
There was no tension in his posture. No flinch. No preparation to stop you. He simply waited, standing over you with infuriating calm, his trustâor his arroganceâabsolute.
âMonsters,â he added thoughtfully, âare a comforting idea. They let us pretend there are rules.â His gaze flicked to the scalpel in your hand, then back to your face. âBut people?â Zayne said quietly. âPeople bleed all the time.â He smiled faintly. âGo ahead,â he repeated. âTell me what you find.â
He straightened, reached up, and slipped out of his white coat with unhurried precision, folding it over the back of the chair like the moment mattered enough to be tidy. Then he rolled up his sleeve.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He extended his arm toward you, palm up, offering it the way a doctor might offer a veinâexcept this time, the skin told a story no chart ever would. Old scars crossed his forearm in careful, messy lines. Some faint. Some deeper. Healed. Intentional?
Your eyes widened.
âYou see?â he said softly. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Almost⊠instructional.
Your chest shook as a broken sound escaped you. Tears kept sliding down your face, unstoppable now, blurring your vision until the scars seemed to swim. Your fingers trembled as you brought the scalpel closer, hovering over one of the marks, lining yourself up with the same place like it was the only point of reference you had left.
You glanced up at him once. Zayne didnât look away. So you pressed the blade down. Not deep. Not hesitant. Just enough.
Your breath left you in a sharp, strangled gasp as you staredâeyes wide, almost reverentâat the thin line that formed, at the unmistakable proof that followed.
âOh,â you whispered. The sound came out like wonder. Tears kept falling, dotting his skin, your hands shaking so badly the scalpel slipped from your fingers and clattered softly against the floor. You dropped it without noticing, your focus locked entirely on what youâd done.
You looked up at him, your face wrecked and shining, your smile broken and awed all at once.
âYou do,â you breathed. âYou really do.â
Before either of you could think better of it, you leaned forward.
Your lips pressed there briefly, messily, reverently, your mouth catching the metallic taste as tears continued to fall, streaking down over your cheeks and onto his skin. It wasnât sensual. It wasnât careful. It was unhinged. Earnest. Broken open.
Zayne inhaled sharply.
It was the first real break in his composure youâd seen. Or was it?
His eyes widenedânot in fear, not in angerâbut in something sharp and electric, his gaze locking onto you with sudden, unnerving focus. The room seemed to narrow around the two of you, everything else falling away as if this single, impossible moment had rewritten the rules.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your lips stained, your expression wrecked and awed all at once. âSee?â you whispered, voice shaking. âYou bleed.â
Zayne didnât answer right away.
His arm remained steady in your hands, but his eyes searched your face now with a different intensityâless clinical, more alert, like a scientist who had just realized the experiment was no longer behaving as expected.
ââŠYouâre unraveling,â he said quietly.
But there was no judgment in it.
Only fascination.
And as he continued to stare at youâat the tears, the blood, the absolute fracture in your expressionâyou understood with terrifying clarity that something had shifted.
Not in you.
In him.
Zayne leaned in slowly.
Not suddenly. Not urgently. Close enough that his breath brushed your cheek, close enough that the world narrowed until there was only his face and the sound of your own breathing coming apart in your chest. His eyes searched yours with unnerving focus, pupils blown just enough to betray that thisâthis momentâhad crossed some invisible line even he hadnât fully anticipated.
âSay it,â he murmured. Not cruel. Not loud. Quiet. Absolute. âYou know what keeps you alive.â Your lips trembled. Tears blurred everything, but the rule was clear. The rule always was.
âI love you,â you whispered.
The words came out fragile, automatic, like muscle memory rather than belief.
Zayne nodded once.
Approval.
Thenâwithout ceremony, without warning, without urgencyâhe acted. There was a sharp sting along your forearm. Not deep. Not catastrophic. Just enough to snap your attention violently back into your body, enough to break the spiral with sensation instead of thought.
You gasped. Red bloomed. Real. Immediate. You didnât scream. You clung to the feeling.
âI love you,â you said again, louder this time, breath shaking, grounding yourself in the pain the way he had taught youâanchoring your mind to something concrete, something undeniable.
Zayne watched closely.
Another quick motion. Another precise line, shallow and controlled, never crossing into danger, never meant to killâonly to claim your attention. Your nerves lit up, your body jolting, your thoughts snapping into sharp, brutal clarity.
âI love you,â you repeated, tears streaming freely now, your voice cracking but steadying with each word. The pain hurt, but it was clean. Focused. It made the noise in your head recede just enough to breathe.
Zayneâs hand was steady.
Always steady.
He never cut deeply. Never lost control. Every movement was deliberate, measured, practicedâlike everything else he did. His eyes never left your face, tracking every flinch, every breath, every way the words synced with the pain.
âGood,â he murmured softly.
Not praise. Confirmation.
You kept saying it. Over and over, like a mantra, like a lifeline.
âI love you. I love you. I love you.â
The words tethered you. The pain held you in place. And Zayneâwatching, listening, controllingâmade no move to stop until your breathing slowed and your gaze steadied just enough to meet his again. Only then did he still. Only then did he pull back.
And in the quiet that followed, with your arms aching and your chest heaving and the taste of blood and salt still lingering in the air, one truth settled cold and heavy inside you:
You hadnât said it because you felt it.
Were you sure? Being in love meant being treasured in your worst moment, isnât it? Who else but Dr.Zayne would fall so low to love you? Who? You wouldnât do it for yourself.
Youâd said it because he had taught you that loveâreal or notâwas the price of survival. And Zayne, calm and composed once more, had never looked more certain that you belonged exactly where he wanted you.
Zayne leaned in after the last cut, not hurried, not reverent in the way people were reverent when they meant comfort, but with that same unsettling deliberateness he applied to everythingâlike this, too, was a procedure he had decided upon long ago.
He lowered his mouth to your arm.
Not to the skin around it. Not to soothe. Directly to the thin, angry line heâd made.
The contact was brief, controlled, clinicalâhis lips pressing there just long enough to register, to mark, before moving to the next cut and the next, his breath warm against your skin, his attention absolute. Each kiss felt wrong in a way that made your chest ache, because it wasnât tenderness you were feelingâit was recognition, the terrifying sense of being acknowledged by the very thing hurting you.
Your breath hitched, a small, broken sound escaping you before you could stop it.
âAre thoseâŠâ Your voice wavered, caught between tears and that fragile, fractured calm pain had given you. ââŠIs this your way of kissing?â
The question hung in the air, naked and desperate. Zayne paused. Then he chuckled. Low. Soft. Amused in that way that never reached his eyes but always sharpened them.
âDo you wish they were?â he asked gently. The gentleness was the cruelest part.
You nodded.
The movement was small, almost imperceptibleâbut it was there, unmistakable, your consent offered in a moment where consent had already been hollowed out of you by fear, conditioning, and the need to stay alive.
Zayne straightened slowly. He looked at you thenânot like a doctor assessing damage, not like a man indulging a fantasyâbut like someone naming a rule.
âVery well,â he said calmly. âThen understand this,â Zayne continued, his voice smooth, certain, irrevocable. âThese cuts are my affection⊠Your blood should never be spilled by anyone else.â The words settled over you with a terrible finality. âYou want comfort?â he went on softly. âThis is how I give it.â His gaze flicked to your arms, then back to your face, steady and unyielding. âYou want reassurance? This is how you receive it.â
He reached out once more, not to hurt you againâbut to rest his fingers lightly over your wrist, just enough to feel your pulse racing beneath his touch.
âYou donât need to imagine meaning where there is none,â Zayne murmured. âIâll define it for you.â
And in that momentâlong after the pain had dulled, long after your breathing had slowedâyou understood something with a clarity that hurt worse than the blade ever could:
This was not intimacy.
This was not love.
This was ownership, rewritten in the language your broken nervous system could still respond to. And Zayne, calm and composed, had just taught you a new word for violenceâone that would make it much harder to ever call it what it truly was.
â I love you.â
You woke to white.
Not the blinding, surgical kindâbut the soft, familiar white of your hospital room, washed pale by early light slipping through the blinds. For a few seconds, you didnât move. You just lay there, blinking slowly, letting sensation return piece by piece.
Your arms felt⊠heavy.
Tight.
You shifted slightly, and fabric pulled against your skin. You looked down.
Bandages.
Clean. Neat. Wrapped carefully from wrist to mid-forearm on both sides.
Your breath caught. Before panic could fully take shape, you noticed the shape slumped in the chair beside your bed.
Milo.
He was asleep, head tipped awkwardly against the backrest, mouth slightly open, jacket draped over his lap like heâd given up halfway through taking it off. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with illness.
âMiloâŠâ you whispered.
The sound was enough.
He startled awake immediately, jerking upright, eyes wild for half a second before they found you. And then his face crumpled. âOhâoh my god,â he breathed, already on his feet, already leaning over you. âYouâre awake.â
Before you could say anything, he wrapped his arms around you.
Tight. Too tight. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip even a little. His hands shook where they pressed into the sheets beside you, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.
âDonât ever do that again,â he said, voice breaking completely. âPlease. IâI thought I lost you. I canâtâdonât ever scare me like that again.â
Your mind stuttered.
âWhatâŠ?â you whispered, confusion spreading cold and fast through your chest. âMilo, I donâtâwhat are you talking about?â
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red, frantic, searching your face for something familiar. âYou donât remember?â
Remember what?
âI was in the cafeteria,â you said slowly. âAnd then⊠I left. I needed air.â Your gaze flicked down to the bandages again. âWhy are my armsâ?â
Milo swallowed hard.
âA nurse found you,â he said quietly. âIn the corridor near the sub-basement. You were bleeding. You had a scalpel in your hand.â His voice cracked. âThey said you were dissociated. Nonresponsive.â
The room tilted.
âNo,â you whispered.
âThey think you had a depressive episode,â Milo went on, words tumbling out now like heâd been holding them in all night. âThat you tried to hurt yourself. They said it happens sometimes. That no one shouldâve left you alone.â
Your heart began to race.
The corridor.
The scalpel.
The room.
Your arms ached beneath the bandagesânot the deep, sharp pain you remembered, but a dull soreness, muted, distant. Medical. Sanitized.
Zayne.
The realization slid into place with horrifying ease.
He had done it perfectly.
No witnesses. No blood left behind. You had been found exactly where the narrative needed you to be: alone, bleeding, holding the blade.
You squeezed your eyes shut, a quiet sound escaping you. He didnât just hurt you. He rewrote you.
âI didnât want to leave you,â Milo said, voice thick with guilt. âI shouldâve stayed. I shouldâve known something was wrong.â
âNo,â you whispered quickly, panic flaring. âNo, Milo, you didnâtâthis isnâtââ
But how could you explain it? How could you tell him that the man everyone trustedâthe man who hadnât even looked at you in the cafeteriaâhad orchestrated this so cleanly that even your own body had become evidence against you?
Milo squeezed your hands carefully, mindful of the bandages. âTheyâve put you on observation,â he said softly. âThey said itâs just until youâre stable. I told them Iâd stay. Iâm not going anywhere.â
You nodded numbly, forcing your face into something neutral, something safe. Inside, everything was screaming. Zayne hadnât needed to threaten you this time. He had simply arranged the truth so that no one would ever ask the right questions.
As Milo leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, relief and fear tangled painfully in your chest, one cold certainty settled deep in your bones:
He hadnât just taught you how to survive. He had taught the world how to misunderstand you. And now, if you ever spoke the truthâÂ
It would sound exactly like madness. Again.
Milo stayed close.
Too close to leave room for air, but not close enough to hurt you. He lifted your bandaged hand carefully, like even the idea of pressure frightened him now, and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there, trembling. When he looked up at you, his eyes were wet, lashes clumped together with tears he hadnât wiped away.
âPlease,â he whispered. âTell me this wasnât really you.â
The question wasnât accusatory. It was desperate. Like if he phrased it carefully enough, the answer might change.
Your chest tightened. You stared at the wall behind him for a second too long, then back at his face. You could see the hope thereâfragile, aching, already preparing to shatter.
âHe cut me,â you said quietly.
Milo froze.
âWhat?â he breathed.
âDr. Zayne cut me,â you repeated, voice flat in a way that scared even you. âThatâs what this is.â You lifted your bandaged arms slightly, the movement stiff and painful. âThose are his kisses.â
The words landed wrong in the room. Wrong in the world.
Milo stared at you.
Not disbeliefâno, it was worse than that. His face drained of color as confusion twisted into something sharp and horrified. His mouth opened, then closed again. His brow furrowed like his brain was refusing to finish the sentence youâd started for him.
ââŠThatâs not funny,â he said hoarsely.
âI know,â you replied.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
âThatâsââ He swallowed hard, his grip loosening on your hand as if heâd just realized what he was holding. âThatâs sick. Thatâsââ His face contorted, disgust flashing through the fear. âThatâs not love. Thatâs not anything.â
âI know,â you said again, softer this time.
He shook his head, pacing half a step back like he needed distance to breathe. âNo, no, that doesnât make sense. If he did this, if he was there, someone wouldâve seenââ
âHe knows,â you cut in gently. Milo stopped. Your gaze held his, steady now in a way it hadnât been all morning. âHe knows that you know about him.â
The last of the color left Miloâs face.
âWhen?â he asked.
âBefore,â you said. âLast night. Before everything.â
Understanding dawned slowly, brutally. His shoulders sagged as the pieces rearranged themselves into something uglier than either of you wanted to name. He dragged a hand down his face, breath coming uneven.
âThatâs why,â he whispered. âThatâs why this looks likeâlike you did it to yourself.â
You tilted your head, confused. Why would Dr.Zayne punish you like that? If he really wanted to, he would have hurt Milo to teach you a lesson? Or maybe he wanted Milo to see you hurt so he would feel guilty..?
âHe wanted it to,â you said, unsure. âHe wanted you to see me like this.â
Milo looked at you again thenâreally lookedâand whatever he saw made his eyes burn. âI should go to the police,â he said suddenly. âOr the board, orâsomeone. This isnâtâthis isnât something you justââ
âNo,â you said quickly.
The word came out sharper than you intended.
He blinked. âWhat?â
You tightened your jaw, forcing yourself to keep going even as your chest ached. âYou canât. Thereâs no proof. And he knows how to make it look like there never will be.â You took a shaky breath. âAnd if you stay⊠heâll hurt you.â
Miloâs voice broke. âI donât care.â
âI do,â you said. The room felt unbearably small now. âI care,â you repeated, quieter but firmer. âAnd thatâs why I need you to leave. I need you out of this. Out of the story.â Your hands curled weakly in the sheets. âI wonât forgive myself if he gets to you too.â
Milo stared at you like youâd just asked him to disappear.
âIâm not leaving you,â he said.
You shook your head slowly. âYou already almost did. Your heart. Your tests.â A bitter smile flickered across your mouth. âHe was right about that part.â
âDonât,â Milo said, pained. âDonât say his words like theyâre yours.â
âThey are now,â you whispered.
He stepped closer again, helpless, angry tears spilling over as he cupped your face with shaking hands. âYouâre not disposable,â he said fiercely. âAnd neither am I.â
You closed your eyes at his touch, leaning into it just for a second longer than you should have.
âThatâs exactly why you have to go,â you murmured. âBefore he proves otherwise.â
Milo pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, caught between staying and surviving. Neither of you spoke. But you both knew this wasnât a choice Zayne had left you. It was one he was already watching you make.
Milo was quiet for a long moment after that.
Thenâslowlyâhis shoulders dropped, like he was letting himself stop fighting the tide just long enough to speak honestly. He gave you a sad little smile, the kind that tried to be brave and failed at it.
âHey,â he said softly. âThereâs something I didnât tell you.â
Your stomach tightened. âMiloâŠâ
âMy heart,â he continued gently, cutting you off before fear could spiral. âThey⊠they found a donor.â
The words landed slowly, like they needed time to decide whether they were real.
âA heart,â he continued. âA real one. Compatible. Theyâre running the last tests, but⊠yeah.â He let out a small breath, half laugh, half disbelief. âLooks like Iâm getting an upgrade.â
Your chest flooded with relief so sharp it almost hurt. Tears sprang to your eyes immediately, your lips curving into a smile you couldnât stop.
âThatâsââ You laughed shakily. âThatâs amazing. Milo, thatâsââ
But Milo shook his head and lifted a hand, stopping you mid-breath.
âNo,â he said. âNot like that.â
He stepped closer, careful, like he didnât want to spook you. His voice softened, lost its nervous humor, became something raw and earnest.
âI donât want you smiling because you think this is my exit,â he said quietly. âOr because you think it makes everything easier.â
Your throat closed.
Milo leaned closer, his voice dropping, losing its teasing edge. âI adore you,â he said simply. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the truth, laid down without conditions. âAnd I donât want to stop.â
Your eyes burned.
âI want this new heart,â he continued, pressing your hand lightly to his chest, right over the steady, imperfect beat beneath. âBecause I want more time. Not just to survive. To feel things. To care about stupid stuff. To keep⊠adoring you.â
A tear slipped free despite your efforts.
He smiled a little wider then, softer. âI want to learn how to do that better,â he added. âWith a heart that actually lets me.â
Your breath shook.
âThatâsââ You laughed weakly through the tears. âThatâs such a Milo thing to say.â
âYeah,â he agreed fondly. âI know.â
He squeezed your hand once, grounding, warm. âWhatever happens next,â he said gently, âI want you to know this part was real. No conditions. No pain required. No price.â
The contrast hit you all at once.
No blades.
No rules.
No survival mantra whispered through blood.
Just affection that asked nothing but time.
You cried thenâquietly, openlyâas Milo leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, staying there like it was the most natural place in the world.
Milo reached up slowly, like he was afraid a sudden movement might make you disappear, and brushed his thumb beneath your eye. He wiped away your tears with clumsy care, his hand trembling just a little, his smile wobbling in a way that was painfully earnest.
âHey,â he murmured. âDonât cry like that. It makes my heart nervous.â He paused, then added softly, âThe current one and the future model.â
You let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh.
He swallowed, clearly working himself up to something, then met your gaze againâopen, hopeful, vulnerable in a way that felt like standing in sunlight after months underground.
âSo,â he said, voice uneven but determined, âwhen I get the new heart⊠would you maybe let me take you on a date?â
Your breath caught.
âA real one,â he rushed on, ears already turning pink. âNot a hospital cafeteria date. Not a âplease eat somethingâ date. Likeâoutside. Somewhere with bad food and decent music.â His smile trembled but didnât break. âSo my heart can⊠you know. Learn.â
âLearn what?â you whispered.
âHow to fall for you,â he said simply. âEvery time I see you. Or when you smile at me. Or when you do that thing where you pretend youâre fine but youâre actually being brave.â Your eyes filled again. Milo laughed softly, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. âI figure it should get some practice. Wouldnât want it to be caught off guard.â
You nodded before you even realized you were doing it, tears spilling freely now, but these were differentâwarm, aching, alive. âIâd like that,â you said, voice breaking. âIâd really like that.â
Miloâs smile widened, shaky and radiant all at once. âYeah?â he asked, hopeful like it mattered more than anything.
âYeah,â you repeated.
He squeezed your hand gently, reverently, like he was already memorizing the feeling. âThen itâs a date,â he said softly. âIâll bring the new heart. You bring the smile.â
Milo hesitated for half a secondâjust long enough for you to noticeâthen lifted his hand between you, pinky extended like it was the most serious thing in the world.
âHey,â he said softly. âCome here.â
You blinked, confused, your cheeks still warm from crying. âWhat is it?â
âA promise,â he replied. His voice wasnât joking now, though it stayed gentle. âThe kind that sticks.â You glanced at his pinky, then back up at his face. His eyes were steady, intent in a way that made your chest ache. âI want you to promise me something,â Milo continued, quietly but firmly. âThat you wonât die.â
The words hit you harder than anything else heâd said.
âThat youâll keep fighting,â he went on, his voice lowering, turning almost lyrical, like he was choosing each word with care. âYour illness. Him. Every ugly thing that thinks it gets to decide whether youâre allowed to be happy.â
Your throat tightened.
âYou donât have to win every day,â Milo said. âYou donât have to be strong all the time. But you have to stay.â His pinky wavered just slightly. âYou have to exist long enough for good things to catch up to you.â
Your eyes burned.
âPromise me,â he said again, softer now. âNot because life is fair. But because there are still moments your future hasnât had the chance to ruin yet.â
You stared at him, stunned.
âHow are you,â you asked weakly, heat rushing to your face, âso⊠good with words?â
Milo flushed instantly, color blooming across his cheeks. âIâI donât know,â he muttered, suddenly shy. âThey just⊠come out when Iâm scared.â
That only made it worse.
You swallowed hard and hooked your pinky around his.
âI promise,â you whispered.
His breath left him in a shaky exhale, relief softening his entire posture. He squeezed your finger gently, sealing it like it was sacred.
âGood,â Milo murmured. âBecause my new heart needs time to learn you. And Iâm not letting it do that alone.â
You laughed softly through the blush creeping up your neck, tears threatening again but lighter this timeâless desperate, more alive.
And as your pinkies stayed linked between the bandages and the fear and the fragile hope, you realized something quietly, steadily, with a certainty that didnât hurt:
No matter how carefully Zayne tried to rewrite love into pain, Milo was trying to teach your heart a different languageâ
one that asked you to stay, not bleed.
You watched him for a second longer than necessary.
The way his ears were still red. The way he kept pretending to adjust his sleeve even though there was nothing to fix. The way his eyes kept flicking back to you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked too long.
âMilo,â you said softly.
He looked up immediately. âYeah?â
Your voice was quiet, steady in a way that surprised even you. âCan I⊠have a kiss?â
The effect was immediate and catastrophic.
He froze.
Then blinked.
Then absolutely panicked.
âIâwhatânow?â he stammered, color flooding his face so fast it was almost impressive. âI meanâI want toâbut youâre hurt and I donât think this isâlikeâmedically advised?â He gestured vaguely at your bandaged arms, at the bed, at the entire situation. âWe could wait. We should probably wait. Waiting is good. Waiting is safe.â
You couldnât help it. You smiled. Not the brittle, practiced one youâd learned to wear. Not the manic one that had come with tears and blood and survival.
A soft one.
The kind that didnât hurt to hold.
âItâs okay,â you said gently. âI know we could wait.â You met his eyes, earnest and unafraid. âBut I think⊠it would help.â
He swallowed, listening.
âI need to know,â you continued softly, âwhat love feels like when it doesnât hurt. When it isnât taught through fear or blood or rules.â Your smile wavered just a little, but didnât break. âI think it would give me strength. Just knowing that something like that exists.â
Miloâs breath caught.
All the panic drained out of him at once, replaced by something quieter and deeper. He stepped closer, slow enough to give you time to change your mind, his hand lifting hesitantly before settling against your cheek. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was afraid even kindness might bruise you.
âOkay,â he murmured. âIf thatâs what you want.â
He leaned in, stopping just a breath away, eyes searching yours one last time for certainty.
Then he kissed you.
It was softâso soft it almost felt like a question rather than an answer. No urgency. No hunger. Just warmth and intention, his lips lingering gently against yours like he was memorizing the moment. His thumb brushed your cheek in a slow, soothing stroke, grounding, affectionate, real.
Your chest loosened.
For the first time in what felt like forever, nothing hurt.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his eyes still closed as if he needed a second to breathe through it. When he opened them, they were shining.
ââŠYeah,â he whispered, a breathless little laugh escaping him. âI think this heart just learned something.â
You smiled, cheeks warm, tears threatening again but gentler now. âMine too.â
He stayed close, hand still cupping your face, as if letting go too soon might break the spell. And in that quiet space between breaths, you knewâdeep in your bonesâthat this was what love was supposed to feel like:
Safe. Chosen. And entirely your own.
Milo pulled back just enough to look at you properly, that soft, dazzled expression still lingering on his face like he hadnât quite landed back in his body yet. Then his mouth twitched.
âOh,â he said lightly, eyes glinting now, mischief creeping back in like a familiar friend. âJust so weâre clearââ
You blinked. âClear about what?â
He leaned closer again, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. âYouâre definitely going to have to kiss me again when I get my new heart.â
You let out a small, startled laugh. âIs that so?â
âAbsolutely,â he replied with mock seriousness. âI canât have it thinking that one kiss was a once-in-a-lifetime event. That would set unrealistic expectations.â He paused, then added, cheeks coloring again despite himself, âItâll need⊠regular reminders.â
Your smile softened, spreading slowly across your face without you even noticing it happening.
You watched him for a momentâreally watched him. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he tried to play it off even though he was still clearly flustered, the way he stayed close without crowding you, as if proximity itself were something he handled with care.
Something warm and dangerous stirred in your chest.
Am I⊠in love with him?
The thought startled you.
You did like him. That part was undeniable. You liked the way he made space for you instead of filling it with rules. The way he laughed with you, not at you. The way he chose you without asking you to bleed first. Being with him felt like breathing air that hadnât been filtered through fear.
But then another thought crept in, colder, quieter.
What if Iâm using him?
The idea made your stomach twist.
What if you were clinging to him because he was safe? Because he was warm? Because he was everything Zayne wasnât? What if your need for proof that love could exist without pain was turning Milo into something you leaned on too hard?
Your smile faltered just a fraction.
Milo noticed immediately, of course he did. âHey,â he said gently. âYou just went somewhere.â
You hesitated, fingers curling lightly into the blanket. âDo you ever worry,â you asked softly, choosing your words with care, âthat youâre⊠being needed instead of wanted?â
He stilled.
Then he smiled againâquieter this time, steadier.
âIâve thought about it,â he admitted. âA lot.â He shrugged faintly. âBut I think the difference is whether someone feels trapped by that need. And I donât.â Your throat tightened. âI want to be here,â Milo continued, his voice calm, sincere. âNot because youâre broken. Not because you owe me anything. Just because⊠itâs you.â
He reached for your hand, not to hold it tight, just to let his fingers rest against yours. âAnd if one day you realize you donât need me the same way anymore?â He smiled gently. âIâd still want you.â
Tears pricked your eyes again, frustrating and unavoidable. You looked at him with that same fond, aching smileâfull of warmth, full of uncertainty, full of something that scared you because it felt real.
âI donât know what this is yet,â you whispered.
Milo nodded. âThatâs okay. We donât have to name it.â He squeezed your fingers once, reassuring. âWeâll just⊠let our hearts learn at its own pace.â
You laughed softly through the emotion swelling in your chest, leaning a little closer to him.Â
Zayneâs office was quiet.
Not peacefulâquiet in the way operating rooms were quiet, the kind that sharpened thought rather than softened it. Papers lay arranged in precise stacks across his desk, clinical reports annotated in his neat, economical handwriting. He read without difficulty, absorbed without effort, mind moving efficiently from one case to the next.
Control.
His phone vibrated once.
He didnât look at it immediately. He finished the sentence he was reading, set the page aside, then reached for the device with the same deliberate care he applied to everything else.
A message from his childhood friend, Miss Hunter.
Dinner tonight? Iâm craving something that isnât hospital food. My treat.
Zayne considered the invitation for exactly three seconds.
He typed back:
Very well. Iâll join you after rounds.
Polite. Neutral. Acceptable.
He placed the phone face-down on the desk, gathered the papers into alignment, and stood. The movement was smooth, unhurried. His coat settled over his shoulders like armor he didnât need but wore anyway.
The corridor outside his office was lit in that familiar sterile glow, footsteps echoing faintly against polished floors. Nurses passed him with nods. A resident straightened unconsciously when Zayne walked by. The hospital adjusted itself around his presence as it always did.
Predictable.
Comforting.
He turned the corner near the patient wing.
And stopped.
Not because he had intended to. Because his body did it for him.
Down the hall, near the windows where the light softened and the world briefly pretended to be human, Milo stood close to your bed. Too close. His hand was cupping your faceâcareful, reverent. Your lips were curved into something warm and unguarded, something Zayne had never seen on you without blood involved.
Then Milo kissed you.
Softly. Slowly. As if nothing bad could happen in a world where that was allowed.
Heat surged through his veins like fire through dry wire, sharp and unbearable, spreading too fast to analyze. His chest tightened. His jaw locked so hard his teeth ached.
Rage.
The word landed with shocking clarity.
Not irritation. Not curiosity. Not displeasure.
Rage.
His fingers curled slowly at his sides, the urge to act clawing up his spine with a force he had never experienced before. His vision narrowed, the edges of the corridor blurring as his focus tunneled brutally onto themâon Miloâs hand, on your mouth, on the ease with which you leaned into something that wasnât him.
No, his mind supplied reflexively. That is incorrect.
His pulse thundered, loud enough that for one disorienting moment he wondered if someone else could hear it.
This wasnât supposed to happen.
You weren't supposed to look like that. Not without pain. Not without permission. Not without him.
Zayne forced a breath in through his nose, slow and measured, as if calming a patient in crisis. He catalogued the sensation ruthlessly even as it burnedâtight chest, accelerated heart rate, intrusive thoughts, violent ideation.
Fascinating.
So this, he realized distantly, is what they mean.
Jealousy had always been an abstract concept to him. A behavioral pattern observed in others. A pathology, occasionally. He had never felt it, never understood its appeal.
This was not jealousy. This was territorial. Possessive.
Personal.
Milo pulled back slightly, smiling at you in a way that made Zayneâs vision flash white at the edges. You laughedâquiet, genuine, alive.
Something inside Zayne snapped into alignment with terrifying certainty.
He wasnât losing control.
He was discovering something new.
Zayne straightened slowly, smoothing the front of his coat as if nothing had happened. His face rearranged itself into its usual calm, the mask sliding back into place with practiced easeâeven as the fire beneath it raged on, unextinguished.
He turned away before either of you could see him.
As he resumed walking down the corridor, his steps were perfectly measured, his posture immaculate. To anyone watching, nothing had changed.
But inside, his thoughts had crystallized into something sharp and absolute:
Milo was no longer just a risk. He was an intrusion.
And for the first time in his life, Zayne understood exactly why people did irrational things in the name of rage.
The realization did not frighten him. It thrilled him.
Because rage, he now understood, was not a loss of control. It was motivation. And Zayne had never failed to act on that before.
And somewhere deep in his mind, colder and far more dangerous than the fire itself, a single thought took shape:
Synopsis: You were supposed to die quietly. Sick since birth, youâve spent your life in a hospital bed, surrounded by white walls and kind hands. And then thereâs Dr. Zayneâthe one who never looks at you for too long.
Until you see him with a corpse. Until he sees you.
He doesnât kill you. He tells you he willâjust not yet. Youâre already dying, after all.
You are no longer a patient. Youâre a specimen. And Zayne is still deciding what to do with you.
Tags: psychological horror, death, body gore, body abuse, mental abuse, dark romance ( hopefully), medical horror, obsessive behavior, sadistic male lead, slow descent into madness, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, toxic dynamics
A/N: I'm sorry it took so long. I was sick as a dog and because I need to go to another city to have a computer.. that delayed all my schedule. I still hope you enjoy chapter 2! 17K words for this baby.
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Chapter II: Still Breathing
It had been a week since you last saw him.
Seven days of silence. No footsteps outside your door. No gloved hands. No needle.
You kept count, though you pretended not to. The nurses said your color was coming back. Dr. Greyson smiled a little more often. The world softened by degrees, and the shadows stopped reaching quite so far across the floor.
At first, you thought it was a trick. But every morning came and went without him. And slowly, your body began to believe it.
The fear didnât vanishâit simply curled into something quieter, smaller, easier to carry. You still jumped at the sound of shoes in the hallway. Still flinched when you saw a white coat. But it passed.
He was gone. And maybe that meant it was over.
Still... you hadnât forgotten.
You thought about the man in the sub-basement. About the clean lines cut into his chest. About Zayneâs hands. His voice. His eyes when he looked at you like you were next.
And now that the fear was fading, something else had room to take its place:
Doubt. Or maybe⊠resolve.
Maybe if you went backâ Just onceâ You could find something he missed. A trace of blood. A dropped instrument. Anything to prove that it hadnât just been a nightmare.
Anything to prove that you hadnât made it all up.
You waited until the hallway emptied. Until the nurses stopped hovering. Until the lights dimmed, and the usual rhythm of the hospital settled into its artificial night.
It had been a week since you saw Zayne. A full seven days. Long enough to almost believe he was gone.
But not long enough to forget.
Not long enough to let go of the image of the body swinging like meat in a cold room. Not long enough to ignore the silence that had swallowed every trace of it.
That was what pulled you nowâbarefoot, wrapped in a thin blanket, slipping past the staff stations with your breath held and your steps practiced.
You just needed to see it again.
The place. The room.Â
You waited until the hallway fell quiet. Until the nurses stopped circling. Until the white noise of machines blended into the low hum of sleep.
Then you slipped out.
You knew every creak in the floor by now. Every angle where the staff wouldnât see you. You moved like breathâthin and slowâyour blanket pulled tight around your shoulders.
You just needed to see it again. The room where everything changed.
You pressed the elevator button, heart racing. And thenâ
 âSo,â a voice drawled behind you, âweâre doing the Great Escape now? Do I get to be your sidekick?â
You startled, turning sharply.
A boy stood a few feet behind you, dragging an IV pole like it was a lazy pet. He looked your ageâmaybe younger. Slouched. Wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big, with a mess of brown curls and a mischievous half-smile.
âHi,â he added, like this was the most normal place to meet. âIâm Milo. Full-time patient, part-time hallway cryptid. Professional insomniac.â
You stared at him, heart still thudding.
 âNo need to panic. Iâm not here to rat you out. Iâm just bored and nosy.â He gestured at your feet. âYouâve got that look. Destination: Forbidden Wing.â
You glanced back at the elevator. âYou donât have to come,â you said quietly.
 âOh, but I do.â He rolled his eyes. âIâm in a hospital gown, wheeling an IV bag, and havenât had excitement in three months. I would follow you into hell for half a donut.â
You couldnât help itâyou laughed, soft and brief.
 âDonât get excited,â you murmured. âThereâs no donuts.â
 âIâll settle for feral cats and eerie basements.â
You looked at him again. He looked harmless. Exhausted, but curious. That crooked smile didnât feel dangerous. Just tired.
You didnât stop him when the elevator opened. You didnât stop him when he stepped inside beside you.
You just looked straight ahead and said âThereâs something I want to find.â
âThen lead the way, mystery girl.â He leaned against the wall. âIâll make sure you donât fall into a vent or get eaten by rats.â
The elevator groaned as it moved down, metal humming behind the walls. The lights overhead flickered once, and Milo raised an eyebrow.
âWow,â he muttered, âthis already feels like a horror movie. Want me to scream dramatically if we get stuck?â
You didnât answer, but a small smile tugged at your mouth. He noticed.
 âA smile,â he said, mock-shocked. âFirst one Iâve seen all night. Mark this historic moment.â
You looked down at your feet. Milo leaned against the corner of the elevator, letting his IV pole rest beside him like a tired companion. He didn't press you. Didn't ask questions. Just... talked.
 âI used to sneak around a lot more, back when my lungs werenât complete traitors. Nurses hated it. Swore Iâd fall into the laundry chute and vanish forever. Honestly? Tempting.â
You glanced up. âIs that why you follow people around in the dark now?â you asked softly.
He grinned.
 âExactly. What else is there to do when youâre half-dead and hooked to a bag of whatever this is?â He patted his IV tube. âBesides, you seemed like you knew where you were going. Which is a huge upgrade from the last time I followed someone and ended up locked in the med storage room for three hours. That was a long night.â
You blinked. ââŠSeriously?â
âDead serious. Literally almost. My oxygen tank ran out halfway through. Nearly died next to a crate of Band-Aids.â
A quiet laugh escaped you. Short, surprised. Milo glanced at you sideways, softer now.
âYouâve got a nice laugh,â he said. âYou should use it more.â
You didnât know what to say to that. So you looked away, pretending to watch the floor numbers tick lower.
Finally, with a long hiss and a metallic clunk, the elevator stopped. The doors slid open.
The light here was differentâlower, colder. The hallway stretched ahead in silence. Pipes lined the walls. The air smelled like old paint and damp concrete.
You stepped out first. Milo followed without hesitation, glancing around like a tourist at a haunted hotel.
 âSpooky,â he whispered. âTen out of ten ambiance. Creepy echo. Faint scent of death. Love what youâve done with the place.â
You paused at a turn in the corridor, hand against the wall for balance.
 âThereâs a room down here,â you said. âA storage room. I used to leave food by the vent.â
 âFor⊠the ghost?â
You gave him a look.
 âA cat.â
âAh. Got it. Ghost cat. Classic.â He smirked, but his voice stayed soft. You could feel itâhe wasnât mocking. He was just⊠trying to keep the quiet from swallowing the place whole.
The corridor swallowed the sound of your footsteps as you turned the last corner. Pipes ran low along the ceiling. The floor was concrete, dusted with layers of forgotten time.
You stopped in front of that room. It still looked the same. A single bulb buzzed overhead, flickering faintly. The rusted door stood half-open, as if waiting. You pressed your hand against it, slowly pushing it wide.
Inside, it was cold.
And empty.
No blood. No body. Just shelves. Boxes. Old crates. A faint metallic smell lingered in the airâbut it couldâve been anything.
Milo stepped in behind you, whistling low.
 âWow. Cozy. Definitely haunted. Ten bucks says a raccoon lives here and rules this floor like a tiny god.â
You didnât answer. Your eyes scanned every corner. You dropped into a quiet crouch, peering beneath a dusty table near the vent. You clicked your tongue once, softly, and reached into your pocket.
Milo tilted his head.
 âDo you⊠actually feed it?â
You pulled out a torn piece of foilâthe remains of a fish snack the cafeteria sometimes served. You peeled it back, letting the smell drift toward the vent.
Milo made a face.
 âOkay, wow. Thatâs dedication. Youâre the patron saint of hospital strays.â
 âSheâs been here for years,â you murmured. âI found her when I was seven. She always came out when it was quiet.â You paused, then added, more to yourself, âShe saw it too.â
Milo didnât catch that last part. He crouched beside you, peeking under the table.
âIf this cat turns out to be a ghost and jumps on my face, I swear Iâll haunt you.â
You stifled a laugh. Thenâa small shuffle. The soft scrape of claws against metal.
You both froze. Out from behind the crates padded a thin gray cat, fur dusty, eyes yellow and watchful.
She paused when he saw you. Then walked forward slowly, head tilted.
Your heart unclenched for the first time in days. You held out the foil. She sniffed it, then rubbed her head against your wrist, purring low.
 âHoly crap,â Milo whispered. âYou werenât kidding. You do have a cat in the basement.â
 âTold you,â you said quietly.
Milo sat back against the wall, one knee drawn up.
âOkay,â he said, âthis officially makes you the coolest person Iâve met in this place. Which is not a high bar, but still.â
You didnât reply, but the corners of your mouth twitched again. And for a few minutes, the hospital didnât exist. Just cold floors, warm fur, and a boy who wouldnât stop talking.
The cat curled beside your leg, still purring faintly, its fur vibrating like a tiny engine. You reached down, stroking her side once, then stood upâslowly, careful not to startle her.
Milo didnât notice. He was on the floor now, fully committed, lying on his side like he was trying to lure a toddler.
 âCome on, little cryptid,â he coaxed. âI know we just met, but I feel like we have something real here. Shared trauma. Mutual distrust of medical lighting. Let me love you.â
The cat blinked at him. Then flicked its tail and climbed directly into your lap instead.
 âBetrayal,â Milo groaned, slumping dramatically. âActual betrayal. I give and I give.â
You let out a soft snort and stepped away, gently dislodging the cat as you moved toward the back of the room.
The crates were the same. The shelves too. The floor⊠was clean.
Too clean.
You crouched low, brushing your fingertips across the concrete. No stains. No drag marks. Nothing to prove what youâd seen.
Still, you searched. You ran your fingers along the vent, the wall seams, the edge of the shelving.
 âYouâre not gonna find cat treasure back there,â Milo called helpfully. âUnless itâs the skeleton of a pigeon. Which⊠to be fair, Iâd still applaud.â
You didnât answer. Your eyes swept across the ceilingâthe beam where the man had hung, swaying gently like something discarded.
It was spotless.
Erased.
But your memory wasnât.
 âHe was right there,â you whispered under your breath. âI know he was right there.â
Behind you, Milo hissed a little.
 âOwârude.â You turned. The cat had finally come closer⊠and immediately swatted him on the nose.
 âI take back everything,â he muttered, rubbing his face. âLittle beast has claws.â
You gave a faint smile, your chest still tight. âHe doesnât like strangers.â
 âNeither do I,â Milo shot back. âWe couldâve bonded over that, but nooo.â
The cat returned to your side without hesitation, brushing against your ankle. Milo watched, mock offended.
âIâm third-wheeling my own adventure. This is tragic.âÂ
Milo stood up at last, brushing dust off his sleeves like heâd just survived a noble war with a cat.
 âOkay,â he announced, hands on his hips, âhear me out. This place? Itâs kind of perfect.â
You tilted your head. âFor what?â
âOur secret base, obviously.â He gestured grandly around the dim, dusty room. âItâs got everythingâmystery, horrible lighting, weird vibes, and a vicious little cat guarding the entrance.â
The cat meowed once, as if to agree.
âWe could bring snacks,â Milo continued. âSteal a flashlight. Name the cat something dramatic. Iâm thinking Phantom. Or Sir Meows-A-Lot.â
You managed a laugh, even though your chest still ached. He turned toward you, that crooked smile still there, his eyes bright with mischief.
 âCâmon. You and me. We could paint the walls. Or leave messages for future basement explorers. First rule of the baseâno doctors allowed.â
Your stomach twisted. You looked around the room againâat the vent, the pipe, the shadows near the ceiling.
That beam.
Your smile faltered.
 âI donât know if we should,â you said, quietly. âItâs not really⊠a good place.â
He tilted his head. âWhy not?â
You didnât answer. Couldnât. You werenât ready to tell him what youâd seen hanging from the ceiling. Werenât ready to admit how your legs had given out, how youâd pleaded, how cold the air had been whenâ
 âWe could put something here,â he offered, softer now. âNothing big. Just⊠something that says we were here. You know?â
You looked at himâthis boy with too-big sleeves and a grin that didnât quite hide the fatigue in his eyesâand nodded slowly.
 âOkay,â you whispered. âMaybe just something small.â
Milo beamed. âExcellent. Operation Basement Lair is officially underway. Iâll bring a flashlight. You bring snacks. Sir Meows-A-Lot brings the claws.â
The cat jumped into an empty crate and curled up, eyes already closing. Milo leaned closer and whispered,
 âI think he likes it too.â
The next day passed strangely. For the first time in a long while, you werenât waiting for the sound of footsteps outside your doorânot those footsteps, anyway.
Now you were waiting for a knock that came without dread.
 tap tap tap
âYo. You alive in there?â Milo leaned into your room like he belonged there, already holding a plastic cup of red Jell-O in one hand and a packet of sugar crackers in the other.
 âLunch of champions,â he declared. âAlso, I stole a spoon. Donât ask from where.â
You sat up slowly, adjusting the blanket across your lap. âYouâre not supposed to be out of bed.â
 âYouâre not supposed to be sneaking into haunted storage rooms, yet here we are.â
It became a rhythm. He came by every day. Sometimes twice. Sometimes three times.
Always with food he didnât finish, jokes that were worse than yesterdayâs, and a level of cheer that somehow made the sterile room feel⊠warmer.
You never talked about what happened. Not the basement. Definitely not the silence hanging between the pipes and the walls.
But you talked about other things.
Tiny things.
Your favorite flavor of hospital juice (he argued it didnât count unless it glowed). The worst nurse in the ward (he swore one of them was secretly a lizard in a wig). Books you never finished. Shows he never started.
One afternoon, with the windows washed in pale gold light, he sprawled out in the chair beside your bed, tossing a cracker into the air and trying to catch it in his mouth.
You watched him fail. Twice.
 âYou talk about death a lot,â you said quietly, almost without thinking.
He caught the third cracker. Barely.
 âIâm hilarious,â he said, voice muffled. âItâs my charm.â
You stared at him. He stopped chewing.
 âYouâre not scared?â you asked. âOf dying?â
He shrugged one shoulder, gaze drifting to the ceiling tiles. âNah. Not really.â
You blinked. âWhy not?â
He thought about it. Really thought. Then he glanced sideways at you, a strange softness in his expressionâgentler than usual, but still undeniably Milo.
 âBecause I already know what it looks like. Iâve seen it. Felt it. Itâs not some monster waiting to grab me. Itâs more likeâŠâHe paused. âAn old roommate Iâm stuck with âtil move-out day.â
You didnât know what to say to that.
 âAnd hey,â he added with a lopsided grin. âAt least when I go, I wonât have to eat this Jell-O anymore.â
You laughedâjust a little. But it was real.
And this time, he didnât point it out. He just smiled, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes like he belonged there.
Like he wasnât going anywhere.
The sun had started to dip lower, bleeding amber through the hospital blinds. Milo was half-asleep in the visitorâs chair again, feet kicked up on your IV stand, unbothered by the rules. A half-eaten cookie sat balanced on his chest like some lazy trophy.
You were in the middle of quietly teasing him about missing his meds when the door opened.
Dr. Greyson stepped inside with his usual clipboard and gentle smile.
 âGood afternoon, sunshine,â he said to you, his tone as soft as always. âHow are we feeling today?â
Before you could answer, Milo raised a hand.
 âOh, sheâs fine. Laughing at my tragic medical condition like a true friend.â
Dr. Greyson blinked, startled, then let out a surprised chuckle.
 âMilo. I havenât seen you in weeks.â
 âYeah, Iâve been busy. Still dying, but, you knowâslowly. You guys are taking your sweet time.â
Your head snapped toward him, wide-eyedâand then it burst out of you, sudden and sharp:
Laughter.
Real laughter. Bright and almost breathless.
You covered your mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking. Dr. Greysonâs eyes softened instantly.
 âWell,â he said, smiling more fully now, âIâm glad someone around here is finally getting her to laugh.â
âMy influence is toxic,â Milo said proudly. âIâm turning her into a menace.â
 âNo doubt,â Greyson replied warmly, walking over to check the monitor beside your bed. âBut a little mischief is good for healing.âHe glanced at you, then back at Milo. âYou know⊠Iâm really glad you found each other.â
You looked away, suddenly shy. Milo grinned. âYeah, sheâs alright,â he said. âJudgy, but tolerable. Keeps snacks.â
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. And for a few more minutes, the world felt like it could be kind again.
Dr. Greyson tightened the blood pressure cuff on your arm and adjusted the stethoscope in his ears, murmuring a soft, âJust breathe normally,â like he always did.
You did. Your heart felt steadier today. Lighter.
Probably because the boy slouched in the visitorâs chair had been talking since he walked in, cracking jokes without any expectation you'd respondâbut still smiling every time you did.
Milo was half-curled under your blanket now, legs sticking out at odd angles, his IV pole dragged up beside him like a stubborn pet.
âSo howâs she doing?â he asked, mouth half-full of a cracker.
Dr. Greyson looked at the monitor.
âVitals look good today. Heart rateâs steady, oxygen is holding. No signs of instability.â
âLucky her,â Milo said flatly. âMineâve been circling the drain for three weeks. Pretty sure I hit the âfinal bossâ level.â
You exhaled through a small laugh. Dr. Greyson glanced over at him.
âStill sarcastic. Thatâs a good sign.â
âOh, itâs not sarcasm. Iâm just giving my organs a performance review. Lungs: fired. Immune system: on strike. Kidneys? We donât talk about the kidneys.â
You tried not to laugh too loud, but it still escaped. Dr. Greyson shook his head with a chuckle as he removed the cuff from your arm.
 âYou make her laugh like that every day?â
 âItâs either that or cry,â Milo said simply, leaning back. âAnd tears donât come with pudding.â
You looked at himâreally lookedâand for the first time in a while, the weight in your chest didnât feel unbearable.
He looked tired. Sick. He was half-joking about dying, and part of you hated that.
But another part⊠understood.
Milo tilted his head toward you, mock-whispering to the doctor.
 âIf she codes, itâs not my fault. She laughs at my jokes. Thatâs consent.â
You gave him a light shove with your elbow, and he let his head fall dramatically onto your shoulder.
 âGo ahead, doc,â he said, eyes closed. âPut that on my chart.â
Dr. Greyson gave your chart one last look, then turned to Milo with an arched brow.
âAlright, Milo. Timeâs up. I need to check your vitals too. Back to your room before someone notices I let you wander the halls again.â
Milo groaned dramatically, flopping back in the chair like he was about to melt.
âYou act like Iâm not the highlight of this entire floor.â
âYou are,â Greyson said dryly. âThatâs the problem.â
Milo pushed himself up with a grunt, grabbing his IV pole and dragging it toward the door like a very reluctant dance partner. But before he stepped out, he turned back toward you.
The smirk was still there, but his voice dropped just slightly. Not serious, not yet. Just⊠a little softer beneath the sarcasm.
 âDonât die before I get back, alright? Iâll be offended.â
You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved faintly. âIâll try.â
âGood,â he said, backing through the doorway. âIâm basically your personal cancer now. Clingy, hard to remove, and I show up at the worst times.â
You laughedâshort, surprised. He winked.
 âYouâre stuck with me. Promise me you wonât leave without saying goodbye.â
You blinked at that. But Milo didnât wait for an answer. He gave a little two-finger salute and disappeared down the hallway with Greyson behind him.
And then you were alone again. But this time, it didnât feel quite the same.
After the door clicked shut behind them, the quiet came back like a slow tide. It filled the corners. Crawled beneath the windows. Stretched over your bed like a second blanket.
The warmth from Miloâs jokes lingered for a little while⊠but not long.
You stared at the ceiling. Still. White. Familiar.
And yet all it did was remind you what waited below.
You knew it wasnât smart. You knew it was dangerous. But you had to go back.
Because if it was realâif what you saw wasnât some fear-fueled delusionâthen something had to be there. Anything. A trace. A mark. A mistake.
And if it wasnât real⊠Then maybe you really were going crazy.
You waited until the lights dimmed again, until the nursesâ voices down the hall faded into that quiet hum of hospital night.
Then you slipped out of bed.
The hallways stretched long and familiar beneath your bare feet. The elevators hummed like they had a heartbeat of their own. You didnât hesitate this time. You didnât even flinch.
The sub-basement smelled the same.
Cold. Dusty. Wet.
The cat found you before you found herâstepping out from the shadows with a low, questioning meow as you reached the storage room.
 âHey,â you whispered, crouching down to place a sliver of tuna by the crate. âStill guarding the place?â
She sniffed it, then rubbed against your ankle once before curling back into the shadows.
You stood and looked around. It was still clean. Still too clean. But maybe⊠there was something they missed.
You started moving boxes, checking the vent, the floor beneath the shelving, the baseboards where the wall met the ground. Your fingers ran over the concrete again and again, searching for a crack, a stain, a thread.
A mistake.
Something to prove you werenât just sick. That the monster you saw had been real.
And maybeâjust maybeâyou could make a plan. Leave something. Hide something. Catch him, if he ever came back.
Because you werenât going to wait around like prey anymore.
You were nearly done checking the far wall when it happened.
A soft sound. Barely audible.
Clink.
Something metalâsmallâknocked loose and rolled a few feet across the concrete in the hallway just beyond the room.
You froze, mid-step.Your breath caught. You turned slowly toward the door you hadnât closed all the way.
The hallway beyond was dark. Silent.
You waited. Maybe it was a pipe. Maybe something fell.But thenâ
Ding.
Your stomach dropped.
The elevator.
You knew that sound. The sharp bell, the mechanical sigh of doors opening just down the hall. You hadnât heard it when you came down. Youâd been alone.
But someone had just arrived. Someone else was here.Â
You stood still, heart pounding.
Not fast like fear. Hard. Rhythmic. Controlled. Like prey trying not to give itself away.
Your hands started to shake, fingertips curling toward your palms as you took one quiet step back from the door.
The catâlong goneâhad left the silence behind like a warning.
You strained your ears, hoping it was nothing. Hoping. But footsteps began to echo.
Slow. Measured. Coming closer.
You dropped low behind the stack of crates near the back wall, chest heaving now. Dust coated your palms, the sharp corner of a rusted shelf digging into your shoulder as you crouched in the dark.
The footsteps kept coming.
One.
Two.
Deliberate. Steady. Human.
You fumbled for anythingâyour hand closing around a jagged strip of metal tucked behind the supply bins. A broken handle, maybe. Sharp enough to cut. Sharp enough to defend yourself.
The door creaked open.
You held your breath, heart clawing against your ribs.
A silhouette stepped into the doorway, framed by the pale yellow light of the hallway.
You tightened your grip.
Ready. Thenâ
 âWhoa, womanâwhat the hell?â
The voice snapped the panic like glass. You blinked.
Milo stood there, his hoodie half-zipped, holding a cafeteria juice box in one hand and blinking at the jagged metal you had raised like a weapon.
 âAre you trying to stab me?â he said, incredulous. âWhat is this, basement Mortal Kombat?â
You couldnât speak. Couldnât even lower the piece of metal at first. Your legs were still trembling.
 âHey,â he said, stepping forward slowly, lowering his voice. âHey, itâs just me. You good?â
You lowered the makeshift weapon, still breathing hard, your knuckles white. Milo stared at you for a long second. Then held up the juice box.
 âI brought snacks.â
You collapsed to the ground, not from exhaustionâbut from the sheer wave of relief that nearly drowned you.
Milo crouched down beside you, the teasing gone from his face now, replaced by something quieter.
 âJesus,â he murmured. âYou look like you saw a ghost.â
You shook your head. âI thought you were someone else.â
 âYeah, well⊠if I was, you definitely wouldâve stabbed them in the throat. So thatâs comforting.â
A small laugh bubbled upâhalf-tears, half-hysteriaâand Milo passed you the juice box without another word.
You sat together on the floor, your pulse still a little too high, the basement stretching quiet and wide around you.
Neither of you spoke.
Milo didnât push. He just⊠watched you. Like he was waiting for you to explain, or maybe just waiting for you to stop shaking.
But when the silence stretched too long, when the tension didnât quite leave your shoulders, he tilted his head and askedâcompletely deadpan:
 âSo. Do you have a mental illness or what?â Your head jerked toward him, startled. âI mean,â he continued, sipping from the juice box, âIâm just wondering. Because if this is like⊠a hallucination thing? Iâm cool with that. My aunt had schizophrenia, and she used to chase shadows with a shoe. Iâm trained.â
You stared. He raised his hands.
 âIâm not judging. I just want to know if I should expect more basement ambushes or, like, shadow fights.â
A breath escaped your lips. Not quite a laugh, but not nothing either.
 âIâm not schizophrenic.â
 âCool. Neither am I. Iâm just dying the old-fashioned way.â
You looked away, the weight on your chest easing just a little. Milo bumped your shoulder lightly.
 âNext time you think someoneâs sneaking up on you, maybe yell first before going full apocalypse-mode, yeah?â
You nodded, eyes still low. Â âSorry.â
 âDonât be. It was kind of badass, honestly.â
The silence settled againâbut this time, it wasnât sharp. Just tired. And the fear faded to something else. Not gone. But shared.
Even if he didnât know it yet.
The silence between you had started to settle like dust. Thicker now. Less sharp.Â
You stared at the floor, where your hands had finally gone still. Milo sat beside you with one knee drawn up, the other foot tapping out a lazy rhythm against the cold cement. The juice box lay forgotten at his side.
You turned toward him slowly.
 âMilo,â you said, voice soft. He glanced at you, not with his usual grin, but something quieter, patient.
 âYeah?â
You hesitatedâthen let the words fall out like a breath you hadnât realized you were holding.
 âWhat would you do⊠if you knew someone was trying to kill you?â
It wasnât a joke. It wasnât a test.
The question just existed now, hanging in the still air between you, and there was no taking it back.
Miloâs expression didnât shift at first. He kept looking at you, as if waiting to hear the punchline.
But none came. And slowly, something in his face changed. That lazy curve in his mouth flattened. His foot stopped tapping.
He leaned back against the wall, eyes lifting toward the low ceiling with its rust-lined pipes and flickering light bulb, like he might find the answer hidden up there.
He let out a long breath. âYouâre serious,â he said. Not a question. Just the truth, shaped into sound. You nodded.
His gaze drifted back down, this time not to you, but somewhere through you. His voice, when it came again, was quieter. Measured.
âI think⊠Iâd try to understand what kind of story I was in.â You blinked. He gave a small shrug. âSome people live like theyâre the hero. Me? Iâve got a body that turns against me on a schedule. So I donât get to punch evil in the face. I donât get revenge. I survive by knowing where not to stand when the building falls.â
The words hit heavier than they shouldâve. Not bitter. Just real.
âSo,â he continued, âif someone wanted to kill me⊠I wouldnât pretend I could stop them. But Iâd make sure I wasnât easy.â His eyes met yours again, softer now. âYou make them work for it. You leave a scratch. You let the world know you were here.â
He paused. His throat bobbed with a swallow.
âAnd maybe, just maybe, someone sees that scratch and starts asking the right questions.â
You didnât speak. Your hands had curled against your knees, holding the weight of his words like they were breakable. Milo reached for the juice box again, biting into the straw like the moment hadnât just turned your bones to glass.
âWhy?â he asked quietly. âYou in trouble?â
You didnât answer. Not because you didnât want to. But because the truth was just too close to your teeth. Instead, you looked at him. At his tired eyes. The shadow under his jaw. The way he was always halfway between laughing and disappearing.
âWould you believe me if I said yes?â you asked, voice barely there. Milo looked at you. Really looked. And then, for once, he didnât make a joke.
âYeah,â he said. âI think I would.â
You didnât answer his questionâbecause he hadnât asked one. Instead, you looked at him. Really looked. At the way his hoodie sat lopsided on his thin frame. The way his eyesâtired and lined with something unspokenâstill found ways to smile even when his mouth didnât. For someone who joked about death like it was an old friend, he made life feel a little less cold.
You exhaled softly, eyes drifting down to your hands before you spoke.
âYouâre a good person, Milo.â
He blinked, surprised.
âYeah?â
You nodded, a faint smile curling at the corner of your lips. âI hope you live for a long time.â
There was a beat. Then he gaspedâhands pressed over his chest like a swooning actor on stage.
âWait. Are we having a hospital romance moment?â
You rolled your eyes immediately. âNo.â
âYou sure?â he grinned, leaning a little too close. âBecause this is how it starts, you know. You get attached. You fall for the dying boy with great hair and a tragic backstoryââ
âYouâre not that tragic.â
âYou wound me.â He pulled back, flopping dramatically against the crate behind him. âMy heartâs already weak, you know. You canât just reject me like that. I might code from the emotional trauma.â
You stifled a laugh behind your hand.
âThen stop being dramatic.â
âCanât. Itâs genetic.â
His smile faded just enough to feel realâbut only just. And yours stayed, small and quiet, warming something inside your chest you hadnât realized was still capable of thawing.
For a few moments more, neither of you said anything. And it was enough.
You leaned back against the wall, your body still catching up with your breath, when Milo shifted beside you, reaching into the oversized hoodie pocket with exaggerated effort.
âAlright,â he said, voice low and conspiratorial, âdonât freak out.â
You looked at him. âWhy would Iââ But he was already pulling out a rolled-up piece of paper, slightly crumpled, slightly bent, and utterly ridiculous.
It was a SpongeBob SquarePants poster. Worn at the edges. Folded like it had lived in his drawer for years. Milo held it up with a kind of reverence, turning it so you could see the ridiculous grin on SpongeBobâs face as he struck some impossible karate pose next to Patrick.
You blinked.
â...Why do you have that?â
âThis?â he said, mock-offended. âThis is art. This is history. This is⊠comfort.â He stood and walked over to the concrete wall, flattening the poster against it, using two pieces of medical tape from his IV bag to stick the corners up. It fluttered slightly, a yellow cartoon beacon in the gray, industrial dark.
âThere,â Milo said, stepping back. âNow itâs a base. A real one. Every hideout needs a mascot.â
You stared at the imageâso out of place, so absurdly bright in the gloomâand something inside your chest warmed.
You hadnât grown up with posters like that. You hadnât grown up with anything outside these sterile white halls. Home wasnât something you ever got to define. It was a hospital bed. A routine. Loneliness in long, quiet stretches.
But now⊠this.
A cat you fed in secret. A boy who wouldnât stop talking. A poster on the wall.
You smiled. Really smiled.
âYouâre insane,â you said softly.
âTakes one to know one,â he shot back.
He dropped beside you again, arms crossed behind his head like this was the most natural thing in the world. And for a momentâit kind of was. You stared at the wall, letting the colors blur just a little, and felt something anchor in your chest. This wasnât home. But with Milo hereâŠ
It didnât feel quite like a prison anymore either.
You didnât leave right away. You sat together beneath the flickering light, legs stretched out across the dusty concrete, the ridiculous SpongeBob poster smiling down at both of you. Milo pulled out his phone, the cracked screen lighting his face with a soft glow.
âAlright. New game,â he said. âYou name the episode, and Iâll tell you what happens.â
You gave him a look.
âSeriously?â
âDead serious. My brain is a cursed vault of Bikini Bottom lore. Test me.â
You thought for a second. âFine. âBand Geeks.ââ
He slapped a hand over his heart like youâd just insulted his ancestors.
âHow dare you start with the greatest episode of all time?â You raised a brow. He closed his eyes dramatically. âSquidward tries to win over his rival, Squilliam Fancyson, by forming a marching band. SpongeBob sings. Patrick blows a trumpet backward. The bubble bowl. Legends were made that day.â
You tried not to smile, but failed.
âNext.â
ââChocolate with Nuts,ââ you said.
âEasy,â he grinned. âSpongeBob and Patrick become door-to-door chocolate salesmen. Patrick yells about chocolate. Repeatedly. Loudly. A masterpiece.â
You laughedâquiet, hidden in your hand, but real.
The phone flickered again as he played a clip from one of the episodes. The sound echoed softly around the basement, two voices from a bright world that felt galaxies away.
Milo leaned back, resting against the wall.
âYou realize weâre too sick for this kind of joy, right?â
âProbably.â
âGood.â
The laughter settled into silence. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just⊠comfortable. You looked at him, still smiling. He looked back, like heâd never seen you smile before.
And for the first time, in a long, long while, the dark didnât feel like it was closing in.
You left the basement quietly, the kind of quiet that no longer felt heavy. Not suffocating. Just peaceful. The hum of the elevator greeted you at the end of the hallway, a dull mechanical sound softened by the walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed gently overhead, casting long shadows behind your feet as they stepped inside.
You stood beside Milo, your fingers brushing the cold metal rail, while he leaned casually against the panel, IV pole in one hand, phone in the other. The doors closed with a sigh. The ride up was slow. Familiar.
And so the game continuedâyour voice low as you whispered another episode title, and Milo answering without hesitation, stringing together plot points like they were part of a language only he spoke fluently.
You didnât laugh this time. You just⊠listened. His voice was easy. Reassuring. A strange comfort in a world where everything else had become something to fear.
When the elevator doors opened again, the upper floor greeted you with that sterile hushâthe kind that only hospitals wore late at night. No voices. Just machines ticking softly behind closed doors. A nurseâs chair left spinning gently at the end of the hallway. Someone's chart tucked under an arm, forgotten.
You walked together, your steps slow, your shoulder brushing his every so often. Milo didnât fill the silence now. He just walked beside you, humming something under his breathâsome cartoon tune you couldnât quite name.
The hallway stretched longer than usual. You paused when you reached your door. Your fingers hovered near the handle, hesitant for a reason you couldnât quite explain. The world inside your room would be quieter than this. Lonelier.
Milo stopped beside you, waiting. You glanced up at him, searching his faceânot for safety, not even for answers. Just something real. His eyes were soft in the dim light, shadows moving beneath them. There was still that ever-present exhaustion in his posture, but there was something else tooâa spark, maybe. Something alive.
âRock Bottom,â you said softly.
He blinked. Then the corner of his mouth twitched.
âWeird place. Vending machine never works. Nobody understands you.â He didnât say more.
You nodded. Slowly. The smile that came wasnât big, but it stayed.
You opened your door, stepping inside. The room greeted you with its same pale walls, same humming monitors, same view of the parking lot lights outside your window. And yet⊠it didnât feel quite the same anymore. You sat on the edge of the bed, eyes drifting back toward the door.
He was gone. But the warmth lingered. For the first time in a while, the dark didnât feel like it was trying to swallow you whole. Just rest. Just silence. And maybe, in the space between fear and sleep, a memory of a yellow cartoon smile against cold basement walls.
The days passed in their quiet rhythm, like pages from a well-worn journalâsoftened at the edges, comfortingly predictable. The hospital was still the same: pale walls, fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead, the scent of something clean but never warm. But now, there was something new folded into your hours. Something that made you feel like they belonged to you.
Milo.
He showed up at your door without fail, tapping three timesâsharp, sharp, sharpâand once more, softer. Your secret code. A joke at first, born from a SpongeBob episode neither of you remembered fully, but it became something more. A signal. A promise.
Itâs just me.
You let him in every time.
Sometimes the two of you would sneak back down to the sub-basement when the halls were quiet, your footsteps light with the thrill of mischief. That space had slowly transformed into something real. Familiar. Home, in its own way. The SpongeBob posterâweathered and curlingâhung crooked on the wall. Your stash of snacks, Miloâs ridiculous juice boxes, the bowl you filled for the cat. It all lived down there, untouched by the sterile world above.
You didnât hesitate when you left your room that night. The pouch of dry food in your hand rustled as you walked, a little bag of stolen cookies tucked in your hoodie pocket. The elevator ride felt slow, the lights flickering slightly above you. Nothing unusual. Nothing to worry about.
You pushed the door open. And stopped cold. The room was⊠wrong.
Clean. Completely clean.
The SpongeBob posterâgone. Not torn. Not half-hanging. Gone like it had never been there. The snacksâvanished. Not a single wrapper left behind. Even the crate you used as a seat had been pushed back to the corner, perfectly aligned, sterile in its forgotten place. It was like none of it had ever happened. Like you had made it all up.
The air shifted.
Sharp. Cold. Too still.
You stepped forward once, your sneakers soundless against the concrete, your eyes scanning desperately for some proofâany proofâthat it had been real. That he had been real. You stood there longer than you meant to.
The room felt hollow. Gutted. Like someone had opened your chest and removed all the warmth, all the memories, all the proof that any of it had been real. Everything reset to sterile stillness.
You dropped the bag of food without realizing it. It hit the floor with a soft crinkle, unheard.
The silence pressed in.
And thenâ The knock.
Three short taps. One soft one.
Your heart jumpedâbut not in fear. Not yet. Relief broke through your chest like a sigh.
Milo.
He probably came early, cleaned up a little, reorganized. He always said he wanted the place to feel âless like a dungeon.â You didnât turn around right away. Just stared at the bare wall where the SpongeBob poster used to be.
âMilo,â you started with a half-smile. âDid youâ?â
You turned. And the rest of your sentence died in your mouth.
It wasnât Milo.
It was Zayne.
Standing just inside the doorway, the dim basement light brushing over the crisp edge of his collar, his white gloves perfectly fitted like heâd never touched anything dirty in his life. He was watching you. No expression. No warmth. Just those eyesâsharp and clinical, like they could dissect you where you stood.
You didnât move. Couldnât.
It was like your body had dropped into cold water, nerves snapping silent. Zayne tilted his head the slightest degree.
âYouâre early,â he said. His voice was soft. Even. It felt like a knife slipped between your ribs.
You couldnât breathe. The room hadnât changedâbut it felt smaller now, the walls folding in around you, the air colder than it had any right to be.
Zayne didnât speak again. He didnât have to. He just watched you. Like you were a case file he hadnât quite figured out. Something lying open on a table, waiting to be categorized, dissected, labeled and shelved. His gaze didnât hold anger or interest or even amusement.
Only curiosity. A sterile, terrifying kind.
Your knees locked. Your hands began to tremble.
He knocked. You hadnât imagined that. You knew the knock. You created the knock. Three sharp. One soft.
Miloâs knock.
Zayne took one step forward and closed the door behind him with a click so soft it made the silence scream.
Your heart flipped. No one would hear you down here. Youâd made sure of that when you started sneaking off. You and Milo chose this place because it was yours. Safe. Quiet. Forgotten.
But he wasnât supposed to be here. Zayne wasnât supposed to know about the knocking.
You stepped back without realizing it, until your shoulder hit the edge of the crate. Your fingers gripped it like it might keep you standing. But your legs were shaking too much. You looked at himâreally lookedâand wondered, in a flash of dread,
Where is Milo? Did he take down the poster?Throw away the snacks? Was this some twisted inspection? Some punishment? Orâ Did Zayne do something to him?
The thought hit you like ice in your throat. Still, Zayne didnât move. Didnât blink. He just studied you. Like your panic was a specimen. A beautiful, shivering little display under glass.
âYouâre not answering,â he said, finally. âYou usually do.â His voice was quiet. Puzzled. Like he was noting an inconsistency in an experiment.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your tongue felt like paper. Your lungs refused to draw in enough air. He tilted his head againâlike he was listening for something.
âStrange. You were much more talkative the last time we were alone.â
You pressed further back against the wall, barely aware that your legs had moved again. Your heartbeat screamed in your ears. But still⊠you said nothing. He took another step. Measured. Unhurried. Not like a threatâbut like a man in complete control of the space. Of you.
You didnât move this time. Couldnât. He was close enough now that you could see the faint pattern of his glove, the clean line of his coat sleeve, the slow rhythm of his breathing. Calm. Steady. Almost relaxed.
You were shaking.
âWhy are you here?â he asked, voice level. âWhy would someone like you come back here, knowing what you saw?â Your lips parted, but your tongue stayed frozen in place. âCuriosity? Desperation? Guilt?â
He watched your face closely, like he was scanning for micro-expressions, catching the way your eyes flinched or your jaw clenched. Like you were an equation being solved.
âDo you want to die, is that it?â
Your knees buckled slightly.
His voice wasnât cruel. Not mocking. It was genuineâlike he really didnât understand.
âBecause people donât usually return to the place where someone was killed. Not unless theyâre hoping to join them.â He took another step closer.
You couldnât step back anymore. The wall was already at your spine. You felt it dig through your hospital gown, felt the pressure of it, cold and merciless.
Your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape.
âUnlessâŠâ he continued, eyes narrowing faintly, âyou werenât here for the memory. You were here for something else.â He leaned in slightlyâjust enough that you could feel his presence pierce through the sterile air like a scalpel. âWere you hoping to see me again?â His voice was almost soft. Almost amused. âHow touching.â
Your hands started to tremble harder. You didnât realize your breathing had turned ragged. Your vision blurred at the edges. Zayne straightened again, still watching. Still waiting. Your voice finally broke through the panic. Small. Shaky. Barely there.
âIâll tell someoneâŠâ Zayne didnât react. âIâll tell the police,â you said again, louder this timeâlike saying it twice might make it real. âYouâre going to go to jail.â The words sounded ridiculous even as they left your mouth. Weak. Trembling. But you had to say them. You had to try.
Zayne blinked once, slowly. Then nodded.
âMmm,â he said, like he was genuinely considering it. âJail.â He took one final step closer, now just an armâs length away. Close enough that you could smell faint antiseptic on his coat. His eyes never left your face. âYou wonât tell anyone.â
There was no threat in his tone. Just certainty. You opened your mouth againâbut he raised a hand. Not fast. Not to strike. Just calm, gloved fingers raised, like a teacher pausing a student.
âThe last person who said that,â he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, âtold me they were going to report me.â He tilted his head slightly, watching your expression shift. âIt was fascinating,â he murmured. âHow many screams can fit between someoneâs teeth.â The silence tightened. âI had to take them out, eventually. The teeth. They kept chipping while he bit down.â
He said it like he was describing a broken piece of machinery.
âNow when he cries,â he added, eyes still locked on yours, âhe just hums.â
You didnât realize you were crying until your vision stuttered again. Your lips quivered. Your throat burned. But no sound came out. Zayne simply stood there, taking it in. Not sad. Not happy. Just⊠interested.
Like fear was a language, and he was finally learning to read it fluently.
The tears kept coming, hot and silent down your cheeks, dripping from your chin to your collarbone. You couldnât stop shaking. You werenât sure what broke the silence nextâyour breathing or your fear.
But Zayne didnât step back. He studied your face, expression unreadable⊠then blinked slowly, almost thoughtfully.
âStill crying?â he murmured. âYouâre very emotional today.â He glanced briefly around the room, then back at youâlike he was taking inventory. âBut then again⊠you did come back here, didnât you?â He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with detached interest.
âI suppose that means⊠youâre volunteering.â
Your heart stopped. You barely had time to gasp before his hand snapped out and caught you by the throat. Your body slammed back into the wall with a breathless thud, your feet barely finding the ground beneath you. The cold concrete bit into your spine. His grip was firmânot stranglingâbut enough to remind you how fragile your neck really was beneath those fingers.
âHmm,â he said softly, almost to himself. âStrangulation is fast. But messy. Leaves bruises. Bursts vessels in the eyes. Iâve never liked the look.â You clawed at his wrist, your mouth open, desperate to speakâto screamâto breathe. âNo... maybe puncture,â he mused aloud, completely ignoring your flailing hands. âThrough the ribs. Precise. Quiet. But it might hit a lung too early. Canât have you collapsing before Iâm done.â
You whimperedâa low, hoarse sound, barely audible. Your legs kicked uselessly beneath you, trying to find traction, trying to find anything. His eyes flicked to yours.
âStill conscious,â he noted softly. âGood. Youâre surprisingly durable.â Your fingers throbbed with pain as you tried to pry his hand away, but it was like trying to tear stone from stone. You rasped out a noiseâplease. Your voice was cracked and broken. You werenât even sure if it made sense. Zayne tilted his head again, just slightly.
âYou want me to stop?â His grip didnât loosen. His tone didnât change. âWhy?â
Your vision swam. Your lungs burned. The pressure on your throat was growing sharper nowâfingers tightening, just enough to bring black spots crawling into the edges of your sight. You clawed at his arm. Useless. You tried to scream. Nothing. Your knees buckled againâbut his grip held you up, pinned you like a paper doll to the wall. Your mouth moved, choking on half-formed syllables. And then, somehow, you spoke.
âIâI came down hereâŠâ He didnât move, but his eyes twitchedâjust slightly. A shift. You coughed, air slicing into your throat like broken glass. You wheezed the next words through grit and tremble. â...to understand.â
For a moment, the silence stretched. His grip didnât loosen. But something changed. His gaze locked on yoursânot as a predator⊠not entirelyâbut as something deeper. Watching. Measuring. Considering.
Thenâhe smiled. Not wide. Not warm. Just a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. The kind of smile a surgeon makes when heâs finally found the right place to cut.
âTo understand?â His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. He let you hang there just a second longer. Just enough for your muscles to go limp, for the edge of unconsciousness to skim across your mind.
Thenâhe let go.
You collapsed to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Your body hit the ground hard, your lungs convulsing, air tearing back into you in broken gasps. Zayne crouched in front of you.
Still smiling.
âAlright then,â he murmured, brushing a gloved finger under your chin to tilt your trembling face up to his. âYou want to understand?â He leaned in, breath cool against your cheek. âIâll show you everything.â
Your breath rasped, sharp and uneven, as you clutched your chest, still trying to recover from the weight of his hand around your throat. Zayne didnât move away. He was still crouched there in front of you, perfectly composed, his eyes watching the tremble in your limbs like it was the most fascinating thing heâd seen all week.
Then, slowly, he reached into the pocket of his coat. The motion was smooth. Casual. As if he were retrieving a pen. But what he drew out instead gleamed under the dim, flickering basement lightâa scalpel, delicate and silver, its blade wickedly clean. He held it by the dull end, the handle extended toward you.
You blinked at it, breath still shallow. Your heart hadnât calmedâyour mind was still screaming run, hide, scream, fightâbut your body refused to move.
âTake it,â he said quietly. Your hand twitched. âCome on,â he murmured, almost playfully. âYou came here to understand. This is part of it, isnât it? You stared at him, unsure if it was a trap or a testâor both.
He gave the scalpel a little shake.
âWhat will you do now?â he asked, your name falling from his lips with unnatural softness. âYouâve got a blade. Iâm right in front of you. Youâre scared. Hurt. Angry.â His head tilted, watching your hesitation. âSo what happens next?â
You looked down at the scalpel, then back at his face. He wasnât angry. He wasnât provoking you. He was⊠waiting. Like this was the next question on some terrible exam, and your answer was everything.
You didnât take the scalpel. You couldnât. You just sat there on the cold floor, knees drawn up, trembling hands hovering near your lap. The blade glinted between you, untouched.
Zayne didnât push. He didnât repeat himself. He simply stood up, glancing down at you one last time. And without a word, he turned and walked out of the room.
The sound of the door clicking shut echoed through the walls like a final verdict.
You sat there frozen, your breath ragged and your thoughts spiraling into static. Your chest felt hollowâtoo tight and too empty at once. You couldnât make sense of anything anymore.
Why did he leave? What does he want? Is this over? Is it only just beginning?
Your fingers dug into your sleeves. You rocked slightly, the scalpel still lying on the ground like a cursed object. Tears blurred your vision again, your throat aching.
What does he want from me?
Thatâs when you heard it. The door opened again. You didnât look. Your whole body tensed, instinct curling in your gut like acid. But you didnât need to look. You felt itâthe weight of his presence before his footsteps even echoed across the concrete. Then something else. A soft noise. Familiar. Fragile.
A faint, high meow.
Your heart stopped. You lifted your head just enough to see him. Zayne stood a few feet away, arms calm at his sides. And in his left handâdraped loosely over one armâwas the cat.
Your cat.
It looked up at you with lazy trust, completely unaware of the monster holding it. Zayne crouched again, just as he had before. And gently, with surgical care, he set the animal down beside the scalpel. The cat blinked at you. Rubbed against your thigh. Purred.
âLetâs try again,â Zayne said quietly. His voice was soft. Controlled. âMaybe this one will be easier.â You turned toward him, horror crawling across your spine like frost. âKill it.â
The word sat in the air like poison.
âYou wanted to understand, didnât you?â His eyes fixed on you, sharp and endless. âThen start.â Zayne stood above you, arms calmly folded behind his back, the cat sitting quietly at your side, unaware of the violence in the air. He tilted his head, considering you. Thenâanother smile. Smaller this time. Tighter. As if a new idea had just bloomed behind his eyes.
âActually,â he murmured, âIâve changed my mind.â He stepped backânot far, just enough to pace, slow and deliberate, the way a surgeon circles an anesthetized body. âLetâs try something more⊠stimulating.âHe gestured toward the scalpel on the ground, still between you and the cat. âA game. Call it... Truth.â
Your hands shook harder.
âI ask a question. You answer honestly.â He crouched again, picking up the scalpel between two fingers. He turned it slowly in his hand like it was a delicate instrument in a museum display.
âIf I think youâre lyingâŠâ He glanced at the cat. âI cut it.â Then his gaze shifted back to you. âIf you refuse to answerâŠâ A pause. âI cut you.â Your breath caught in your throat. He stood once more, calm and towering. âSimple enough.â
The cat nudged against your side again, purring.
âAnd to make it interesting,â he added, âyou can ask me something after. But if your question bores meâŠâ He didnât need to finish. You felt like you were going to be sick. Zayne rolled the scalpel once between his fingers, then held it still.
âLetâs begin.â His voice remained even. âFirst questionâŠâ He stepped closer, gaze sharp and locked onto yours. âWhen you saw the body hanging in this roomâdid you feel something other than fear?â
Your throat ached, your chest heaved with every breath, but somehowâsomehowâyou managed to answer. âYes,â you whispered, your voice barely audible. âI felt⊠confused. I thought you were supposed to save people. NotâŠâ You couldnât finish the sentence. The word kill stuck like a splinter behind your teeth.
There was silence. The kind that didnât wait for explanation. Zayne said nothing. But his stare deepened. He didnât look at you like a person. He didnât even look at you like prey.
His eyesâsharp, icy, and endlessly stillâstudied your face as if he were watching a chemical reaction unfold in a petri dish. Like every twitch of your lip, every flutter of panic in your lashes, was another data point. Something to log and file. Something interesting, but never human.
You saw no hatred in him. No anger. No disgust. Just a distant, bone-deep curiosityâthe kind that didnât require answers, only reactions. His head tilted slightly, a faint crease forming between his brows as though he were disappointed in something you couldnât name.
âInteresting,â he murmured, finally. Then, slowly, he crouched again. You flinched. He set the scalpel down in front of youâalmost gently. And smiled. âYour turn.â
Your fingers trembled as they hovered near the scalpel, your eyes locked on the Zayneâs lap, too afraid to see his eyes.
âYour turn,â he repeated. You swallowed hard. The blade gleamed at your feet. You didnât touch it. Your voice came out thinner than you expected, almost childlike.
âWhy⊠do you do it?â
Did you not already ask him this..?
The words hung there, heavier than the air. He didnât ask what you meant. He didnât need to. Zayne didnât flinch. Didnât blink. Didnât even look at you right away. Then, finally, he answered.
âBecause I feel nothing.â He looked up at you now. And his stare was flat. Not cold. Not cruel. Just⊠empty. âMost people feel too much. Thatâs what ruins them. Love. Guilt. Hope. It clouds everything.â He tilted his head slightly, still watching you. âI wanted to know what it felt like. To hurt someone. To end them. To see if Iâd feel anything at all.â
A pause. Then, almost like a confession:
âI didnât. So I keep trying.â
Your heart dropped. He said it like he was talking about trying a new drug. A new food. Something casual. Your body felt cold, your palms damp. There was nothing performative in his words. No justification. No shame. Just the kind of truth that made your bones feel thin. And he was still watching you. Like he was waiting to see how your face would crumble.
How your soul would respond.
The silence between you stretched, thick as blood. You sat frozen on the floor, the scalpel still untouched. Every breath felt like it would shatter your chest.
Then he asked, casuallyâlike he was commenting on the weather:
âWhat do you think Iâll do next?â Your stomach knotted. He tilted his head just slightly, watching your face. A faint smile ghosted over his lips, too polite to be real. âYouâre clever,â he continued softly. âYou must have a guess.â
You opened your mouthâbut nothing came out.
âNo answer?â he murmured. He lifted the scalpel from the floor. The cat meowed. Your throat tightened. Your body shook. You couldnât thinkâyou couldnât breatheâ âIf you lie,â Zayne said gently, âI cut the cat.â He traced the tip of the scalpel along the floor between you. âIf youâre too slow⊠I cut you.â
Tears blurred your vision again. Your hands trembled violently in your lap. Your mind raced, searching for some answer, any answer that could satisfy him, but the truth wasâyou didnât know. And that was the point. You didnât know what he wanted. You didnât know what heâd do.
âIâI donât know,â you whispered, voice cracking into a sob.
He stopped moving. For a breath, he just looked at you. Really looked. Not like a person. Not like prey. Like a machine trying to figure out why the experiment hadnât broken yet. You wiped your face with the back of your shaking hand, swallowing down the sobs that trembled just beneath your voice.
âYouâll⊠kill meâŠ?â The words fell between you like a final verdict.
Zayne didnât move at first. Just watched you. Then he tilted his head, considering. And slowly, he nodded once.
âNot right now.â No cruelty in his tone. No threat. Just truth. Like he was rescheduling an appointment.
The silence that followed felt louder than any scream. You didnât realize how tightly you were clutching your knees until your fingers started to go numb. He leaned slightly forward, that distant intensity behind his eyes returning like a tide.
He wasnât smiling.
Because Zayne wasnât just trying to break you. He wanted to know if you were already broken.
You stared at him, still clutching your knees, every part of you shaking. You found yourself asking something you never thought you would. Your voice was thin, almost a whisper.
âDid you ever love someone?â He didnât blink. âYour mother, maybe? Or⊠anyone?â You hated how your voice broke. Hated that you sounded hopeful. But part of you wanted to believeâneeded to believeâthat somewhere inside him, there had once been something soft. A moment of warmth. A flicker of humanity.
You waited.
You waited too long. Because eventually, Zayneâs head tiltedâjust slightlyâand he smiled. But not kindly.
âNo.â
One word. Clean. Final.
You swallowed. âNot even your mother?â He paused. As if running the thought through his mind like a checklist.
âI think she wanted me to,â he said at last. âBut wanting doesnât make it real.â He looked at you thenânot like he was mocking, but like he was dissecting the hope in your face. âWhy does that matter to you?â
You looked away. He took a step forward. âYou thought there was something broken in me that could still be fixed,â he said. âYou wanted that, didnât you?â
You said nothing.
âThatâs why people like you suffer,â he murmured. âYou donât understand that not everything wants to be saved.â
You couldnât breathe. His words echoed inside your skull like glass shattering against stone.
Not everything wants to be saved.
You stared at himâat the way he stood so calmly in the center of the room, watching you bleed without ever laying a finger on you. And something snapped.
Your hand flew out before you even realized what you were doing. You grabbed the scalpel off the floor.
Zayne didnât move.
You rose to your feet on trembling legs, fury burning through the cracks in your fear, and before your brain could catch up, your body lungedâ You threw yourself at him. The blade caught light between your fingers as you slammed into his chest, and for a momentâjust a momentâyou had him. You pushed him backward, and Zayne staggered a step, letting you drive him against the far wall.
You raised the scalpel to his throat.
Your breath was ragged. Your arms shook. Your whole body burned with adrenaline and confusion and something close to hate. He just⊠looked at you. Still. Steady.
Unbothered.
Almost amused.
âGo ahead,â he whispered. His voice was barely audible between your breaths. âDo it.â His eyes never left yours. âYou want to stop me? Make me pay? This is your chance.â
Your hand trembled. The blade hovered just above his skin. One small push. Thatâs all it would take. One twitch of your wrist. He didnât even blink. You couldnât do it. You felt the tears spill over again, even as your jaw clenched. Your hand dropped a fraction. And thatâs when he leaned in, voice barely a murmur.
âYes,â he breathed. âI thought so.â
You dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor between your feet. Youâd never felt so small. So broken. So exposed. Zayne gently brushed past you, as if the moment had never happened, as if your trembling, your rage, your hopeânone of it had ever mattered.
Your body hit the ground hard, the sting blooming across your spine like a slap from the world itself. You barely had time to suck in a breath before the weight of him was over youâabove you, on you, one knee pressed into your ribs, the other anchoring you in place like heâd pinned a butterfly for dissection.
The scalpel pressed flush against your throat.
One tilt. Thatâs all it would take.
Your lips parted. But no words came. Only breathâshaking, shallow, wet with sobs.
He said nothing at first. He just stared. The same way he had that first timeâcold, clinical, unmovedâbut this time, it lingered longer. Hungrier. His face was close. Too close. And you knew if you even twitched, heâd bury the blade in your neck and leave your body to cool on the tile.
But he didnât move. He watched you. Watched the way your tears slid from your eyes like ink in water. Watched the way your chest heaved with that panic you couldn't control. And thenâhe reached out. His gloved hand brushed your cheek. Gently. Almost tenderly.
âYour eyes,â he said softly, almost to himself. âThey donât match the rest of you.â You didnât understand. You couldnât understand. His fingers traced the corner of your eye where a tear clung like a drop of light. âYouâve been in this place your whole life,â he murmured. âYouâre frail. Sick. Small.â The scalpel never moved.
âBut your eyesâŠThey still look like they believe theyâll live.â He tilted his head slightly. Studying you again, like you were a puzzle missing the wrong pieces. âThatâs what makes you interesting.â The blade lifted. Not far. Just enough to let you breathe again. âYouâre dying,â he whispered. âBut still fighting.â Another slow, almost admiring stroke of his thumb beneath your eye. âI want to see how long that lasts.â
And just like that, he stood. No warning. No farewell. He left the scalpel beside you, its edge still warm from your skin. And walked away, toward the door like he didn't wreck your reality. You lay on the floor, your pulse screaming beneath your skin, the scalpel beside you like a reminder that none of this was overânot really.
But he didnât leave. Not yet.
Zayne lingered by the door, hands calmly adjusting the sleeves of his coat, as if he hadnât just pinned you to the ground and whispered death between your breaths. And then, your voiceâraw, small, but realâbroke the silence.
âWhat do you feel⊠for me?â It wasnât defiant. It wasnât pleading. It was bare.
Zayne stopped adjusting his sleeve. His eyes met yours again, and for a momentâjust one breath-long momentâhe didnât look like a man. He looked like a question that had never found an answer. He walked back toward you, slow, deliberate. Crouched. Stared.
His hand came upânot fast, not aggressiveâbut with unsettling care. He touched your jaw, holding it just enough to make you feel held, not comforted.
âFeel?â His voice tasted the word like it didnât belong to him. He looked at you for a long time. And then he smiled. Not cruel. Not kind. Just⊠curious. âI feel like I want to keep watching.â He tilted your chin up slightly. âLike I want to see what you do next. How far youâll go. How long youâll last.â He leaned in, voice dropping until it grazed your ear. âThatâs all.â
His hand left your chin, but he didnât step back. He stood there, towering over you, the dim light from the hallway behind him making his face difficult to read. You stayed on the floor, trembling, but not crying anymore. There was no room left for tearsâonly the dry ache of adrenaline and unanswered questions.
âThatâs all?â you asked quietly, your voice a little steadier than before. âYou just⊠want to watch me?â
Zayne blinked once. Slowly.
âWhat else would I want?â There was no sarcasm in his voice. No menace. Just that cold, clinical honesty that always felt like a scalpel peeling back skin to see what squirmed beneath.
âPeople feel things,â you said. âEven broken ones. Hate. Anger. Desire. Something.â You werenât sure why you kept talking. Maybe it was the shock. Maybe it was defiance in its final formâunderstanding. Zayne tilted his head, like he was listening to a song only he could hear.
âYou want me to hate you?â he asked. You didnât answer. He crouched again. Lower this time. Closer. âOr love you?â His eyes narrowed slightly, studying your face as if it might confess something you hadnât yet said aloud. âDo you want this to be something you can name?â he asked. âSo you can survive it?â
You sucked in a breath, fingers twitching slightly beside your leg. He leaned forward, his voice so close it curved along the shell of your ear.
âYou are trying so hard to make me human.â And then, softly: âWhat will you do when you realize Iâm not?â
You lay beneath him, your body aching, your skin still burning from the scalpelâs kiss. Zayneâs shadow loomed over you, close and quiet and deliberate. He hadnât left. He didnât speak. He was just⊠watching. Like he always did. And thatâs when the thought slipped in.
Heâs still watching me. Not with anger. Not with pity. But with interest.
It wasnât comfort. It wasnât safety. But it was something. Something you could hold onto.
Heâs curious about me.
The idea twisted itself around your lungs. Maybe that was why he hadnât killed you. Not yet. Maybe he didnât want toânot because he cared, but because he wasnât finished looking. And if he wasnât finished⊠you still had a chance. You felt the breath catch in your throat.
If I can make him feel something⊠maybe Iâll survive. Not real love. Not kindness. But somethingâpossession, maybe. Attachment. Fascination. What if I made him fall in love with me?
The thought made you feel sick. But you didnât shove it away. Because it was the only card you had. If Zayne wanted youâneeded you, in that cold, broken way of hisâthen maybe he wouldnât slit your throat. Maybe heâd protect you. Maybe heâd keep you alive just to keep you close.
I just have to stay inside his head, you told yourself. Long enough. Deep enough. Until I matter.
And when your eyes lifted to meet his again, you found him staringânot with cruelty. Not with warmth. Just that same, terrifying curiosity. And you knew, in that moment: This wasnât just survival anymore.
This was a game.
And the only way to win⊠Was to make the monster believe you were worth keeping. Your fingers twitched beside you. The scalpel still lay close, but you didnât reach for it.
You reached for him.
You didnât know why, not really. Your heart was still racing. Your throat ached. But the thought echoed again: If he feels something⊠maybe Iâll survive.
Youâd never been in love. Never held anyoneâs hand outside of an IV line. Romance was just a word doctors used to change the subject around you. But nowânow you reached up. Your hand moved slowly, unsteadily. You barely knew what you were doing. Your fingers hovered near his face like you expected to be struck for it. And then, you touched him.
The edge of your fingers brushed his cheek. His skin was cool. Smooth. Unreal. He didnât stop you. But he didnât react, either. He just stared at you. Not shocked. Not softened. Just watching, like he always did. And in that stillness, that silence, you realizedâ He was letting you. Letting you try. Your palm cupped his cheek. Shaking. Fragile.
He didnât flinch. He didnât blink. His eyes flicked to yours, and you saw it: the amusement. Vivid and sharp. Not cruel. Not kind. Just clinical. Like you were a rat who had finally learned to reach for the food after being shocked.
âIs this your strategy now?â he asked, voice low. You didnât answer. Because you didnât know. You didnât even know what it was supposed to feel like. Your fingers were still on his skin. You felt him breathe. He leaned just a little closerânot to encourage you, but to observe you. âYouâre shaking,â he murmured. His voice was soft. Icy. âYouâre not trying to survive anymore. Youâre trying to be wanted.â His eyes narrowed. âThatâs much more dangerous.â
You didnât know what you were doing. You werenât thinking, not clearlyânot with your heart still hammering, your skin still cold from the press of his blade. But your hand moved anyway. Slow, trembling, like something half-remembered from a movie you were too tired to finish. A gesture youâd never practiced, only imagined. You reached up and touched his cheek.
It was strangeâhow soft his skin felt beneath your fingertips. Clean. Cold. Too perfect, like he wasnât made of the same things you were. Like he was carved from silence. Your fingers brushed just below his eye, lingering awkwardly. Trying to be gentle. Trying to mean something. You didnât even look at his mouthâyou were too focused on his eyes. Staring into them, searching for anything familiar.
But there was nothing.
No flicker of recognition. No flicker of humanity. Just him, watching you like a science project. Like a new behavior emerging in a controlled environment. His expression didnât shift, not really. Maybe the corners of his mouth curled slightlyânot a smile, but something cooler. A notch of amusement. His gaze stayed on yours, sharp and steady, as if the heat of your touch didnât reach him at all.
âWhat are you doing?â he asked softly. Not mocking. Just⊠curious. You swallowed. Your thumb moved just slightly over his cheekbone, your hand still shaking. He didnât move away. He didnât lean in. He just let you. Watched you. Measured you. Like he wanted to know what you thought this would accomplish. âYou donât even know what this means,â he said quietly, almost to himself. His voice was soft, analytical, and entirely unimpressed. âYou think youâre being clever.â His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your gaze.
âBut this isnât seduction.â A pause. âItâs survival.â He tilted his head, like a researcher adjusting a lens. âAnd that,â he whispered, âis so much more fascinating.â His cheek was still beneath your hand. Still cool, still unmoved. He let you touch him as though it cost him nothing. And maybe it didnât.
But thenâyou spoke. Barely more than a whisper, but enough to cut through the static between you.
âI donât want to die before knowing love.â The words left your mouth like a confession, like a final, trembling thread of hope before it snapped. You didnât even know if they made senseânot here, not with himâbut they were the only truth you had left.
Zayne didnât move. He didnât pull away. He just stared at you. His head tilted slightlyânot in confusion, but in clinical curiosity, like he was trying to make sense of something that didnât belong to his world.
âLove,â he repeated. Like the word was foreign on his tongue. Like he was trying to hear it the way you did. He studied you thenânot like a threat. Not like a subject. Like an anomaly. âThatâs what youâre reaching for,â he murmured. âYou think if you touch me, if you look at me like Iâm the answer⊠youâll feel something before the end.â His voice was soft. Not cruel. Not gentle. Just brutally, dissectingly honest.
âYou think love is the thing that will make death matter less.â He leaned closer, slow enough that your breath stalled in your chest. âYou think Iâll give it to you.â His fingers slid up, curling around your wristâgently, at first. His grip was firm, but not yet painful. Still, you could feel the chill behind it. âBut I donât feel love,â he whispered. A pause. âI donât believe in it.â His eyes searched yours again, darker now. âAnd I donât think you really do, either.â
And yetâhe still hadnât let go. Still hadnât looked away. Because even if he couldnât feel what you were reaching for, he could feel your desperation like heat from a dying star. And that? That fascinated him. His hand didnât leave your wrist. His eyes never blinked. You tried to hold his gaze, tried to keep your breathing even, but he could feel the tremor in your fingers. He always noticed the trembling. He tilted his head slightly, almost⊠amused. And then he spoke again.
âYou donât love me.â The words were quiet. Clean. Surgical. âYou donât want to love me.â He leaned closer, not in intimacyâbut in clarity. Like a surgeon preparing you for the truth of the incision. âYou canât.â A beat passed. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, just once, as if feeling for the pulse that betrayed you.
âBecause you know what I am.âHis eyes bored into you, unblinking. âYou know Iâm not going to change. I wonât soften. I wonât break. I wonât become the person youâre hoping I might be if you touch me gently enough.â His voice dropped lowerâintimate, but colder for it. âIâm a monster. And you know it.â
Your breath hitched. The world felt like it was folding in on itself.
âBut youâre still here,â he whispered. âStill trying. âBecause you think Iâm the only thing keeping you alive.â He leaned in until you could feel the press of his words at your ear. âAnd youâre right.â And then he pulled backâslow, unhurried. âYouâre not here to love me,â he said, softer than breath. âYouâre here to survive me.â He looked at you for a long time. His hand still circled your wristânot tight, but firm enough to remind you who controlled the room.
Then he smiled.
Small. Cold. Curious.
âIâve seen people beg.â His voice was quiet again, a thread in the dark. âCry. Bargain. Promise me everything if I let them live.â His thumb dragged lazily across your pulse. âBut none of them ever tried this.â He leaned forward just slightly, eyes drinking in every inch of your expression. âNo oneâs ever tried to love me.â A pause. âNot even as a lie.â
The words landed like a slow exhale across your cheek.
âI wonder,â he murmured. âHow long can you keep up the act?â His smile sharpened, not cruelâbut entertained. âWill your voice crack when you say it? Will your hands shake every time you reach for me? Will you cry when you have to kiss me?â
He leaned in until your foreheads nearly touched.
âI hope so.â His voice was a whisper now. Reverent. Like he was already savoring it. âI want to see what survival looks like when it dresses itself in love.â
He finally let go of your wrist, but not before one last slow drag of his fingers down your armâmemorizing the shape of your fear. And thenâHe stepped back. But he didnât leave. He just stood there, watching.
Waiting.
Because now? You were a new kind of experiment. And he was looking forward to watching you fail.
You stared at him. Your wrist burned where his hand had just been, though his touch had never bruised. Your mind couldnât catch up to what was happeningâhis words, his calm, that unbearable smile.
You swallowed hard, your voice nothing but a dry whisper.
âSo⊠youâre going to let me live?â He didnât answer right away. He just watched you, the corners of his mouth curled in that infuriating half-smile. There was no joy in itâjust amusement, like a scientist listening to a rat ask if it could leave the maze early.
âLive?â he echoed. A beat passed. He tilted his head again, eyes sweeping over your face, every twitch, every flicker of uncertainty catalogued. âIâm curious.â His tone was soft. Pleased. âLetâs see how long your act lasts.â
He took a step back, not toward the doorânot yetâjust giving you air, giving you space to think you were free to move.
âHow long youâll pretend to care.â His voice dropped, cooler now. âHow many times youâll smile for me with fear in your throat.âHe raised one eyebrow, like offering a challenge you couldnât refuse. âLetâs see if you can make me believe it.â
Then, after a long pause, just as you thought he might turn away:
âYouâve made yourself very interesting.â Another smile. âDonât ruin it.â
The door clicked shut behind him.
And you collapsed. Your head fell back against the cold floor. You were shaking too hard to breathe. Your chest locked in a panic you couldnât contain, the air clawing at your lungs like glass. You curled in on yourself, trying to stop the spinning, the pounding, the after of him.
I survived, you thought, over and over. Iâm still alive. I donât know why.
You pressed your hands to your face, trying to ground yourself. But everything felt surreal, paper-thin, like the world might peel apart if you touched it too hard.
You didnât even realize youâd lost consciousness.
Not until hands gripped your shouldersâgently, but urgentlyâand a voice pulled you back.
âHeyâhey! Wake up. Are you okay?â You blinked. The room spun into focus. Miloâs face hovered above yours, pale and panicked, his hoodie rumpled, hair sticking out like heâd run down here in a hurry. âYou were on the floor,â he said, eyes wide. âYou werenât waking up.â
You sat up too fastâhead swimmingâand looked around. Your eyes landed on the wall.
And froze.
The SpongeBob poster was back, taped exactly where you left it. The snack pile in the corner, untouched. Everything⊠was exactly how it had been before. No sign of Zayne. No blood. No blade. No cold voice whispering in your ear.
WhatâŠ
Your heart raced harder than before. You looked at Milo. You looked at the room. And for a long, breathless moment, one thought repeated like a drumbeat: Did I imagine it?
Miloâs voice felt far away, like it was echoing down a long tunnel. âYou good?â he asked again, crouched beside you, brows furrowed. âYouâre white as a sheet. Did something happen? You⊠passed out, or something?â
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your eyes darted again to the wall. The yellow of the SpongeBob poster smiled back at you like it never left. Like none of it had ever happened. But it did. I know it did. I felt his hand on my wrist. I heard his voice. He wasâ You jumped at the sound of your name. Milo leaned in, more serious now.
âDo you want me to call someone? I can get Grayson. Youâre freaking me out a little.â
You shook your head too quickly. âNo,â you croaked, voice small and rough. âNo doctors.â
Milo blinked, surprised. âOkay⊠okay. Then just tell me whatâs going on. Youâre sweating. Your eyes are huge. You look like you sawââ He stopped. His voice dropped slightly, joking but quieter. âYou didnât, like⊠see a ghost or something, right?â
You stared at him. You wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or cry. But all you could say was:
âI donât know.â Because that was the truth. You didnât know what was real anymore. Your hands were trembling in your lap. Your heart still thudded like you were in danger. And yetâeverything around you was normal. Too normal. Like someone had hit a reset button on the world.
Did he do this? Or am I losing my mind?
Milo touched your shoulder gently.
âLetâs get out of here, okay? Weâll go slow.â
You noddedâbecause you didnât trust yourself to speak again. And as you followed him out, your eyes swept the room one last time. Still no blood. Still no blade. Still no Zayne. But the fear?
Still there. And it was getting harder to tell where he ended and you began.
You walked slowly beside Milo. He didnât rush you. He kept one hand loosely at your back, guiding without pushing, talking about nothingâjust a gentle stream of nonsense to fill the silence. Something about a vending machine conspiracy. A broken elevator thatâs definitely haunted.
But none of it stuck.
Your mind kept drifting back. To the cold press of a scalpel. To the weight of a body above yours. To a voice whispering, Letâs see how long your act lasts. You werenât sure if your lips were moving until the words came out, too quiet, too raw.
âDo you think⊠a monster can be loved?â Milo didnât stop walking. But you saw the way his expression shiftedâjust a little. The edge of his usual smirk softening into something quieter.
âThatâs a weird question,â he said after a beat. You almost told him to forget it. Almost told him never mind. But thenâ âI think,â he went on, voice slower now, âpeople donât really love monsters. They love the part that still looks human.â You blinked at him. âLike⊠they squint real hard. Pretend the teeth arenât sharp. Pretend the claws are gloves or something.â He shrugged, looking up toward the ceiling as you reached the hallway outside your room. âMaybe thatâs love. Seeing what you want to see. Even if it kills you.â
He looked back at you thenâeyes tired, but kind.
âWhy? You planning on dating a werewolf or something?â You gave a breathless, almost-hysterical laugh. And Milo grinned. âTell him I want to be invited to the wedding.â
Milo didnât stay long. Just enough to walk you back, make a few dumb jokes about the cafeteria food being an elaborate government experiment, and say something ridiculous about knitting matching hospital gowns. It made you smile. It always did.
He ruffled your hair like you were a kid, and said, âIâll come bother you later. Try not to get possessed or anything.â And then he left. The door clicked softly behind him.
Silence wrapped around you like a thin sheet. Familiar. Comforting. You exhaled slowly, trying to settle. Your body still felt like it wasnât yours. Your skin too tight, your chest too hollow. You crossed the room on autopilot, toward your bedâ And then you saw it.
A card.
No envelope. Just a small, white rectangle, propped on the pillow where your head shouldâve rested. Your fingers trembled slightly as you picked it up.
One sentence, handwritten in fine, precise strokes:
"Humans are strange. They can bond with anything if it keeps them from dying."
No name. But none was needed. Your breath caught. Your stomach turned to ice. It wasnât a dream. Heâd been there. Heâd seen you. And now he was waitingâwatchingâto see what you would do with the role youâd cast yourself into. You stood there in the quiet, the card trembling in your hand, the fluorescent lights humming above.
You sat down on the edge of the bed, your body moving like it belonged to someone else. And in your head, his voice echoed again: Letâs see how long you can keep it up.
You were no longer just a girl in a hospital. You were a show. And Zayne?
Zayne was the only one in the audience.
The lights hummed faintly above.
You sat curled up on your bed, the white card still resting on your nightstand like a ghost that refused to vanish. His words echoed louder in your head than they did on the page.
They can bond with anything if it keeps them from dying.
You didnât cry. Youâd cried too much already. You thought about giving the letter to someone but.. who would believe you? Instead, you just⊠sat there, staring at the wall. The same pale paint. The same IV stand. The same rhythm of machines. Everything in this room was familiar. Safe. And yet you felt like you were somewhere else entirely.
Your hands folded over your knees. How do you love someone? Or act like it..? You didnât whisper it aloudâbut the question throbbed in your chest like a wound. It wasnât even about Zayne, not really. It was about the idea. The strategy. The mask youâd have to wear until your muscles forgot how to take it off. Youâd never had a boyfriend. Never kissed anyone. Never even held someoneâs hand without a pulse monitor attached.
You didnât know what love looked like. What it sounded like. What it felt like.
If Iâm supposed to pretend to love him⊠how do I even start?
You lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. Do I smile? Do I compliment him? Do I try to touch him againâsoftly, like I meant it?
But he saw through everything. You knew he did. He knows itâs a lie. I know itâs a lie. But⊠if I lie well enough, will he care?
You pressed your hands over your face. It wasnât even about fooling him anymore. It was about surviving. And survival, in this place, under his gaze, meant becoming something you werenât.
Iâm not in a hospital anymore, you thought bitterly. Iâm in a cage. And he gave me a collar that says "pet" on it and asked me to purr.
You turned over, curling toward the wall. And somewhere deep down, beneath the panic, beneath the fear⊠a voice whispered:
Iâll make him believe it. Even if it destroys me.
You didnât sleep. Even with the lights dimmed, even with the monitors slow and steady beside you, you couldnât stop thinking. About him. About what he expected. About what it would take to keep him entertained. The card was still on the table, turned upside downâbut it didnât matter. The words lived behind your eyes now.
So when the door opened with a soft click and the nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand, you flinched hard enough that she apologized.
âJust me,â she said gently, her voice calm and kind. âDidnât mean to scare you, sweetheart. Just need to check your vitals.â You nodded stiffly, watching as she moved around the bed with practiced grace. She was probably in her late thirties. Tired eyes but a kind smile. A warm presenceâlike someone whoâd been doing this job long enough to read fear in the way someone breathed.
As she wrapped the cuff around your arm, you stared at the ceiling again. The question burned at the back of your throat.
âUm,â you whispered. âSorry, can I ask something?â
She glanced at you. âOf course.â
âAre you⊠in love?â
Her brows lifted slightly, but she smiled. âYeah,â she said. âIâm married. Twelve years.â
You hesitated. Your voice was smaller when you asked:
âWhat does it feel like?â
The nurse pausedânot out of confusion, but thought. Her expression softened as she pulled the thermometer from its case. âItâs⊠comfort, I guess,â she said after a beat. âLike being around someone who knows youâeven the parts you donât like to show. And they stay anyway.â You said nothing. She clipped the thermometer in place and kept going. âLoveâs not always fireworks, you know,â she added. âSometimes itâs just someone bringing you a cup of tea without asking. Or remembering what side you like to sleep on.â
The thermometer beeped. Normal. Of course it was. You stared down at your hands.
Someone who stays even with the parts you donât like to show.
What if someone only stayed because they liked your ugliest parts? What if they stayed to watch you burn?
âThanks,â you said quietly. She smiled again. âOf course.â The nurse made her notes and left. And you were alone again. But her words didnât leave.
Comfort. Staying. Soft things.
None of it matched the game you were playing now. You werenât trying to find love. You were trying to manufacture it. Would he notice the difference? Probably. But he wanted the illusion. So youâd give it to him. Even if you had no idea what love was supposed to feel like.
You must have drifted off. You didnât remember closing your eyes. One moment, you were staring at the ceiling, your thoughts turning over like drowning handsâreaching for something solid. The next, you were somewhere else.
Warm light. A hallway. Familiar. But not in the sterile, fluorescent way. This place was washed in gold. Gentle. Soft.
And Zayne was there. Not looming. Not cold. Just⊠standing beside you. You were holding his hand. You didnât remember reaching for it, but there it wasâpale and smooth, long fingers curling loosely around yours. He was wearing a white shirt. Clean. Elegant. There was no blood. No scalpel. No darkness behind his eyes.
This is what love looks like, you told yourself.
You leaned against himâawkward, unsure, but trying. You laughed softly, like youâd seen in movies. He didnât laugh back, but he let you rest your head on his shoulder. You were trying. You were trying so hard. You turned to face him, rising on your toes to touch his cheek, like you'd practiced in your mind. Your fingers brushed his skinâ
And came away red. Warm. Sticky. Red.
You blinked down at your hand.
Blood.
Coating your fingers. Your wrist. Your arm. You looked upâand Zayne was smiling. But now his white shirt was soaked through, crimson blooming from the center of his chest. His hands were slick with it. His face splattered. His lips red not from warmth, but from the blood of someone else.
Your breath caught.
You stumbled back, your chest tightening, your hands shaking. He tilted his headâjust like he always didâwatching you with mild amusement. Like nothing had changed. Like this was exactly what he expected. And when you opened your mouth to scream, he leaned in and whispered:
âYou canât love a monster.â
You tried to step away. The blood kept growing, blooming across his chest like ink in waterâspreading to his arms, dripping from his fingers. But he didnât let you go. His hand caught your face before you could retreat, his thumb dragging gently across your cheek. You felt it smearâwet, warm, sticky. Not affection. Not comfort.
Just evidence. Of what heâd done. Of who he was.
Your breath hitched. His fingers pressed into your jaw, just enough to keep your eyes locked on his. The green of them looked deeper nowâcolder. Like glacier water, still and suffocating.
âIs this what you want?â he asked softly. âTo play house with a thing like me?â You couldnât answer. You didnât know how. Your body trembled under the heat of his blood as it soaked into your gown, smeared down your neck. âYouâre so easy to touch like this,â he murmured, more to himself than to you. âSo desperate. So willing. Do you even know what youâre offering?â
The red on his hand shined under the golden light like paint. He leaned closer. Not in affectionâbut in study.
âLove isnât for people like us,â he said quietly. âBut lies?..Lies can be beautiful.â He tilted your head up. Your legs had gone numb. Your lungs too tight. âYouâll make a lovely little liar.â Then his hand slipped from your face.
And you fellâ You fellâ but you didnât hit the ground. Your eyes snapped open. The golden light was gone. Cold blue fluorescents buzzed above you, humming like flies in a sterile cage. Your arms were pulled tight above your head. Your legs strapped down. Your gown opened at the chest.
You couldnât move. Couldnât scream.
The air was sharp with antiseptic and metal. And Zayne stood beside you. His coat was pristine again. His gloves already on. He didnât look at you like a person anymore. He looked at you like a textbook. Something to be opened, studied, cataloged. His gaze flicked to your faceâimpassive, distant.
âStill awake?â he murmured. âGood. I want you to feel it.â A tray of tools rested neatly at his side. Scalpel. Forceps. Rib spreader. He picked one up, not rushed, not cruelâprecise. âThe heart is a strange thing,â he said, as though lecturing. âIt keeps us alive. It breaks. It swells. And yetâŠâ He pressed the scalpel against your sternum. âItâs just muscle.â
You thrashed, or tried toâbut the restraints bit into your wrists.
âYou said you wanted to love me,â he whispered, gaze flicking down. âLet me see if itâs true.â The scalpel kissed your skin. Not with fire, but with cold. Sharp. Clean. You felt the first cut like a line of lightning down your chestâthin, excruciating. You screamed, but no sound came out. Only the soft whimper of air that couldnât escape your throat.
Zayne didnât look at your face anymore. His attention was on the cut. On the red blooming beneath the blade. On the way your body flinched involuntarily under his touch.
âYouâre fighting for a future that doesnât include you,â he murmured, voice eerily calm. âHow heroic.â You sobbed. Your chest rose and fell in frantic jerks, muscles straining against the restraints that held you down. âThatâs what I like about you,â he continued, dragging the scalpel lower, just a little deeper. âYou still try.â
Blood dripped onto the metal tray. He wiped it away like it meant nothing.
âMost people, they give up after a while. The begging stops. The hope dies. But you?â He leaned in, his breath cool against your ear. âYou dress up survival in the skin of romance.â His fingers touched your ribs now. You couldnât see what he was doingâbut you felt it. The pressure. The weight. The shift of your body responding to invasion. âLetâs see what your heart looks like when we peel back all the lies.â
Your body shook. Your vision blurred with tears. And for one horrifying moment, you wonderedâ
Am I already dead?
Because maybe this wasnât a dream anymore. Maybe this was your new reality. Maybe he'd always planned to take your heart. And all your pretending had only delayed the inevitable.
The room pulsed. Your body didnât feel like yours anymore. It felt like flesh, like material, like something he was slowly unraveling in search of something interesting. You were sobbing, gasping, choking on air that wouldnât stay in your lungs.
Zayneâs hands were steady. So calm. His face was smooth, expressionlessâmore surgeon than man. More god than monster. And still, he spoke gently. Like all of this was for your benefit.
âYou keep trying to be more than what you are,â he said, adjusting the clamps now digging into your skin. âYou think pretending will make you real.â
You felt the pressure split something open. A wet warmth spilled across your chest. You screamed again. You felt itâevery fiber screaming with agony. But your body couldnât move. Not a finger. Not a toe. Nothing but the tears running down your temples.
âYou wanted love,â he murmured. âBut I think what you really wanted⊠was to matter.â Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure it would give out before he reached it. He looked at itâat youâlike an equation he was about to solve. âLetâs see if we can find that part of you,â he said softly, almost fond. âThe one that thinks you're worth saving.â
You whimpered his name. And that made him pause. He leaned close again, his blood-slicked glove cradling your jaw. The smell of iron hung thick in the air.
âThere it is again,â he whispered. âThat voice. That hope.â His thumb brushed the edge of your lips, smearing your own blood across them. âYouâre still trying to survive me.â
You were shaking so hard now your teeth chatteredâbut not from cold.
âLet me help you,â he whispered. Then you felt itâ A hand curling around something warm and trembling inside you. Your heart. His fingers closed. You couldnât scream anymore.
Your voice had torn itself raw, lost somewhere between the moment the pain began and the moment you realized he wasnât going to stop. You felt your heart exposed now.You felt the air touch it. Cool. Icy. Wrong. It shouldnât be possible. You shouldnât be alive to feel it. But Zayne made the impossible feel clinical.
He moved with elegance, with method, as if every cut had been rehearsedâas if heâd done this before. Many times. And now it was your turn. He leaned over you again, blood glistening down his gloves like paint dripping off a brush.
âYouâve done so well,â he said softly, brushing a few strands of hair from your sweat-drenched forehead. âMost people scream more. Cry more. But youâŠâ His eyes glinted. âYou fascinate me.â Then, slowly, he reached downâhis fingers disappearing into the cavity of your chest.
You felt the tug. The pressure. The horrifying reality of something alive being separated from you. You choked out a sob, but your lungs couldnât keep up. Your body was shutting down, your vision smearing at the edges, but not fast enough. He wanted you conscious. He wanted you to watch.
âLetâs see what makes you so special,â he whispered. With one smooth, practiced motionâhe lifted your heart. He held it up in the light like a delicate, glistening treasure. It beat once. Weakly. Then again. Slower. You stared at it. You watched it. Still trying to believe it wasnât real. That it couldnât be.
But Zayne only smiled. Not cruel. Not kind. Just curious.
âDo you see?â he asked. âAll that pretending. All that reaching. And in the endâŠâ He leaned closer, heart in hand. âYou were always going to be mine.â
You couldnât breathe. Blood filled your mouthâwarm and metallic, dribbling down your chin, bubbling at the back of your throat. You were sobbing now in broken, wet gasps, your chest convulsing around the cavity where your heart should be. You didnât understand how you were still alive. You didnât understand anything.
Only that it hurt.
And he was still there. Standing over you. Calm. Clean. Holding your heart like a trophy in one hand.
âP-pleaseâŠâ you choked, blood splattering across your lips. âPlease, help meâŠâ Your voice was raw. A whimper. A final, pathetic plea. Not even for survival anymoreâjust for something. A moment of comfort. Of mercy.
He tilted his head, studying you, the way your body shivered in shock, the way your lungs gasped for air and your eyes searched his face. And thenâhe bent down. Gently. Slowly. He leaned over your dying body as if you were precious again.
And he kissed you.
But not gently. Not lovingly.
He kissed you like he wanted to swallow your last breath. His mouth crushed yoursâunrelenting, hard, cold. You couldnât breathe. Blood slipped between your lips as his sealed over yours, and your body flailed weakly against the restraints.
Your mind screamed. You tried to turn your head, to escape, but he followed, holding your chin still, forcing the kiss, draining the air from your lungs with every second he lingered there.
This was your end. Your vision dimmed. Your body slackened. And just before the darkness closed inâ
You woke.
Gasping. Choking. Tears already running down your face, your fingers clutching wildly at your chest. Your heart. Still there. Still beating. But the ache? The cold? The memory of that kiss?
It stayed.
His kiss followed you out of the dream. It lingeredânot on your mouth, but in your lungs, in the hollow where your breath had once lived. It was not a kiss made of love, or even cruelty.
It was a claim. Like Death, pressing its lips to yours, not to take your life all at onceâ but to remind you that it would, someday, inevitably. And it would wear his face when it came.
His kiss still clung to you like frostbite, like poisonânot a promise, but a sentence. It wasnât love that touched your lips in that dream. It was Death itself, dressed in skin and curiosity. And it kissed you like it planned to keep you.
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