Nia // 25+ // SEA // Active once in a blue moon and then I’ll disappear again lmao // Multifandom // Currently on my Love and Deepspace brainrot phase // A bit unhinged at times. Just here for the vibes // MDNI 🔞✋🏼 // SnowCrowApple Enjoyer ❄️🐦⬛🍎// Not spoiler free
Grand Duke!Zayne and you are so loud during sex that there is an unofficial consensus among the staff to avoid your wing at night completely, and most of the times during day after finishing essential housekeeping💀;
The heavy oak door to your chambers had barely clicked shut before Zayne's lips found your neck, his large hands already working at the laces of your nightgown.
"You're impatient tonight, Your Grace," you breathed, though you made no move to stop him.
"Hush." His voice was a low rumble against your skin. "I've been in council meetings for six hours listening to the old baron droning about grain taxes. Let me have this."
It doesn't take long till both your moans shadow the ominous creaking of the bed and the rattling of various ornaments in the room.
...
Your two handmaidens, Elara and Mina, look up as they hear the noise, before facing each other and shaking their heads, scurrying out before they traumatise their poor ears.
"I swear by the gods," Mina whispered, her cheeks flushed crimson even as she pressed a hand to her chest, "last week I went up to fetch my embroidery scissors. I forgot he'd returned from the border. The things I heard..."
Elara winced. "How long did it take you to recover?"
"Three days. I walked past the door at the wrong moment." Mina's voice dropped to a horrified hush.
They rounded the corner into the servants' stairwell, where the stone walls offered blessed, deadened silence.
"The new stable boy asked me yesterday why no one goes to the east wing after supper," Elara said, adjusting her wimple. "I told him it was being renovated."
"Renovated." Mina let out a choked laugh. "That's one word for it."
...
Down in the kitchen, the cook had taken to serving late-night tea with a knowing look and a sympathetic pat on the shoulder for any servant who emerged from the upper floors looking particularly haunted. The head housekeeper had a rotation schedule that mysteriously exempted the entire eastern corridor from evening duties. Even the guards had been known to draw straws for who had to walk the night patrol past the Grand Duke's chambers.
"The chandelier," one guard had whispered to another just last week, his face pale. "I watched it swaying. And no windows were open."
...
Upstairs, oblivious to the quiet terror they had inspired among the staff, Zayne's hand braced against the headboard as the bed (solid oak, reinforced twice by a skeptical carpenter) protested loudly beneath you two.
"Ah...Zayne...the bed..." He drove deeper, hooked his hips just so, and your warning dissolved into a sound that would have made a nun blush to the tip of her toes.
"Don't worry about the bed, my duchess," Zayne growls against your throat. "It's not more valuable than your pleasure."
He hikes your leg up higher over his shoulder and thrusts deeper, dissolving whatever you were about to say into a loud moan.
...
There is a thud and a sprinkle of plaster and ash, and a porcelain vase wobbling dangerously close to the edge of its console table, and your handmaidens, chef and two of the night guards stare at each other awkwardly.
"Do you think," whispered Elara, "they realize we can hear them from the kitchen?"
Mina finishes her tea, and produces a pack of earplugs "Not if I can help it. Take some, and goodnight." she stuffs two into her own and walks back to her quarters.
wanna introduce your mc and your LI? ٩(>ᴗ<)و
here's a cute little template you can use! 🌼note: i put two picture slots because lads has some variations that i wanna add |･ω･｀) (blobbu, ancient china, chibis, myths, etc) but you can put whatever in there LOL 🌼note 2: i changed it from yumeship to general ship chart if anyone wanted to use it for their other lads ship (ᵕ ´ ∇ ˋ ˶)
Sometimes when I scroll on twt and see ppl posting some really stupid shit, it made me wonder if they’re being dumb on purpose and if they have a humiliation kink
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
taglist. @inzanekillian @someonestopsoren @sweetieelilii @3rdslide2heaven @gabburabbu @moltensceptergambit @cherrysherryblossom @younbeanz @txtworlddom @glitterykingdomheart @applebrat9 @ephemeraleb @cherrybomb5000 @chartreuxxlikesboba @corvusmemoriae @toorulee @ilovecoffe8 @cordidy @younghideoutberserker @yesbiaswrecked @madnesslusy @bypanana @noosummert @littleappleorchard @anyeeyna @xie-hua (I apologize if I didn't add you! I always struggle with tagging on tumblr lol!)
if you’re offline or away and i message you something (like a link to a meme or a picture or w/e) honestly just assume that i’m just leaving it there for when you get back and not expecting you to answer straight away. i don’t need you to respond with “hey, sorry, i wasn’t at the computer!” or anything. i was leaving u a gift for later.
This also applies if you’re online and just don’t want to or have the energy to deal with humans in the moment. Just because we have the ability to reply in real time does not mean we have the obligation.
"When did you get a cat?" Zayne glances warily at the small animal resting on Sylus's chest. It perks up at his voice, meowing what seems to be a greeting.
"Oh, we've always had this one. Isn't that right, kitten?" He smirks as he pats the animals head, while it meows in an annoyed tone so similar to yours that Zayne absentmindedly thinks about how alike you two ar-
Oh shit.
"Are you alright?" Zayne hurries over, a frown on his face as he gently inspects your animal form. You purr under his touch, trying to show him you're doing fine.
"It's just an...unfortunate side effect. It should wear off soon." Sylus comforts him, while you do the same by butting your soft head against his hand. With his pounding heart starting to calm, Zayne allows himself to gently pet you.
"Most cats run away when they see me." Zayne muses as you climb into his lap, settling down. Sylus chuckles, leaning over to pet you.
"Well, we have that in common. However, I believe this one feels differently." Sylus can't hide his grin as you clamber all over Zayne, trying to show him your usual level of affection despite your current predicament.
"Hello." The doctor murmurs with a smile when you perch on his shoulder, nuzzling the side of his head.
Feeling overwhelmed at just how adorable this form of yours is, neither can help themselves from leaning in to press a soft kiss on your fur at the same time. In the blink of an eye, there's no longer a cat sitting in Zayne's lap.
"Well, that was great timing. I'm starving, and I am not eating that tin of tuna."
[Zayne + Son ★ 2.2k words ★ Masterlist ★ Snowdrop Masterlist ★ AO3]
Zayne’s son has a new interest.
A/N: I am just so, so, so, so fascinated by Zayne’s penguin arc…
“Why is he on his stomach?”
Zayne walked into his living room, surprised to see his three-year-old son on the floor, moving around while lying on his stomach. From the couch, you glanced over at your husband, grinning, before holding up two plushies on either side of your face: one Puffy Penguin and one Astro Penguin.
“His latest hyperfixation,” you joked.
Zayne glanced at the two plushies, quickly surmising the interest in question: “…Penguins?”
“Uh huh,” you laughed. “Looks like we really do have a little penguin now.”
Laughing as well, Zayne walked over and scooped up his surprised son, kissing his cheek firmly. “What happened to my little doctor? Did he turn into a penguin?”
The boy furrowed his brows for a moment before responding cheekily, “I’m Dr. Penguin today!”
Zayne laughed again, not expecting the silly response. “Dr. Penguin, huh?” He settled down on the couch next to you with his son in tow. He picked up the remote to the television, turning it on, before scrolling through a list of family-friendly programs on the streaming app. “Alright, ‘Dr. Penguin,’ what are we watching this afternoon then?”
Unwittingly, you and your husband both found yourselves watching a nature documentary together with your toddler son nestled in between the two of you, clutching tightly in his small arms Puffy Penguin. The little boy was enraptured by the animals on the television screen, but both you and Zayne found yourselves more entertained by your son’s childlike curiosity and wonder, delighting in all of his instantaneous reactions to the documentary.
Nearly half an hour into the program, the nature documentary reached a segment on wildlife in the Arctics, the scene heralded in by a cacophony of trumpeting before the camera panned across a group of emperor penguins.
A delighted gasp escaped the toddler’s mouth, followed instantly by his excited cry, “Penguins! Mommy, Mommy, penguins!”
You laughed when the toddler excitedly tapped your thigh while pointing at the television, his beautiful hazel eyes looking even more brilliant, filled with so much joy and wonder at the scene.
“I see them, I see them,” you answered the excited boy before sneaking a glance at your husband. Discreetly, you whispered to Zayne, “Is this what you looked like when you first saw penguins?”
His cheeks warmed up, and he sighed in mock exasperation. “You…”
“Be honest, Zaynie.”
“I was young,” he said sternly, “So it was only natural to react like that.”
“Like father, like son,” you quipped cheerfully, blatantly ignoring his helpless resigned sigh.
The inquisitive little boy watched with rapt attention, absorbing every single explanation from the narration like a sponge. Both you and Zayne could see his joy as clear as day, already seeing in your near future the constant excited penguin explanations the little boy would no doubt parrot back to you until a new interest took over.
“They walk funny,” the little boy laughed, scooting off the couch. Curiously, both you and Zayne watched him attempted to imitate the animal on the screen. He stumbled, frustrated.
Giggling, you stole another glance at your husband. He didn’t seem to notice your mischievous gaze this time. Turning back to your son, you cheerfully announced, “Daddy knows how a penguin walks.” Before Zayne could react, you added smugly, “He can imitate them, too.”
“You can?” the little boy turned to his father with wide, bright eyes full of hopeful anticipation.
“I don’t remember anymore,” Zayne fibbed, giving you a warning look.
“…you don’t, Daddy?” his son asked, disappointed. Zayne visibly tensed, not wanting to see his child sad, especially if it was because of him.
“Well, Gramma sent a video of Daddy when he was little and he copied a penguin,” you piped up.
Immediately, the boy gasped excitedly and hopped in place before rushing back to the couch. He tugged at your pants. “I want to see! I want to see, Mommy!”
You peeked at Zayne again, snickering when he glowered at you before relenting, “Go ahead…”
Picking up your son, you settled the toddler on your lap before pulling up the video of your husband when he was a young child imitating how a penguin walked. Surprised, the toddler piped up, “Daddy looks like me…”
Smiling, you kissed the top of the boy’s head, humming in agreement. “Of course,” you answered fondly, “Because you’re our son.”
“Daddy?”
“What is it?” Zayne’s smile was brief, disappearing completely the moment his young son voiced his thought:
“Can you still walk like a penguin?” The boy grabbed your phone and held the video to his father. Zayne refrained from looking away in embarrassment at the sight of his younger self on the screen. Inwardly sighing, he couldn’t deny the uncanny resemblance of his younger self and his son currently. Seeing the two images side-by-side—and his son’s own pleading eyes—Zayne reluctantly set his own embarrassment aside for the sake of his child’s happiness.
“…I think it’s coming back to me now,” he fibbed quietly, taking a peek at the looped video on your phone. He quietly got up and stood in the middle of the living room. Behind him, the nature documentary continued, with the jovial narrator commenting casually: “Emperor penguins are serial monogamists. A pair will stay together for one breeding season to raise their chick.”
Zayne noticeably tensed before he awkwardly started waddling across the room. His ears burned at the sound of your shameless giggling and his son’s delighted cries, but he persevered, only to later feel dismayed again, never once did he expect the three-year-old to make his father waddle for over an hour in the living room long after the nature documentary had ended. During that time, you had left the room, intending to prepare some afternoon snacks for your little family, and unintentionally abandoning your husband in his time of need to the demands of an excited toddler.
“Daddy, Daddy, again!”
Zayne sighed, and waddled awkwardly again, somehow still expecting the three-year-old to be bored of this silliness by now.
Apparently not.
“Oh, Zaynie is still the same as ever.”
The young doctor froze in horror, recognizing his mother’s cheerful voice. Slowly, he turned, seeing you with a smug grin holding a tablet facing him, and on the screen was his parents’ elated smiles.
“Hello… Mom… Dad…” he greeted weakly.
“Gramma! Grampa!” the toddler immediately rushed over to you, hopping in place for the tablet. “I want to say hi! I want to say hi!”
Laughing, you knelt down, holding the little boy close to you. “Alright, alright, you can say ‘hi’ to your grandparents.”
The boy beamed and immediately started to enthusiastically recount his whole week to his grandparents who listened with both patience and keen, genuine interest, their reactions only further exciting the little boy to keep chattering away for the afternoon.
After some time, both you and Zayne decided to wrap up the call, seeing your son’s eyes were growing heavier, having already missed his usual naptime. The little boy insisted he wasn’t tired after you picked him up, holding him close to you, smiling as his head dropped on your shoulder. Zayne set the tablet on the coffee table and exchanged some words with his parents while you attempted to lull your son to sleep.
He continued to fuss, wanting to stay up.
“He’s getting so big already,” Althea commented with joy, her eyes still directed at her grandson. “I still have the video you recorded at the hospital when he was born.”
“He looks so much like Zayne, doesn’t he?” Jace added, smiling. “Reminds me of when Zayne pretended to be a cat.”
Zayne’s cheeks turned red. Before he could comment, his mother interrupted him cheerfully, “You know we stopped by a country a few years back—honey, do you remember?”
“Which one?”
“Oh, it was a while back,” Althea continued, explaining, “In their culture, they believe if a child is born identical to one parent, it means the other parent wished it, because they love their partner so much.”
After hearing your mother-in-law’s explanation, your own cheeks suddenly stained a pretty shade of pink, but you smiled, a touch embarrassed. You admitted aloud, “It must be true then.” You looked fondly down at your fussy toddler and then at your husband—momentarily surprised by the gentle smile on his face at your words. His smile seemed to widen even more when you continued, speaking firmly, “I love Zayne so much.”
Zayne coughed quietly, turning away to reveal faintly red ears, his smile still present as he spoke to his parents again, preparing to end the call. He peeked over at you on the couch with your son still squirming in your arms as you gently rubbed his back to calm him down. Zayne motioned for the toddler to say goodbye to his grandparents, and while he was reluctant at first, the little boy regained his energy after Jace made some lighthearted jokes to cheer his grandson up.
“Bye-bye, Gramma! Bye-bye Grampa Jace! I love you!”
The two grandparents smiled with adoration at their sweet grandson.
“We’ll see you soon,” Althea answered cheerfully.
“Our package for you might arrive before we do,” Jace joked with a hearty laugh, piquing the toddler’s interest.
“Dad, you didn’t have to do that,” Zayne sighed, exasperated, seeing his toddler was now energetic again after hearing the news.
“He’s my only grandchild,” Jace protested with an easygoing smile. “Let me spoil him a bit.”
“Your dad also snuck in a present for you, too, Zaynie,” Althea added brightly.
“Mom—Dad!”
“You’re my only child, Zaynie,” Jace protested again with that same jokester smile, adding just as cheerfully, “Let me spoil you a bit.”
Zayne sighed helplessly. “I’m thir—”
“You’re still our child, Zaynie,” his mother interrupted, giggling. “You could be a hundred and we would still spoil you the same way.”
“Yeah, Zaynie,” you added mischievously, “Be a good boy and let your parents spoil you a bit.”
“You—”
“Oh, we also have something for you, too, dear!” Althea added delightedly.
“Uh… me, too?” You asked meekly. Your son peeked up at you, confused as well by this whole exchange.
“You’re our only daughter-in-law,” Jace continued in his same playful tone, “Let us spoil you a bit.”
This time it was Zayne’s turn to be smug and mess with you. “That’s right,” he said teasingly, “So you should be a good girl and let them spoil you a bit as well.”
Unlike your husband, you felt no qualms about accepting a surprise gift from your in-laws. You beamed brightly, cheering, “I will happily and graciously accept!”
Your son squirmed in your lap, his small hand eagerly tapping your arm, and he asked, voice heavy with hopeful anticipation, “We’re all getting presents?”
All eyes—including his parents—turned to Zayne for confirmation. He knew when he was being outnumbered, so he sighed, nodding half-heartedly. “We’re all getting presents from Gramma and Grampa.”
You scooped your son into your arms, standing up and bouncing him on your hip, cheering alongside the gleeful toddler. Pointing at the tablet screen, you prompted your little boy with a question, “What do you say to Gramma and Grampa?”
“Thank you!” he yelled excitedly at the screen, clapping his hands. “I love you, Gramma and Grampa! I love you lots!”
When the video call ended, Althea and Jace sat silently together, the earlier merriment quieted, and a sense of bittersweetness lingered in its place.
“Zaynie looked so happy now,” Althea spoke up first.
Jace smiled at his wife. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer into his embrace. He rested his cheek against her hair, his smile carrying a hint of bittersweetness. “I’m so proud of him.”
Jace’s ears perked up, hearing the sounds of penguins trumpeting and chirping, followed by a long-absent little boy’s voice: “Mom! Dad! Look at me!”
Jace looked down, seeing his wife holding her phone, a familiar video played onscreen. She loved this video. She played it often, he remembered.
Nostalgia was such a funny little thing, always sneaking up when you least expected it, the melancholy taking roots, the thorns wrapping around your heart. Jace patted his wife’s shoulder in comfort, his lips finding her temple.
They smiled together, remembering their little Zaynie the penguin like it was just yesterday though decades had already passed since this recorded moment.
Little flushed cheeks widened with boundless joy, accompanied by delighted laughter as small feet crunched through pure white snow with clumsy steps.
It was like they had returned to that time, feeling the same brisk icy air of yesteryear. They were younger, moved with so much more ease than now with tired, aching bones. The young man they had seen earlier was still small and innocent in their eyes, theirs to have and love and protect.
“Play it again,” Jace said, and his wife happily let the video looped. They watched with heavy, joyful hearts, knowing this small boy warmly bundled up in a heavy coat and little boots, waddling cheerfully like a penguin, had found both happiness and love in the present.
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2087
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baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline
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