summary. with an arranged marriage set in place, the sacred bond is doomed with a wife who wants to make the relationship work and a husband who’s ready to ruin it all. unbeknown to him, a tragic fate already lies within the pages of his romance book.
genre. heavy angst, arranged marriage, ceo au, 18+
word count. 213k
fic warnings. mean!gojo, ooc, adultery/infidelity, profanity, explicit smut, violence, emotional trauma/physical abuse from past experiences, neglect, heavy family drama, illnesses, classism, pregnancy, undertones of masochism, undertones of manipulation, abandonment issues, overall toxic relationships, graphic depictions of self-harm, suicide/murder (and attempts thereof), minor character death, plot loosely based on twotm & tre. please read with proper discretion. this is a work of fiction. all characters are written to portray roles that are necessary to the plot and are in no way a reflection of their canon counterparts.
People have really forgotten that yandere is literally a horror trope. No I don't want a "green flag yandere" I want an endless pit of dread in my stomach and also a sense of arousal that shouldn't be there
As I write this, Valko is standing over my shoulder.
He insists he isn't reading it, yet every now and then I catch him stealing a glance before pretending to look away. Don't be upset with him, my love. He's not a bad man, just an awfully curious one. You probably know that already. He's still the same silly nerd with chocolate on his hands and more curiosity than shame. Sometimes I think your sister would've adored him. She would've laughed at how easy it is to fluster him.
He promised me one of his colleagues would deliver this letter to you. He said he owed me this much.
Caleb... I never imagined I would write you a goodbye letter. Not because I stopped loving you. Never because of that. If anything, it is because I love you too much. I have to leave. There are things that have become tangled beyond either of us, and Valko being Valko, managed to throw himself into the middle of it all. My love, I cannot let him face it alone. So I am going with him, not because I was asked to, but because I chose to.
Please don't think this means I chose him over you. Because I didn't, I never will. If life had been kinder, if it had given me a choice that didn't ask me to leave someone behind, I would have chosen you every single time. I'm going because he needs me. Not because I love you any less. Not because someone else has taken the place that has always belonged to you. There has never been anyone else, Caleb. There has only ever been you.
I don't know when I'll return. I don't know if I'll return at all. I wanted to tell you I have no regrets, because it sounds brave. But I have never been very good at lying to you. I have one, just one. It's that I never got to marry you. I never got to stand beside you and promise forever beneath an open sky. I never got to build a home with you. I never got to grow old with you, to watch the years leave little lines on our faces while we argued over little things and laughed about them a minute later.
We were only given seasons, far too few of them. The days we spent together now feel like fleeting summers, warm, golden, impossibly beautiful and cruelly short compared to the winter that awaits us apart. How unfair it is that a lifetime of loving you can be remembered in fragments. Your laugh. The way your hand always found mine without thinking. The kisses that made the world quieter. The way you looked at the sky, as if it had been waiting for you long before you learned how to fly. Every time you took off, I found myself looking up too, wondering which patch of blue was holding the person I loved most.
The warmth you carried so effortlessly, as though your surname had become your soul. Xia. Summer. Because wherever you were, life felt warmer. Like sunlight after days of rain. Like coming home.
If the years ahead are spent without me, promise me something. Don't stop looking at the sky. Keep flying. Keep chasing every sunrise from above the clouds. Keep finding peace where the sky meets the horizon. Don't let my absence make the world feel smaller. If anything, I hope you'll love the sky enough for the both of us. And when summer comes... Please don't hate it because it reminds you of me. Stand in the sunlight. Feel the warmth on your face. Smile when the wind finds you. I'd like to think that's my way of finding you again.
And if by some miracle, I find my way back to you... I hope you'll still call my name the same way you always did. And if I don't... Then let this letter be the last proof that there was once someone in this world who loved you with every piece of herself.
And one last thing Caleb I need you to remember this, even if one day my voice fades from your memory. You will never be unloved by me. Not while the sky is still blue. Not while summer still returns. Not in this life. Not in whatever comes after. For as long the skies still carry your wings, my heart will always find its way back to you.
Crazy guy classics from my childhood because cringe is overrated.
This was drawn on Krita. The interface might be shit, but damn aren't the brushes so good? Human Springtrap's design is loosely based on those human FNAF fanarts from the early fandom days.
engineering has honestly made me dislike men so much more than i already did
incompetent, rude, lacking common sense, often even lacking basic hygiene, and with a superiority complex built on an imaginary foundation that's flimsier than rock balanced on a soap bubble
you have nothing to show despite having a suitable academic background and having the system on your side since birth. what do you have to justify your arrogance?
Summary: A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when you’re bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.
Warnings/tags: bite injury (reader), infection themes (fever, delirium), mentions of blood/wounds, mission-related violence, guns, angst, protective leon
The hallway smells like antiseptic and old rain, sharp enough to taste at the back of your throat. Emergency lights pulse a slow red, painting everything in the color of a heartbeat that refuses to settle. Somewhere deeper in the facility, something metallic groans, the sound carrying through the walls like the building itself is shifting in its sleep.
Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.
You.
He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.
"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.
"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.
His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."
"Very."
He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.
Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.
Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.
"Don't," you breathe.
Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.
Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.
"Persistent," you mutter.
"Understatement."
It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack.
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.
"You okay?" he asks without turning.
"Fine."
He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.
"Your heart rate's up."
"So is yours."
"Occupational hazard."
You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I adjusted my stance."
You snort. "Sure you did, hero."
His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.
"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.
"You hate sand."
"I could learn."
"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."
"It started it."
He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."
"Coward."
They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.
Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.
Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."
"And our worst bet for everything else."
"Probably."
He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.
You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."
"I am standing back."
"Further."
He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.
"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.
"Try not to worry so loudly."
"I don't worry."
You glance up. "Leon."
"...I worry a normal amount."
You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."
You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.
"You can let go," he says gently.
You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.
"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."
"Very."
But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.
Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.
Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.
"Help," he croaks.
Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"
The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."
His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner. Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.
"Careful," he murmurs.
"I know."
His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.
The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."
Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.
"Jackpot," you whisper.
Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.
Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."
You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Good."
"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"
The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.
The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.
"Back!" Leon snaps.
You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.
One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision.
More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.
"Too many," you shout.
"Move!"
You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.
A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.
The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.
"Leon!"
He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.
Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.
Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.
He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head, throat tight. "No."
"Good."
His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.
"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."
You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.
Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.
The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.
Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.
"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."
He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."
"You got a call."
"We both got a call."
"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."
"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."
"That's not a crime."
"It should be."
You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."
"I'll buy you dessert."
"You said that last time."
"I meant it last time, too."
His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.
"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."
You glance at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."
"I'd last three."
"Two and a half."
He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."
The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.
Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.
"Hold."
You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.
He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."
"Could be."
He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"
"Always."
One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.
You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."
"Switch packs with me."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"It wasn't an order either."
For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.
"Tension," he says softly.
"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."
"Comes with the badge."
"You don't even carry a badge."
"Metaphorical badge."
You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.
"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.
"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.
He gives you a look. You give him one right back.
"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."
"Yes, dear."
His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."
"Yes, sir," you salute.
Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.
"Stand clear," you say.
He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.
"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."
He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.
"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."
Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.
"On you."
You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.
Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.
All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.
Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.
"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.
You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.
"Stay close," he murmurs.
You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.
"Always do," you whisper back.
The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.
Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.
A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.
"Probably just settling," you whisper.
Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.
Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.
"Leon—!"
He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.
You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat.
Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.
"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.
Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.
The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.
"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."
You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."
His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.
The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.
You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.
"Oh," you say softly.
Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.
"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.
He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.
"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."
You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.
"Good news," you murmur.
His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."
The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.
"This won't stop it," you say quietly.
"I know."
He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.
"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.
"No."
"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"
"No, Leon."
He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.
"Hey," you say softly.
His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.
"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."
You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.
He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.
He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.
"Stay with me," he murmurs.
Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.
"Always," you whisper.
Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.
"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.
"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."
His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.
"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.
He glances at you immediately. "What?"
"Nothing. Thought I heard something."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.
The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.
"Hey," Leon says quietly.
You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."
He stops anyway.
"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."
Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down.
When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.
You shake your head. "We don't have time."
"Sit."
There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.
The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.
His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.
His brows draw together. "You're burning up."
"Shock," you say weakly.
"You know that's not true."
His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.
"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.
"We're going to fix this," he says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."
Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.
"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."
His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"...Maybe."
"Confusion?"
You hesitate.
His expression darkens. "How long?"
"Ten minutes."
He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.
"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."
"I'm right here."
His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.
"Leon."
"Yeah."
"If I start to..."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."
"You need to be ready."
"I am ready."
"That's not what I mean."
His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.
"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."
Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.
"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."
"Maybe," you echo.
He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.
Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.
You blink. "Leon—"
"Save your strength."
"I can walk."
"I know."
And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.
"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.
You nod weakly. "Yeah."
"Good."
He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.
Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."
"I'm trying."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
"Anything."
You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.
"...Dessert," you mumble finally.
A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.
"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.
His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.
Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.
Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"
A pause. "...Yeah."
The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.
The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.
Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.
"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."
A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."
He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.
"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."
You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.
"It's... dark," you mumble.
His chest tightens. The lights are still on.
"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."
Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.
"...Leon."
Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."
Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.
"You look... tired."
He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.
Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.
"You should sleep," you whisper.
The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.
"Soon, sweetheart," he says.
Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.
Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"
The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.
Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.
"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."
Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.
"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."
His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice.
Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."
Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.
"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."
You stir weakly. "...'m tired."
"I know."
"So tired."
His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.
"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.
Your eyes open a sliver.
"...Promise?"
The question is so small it barely exists.
He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."
He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.
He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.
"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.
"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.
He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.
"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."
He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.
"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."
The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.
Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.
A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.
"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."
He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.
"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."
Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.
"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.
Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.
"Where are we?" you murmur.
"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."
Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."
His throat tightens.
"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.
He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.
He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.
He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.
A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.
Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.
"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.
He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.
Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.
Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.
He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.
"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.
From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.
Behind him, the ward remains still.
Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"
He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.
"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."
You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."
"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."
Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.
The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.
"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."
Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.
The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.
Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.
Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.
He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."
He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.
His pulse hammers harder.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.
He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.
"Don't do this to me," he whispers.
Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.
A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.
He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.
ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE
He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.
Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.
Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.
"Damn it," he breathes.
The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.
Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.
For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.
He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.
"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."
His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.
His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.
He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.
Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.
Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:
ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN
For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.
He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.
"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."
Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.
"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."
No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.
A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.
"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."
Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.
"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."
His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.
"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."
Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.
"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."
His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.
"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."
He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.
"You hear me? We've got plans."
Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."
He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.
"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."
He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.
"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."
The needle presses into your skin.
He hesitates.
Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.
"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."
He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.
"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."
He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.
Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.
"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."
He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.
"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."
Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.
"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.
Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.
He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.
"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."
He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.
"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."
Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.
There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.
"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."
Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.
Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."
Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.
"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.
"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."
He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.
Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.
His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.
"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."
Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.
Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."
Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.
Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.
Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.
Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.
The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.
Leon.
He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.
Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"
He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.
For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.
"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."
You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."
Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.
"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."
"Was I... gone?"
His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."
You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.
"You scared me," he says quietly.
Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."
His head snaps slightly. "Don't."
The word is sharp, then softens immediately.
"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."
You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.
"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."
He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."
He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.
"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"
"Everything hurts."
He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."
Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.
"...You found it," you whisper.
He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.
Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."
You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.
"You were crying," you say softly.
Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.
"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."
A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.
"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.
Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.
"I'm here," you whisper.
He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in.
"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."
You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.
"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."
He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.
"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.
A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.
Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.
Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.
Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.
"You're staring," you murmur.
"Monitoring," he corrects.
"You blink?"
"Sometimes."
You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.
"I'm okay," you assure him.
He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Always."
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.
When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.
"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.
Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.
You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.
"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."
Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.
Your chest tightens.
"You remembered," you whisper.
He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."
You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.
An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.
Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.
For a long moment, you can't speak.
"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."
"Leon..."
He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.
"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"
You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.
"Thank you," you say softly.
Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."
You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.
"Worth it?" he asks.
You nod. "Absolutely."
You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before.
You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.
"I love you," you whisper.
His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."
Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."
You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."
"Still."
His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.
Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.
"Two weeks," you murmur.
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle boring?"
He huffs softly. "I'll manage."
You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.
Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open! I would love to hear from you!
SEMUA KATA RINDUMU SEMAKIN MEMBUATKU TAK BERDAYA MENAHAHAN RASA INGIN JUMPA. PERCAYALAH PADAKU AKUPUN RINDU KAMU, KU AKAN PULAANGGG, MELEPAS SEMUA KERINDUAN YANG TERPENDAMB
fandom etiquette as a whole died when people who didn’t grow up on fandoms became stans during lockdown, yes, but why am i seeing people openly mocking fics on twitter. why am i seeing screenshots of fics with captions like “bro what is this 😭.” why am i seeing people mock fic writers for not knowing how sports or theater or college or any other organization operates in the real world.
“college is absolutely nothing like this” “why are we writing four people on the team scoring a hat trick in one game” “so tech work is nothing like this, hope that helps!”
if you don’t like a fic, and if you can’t suspend your belief enough to enjoy a fic that exaggerates or ignores real-world orgs, you don’t have to read it. you don’t have to screenshot it and put it on blast for twitter. you don’t have to post a link to it in the replies. the back button is literally there on your phone. it’s not giving baby’s first fandom anymore, it’s giving entitled asshole and it isn’t as cute as you think it is.
it’s the same as when i said i read yn. like bro, the 2016–2020 yn fanfiction era was wild. i know none of it made sense — like psychopathic todoroki obsessing over you and joining all for one’s team, or bakugo suddenly forgetting about us and we end up engaged to todoroki while still being in love with his brother. and sometimes the fics lowkey felt more legit when they used detailed descriptions instead of just endless dialogue.
there was a time i loved yandere so much it completely blinded my sense of logic. like when you’re broke and suddenly a whole immortal family becomes obsessed with making you their baby. or when the kindest, soft-hearted sugawara chooses violence just because someone confesses to us. or when we get drugged from a cake he gives us and end up paralyzed. or when a 15-year-old fanfic author writes the most brutal non-consensual story ever. it was insane.
i know none of it really made sense. now that i’ve grown up, i do find some of it pretty weird. sometimes i think, “why did i ever like those kinds of fics?” but i won’t judge my younger self for it.
and after the yn trend hit its peak, suddenly everyone who didn’t even know about yn fanfiction started feeling fomo and judging us for our preferences. like… what? don’t some of you enjoy films with tons of vulgar scenes? don’t some of you watch anime where most of the female characters are drawn with exaggerated bodies? or american shows that include mature scenes every single minute?
i’m actually proud of being a yn reader. the genre has improved a lot. i could even show you my reading evolution — from killing stalking to dear teddy bear. people love judging something based only on what others say, assuming it’s “weirdo things,” think critically. grow up.
The Hexi Chapter of Where Winds Meet (Sixteen Sounds of Yan Yun) by 不系舟
The soundtrack is Yu Pan(玉盘 jade plate). In ancient China, the moon was often compared to a jade plate, a poetic image frequently used in classical poetry. The most famous example comes from Li Bai's lines, translated by Xu Yuanchong: "Before my bed a pool of light—Is it hoarfrost upon the ground? Eyes raised, I see the moon so bright; Head bent, in homesickness I m drowned."(床前明月光，疑是地上霜；举头望明月，低头思故乡。chuáng qián míng yuè guāng，yí shì dì shàng shuāng。jǔ tóu wàng míng yuè，dī tóu sī gù xiāng。) Here, the moon stands as a symbol of home and native land.
The dialogue at the beginning and the end of the video:
"Look! There's a white jade plate in the sky."
"That's the moon."
"Uncle Jiang, why are you always looking at the moon?"
"Because it's my hometown."
"Oh... so it's your hometown."
Hexi河西 is a historical-geographical term, lit."west of the Yellow River", referring to what is known today as the Hexi Corridor in Gansu Province. Its major cities include Wuwei, Zhangye, Jiuquan, and Dunhuang. Serving as a vital link between the Central Plains and the Western Regions, it was the golden route of the ancient Silk Road.
The Western Regions (Xiyu西域) was a historical Chinese term referring to the vast areas west of the Yumen Pass and Yangguan Pass. It primarily covered what is now Xinjiang and parts of Central Asia, extending as far as West Asia, South Asia, and beyond. Throughout history, it served as a crucial hub for trade, cultural exchange, and military interaction between the Central Plains and Western civilizations, such as Persia, India, and Rome.
Whoever controlled Hexi held the gateway to the Western Regions. This strategic position allowed them to cut off the frequently invading Xiongnu cavalry, secure the frontier, protect trade caravans traveling between the West and the Central Plains, and foster prosperous commercial exchange.
Throughout history, Hexi witnessed countless stories of joy and sorrow. As a crucial crossroads between East and West, it became a melting pot where Central Plains culture, Western Regions influences, and Buddhist art converged, leaving behind magnificent legacies like the Mogao Caves.
More than just a geographical name, Hexi carries profound historical and cultural weight. It stands as a symbol of the frontier, epic journeys, bustling trade, and the enduring dialogue between civilizations.
When Chinese players got to the Hexi chapter—after going through Liu Sanyang's story, finishing the Well-Digger's quest, and surviving the whole Anxi Army arc—players were crying so hard. Not sure how well the English localization handled it, but the Chinese screenwriters and the voice actors are so amazing.
😭OMG I really can’t stand for this anymore, did anyone laugh when you come across to Yidao’s plot?
If you laugh that is totally make sense because that part of translation is a Fucking Bullshit!!!
When he died and said those “Relentless advance!”“Never show my face!!!”like an edgy teenager with chuunibyou who's a psychopathic killer from a Japanese anime. DID YOU KNOW? HE WAS ACTUALLY RECITING LINES OF A POEM:)
Here is the right line of that poem, comes from tang dynasty poet Li Bai. I can’t translate it well in english because my english is not well enough, but i can tell you its true meaning.
The first line: 十步杀一人，千里不留行。literally means a high skilled warrior-hero can kill an enemy in ten steps he takes, and even his journey across thousands mile distances, no resistance strong enough to stop him.(a kind of exaggerated rhetoric, indicating that this person has superb skills)
The second line: 事了拂衣去，深藏功与名。After completing his mission, the knight-errant wipe the dust on his sleeves away, and left without seeking praise. He acts not for fame, but because he believes the deed must be done.
The third line: 纵死侠骨香，不惭世上英。even if I die, the principles I firmly believe in will not be erased. I have done everything I could in my life, and I am not unworthy of the heroes I admire in history. I will never regret it.
By then, Yi Dao understood with painful clarity that he would not leave the place alive. So he said: even if my life ends here, I have acted as the great heroes of the past once did; I have done what my friend Chu Qingquan would have done. I have not failed them, nor betrayed the promise I made.
He had kept every promise he ever made. Yi Dao honored the pact with Chu Qingquan by coming to Buxianxian and finding the secret of Jiang Wulang(which means us). And he honored his promise to the protagonist: he would send young master into the wider world of the jianghu, and he would keep the young master alive.
Thus he recited the poem before he died, affirming that to die for what he believed in was still an honor. The young master spoke the last line with him—“ ”—because he saw himself as Buxianxian’s protector. If danger came to the sect, it should claim his body before reaching anyone else. In that moment, his resolve matched Yi Dao’s.
But Yi Dao, being older and knowing more of the world, could not allow the young master to follow him into death. He asked, “You haven’t really seen the jianghu. Do you regret it?” And the young master said, “I’ve already seen it.” Yi Dao understood that this was only the beautiful imagination of a brave kid, but there’s no time for him to explain. All he could do was send the young master into Han Xiangxun’s protection with the last strength he had.
This part of the whole story should be an individualistic heroism, romantic tragedy moment when he died, yet the AI translation ruin it!!!! 😡😡😡 Where Winds Meet I won’t forgive yooooou😡👊⚡😡👊👊 forevrrrrrraaaaaaa!
♡ AN: thinking about nerdy loser boy, who grows up to be rich and successful after graduation, and who decides to use all his wealth to take revenge on you, his old bully, who’s still struggling with figuring her sorry little life out...
The car is cold to cool his nerves. No music, only the groan of leather each time he or his driver shifts in their seat.
He holds a glass of whiskey between his fingers—the bottle has become significantly diminished over the past days, two other bottles before it.
He takes a sip, but keeps his gaze fixed out the tinted window at the little drive-by diner.
Retro place, built before he was born. Industrial steel walls, red accents, one big glowing sign above the roof, all caps, spelling CHUCKY’S. He bought the place a few weeks ago, way over asking price—didn’t want any fuss, just wanted it done in one day, but for no reason pertaining to business.
No, this one was personal.
He sighs, swirls his glass, and takes another sip, all while maintaining his stare. He can catch a glimpse of you every time you leave the kitchens to take orders. Dressed in your uniform—an awful red and white checkered dress that you somehow make work. Princess puff sleeves, cinched at the waist with a white apron before jutting out into a mid-thigh frill-edged skirt, a tulle petticoat underneath giving it even more volume and making it look more like a tacky Halloween costume than proper clothes.
You always look so hard at work. It’s funny. Maybe if you’d just done your schoolwork instead of making him do it all for you at the threat of having your jocks rough him up, you’d be better off today and not running yourself ragged over minimum wage.
He must admit it’s pretty childish of him—stalking you like this as if that’s what he should be spending his free time on. His driver must think he’s insane, but he pays him too much for him to ask any questions, not even when he signals him to follow you once you finish your shift.
He would follow you into the subway, if not for fear of causing a commotion. Even though he’s not exactly a celebrity, it’s not so unusual for his face to be in a business magazine every now and again. A few people would certainly recognize him. And if not for that, he’d probably get mugged.
But it’s no matter. He knows where you’re going.
You live in a rundown flat across the street from a five-star hotel he’s taken to call home. The staff are always insisting he should move into the penthouse, but he has to turn them down, as he needs one of the lower-level rooms more aligned with your studio apartment.
You leave your uniform on the floor the second you’re through the door, and he immediately needs to grit his teeth. Naked except for your undergarments—a greyish bra that was once white, styled with a turquoise thong, both pilled from wear. It’s nothing anyone’s meant to see, but here he is, watching as you peel your underwear down your thighs and legs, leaving yourself bare to his prying eyes.
You swipe it up off the floor, stretching it out like a slingshot before shooting it across the room right into your laundry bin. You jump into a pair of short-shorts instead, relieving yourself of your bra next, exchanging it with a loose, cropped T-shirt—a silly cartoon cat print on the bust.
You use your toes to hook your sock, prying them off while you walk towards the tiny kitchen nook tucked away in the corner of the room. Opening the fridge, you grab the three-liter box of white wine you’ve been enjoying by yourself for the past few days, not so different from him. And then you plop down on your bed and switch on the TV, putting on some shitty reality show about overly botoxed women living in Beverly Hills.
He drags his hand over his face, sitting in his luxury suite with a pair of military grade binoculars, pulling his jaw with tired eyes. It should be enough revenge for him to see you living the way you do—broke and struggling. But for some reason, it just isn’t. Not even close.
More than revenge, he thinks, oddly enough, he still wants to prove himself to you. He wants you to see him—his worth—wants you to acknowledge it, that you were wrong to step all over him because, in the end, he’s the one in the million-dollar shoes, and you’re the one in the soiled apron taking orders.
But then again, and even stranger, he feels this weird amount of gratitude towards you. After all, if you hadn’t made him feel worthless, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to make himself priceless.
And, of course, there’s the fact that he still jerks off to you and has, on many desperate occasions, paid escorts with a passing resemblance to you to call him by those foul names you used to—among many other things he wishes you’d say.
“Aren’t yah a little too dressed up for this place?” you ask, head tilted to the side, hand on your hip with your notepad, popping your pink gum. “What—Michelin gettin’ too boring’? Or d’yah just feel like slummin’ it today?”
He doesn’t get you’re making a joke—feeling out of place sitting in the tight little booth he’d picked out for himself—plastic menu taped to the table in front of him with a bunch of stuff he hasn’t put in his mouth since college with prices he’d forgotten all about. It’s so cheap, he wonders for a moment if a zero is missing.
But that’s not all, or at least not the reason he’s so put off…
You raise a brow over his puzzled expression, looking up at you like a lost kid at the mall.
“I’m just messin’ with yah—no need to look so wired,” you laugh, flipping up your notepad and clicking your pen. “So then, what can I get yah?”
He blinks. “Oh, uhm,” clearing his throat, he looks down at the menu again and just picks the first thing his eyes land on. “I’ll have a—a breakfast sandwich. Thank you.”
You scribble it down, asking while at it, “No’n else? Big gun like you? No waffles, hashbrowns, sausages? I make a mean French toast, just so you know.” You look at him in wait.
He gets a little lost seeing you so up close, but manages to stutter out a, “No–no, thank you, that’s okay.”
You, on the other hand, don’t seem ruffled at all—all smiles and giggles, knuckles on your hip as you tilt your head at him. “You watchin’ yer figure, or somethin’? Guess you can’t let the money do all the talkin’, huh?”
He doesn’t know what to say, busy using every brain cell to comprehend the fact that you’re even talking to him, so familiarly as well. It all throws him for a loop.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just pullin’ your leg,” you continue at his silence. “It’s just that I’ seen your car parked outside so many times, always wonderin’ what rich fellow was brave enough to have business around here,” you explain, nodding at his black SUV out front. “I’m just happy to finally put a face to the wheels.”
He still can’t find the words to say. He’s not sure what he’s doing with his face either, but it can't be good. Feeling stiff as a board and dumb like one, too.
“I’m rambling, aren’t I? My bad,” you apologize, either thinking nothing of his strange behaviour or simply choosing to ignore it. “You want joe or juice with that?”
It takes him a second to realize it’s a question he’ll have to answer, but he manages to utter a curt, “Coffee,” before further pulling himself together enough to tack on a polite, “Please.”
You only nod your head, clicking your pen. “A’right then, big spender. Comin’ right up.”
And then, you turn on your heel, leaving him there with nothing but that dumb look he seems unable to wipe off his face, watching you march in tattered shoes that don’t go at all along with your diner uniform across the chess-checkered tiles before disappearing into the kitchen, without doing so much as a double-take.
And he’s hit with the unpleasant understanding, sitting like a lump in his stomach, making his throat feel tight.
You don’t even remember him.
He contemplates leaving at that moment. He pulls out the entire wad of bills kept in his wallet, not bothering with giving them a count, thinking he’d just leave them on the table to pay for the work and his rudeness. But even so, he remains seated.
Maybe you just didn’t recognize him?
He hardly looks like his old self. Hair gelled and professionally cut just yesterday, suit tailored expertly for him, body built with the help of a personal trainer. Yeah, of course you don’t recognize him. There's nothing of his old self left for you to remember.
Or maybe he was right the first time, and you have zero memory of him whatsoever. Maybe you only remember fun times—your girlfriends and all the parties you went to, the drinking, your handsome boyfriend who was captain of the varsity team, and the other jocks you used to cheat on him with. Maybe he’s just another loser lost in the crowd, unworthy of your attention, unworthy even of the tiniest spot in your recollection.
“Here you go, mister.” You announce your return, and he looks up, surprised to see you back already. His dish done, balanced in one hand, with his coffee mug held in the other.
You place both down before him, still steaming, the scent of butter and fresh brew attacking his nose at once.
It was basically free per his standards, but it looked good and was a lot bigger than what he would have been served at the hotel restaurant. And unlike that, this actually looks like it was made by a human being—uneven slices of butter-crisp bread cut diagonally before serving.
His mouth waters, and he’s glad he stayed.
“Did you make it yourself?” he asks for some odd reason before being able to stop himself.
But you just giggle, “Why yes, I did—with love and all. Hope you enjoy.”
And then you run along to another table, leaving him to it.
His arms lay resting on the table, hands idle as he stared at it for a moment longer as if he were waiting for someone to take a picture. He’s never been one to do such a thing, despite all the extravagant meals he’d been served at prices high enough that it should make anyone lose their appetite. This sight, however, almost had him compelled to pull out his phone and do it. But he ends up leaving it be.
His stomach growls. He swallows the pool that had swelled up in his mouth, giving your words a taste. “With love, huh…”
How about that… he thinks while picking one of the triangles up. You hadn’t given him any cutlery, nor was there any on the table, so—suppose bare-handed is the way it’s meant to go.
He takes his first bite, and the bread crunches between his teeth. Followed by still-sizzling crispy bacon, soft egg, and fully melted cheese—and oh my god, it’s greasy—melting in his mouth. And he knows you were only joking around, but… he thinks he might be tasting the love, too.
“How’d you like it?” You’re back again right before he’s done, now with a few coffee and grease stains on your apron, looking all dewy-faced with your hair a little messier than it was in the morning.
He’s still swallowing the last bite, fighting the urge to lick his fingers clean in your presence as he takes you in in all your hard-working glory.
“Michelin could learn a thing or two,” he says, more comfortable than earlier, reaching for the napkin dispenser across the table before wiping his mouth all neatly.
“You’re too kind.” You smile—the type of sweet smile you’d never flash back in school, looking a little giddy, asking, “Anything else?”
His meal sits warm in his belly, still tasty on his tongue. “Yes. When do you get off?”
You’re the one with the dumb expression now, face blank and eyes wide—but only for a moment before it turns cheeky. “Why? You’re not one of ‘em rich freaks who take all us poor gals for hookers, are yah?” you joke, snickering at him.
“And what if I am?” he questions, tone firm, the type he’ll use in business meetings. “I’ll pay you twice what you earn in a year for one night. What do you say?”
This time, you seem unable to wipe the look of surprise off your face.
Tone wiped clean of all service-inclined banter, stating plainly, though still with the accent of shock, “I get off at seven.”
He flicks his wrist, eyeing his watch to gauge the time before braiding his fingers together. Looking up at you again.
“I changed my mind,” he states then.
“I think I’ll have some French toast while I wait.”
You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 1
PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader
SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.
WORD COUNT: 6.5k
NOTES: so.. this ended up being way too angsty than the original blurb but oh well no regrets. fair warning, prepare some tissues! The tag list for this fic is CLOSED.
MASTERLIST | part 2
The day you chose to deliver the papers was grey. Not rainy. Not stormy. Just… grey.
A sky without conviction. Wind without bite. The kind of afternoon that felt as indecisive as you were pretending not to be.
You stood outside his office door for longer than you were proud of. Long enough to memorize the grain of the wood. Long enough to talk yourself into it, and then out of it, and then back in again.
You pushed the door open softly, already shrinking into yourself.
You weren’t sure what you expected when you came.
That he’d be behind his desk, maybe. Pen in hand, papers meticulously arranged in little towers like the ones he builds in your mind—precise, unreachable, always half-tilted toward something you’re not allowed to see.
You thought you might say something rehearsed but kind. A line you practiced in the mirror, gentle but final. You didn’t want to hurt him. You just wanted to end the slow bleeding before it became a hemorrhage.
But the office was empty.
The silence hit first.
Not a tranquil silence. Not the kind that invites rest.
This one was clinical. Dry. Like the room had forgotten how to hold a heartbeat.
Zayne wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t. He was rarely anywhere you were. You’d grown used to missing him like one grows used to an old injury—limping out of habit, not pain. Not anymore. Not really.
You stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. The room smelled like him—mint and paper, a trace of cologne sharp as memory. The blinds were half-drawn, the light filtering in like a sigh through cracked ribs.
You walked to his desk and placed the envelope down.
Gently. As if it were made of glass.
As if the act itself might shatter something irreversibly.
Why stay in this marriage when the instigator is already dead? It wasn’t a cruel thought. Just… practical. Your mother had orchestrated it all, hadn’t she? Down to the embroidered napkins and the painfully bright chandelier you never wanted. She'd made you both promises you never consented to, and now she was gone, buried in roses and obligations.
That question had come to you in the silence after her funeral, when the guests were gone and the condolences had dried into something brittle. You weren’t looking for liberation. You weren’t angry. But there was a kind of clarity that only grief could offer—harsh, clean-edged clarity that cut deeper the more you looked at it.
You stood there, staring at the divorce papers. The ink still smelled fresh. The curve of your own signature stared back at you like a challenge.
You didn’t hate Zayne.
God, if you hated him, maybe this would be easier.
But love had never bloomed between you. Not really. It had been all frost and formality, glances across long tables, the occasional brush of his coat sleeve as he passed you in the hallway. You learned his silences. He learned your smiles. But you never learned each other.
And even if Zayne had been mostly absent, even if he’d buried himself in work and left you to wander the quiet halls of your shared home like a ghost—well.
You weren’t completely blameless either.
You’d withdrawn before he could reject you. You’d built your own walls, brick by brick. You told yourself you were protecting yourself. But the truth was messier than that.
Maybe you’d been waiting. Hoping.
And when hope dried up, you folded your longing into politeness. Into pleasantries. Into dinner set for one.
Your fingers grazed the edge of the envelope again. He’ll see it when he comes in, you told yourself. He’ll understand.
He was good at understanding, wasn’t he?
But the part of you that still ached—the part that hadn’t quite given up—wished you didn’t have to do this alone. Wished he’d been here so you could have said something. Anything. So you wouldn’t have to walk out with your heart still clenched, still wondering if this was mercy or cowardice.
You turned toward the door slowly, letting your eyes sweep over the room one last time.
His chair was slightly angled toward the window. A mug of coffee sat abandoned on the side table, still half full. A scarf hung on the back of the chair, the one you once bought for him because he never remembered to dress warm in winter. He never wore it in front of you.
Maybe he wore it when he was alone.
Maybe he missed you, in his own quiet, useless way.
Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted either.
Maybe it was.
You didn’t wait to find out.
You slipped out of his office as softly as you had come. No tears. No dramatics. Just the sound of your heels clicking against the tile, carrying you away from the life you tried to build without being given the tools.
Behind you, the envelope sat motionless on his desk.
It would be the first thing he saw when he returned.
Or the last thing he expected.
Either way, the decision was made.
You just hoped he’d understand that it wasn’t born out of resentment.
It was born out of surrender.
And surrender, after all, was the only way you’d ever been allowed to love him.
You go about your day.
Mechanically, precisely. Like if you move fast enough, you won’t feel the weight of what you just did. Like if you keep your hands busy, they won’t remember how they trembled when you left the envelope on his desk.
You have dinner at a high-end restaurant downtown. The kind with mood lighting and cutlery that costs more than your first paycheck. The waiter greets you by name. You’ve been here before. Enough times to build a familiarity that feels almost like comfort.
You order your usual. A glass of wine, a dish too delicate for hunger. You smile when the waiter makes small talk. You nod when he compliments your dress. You even laugh—soft, practiced, hollow.
Around you, couples lean close, forks clinking gently against china, knees brushing under tables. You sip your wine and pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re above it all. That you chose this. That you’re fine.
You leave a generous tip and walk out alone.
You stop at a shop on the way home.
There’s a window display with crystals and tiny gilded mirrors and perfume bottles shaped like hearts. Useless things. Luxuries. Trinkets that mean nothing and say everything. You buy a pair of earrings that you’ll never wear, a satin ribbon you don’t need, and a music box that plays a lullaby you didn’t realize you remembered.
It doesn’t help. But it gives your hands something to hold.
By the time you return home, night has long folded itself over the city. You step out of your heels and into the silence, your keys landing with a metallic sigh in the tray by the door.
The house is spotless. Sterile. Like no one lives here. Like no one ever did.
You draw yourself a bath. You pick out the bath salts your mother once gifted you—lavender and sandalwood, soft and laced with memory. The water fogs the mirror, curls against your skin. You sink in, hoping the heat will coax something loose. The ache. The numbness. The way you still listen, stupidly, for the sound of the door opening behind you.
But there’s nothing. No footsteps. No voice calling your name.
Only the slow drip of a tap and the echo of your own breath.
After, you do your skincare. Layer after layer. Toner. Serum. Cream. A ritual. A mask. You look at your face in the mirror and wonder when you started looking so tired. You wonder if Zayne ever noticed. You wonder if he’d care.
You go to bed.
The sheets are cool, tucked too tightly. You lay there, stiff as porcelain, your eyes wide in the dark. The ceiling offers no answers. The night holds no comfort.
Your fingers find the empty side of the bed.
And stay there.
Still.
Quiet.
You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself. Because you made this choice, didn’t you?
You left the papers.
You left him.
But as sleep evades you and the silence tightens like a noose, you wonder if he’ll notice the way your perfume still lingers on the pillow.
And if he does—
You wonder if he’ll miss you.
Or just the absence.
You wake in the dark, unsure what pulls you from sleep. There is no noise, not exactly—just the strange pressure of being watched, the weight of something pressing too hard against your ribs.
Your eyes blink open slowly.
The room is dim, only the amber spill of the hallway light trailing in like a whisper beneath the door. The sheets have tangled around your waist, your body curled in that way it always is when you sleep alone, when there's too much space and too little warmth.
And then you see him.
Zayne.
Kneeling at your bedside.
His head is bowed, his hands gripping yours like lifelines, like they’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His shoulders are trembling. There are tear tracks on his cheeks—silent and luminous in the half-light. His palms are cold, clammy, too tight around your fingers, but you don’t pull away.
You can’t.
Because you’ve never seen him like this.
Not composed. Not distant. Not restrained behind the iron wall of manners and duty and that maddening, unreachable calm.
No. This is Zayne—undone.
“Please don’t leave me,” he breathes.
The words are so soft, they barely make it past his lips.
Your breath catches.
You stare at him, heart thudding with a terror you don’t understand. He’s not bleeding. Not wounded. Not dying.
But he looks like he is.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, voice breaking like something rusted. “I’m so—God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to be your husband. I didn’t even know if you wanted me to be. I thought—” His grip tightens, desperate. “I thought you were happier without me. I thought I was giving you space. I thought it was what you wanted.”
You try to sit up, but he’s still holding your hands, head bowed so low you can feel his breath against your skin. He presses his forehead to your knuckles like he’s praying. Or confessing.
“I saw the papers,” he says. “I came back and I saw them and—” A pause. A shudder. “I felt something inside me go still. Like the part of me that hoped you’d someday choose me… just stopped breathing.”
You swallow.
Your throat is dry. Your heart is loud. Your hands are still in his, small and warm and useless in the face of this.
Zayne’s never begged for anything. Not when you married. Not when you drifted. Not even when the silences stretched longer than the days.
But he’s begging now.
And it breaks something in you.
“I don’t care about the arrangement,” he says, lifting his eyes to yours for the first time, and—God. They’re red-rimmed and wet and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. Not even when his mentor died. Not even when yours forced a ring onto your finger. Because that's exactly what she was—a mentor before a mother.
“I don’t care who started it. I care that I can’t sleep knowing you won’t be there. That I won’t see your shoes in the hallway. Your cup in the sink. Your voice in the morning. I know I’ve been gone—I know I made you feel alone. But I never stopped—”
He cuts himself off, like the words are too big for him to hold.
“Don’t leave me,” he says again, hoarse. “Please. Tell me it’s not too late. Tell me I can try. Tell me I can love you better.”
And then he says it.
“Because I do—”
Soft. Crushed. Almost drowned in breath.
“—I do love you.”
You sit frozen, trembling with something that isn’t shock but grief—but hope—but disbelief.
Because you’d spent months mourning something that had never bloomed.
And now here he was. On his knees. With all his walls gone.
Waiting for you.
His words echo in your chest like footsteps in an empty hall. They don’t settle. They don’t land. They just… circle. Hover. Haunt.
And yet—your hands stay in his.
You want to pull away. You should pull away. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?
But your fingers won’t listen. They're traitors. Trembling, but curled around his like they still remember how to hold on.
Zayne’s eyes are still on you—pleading, ruined, impossibly gentle. And you hate him for it. You hate him for coming to you like this now, when your chest is raw and bandaged over with resignation, when your heart has learned to live with its hollow space.
You don’t know what to say.
You’ve always known what to say. You’ve always had something ready. A laugh, a line, a quiet deflection. You were raised to survive with poise, to never let the cracks show.
But now?
You don’t know how to speak through the knot lodged in your throat.
“I…” Your voice barely comes out. It sounds foreign. Bruised. “Zayne, I don’t—I don’t know.”
His brows draw together.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper. “You didn’t want me. You wanted peace. You wanted quiet. I gave you that.”
You’re breathing faster now, not from panic—but from all the things you’ve never let yourself say aloud.
“You weren’t there,” you murmur, looking somewhere past his shoulder. “Not when I waited for you to come home. Not when I made tea and poured two cups out of habit. Not when I cried so quietly I thought I’d go mad from the silence.”
He’s shaking his head, tears falling again.
“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you felt—”
“Because I didn’t tell you,” you say sharply. “Because I thought I didn’t have the right to want more. We weren’t in love. We were just… two people honoring a contract.”
Zayne looks like he’s in pain.
Real pain.
The kind that doesn’t bleed, just bruises the soul until everything aches.
“I’m not saying this to punish you,” you whisper. “I just—I need you to understand. I don’t know how to believe you now. I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering me, when all I’ve ever known is how to be alone in this marriage.”
He closes his eyes like he’s been struck.
“I’m not whole,” you add, voice cracking. “And I don’t know if I even know how to be loved anymore.”
There’s a pause.
A long, trembling pause.
Then, quietly—softly—Zayne presses your hands to his lips.
He kisses your knuckles like he’s asking permission to breathe.
“I don’t expect you to believe me right now,” he whispers. “Or tomorrow. Or the day after. I just want you to know—I’m not leaving. I won’t run from this again. From you. Even if you don’t forgive me. Even if you never say those words back.”
You stare at him.
Still unsure. Still aching. Still raw.
But something inside you shifts.
Not healed.
Not certain.
Just—listening.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
He stays kneeling for a long time.
Even after your fingers loosen in his grip. Even after your breathing slows and your eyes drop from his face to the twisted bedsheet between you. Even after the tears stop falling from both of you.
He stays. Like a man rooted. Like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll disappear.
Eventually, you whisper, “Get off the floor.”
It comes out hoarse. Less command, more tired breath. The words of someone too wrung out to carry this moment any further, but too tender to let it close alone.
He looks up at you, cautious. But the moment has passed for confessions. He knows it.
So he rises slowly, joints stiff, fabric creased and damp from where his knees met the floor. You shift aside, just a little—enough to make room without saying it aloud.
He doesn’t assume.
He stands for a beat longer than necessary. Hands fidgeting. Shoulders tense. And then he moves—quiet as snow—and slips beneath the covers, staying on top of them at first, as though unwilling to cross some unseen line.
The bed dips with his weight. You both lie there, backs half-turned, inches away and aching with silence again—but not the old kind. Not the lonely, echoing kind.
This one is... full. Thick with things unsaid but understood.
His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn't move. Neither do you.
You let your eyes close, but sleep doesn’t come.
Your mind is loud in the hush. Not with words. With fragments. Ghosts. That night at the wedding when your mother held your hand too tightly and whispered that love is just a fantasy. The first time you saw Zayne sleeping at his desk, collar loose, lashes brushing his cheek, more beautiful than anything you were allowed to say. The moment your fingers twitched toward him once, and you stopped yourself. Every almost. Every if.
You feel him shift beside you. Just a fraction.
Then his hand—a single scarred hand—moves slowly across the space between you. Hovers. Waits.
You don’t open your eyes. You don’t breathe.
And then, as gently as anything you’ve ever known, he rests his fingers on your wrist.
Barely a touch.
Just a presence.
I'm here, it says.
You don’t move. You don’t speak.
But you let him stay.
The sheets rustle as he slides down slightly, mirroring your position. His forehead brushes your shoulder. His breath warms the back of your arm. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist like an apology without words.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours.
You fall asleep like that.
Not in his arms. Not pressed close. Not healed.
Just… not alone.
For the longest time, your mother dictated the weather of your world.
She didn’t just control the room—she was the room. Her presence seeped into the walls, into the silence, into the decisions you hadn’t even made yet. She knew what you’d wear before you opened your closet. She could recite your schedule before you checked your calendar. She didn’t raise a daughter—she built a reflection.
And she expected that reflection to obey.
At first, it was subtle. Childhood rules disguised as safety.
“Don’t play in the sun, you’ll get too dark.”
“Keep your voice down, good girls don’t shout.”
“Smile when guests are around, don’t embarrass me.”
But over time, the rules turned into walls. And the walls became a prison. You learned to swallow words before they formed. To weigh your tone. To apologize for breathing too loudly.
It didn’t matter what you wanted. What mattered was what she thought you should want.
And then Zayne entered the picture.
A calm man. A blank page. A voice with the temperature of winter mornings—cool, crisp, distant. You hadn’t even fallen for him. You’d simply watched as your mother’s attention pivoted from micromanaging your life to orchestrating your marriage.
He was her dream son-in-law. A doctor. Unshakeable. Mannered. From a family she couldn’t nitpick.
She didn’t ask if you liked him.
She didn’t need to.
She assumed you would be grateful.
And in some ways, you were.
Because Zayne—unavailable as he was, emotionally constipated and always at the hospital—did one thing your mother never did.
He left you alone.
There was no suffocating presence. No list of expectations folded into every meal. He didn’t demand you dress a certain way. Didn’t police your volume, your mood, your silences. He didn’t ask much of you at all.
And in that eerie vacuum, you found something terrifyingly precious.
Autonomy.
Even if he barely spoke to you, even if he barely saw you, Zayne gave you the one thing you craved more than affection.
Freedom.
At home, your mother would barge into your room with unsolicited opinions. In Zayne’s apartment, you had a key to your own space. At home, your mother would correct you mid-sentence in front of relatives. Zayne would barely notice if you said something silly, let alone make you feel small for it.
He didn’t tether you.
And while that coldness carved an ache in your chest during sleepless nights, it also came with a strange sense of safety.
He was distant, yes.
But he was not cruel.
When your mother visited your new house for the first time after your wedding, you saw her try it—try to step into your space like she still owned it. She scanned your kitchen with sharp eyes, criticizing how you stored the spices. She told you you were putting on weight. That you needed to stop being lazy, that Zayne would leave you if you didn’t “keep up appearances.”
She said it lightly, like a joke.
Zayne was standing by the coffee machine.
He looked up, his gaze ice-cold.
“I didn’t marry her for appearances,” he said, voice clipped, face unreadable. “And if you’re done insulting my wife, you can go.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You remembered the way your mother blinked. Like someone had thrown cold water on her. She huffed, lips pursed, and left without another word. She didn’t even say goodbye.
And you…
You’d looked at him like he was a foreign language.
He didn’t look at you. Just poured his coffee and left for work without a second glance.
But you had stood there, rooted to the floor, hands shaking.
Because for the first time in your life, someone chose you.
Zayne had drawn a line in the sand.
And your mother had been on the wrong side of it.
You hadn’t cried then. Not even when the door slammed shut and silence filled the apartment again. But you remembered the tightness in your chest. The way you stared at the floor like you were thirteen again, except this time you weren’t helpless.
Because someone—your husband—had made it clear you were not to be messed with.
You still think about that moment. More than you probably should.
Because Zayne never brought it up again. Never mentioned her. Never asked how it made you feel.
But he didn’t apologize for defending you.
He didn’t make you feel like you owed him for it either.
And somehow, in his detachment, there was a kind of tenderness your mother had never offered you.
He gave you space.
He gave you a shield.
And somewhere in the folds of that cold, quiet marriage, you started seeing him not just as the stranger you were legally tied to—but the man who, even in silence, stood between you and the woman who broke your voice.
He might not have held your hand.
But he kept your name safe in a house that was finally your own.
And maybe that didn’t look like love in the way you were raised to recognize it.
But it was protection.
And for someone like you—raised to feel like a burden—that meant something.
You wake before the sun.
The room is still steeped in the heavy blue of early dawn, where everything looks softer than it really is. Blurred at the edges, like grief.
There’s a moment, a breath, where you forget. Where you wake as if from a dream and all is suspended. The air is cold against your cheek. The sheets heavy with the imprint of two. And there’s warmth behind you. A weight.
Zayne.
Not a memory. Not a phantom. Not another figment of wishful thinking conjured up by your loneliness.
He's still here.
The realization sinks in slowly, like tea bleeding into water. At some point in the night, he must’ve shifted closer. One of his arms is draped around your waist, tentative but real. His chest rises and falls against your back, the rhythm steady, anchoring. And his face—God, his face is tucked into your shoulder like it’s the only home he’s ever known.
You don’t move.
You just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, your body stiff with exhaustion and the kind of grief that has no name. You're not sure what it is you’re mourning. Only that it’s something vast. Something invisible. A version of this marriage you never got to live. A thousand versions of yourself you never got to be—with him, beside him, for him.
There’s a heaviness in your chest that isn’t pain. Not sharp, not sudden. Just... present. Like fog. Like longing left too long in the cold.
You think about the envelope still sitting on his desk. Signed. Final. As binding as a scar.
You think about how easy it would be to slip out from under his arm. Walk away before the sun catches you both in this quiet trespass. Before the ache turns into expectation. Before kindness gets mistaken for forgiveness.
And yet—you stay.
Not because anything has been resolved. Not because his whispered apology last night has undone the loneliness you watered for so long it grew roots inside you. But because you're tired. And his breath is warm. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re not waking up to a silence that only belongs to you.
He shifts slightly, his hand tightening instinctively on your waist. Just a twitch. Just enough to remind you: he feels you there.
The tears come before you can stop them.
Slow. Silent. The kind you don’t sob out loud. The kind you let slip into the pillow because you’re too proud to make a sound.
You wish you could hate him.
You wish he’d never said anything at all. That he hadn’t come into your room like that. That he’d left the papers on the desk and let the story end quietly.
Because now there’s a crack.
A crack in the coffin you tried to bury this marriage in.
And through it, something stirs.
Not hope. Not yet.
Just the unbearable truth that he’s still in there, somewhere—beneath all that absence. That maybe he always was. That maybe, just maybe, he had been mourning it too, all along, but in his own cold, closed, unreadable way.
Zayne breathes in deeply, then exhales with a small, uneven sigh. Still asleep.
You glance down at the hand around your waist. His fingers twitch once, like he’s dreaming of holding you tighter but doesn’t quite know how.
It hurts.
Not because he’s touching you—but because of how long you’ve wanted him to. Because of how gentle it is. Because tenderness, after all this time, feels like both a balm and a blade.
You close your eyes again.
You don’t move.
You don’t wake him.
There is a funeral between your ribs and a heartbeat beside you, and both feel sacred.
And maybe—just for this morning—that’s enough.
The eggs are overcooked.
Zayne stares down at the pan like it offended him personally, the browned edges curling up as if mocking the silence that’s wrapped itself around the kitchen. The yolks aren’t runny the way you like them. He used the wrong kind of salt. The tea might be too bitter. Everything’s a little off today.
Or maybe he is.
Zayne places the plate gently on the table, careful not to make too much noise. You’re sitting across from him, wrapped in your robe, a thin line between your brows as you butter your toast like it’s a task that requires precision. You haven’t spoken much. Not since waking up to find him still there, hovering in the doorway with eyes swollen from a night spent begging the universe to turn back time.
He watches you through the soft steam rising from the tea.
And he aches.
Not with longing, though that’s part of it.
No, this ache is older. Rooted in something he thought he buried years ago, back on that cursed mountain where blood froze faster than it could pool, and lives ended mid-sentence.
He shouldn’t be thinking about that morning—not here, not with you sitting across from him—but he is.
Because the divorce papers, the ones still waiting on his desk like an open grave, reminded him exactly how it felt to lose something you didn’t know how to hold.
That night on Mt. Eternal… years have passed since then, but the cold never really left his bones.
He still sees William’s face sometimes. In dreams. In the flicker of a hallway light. In the space between one breath and the next, when memory has no mercy.
He hadn’t known the man for long—barely a few months, a blip in the timeline of his tightly folded life—but William had burned bright. Reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly intuitive. He had a way of making people feel seen. A way of cutting through Zayne’s silence with nothing but presence.
And then—
Zayne remembers pressing his hand to William’s chest, trying to keep the life in. His own blood mixing with his friend’s. He remembers the way the air smelled—like frost and iron and finality.
He remembers thinking, If I survive this, I will never love anything fragile again.
And then he met you.
He looks up.
You’re chewing slowly, eyes unfocused. Lost in your own world of unspoken grief.
You hadn’t said anything last night after he fell asleep against your shoulder. You hadn’t moved away. But you hadn’t touched him, either.
Zayne doesn’t blame you.
He doesn’t know what to make of your silence—whether it’s resignation, or fear, or kindness. Whether he’s been forgiven, or whether you’re still too tired to fight.
He wishes he knew how to ask.
He wishes he were the kind of man who could reach across the table and take your hand, just to show you he's still here. That he finally wants to be here. But he isn't that man. Not yet.
And you deserve better than half-formed promises from someone still trying to dig his heart out from beneath layers of protocol and loss.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost without realizing it. The words come out hushed. Fragile.
You glance up.
Your eyes meet.
There’s no anger in them. But there’s no relief, either. Just tiredness. And something that looks too much like a mirror of his own sorrow.
Zayne swallows.
He wants to tell you everything. About the nightmares. About the way guilt has hardened in his chest like a scar tissue. About how hard it is to come home to a soft, warm bed after you've learned to sleep beside death. About how sometimes, when you smiled at him, he looked away not because he didn’t care—but because it hurt too much to hope.
But he doesn’t say any of it.
He takes a sip of tea. It’s scalding. Bitter. His throat burns.
He watches you spread jam on toast with careful, robotic movements before you casually reach over and add two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, and thinks—I should’ve told her sooner. I should’ve told her everything.
But he didn’t. And now, here you both are. Sitting in the ruins. Pretending it's breakfast.
There’s no music. No birdsong. Just the soft clink of ceramic and the breathing of two people who don’t know how to mourn what never had a name.
He looks at your hands—those same hands he held last night like a prayer—and wishes he could rewind time.
Just one month. One year. One heartbeat.
But he can’t.
So he lifts his fork. Cuts into the eggs. Forces himself to chew.
Because this is what it looks like, sometimes, when you try to make amends:
Burnt breakfast.
Too many silences.
A table full of ghosts.
And you—still here.
Not forgiving.
Not forgetting.
But here.
And for Zayne—for a man who’s only ever learned to grieve in private—that is a beginning worth mourning, too.
His phone vibrates against the table.
He flinches—guilt, maybe, or just the startle of being dragged out of a thought you didn’t want to leave.
You don't look up, still quietly chewing, lost in that dreamless place where sorrow goes to sleep in you like a second skin. But Zayne reaches for the phone, thumb swiping across the screen, half-expecting some emergency at the hospital. A late case. A consult. Another impossible situation to fix so he doesn’t have to fix himself.
But it’s a text from Greyson.
"You still coming to the charity gala? Need someone to block Dr. Malik from hijacking the auction with his ugly vintage duck paintings again."
He exhales—one short breath, barely a sound. The message is simple. Banter, really. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing.
He hasn’t replied to Greyson in weeks.
He hasn't thought about the gala either. Usually an excuse for donors to parade their goodwill in overpriced suits, for surgeons to trade horror stories over cocktails, for the hospital to raise enough funds to keep the rural outreach programs going another year.
Zayne’s gaze flickers upward.
You’re sipping your tea now. Still quiet. Still careful. But you’re here. Still in this kitchen. Still in his orbit.
Zayne lets a thought settle in his chest—tentative, unsteady, like a flame in high wind:
Perhaps not all is lost.
Maybe not everything has calcified into endings. Maybe not every door has shut. Maybe there's still a sliver of future that hasn’t collapsed beneath the weight of what went unsaid. You hadn’t kicked him out last night. You hadn't pulled your hand away when he clutched it like a lifeline in the dark.
And now, this. A small, ridiculous gala. The softest suggestion of routine, of life continuing.
He looks back at the message, thumb hovering over the reply field.
Maybe… maybe he could take you.
The thought startles him with its tenderness.
Would you even want to go? Would it feel like a poor excuse to make up for everything? A bandage over a bullet wound? Would you dress up just to stand beside a man who once vanished when you needed him most?
Zayne’s thumb lowers.
He doesn’t reply.
Instead, he watches you butter another piece of toast with slow, mechanical grace. He memorizes the way your lashes cast shadows down your cheeks. The way your hand trembles just slightly, like you’re barely holding yourself together.
You were so strong, always. And he—he let himself believe you didn’t need him. That your strength meant he could keep hiding inside his cold logic and call it love.
He knows better now.
Maybe it's too late to be the man you needed back then. But maybe… maybe he can still learn to be someone you don't have to heal from.
He slips the phone screen-down on the table.
Then, with hesitant hands, he reaches across the table and nudges the jar of jam closer to you. A quiet offering.
You glance at it.
He meets your eyes again.
And in that fleeting glance, something moves. The first light in a room long sealed shut.
The moment passes too quickly.
Your eyes lower again, lashes shuttering the fragile connection. You spread the jam he offered, slow and deliberate, as if trying not to let your hands betray you. Zayne watches the knife tremble ever so slightly in your grip. Not enough for someone else to notice. But he does. Of course he does.
He’s used to studying tremors for a living—on monitors, in pupils, in dying pulses beneath his palm.
And now, you.
You, trembling under all that quiet.
He clears his throat.
It’s not a loud sound, but it slices through the morning hush with a clean, surgical precision. You blink up at him, guarded again. As if waiting for him to say something devastating, or worse—dismissive.
Zayne presses his palms against the edge of the table. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t crowd you. He keeps his voice level. Gentle. Low.
“I, ah…” he starts, and immediately hates how uncertain he sounds.
You set your knife down.
Zayne exhales softly through his nose, schooling himself into coherence. He can do this. He speaks to grieving families, for God’s sake. Tells them about cardiac arrests and brain deaths and the final moments of their loved ones. He can string a sentence together.
But this—this is harder.
“The hospital is hosting its annual charity gala this weekend,” he finally says. “Greyson asked if I was coming.”
You tilt your head. Neutral. You say nothing, but he thinks you’re waiting. Letting him go on.
Zayne looks down at his mug, watching the swirl of steam curl like a vanishing thought.
“I was thinking,” he says carefully, “maybe you'd like to come with me.”
There.
He doesn’t look up immediately. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see your hesitation, your polite refusal, the way you’ll swallow your discomfort and say maybe next time when you know there won’t be one.
But then—
“Why?”
Your voice is not sharp. Not cruel. Just… tired.
Zayne looks up.
You’re watching him now, one brow faintly raised, lips parted slightly—not in expectation, but confusion. Sincere confusion. And something deeper beneath it—wariness, perhaps. The kind that comes from being wounded too many times in the same place.
He leans back in his chair. Not retreating. Just trying not to suffocate you with the closeness of his yearning.
“Because…” he begins, but the rest of the sentence gets tangled somewhere in his chest.
Because I want to be seen with you.Because I want to try again.Because I miss being beside you even when we weren’t really together.Because I can’t bear the thought of showing up alone and being reminded of what I let die between us.Because I want to be yours.
Instead, what comes out is softer. Smaller.
“Because I’d like you to be there.”
You don’t answer.
Instead, your eyes move over him—like you’re taking stock of the man across from you. Not the doctor. Not the public figure. Not the version of Zayne that the world sees. But him.
You study the way his hands are folded, the way his jaw is clenched not with arrogance but restraint. The hair still damp from his morning shower. The sleeves of his dress shirt slightly creased because he didn’t take the time to iron them.
He’s not posturing. Not performing.
He’s just… here. Holding out a hand through the quiet wreckage.
And finally—finally—your lips part.
“Is it black tie?” you ask, like you’re still testing the water, still waiting to see if this is real.
Zayne blinks.
Then breathes.
“Yes,” he says. “Full formal.”
You nod. Just once. A small thing. A quiet gesture that still manages to bloom something in his chest that almost feels like hope.
“Then I’ll need a new dress,” you murmur.
And Zayne doesn’t smile. Not fully. But something in his expression softens, loosens. The beginning of light behind stormclouds.
He knows it’s not forgiveness. But maybe, maybe—it’s the start of returning home.
Zayne finishes his tea in silence.
And as he stands to leave, brushing past your chair to take the dishes to the sink, he lets the faintest hope settle into the hollowness of his ribs.
TW: Fem!Reader, Mentions of Kidnapping + Prolonged Captivity, Mentions of Past Assault, Sleep Deprivation, Implied Food + Water Deprivation, Obsessive Behavior, Non-Graphic Violence, and Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.
[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Finale]
On your way out, you stole Jason’s bike for good measure. You’d never been on a motorcycle without him before, but you couldn’t really bring yourself to care about crashing, and you’d picked up a few things in those long, boring days you were forced to pass watching the Wayne family live their short, dangerous lives. Either way, you’d pretty much gotten the hang of it by the time you crossed the state border.
You couldn’t afford to waste time on sleep. Energy drinks and coffee were enough to keep you awake on an empty stomach. You traded the bike for an ancient junker as you passed through Maryland and again in Washington DC, to a woman you met in a diner named Selina. She was laughing as she handed over the keys to a car nicer than you deserved. Exhausted, starving, and paranoid, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to ask what she found so funny.
Keeping track of Bruce wasn’t hard. Even in the most rural areas, tabloids reported sightings of his private jet religiously, and more reputable magazines stolen off convenience store racks kept you updated on his business trips, in-person deals, and charity events. Batman’s activity lulled, growing sporadic as a laundry list of his b-rated sidekicks attempted to fill the void. You’d give it about a month, maybe two before Gotham devolved violently enough for him to call off the search. It left a bitter taste in your mouth – knowing how willing he was to put the safety of his city aside when it was his peace of mind in danger.
The trip took longer than it had to, mostly because of your stubborn refusal to use any road they so much as might be able to track you on. You spent Jason’s money on gas when you could, food when you had to, and motels when your body threatened to break down if not properly rested. The only time you stopped for longer than a few minutes, it was in a by-the-hour inn on the outskirts of a larger city. You made the mistake of using your real name, of forgetting to barricade your door before collapsing into the creaking, yellowed mattress.
By the time you rolled over, Cassandra was perched on the foot of your bed.
You managed to pretend you were asleep for all of a second before Cassandra turned her head a little too quickly, a little too smoothly, and you were falling out of bed, scrambling to the far wall just to put that much more distance between you and her.
Like an idiot, you’d left your gun in your car. Defenseless and paralyzed, it was all you could do to meet her eyes as she stared you down.
“Is Bruce—”
“In Montreal. Tim thought you might try to cross the border.” Her tone was impassive, and the darkness hid most of her expression. She’d made it here before sunrise, meaning it was still the best time of day to drag someone unwilling back to somewhere they didn’t want to be. “Not happy. Jason is…”
She trailed off. You tried to fill in the gaps. “Jason is alive?”
The beat of silence that followed made it clear that wouldn’t have been her choice of words. Still, she nodded. “Alive. Angry. Dick, too.”
Your mind was a haven for contradictory thoughts. That was terrible. That was great. The guilt was practically eating you alive. You hope they both spent the rest of their lives as miserable as they made you.
“Do you hate us?”
Last time she’d asked, Stephanie had been there to answer for you, to smooth over any worries with chirped platitudes and easy humor. Now, the question hung in the air. You let your gaze fall to the ground.
“I can’t go back.” Your voice sounded hollow. “I can’t be forced to do something that’ll break me, again and again. I won’t let myself live like that.”
Cassandra hummed. You heard the mattress creak, her feet pad against the carpeted floor. “You should leave. Dick will be here in…” She paused. “Soon. He’ll be here soon.”
You didn’t bother responding. It took you long, precious second to skirt around the edges of the room, careful never to get within arm’s reach of her. You were behind the wheel before the adrenaline faded. Cassandra watched from the doorway, her eyes locked on your vehicle until you were too far to track.
~
You arrived in Kanas not long after. The farmhouse wasn’t hard to find, if a little out of your way. You only had to knock twice before a tall man opened the door, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose.
He smiled when he saw you – that softened, sympathetic type of smile you might pull out when you find an abandoned kitten or a stray dog. You could understand why. You looked like shit. The motel room had been your last stop. That was two days ago, now.
“Sorry to bother you,” you offered, clinging to your last few scraps of decency. “Are you Superman?”
Your abject horror must’ve been apparent. He rushed to apologize. “Sorry, sorry, I—uh, I recognize your heartbeat. He used to tap it out during League meetings.”
If you’d had anything in your stomach, you might’ve felt sick. “Is your wife home?”
“We were just about to sit down for dinner.” And then, all Southern manners and country charm, “Care to join us?”
You gave yourself thirty minutes. Fifteen to eat, ten to show their youngest son (and, by association, the grumpy teenager pretending not to watch) a magic trick you’d learned in college, and five to pull Lois aside and recite all the Wayne Enterprise passwords, back-doors, and poorly encrypted private forums you knew. You tried to make a hasty escape, but Clark caught you by the shoulder, asked about the rest of your trip, mentioned that their guestroom could use some company. It didn’t seem like he was willing to take no for an answer.
For the first time since leaving Jason’s apartment, you got eight beautiful, heavenly, uninterrupted hours of dreamless sleep. The Kents’ shower was similarly orgasmic, and you savored every second you spent under the scalding hot water, secure in the knowledge that the only door was well and truly locked.
All good things had to come to an end eventually, though. You should’ve known that by now.
Your paradise cracked and broke open the moment you stepped out of the bathroom. Leaning against the bedroom door, jaw set and eyes narrowed, was Dick.
In hindsight, you could only be thankful he was alone.
He was blocking the only exit – obviously, obviously. Screaming never occurred to you. Instead, you lunged for the gun on your bedside table, and he let you, never once moving to get in your way. It was until you had a finger on the trigger that he stepped toward you, closing the distance before you could think to shoot.
“Do it.” A fist curled around the barrel, a tug forward. He pressed the muzzle to his chest, and you felt your hands begin to shake. “You left Jason with lead under his skin. You gave him something to remember you by. Were the rest of us not worth it? Was he the only one you could stand to have thinking about you?”
“I never wanted to hurt anyone.” It was true. You still didn’t, if you were being honest. You didn’t want to spend the rest of your life living under the weight of one more thing Bruce and his fucked-up family pushed you to. “Please, let—”
“You think this doesn’t fucking hurt?” He was raising his voice, now. Cassandra was right. You’d never seen him angrier. “We were going to get married, sweetheart. We were going to leave together. Now Bruce doesn’t want us so much as saying your name and you—” He stopped suddenly, shaking his head. “No, no, that’s not your fault. None of this is. You were scared, right? Jason scared you. You felt like it wasn’t safe to wait for me, and—”
“Dick,” you cut in, tone warning. “I left because I had to. And you need to—”
“—take you home, I know.” His hand flexed around your gun. The ghost of a smile passed over his blank expression, but it wasn’t enough to dull his anger. “Where the others can’t bother us. But they’re going to come looking, aren’t they? We’ll need something to keep them away, to show them we’re in love.”
His hand dropped lower, the other darting up. He cupped your hands in his over the grip, hold tight enough to bruise. “Let’s have a—”
There was a blur of movement, then the sound of something blunt hitting something solid. One second, Dick stood in front of you, and the next, he was crumpled on the ground, unconscious and hair matted with blood. The grumpy teenager, Conner, stood in his place, fist still raised just above where Dick’s head would’ve been.
“Sorry about that, ma’am. There’s a change of clothes for you in the kitchen – Lois’ stuff. Clark managed to get the tracker off of your car, too. Along with most of the rear bumper.” His attention fell back to Dick. “What a freak. Want me to…?”
He made a vague gesture, something involving his eyes and Dick’s crotch. You considered it for a second, but shook your head. “No, I just—I just need a couple more days to get where I’m going. Do you think you can keep him here, or… I don’t know, send him in the wrong direction?”
Conner grinned. “Oh, I can make sure he stays put.”
He threw you a two-finger salute, and you returned the gesture. A few miles down the road, you changed into Lois’ hand-me-downs, throwing out the clothes from Bruce’s wardrobe in a gas-station dumpster. You felt lighter, like you’d gotten rid of the last remnants of him. You felt more like yourself.
You felt better.
~
You didn’t stop again until you reached California. You ditched your car in a public parking lot and spent the rest of Jason’s cash on a train into Gateway City.
The air smelled like rain, salt, and fresh paint. You walked the streets for hours before you found the apartment complex you were looking for, and lingered in the lobby for another forty-five minutes before you saw her – black hair, blue eyes, weathered tan. She looked like she had someplace to be, all neutral focus and quiet intensity, but she paused when she saw you tentatively approaching.
She waited for you to speak, despite how long it took you to swallow your nerves. “Dr. Diana Prince?” She nodded curtly, and you tried not to choke on your own relief. “I’m from Gotham. Wayne Manor, specifically.”
“I know. Kent called ahead.”
How he’d known to, you couldn’t imagine. You’d told him you were going to the North Pole. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk. Privately. I have something I’d like to ask you for.”
Something flashed across her expression. Curiosity, maybe. Interest. “It’ll have be quick. I have to be at the docks in a few minutes.”
You couldn’t bite back your smile. “Trying something new?”
“Heading home, actually.” She turned to face you properly. “It’s a quaint little island. They’re very welcoming to travelers, but compared to someplace like Gotham, I’m afraid you won’t find much to do.”
“I think I’ve had enough of Gotham, for a while.” You were beaming, now. You dug your teeth into your cheek, doing your best to keep your cool. “That is, if you’re willing to put up with a guest?”
For the first time, she returned your smile. You did your best to be objective, to be wary, to be careful, but if there were any fangs behind her lips, any desire to make you into anything you weren’t in her eyes, you couldn’t find it.
Honestly, when you looked at her, all you could seem to feel was safe.
PAIRING: Yandere!Caleb x Psychotherapist!Reader
CW: SFW but MATURE, manipulation, yandere, obsessive/possessive/controlling behaviour, grotesque descriptions, descriptions of gore, suicide, implied murder, stalking, trauma, mental illness, just a heavy fic in general, mild swearing, Fem!Reader.
SUMMARY: When her childhood friend spirals into a paradox of obsession and madness, who could mend his fractured mind better than her? Utilizing her years of expertise, she is determined to bring him back. But can one play with fire without scorching their skin? Can she unravel his mind before he devours hers?
WORD COUNT: 31k words.
DISCLAIMER: Although you are free to view this as dead dove or dark romance, I am not romanticising such behaviour. I'm simply telling a dark story for the sake of telling a dark story. This is merely a psychological thriller written for the fun of it. Heavy content ahead, be warned.
A/N: Helloo!! Sorry for being super inactive!! I hit a writing slump and when I’d recovered from it, I started this fic (or, more accurately, I started writing this fic in order to flee from writer’s block.) I wanted to work on my other sylus fic but I kept mixing the character’s personalities up. I’m usually great at multitasking but not when it comes to writing it seems. I had exams, my mother got sick halfway through ramadan, I was fasting and constantly exhausted, and yeah. (Yes, I am Muslim!) Anyways, the idea for this fic was something akin to a shower thought. I changed my writing style a bit. Basically went from uhh poetic(?) to more mordern. So I don’t know how I did. Any criticism or feedback is appreciated!!
He was always like this, wasn’t he?
You twirled your pen between your fingers as you glared out the open window into the faces of buildings looming high. A warm westerly breeze wafted through the opening, swirling the bittersweet scent of coffee throughout the room. A long, white couch sat at the other end of yours, bearing a small, fresh dent on its right corner—left by the last patient of the day. That decade-old piece of furniture had been in your office for as long as you could recall. It had shouldered the weight of various troubled souls who would rush to you at the first hint of distress. They would barge in, plop themselves down on the exact same side of the sofa, and pour their worries out.
For hours, you would sit still with a notebook in your hands, gazing out that very same window as if your ears had not caught a word. And once they’d stop, you would turn to them with a smile.
“I see. Well, let’s start from the beginning.”
Many came with a burdened frown, and all left with their heads lifted high. That was the quality of your service—the merit of having abandoned the role of a renowned criminologist to settle for a mere clinical psychotherapist. It was a far more peaceful life, where you only needed to contend with the usual afflictions of mental health. You’d say it suited you better. It was far kinder to your body and soul to study the boundaries of the mind rather than the savagery of crime. Because if you were truly competent enough to retain your position as a criminologist, you would have noticed sooner, wouldn’t you?
Your pen stilled in your hand.
You had studied the faces of many. Cheaters, narcissists, the apathetic, the antisocial—you had seen it all and more. During your brief tenure as a criminologist, you had worked with the most wretched criminals. A deranged, delusional son who had donned the skin of his mother shortly after gutting her alive, a schizophrenic woman who had splattered her husband’s brains across her grotesque painting, and countless men and women who displayed heightened symptoms of obsessive and abusive behaviour towards their partners.
And yet, you missed it.
There was a saying that we normalise the odd behaviour of those closest to us to such an extent that their misdoings and concerning actions fly off our radar without a hitch. Our paths were so intertwined with theirs that we saw no reason to stop and ponder—Hey, could this be a sign of mental illness?
You supposed you had fallen into the same dilemma. He had sat before you your entire life—from adolescence to the moment higher education set you apart, he had always been there. Even as you pursued your double majors, Caleb’s botched mental evaluation exam had not raised any red flags in your mind.
“Oh, it’s a flawed test. You of all people should know that someone’s mental health can’t be determined by a simple questionnaire.”
And regrettably, you believed him. He made a good point, after all. A simple questionnaire said nothing about someone’s true psyche.
But still, you regretted not questioning—Is it even possible to fail so miserably?
You should have checked his answers. Such an oversight had cost you the surprise of finding out in... such a way. And now that you looked back and reevaluated your interactions with him, the markers became clear.
“The people that want to hurt you? They should all just—” his gaze burned through your skull, “—disappear.”
“I don’t need your protection. I’m fine on my own.”
He scoffed, eyes brimming with betrayal.
“You don’t need me? Is that what you think?”
Your lips trembled as you sank deeper into the plush of the couch, forced down by his presence. With one arm, he caged you between his body and the cushions.
“Alright, what do you want? You can tell me.”
You knocked his forearm weakly. “Caleb, calm down—”
“We can return to Linkon if that’s what you want. We’ll rebuild our old house. And if one house isn’t enough, I’ll build you a whole maze.”
Like a fish out of water, you thrashed about, only to still once realisation dawned on you—
He was speaking to you with unfiltered, bare words. There would not be another chance like this. Now was the perfect time to capitalise on his raw and vulnerable state.
You pursed your lips. Caleb’s finger trailed across your jaw.
“I’ll decorate it with whatever you want. It will be the most stunning garden you’ve ever seen.”
You emptied your gaze, donning the familiar facade of a professional, objective psychotherapist. You scrutinised him as he spoke. You picked up on the subtle crack of his voice, the tears threatening to form, the gentle firmness of his grip. This was him—the true, raw him. How could you not have noticed sooner?
In hindsight, the signs were present. Possessiveness, obsession, strategic control—traits you would have easily identified in a client. He thought of himself as clever. And he was right. To the general public, Caleb was beyond cunning. A force to be reckoned with.
But you had seen worse. You had dissected minds far more twisted than his. You were confident in your abilities—you could unravel him, strip him bare once more, and deliver the final blow with cautious precision. Patients often believed themselves to be indecipherable, an enigma buried in the sands of time.
Yet they forgot that doctors such as yourself had wasted half their lives preparing for them. No matter how savage or twisted one may be, you were trained to make people collapse at the slightest pull of their heartstrings.
The only reason behind your incompetence had been simple—familiarity breeds blind spots, and Caleb was all too familiar to you. You regretted not having picked up on it sooner. Now, all your analyses pointed to the same result. He was severely disturbed and in urgent need of therapeutic intervention.
And who was more qualified to deliver just that than you?
This was what you had studied for, was it not? With your combined expertise in both psychology and criminology, you could corner Caleb into spilling his woes. You could fix him. He thought himself untouchable, but you had spent years preparing for men like him.
You tilted your head and glanced at the brightly coloured strip of paper sitting atop your desk. Tickets. To Skyhaven. You could finally see him.
You smiled. How long had it been? A couple of months, perhaps? Since your last visit to Skyhaven, Caleb had not hesitated to check up on you daily. As if unbothered by your reluctance to respond, he left small texts floating in your inbox. Simple formalities—How are you feeling? Have you eaten well?—all left on read. You could practically see the fireworks erupt in his violet eyes the moment you finally responded—
“I’m coming over tomorrow. Do you mind?”
Like an overjoyed pup granted his favourite treat, he swarmed your chat with various emoticons. ‘Are you on vacation? :0’ ‘When are you coming?’ ‘Should I make dinner?’
Despite your best efforts at denial, you couldn’t shake the flutter in your chest at his care and enthusiasm.
If only he had remained the same.
If only he were the boy you once knew, you wouldn’t have to resort to such measures.
Your pulse quickened as your fingers brushed across the ticket’s surface.
You were really doing this, weren’t you? Playing with fire, confident in your eventual triumph. In your field, patience was key.
You would untangle him thread by thread. And when he collapsed, you could embrace him once more. Not as a cruel, restrictive monster, but as the warm boy you had always known.
It was only a matter of time.
“Please stand clear of the doors,” a robotic female voice buzzed. “Next stop, Skyhaven.”
You planted yourself against the hard plastic chairs, clutching a phone that idled on a conversation.
“I’m on the train.”
“I’ll be there to pick you up :D”
You stuffed your phone back into your bag. With a loud whir, the train began to move. Your body swayed to the side as it accelerated, pressing you against a metal pole. In just a few hours, you would reach Skyhaven. And he would be there, waiting for you with that big grin plastered across his face—the grin that once lifted you off your feet, whose irony you had now begun to despise. It was the very same expression that would trick the masses.
Girls lined up against high school lockers would swoon over it. But what they didn’t know was that his radiant smile was merely a distraction meant to deter them from the way his eyes, no matter what obstruction emerged before him, would always be locked on you. His warm violet hues would burn through your skull as you led him through the hallways, chatting away obliviously. Back then, you had shrugged it off. He was just expressing care, you thought. You were afraid of crowds back then. He was just looking out for you. It was in your best interest, right? If only you had known.
You should have questioned. You should have known better.
But your high school days were well behind you. What stood now were two matured adults with a strained relationship, engaged in a ruthless game of chess—a game he did not yet realise he was a participant in.
But that only gave you the upper hand. When dealing with patients who would exploit your vulnerability and love for them, having a head start was almost a necessity. Sure, you were certain you’d come out on top eventually. But your work had taught you to tread gingerly nonetheless. When navigating the confines of a person’s mind, every micromovement of yours could cause the whole structure to crumble. No matter how accomplished a psychotherapist is, they are bound to experience massive turbulence in the field of their work.
And you had come prepared accordingly.
You reached into your bag to retrieve a worn, leather-backed journal. It had no labels. Only a brown, thick covering with a matching strap. A blue strip with a metal piece on its end hung loosely from the bottom. It was a bookmark. Old, worn—the fabric of the strip had gone dirty. It was stained with splotches of brown, with an array of torn threads poking out from a corner.
You turned to the first page. It was dated three years ago.
You swiftly flipped through the rest of the pages until you landed on nothing. Somewhere around the middle of the journal, there was a cluster of blank pages stapled together. With a moment of reconciliation, you thumbed through the stapled pages.
Harrison Roan.
A small smile graced your lips. You had, in fact, snatched the correct one before departing.
You traced your hurried handwriting, skimming over the words. You stopped at the small paragraph below the margin—the ‘final comment’.
Patient remains evasive and reluctant to engage in cooperative dialogue. He exhibits obsessive tendencies when discussing his partner, demonstrating patterns of control consistent with Machiavellian protection. His behaviour suggests a state of limerence, accompanied by coercive control over his loved ones. Obsessive-compulsive personality traits are observed, raising suspicion of OCPD. Therapy is recommended for further evaluation and intervention.
Back during your time at the Linkon Criminal Psychiatric Facility, you were assigned as Harrison’s primary psychotherapist. He was accused of abducting and imprisoning his lover, Anne Lotte. Anne underwent severe emotional abuse and manipulation. For a short period of three months, you were assigned to her as well. But before you could make any progress, she had thrown herself off the facility’s roof.
It was devastating, the state you found her in. Anne’s mind was completely mangled. There was a dark fog clouding her conscience. You doubted even a piercing sharp beam of light could pass through to her. She was unresponsive, silent, rendered dead; almost as if her mind had gone senile. Her situation filled you with revulsion. Ten years of imprisonment and psychological torture could destroy one’s psyche so brutally that even after they had regained their freedom, the light of hope would fail to reach their eyes.
You refused to be a victim of the same tragedy, and you refused to let Caleb walk the same path of insanity. Beyond all, you loved him. You wouldn’t leave him be and watch as he slowly abolished himself. You would not let the same tragedy occur once more. And perhaps Harrison’s case was the key. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from here.
“Skyhaven. Doors will open from the left.”
You shut your journal and lazily shoved it back into the depths of your bag. A flock of passengers stood, ready to hurl themselves out the moment the door slid open. You recoiled in your seat with a sigh. You’d just go once the crowd had dimmed.
Placing your chin in your hand, you looked out the window and peered through the crowds, fishing for Caleb. Your pulse fluttered as you saw him stare back at you with that signature smile of his—boyish, handsome… eerie. A chill shot up your spine. There was something about this ‘new’ him you could not explain. Something you couldn’t wrap your head around.
Something that frightened you.
You beamed through the glass, the brightest smile you could muster, and raised your palm to wave at him feverishly. Collecting your belongings in a frenzy, you rushed out the door, only to be met by the solid wall of his chest.
“Oof—” You rubbed your forehead. The man before you broke into a fit of gentle laughter and ruffled the top of your head. “Were you that excited to see me?”
You shot him a sheepish smile. He returned your gesture.
“Here, let me help with those.” He hoisted one of your bags over his shoulder and beckoned for you to follow. You took after him shortly after, skipping over to him with glee.
“Soo… why the sudden visit?” Caleb mused. You raised your head to look him in the eye. “I got a vacation, and…”
He cocked an eyebrow. “And?”
“There are… never mind. Can I tell you once we’re alone?” You could feel the way his heartbeat hastened without needing to touch him. It made your stomach knot in retaliation.
“Alright. Sounds good.”
The two of you hauled your way to the car. Before you could nestle yourself in the spacious backseat, he rushed in front of you to swing open the door to the passenger seat. He gestured for you.
Your eyes glinted with mischief. “Oh?”
“The finest service from yours truly.”
Damnit, that smooth imbecile.
Defeated (yet not yielding), you slid into the passenger seat and waited as he loaded your luggage into the trunk of the car. Once sure nobody was looking, you pried open your bag and inspected the journal inside. Phew. You hadn’t abandoned it on the train.
“Forget something?” You jumped. Your head whipped to the head peeking in from the crack of the car door. A shudder crept up your spine at the empty expression plastered on his face and the way his eyes gave away nothing. The grin was absent from his lips. With lingering unease, you forced your muscles to relax. “I just thought I left my phone behind.”
The warmth returned to his gaze. “Sorry for scarin’ ya.” He ruffled your hair affectionately. You shook your head. “No, it’s fine.”
The drive was quiet, with you engulfed in your paranoia regarding whether or not you should say what you’d sworn to tell Caleb, and him consumed by God-knows-what. The way he fixed his gaze on the road up ahead, not once looking back or giving you a sliver of his attention, perplexed you. What was he so invested in?
“So,” Caleb started, snapping you out of your domain of thought, “What were you gonna say?”
You bit the inside of your cheek and forced yourself to don a neutral tone. “I wanted to…” Fingers deftly played with the hem of your shirt. “Fix things.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Between us. Because, you know.”
The world stilled. You subconsciously hugged your bag tighter against yourself, anticipating all sorts of responses he could give. Would he stay silent? No. Not his style. He would…
Caleb smiled. “So, you want to start over?” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Can’t say for sure whether I can be the Caleb you want.”
An opening.
You mustered the kindest simper you could and shook your head. “I was thinking… rather than rebuilding our past, we try and make peace with the new versions of each other.”
There was silence. And then, a glint in his eye. His shoulders slumped against the leather seat. The weight dimmed from the air, leaving only a soothing quietude—the calm after the storm had passed. It was almost like the old days.
Almost.
“Sounds good to me.” His mask returned. Contrary to his words, this version of Caleb was unfeeling. Even now, he refused to let you in. He blocked you out with that fire—that crackling lukewarm grin, that blazing radiance he bore. Warm like the sun, and just as deadly as it, and almost impenetrable.
But you could see the cracks that ran through that frigid surface. Earth crumbles fast. And no matter how sturdy the soil, the right amount of water could dampen it just enough for you to dig through.
You would reach him. You were sure. And you would save him just as you should’ve saved yourself.
Caleb helped you unload in front of his house, reaching the bags faster than you could and hauling them over his shoulder before you could protest. Admittedly, it was these small gestures of fondness that allured you to him in the first place. A trap, you thought. Only a front to mask his true twisted nature.
“Are you gonna conquer my room again?” he teased. You stopped in your tracks, turning to scrutinize all the barren rooms. A thought arose, one you desperately tried to shove to the back of your brain. Had you let your fear of him affect you so much that you would begin to lose your mind over the simple choice of rooms?
You took a deep breath and raised your finger, pointing at his room. You looked at him and grinned. “Why not? Your bed is the comfiest.”
Caleb would fall for it, wouldn’t he? The thought of you inhaling his scent, residing where he did—it was far too intimate for his mind to fathom. And the privilege of having your scent rubbed all across his bedsheets, in his balcony, in the mugs you used and the plates you discarded; you were making an offer a lovesick mind like his could not refuse.
You rejoiced internally at the sight of his face. The widening of his eyes, the contraction of his pupils, the subtle twitch of his lips—something awoke in him. Something fearful—a horned monster with gleaming red eyes clutched his heart. It was your indication that you’d won.
“Alright, alright,” Caleb mused. “Whatever the lady wants, she shall get.”
And with that, you successfully seized his room.
They say that one’s room is a reflection of one’s mind. They being you, of course, alongside a few other studies that emerged following the publication of your own. A great deal can be discerned from the mere face of a room—the way its occupant arranges their bedsheets, the colours they favour, the state everything is in, the organisation of furniture and possessions, the things they treasure enough to keep within these walls. From mental state to relationship status, all could be dissected from a single glance at a room and its arrangement.
You didn’t believe Caleb foolish enough to leave incriminating evidence strewn about. If anything had been there, he would have tidied up days before you set foot in Skyhaven. He preferred to keep details of his field of work discreet. You assumed it stemmed from an unwillingness to "corrupt" what he held sacred—sacralisation, perhaps? Disturbing when done to a human, yet not uncommon. You had encountered such cases before, and no matter how many you worked on, each left a familiar sinking feeling in your gut.
Knowing that, you never expected to find anything concrete in his room. But that wasn’t your intention.
You unpacked, arranging your belongings on the bed. Your journal rested on his desk. Of course, there was a risk in choosing to stay here. If you left your journal lying about and he happened to enter on a whim (which he had every right to; it was his room, after all), you would be exposed almost instantly. What excuse could you offer for analysing patients from three years ago, especially while on holiday? Worse, if his eyes caught the blue thread marking the pages where you had written about Harrison, he would connect the dots at once. What would he do then? Banish you? Grow cold? Or something worse?
You didn’t want to think about it.
Regardless, it was a risk you were willing to take. Consequences only existed if you faltered first. You were far more interested in what his room revealed about his mental state. Was it irrefutable evidence? No. But you weren’t on duty. This was a personal investigation—here, proof could be as subjective as you pleased. The only jury was yourself.
The bed was impeccably made, yet a thin layer of dust coated the duvet—a symptom of neglect. Still, there were signs that he had attempted to prepare. The neatly arranged cosmetics on the vanity, the dusted balcony with its watered plants, the stocked bird feeder swaying gently from the ceiling, the polished bathroom with its dry, tiled floors. They spoke of the care he had taken to render the space habitable for you.
It was your belief that people tidied before the arrival of guests to mask the unguarded fragments of themselves, those revealed in the dim solitude of their rooms. You could sense the effort he had poured into creating an illusion of warmth. His room practically welcomed you. Little hints of life were scattered throughout, almost as if to weave a mirage of normalcy.
"When we move in together in the future, what kind of room do you want?"
You lifted your chin, humming in thought. "Oh! I know! I want a lively room!"
"You mean colourful and vibrant?"
You shook your head. "No, dummy. A warm room! One that looks lived in."
Had he remembered your words? Back then, you had merely been a child. You had no true grasp of what you were saying, lacked the linguistic skills to articulate your thoughts. And yet, he remembered. Or perhaps it was simply instinct—after all, any normal person would feel more comfortable in a space that had been occupied before.
Despite his meticulous efforts, something betrayed it all.
You ran a fingertip across the duvet, picking up dirt. He had forgotten to tend to the bed. You could see it now—the bed, untouched for so long, had appeared so pristine that it had entirely slipped his notice. That very perfection had made him overlook it. And you might have as well, had it not been for the red welts that bloomed upon contact.
That told you more than you had expected. So consumed with work, he had dehumanised himself. Yet, instead of confronting it, instead of seeking help, he had merely painted over the cracks and prayed you would not notice.
Caleb was underestimating you. And that would be his undoing.
As both a therapist and a friend, it was your duty to halt his descent before it could begin.
Breakfast was served a bit late, around the time you’d usually make it for yourself back at home. Flatbread stuffed with meat and cheese—slightly indulgent, you’d say, but filling and undeniably delicious. Especially when put together by his hands. The savoury aroma wafted through the kitchen. You sat near the counter, devouring the bread in bites that left your mouth stuffed and puffy. Caleb laughed at the sight. But what could you do? After all, you were obsessed with his culinary prowess.
Although, you would admit, it was hard to focus on the food when his eyes were practically glued to you, unmoving and unwavering. A chill crept through your limbs but was quickly swallowed by the sudden burst of flavour in your mouth.
“How is it?”
You mumbled incoherent words through your full cheeks.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
No matter how vastly he changed, one thing remained constant—his food. It hadn’t changed a bit. The taste carried the same warmth it once had, the same lingering aftertaste of his signature seasoning. A silly thought popped into your mind—what if that were to change as well? A ridiculous notion. But then again, art changes as the artist does.
“Do you eat well while you’re on duty?”
Caleb looked out the window and hummed. His gaze averted yours. “Does cafeteria food count as ‘eating well’?”
“…Not really.” You smiled. Why did he look away?
You pinched his arm. “Look at you—you’re going to grow frail and weak!”
Caleb flinched before wincing dramatically, forcing a chuckle. “Really? Guess I gotta start eating well, huh?” He paused, glancing at his arm. “Or else someone’s gonna be breathing down my neck even when we’re apart.”
With a tilt of your head, you nodded. “I’ll scold you every time I’m back.”
“If it means seeing you more ofte—ow!” You pinched a thin layer of his flesh and twisted it.
“I can see those evil schemes swirling around in your brain. Cut it out! Or do you want me to punch you?”
Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Oh, whatever am I to do?”
Despite the playful spark in his eyes, you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze flickered toward the compartment beneath the counter. He shifted, positioning his body over the gap so you were unable to steal a glance even if you tried.
You tilted your head and hummed. Interesting. It was best not to let him know you’d caught on.
You swallowed the last bits of your food with a mug of icy water. “Once you’re weak, I’ll craft a ploy to seize your position. The fleet’s going to have a new Colonel soon!” Smirking slyly, you puffed out your chest with mock confidence.
An unexpected tension settled in the air. You noted the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched at the word Colonel. A fleeting, alien emotion flickered behind his violet eyes, only to be swiftly dimmed by his sudden grin. That same, insufferable grin that guarded the entrance before you could step into his mind. His way of shutting you out.
He poked your arm and chuckled. “I’ll be looking forward to it, Colonel.” A palm rose to his head in an exaggerated salute.
Why was he so jumpy today?
Later, sometime during the afternoon, you dragged Caleb out for a casual tour of Skyhaven. “Show me your favourite places to relax!” you’d said with a beam. That was all it took for him to crumble to his knees.
He led you to a sky-based retreat (well, you were already in the sky, but still) situated atop a towering skyscraper that dwarfed all others of its kind. It was a behemoth of a building—a monolithic structure plated with heavily tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows on all four faces. The epitome of a modern yet intimidating corporate monolith. A lake surrounded it on three sides, and the only way in was via a vast bridge, sturdy enough to withstand the heaviest of cargo-bearing trucks, looping around the entire strip of land.
The apex was swallowed by cotton-white clouds. The last few floors vanished into the fog, dissolving from view. Despite the presence of splendid and meticulously maintained gardens throughout, only a few workers strolled about. Even with the meticulously architected bridges, barely any cars were to be seen. Only the distant rattle of golf buggies echoed in the air. Save for the occasional chirps and the gentle woosh of water below, it was eerily quiet.
You contemplated asking Caleb about it, but for some reason, your inability to piece it together on your own gnawed at you, filling you with a bitter pride. It should be easier than a murder case. Why were you fumbling? This was supposed to be your first real move. How could you falter before even setting your plan into motion?
None of the workers paid any real attention to the two of you as you stepped through the main entrance. Only a few odd glances followed. Caleb seemed to be a regular here. They all seemed at ease with his presence.
The elevator ride was a gruelling one. You could swear it took five whole minutes just to exceed the twentieth floor. Caleb argued it had only been forty seconds. It felt longer, nonetheless. Normally, a crowded elevator would have preoccupied you. You would have found yourself enthralled by the faces and mannerisms of the passers-by—the twenty-something man in a black suit, the unusually silent boy with bruises on his arms, the seemingly unfazed elderly woman with a deep-set frown. Insignificant to most, yet to you, endlessly fascinating.
For instance, the furrow on the businessman’s brow suggested he was late for work. The bruises on the boy’s body spoke of a heartwarming heroism, evident in the little girl beside him who thanked him ceaselessly (though, judging by his expression, he had definitely received an earful from his guardian). And the irritable old woman—well, she was quite clearly the one who had placed a zipper on the boy’s mouth.
What seemed forgettable to others was precious to you, and as long as there was company, you found solace.
But here, there wasn’t. Other than Caleb, of course. And unfortunately, you couldn’t exactly stare at him for the entire ride. You’d rather not resemble a mad doctor dissecting a newly discovered organism. Still, you couldn’t deny it—he was far more interesting than any stranger.
So, you stared at him anyway. Luckily for you, he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps because he was too preoccupied, gazing out the transparent sheet of glass with a small smile on his lips. He seemed to be in a good state of mind. That was good. Otherwise, things had a slim chance of escalating into an argument. Nothing you couldn’t handle, just something you’d rather avoid. Or else, he’d pierce through your façade faster than you intended.
The doors slid open with a hiss. Beams of warm light spilled through, hitting your face and causing you to squint. The entryway, constructed of flimsy straw structures, was adorned with threads of vines creeping up and down the walls. Sunlight dripped through the holes in the patchwork roof, glinting cruelly beyond the tapestry, shining down with all its might—an act of savagery against your poor eyes. Thankfully, the vines shielded you from its full assault.
You tilted your head. A woman—uniformed, with a strict look on her face—stood beside the entrance with an immaculate posture. A familiar hat sat low on her head, guarding her eyes from both the intense heat and light. The utter lack of emotion in her gaze sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.
You glanced up at Caleb. He was unfazed by her presence, as if she were a mere colleague or a guard standing by. But she wasn’t the latter. You could tell by the uniform.
With your hand in his, he strode up to the woman. She offered a curt salute in response. “Colonel.”
“We would like to enter.” His voice was cold, a stark contrast to the way his thumb tenderly grazed over yours.
The woman turned to you. Her head tilted as she scrutinised you with a wary gaze. Then, she nodded. “Right this way.”
You were sure of it now. This was a private building, accessible only to high-ranking members of the Farspace fleet. You supposed such an arduous job had its benefits. Well, this was the least they could offer to those who put their lives on the line each day, fighting for yet more senseless bloodshed. This place was built upon a mixture of blood and sweat.
You grimaced. It felt wrong to stand upon this ground. If you squinted, you could see them—corpses strewn across the floor, brain matter splattered across the walls. Your stomach coiled. What a pathetic way to live—to be crowned in blood and sit upon a throne of bloodied cash, chest brimming with pride, belly full of greed, smirking down upon the famished.
You turned to face Caleb. You supposed he wasn’t too different from those people. And yet, you had forgotten all about it until now. He was truly a master at forging a harmless appearance, a welcoming front. Even now, a part of you refused to see him that way.
You supposed you were guilty as well. You had accepted your position as his plus-one without hesitation and accompanied him to such a place. It was hypocritical to persecute him while standing upon the faces of corpses, declaring yourself the selfless hero.
Such was the nature of humans.
The woman led you through the delicate gate. Caleb dragged you along. The first time you laid your eyes on the garden, your world stilled.
Words could not describe how breathtaking yet melancholic the sight before you was. If you were to attempt to jot it down on a piece of paper, you would be stuck on the first word. Unlike your initial beliefs, the botanical garden was not encased in glass. It should’ve been obvious from the torture you’d endured—the perpetrator being the sadistic, open sun. Maybe it was the awe of it all that heightened your perplexity.
The flowering meadows, the perfectly trimmed patches of fresh, green grass, the symmetrical, square-shaped ponds, the pair of birds feeding from the birdbath, the cascading artificial waterfalls—you didn’t know which one of them struck you the deepest. Or maybe it was the overly maintained religious sculptures—the one depicting a winged woman, angel or devil, with a honeycomb for her face—or the concerningly clean walkways, or the flawlessly aligned roses in the rose gardens that seemed a little too well-kept, stealing away the ‘wild’ and ‘natural’ vibe of your typical botanical garden.
The sky above was a whirlwind of blues, whites, subtle purples, and a dominant yellow-white. A soft breeze cascaded past, threading through the strands of your hair and dancing along your skin. It was cool and pleasant—perfectly so. Like the soft spring breeze that blows in February, or the afternoon wind at the shore of a river. It was just right. The perfect temperature to lull you to sleep.
Your mind winded back to the afternoons you spent with Caleb under your backyard’s willow tree. The breeze there would blow just as strikingly as it did here. Leaves would flutter down onto your face, only to be brushed aside by Caleb’s warm fingers. You would spend several hours lying there with him. Whether it was to complete your homework (of course, you slacked off and lured him into an endless chat instead) or flip through a book, he would always be there, brimming with that brotherly tenderness of his. It made up for your lack of a father figure in your life—Grandma Josephine being your only guardian.
Your heart ached at the memory. Maybe he hadn’t changed at all. Even then, Caleb harboured one major purpose—to protect what he loved, you, and to cherish it to the fullest. You had a hunch—what if that mysterious chip in his brain did not alter him entirely, but only heightened his preexisting instincts? But still. You found it hard to believe that the chip could truly rewire his brain so severely. You refused to believe such contraband existed. The mind is a fragile thing. It’s not so easy to suppress its power. Although all factual data pointed towards only a little portion of his brain remaining untouched, you firmly believed it was a front.
Maybe, among his emotions lay one that would be easy to utilise, to take control of and provoke so that he abided by their rules. And the only emotion so easy to manoeuvre—his only weakness—was his love for you. If you hadn’t been born…
“It’s… wow,” you let out an audible gasp. Your eyes twinkled with stars. On your heels, you spun around, imprinting every inch of the garden in your memory. Caleb didn’t need to be a genius to know that bringing you here was the best choice he had made in a long time. His grin mimicked yours. There was no use in asking whether you were enjoying the view or not—the way you frantically hopped about the place, skipping from pond to pond and observing the exotic birds from afar, told him everything.
With small, unhurried steps, Caleb approached you as you peeked at the pair of colourful birds drinking from the birdbath. “They’re raised here. I feed ’em sometimes.” He tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “They’re friendly towards humans. Watch.”
He held out his right hand and approached the birds gingerly. The blue jay tilted its head to scan Caleb as he neared. As if recognising him immediately, it leapt onto his arm.
Using his other hand, he gestured for you to come. You approached with silent and hesitant steps. Once close enough, you reached up to touch the blue jay perched on his arm. You nearly jumped into a pond when the bird took off. Your cheeks flushed red, to which Caleb burst out guffawing.
“I forgot to mention—they don’t like being touched. Sorry, Pip!” he uttered between chuckles.
You gave him the meanest glare you could muster. “How very forgetful of you.” You brought an accusatory finger to point at his chest. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did!”
The woman watching from afar could not help but smile at your meaningless banter.
You and Caleb lingered until the sun began to dip below the horizon, until the once-blue skies were replaced with a bright orange-red and purple. The clouds began to darken—the battle cry of an impending tempest. Or was it the coming of night? You didn’t know. Nonetheless, both of you refused to leave.
“The world looks so tiny from here.” You compared the size of the structures afar with your fingers. Your other hand gripped the railing for support. “I’m almost jealous. You get to come here every day.”
You mumbled, turning to face Caleb, who appeared entranced by the hues of the setting sun. A smile adorned your face. He looked so peaceful, so content. As if nothing had occurred in the past few months, as if it was still the two of you against the world. You yearned to breathe in his embrace once more, just like old times. You swallowed. You couldn’t afford that. The past was gone. Now, only the future awaited—a future that depended on your actions, your choices, and your diligence. You couldn’t back out now. You were too far in.
“Don’t you miss that Willow tree?” you started. “The big one in our backyard. We used to rest against the trunk on the grass.”
“Once, I had to save you from a grasshopper. It lunged at you from the grass, and you screamed like a child,” he laughed. “And afterwards, you ended up avoiding that place for two weeks.”
“I only went after you got rid of them.”
He nodded. “I sprayed the whole area with bug repellent—it killed some of the vegetation as well.”
You smiled at the memory. “Grandma was so mad at us.”
A comfortable quietude ensued, submerging you both into a peaceful state of mind. Then, Caleb spoke solemnly.
“I have patrol tomorrow.” The sun began to disappear below the horizon, leaving swipes of purple behind on the sky. Dark clouds converged. “I won’t be there for you, pip.”
“Truth be told…” You gazed up at the vanishing sun. “I have some work to do. I came here for a more peaceful and friendly working environment.”
“Then you can busy yourself with that. Just… don’t burn down my kitchen, yeah?”
You shot him a scheming grin, yet it held no bite. “When will you be back?”
“The day after. Not too long.”
You bit your lip. Couldn’t he have stayed for a day longer? You had to be quick on your feet, then.
“Did you think about it?” Caleb suddenly interrupted. The gears turned in your head. Your mind was brought back to the offer he’d made before you departed from Skyhaven the last time—“Why not live here? You have nothing left in Linkon city to return to. I can get you a position somewhere as a criminologist. You can return to doing what you loved.”
Your gaze returned to him. You hadn’t decided yet. Sure, it gave you quite a handful of opportunities to inspect his brain a little closer. But if your plan failed? You’d be stuck in Skyhaven. You were sure it wouldn’t, but…
You took the flesh of your mouth into your teeth. It wasn’t the time to doubt yourself. But that wasn’t the only concern in your mind. The thought of him bearing so much power over your life and your job put you at unease. It was risky. Terribly so. It made your advantages over him feel insignificant. No matter how passionate you were about your work, and no matter your love for him, you preferred your sanity and wellbeing over all.
You turned to Caleb with an apologetic smile. His eyebrows furrowed, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. “Sorry, Caleb. I’ve made some friends, and I’m happy with the quiet life I’ve managed to build for myself.”
You could sense his thoughts—“What life? That poor, miserable one devoid of my presence and protection?”—you were sure that was what’d crossed his mind at that moment. You could tell by the way his jaw was clenched and his muscles tightened. But at once, the solicitous façade returned, washing away every hint of dissatisfaction that’d dared to cross his face. “That’s all right. You’re free to change your mind whenever you wish.” You forced your lips into a tight smile in return. “I appreciate it.” A part of you winced at the sudden formality in your tones. For some reason, you loathed whenever he got serious. It frightened you somewhat.
“You know, pip-squeak,” Caleb mused, his voice light, casual. Unnervingly so. Something in your stomach coiled—that familiar feeling of dread and anticipation. “Something tells me you’re not here for relaxation.”
You stilled, only for a little while. But it was enough. His gaze sharpened. “Tell me.” His eyes bore into yours—calculating, scrutinising, leaving no stone unturned. As if you were the experiment, and he, the mad scientist. Something venomous swirled in his violet hues. Like a dagger, or like the teeth of a snake—sharp, ready to pierce skin, waiting.
Unreadable.
Bolts of lightning ripped through the skies, illuminating a part of Caleb’s face to highlight the utter insanity brewing beneath his irises. A strong, dusty wind blew, sending shivers down your spine—though, you were unaware whether they were from fear or the cold. So, it was an oncoming storm.
Your fingers curled against the railing. Your sweat seeped onto its surface. You hesitated.
“Caleb, that’s—” A soft voice murmured. You let out a breathless laugh, flustered. “You’re not wrong.”
The air between you stretched taut. He remained silent, unmoving. Once again, silence had engulfed you, but this time, it wasn’t pleasant. Like a watchful eagle, Caleb waited.
You brushed strands of hair away from your eyes and glued your eyes to the birds instead. “You know, lately, I’ve just—I’ve been thinking,” you let your words tremble, “I—I’m sorry…” You gripped your chest. “I’ve been thinking that, maybe…” You swallowed, lowering your gaze. Perfect.
You inhaled sharply. “You were right.”
His brow raised. He seemed hooked.
“I thought about what you said—about my security. And you’re right. Although I’ve trained in the police, my combat knowledge is minimal. Linkon city is becoming less safe by the second, especially for me.” You closed your eyes. “Assuming what you said was true, about several corporations being after my head—well, my heart, I just can’t help but feel unsafe. Even when surrounded by my friends, even in my own home.” Your lips quivered. He listened with immaculate patience, as if he were picking apart your words, searching for a hidden subtext. “And now, everybody seems like hollow, empty beings. I can’t resonate with my patients; I can’t have fun with my friends. I feel so… isolated. So alone. And I realised,” you continued, “that despite all, you on the other hand? You were always there for me. In my heart, by my side. I could truly only be safe and happy when with you.”
Silence. The only sound in the air was the crackling of thunder.
You chanced a glance at him, watching how his eye twitched. Had he caught on? Were you in trouble? Was he mad? Your anxiety peaked at the slow inhale as he prepared to speak.
But then, his eyes softened.
“You should’ve just said so.” His voice was gentle, lacking the malice it once had. “You know you can always turn to me for help, right?”
Bingo.
Inside, you smirked. It worked. He fell for it. How could he not? You had been preparing for ages.
You’d won your first challenge. Arguably, it was the toughest one. If you’d failed—if he’d caught on, or noticed even the smallest hint of it having been a lie, your entire world would’ve crumbled. All that you’d worked for, gone. Rendered meaningless by your incompetence. You didn’t know what you would do afterward if that were to happen.
You let yourself appear small and vulnerable when you looked back at Caleb, attempting to highlight the anxiety in your eyes. “I know. I was planning to say it, but a perfect moment never came. Until now, that is.”
Caleb brought his palm to your cheek and cradled your face in his arms. “You don’t need an excuse to be honest with me. Whenever you feel like it, just lay your heart bare.”
“But you seemed so happy. Like you were enjoying yourself. I didn’t want to ruin it with my embarrassing thoughts.” You argued, forcing a frown on your face. He shook his head. “Once you’re done, we can go straight back to having fun if that’s what you want. Besides,” he averted his gaze, “It’s been on my mind all day—why you could be pretendin’ when you could’ve just told me. I was wondering how bad it was for you to be hidin’ it from me so desperately.”
You assumed as much. Explains why he seemed so jumpy earlier during breakfast, and why he kept zoning out the entire way here. It was what gave you the idea of using such deceit in the first place. You were sure if there was a perfect place to confront you about it, it would be here; under the witness of the setting sun, in a place you were bound to feel sentimental and thus, vulnerable and ready to spill it all out.
Unfortunately, you were not willing to fall for such a clear trap.
By the time you had left, the downpour had begun. Weighted beads of water stormed down on you viciously. The two of you rushed out before the storm could catch you. Well, one of you did. Caleb, who so valiantly used himself to shield you against the relentless tempest, had been completely drenched. Blobs of water dragged along the floor as he walked. You swore, if you squeezed him then, a whole waterfall would erupt. It was almost sweet—the way he so earnestly utilised his behemoth of a body to block out the storm’s ceaseless assault. It was something straight out of a romantic drama, or some sort of cliché film. But for some reason, you couldn’t cringe. You only laughed it off, paying no mind to the gentle flutter in your stomach.
The drive home was thrilling—abundant with giggles and snarky remarks thrown around. Perhaps you were in a better mood because your stomach was full—Caleb had been kind enough to treat you to supper in a small café situated on the middlemost floor of that building. The chef’s culinary expertise overflowed from the arrangement of exquisitely prepared Skyhaven delicacies. And the best part? They were quite cheap. Had you received a discount in honour of his presence? You didn’t know. But at the very least, you didn’t go broke after insisting that you split the bill 50/50. Despite having dried off, however, Caleb somehow wetted the seats.
Once home, both of you almost immediately collapsed onto the couch (you threw him off, of course, for soaking the furniture with the remnants of his heroism). He scrambled out of his clothes and cooked you both a warm plate of braised chicken wings shortly after. Dinner ensued normally this time, with a dearth of odd flinches or averted gazes. The two of you simply chatted to your heart’s content, both putting in equal effort to make it seem as if old times had returned.
Of course, it hadn’t. You were thrust back into reality when Caleb’s phone began to ring.
With a sidelong glance, he excused himself, making haste to his room and shutting the door behind him. You eyed the door, moving only when you were sure it’d clicked shut. Tip-toeing over to the kitchen, you bent down to eye the compartments underneath. There it was. Unmistakable, concrete—a file of unknown origin adorned with a sleek grey cover. You glanced over the counter. He wasn’t done yet. Your attention travelled back to the file.
But you paused. Tremors rippled through you as you slipped the ring off your finger and dropped it to the floor. With a measured kick, you pushed it further beneath the counter. Just to be safe. In case you were caught.
You reached into the compartment. Your entire arm was swallowed by darkness before finally, your fingers met the file. Cautiously, you pulled it out. The layer of dust coating its surface sprang up to your face as you dusted it. You made an effort not to cough.
The file’s edges were worn. Yet the pages inside appeared to be relatively new and untouched, perhaps even well-kept. A plastic sleeve shielded the grey manila folder from all sorts of debris. The pages inside were laminated and contained bundles of new words and information foreign to you. The file’s contents overwhelmed you. They appeared to be gibberish, nonsensical.
You deftly skimmed through the first few pages. None of the information contained within them seemed worthy of noting. Not to you, at least. There didn’t appear to be anything you didn’t know and was not known by the public. Then why was he reacting so oddly back then? Why had he flinched? Why had his gaze travelled back to his lap—or more specifically, to this file, as he anxiously fiddled with his fingers? You’d lured him away on purpose—dragging him outside the moment he could’ve gotten a chance to remove the file before you could grasp it. Was it all for nothing, then? Were you mistaken?
You stilled.
You weren’t mistaken after all.
Your fingers hovered over the fifth page.
There, in big, bold letters, was your name.
Inscribed upon the laminated page. And beside that lay your picture, alongside a list of unremarkable data, such as your date of birth, full name, affiliation, and so on.
Before you could investigate further, a voice called out your name. You hadn’t heard the door creak open.
You peered up from beneath the counter. Caleb’s face was contorted with horror—his pupils contracted; his body frozen. The hand holding his phone to his ear dropped to his side. He began to stride toward you.
You shoved the folder lazily into the compartment once more, ensuring no sound was emitted in the process. Adopting the most nonchalant expression you could, you lifted your head to face him. “Caleb,” you called out, a small pout gracing your lips, “I can’t reach the ring.”
He stopped. The act seemed to have taken effect. He cocked his head, eyes bearing into yours, as if ripping apart your soul itself for a trace of a lie. But you weren’t intimidated by his silent interrogation. You held your resolve, maintaining the façade with determined accuracy. Gradually, Caleb’s impishness returned.
“Dropped it?”
He fell for it so flawlessly, it almost irked you that he hadn’t put up a bigger fight. You pouted internally. Could he not have pretended not to buy it? For the sake of the thrill? Oh, well. A win’s a win.
You nodded. “I can’t reach it. Can you help me?”
He hurried to your side and hunched over. You noted the way his eyes skimmed over the document tucked away in the depths of the compartment, right where he’d left it, before it went to the gap underneath the counter. The subtle glint of your ring confirmed your honesty. He raised his hand and twirled his fingers in the air. As if a gust of wind had carried it here, the ring smoothly levitated out of the darkness and onto the countertop. You shot him a sheepish smile before returning to your feet to collect the ring.
Just as you slipped it onto your finger, Caleb grasped your chin between his fingers and turned you to face him. His eyes bore an unnerving intensity as they skimmed over your face. Were you busted? Had he caught on? You didn’t let the quiver reach your lips. Instead, you donned a perplexed complexion as he whisked your head around.
Once satisfied, he released you from his grip and ruffled your hair. “Just checking if you’d gotten dust on you.” You rolled your eyes in response. “I’m not a child anymore!”
“Anyway, anything wrong? That call seemed important.” You caught him zoning out, staring into the distance. You waved your hand before his face. “Earth to Caleb?”
He straightened himself. “Not really. I just… might return home a little late tomorrow. And I gotta leave tonight.”
You frowned. He had the audacity to lie to your face, knowing you were skilled enough to penetrate through whatever front he puts up. Pushing it would only add to the uncomfortableness of it all, so you sealed your lips instead.
You whined, although it came out a bit prolonged, before swatting his arm weakly. “But you said…”
“I know,” he sighed, “But duty calls.”
“Tell you what?” He brushed a stray strand away and cradled your cheek. For a moment, he glanced to the side, lost in thought, before he looked back at you and continued, “I’ll make it up to ya once I’m back. But with that being said, don’t stay up too late tomorrow, yeah?” You pretended to be unmoved, but a part of you jumped at the mention of recuperation. You wondered what it would be. Food, perhaps? Or maybe tickets to that movie you’d been dying to watch? Whatever it was, you couldn’t deny it enlivened you.
Caleb seemed to have noticed the somersaults you did, and the way you skipped around with joy behind those eyes. He smirked. “I’ll be leaving now. Get some rest. I’m sure you’re tire—achoo!” He hastily covered his mouth with his arm. Another sneeze. And another.
You narrowed your eyes and folded your arms over your chest. “Are you sure you won’t catch a cold? Although you probably already have…” you muttered the last part under your breath.
Caleb waved his arm dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be—” And another. “Yeah. Anyways, as I was saying, go to bed on time, alright?”
You shook your head, as if disheartened by his juvenile behaviour. “Alright. But, at least take some medicine or something. It’ll probably be one long night.”
When Caleb had left, the tempest roared at its prime. Despite having handed him two umbrellas, a string of worry coiled in your chest. Could he fend off against the raging winds that thumped against the sliding glass doors of the balcony and threatened to knock them over? No matter how strong a man, he was deemed fragile and brittle against the forces of nature. What if an uninvited bolt of electricity had happened to fall upon him as he walked? Was he even walking? You hoped not. At least vehicles were designed to protect people from lightning.
In the end, the quietude proved to be quite pleasant. You could immerse yourself in re-studying Harrison’s case without the fear of Caleb barging in and catching you red-handed.
You managed to skim over quite a lot of pages before hunger struck. Glancing up at the clock, the realisation dawned upon you that you had been at it for more than two hours. But it was a productive two-hour session with yourself, you’d say. But there were obstacles, nonetheless. As you’d suspected, Roan’s problematic behaviour had a completely different source from what you’d suspected Caleb’s to be. He acted on paranoia and insecurity, whereas Caleb seemed more insistent on the idea of protection. Roan’s obsession blinded his wit and caused him to act on impulse.
The kidnapping of Anne Lotte, although seemingly flawless, was conducted on a whim. Harrison executed his plan with merely a gun, a bundle of ropes, and some chloroform to sedate her. The alley Anne happened to be crossing through had no cameras, and as it was a secluded shortcut few were aware of, there were no passers-by to witness the crime. Nobody had gotten injured, thanks to Harrison’s prior police training, so there was no blood or evidence to be picked up. All other proof happened to be washed away by the rain shortly after.
From this timeline of events, it was clear that Harrison had gotten away with Anne’s kidnapping simply because of luck. If the stars hadn’t aligned during his sudden state of paranoia, Anne would be alive and well now. What an unlucky girl she was. It was almost as if fate had abandoned her.
Harrison had strength, but he was dim. That was what caused the inevitable discovery of Anne stashed away in his basement. Caleb, on the other hand, possessed both. Throughout high school, he had topped you almost constantly. No matter how hard you studied, no matter how many all-nighters you’d pulled, he would somehow manage to top you with a mere four or five hours of study before an examination.
You admit, you were envious of him throughout most of your teenage years, and you were appalled when he’d decided to tread a completely different academic path from yours. But nowadays, looking back, you realise that the only reason he’d made such an effort to conquer you was to be a reliable pillar of support if you were to falter. Which, inevitably due to the gallons of caffeine and hours’ worth of lost sleep, you did. Another irksome consequence of his undying affection that you had to suffer.
Even now, his wits and manipulation are clear. You were sure nobody rose to the rank of Colonel so swiftly without possessing immense intelligence. Caleb’s puppy eyes weren’t going to fool anyone. Not you, at least. They couldn’t hide the terrifyingly adept brain that lay beyond them.
Anne’s decline in mental well-being was predetermined. It was part of Harrison’s flawed plan all along. His insecurity left little room for actual care and affection to be expressed towards her, and as a result, he determined that breaking her resolve would be the surest way of ensuring submission. Of course, that did backfire for him. It led to her malnutrition, forecasted miscarriages, and her eventual suicide. Although you had no sure way of knowing what Caleb would’ve done, you were sure it wasn’t this.
Someone like him could predict such an outcome from a mile away. Breaking somebody’s mind, in this case, would be a reckless decision. And most importantly, his fatal flaw is that he loves too dearly and cares too much to be able to leave someone he admires to fend for themselves as he relentlessly shatters their psyche. He is too infatuated for that. His obsession stemmed from a desire to protect, not meaningless paranoia like Harrison’s. That explains why he would be unwilling to lay a finger on them.
And, of course, Caleb was a “manipulation>direct action” type of man. He had expressed his twisted desires to keep you confined and unable to flee once before, as he had been bandaging up your injured leg. But you were confident that his idea of confinement exists in a psychological state. He would bind your mind and heart to him, maneuver you to fall deeper into a psychical trap you could not escape. He would never directly imprison or confine. He would rewire your brain so that you willingly stuck yourself to him. It was a legal way to get what he wanted. And you didn’t doubt he could pull it off.
However, one thing to note was that he needed motive—proof that you were slipping from his grasp. As long as you remained on good terms, or pretended to, he would not need to resort to such methods.
Maybe.
Despite the dissimilarities, you were sure you could learn more to be able to counter his blows if he were to ever make some. But your main priority was still to cleanse his mind, to provide him with an opening to redeem himself and return to his normal life once more. Never mind your intentions. The contrast between their insanities led you to notice some peculiar things.
You turned to one of the back pages of your book and began scribbling down your thoughts.
Harrison and Caleb were merely two sides of the same coin. A cerberus with two heads. One who is impulsive, led on by rage and desire, and the other that is intelligent, driven by his loyalty to his master. But in the end, the cerberus is one complete being. If you split it in half, it will not regenerate like dividing cells. It will simply perish together. After all, both are two extremes.
Meaning if a lack of foresight could tackle one, then the other would fall for his over-calculation of things. They were both arrogant and full of themselves, believing only themselves and their strategies to be correct. In the end, they couldn’t see the 48 other heads lodged between the two—48 other ways to be “correct”.
The impulsive head aches to swallow his prey, to make incisions within his heart and stash them away in one of its chambers. And the cunning head too cuts, not his heart, but his lover’s brain, and detangles the strands only to twist them again, only this time in a way that would make them willing to stay. Resorting to such cruel yet more humane tactics implies that the fear of losing their treasure was rooted far more deeply in the intelligent cerberus rather than the dim one.
And what if fear is not another vulnerability to control?
Whereas Harrison is abundant in paranoia and insecurity, Caleb is almost wholly dominated by the extremity of positive emotions like love, care, and an overwhelming desire to protect. His unwillingness to hurt means that if you were to show even a single crack in your mind, the fear of you crumbling would force him to loosen his grip almost entirely, given that his side of the mind games had already begun. That would create the perfect opening for you to slip past and dash out to meet your freedom.
All you had to do was put on one more act.
Harrison’s impulsiveness, contrasting Caleb’s preparedness, also let you peer into another opening. If you continued to think of them as two sides of the same coin, then you could come upon this conclusion—if Harrison had a breaking point, so did he.
Harrison’s inevitable downfall and his psychological abuse of Anne was set into motion when the thought bit into his brain, whispering—“If you don’t tighten the leash, she will run away.” It was safe to assume that Caleb too had a breaking point. It was simply harder to reach. One side of the coin was made of bronze, whereas the other was constructed of tungsten. Both could melt, just at different speeds.
If you could provoke him up to that point, Caleb would be forced to reveal his hand. But, admittedly, picturing what could happen if he snapped was… unsettling. Precisely because you couldn’t picture it at all.
And thus, that would remain something you would try if you couldn’t get him to falter at all. A last resort, to be more specific.
And now, with your acquired information, you could weave your final plan: if he tried something anyway, you could paint a front of danger, as if his ‘advances’ and whatnot had thrown you into a state of endangerment, and if he didn’t back away immediately, it may cost him (and you) something precious. Whether it be your life, blood, or sanity, he cared too much not to abort instantaneously. Unlike Harrison, he wouldn’t act blindly—he’d justify his actions. If you could provide real consequences (consequences that mattered to him), you could alter his idea of justifications and compel him to rationalise his actions differently.
And how, exactly, would you achieve that? Well, that was something to figure out along the way. That was your motto—have a vague, surface-level plan, and build upon it as you go. If you had a solid, fool-proof plan, you wouldn’t have searched for information after arriving in Skyhaven.
To be honest with yourself, your knowledge on Caleb’s behaviour and your predictions on what may have happened next were minimal; certainly not enough to conclude that you were in any real danger, and certainly not enough to deduce that your initial assumptions could be utilised to orchestrate a surefire way of taking him down. You suppose you had to spend more time with him to come to a real conclusion. Of course, that wouldn’t be too easy, considering that you’d purposefully invaded at a time where he’d be busy juggling you and his duties simultaneously. You had your reasons. The perfect time to strike was when a man’s back was faced to you, and he was too busy with the happenings before him to notice the footsteps creeping up on him from behind. In short, right now, he was vulnerable. If he found out you were up to something, he would be too exhausted to think straight and thus he would falter. If you face an enemy far stronger than you, wear them down first, and then strike when they are on the verge of tears.
The real problem right now was how you could feign being endangered. For now, you’d come up with a few ways. Perhaps a more logical approach would be best for a start.
Skyhaven’s weather seemed mostly untouched. Save for yesterday’s storm, it remained relatively stable. With clear, cloudless skies, splashed with a unique blue, it was perfect weather—perfect air. Too perfect. Maybe the storm from yesterday lingered somewhere beneath the blues. It had to be. Nothing is truly calm—especially not here.
“Beautiful, isn’t it, Rhys?” you hummed. A flock of black ravens flitted past your window. The bitter scent of unbrewed coffee beans drifted in the café’s air. It was a scent you’d grown to admire. The perfect place to work, really. It opened your mind (and mouth) wide enough to effectively scribble away at one of your flimsy journals, analysing some patients’ consciousnesses or just gathering your thoughts. But today, you weren’t here for work.
“Probably because we’re so high up,” Rhys grinned, flashing his braced teeth. He was a tall man of dark complexion with thin brown hair kissing his shoulders. Rhys Vaughn—one of the few patients you’d reviewed in Skyhaven, involved with your limited history here. He used to be a drug addict and had nearly run over a child while stoned. To his luck, the child managed to escape mostly unscathed save for a broken limb, and thus, he got off with a relatively lighter charge. He was placed under your care while serving time in prison. Eventually, after a period of two years, you’d managed to lure him into making a full recovery. Now, he appeared before you, a new, clean man with a loving wife. But, above all, working with Rhys had one sure advantage—he was quite talented in the art of gathering information.
In his line of work as a technician, Rhys was required to have some basic computing skills. As a result, he’d undergone several computer science courses online, and he completely aced them. The coding shenanigans that couldn’t penetrate through your thick skull passed through his as if tearing through paper. He was skilled in what you were not; practical work. If there was anyone to call for some ethical hacking and information digging, it would be him. To Rhys, asking him to dig up information was the same as asking him to pass you the remote from across the room. You could put those skills to use.
“How’s your wife?” you gingerly sipped your coffee.
“She’s good. Hit a milestone in her art.”
“And you? How are you feeling?”
Rhys chuckled. “Still playing psychotherapist, miss?”
You shook your head with a sheepish smile. “Force of habit, you know? Can’t take my mind off work.” You waved your hand dismissively. “Really, though, how are you? Answer the question viewing me as… a friend.”
“I’m doin’ great!” He raised his hands dramatically in a gesture of joy. “Not delirious all day, actually sane and stable, able to keep relationships and eat something other than scrawny prison food. Yeah, couldn’t have been better.”
You smiled. Genuinely. “Good to know.”
Knowing your patient had achieved happiness fulfilled your purpose as both a psychotherapist and a human. Your mind recalled a skinnier Rhys sitting across from you on a long, white couch, lacking the sun in his eyes, which he now had multiple of, swirling about in his pools of bronze. His eyes back then; they were empty. He appeared a lifeless man with mould growing out of the pores of his skin. And now, he was here, sitting across from you, helping you just as you had helped him two years ago. It was a motherly pride that filled your chest, cascading through your nerves like a warm, sweet liquid. You couldn’t be happier.
“Anyway, what ya here for?”
You placed your hand under your chin and turned to look out the window.
“I remembered what you said, Rhys.”
He cocked an eyebrow and peered at you from over his cup as he sipped. You took it as a sign to continue. “You mentioned once that you owe me one, and that if I ever find myself in a stump in Skyhaven, I could call for you.”
“So,” he added a packet of sweetener into his coffee, “You want to take me up on that offer now? I thought you’d forgotten about me.” His countenance twisted to display mock hurt. “All right. I’m just playing. What’s it about?”
“I recently managed to earn myself a boyfriend,” you started, although cringing internally, “And I happen to doubt his mental well-being.”
Rhys kicked back on the plush of the chair. He’d figured it out already, you were sure, but you went on anyway.
“We just got together about 6 months ago. So, it’ll be hard to know enough to be able to help him.”
“So you want me to dig up some information about him?” He leaned closer. “What kind?”
“He’s an orphan. Doesn’t have family, pretends with his friends. But there are a few people he seemed close to. Some workers, mailmen, plumbers, you know. Those types of people I can never seem to get a hold of.”
“Should I fetch their contacts?”
“No.” You winced at the finality of your words. “I mean, yes, but not just that.”
Rhys cocked an eyebrow. An amused smirk crossed his face. Had he caught your lies?
“It’d be convenient if you could search for his transactions with them. Their backgrounds, history, et cetera. I have some… other doubts as well.”
With a large gulp, Rhys slurped up his coffee and wiped his face with a napkin. Only silence swayed between you two as he took his time to reply. He wasn’t thinking. Certainly not. But he lingered, nonetheless.
He knew, for sure.
“You know, little miss, I don’t know why you feel the need to fabricate when you know I don’t hesitate to dirty my hands.”
You glued your eyes to your lap.
“I owe you. And even if you asked me to kill a man, I’d do it.”
You let out a shaky exhale. “If I were still your therapist, I’d be scribbling on my notebook right now. But, considering I’m in a pinch, I’ll let it slide.” You smiled. “I appreciate your help, Rhys, and your respect for my privacy. I will forever be indebted to you.”
He swatted his hand about mindlessly. “Yeah, yeah. A name, please.” He slid you a slip of paper.
You plucked a pen from your coat and jotted down Caleb’s name before passing it across the table. Taking it between his fingers, Rhys eyed the name. He lingered there for a beat too long. Something was up. Your suspicions only spiked with the subtle twitch of his finger. A light of recognition crossed his bronze irises before fading just as swiftly. In a flash, his grin returned, and he pocketed the slip of paper before springing to his feet. “All right. Tomorrow, I’ll text you with whatever I find.”
You lowered your head. “Again, thank you.”
That night, Caleb returned late. Uninjured, thankfully, but acting odd nonetheless. In his hands, a small bag was clutched. You recalled his words—“I’ll make it up to you.”—and it took a lot for you to resist leaping from the couch and snatching the bag from his hands. What stopped you, aside from the fear of appearing awfully juvenile, was the exhaustion etched into his face.
When his eyes met yours, however, his complexion brightened immediately. Still clad in his uniform, Caleb kicked off his boots and strode towards you. A weariness weighed his movements. The strongest man you’d ever seen, both physically and mentally—your pillar of strength—stumbled across the room like a golden puppy dragging its injured leg along the floor, wagging its tail and paying no mind to its pain. You felt stabbed in the chest. For a man of such power, he could be absolutely endearing at times.
“Miss me, pip?” Caleb leaned down to ruffle your hair affectionately. You shut off your phone to smile at him. Your eyes enlarged as his familiar face appeared before you, but a frown tugged at your lips at the dark stains under his eyes. You reached your hand out to caress the blackened bags of flesh.
“You didn’t sleep.”
He cradled your face in turn. “Neither did you.” A flick to your forehead caused a pout to form on your face.
“I wasn’t working my ass off.”
“And I was. I know. I’m sorry.” He set his colonel cap on your head. The accessory dwarfed your skull, sinking down until it obscured your vision. Caleb stifled a laugh at the sight.
He noted the way your eyes drifted to the bag in his hand—the bag that was coated with crimson and shiny gold accents, which gave away very little about its contents. Sensing your curiosity, he handed the bag to you.
“The lady asks, and I deliver.” He bowed curtly. You both broke into merry laughter.
Stashed away in the depths of the tiny bag was a rectangular velvety jewellery case, coloured similarly to the bag, down to the gold accents. The mere surface of the case seemed extravagant enough to satisfy your greed even in the absence of the jewellery itself. You stared in awe. Were you truly deserving of the real gem hidden inside? Your fingers traced the engraving on the case’s surface. A remarkable brand. There was a lump gathering in your throat. It felt sacred to hold something so precious, so expensive. You were no high priestess or beloved queen—not worthy enough to clutch a revered artifact. And yet, Caleb’s eyes bore into yours with a gentleness that could bring you to tears. And it did. You felt tears threatening to form. You were sure he noticed.
A sudden wave of guilt knocked the wind out of your lungs. Just hours before, you’d been conspiring against him, digging up information that could potentially be labelled as an invasion of one’s privacy, and threading together a plan that was catered to go against him, to take him down. You knew you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were helping him. Guiding him to a path of happiness, just as you did with your patients, just as you did with Rhys.
Just as you would have with Harrison and Anne.
If only your incompetence hadn’t gotten them killed, they could walk their own paths today. You closed your eyes. An image flashed before you. A flimsy blonde girl with scars littering her arms, crossing a bridge, heading towards a field of flowers with her dead child clutching her hand. And a battered older man going the opposite way—a path towards a blinding light, the path to redemption.
You wouldn’t let it happen again.
There was nothing to be guilty of. Your fingers curled tighter against the fabric of your pants. There was nothing to be guilty of. You weren’t in the wrong. This was for the greater good. They’d understand. They surely would, once they realised that the path you chose for them was a more tranquil one.
But did you risk losing yourself in the process?
“Not going to open it? Your head’s been stuck in the clouds for about thirty seconds now.” Caleb loosened his tie before seating himself next to you. “Something on your mind? Is the casing not to your liking?”
You shook your head. “I’m just… you’re exhausted beyond belief right now, and you went through all that trouble… I don’t deserve this.” You frowned. “I’m so sorry for making you ‘make up’ to me. I didn’t know you’d go that far, I—”
Strong arms coiled around you, drawing you in. You felt the steady, yet surprisingly slow beats of his heart from where you were nestled against his chest. Fingers wove through your hair, offering a sense of solace you hadn’t felt in a while. With a low, careful tone, he whispered. His lips brushed against your ear. “Don’t say anything.”
And you obeyed.
For a moment, you remained steady. Silent. Your lips were pursed, and your heart beat fast—a stark contrast to his. You sank deeper into his embrace. Your grip faltered, and you eventually gave in to his presence entirely. Your body slumped against his, but he seemed to have no trouble bearing your weight. For a moment, you considered letting the tears flow. But a part of you clawed against the muscular wall of your heart in retaliation, screeching in protest. Something screamed danger, despite you being the safest you’d ever been right now.
With steady arms, Caleb brought your palm, which was weakly clutching the jewellery case, to your chest. “I had this ordered for months. I was just waiting for the right moment to pick it up. So,” with his other hand, he tousled your hair, “Don’t think you were a bother. And honestly? I can’t name a single woman more deserving of this than you.”
A faint blush coated your cheeks. But you shook it off before he could see. Renewed courage surged through you, and your fingers made their way to the hook of the case.
Carefully, you slid it open.
A white gleam.
There, perched amidst the plush, was a delicate, thin bracelet made of what appeared to be sterling silver. The chain itself was of a unique geometric design consisting of circles, ovals, and a myriad of shapes you couldn’t name. The expert craftsmanship showed in the presence of the bracelet’s seamless links and its shiny, polished clasp. You ran your fingers over the chain. The material was smooth, devoid of bumps or rough edges—things you’d usually find in low-quality bracelets.
You remembered complaining to him once how half of your bracelets used to dig into your skin, to which he’d reply with a smile, “One day, you won’t have to wear uncomfortable jewellery.” Back then, you’d brush it off with a “Oh, that day better come soon!”. But now, considering the significant amount of effort put into smoothing the surface, you wondered if this was what he truly meant.
The primary point of attraction, however, lay not in the bracelet’s gleam or smoothness, but in the moderately sized white gemstone hanging from it—a gorgeous pendant.
You opened your mouth, but no words came. Caleb chuckled. “White sapphire.”
You pressed your lips into a thin line. What could you say? You were surprised your jaw wasn’t kissing the floor by now.
Speechless, you ran your fingers along the gemstone. It weighed a bit more than you’d expected—an insignificant difference, really, but notable nonetheless. Perhaps it was pure. If that was the case, then it didn’t help with your simmering guilt.
“Here,” Caleb snatched the jewellery from your fingers, “Let me help you with that.”
Deftly, he slid the bracelet down your wrist and clasped the hook. You raised your arm, watching as the white sapphire that dangled from the thin chain glittered beneath the pencils of light. Your lips parted in awe.
“Promise me,” your attention shifted to Caleb as he brought your jewelled wrist to his chest, “That you won’t take this off.”
“Like how you’re glued to that dog tag I gave you?” You giggled. His lips curled into a soft smile. “If that’s how you want to put it.”
“Okay.” You placed your free palm atop his. “I promise, I’ll cherish this forever.”
“If you don’t, I’ll be really hurt.” He feigned a pout. But the yearning in his eyes was real.
You shook your head. “You’re impossible.”
“I know.” Caleb brought your palm against his face, sinking into your warmth. You stilled for a moment. This was way too intimate. But the guilt glued you in place, restricting you from moving away. Or was it his endearing affection? Nonetheless, pulling away felt like a crime. He’d handed you such a priceless treasure; could you not indulge him for a moment and let him bask in your radiance?
You choked back the sinking feeling in your gut to let him have his way with your arm. He was acting like a starved puppy. Cute, yes, but a little overbearing and unsettling. Almost as if the puppy brushing up against you had blood smearing its teeth. Of course, it was just your paranoia, and nothing was really there.
Nothing visible, at least.
In spite of your passionate protests, Caleb insisted on whipping up a late-night snack for you. And so, you were practically forced into your seat on the counter as you were made to watch him scurry through the kitchen. The heated pot sizzled in objection to the cold oil poured onto it. You’d made up your mind to just observe as he worked, in case you could find an opening or an excuse to help, but you were distracted by a notification on your phone.
Rhys.
You looked up at Caleb. He appeared too deeply immersed in his cooking to notice the small ding of your phone. Bringing the device under the shade of the counter, you opened your chat with Rhys.
“Miss, this is important.”
Your brow furrowed. “Found anything?”
“Well, yes. A few things. But first, I think I really gotta come clean with this.”
You silently typed out a reply. “Go on.”
“That guy? Caleb Xia? I know him.”
You froze, fingers hovering over your keyboard. Rhys continued typing.
“I worked for him in the past. He needed something installed in his home. I was the one who took up the job.”
“Install what?”
“Cameras.”
A void formed in your stomach. A sudden chill enveloped the air. You shivered involuntarily. Cameras. He had cameras in his house. Your head whipped about the room, scouring every wall and every corner for a hint of something that could be labelled as a camera. Something prickled the skin on the back of your neck. Caleb’s back was turned to you. But still, you felt something watching you from the shadows.
Paranoia. You couldn’t let it consume you.
“I found it odd back then,” Rhys continued, “He had it installed in his rooms. The bedrooms,” You studied Harrison’s case in one of them, “The living room, the hallways.” Dread crippled into your being. It was as if someone had thrown a pebble across a calm pond, causing violent ripples to tear through the once-steady surface.
“And also,”
He paused.
“The kitchen.”
A clot. In your throat. Your lungs constricted.
He knew.
Caleb knew.
That you’d stumbled across that document.
Images of a collected Caleb smiling down at you as you knelt against the counter resurfaced in your brain. The way he so nonchalantly fetched the ring for you, the act he’d put on just now. The act you’d believed.
You gazed down at the white bracelet clasped around your wrist. What used to be a remarkable work of superior craftsmanship transformed into a heavy chain made to tether you to him. ”I promise, I will cherish this forever.” You really were going to throw up.
With shaky hands, you shut your phone. Your eyes returned to the bracelet.
It wasn’t a gift. It was an anchor to bind you to him. To trick you into forming a vow you couldn’t break.
Shit.
You walked right into a trap.
Blind and oblivious. A moth to a flame.
The circular kitchen lights buzzed overhead. A flicker of light flashed past the window—a ghastly apparition, watching. You whipped your head towards it in an attempt to catch it before it fled. There was nothing. Were you seeing things? Paranoia. It was simply your fear—your body preparing itself to become hyper-aware of its surroundings. A consequence of the natural fight or flight response. You were paranoid. You were aware. But that didn’t help how every shadow felt darker, how every corner untouched by the kitchen’s dim light seemed to host an entity.
Your whole time here, you were being watched. How much had he seen?
“You seen a ghost?”
It took every bit of your strength to not leap off your seat. You looked up at him, then eyed the plate nestled in his palm. It was hard to trust him right now.
Under the faint light, half of Caleb’s face remained shrouded in an ominous shadow. His violet hues gleamed from beneath the darkness menacingly as they peered down at you. Beyond the cloak of darkness, however, his countenance seemed normal.
But you couldn’t shake the dread off.
An invisible shiver tiptoed down your spine. You forced a smile. “I got startled by the flash of lightning.”
“It’s stormin’?”, he placed the plate down on the counter before turning to the large windows. “Again?” A bolt of electricity ripped through the sky. Caleb turned to you with a smirk. “Still afraid of thunder, pip-squeak?”
Afraid of you., you wanted to say, but you bit your lip. It was best you avoid giving him reasons to put a collar on you. For now, you had to stay low.
“I’m not.” You huffed, folding your arms over your chest. A forced blush crept up your neck. “I’m just… anyway, the food looks amazing!” You swiftly snatched the dish from his hands, leaving him slightly dumfounded as he lingered where the dish once was. With the help of his evol, Caleb pushed a pair of utensils your way. You were glad you suppressed the flinch that threatened to ripple through you. For the first time in your life, his evol terrified you.
The bed groaned under your weight as you suspended yourself entirely onto it. The mattress dipped beneath you. Even his bed, which, to you, had once been the comfiest bed in the anthropology of beds, felt like a cage. You could feel metallic tendrils crawling from beneath it, wrapping over your form as you slept, encasing you like a cocoon would. Perhaps that’s all you were to Caleb. A butterfly, useful only for its grace and the tranquility it brought. Meant to be wrapped away in a cocoon and let out only when it bloomed. The part of you bound to your profession begged to differ—clearly, that was not the case. Clearly, his feelings ran deeper than that. A complex tapestry of twisted adoration, infatuation, and perhaps even hatred or rage.
But that didn’t stop your feelings from thrashing about in a frenzy, did it?
It’s a simple truth. Many, if not all, of the patients you reviewed struggled with something similar to it. Their brains were aware of the truth, but their hearts refused to comply. It was a plague, killing them from the inside. Their loved ones resorted to presenting the truth before them. And their brains knew, lodging the processed data as it normally did. But the heart is a stubborn thing. Some things it refuses to accept.
At this point, you would become the patient.
A part of you urged yourself to bash your head against the wall for not predicting such a bold move on his end sooner. You were close to figuring it out. A part of the reason why you’d always gone to the bathroom to change included this subtle feeling of being watched. So, with your hands still gripping the ends of your shirt, you kicked open the bathroom door and changed there instead. You were glad you’d done that, of course, but you couldn’t hate yourself more for not pondering a second longer on the feeling of being watched. If you had, you were confident you’d have figured it out before he could notice. You were supposed to be ahead of him.
You were about to reopen the chat, but the sensation of a chilling pair of eyes drilling into your head halted your decision. The bedrooms also had cameras. But where? And how good was their image quality? Could he have read the contents of your journal, perchance? Could he see your chat even from up there? Your initial thought was to position yourself away from the camera. Find a blind spot, maybe. But all those ideas were rendered useless considering you were unaware of its position.
You could open your phone and check for any flashes of red or purple from infrared LEDs, which would most definitely be present assuming the cameras were equipped with night vision. But committing to such a dumb move would expose your knowledge of his ‘control’. You were sure twirling about the room in the dark with your phone’s camera on would leave no room for assumptions. What excuse would you bring? That you were so awe-struck by the lack of artistic interior design in Caleb’s room that you felt tempted to record it all and store it on your ‘top-10 things to not do while constructing a home’ list? Yeah, no. He would figure you out faster than Rhys had in the café.
You didn’t want to imagine what would happen next.
So, you resorted to the last thing you could think of.
You reached for a thin blanket and threw it over yourself. Protection. He couldn’t see what you were up to, even if he tried. And what excuse did one need to huddle up under a blanket?
You switched your phone open and scrolled through the messages you couldn’t read.
“I’d gotten it done a few days ago.” Right before your arrival at Skyhaven. He gauged your intentions so swiftly. A chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t tell whether it was from the storm’s frosty wind.
“Pretty high-tech stuff. With night vision and all. It was odd. I should’ve questioned it. But it wasn’t any of my business. So I left it.”
“I did some digging on his background. And, miss, I have to ask you—are you aware of his profession?”
You sighed, threading your hair through your fingers. You hadn’t asked him to dig up dirt on that matter.
“I’m not sure if I should be telling you, but—”
“I know,” you typed back. “I know about it very well.”
“I’m not sure if I should be getting involved in this. Surely, you understand?”
He knew too much. And for that, you had to let him go. Even if he hadn’t approached you first. You’d have to. Because honestly, you were scared of what that man could do. Scouring any further would prove risky for him. The last thing you wanted to do was put a man happily living his married life in inconceivable danger for the sake of your selfish desires. It was a cruel thing to do. Although you’d technically used him, it was your last wish to be selfish.
“I understand. I’m sorry for getting you caught up in this. Should I pay you for your troubles?”
“No need for that. I barely did anything. But, I will tell you this.”
You watched as the three small dots enlarged and shrank as he typed.
“Recently, some personnel were recruited under his command to be appointed to more general tasks. That’s the most I can tell you. Searching any further’s gonna cost me my head.”
You didn’t push Rhys any further. You thanked him for his service and were about to log off when he sent one last text message.
“Little miss, I know you’re determined in whatever you’re tryna do. But please. For your sake, leave Skyhaven and forget about this.” You gripped your phone a little tighter. Exhaling shaky breaths, you shuffled under the blanket. You knew Rhys was right, and that he only spoke from a place of genuine care and respect. You knew you should’ve taken his advice and ended your vacation here. But you couldn’t. Not when you’d gotten so far. You were too deep into this. You were sure that Caleb wouldn’t let you leave either—he was (most likely) aware that you’d stumbled upon that document. Whatever it was, it wasn’t something he wanted you to see. And he wasn’t going to let you flee so easily after unearthing such a disastrous secret of his.
But you had to say, he needed to practice being discreet more often.
“Protect yourself. If things go south, you can’t escape. The whole of Skyhaven is controlled by his fleet.”
You sighed. There was nothing to say to that. But you were sure it wouldn’t come to you having to physically run from the authorities and escape the land in secrecy. Physical restriction was something Caleb couldn’t bring himself to do, even if he was injected with all the liquid courage in the world. His care for you ran too deep, even if he had mentioned it in a fit of rage. You’d defend that belief with your life.
Why were you defending him again? Oh, well.
But if it came to mentally detaching yourself from him, well, that… you weren’t so sure. It just so happened that you’d been so full of yourself before arriving here that you’d completely forgotten to ponder the possibility of having to flee on short notice. Simply put, if worst came to worst, you had no plan to save yourself.
You agreed that Caleb did have influence. And, unfortunately, that could often overpower the authority over one’s mind and heart. After all, the realm we truly resided in was the physical realm, not the psychical one. If anything were to bind you in the physical world, you couldn’t escape from it even in your mind. In other words, you’d be trapped here, body and soul.
“Don’t worry,” you lied, “I have it under control.”
And with that, you ended your conversation with Rhys.
It was only a matter of awaiting the occurrences of tomorrow now. You wondered what the weather would be like the next day. Would it storm again? Or would Skyhaven finally see an endless period swarmed by the warm west breeze? The only thing you could do was close your eyes and wait and see.
Except, you couldn’t sleep.
Three hours had passed as you rolled about on the large contemporary bed, making a sleepless mess of yourself. You winced at the way your hair clung to your head, warm and sticky. Like lukewarm goo. You twirled a lock on your index, only to be surprised at the absence of the goo you were picturing. Were you imagining things? Nonetheless, your body ached for a good, cold shower. You switched your phone open to check the time. 4 AM. Oh, well. What better place was there to collect your thoughts than under the sprinkle of an artificial shower?
You hugged yourself a little tighter as the cold beads of water commenced their assault on your head and dripped down your sides. You trembled heavily, but you let yourself do so. It was the collection of your fear from the past few days bolting out of your body at once. Finally, you could let out the shaky breaths you’d been withholding. It was only within the confines of enclosed foggy glass and under a gentle spray that you could truly let yourself loose and breathe freely once more.
People underestimate how arduous it is to put up fronts. Acting wasn’t easy. Especially when your life practically depended on it. It was like waltzing through a stage, but instead of expectant guests and observers anticipating your fall, there were 500 archers and the world’s best snipers aiming for your head, all while you were bound not to break your dance. Put on a show and attempt to please your pursuers. The chance of failure was almost certain. Even the best of dancers and actors fail to escape such a scenario.
And that was the gamble you were willing to take—fighting; no, dancing for the nonexistent chance that you may save your head, all in the sake of helping somebody you found yourself caring for a lot more than you were willing to.
Your eyes trailed to the bracelet resting near the sink. When he had handed you that gift, you felt… truly happy. A feeling you hadn’t felt before. Like your heart had burst open, and a myriad of colours had strewn out in a frenzy. Like your skeleton had been immersed in warm pond water, and a flock of underwater lilies caressed your skin.
For the first time in a long while, you felt as if you were needed for a cause beyond that of your profession.
That you mattered to him as much as your patients did to you, or perhaps even more. In his eyes, you could see a care that extended beyond what you could comprehend. A desire to keep you close and by his side, basking in your warmth forever.
A long time ago, you’d frozen your heart.
All because you believed there was no place in this world for your emotions.
To be someone else’s haven, you had to forsake your own.
The moment Caleb had handed you that bag, you felt as if your life had gained a new meaning. In the end, you were just a girl like all others, and he had made you embrace that.
For a moment. Only for a moment.
Because now, the silver you once admired reminds you of the silver of a chain. The chain was thin and fine, for it was not made to restrain you, but to help you grow accustomed to the existence of a shackle on your mind. It was suffocating to wear it. But a part of you wondered—what if his affection is genuine? Then, would it be so bad to give in? Well, he was the only one who made you feel alive. Perhaps, if you just stayed…
No. You shook your head. Strings of water flew off your hair and hit the glass walls. This was exactly what he wanted, wasn’t it? To make you accustomed to his control. To silently persuade you into giving in out of your own volition.
Caleb wanted a reaction. Any hints that you were being sucked and molded in the black hole he set up for you. If that’s what he wanted, all you had to do was withhold it from him, no? Just stop reacting. Act normal, put some subtle distance between you two, and watch as he crumbled beneath your finger.
You shut off the shower and rolled your hair back on your head. That’s right. You had to submerge yourself back into your monochromatic world. Only then would he falter, knowing all his advances had failed.
You stepped out of the shower, bringing with you a trail of water as you walked. A small white towel was wrapped around your head, and a bigger one coiled around your torso. You snatched the bracelet off the sink after changing into your new clothes. No matter how you felt about it, you made a vow. And for the sake of your ideals, you would not stray from it.
The hardest part about experiencing your first loss was that you had to regain control afterwards. Fail this step, and watch as the spear cuts through your stomach inch by inch. And if you cannot truly regain control, form the illusion of it.
You eyed yourself in the mirror. A crease was present between your brows. Taking the cream off the vanity, you began applying it in long swipes across your skin. Caleb still used the same cream as before, huh?
Act as if nothing had happened. That was the best you could do for now. And to form a plan to actually reclaim your throne, you needed some alone time. Away from this house. Away from the prying eyes perched in every corner of every room, and away from him.
The cream melted into your skin.
It was about time you began searching for an excuse to get out of the house and stray from him. Perhaps you could look for work. A new patient. Something that came up urgently? Or was it better for you to be more subtle? Just whip up an excuse to go hang out with friends? Not that you had any friends in Skyhaven. And if he asked to tag along? What then?
You released yourself from the towel and reached for your shirt.
A sigh passed your lips. Seems it would just be best to find some work. But save for Rhys and a few others, barely any of your patients lived in Skyhaven. And even if they did, would you just go knocking on their doors and creating a new mental issue in their stead that somehow needed urgent fixing? That wouldn’t do. You required real work.
Perhaps it was a problem best saved for tomorrow. Right now, your starving stomach demanded some attention.
The kitchen lights flickered on with a buzz. One of them didn’t light. You’d better tell Caleb about it tomorrow.
The hum of the fridge increased in volume as you strode towards it with heavy steps. Inside, an arrangement of food lay: some in boxes, some bare, some bottled. Your eyes narrowed. They seemed to have been recently stocked. You bet his fridge had been empty up until your visit.
You snatched a plate of dinner’s leftovers and gathered a few utensils to accompany you. And with that, you plopped down on the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights. It risked waking him up, after all. You wouldn’t want that. Especially now.
Shuffle shuffle.
Something stirred beside you—a figure shrouded in darkness. You nearly launched your fork into its heart when a familiar arm reached out to wrap around your wrist. “It’s just me,” a groggy voice responded. You threw yourself off the couch and rushed to turn on the lights.
Caleb. It was just him.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You—” Your accusing finger pointed in his direction. “Why are you awake?”
His violet eyes skimmed over your form, stopping at your toweled hair. “Likewise.”
Sluggishly, you returned to your plate and picked up the fork. Caleb nestled himself by your side. “You took a shower? At 4:30 in the mornin’?”
“Why are you here? On the couch? I don’t recall seizing every single one of your rooms.”
He breathed a sigh. “I’ve made an enemy of insomnia, and it’s been chasin’ me ever since.” He turned to you. “Maybe you can help with that.”
“I don’t know what you take me for, but,” you stuffed a portion of food into your mouth, “I’m half-dead right now. Therapists are humans too.”
“But,” you wiped the corner of your mouth and finished up, “Still, I’m ready to listen.”
Caleb shook his head. “I was messin’ around, pip.”
“Such a tease, even when sleep-deprived.”
You pressed your fingers into his temple and soothed the area. Your fingers moved gingerly, as if the slightest slip-up could cost you one of them. The man under you gradually relaxed. His body sank deeper into the couch.
“Come on, Caleb. What’s the hold-up? I know you’re hiding something,” you cooed. His sealed eyes didn’t help with trying to see through him. But you pressed on nonetheless.
You leaned forward slightly, pinching his forehead a little harsher than you would have. Finally, he opened his eyes, only to glue them to the ceiling instead.
“I’m not going to force you into a 12-step rehabilitation programme.”
“I know, it’s just…” his eyes never left the ceiling, “You’re tired. I’m tired. We all need a break. You’re not entitled to help me.”
You hummed. “You’re right. I’m not.”
Caleb let out a small sigh of relief as you pressed down on that one spot on his forehead. You continued to massage the area for a while before moving on to the next.
“I’m doing this out of my own volition. I want to listen to you. And whether I’ll help, well, that depends on what it is.”
Picking up on the slightest droop of his lips, you continued, “But, unless it’s a tedious task like climbing a skyscraper with nothing but my bare hands, I won’t refuse you.”
Caleb’s eyes didn’t move from the ceiling lights as he contemplated. You could see the weight of decisions bearing down on his mind, and you worked your fingers accordingly to soothe him whenever he faced a mental obstruction. Your smile widened.
With one finger, you moved his gaze to you instead. “All right, mister. I know the ceiling’s looking quite lavish today, but I’m sitting right here, fighting for your attention.”
Caleb grinned. Subconsciously, his eyes travelled to your lips. You found yourself tensing up for a moment, but you swallowed it. Just how you were trained. But uneasiness overtook your nerves. Why was he looking at them like that? As if he yearned to devour them whole?
“You can’t outsmart me at this hour, Caleb. See?” You lifted your arms before placing them back on his temple. “I’m not writing any notes or anything.”
“It’s not that.”
“You make it seem like it is.” You sighed. “You don’t need to use big words. Just tell me what you need.”
“All right, then. Can I ask you for a favour?”
You hummed. “Depends on what it is.”
His eyes fluttered. You tensed as they lingered on your lips once more before they moved to meet your eyes. He seemed incredibly exhausted. “I have a friend,” he began, “And she’s been… off.”
“A fleet member?”
“Yes.” He let out a soft groan as your fingers continued to massage his temple. “You met her. She’s the guard at the garden we visited.”
Your mind recalled her stature. Tall, brooding, albeit intimidatingly, with curly ginger locks and tan skin. You remembered her.
“I’ve been worried about her mental well-being. She experienced a devastating divorce lately. And ever since, she’s been acting… you know. Distant. Violent. Is a little rougher with her underlings. I gave her a break, demoted her temporarily to the position of a guard. But she isn’t improving.”
Your brow furrowed. The behaviour he described seemed like the usual displays of pent-up anger and resentment following a horrid event. But what bothered you wasn’t the normalcy of her situation.
It was the fact that you’d failed to pick up even a sliver of negative emotions from her as your eyes landed on her face.
A therapist’s eyes were made to penetrate flesh and scour the soul with ease. Especially yours—considering your previous position. How come Caleb just happened to notice, whereas you entirely missed it? You were unsure whether his eyes were better than yours, or you were simply dozing off at that moment and unable to catch a glimpse, or…
Was it a hole in his story?
Still, the kindness and concern Caleb had shown towards his fellow colleague filled you with a sense of warmth you loathed. It felt genuine. But you couldn’t feel like this. Not with somebody like him.
“So, I guess you figured it out by now.”
Your fingers halted. Your eyes drifted in thought. “When should I visit her?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll give you the address. Should I tag along?”
“No,” you winced at the severity of your tone. In a frenzy, you reiterated, “She might be unwilling to open up if you tag along.”
He nodded in understanding. “Tomorrow, then. For now, let’s get some sleep.” In a swift motion, he pulled you onto him and buried your head into the crook of his neck. A red tint coated your cheeks, but you didn’t protest. Act normal.
You’d called for work, and work came to you. Sometimes, fate (and perhaps your luck) left you awe-struck.
But, this time, for some reason, you weren’t sure whether this was God’s plan or the Cerberus’.
No storm crackled through the air that day. Only an endless mass of grey clouds hovered over Skyhaven’s sky, still brewing, lingering, as if the storm were awaiting the right moment to unleash its shower. The air was damp, humid, but stiflingly hot. In spite of the absence of the sun, the heat rendered you as disgraceful as a panting dog. The metro was stuffed to the brim. People squeezed against you as you struggled to grip onto something. The heat radiating off the enraged passengers did not help in cooling you down. Quite a contrast to your initial thoughts that you could find a moment of respite in the metro’s air conditioning. Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t even manage to find a seat.
Luckily, trains moved fast. It was only a matter of five minutes before you pushed your way through and out of the suffocating swarm of people. Perhaps, you should’ve taken up Caleb’s offer for the car. But who knew what trick he had installed in there? Another camera? Or even a tracker? You were better off walking.
You fidgeted with the pendant of your bracelet. Caroline’s house was eerily quiet. Not a single beam of light peered out of her curtained windows. Only darkness emerged from underneath the front door. She lived in an isolated villa, something akin to a bungalow. Red-bricked, with mould growing off the walls, the small garden before the house was overgrown with ferns and invasive plants. Mushrooms grew off one side of the house. A foul stench permeated through the air.
She had a pool as well, somewhere near the back of the house that you could only catch a glimpse of as you arrived at the front gate. But that small glimpse was enough to know the state it was in—the water was rotting. Fallen leaves decayed on its surface, turning the once-blue waters into a murky yellow-green. If you weren’t any smarter, and if the decay had been any faster, you’d think it was a pond, not a pool. It smelled like wildlife as well—the damp, fungal musk of rot.
It surprised you how bad the smell near the house had accumulated, considering how large the bungalow’s verandas were, how abundant the number of windows, and how open the air around it was. Her house was isolated from the main roads. Only strips of vibrant green land stretched around it for acres. And to add to the advantages of the location, you were standing atop the windiest parts of the land. Knowing this, you wondered—where was the ammonia-like stench coming from? It was as if an entire crowd had relieved themselves across the garden and into the pool. If you hadn’t known better, you’d have believed it, if not for the large iron gates that were padlocked shut.
You rang the doorbell. No response. Your head craned to the top floors. The sliding glass doors near the veranda were open. The white curtains drifted in the air. Somebody was home.
You pressed your finger against the doorbell again. Once more, only silence greeted you. Something felt wrong. You’d imagined it to be a result of depression at first, but now, something felt off. Something lurked beneath the waters, threatening to erupt.
After a few more tries, you stepped away from the door. If she wasn’t going to let you in, you’d just leave.
Walking across the pavement, you pulled out your phone to quickly type a short apology message to Caleb. But that was when something caught your eye.
The back gate. It was open.
Your feet came to an abrupt halt. To get a closer look, you maneuvered your body and took a few steps. You weren’t mistaken. Alongside the gate, the back door was pried open as well.
You strode past the black pool until you were directly facing the looming red door. The stench was only increasing in intensity. But this time, you could smell something else. Something you couldn’t catch before.
Old blood and flesh.
You opened your phone’s camera and aimed it at the door. Just in case, you thought. With your free hand, you pushed it open.
The room inside was dark. Pots and various random clutter were littered on the ground. You made an effort not to step on them, but you found yourself stumbling nonetheless. In a hurry, your fingers worked to pry the curtains apart and swing the windows open one by one. You subconsciously breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden gust of fresh air passing through the openings. Finally, some ventilation.
The phone’s recorder blinked.
The little light from outside illuminated the room just enough for you to be able to spot the light switch. Hurrying over, you flicked it.
The lights flickered on with a static buzz. The back door led to the kitchen. Or, well, you assumed it was one. You couldn’t tell because of the ruckus. It appeared as if a fight had occurred here. Either that, or Caroline was one messy individual. You doubted the latter.
The kitchen sink was clogged. A broth of mould, discarded food, and fish bones lay inside. You stopped yourself from gagging and throwing up your breakfast. The kitchen didn’t need another mess. It was suffering enough.
On the floor lay dirt tracks. Footprints—messily removed by rubbing more mud on top. Somebody was here. Could they still be here?
Dread finally seized you. Your foot stilled, and you found yourself unable to move any further. As if fate itself urged you to leave. To turn and leave out the back door as swiftly as you’d entered. But you couldn’t. Something was up, and a greater scandal could’ve been at play. You couldn’t leave. Not now. Not when you’d sunk one foot in already.
You dragged yourself along the battered tiles, entering room after room and flicking the lights on before swinging the windows open each time. Downstairs was empty. You’d checked everywhere—in the two living rooms, dining, and across all the hallways. You even made sure to check under the sofas. The static in your mind grew louder. It pierced through your ears painfully from the inside out, busting your eardrums until your head throbbed so violently you thought it would implode. The nothingness told you to not go.
You pushed yourself back onto your feet and bolted up the stairs. You searched all the rooms, throwing the doors open and spinning about the entire area before moving on to the next. Eventually, you’d scoured all the rooms. Save for one.
The demon gurgling inside you moved as your eyes landed on the door. The master bedroom door.
You held the camera up to your face and placed your hand on the doorknob.
With a sickening and loud creak, the door crept open.
You held your palm against your nose. The scent of ammonia was strong, paired with the decaying flesh you’d picked up from outside the bungalow. And to fuel the disgusting stench, your nose could also pick up the faint scent of bleach. Your face contorted. Bleach?
The bile rose, threatening to spill out of your throat. You swallowed it down. Bitter. You were really about to throw up. Everything inside was dark. But thanks to the light in the hallway, you could make out the debris scattered across the floors. Cigarette boxes, open and sealed, were present among most of the junk. Other than that, empty beer bottles and discarded laundry could be seen. From the ceiling, large decorations hung. Decorations or more clothing, you couldn’t tell. The scent of bleach engulfed your lungs.
Hesitantly, you reached for the lights.
Your phone fell to the floor with a thud. Your fingers curled into your palm. A tremble rippled through you. You couldn’t move.
They weren’t decorations at all.
A step.
Nor were they more ugly clothing.
Your hand met skin. Cold, lifeless skin.
There, from the ceiling, hung a ginger-haired woman, ghastly and pale.
A corpse.
Caroline.
Thunder drummed through the clouds. A flash illuminated behind you. But you were too still to be afraid. Your body shivered, even under the cloak of the warmest, fuzziest blanket Caleb owned. Your numb hands clutched a mug of hot cocoa. Its bittersweet aroma rose from the cup, entering your nostrils. But your mouth didn’t water at the scent. You only sat still, as lifeless as a corpse, as the wide-screen television played on, broadcasting the news of Caroline’s death.
Suddenly, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind. “Drink up, pip. It’s going to get cold.”
He was right. The fingers curled around the mug only felt cold—a sign of the drink’s dissipating warmth. But how could you eat? Your teeth had tasted flesh not long ago.
The figure behind you sighed. “I shouldn’t have sent you there.”
“I went too late.” You curled against yourself. “If I had been faster, I—”
“She’s been dead ever since that day at the garden. It was inevitable. We didn’t know.”
Your body slumped in his embrace, threatening to give in.
“She was my patient. I’m still responsible.”
“I’m so stupid.” Caleb’s arms left your torso, leaving you cold once more. A part of you ached to reach out, to grab him and bury yourself into him and just—disappear. Vanish from existence. It was what you deserved. What you’d brought upon yourself. “I shouldn’t have sent you on a job. I ruined your vacation.”
“Caleb, I can’t.” You buried your face in your palms. “We were having fun. We were laughing, joking around, all while she…” You couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to. Caleb empathised, nonetheless.
Coming to your side, he gently pried the mug from your hands and cradled your face. “Let me warm it up for you.” He switched off the television and returned to the kitchen.
You curled up on the couch. This wasn’t meant to happen. Someone wasn’t supposed to die. Unrelated to your mission or not, experiencing a death head-on was not part of your predictions. This was supposed to be executed flawlessly. You were supposed to be in charge.
Nonetheless, you felt more of the control slipping from between your fingers with each passing second. You were losing. Devastatingly. You’d prepared for various outcomes—losing because of yourself, losing because of him, but you’d completely forgotten to consider that you could lose to independent external factors as well.
In short, you thought you were invincible.
You thought none grasped the situation better than yourself.
But alas, it was indeed the devil himself who’d intervened in your fate. The opening for a temporary escape from him was timed too perfectly. It was too good to be true.
And it wasn’t. What you’d thought would be a normal, perhaps exhausting, session with a new patient, morphed into a traumatic, arduous twist of fate that would throw you entirely off course, flicking you so far from your path that crawling back was rendered both physically and mentally impossible. How could this have happened? You just lost twice in a row. Fate had abandoned you, just how it had abandoned Anne.
You gritted your teeth.
None of this was fair. Caroline shouldn’t have had to die. Nobody deserved death. Images of her intimidating visage flashed across your mind. Just a few days ago, you heard her speak. Just a few days ago, she was blinking, moving, talking, eating, breathing. And now, she was off to God-knows-where. Perhaps her body was stored in some cold machine, or she was placed in a stretcher as the morgue worked with her body. In a blink, the life was sucked out of her. And she was rendered nothing.
You eyed your arm. Everything felt so surreal. What if this was all just a dream? An alternate reality, or a sick nightmare you couldn’t wake up from. You shut your eyes and attempted to drift off into another land. It was too taxing to process this overload. It was better just to sleep it off, or just disassociate so you didn’t have to make peace with the truth.
You pressed your lips into a thin line. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get a moment of shut-eye. The sight of the corpse flashed before your eyes. A noose was tied around Caroline’s neck as she hung from the ceiling fan; dead, lifeless, gone. So close yet so out of your reach. Her once-vibrant ginger locks were tainted a sickly orange. Her once-intimidating eyes were sealed eternally shut. The lips she’d spoken with that day were dry, blue. Blood had stopped circulating inside them. Her heart had stopped beating long ago. You knew you couldn’t have saved her even if you’d tried.
Counterfactual thinking. You sighed. At this point, you really were turning into the patient.
You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, paying no mind to the way its soft edges cut into your skin. Countless what-ifs pried into your brain. You covered your ears with both hands, attempting to shut it off. If only your brain could shut up.
A familiar pang resonated in your temples. Your head began to throb violently—just as it had before you went up the stairs of Caroline’s bungalow. Those thoughts weren’t as evil as you’d made them up to be. If only you hadn’t looked. If only you’d stopped and messaged Caleb instead. Then, you wouldn’t have to be involved in such a complex scandal. Paired with the recent discovery—your recent loss—the whole situation, you were afraid, was going to render you completely mentally senile. Just like Anne.
Anne. The moment you’d gazed upon her—all shrivelled up and curled into a ball at the side of the black couch you’d owned in your previous office—you felt a sense of sympathy you’d never felt before. Something about her resonated with you. Her whimpering eyes, her clammy hands, her knitted brows, or the dimming fire that had blued years ago crackling in her eyes. You didn’t know which of those had piqued your curiosity. Something about that woman, so gorgeously broken, sparked something within you.
Perhaps, it was her eyes. Those dread-filled eyes that bore into yours. The spark that ignited when she saw you. The hope she’d regained upon your visage. Like she’d been starved of a true friend for millennia, and you were the one meant to be the ailment to her wounds. She’d looked at you like a newborn gazing upon its mother—its protector, saviour from the cruelty of the world. She looked at you with… hope. And in your heart, you swore to protect her. To be the one to show her the beauties of life, and to guide her onto a path of bliss and tranquility so she could return to the life she once had.
And what did you do?
You failed her.
The dread that tingled your limbs that day was the same one that numbed it now. That horrid purple, fanged beast. When the detective knocked on your office door in a delirious state, and had brought to you the news of Anne’s attempt, you couldn’t move. The air lumped in your trachea, refusing to release, as if your body itself had decided you were unworthy of life, and your fingers went cold. You almost fell to your knees, unable to rush to Anne’s side immediately. She was not dead yet. She was alive, blinking, here. And that only made it worse—how would you face her? You couldn’t bear to see the look in her eyes deform from hope to animosity as she looked at you one last time. You couldn’t let the one who abandoned her be the last person she saw, felt, and breathed.
So, you didn’t go.
Shortly after, a messenger knocked on your door. His knocks were calm, unhurried, as if the weight of everything had already settled into his heart. He brought the news, low and steady, that Anne Lotte had breathed her last.
The first tear fell from your eye. You’d cried for her before, and you would do it again. The first time, you wept silently because she couldn’t. And the next time, you wept out of your own free will. Because nobody was there to mourn her death.
Anne had an empty funeral. Abandoned by all, loved by none.
Caroline’s death was only a reminder of your past shortcomings, a visceral punch to the gut, the reality that life and death were beyond your control, and that even you couldn’t shoo the poison away from eating at your patient’s brain.
You couldn’t even save yourself.
You failed as a psychotherapist, as a human, as an organism.
A type of survivor’s guilt. You bit your bottom lip, tearing at the dry skin coating it. The migraines worsened. Drowning in your thoughts, you failed to process the shift in weight beside you as another figure seated himself on the couch.
“I re-heated the cocoa. Come. You have to eat.” With unnerving gentleness, Caleb lifted your body off the couch and brought the mug to your lips. Defeated, you gently sipped. You winced as the hot liquid seared your tongue. “Too hot?” he cooed before setting it down on the glass coffee table. Even then, his arms never left you. Cautiously, as if to not scare you away, he positioned you on his lap and began to run soft circles on your back. You melted into his touch. As much as you hated to admit, he knew exactly what to do to help you feel at ease and lift your mood just enough.
You rested your chin on his shoulder, and suddenly, the world reverted 15 years back. A young girl sat atop a boy’s lap, whimpering, sniffling as she rubbed her tears and snot onto the boy’s shirt. But he didn’t seem to mind. He only hummed a soothing tune and cradled her head tenderly. “They said the cat deserved to die,” the girl choked a sob, “Tell me it didn’t, Caleb, tell me!”
A small smile graced your lips at the memory. Back then, and even now, only to him could you lift the dam and let your tears flow free. Only in his embrace could you breathe once more, and only here did you truly feel at home.
If you’d lost your memories, you’d just want to stay here forever. By his side. In his arms.
But you couldn’t forget. A part of you wished you could.
Rain pattered against the windows—its sound being the only one besides your breaths intertwined with his. His fingers found their way to your wrist, pressing down gently on your pulse point and watching as the fragile vein beat. A content sigh passed his lips. But something about it irked you. How could he be so calm when the colleague he’d shown so much care for yesterday night wound up dead? You suppressed your anger. Blowing up on him wouldn’t fix anything. In fact, you’d only end up pushing away the ones who cared for you. You knew you couldn’t cope without him.
A warm, smooth object pressed against your lips. The scent of chocolate filled your senses, and for the first time, your mouth watered. Your stomach growled in response, as if it had awoken from a long slumber—empty and unfulfilled.
"Drink up," Caleb hummed. "And then, I'll tuck you in."
You opened your mouth and slowly sipped the hot cocoa. The warm, fudgy liquid enveloped your tongue. Saccharine bursts of flavour erupted in your mouth. Steadily, his hands guided you to slurp up the entire mug, granting you occasional breaks to collect yourself in between. His demeanour was gentle, unhurried.
The butterflies in your stomach stirred from their dormancy, flitting about once more. It was an odd sensation—the serenity of butterflies mingled with the bitterness of guilt, resentment, and anger. A combination never meant to exist.
The next thunderclap sent a jolt of pain through your skull. You gripped your head and winced. Taking note of your discomfort, Caleb pressed his fingers against your aching temples.
"You should really get some rest."
"I tried. I can't sleep."
"I'll get you a sleeping pill."
Your brows furrowed. How could you trust him with medicine after that? Nonetheless, he had a point—if you didn’t sleep now, the weight of your burden would end up crushing you into smithereens. Sighing, you nodded.
Caleb disappeared into the darkness before returning with a bottle of medicine. He scurried over to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and was back at your side shortly after. You plucked the bottle from his hands and inspected the label. Ibuprofen. You eyed him warily.
"Your head’s killing you, right?"
"And the sleep medicine?"
He opened his palm to reveal a relatively large pill. You cocked an eyebrow. Since when were sleeping pills that large? Maybe it was a stronger dosage.
You swallowed the ibuprofen before turning to the pill resting in his palm. Your eyes narrowed. Carefully, as if handling a radioactive sample, you pinched the pill between your fingers and brought it to your nose. You sniffed. A strong medicinal scent.
This wasn’t a sleeping pill.
A sharp breath. Your shoulders slumped. Suddenly relaxed, you calmly returned the pill to Caleb’s hand. He stared at you with half-lidded eyes.
"A predetermined provocation. You knew I’d catch on." An empty smile graced your lips. A breathless laugh followed. "You know I know a lot about medicine. This was no attempt to drug me." Your sharp glare met his violet hues. "You deliberately planned this."
Caleb curled his fist and placed the pill on the glass table alongside the water. "I was tired," he mused, "of dancing along as we played this stupid game."
"Oh," you lifted your head and smirked. "No, you were enjoying every part of this. Playing with me, driving me to the edge."
"I had to." His fists curled. "You were being a brat. You thought I wouldn’t catch on, right? But your relaxed composure gave it away."
Crossing your arms, you let out a huff. "I—"
Before you could finish, Caleb pressed on. "You were conspiring against me. Treating me like some damn lab experiment. Is that all I am to you? A deranged patient in need of saving? Another victim of the fleet?" He looked up at you, genuine hurt lacing his eyes. You gulped.
"You were studying that case all day in my bedroom while I was away, you—"
"You spied on me," you retorted. "Twice. First, with my personal information, and again, with your damn cameras!"
Caleb’s teeth sank into the plush of his bottom lip.
With eyes blazing with unrestrained emotion, you went on. "Last time, you actually drugged me. Kept me captive for three days. Threatened me. Terrified me out of my mind! And you try to insist you're above a deranged patient? You’re delusional and in need of help. I wanted to help you. I wanted to bring you back."
If Caleb had ears, they’d be lying flat against his head right now.
Your heart withered with guilt. You knew you shouldn’t have called him a deranged patient. But even then, his reaction wasn’t a response to that insult—it was something deeper. It emerged from the darkest recesses of his mind, the parts even you could never access.
Had you gone too far?
"Was it," his lips trembled, "was it all a lie? What you said in the car? That you were willing to make peace with the new versions of ourselves?"
"You know that to be a lie very well."
"You’re wrong." He lifted himself onto his feet. "I trusted you. I trusted in us."
"There was no us!" You lashed out, overwhelmed by the sheer force of emotions that inevitably laced your tone. "I’ve been alone ever since you left me—us—for the DAA! Ever since you blew yourself up with Grandma!"
You watched as Caleb clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. You’d struck a nerve. It was enough. You got the reaction you wanted, but you couldn’t stop. Not when he was finally listening to you, looking at you—truly looking. For the first time in years, you could tell him how you felt.
And so, the words kept tumbling out of your mouth like an unstoppable avalanche—cold, all-consuming, and doomed to self-annihilate.
"I didn’t talk to anyone. For years after you left, I shut myself off. I found solace in my patients’ despair because you were never there!"
You looked up. His eyes were glued to his feet, his clenched fists trembling. Darkness overcast his face. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, much less how he felt. You searched his face for a sign—anything. Anger, resentment, agony, indifference, tears, or a smile. But you found nothing. It was all hidden away behind that invisible veil. Another mask.
You gritted your teeth. It only fuelled your rage further. At that moment, you wished you could tear open his skull and peer inside his mind.
"And you know what? I was such a fool. When I saw you again, I was willing to forgive your every flaw! I was willing to forget and move on with you. But guess what? The man I was madly in love with since high school had become so intoxicated by his newfound power and authority," you spat the last words with venom, "that he’d forgotten of my existence entirely! And still, I trusted you nonetheless! I thought it was my shortcomings when you were the insane one!"
"You…" Caleb lifted his head. The darkness dissipated from his face, only to be replaced with a flicker of hope. "You loved me?"
You slapped your palm against your face and threw yourself onto the couch, oblivious to how painfully you'd bumped your leg. You couldn’t believe you’d said that. Stupid, stupid.
"Why else would I be so obsessed with bringing you back?"
In a flash, Caleb was on his knees before you, bringing your palms together and pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded with fervour. His eyes gleamed with something raw, something terrifyingly close to unraveling. This was no act.
"Caleb…" You spoke his name with such softness, he gulped. "What are you doing? Get up—"
"You loved me." His grip tightened. "Do you still feel that way? Do we have a chance?"
The loudest bolt of lightning ripped through the stormy clouds. You turned your gaze to the tempest outside.
"I don’t think so, Caleb."
"I’ll make this right. Let’s live together."
"Caleb…"
"I’ll return your position as a criminologist. You can work under the fleet. You’ll have a better salary and a better working environment. And if you don’t want that, I’ll move the whole clinic here."
"Ca—"
"You like lively atmospheres, right? We’ll decorate this house. Or we can move to a new one. It’ll have the largest windows and the warmest winds. I’ll build you a garden full of your most treasured flowers, in a place far away where nobody will find us."
You tensed. A tremor rippled through you, but Caleb didn’t seem to notice. And if he did, he didn’t care. His eyes gleamed with desperation, restraint, and a love-fuelled mania that terrified you. Yearning. Could a mere emotion become so haunting? So intense?
"Let’s rebuild our life. We can be married. Have a bunch of kids, or not. If it’s what you want, we can take it slow. One step at a time. Just…" He nuzzled both your hands, his eyes lingering on the bracelet. "Just be by my side. You’ll never have to be alone again."
"Caleb."
You affirmed firmly, making him halt mid-sentence. His brows furrowed noticeably. A flicker of anger ignited in his eyes.
"You’ve gone too far. I can’t be with you."
You retracted your hands. The frown deepened on his lips as the absence of your warmth settled in. Gone was the adoration. Only wrath remained where it once was. He acted as if you’d stabbed him in the back, as if you’d plucked the feathers from his bionic wings and crushed them before his eyes. Faster than he’d knelt by your side, Caleb sprang to his feet and caged you within the couch. A familiar scenario. Your mind raced.
"You just don’t understand, do you?"
You averted your eyes. He forced your head parallel to his with a firm grip, ensuring your gaze remained locked onto his. You squirmed under the inferno alight within them. Whatever swirled inside was darker, crueler, and far more monstrous than anything you’d faced in the past few days. It was far more ruthless than what had lurked the last time you found yourself pinned to the couch. Honestly, it truly terrified you. Even in Harrison’s frantic eyes, you hadn’t spotted such ferocity.
"I’ve given up my life, my heart, and a limb for your sake. You breathe today because I sacrificed my breaths in your stead."
You thrashed against him, trying to pry your face from his grasp, but nothing worked. He loomed over you with monstrous strength.
"What? Weren’t you wondering what happened after the explosion? I’ll tell you, alright? If you give me something of yours."
Mustering all the strength you could, you barely managed to knock the behemoth of a man off you. As if regaining his self-control, Caleb eyed his hands before turning to you. The mania in his gaze dissipated, leaving only that desperate yearning.
But it was too late. The damage had been done.
"Pip—"
"I’m leaving Skyhaven." You picked yourself up and stormed off into your—well, his room. "Try to stop me, and I’ll show you hell."
And with that, you slammed the door shut.
That night, while Caleb had (not so) blissfully stashed himself away in his temporary room, you gathered your things and silently fled the estate.
Before walking out the front door, you spared one last glance at the empty house. You eyed the barren shelves, devoid of colour or antiques, the dim lights that were rarely granted the opportunity to welcome any host, and the uninspiring grey paint coating his solid walls.
Perhaps these walls were meant to imprison him, not you. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, Caleb had suffered—immensely. But you couldn’t let him drag you into the sizzling depths with him. He may have abandoned joy, but you would not. You would return to Linkon, maybe flee to another city nearby, and leave your past behind in pursuit of a joyous future—a future where, this time, you would be in control, not your listless feelings from decades ago.
You yearned to take another look, to glimpse his slumbering, pained face one more time before departing. But a saying from a precious individual circled in your mind: Don’t look back at me. If you do, it’ll be more difficult to leave.
Or, in other words, do not look back before leaving. If you do, you will be bound to them eternally—heart and soul. That was what he meant back then, wasn’t it?
With a relieved smile, you stepped out the door and into a new beginning.
“Goodbye, Caleb,” you murmured under your breath. “I love you.”
But in actions, I always look back.
There were only a few trains active at night. As a result, the station was relatively quiet, save for the occasional sweep sweep of the cleaning lady’s brush or the robotic echo of the AI announcing the next rides. The aged cleaning lady eyed you suspiciously. Perhaps you were suspicious—a woman sitting all by herself at a station at eleven at night, with barely any luggage to accompany her. You clearly weren’t mourning or panicked, so it likely wasn’t an emergency you had to return to.
Even then, the way her gaze kept returning to you was… odd.
Ding!
You fished through your pockets and retrieved your phone. Had Caleb caught wind of your absence? No. Odd. It wasn’t Caleb.
It was Rhys.
You quickly opened his chat and skimmed through his messages. A sinking feeling settled in your gut.
"Miss," he hastily followed, "you’re on the news."
You stilled. Why would you be on the news? Surely, a woman alone at a train station at night wasn’t such a revolutionary event that it had lured in the mass media?
"?" you typed back. "I’m famous now?"
"It’s no joke. Look."
A video file popped up. The thumbnail appeared to be Rhys’ TV. You could spot a snippet of his wife from one of the corners.
The throbbing ache in your head returned, begging you not to click on the file. Alas, your curiosity took hold of you, and your fingers hovered above the play button.
Hesitantly, it met the screen.
The woman announcing the news spoke your name. You immediately lowered the volume.
Your name. Your full name. Something was wrong.
"A suspect has been found." She said your name again. "Skyhaven authorities are actively searching for the suspect in connection with Caroline Mayday’s death. According to local reports, the individual was seen near the estate a day prior to the incident."
You slapped your clammy palm onto your mouth to silence the gasp that was about to escape your lips. The only person you had met that day was Rhys. Surely, there had been some sort of mistake. Surely, you hadn’t murdered a woman whose address you weren’t even aware of.
"Evidence, including fingerprint analysis and multiple witness testimonies, has linked the suspect to the scene."
Testimonies? Witnesses? Had people perceived a ghost? How could they have witnessed a woman who wasn’t even there?
Your hand stilled. Suddenly, the thoughts in your brain quieted, leaving nothing but unnerving, unmoving silence. The gears turned in your head. And then, it all made sense.
Caleb. Utilising his authority.
That bastard.
"A search warrant has been issued, and officials confirm that she will soon be taken in for questioning before the court of law."
Shit.
Shit.
You turned off the video and returned to the chat. Rhys had sent another message.
"Miss, you have to leave. I’ll get you tickets to Linkon."
"No need," you typed back. "I’m at the station. I was just about to leave anyway."
After a brief pause, you asked, "Rhys, do you believe I’m guilty?"
For a moment, he didn’t reply, leaving you on seen. Your body stiffened. If he didn’t believe you…
"No. We were at the café right about the time the witnesses claimed to have spotted you. And even if you weren’t, well, how do I put this nicely? Miss, you don’t have the balls."
Despite his half-insult, you couldn’t help but smile. At the very least, there was somebody who trusted you.
"I know it was that colonel’s doing. He isn’t to be trusted. Please, for your sake, never get involved with him ever again."
"I won’t."
And this time, you were being honest. You couldn’t return to him. Not after this.
"Stay safe, Rhys. If I’m not caught and executed, I promise you, we will meet again."
The train rolled into the station. Its wheels hissed against the cold metal rails.
You had to leave, now.
A handful of people lined up against the entrance. Some of them had their faces glued to their phones. Could they be watching the news? You hoped not. It was safer to go last.
You fished through your luggage and pulled out a cap you happened to bring along, placing it low on your head, shielding half your face from the gazes of passers-by.
Donning the calmest demeanour you could muster, you stepped into the train’s carriage and seated yourself far away from all. Sort of counterintuitive, now that you thought about it. Attempting to appear normal whilst actively isolating yourself from the crowd like a child who had shoplifted a candy bar. It made little sense. But how could you think logically when danger was quite literally breathing down your neck each second? Half of Skyhaven’s forces were after you, and you were practically tethered to a determined fate.
With a slow rattle and a monotonous announcement, the train began to move.
Your eyes trailed to the bracelet clasped around your wrist. Your promise to Caleb. But what did that matter now? It was merely a chain. A bad-luck charm, even. Ever since you had put it on, misfortunes followed close behind. You kept experiencing losses ceaselessly.
You contemplated tossing it away, but it would be such a waste of a valuable item.
You peered from below the cap’s shade to eye the modern tablet displaying the train’s destinations. The last stop wasn’t Linkon. It was a town two cities apart—Nimbura. The land of storms and tempests. Perhaps the storm that had been looming over Skyhaven for the past few days originated from there.
Nonetheless, Nimbura was a town of little population. Due to the never-ending downpour, most citizens had moved to greater cities. It was the perfect place for an escape. You could sell your bracelet to a local broker for a small fortune. You reckoned it would get you enough to kickstart your new life there. Perhaps open another clinic or begin to achieve the dreams you had long since abandoned.
This time, you would live your new life the way you wanted to.
With Caleb manipulating the press from behind the scenes, any chance of achieving justice and clearing your name was lost to the wind. Though a cowardly move, fleeing was your only choice.
You shut your eyes. Oh, Caroline. If only she knew how her death had been exploited by her higher-ups for such selfish purposes.
Of course, starting anew was easier said than done. You still had to fetch yourself a new identity, a house, and somehow evade the authorities for the rest of your life. It was fun to dream, but you knew you had to embrace reality soon.
Or else, you would be caught in the dumbest way.
At the very least, you could put up one hell of a fight before being whisked away in shackles. Enjoy your last remaining days of freedom before he caught up.
Your breath hitched. Caleb wouldn’t give up, would he? He’d comb through each city and town, overturning even the smallest villages in search of you.
You couldn’t picture what drastic measures he’d take.
Perhaps he’d even drain the oceans and pluck you from the seabed if you decided to live freely as a sea turtle.
Wherever you were, he would find you.
Some things were only possible in the presence of power. No matter how intelligent you were, your helplessness was undeniable. You bore not even a sliver of authority and thus were incapable of turning the tide against him. You could run from a man, but you couldn’t escape a whole fleet of deranged, cybernetic militants.
You chuckled at the inevitability of your fate. In time, he would find you. The government wouldn’t protect you. Not when you were a wanted criminal on the loose. If anything, they would hand you over—to him—on a silver platter. Nobody wanted to make an enemy of the farspace fleet. They were a ruthless bunch. What would one insignificant sacrifice mean when it had been made for the greater good? For eternal peace?
Just like Anne, the world had abandoned you as well.
And this time, you truly had no home to return to.
An unfamiliar feeling coiled in your chest—a yearning for home. A yearning to sit across the white couch of your clinic, listing away your patient’s traits on a clipboard as a frigid wind drifted in from the window. A coveting for the warmth of your bed, the bitterness of the coffee you brewed each morning, and the intimacy of your workspace.
This was all a mistake. You should never have embarked on this journey in the first place.
So much for bringing someone back. Someone who had lost their heart long ago.
If only you hadn’t let your emotions blind you. If only you had moved on from him.
You squeezed your eyes shut. A single tear slipped down your cheek. This was no place to cry. What you should have been focusing on was a plan—a means of saving yourself. You barely had any money. Would it even be enough to buy you transport to the nearest broker?
You didn’t have any weapons on you either. Nothing to defend yourself with. Just you, yourself, and a lightweight bag with nothing valuable inside.
You should have stolen a few bucks from Caleb. His position surely paid well, so what would a hundred dollars mean to him? You really should have. And the worst part was that you knew he would have handed it all to you without a second thought. Something churned in your chest.
"I don’t know what to be when I grow up, Caleb. What should I do?"
You kicked your feet on the bed, lying on your back as you watched Caleb’s attentive gaze remain glued to his homework.
"Why are you askin’ me?" A young voice replied. "It’ll come to ya, pip-squeak. You’re only ten."
"But," you pushed yourself off the bed and nudged his shoulder, "the teacher asked us to write an essay on our dream careers. Help me, please? You’re really smart!"
"Why worry about that? I’m here, aren’t I? I’m smart enough for us both."
"Really?" You grinned stupidly. "That means your money is my money?"
He reached over without averting his eyes from the textbook to flick your forehead softly. You whined in response.
"Hasn’t it always been like that? But still. You’re good with people, right?"
You hummed. "I don’t have many friends other than you."
"But you understand people."
You nodded.
"Then why don’t you become a psychologist?"
"A… what?"
He sighed. "Never mind. You’re too young to think about that." And with that, he ruffled your hair and sent you off.
Little did he know you would cling to that word for the rest of your life.
The train whirred along the tracks, speeding readily through the various stations. One by one, the passengers departed, until you and an old man were the only ones remaining.
Before long, the train passed by Linkon. You watched with a solemn gaze as the doors slid shut. A part of you imagined yourself stepping out—happy, grinning from ear to ear, returning home. This cap wouldn’t be on your head, and your face would be devoid of worries. You would be free. On your way to a new life in the absence of Caleb. Into a new normalcy—a reality you could embrace this time.
You shut your eyes and rested your head against the window. Two fresh tears slipped past your lashes. Home. The word called to you from amidst the darkness. You envisioned two gentle arms cradling your form. The ghosts in your bed would welcome you home. They’d open their arms and tuck you in.
Just yesterday, the ‘ghost’ would have been none other than Caleb. But now, you wanted nothing to do with him.
Now, they had become two fleeting, ghastly apparitions—echoes of the past, lingering somewhere in your psyche.
The flesh may forget the sting of steel, but our minds will know.
You didn’t recall where you had heard that line. Perhaps it was a lyric from a melodious choir, or maybe a fragment of dialogue from a show you once treasured. You couldn’t recall the exact words either. At first, you had only nodded at its proclamation. It was right. There was nothing to refute.
As the new you emerged from the epicentre of a vicious battle, wounded by the likes of steel, its choir rang within your heart.
The mind never forgets. It is a being of its own. A tranquil entity, a lifeless organism so equally abundant with life. It may not respire, but it bears the authority to decide whether you do so.
And sometimes, it chooses for you not to be able to breathe.
Caleb would never vanish. He might perish while executing his unethical duties, or he might fade from your life altogether. He might even heal and reform. But that wounded man lived in a hollow within your heart, a cavity carved out with a knife—an unhealing wound, a permanent abyss.
A dark, bottomless pit you could never truly move on from.
No matter how achingly you worked to normalise his absence, his ghost would linger.
And so would the ghost of your former self.
For that wounded man didn’t just win,
He devoured you. He plucked your ribcage open and fused with your heart.
The burden of exhaustion weighed on your bones, dragging your body down against the train’s plastic seat. Your mind kept drifting home—to the warm lighting of your kitchen, the abomination stashed away under your bed, the mess coating your desk that you never quite found time to clean up. Their images flashed before your eyes, like a boat drifting back to the seas it had departed from, pushed there by a storm.
Now, it was up to you to decide what home meant.
You would make sure that this time, home wouldn’t be a place that breathed Caleb’s name.
“Nimbura. Doors will open from the right.”
You hauled your luggage alongside you as you exited with the old man. From beneath his drooping eyebrows, he shot you a wary glance before inching forward. A flimsy brown cane supported his weight as he walked. You hoped you would never again encounter a situation where you’d need to rely on someone else—not until you reached seventy, at least.
A cool gust of wind sent flyers fluttering through the air before your face. You shivered, hugging yourself a little tighter. An earthy scent lingered—damp soil, the kind you could always smell before an impending downpour.
Of course, the town hadn’t bought its name with cash.
It bought it with its perpetual rain.
“Excuse me,” you called out to the old man. “Do you know where the nearest broker’s is?”
“They’re all closed by now,” he croaked. “Get some sleep, girl. Go tomorrow.”
You let out an audible sigh before returning to your pocket to count your cash. Just enough for a night’s stay, but beyond that? You weren’t so sure.
To your surprise, the man turned back. “Need a place to stay, child?”
You eyed the money on your palm before returning to his face. He appeared wise. From the way his brows were furrowed, you could tell he had seen much in his long life. A part of you secretly loathed these types of people. Those who had seen it all were especially hard to deceive. They could spot any hint of trickery, no matter how ethical, from a mile away.
Your gut told you he probably knew you were on the run.
You needed a place to stay, but your instincts flared up. You didn’t know him. Anything could happen to you in a town this small, and it would go unreported for the most part. This was a matter of survival. Although your expertise insisted this man was no threat, your wariness begged to differ. So, with a polite smile, you turned down his offer.
Defeated, the man showed you the way to the nearest inn.
You followed his directions only to end up at a run-down inn around the corner. Its sign hung loosely, threatening to fall at any second. But clearly, the owner hadn’t cared enough to fix it. On top of that, the place stank. It reeked of alcohol, vomit, and cigars. You’d rather sleep out on the streets than stay here.
Thunder flashed in the sky behind you. You jumped.
Okay, maybe sleeping under a storm’s embrace wasn’t the best idea.
You were on the run, after all. Now wasn’t the time to be picky.
A short, blonde-haired woman sat on the other side of the counter, chewing gum as she scrolled mindlessly through her phone. The electric bell above the door chimed as you pushed it open. In a few swift movements, she spat out her gum and shoved the phone into the cavity under her desk.
“Hello, how may I help you?” She flashed the brightest grin she could muster.
She appeared young. Most likely still in high school. Your gaze travelled to the photo frame behind her—a clean picture of a family with a mix of blondes and brunettes. So, her parents owned the place, huh? A lucky child with a stable future. You envied her.
“How much for one night?”
“Oh, uhm—” She fished through something under her desk. You could hear the faint crumple of paper as she moved. That agility… was she in hunter’s school?
She named the price. You reopened your wallet and counted the bills. Just enough for one night, plus transportation.
“Is the food free?”
“No, ma’am. Only water.”
A deflated sigh passed your lips. You hadn’t eaten dinner, and you were practically starving. If you wasted money on food now, you doubted you’d make it through tomorrow.
Oh, well. A day’s fast wouldn’t kill you.
“All right. Can I have a room?” You smiled, placing the cash on the desk.
She opened her register and quickly handed you the change before fetching a pair of keys from the shelves behind her. Tossing you the keys, she showed you to your room. Despite her persistent offers, you ended up carrying your bags yourself.
Your room was relatively cleaner than expected. Initially, you’d envisioned a room as run-down as the front of the inn, with broken beds and a toilet that didn’t flush. Of course, the room was nothing like the average hotel rooms you could rent in Linkon, but it would do.
At least you discovered where most of the inn’s funds went.
You fetched one of the sealed bottles of water from the desk and buried yourself in bed. Having finally achieved a moment of respite, you whipped out your phone and began scrolling through your messages.
Oddly enough, there were no texts from Caleb. He was offline on all his socials.
Perhaps he hadn’t caught wind of your absence yet? That would suggest the idea of framing you for murder was something he had planned beforehand. Possibly after the argument.
You were about to head to bed when suddenly, your phone lit up with a notification.
You guessed it was Rhys again before even looking at the screen. He was the only one you’d been texting (or, more accurately, who’d been texting you) over the past few days.
If he was texting you, it could only mean trouble.
With numb fingers, you opened his chat.
“Miss, run.”
“You’re in Nimbura, right? They know your location.”
You froze as he kept bombarding you with short, panicked, back-to-back messages.
“He discovered our relationship. My wife’s dealing with the fleet.”
“They’re at our door.”
“Please, run.”
“Forget about us. Leave Nimbura. Immediately.”
“The police know where you are.”
The adrenaline was so deeply coded into your DNA that you’d gotten used to it by now. Only a deafening numbness lingered where anxiety once resided.
But, more importantly, how did he know where you were?
Your eyes trailed to the bracelet. The pendant gleamed under the light.
Now that you thought about it, the pendant’s size was oddly convenient, was it not?
And it was quite a bit heavier than you had expected.
Could it be…?
Caleb had revealed his final card. The ace up his sleeve.
Blood drained from your face. You paled.
A tracker.
You jolted up to the sound of police sirens slicing through the air. They were already here.
In a hurry, you snatched the bag you hadn’t yet opened and rushed to the door. Your other hand fidgeted with the bracelet coiled around your wrist. You hissed. Why were these things so hard to unclasp with one hand?
Pushing through your body’s sheer exhaustion and numbness, you bolted down the stairs, tripping over some of the steps. A knock resounded at the inn’s front gate.
“Skyhaven authorities. Open up.”
The perplexed blonde girl eyed you awkwardly. Tearing the bracelet forcefully off your wrist, you tossed the jewellery to her and muttered an apology.
“Gotta run. Take this as an apology.”
And with that, you stormed out the back door. Rain poured from above, thumping against your bare head relentlessly. No time to equip an umbrella. Just run.
With trembling legs, you skidded across the empty alleyways. Multiple pairs of footsteps slapped against the damp pavement close by. They were closing in. Fast. You had nowhere to go.
But perhaps you could make it to the train station before it closed. There was one last train heading to Linkon soon. If you could make it, maybe you could throw them off your trail for a while?
You bit your lip. You weren’t so sure. Chances were the authorities had already surrounded Linkon—your home and clinic were under their jurisdiction.
But that was a problem for future you. Right now, you had to run.
Mustering up all your strength, you pushed yourself forward, darting through the desolate streets. The commanding voices of the officers pierced through the rain, declaring how they would use force, how resisting would only worsen your case. You paid no mind to their warnings. Only the worst would happen if you were arrested—you’d be thrown into jail, executed by the fleet, or sent straight into Caleb’s arms. And he would definitely rather skin himself bit by bit than let you go once more.
How much worse could it get?
The walls of the world seemed to shrink in on you, confining you within Nimbura’s insignificantly sized territory. All sounds blurred together, contorting into one singular noise that thudded violently against your eardrums—the pulse of your own quickening heartbeat. The heart that once beat in love for a man now pounded in terror of the very same one. You no longer flinched at the bolts of lightning, no longer cared for the heavy droplets of rain smashing through your skull.
At that moment, you were reduced to a cowardly mess of a woman who knew only how to run. She ran from her life, her job, her stability, her friends, her problems, her mistakes. And now, that woman realised she had spent her entire existence fleeing. She buried her troubles in the desolation of her patients, abandoned the life that had given her everything, and flung herself into the arms of a stranger. A stranger who, due to her naïveté, received her love as she foolishly gave herself away.
Hot tears streamed down your cheeks. Or was it rain? You didn’t know. Didn’t care. And for the first time, you let the tears fall freely. You sobbed—your face contorted in despair. Your lips curled into an unsightly frown, your brows knitted dramatically. Vision blurred. Your pace faltered.
Your legs begged for respite. To stop, to collapse onto the wet asphalt, to simply wail to your heart’s content. But the footsteps behind you suddenly grew louder. Your brief moment of weakness had allowed them to close in. You were screwed.
Forcing yourself forward, you pushed through the pain. Your shoes stretched against your feet, groaning under the pressure. The soles were likely torn by now—perhaps even left behind a few metres ago. You didn’t know. There was no time to stop and check.
Then, through the curtain of rain, the silhouette of a tall stranger emerged. He walked parallel to you, treading calmly beneath the shelter of a large, black umbrella. Your heart lurched. You couldn’t stop now. You were bound to collide.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced for impact.
You crashed into a solid chest and, from the sheer force, went stumbling back. Before you could hit the ground, a firm hand seized your waist, steadying you.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, lifting your head to catch a glimpse of his face. “I—”
Your body froze. As if your entire being had shut down, every gear in your mind clogged at once. The pitter-patter of rain and the approaching footsteps of the police faded, drowned by the roaring static in your head.
That long, black uniform. Those leather gloves. That sleek cap.
And, most importantly, those innocent violet hues scrutinising your face.
For a long while, there was only silence.
You parted your lips, but no words came. Finally, you choked out, “How—”
A chuckle. One you recognised all too well.
“Are you hurt?” A familiar voice cooed.
Caleb.
You turned on your heels and bolted in the opposite direction.
A flight of uniformed personnel obstructed your path, caging you in against Caleb’s form. In tiny, panicked steps, you inched backwards.
The leader announced your name. “You are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Sergeant Caroline Mayday. You—”
“I’ll take it from here,” the figure behind you commanded firmly. “I’ll escort our criminal personally.”
Hesitantly, the officer backed away with a curt tilt of his head, signalling for his troop to stand down. You watched helplessly as they retreated.
A part of you wanted to reach out. To beg them to throw you into jail instead. An axe to your neck would be far kinder.
But no. They tossed you right into the vicious, merciless jaws of the beast, leaving you to a fate you couldn’t determine.
The world stilled. The patter of rain against the road was all you could hear, aside from his steady breathing contrasting with your short, quick spasms of breath. In that moment, it felt as if it were only the two of you in the world. As if only you both truly mattered.
But those weren’t your feelings, were they?
They were his.
You gulped. Unhurried footsteps inched from behind.
“You look tired. Have you eaten?” Caleb’s fingers interlocked with yours. Gently, he spun you around. The cap hung low on his head, obscuring half of his eyes. If only you’d spotted it from afar. Maybe if you’d picked up on his presence earlier, you could bolt in the opposite direction and avoid clashing into him.
He appeared from seemingly nowhere. Perhaps his appearance was also a calculated move that slipped past your radar.
Your final, most fatal loss.
Your reckoning.
You snatched your hand away. “You,” you cocked your head to meet his gaze, “What did you do to Rhys?”
You endured a long, deafening silence. The weight of it all pressed against your chest, squashing you against the mud. Like an insignificant, pesky bug meeting its end under the sole of one’s shoe.
A cold, frosty wind wafted through the atmosphere. Goosebumps prickled as frostbitten air slipped beneath your skin. The chill gnawed deep within your bones, causing painful pangs to crackle through you. Your knees buckled, unable to bear your weight any longer.
Expectedly, an arm wrapped itself around your waist and hoisted you up, pressing your body against his own.
Strings of water slid down from leaves nearby, splashing onto the pavement. Your forehead pulsated—that familiar sensation of dread that emerged each time you found yourself caught up in a complex, seemingly inescapable web. Usually, you’d bear the scissors to free yourself. But this time?
The webs cut into your skin, threading through your nerves.
Every fibre of your being was tangled. The slightest movement would cause the intertwined nerves to be ripped out of your skin.
A violent flash of lightning illuminated half of Caleb’s face.
“Who?” He lifted his chin, gazing at the sky as if buried deep in thought. When he looked down at you, he did so with a familiar darkness in his eyes. Envy. “Oh. Him.” His frown curled deeper as he uttered the last word.
“Why would that matter? It’s about us now.”
You locked your jaw. “What did you do?” Tears threatened to fall from your eyes.
As if able to distinguish between the rain and the remnants of your despair, Caleb brought his gloved hand and cradled your face. His thumb brushed against the tears, tossing them away as though they didn’t belong on your cheeks, and didn’t deserve to be shed from your eyes.
Not regarding another man, that is.
You flinched at his touch. A new, unsettling calm dawned over his countenance. And in a flick, all emotion dissipated from his eyes. His lips relaxed into a neutral line.
“I got rid of him.”
Your lips parted, but no words were uttered. A lump of saliva knotted in your throat. Your tongue was overcome with foreign saltiness.
“What do you mean…?”
No response.
“Caleb…” you stuttered, placing your palm on his hand, more to comfort yourself than to coerce him, “What did you do?”
His fingers trailed over your own. A tremor ran down your spine at the sheer tenderness he displayed, treating you as if you were a precious glass ornament ready to shatter at the slightest prick. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Your arm dropped to your side. “You… did you hurt him?”
Caleb didn’t reply. He only leered down at your trembling lips with an impenetrable mask. Or perhaps it seemed as such to you because you couldn’t be bothered enough to pick him apart.
You sucked in a breath and exhaled audibly. Your head lowered until you were staring at the surface of your mud-coated shoes. Think. What could get you out of this situation? Your eyes lingered on your feet for a while. The cogs whirred in your brain, working, but producing no reliable output.
A flock of thoughts flooded you—irrelevant, unimpressive, shrill, and horrid thoughts. What would he do to you once he’s got you in his grasp? You swallowed the saltiness, nearly gagging at the taste of your own bodily fluids.
But then, a thought emerged.
Bodily fluids. Bodily gases. You smelled ammonia—a common gas released upon the decay of a corpse. But amidst the urine-like stench, you smelled something else.
A strong stench of bleach—something you only picked up once you’d ventured inside the room. Meaning it was present nowhere else. The corpse crime scene hadn’t been cleaned. There was no need to tidy up after a corpse that hadn’t bled. And there was no residue of liquid bleach anywhere within the room. If there was, you certainly would’ve noticed.
“Chlorine.” You lifted your head to meet his gaze.
Finally, Caleb’s eyes flashed with a hint of emotion.
“I smelled chlorine in Caroline’s room.”
With an amused tilt of his head, Caleb wordlessly challenged your wits.
“She didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered with chlorine gas.” You glared up at him. “In gas form, chlorine is extremely noxious. Seventh grade chemistry stuff. You made it too easy.” You shook your head. “Once she expired, you didn’t hesitate to take her out.”
His lips curled to form a smirk you couldn’t shake off. It felt so out-of-place. So visceral. As if it didn’t belong on his pretty face.
It’s an expression he’d donned countless times in the past. But each time, it was a playful, giddy smirk. A boyish grin, more so. The one you’d flash before committing a silly act.
But this one conquered your nerves with an uneasy rattle.
Eyebrows slightly curved, his eyes subtly squinted, a feral glint alight in his gorgeous violets, and with his lips angled oddly.
Your stomach churned. It felt as if you were being preyed upon and tested.
Nonetheless, you stood your ground. You ensured that every bit of you would exude defiance, from your visage to your body and to the hairs of your neck. But your insolence only seemed to rile him up. The lunatic look in his eyes deepened alongside his uncomfortable smirk. Your fire exhilarated him, as if watching you ablaze with passionate rebellion was the prettiest you could be.
Like it was one of the many things he absolutely adored about you.
In spite of his admiration, he wouldn’t let you have your way, though, would he?
“A harsh accusation. But,” his hand returned to your face, as if it was unable to keep itself from it, as if it belonged glued to its side, “The world knows you to be the killer.”
“You weren’t raised to be a monster.”
Caleb cocked his head to the side. He hummed.
“Sure it wasn’t you? Don’t worry, you can tell me.”
Your balled fists trembled. “So,” you drooped your head, letting your hair fall before your eyes, “I was right.”
“Then, tell me,” you continued, “How do you know the fleet won’t turn on you next?”
“Once you reach a certain rank, you’re free from those risks. She was merely a sergeant.” His shoulders jerked to a casual shrug. “The media needed a culprit. The law doesn’t care who it is, they just need a scapegoat. A person to throw into a cell.”
“Which was me.” You eyed him in disbelief.
In a sharp movement, Caleb squeezed your chin and brought your face to his, forcing you onto your tiptoes. “But,” an alien, hoarse voice rasped, “I wouldn’t let them have you. They wouldn’t take you from me. Not again. Not after…” You could see fragments of a memory flash in the reflection in his eyes—a memory you seemed to share with him, but one that wasn’t yours.
Normally, you’d pry further. Coerce him, utilise his vulnerable emotions to spill the truth from his lips without having to properly ask. But by now, you’d given up on his rehabilitation. Now, your most vital priority was survival.
“You put a tracker in that bracelet.” A proud grin spread across his face. He had the audacity to silently congratulate you after all that.
“This?” He held up something near his face. A shiny, silver chain with a sparkling white sapphire pendant dangled from his fingers. “You forgot it at the inn. Here.”
Gentle fingers grasped your arm. He slid the chain onto your wrist before hooking it shut. “You were made to be clad in jewels. A Goddess.” You shuddered at the abrupt softness of his voice. Sincerity was engraved into his movements.
For a moment, it felt as if he were simply a man in love, and nothing more. A man awarding his partner with a treasure purchased by hours of his hard work, made only for the one he loved so dearly. You yearned to close your eyes, to let your world sink into darkness so you could paint a picture of your own—one where the two of you were simply a happy, normal couple, living a humble, free life. But dreams were merely dreams. In the end, you had to wake up.
A frown graced your lips. Your bad luck charm had followed you into your doom. And once more, the shackle was clasped to your wrist.
“Did they touch you anywhere?” He gripped your arm. His eyes poured over your body.
“What?”
“The authorities.” He affirmed. “Did they—”
You pried your form away. A visible tick emerged in his forehead. “No, they didn’t.”
“Why…” his eyeballs quaked, rolling about in his head with fervour, “Why can’t you just…” His teeth sank into his bottom lip viciously, drawing blood. “Are you afraid of me? Of what I’ve become?”
If it were just this morning, when he’d sourced you with the warmest form of solace as he cradled you on his lap, you would’ve denied that claim. You would’ve fought back with all your heart, with passionate proclamations on how you feel the safest when with him, and how nobody feels like home other than him.
Just a few days ago, you’d approached him out of fascination. Love, yes. But above all things, you were intrigued. Lured by his mystical, webbed, and broken mind. Eager to pick apart the strands of his brain tissue and see for yourself how they operated.
But now?
You weren’t just afraid.
You were terrified of him. Of whom he had become. And who he could transform into in the near future.
So, you simply let your head hang as you pursed your lips into silence.
The man didn’t move. He didn’t shift, whimper, nor shout. He simply stood there with you. Beneath the cloak of the large, black umbrella. A gentle thunder ruptured the air. The gale softened. The tempest was nearing its end. The grey storm clouds were returning home.
“If you love something, you should work hard to earn it.” You wiped a few stray droplets off your eyes. “If you love me, you should work hard to be a better person for me. You can’t just… do this.”
With slow, sincere motions, Caleb lifted your arm and slotted it with his.
“Let’s go home, then. I’ll work hard for you this time. We can make things right.”
But you didn’t move. You simply stood, pulling back your arm ever so slightly. Not desperately, not angrily, just… subtly. As if your own games had tired you out. Because they had. What use was there in fighting back? You had already lost.
“There is no home to return to, Caleb.” A soft voice spoke. His lips twisted into a frown. Brief anger flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t speak. What was there to say? He knew you were right.
“Let’s go build one, then. We’ll begin from nothing.” His fingers tightened around yours. “One step at a time.”
“My home,” you averted your gaze, hesitant to continue, “doesn’t include you.”
The wrath returned, spreading through his visage like poison dipped onto a pond’s still surface. His grip tautened painfully. “What? Don’t you love me?” There was a scoff in his voice, a forced friendliness. “All right. I get it. You’re shy, is that it?” he grinned. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Much like a lot of his smiles nowadays.
You stared back at him with a worn countenance, unresponsive to his tease. But something subtly stirred in your chest. Nothing pleasant. Fear. He was at it again. He was walking a fine line between mania and sanity, and he threatened to topple over and fall into the clutches of psychosis at any moment.
Knowing what it was scared you more. Most would mistake it for hurt, for desperation or any other normal feeling in the book. But you knew all too well it wasn’t that.
He was losing himself. You were, both physically and psychically, driving him mad.
Caleb’s smile slackened. “Pip-squeak.” He shut his eyes in an attempt at self-restraint. When he opened them, your nerves screamed. “You don’t have a choice.”
“Either,” a step forward, “you come with me, help me fix what I broke, or…” he stopped. His lips neared yours. His hot breath fanned over your eyes. The knot in your stomach tightened. Tears rose to your eyes.
You should move away, display the last bits of your dimming defiance. But what was the point? It was all over. He’d caught you, and now, the victor would claim his prize. Your soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to your torso, moulding to your shape. It pressed against your chest. Suffocating, revealing, vulnerable—the words raced in your mind. Bile rose to your throat. The weight of the clothes dripping down irked you, but not more than how you felt practically revealed under his gaze.
You gulped.
“Ya know, killing an important member of the fleet is a serious offence.” His eyes skimmed over your body. You tensed right as he caught himself and deflected his gaze.
You understood what he implied. Granting you a swift, painless execution was the kindest decision the fleet could come upon.
“But,” the coldness in your eyes matched his, “you wouldn’t let that happen to me, would you?”
“Smart girl.” He ruffled your wet hair. “Either you come with me, or I drag you home kicking and screamin’.”
The lack of reluctance in his voice startled you, paired with the sheer casualness of his tone. You could tell he wasn’t lying.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You don’t,” he confirmed. “So, shall we go home?”
You don’t respond. You only look at him. With empty, broken eyes, with a dimming spark of defiance still lingering in them.
And in his eyes, you spotted emotion. His brow furrowed, curled. His lips threatened to drag into a frown. He was recollecting. Zoning out on the image of your face, drifting away into the land of memories. Your patients often entered this semi-delirious state, so you’d naturally learned to pick up on it. During those times, you’d simply offer silence. Because for most, the memories they recalled whilst vulnerable and overwhelmed were the ones they hid from themselves the most. If you were to interrupt his thoughts, he’d never confront himself again.
You didn’t know what burdens his heart bore. You didn’t know how many times his flesh tasted the bite of steel. And you certainly didn’t know whether what he felt had justifications. But one thing you knew for sure was that Caleb had to confront his past soon. If he didn’t, he’d lose himself to his obsession.
But you knew it was a matter you couldn’t manipulate. It was not something you could push and pull behind the scenes to manoeuvre them the way they should be moved. There were parts of the human mind that even the most talented psychologists couldn’t access, and if they could, they were not to interfere.
And because of that, most patients embraced a similar decision each time.
He tilted his head. The onslaught of broken memories fragmented before disappearing entirely amidst the purple voids. Just like most, Caleb had chosen to run. And then, without hesitation, he took your arm and pulled.
“Atta girl,” he cooed.
The faltering rain drowned everything—the drum of your heartbeat softly thumping against your ribcage, slowed by the exhaustion biting your limbs. In the distance, the last train to Linkon rattled past.
With a crestfallen gaze, you stepped towards him. Caleb wrapped his arm around your waist and gently lugged you close. The cage you couldn’t see before clamped shut. And so did any possibility of his rehabilitation that you’d initially planned on.
And then, together, you stepped into a new beginning—a future that was no longer yours.
CW: 18+ (mdni), fem & non-hunter mc, delusional yandere!caleb, pet names (baby & pipsqueak), male & female masturbation (separate), piv (in caleb’s imagination) , praise kink, panty sniffing, voyeurism (?), stalking, manipulation, gaslighting, power dynamic.
WC: 9.4k
AN: finally posting this after a month! comments & reblogs are highly appreciated <3
Your relationship with Caleb was brief, just a few months, but it felt suffocatingly long. You had always valued your independence, the freedom to spread your wings and fly wherever you pleased. But with him? It was like having those wings clipped, held down by invisible strings of concern, control, and possessiveness disguised as love.
At first, it was subtly sweet. The way he always wanted to know where you were, checking in constantly like he cared a little too much. The way he insisted on picking you up from work, from dinners, from places you were perfectly capable of leaving on your own.
But then it escalated.
Questions turned into interrogations. Concerns turned into restrictions. Suddenly, your phone buzzed with his messages every time you were out, and your decisions were met with disapproving looks and lectures disguised as "worry."
And it only got worse because you had no Evol, no abilities to shield you from danger, no built-in safeguard if something went wrong. To him, that made you vulnerable, fragile and in need of someone like him. But seriously though, you have managed just fine before he ever came into your life.
At first, you tolerated it, convincing yourself it was just his way of showing love. You dismissed it as a habit from his job as a colonel, structured, disciplined, and always anticipating worst-case scenarios. You told yourself it was normal, that some people love fiercely, protectively and maybe that’s true.
But love shouldn’t feel like surveillance. It shouldn’t feel like being second-guessed at every turn, like justifying your choices to someone who sees your independence as a threat instead of a strength. It shouldn’t feel like ripping your wings, like trading your freedom for someone else’s comfort.
And the moment you realized that? You knew it was over.
–
The phone buzzed in your hand, ‘Caleb ♡’ flashing across the screen for the fifth time in a row. You hesitated, exhaling slowly before finally answering.
“You’re still ignoring me?” His voice came through the speaker, tight with frustration. No hello. No softness.
You rolled your eyes, shifting the suitcase beside you. “I’m not ignoring you, Caleb. I’m busy packing.”
“For that trip,” he said flatly.
“Yes. For that trip.”
A tense silence stretched between you. Then, with a humourless laugh, he said, “So you’re really going through with this?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, already exhausted. “Caleb, I’ve told you a hundred times—this is happening. It’s just me and the girls. It’s not a big deal.”
“But it is to me,” he snapped. “You’re leaving for an entire weekend, in Linkon City, with no one looking out for you. Do you know how dangerous that is? Especially with the Wanderers around.”
Your grip tightened on the phone. “Linkon City is perfectly safe, thanks to the Hunters, and I know how to take care of myself.”
“That’s not the point.” His voice dropped, low and insistent. “What if something happens to you? What if you need me and I’m not there?”
You let out a sharp laugh. “Caleb, something always ‘might’ happen. I could trip over my own feet walking down the street, and you’d still act like I need supervision.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, what’s not fair is you thinking my freedom is something you have a right to control.”
Another silence. You could almost picture him now, jaw clenched, hands running through his hair in frustration. But you were past the point of softening your words to ease his temper.
“I love you,” he finally said, voice quieter now. “I just don’t want to lose you.”
Your heart clenched, but you forced yourself to stay firm. “You already did.”
Caleb drew in a breath like he was about to argue, to find the right words to pull you back, but you didn’t give him the chance. You ended the call before he could even try, letting the silence speak for itself.
She’s gone…she actually just hung up on me. Just like that?
She thinks she’s done with me? Cute. Adorable, even. She’s just confused right now. A phase. A temporary lapse in judgment. I mean, we were practically perfect together—okay, maybe not perfect, but close enough. We had a good thing. I’ll give her a few weeks or months to stew over it. She’ll come back. She just doesn’t know it yet.
She needs “freedom”? Sure. Great. Go ahead and get your little “freedom,” pipsqueak. Go on your trip with the girls and post your little Instagram stories with your cocktails and your cheesy ‘healing’ captions. I’ll pretend like I’m not paying attention to the comments or checking who’s liking every picture.
But the second she realizes that no one out there will worship the ground she walks on like I do? The second she sees that no other guy will remember every little detail about her—how she likes her tea, how she hums that one song when she’s doing the dishes but refuses to admit it’s her favourite, how she’s got a million tabs open on her browser but never actually reads anything?
She’ll come running back.
She’ll remember how good we were together. How great we were.
I will wait for you when you are ready.
–
You felt… liberated, to say the least. A weekend away with your girlfriends was just what you needed. You spent hours catching up, sharing stories, and laughing—something you hadn't realized you’d missed so much. When you told them about your breakup with Caleb, they were surprised but not entirely shocked. They knew you valued your independence too much to settle for anything less than respect, and Caleb's overbearing nature had always been a point of concern for them.
The weekend unfolded in a blissful blur of indulgence and carefree moments. You enjoyed fancy dinners, basked under the sun at the beach, and dipped your feet into the pool while losing yourself in a book. You sipped on refreshing mocktails, took silly pictures, and felt the weight of stress melt away.
At the beach, you and your friends lounged on the warm sand, indulging in playful eye-candy scouting, and a man with dusky purple hair and striking bluish-pink eyes caught your attention. He looked almost unreal, like something pulled from the pages of a fairytale. Ethereal. Enchanting. If mermaids walked on land, you were certain they’d look just like him.
Unbeknownst to you, Caleb took matters into his own hands. While you were away, he broke into your apartment—too bad your security wasn’t up to par. That’s exactly why you needed someone like him, right? His eyes roamed your personal space like it was land he wasn’t prepared to lose. He set up cameras carefully, one in the living room, another in your bedroom, and even one in the bathroom. To Caleb, letting you slip away wasn’t an option.
He’d give you the space you demanded, sure, but only on his terms. In his mind, you were still his regardless of what you thought. He convinced himself that it was his right to keep watch and to ensure your safety, with or without your consent.
–
When you returned to Skyhaven, it hit you—reality, that is. Back to your job, back to your life, and Caleb…well, Caleb wasn’t part of that anymore. You have ended things. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. You had expected him to bombard you with texts, but surprisingly, your phone was quiet. Too quiet.
You even posted a picture of yourself in that dress—the one that hugged your figure just right, the colours bright against your skin and the way the hibiscus in your hair caught the light. You were proud of how you looked, but when you checked your notifications, there was no comment, no like from him. A little part of you felt a pang, but you shook it off.
What you didn’t know was that Caleb had seen the picture, and it consumed him. He was furious, very furious that you dared to wear something so revealing, something that might catch the eye of someone else, without him there. If you were going to wear something like that, it should’ve been with him by your side, where he could keep an eye on you. He would’ve let you wear it, after all, he could fight anyone who dared to look too long, but without him around? It made his blood boil.
And yet, despite the frustration, his body betrayed him. The second he saw that picture, he was already half-hard. God, you guys had never even fucked. You had called it “too soon” and had wanted to take things slow, and fine—he respected that. Somewhat. But damn, you had no idea how badly you messed with him, how pent-up he always was around you.
His fist clenched as he freed himself from his sweatpants, his cock already straining. One hand gripping his phone, the other wrapped around his length, stroking slowly as he imagined it was you—your soft hands and your cunt wrapped around him instead.
His breathing turned ragged as the images flooded his mind. He pictured you beneath him, stretched wide with your voice trembling as you begged him to go slow, to be gentle. Fuck, he wanted to come, but the frustration twisted inside him, mixing with his hunger. He needed more. He needed you.
Tossing his phone aside, he got up and strode to his dresser, yanking open the drawer. And there it was, the hidden treasure—delicate and lace-trimmed, the soft fabric nestled right where he left it. Your panties.
He may or may not have swiped them when he was setting up the cameras in your apartment, but did that matter? That’s the least you could do for breaking up with him over the phone.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he brought them to his face, inhaling deeply with his eyes fluttering shut. The scent was faint, just traces of laundry detergent and fabric softener, but he wanted more. He wanted them used, soaked in your scent, dripping in proof of how much you needed him. His fingers tightened around the fabric as he pumped his cock faster, lost in the thought of ruining you, marking you, making sure you never even considered leaving him again.
"Caleb!" Your voice cracked, high and desperate. His cock twitched at the sound.
He could almost feel it—the way your walls clenched around him, trying to force him out while greedily pulling him back in.
"St–stop!"
He chuckled darkly, leaning down, his breath hot against your ear. "Stop?" he echoed mockingly. His hand gripped your thigh, pressing your legs apart despite the way you trembled beneath him. "You’re squeezing me so tight, pips. You don’t really want me to stop, do you?"
Your nails dug into his shoulders, useless resistance. "N-no… but—"
“That’s right,” he growled, thrusting deeper, drinking in the way you choked on your own breath. "You take me so well. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
He imagined your head tilting back, lips trembling, and body writhing against the sheets, too fucked-out to fight him anymore. Your voice, once filled with hesitation, melted into helpless little whimpers.
"Too—too much, Caleb…"
“Too much?” He kissed down your throat, his teeth scraping against your pulse. "But pipsqueak, I’m just getting started."
His strokes quickened, both in reality and the vivid fantasy he was spiralling deeper into. The panties in his grasp crumpled under the force of his grip, his knuckles turning white as he pressed the fabric against his nose, desperate to drown in the ghost of your presence.
He could see it so clearly—you spreading out beneath him, legs trembling and tears glistening in your eyes. Wrecked. Shattered.
“That’s my girl. You don’t need to think, just feel. Let me take care of you.”
His hips jerked, pleasure coiling tight, winding dangerously. He imagined the final moment—your body arching, your lips parting in a silent scream as he claimed you.
A guttural groan tore from his throat as his release overtook him, thick ropes of white spilling over his abs and chest. His body shuddered, fingers twitching, and his breath was unsteady.
But as the high ebbed, a bitter frustration gnawed at him.
It wasn’t enough.
Because it wasn’t you. Not yet.
step 1: show her that youre a 'changed man'
‘coincidentally’ run into her
dress well (make sure she notices)
speak softly
give her the puppy eyes, shes always been weak for that
ask her if she wanna be friends
smile, but not too much
A few months had passed since the breakup. Life moved forward, as it always did. You missed him sometimes, small moments of nostalgia creeping in when you passed by places you once shared. But you reminded yourself why you left. Missing someone didn’t mean you belonged with them.
Caleb, however, never truly left.
He had been watching. Through the flickering screens in his dimly lit room, through the quiet hum of surveillance, he had memorised every part of your life. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear while reading, the way you curled up on the couch with your favourite mug. He studied your routine like a scripture.
And now, it was time.
He knew your new favourite café—how you liked to sit by the window, how you always ordered the same drink. So when he "accidentally" ran into you, it would feel natural.
A harmless coincidence.
"Wow, I wasn’t expecting to see you here… You look good."
Your head snapped up at the familiar voice. “Oh… hey.” Your fingers instinctively tightened around your cup before you forced yourself to relax, putting your phone down. The awkwardness between you was obvious.
He took a step closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket with a casual posture. “I wasn’t sure if I should say hi. I didn’t want to bother you.”
You blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t the Caleb you remembered. He always carried himself with confidence, sometimes bordering on arrogance. But now… he seemed different. Softer.
“It’s fine,” you replied, clearing your throat. “It’s… been a while.”
“It has,” he agreed, the purple eyes you once adored scanned your face like he was memorising you all over again. “You look… happy.”
You shifted in your seat. “I am.”
A small, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips. “That’s good. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
The words landed heavily, leaving a strange warmth in your chest—guilt? Sadness? You weren’t sure.
Before you could respond, he gestured toward the chair across from you. “Do you mind if I sit? Just for a minute. I don’t want to make things weird, I just—” He exhaled softly, shaking his head with a sheepish chuckle. “I don’t know. Seeing you here gave me whiplash.”
The hesitation in his voice, the way he seemed almost vulnerable. It made it hard to say no.
“…Yeah, okay. Just for a minute.”
He sat down, hands clasped together on the table, eyes never leaving yours.
“So,” he started, offering a small smile, “tell me, what’s new?”
"Nothing much, just work and stuff," you said, offering a shrug as you took another sip from your coffee. You felt a little uncomfortable, but you didn’t want to make it obvious. He was just sitting there, quietly watching you, like he was soaking in every detail of your response.
“Ah, yeah, I get that. Work can really take over sometimes,” he replied, nodding sympathetically. “I’ve been keeping busy too. Just… trying to focus on myself, y’know?”
You nodded, unsure of where this conversation was going. “That’s good. It’s important to focus on yourself.”
A quiet moment passed, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking a lot about… things, y’know, since we last talked. I’ve had time to reflect, and I realised I probably could’ve done a lot better. With us.” His voice softened, almost vulnerable.
You felt a strange discomfort at his words, unsure how to respond. “I—I mean… we’re good now, right?” You paused, awkwardly fidgeting with the edge of your coffee cup. “It’s all in the past.”
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. There was a sincerity in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. “Yeah, I know. I… I’ve been working on myself. I’ve changed, really. I just hope that…you’re doing okay.”
“I’m good. Really.” You forced a smile, trying to dismiss the flood of emotions that were slowly rising within you. “I’m happy. I’m in a good place.”
He nodded slowly, his lips curling into a small, almost bittersweet smile. “I’m glad. I just wanted you to know that I—” He paused, looking down at his hands, then back up at you. “I never stopped caring about you, y’know? I’ve always wanted what’s best for you.”
“Caleb…” you started, unsure how to respond, but your thoughts were jumbled. What was he saying? Was he genuinely apologising?
“I know things ended badly, but I just… I wanted you to know that I’ve learned from all of it. From my mistakes. And I’m not asking for anything, but maybe, just maybe, we could start over as friends? Take things slow…?”
You bit your lip, feeling a sudden rush of conflicting emotions. Part of you wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he had changed, but the other part of you… was still wary. You didn’t want to repeat past mistakes.
“I don’t know,” you murmured, glancing down at your cup, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s all of a—”
“Just think about it,” he interjected gently, his tone almost pleading. “I’m not asking for much, just… a chance to show you that I’ve changed. That I’m different.”
You stared at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. For a moment, it felt like you were teetering on the edge of something you didn’t know if you were ready for. But Caleb, the version of him sitting across from you now, seemed almost like a stranger. Yet there was something familiar about his presence.
“I… I don’t know, Caleb,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need time.”
His face softened, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
You swallowed, trying to keep your composure as his words sank in. “Alright, I’ll think about it.”
Caleb let out a slow breath as if he had been holding it in, his lips curling into the softest smile. But it wasn’t just the smile—it was the way his eyes rounded slightly, a flicker of vulnerability creeping into his usually confident gaze.
“Really?” His voice was just a little too hopeful, like he wasn’t expecting you to even consider it. “You’ll think about it?”
You swallowed, suddenly feeling like the bad guy for making him wait. “I didn’t say yes,” you reminded him quickly, gripping your cup a little tighter. “I just… need time like I said.”
He nodded eagerly, that soft, almost puppy-like expression still in place. “Of course. I get it. Take all the time you need.” His fingers tapped lightly against the table before he let out a breathy chuckle. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”
And just like that, the tension in your chest eased—only slightly, but enough to make you feel like maybe, maybe you had been too hard on him.
Caleb watched as you hesitated, the smallest flicker of indecision in your eyes. It was barely there, but he caught it, and inside, he was grinning. You were already bending, already second-guessing.
He pushed back his chair, standing with an effortless grace. “I should probably get going,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I didn’t mean to take up so much of your evening.”
You blinked. “Oh. Yeah, of course.”
He hesitated for just a second longer, then flashed you one last smile—the perfect mix of warmth and quiet longing. “I’ll be around,” he said, his voice soft, before making his way to the door.
As he stepped outside, the cool night air hitting his skin, he let his expression shift. His smirk pulled at the corner of his lips, triumphant. You had no idea, did you?
His plan was falling into place perfectly.
Step 1: Successful.
step 2: make her doubt herself and weaken her boundaries
highlight her ‘flaws’ even though shes already perfect
emphasise her independence a lot
buy wine and cook sweet and sour chicken with rice
stock up on apples
After the unexpected run-in with Caleb, you didn’t expect things to go anywhere, at least not like this. But somehow, things started feeling easy again between you two, like the months apart had melted away in the span of a few casual conversations. He always had that ability, didn’t he? He made everything feel natural and effortless, even though you knew it shouldn’t.
It was part of his charm, after all—the reason you’d fallen for him in the first place.
The invitation was where it all started.
“You have to let me cook for you,” he insisted, flashing that easy grin. “You always loved my cooking. Just one meal, no pressure.”
And somehow, you found yourself here again.
His penthouse hadn’t changed at all since the last time you were here—same sleek, modern design, the ambient lighting casting a soft glow over the dark furniture. The air smelled warm and familiar, a mix of spices and something distinctly Caleb. You sat at the dining table, watching him move around the kitchen like a busy housewife. The soft sizzle of sweet and sour chicken filled the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly steamed rice.
He plated the food with the same care he always did, setting it in front of you before finally taking a seat beside you instead of across from you like he used to. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.
“Go on,” he urged, nudging your spoon toward you.
You picked it up hesitantly and took a bite. The flavours burst on your tongue—sweet, tangy, and perfectly balanced. It reminded you of nights when this used to be normal. When Caleb would cook, you’d sit beside him, talking about everything and nothing.
“Still the best cook I know,” you admitted, offering a small smile.
He chuckled, nudging his knee against yours under the table. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
He took a bite of his own, watching you carefully as you ate. Then, after a pause, his expression softened.
“You look tired.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
He gestured subtly toward you. “Your eyes. A little duller than usual. And you’ve been rubbing your temples since you got here.”
You forced a laugh, setting your spoon down. “I guess I’ve been busy.”
He hummed, swirling his drink in his hand. “You always push yourself too hard. You used to do the same thing when we were together, remember?”
You tensed slightly. “I’ll manage.”
“I know you will,” he said smoothly. “You always do. But that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?”
You frowned, slightly offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping to something softer—something that felt too close, too knowing. “You never let yourself slow down. Even when you’re exhausted, you just push through it.” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “You used to get those headaches from working too much, and you’d act like it was nothing until I made you stop and rest.”
Your fingers curled slightly against the table.
“I used to love that about you,” he continued, voice warm, laced with nostalgia. “How stubborn you are. How much you take on without ever asking for help.”
“I don’t need help,” you said, a little too quickly.
His lips barely twitched, as if he’d expected that answer. “I know.” He leaned back slightly, taking a slow sip of his drink. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”
The warmth of the room suddenly felt heavier.
You forced another small laugh, reaching for your glass. “I’m fine, Caleb.”
He smiled, but there was something knowing in his eyes. “Of course.”
The conversation drifted to safer topics after that, but the weight of his words lingered. By the time you set your spoon down, you couldn’t shake the strange unease settling in your chest.
Maybe you were pushing yourself too hard. Maybe you weren’t as fine as you thought.
Maybe… Caleb wasn’t wrong.
He didn’t miss the way your spoon hovered slightly above your plate, how your eyes drifted just a little too long, lost in thought. The confident ease you had when you first arrived had faltered, just for a second, but it was enough.
You were thinking about what he said.
A quiet satisfaction curled in his chest, but he didn’t press. Instead, he let out a soft chuckle, nudging your knee again. “I didn’t mean to kill the mood,” he said lightly. “You got really quiet on me.”
You blinked, snapping out of your thoughts. “Oh—sorry. I was just…thinking, I guess.”
His lips twitched. Perfect.
He tilted his head slightly, resting his chin against his hand. “Heavy thoughts?”
You hesitated, then shrugged, forcing a small smile. “Maybe…I have been overworking myself a little.”
That was all he needed.
His expression softened, the perfect mix of concern and understanding. “See? That’s all I meant. I worry that’s all.” He exhaled, leaning back slightly. “You give so much of yourself to everything you do, but who’s making sure you don’t burn out?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. You had friends, of course. People who cared. But… no one really checked in on you like that. Not in the way Caleb always had.
You shook your head as if physically trying to push the thought away. “I’ll manage,” you repeated.
Caleb let a small, knowing smile creep onto his lips before setting his drink down.
Not for long.
A beat of silence settled before he suddenly stood, stretching slightly. “Why don’t I cut us some apples?” he said, already moving toward the kitchen. “I bought some fresh ones this morning. You’ll love them.”
You blinked at the sudden shift in topic. “Oh—um, you don’t have to.”
He glanced at you over his shoulder. “I want to.” His lips curved as he reached for a knife. “Besides, they say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, right?”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re such a goof.”
Caleb smirked but didn’t respond as he started slicing. The rhythmic thunk of the blade against the cutting board filled the space, and you watched as he didn’t just cut the apples into simple wedges, he carved them into small bunny shapes.
Your brows lifted. “Are you seriously making bunny apples right now?”
He smirked, carefully peeling back the “ears” of one of the slices. “Obviously. What, you think I’d just give you a boring apple slice?”
You leaned forward slightly, intrigued despite yourself. “Since when do you know how to do that?”
Caleb shot you a knowing look as he set another bunny slice onto the plate. “I have my secrets.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He chuckled, finally returning to his seat beside you with the plate, setting it down between you both. The little apple bunnies were lined up neatly, their tiny “ears” perked up as if they were waiting to be eaten.
You stared at them, then at him. “I hate that this is actually kinda impressive.”
He grinned, picking one up for himself. “I accept your reluctant admiration.”
You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips as you picked up an apple bunny and took a bite. It was crisp, sweet, and frustratingly perfect.
“See?” Caleb murmured, watching you with quiet satisfaction. “Worth the effort, right?”
You swallowed, shaking your head. “You’re so weird.”
“And yet, here you are,” he teased, nudging his knee against yours again. “Still eating my expertly crafted bunny apples.”
You huffed but didn’t argue. The playful exchange had lightened the air between you, momentarily softening your earlier hesitations.
And Caleb, watching the way your guard lowered just a little more, couldn’t help but smile.
Step 2? Already working.
step 3: make her depend on you
catch her lacking
secretly send the gym voucher in her mail
act natural
comfort her when she vents
touch her and stay close to her
It had been a week since Caleb’s words lodged themselves in your mind like an unwelcome guest. You give so much and don’t feel appreciated enough. You had brushed it off at the time, but the thought had lingered, creeping back in at moments you least expected.
That was probably why you were here now, in a gym of all places, desperate to burn off the frustration bubbling inside you, to drown out the noise in your head while your feet pounded against the treadmill.
Still, the fact that you ended up here felt like a weird coincidence. A few days ago, you received a gym voucher in the mail—an exclusive trial membership with an almost suspiciously good discount. You weren’t even sure how it ended up in your mailbox. You had never been the gym type, and you certainly hadn’t signed up for anything like this. But it was affordable, and after the week you had, it felt like a sign from the universe. (It wasn’t. It was Caleb)
Work had been exhausting. Again. Your boss barely acknowledged your input, and one particular smug bastard had conveniently taken full credit for your idea, flashing that self-satisfied grin like he’d done all the work.
The more you thought about it, the angrier you got. Your fingers hovered over the treadmill’s controls before you cranked up the speed. If only you could just run him over with a car and—
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
The familiar voice cut through the gym’s ambient noise, and for a second, your fingers twitched against the treadmill’s handles.
You turned your head, already bracing yourself and oh my god.
Caleb stood beside you, effortlessly leaning against the treadmill next to yours, a towel slung lazily around his neck, a water bottle in one hand. The athletic shorts highlighted the muscles in his legs, and his white workout shirt clung to his chest in a way that made you way too aware of how well he filled it out. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin told you he had been here for a while.
You forced yourself to look away. “Yeah, well… needed to clear my head.” You coughed, willing your pulse to settle.
He raised an eyebrow as he stepped onto the treadmill beside you, setting his pace to a casual jog. “Didn’t realize you went to the gym.”
You let out a short breath, still jogging. “Is that an insult?”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “Not at all. Just… surprised.” His eyes flicked toward your treadmill screen, tracking your speed. “Didn’t peg you as the intense type.”
You scoffed, wiping a stray strand of hair from your face. “Well, maybe you’re not the only one who’s changed.”
He hummed, his expression unreadable. “Maybe.”
He didn’t need to say more. The seed was already planted.
Caleb kept pace beside you, his breathing even and movements effortless. It was infuriating how easily he made it look like he wasn’t even trying. Meanwhile, you were actively fighting the urge to focus on the burning in your legs, determined not to let him see you struggle.
“So,” he started, voice smooth and casual, “bad day at work?”
You exhaled sharply. “Something like that.”
“Let me guess,” he mused, glancing at you. “Your boss ignored your input again, and some asshole took credit for your idea?”
Your steps faltered just slightly before you caught yourself. “How—”
Caleb let out a chuckle. “You always get this look when you’re pissed about work. It’s subtle, but I’ve seen it before.”
You frowned, not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. “Right. Forgot you were a human lie detector or whatever.”
“Not a lie detector,” he corrected, his smirk deepening. “Just really good at reading you.”
The worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Caleb had always known how to read you, sometimes even before you could fully process your own emotions. He had a way of catching onto things, of noticing the smallest shifts in your mood. It used to be comforting. Now, it felt a little dangerous.
You swallowed, fixing your gaze ahead. “Well, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Of course,” he said easily. “You’re strong. Always have been.”
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, throwing off your rhythm for half a second. You recovered quickly, but not before Caleb noticed.
His smirk softened. “But even strong people get tired.”
Your grip tightened on the treadmill handles. Damn it. You hated how easily his words seeped under your skin, how they poked at the very thing you’d been trying to suppress all day.
“So what?” you said, forcing a lightness into your tone. “You think I need a pep talk?”
Caleb’s eyes never left you. “I think you need a reminder that you don’t have to carry everything on your own.”
Your breath hitched.
For a moment, you didn’t respond, focusing on the rhythmic pounding of your feet against the treadmill. It was easier than acknowledging the warmth creeping up your spine, the way his words sat heavy in your chest.
This was exactly what you didn’t need.
The problem with Caleb was that he made things sound so simple. He made it so easy to forget why you left, why you needed space. He said the right things, knew which buttons to press, and worst of all, he still made you feel.
And that? That was a risk you weren’t sure you could afford.
You let out a breath, slowing your pace slightly. “Well, thanks for the unsolicited wisdom, Dr. Phil.”
Caleb chuckled, shaking his head. “Anytime.”
A silence settled between you, not quite uncomfortable but charged with something you refuse to acknowledge.
Caleb then stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders. “Y’know, since you’re new here, I could show you around. Make sure you don’t, I don’t know, drop a weight on your foot or something.”
You shot him a dry look. “Wow, so much faith in me.”
“Just looking out for you,” he said, that damn smirk back in place. “Like I always have.”
And there it was again—that reminder. That thread of familiarity, of us, woven so seamlessly into his words.
You hesitated. Just for a second.
And Caleb saw it, felt it.
He wasn’t in a rush. This was all part of the game.
So when you finally sighed and mumbled, “Fine. But no unsolicited advice,” he just grinned.
Step 3 was right on track.
–
You come back from the gym feeling drained and your muscles aching. Caleb had taken it upon himself to train you after the tour, just the basics, he said, nothing too serious, he said. But the way his hands lingered, the way his voice dropped lower every time he corrected your form, sent a slow-burning heat through you that had nothing to do with exercise.
"You’re tensing up too much. Relax…there you go."
You dragged a hand through your hair, exhaling. It was just adrenaline.
But when you closed your eyes, all you could think about was the way his fingers skimmed your sides, the quiet hum of his approval when you finally got the movement right. The way his eyes had looked at you.
"Good girl. Just like that."
Fuck it.
Now, alone in your bedroom, you collapsed onto your bed, chest rising and falling, but the tension in your body hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deep, persistent, and impossible to ignore.
You dragged your gym shirt over your head, tossing it aside, but the heat clinging to your skin didn’t dissipate. Your body still burned with something you refused to name, something that pulsed between your thighs with every replayed memory of his touch.
Your hand trailed up, fingers skimming over your sports bra and squeezing the swell of your breast. A small sigh escaped you as your other hand slid lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. The moment your fingers brushed against your clit, a soft gasp left your lips.
Your body was already so sensitive, so needy, and the more you teased yourself, the worse it got. Every stroke sent another wave of heat pooling in your belly, and in your mind, it wasn’t your own fingers—it was his.
You could almost hear him. That low, amused chuckle, the way his breath would fan against your ear as he murmured, "Look at you, already so desperate for me."
You kicked off your shorts and underwear, your movements impatient, your body aching for more. Reaching for a pillow, you slid it between your thighs, pressing down as you began to move, grinding against it, and each roll of your hips sending sharp pleasure through you.
Your back arched as you picked up the pace, riding the pillow as if it were his cock, panting softly as you clutched at your breasts, pinching your nipples. Your mind painted the image so vividly, Caleb beneath you, his hands gripping your hips, watching you fall apart on top of him.
"That’s it, baby. Just like that."
A needy whimper escaped your lips as you buried your face into the sheets, fingers tugging at your hardened nipples, pretending it was his mouth teasing you, his tongue flicking and sucking until you were squirming.
Meanwhile, across Skyhaven.
Caleb ran a towel through his damp hair as he stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around him. The gym session had gone even better than he planned. He could see it, the way your breath hitched, the way your body tensed under his hands. You were already slipping, already wavering. He also made a mental note about that bastard at your workplace, promising himself he’d handle him soon. But for now, he needed to clear his head.
With a sigh, he tossed the towel over his shoulder, water droplets rolling down his chest as he made his way through the penthouse. He hadn’t even planned on stopping by his office, just a quick glance at the screens, a habit more than anything.
But then he saw it.
His feet stilled at the doorway, his gaze locking onto the upper-right monitor. His office, lined with walls of screens, glowed softly in the dim lighting. Each feed displayed different angles of your apartment, and on one particular screen made his breath hitch.
There you were, back in your bedroom, stripped down, thighs straddling a pillow as you rocked against it, your brows furrowed in desperate pleasure.
Caleb's grip on the towel tightened, his body instantly reacting.
"Caleb…"
His restraint snapped.
His hand palmed over the towel, groaning low in his throat. Fuck. You were thinking about him. Even when he wasn’t touching you, even when he was taking his time, you still belonged to him.
Looks like he could skip Step 4. It was time for the final move.
final step: coaxing her back
You wanted to slap yourself. Who in their right mind gets off thinking about their ex?
Yet, no matter how much you tried to push the thought away, Caleb had begun to crawl into every corner of your mind. It was like a spell had been cast, wrapping around you and pulling you under.
The night had started with rain, thick sheets of it pouring down as you walked home, the soft patter against your umbrella the only sound accompanying you. You kicked at the puddles absently, trying to focus on anything other than the memories clawing their way back to the surface.
Then, headlights cut through the downpour. A sleek black Lamborghini Lanzador slowed beside you, its engine a deep and familiar purr. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Caleb behind the wheel—one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting against his temple as he watched you with a mix of amusement and exasperation.
“You seriously weren’t going to call me for a ride?” His voice was warm and teasing.
You hesitated. “I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think,” he echoed, shaking his head before unlocking the door. “Get in before you drown, pipsqueak.”
You scowled, shutting your umbrella with a sharp snap before getting in. “I hate it when you call me that.”
He only smirked.
The door clicked shut behind you, and before you even finished buckling your seatbelt, Caleb pulled back onto the road. The rain drummed softly against the windows, the warmth inside the car doing little to ease the tension winding tight in your chest.
“Seriously, stop calling me that,” you muttered, arms crossed.
Caleb glanced at you, the corners of his lips twitching. “What? Pipsqueak?”
Your jaw clenched. “Yes, that.”
He chuckled, effortlessly changing gears. “Why does it bother you so much?”
“Because it’s condescending,” you shot back. “Like I’m some kid.”
He smirked. “I don’t think you’re a kid.”
“Then why do you insist on calling me that?”
“Because it gets under your skin,” he admitted without hesitation. “And because you make the cutest face when you’re annoyed.”
You glared. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
You opened your mouth, ready to fire back, but… you had nothing. He wasn’t wrong. You were here. Despite every reason you had to keep your distance, despite all the time and space and unspoken things lingering between you, you still got into his car.
Caleb must have sensed the shift in your silence because his smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, something almost hesitant.
“I mean it, though,” he said, his voice softer. “I don’t call you that to belittle you.”
You turned your head, studying his face, searching for the usual mischief—but there was none.
“Then why?” you asked, wary.
His fingers tightened briefly around the steering wheel before he exhaled. “Because it reminds me of before.”
Your stomach twisted.
Before.
Your frustration boiled over, heat rising to your cheeks. Without thinking, you reached for the door handle, fingers wrapping around it with the full intention of getting out—moving car be damned.
Caleb’s sharp gaze flicked to you instantly. “Don’t even think about it.”
You shot him a look, jaw tight. “Then stop the car.”
He didn’t. Instead, he pressed a button on the console, and with a soft click, the doors locked.
You froze, snapping your head toward him. “Are you serious?”
He exhaled through his nose, eyes back on the road. “Dead serious.”
Your jaw clenched. “Let me out.”
“Not when we’re going 60 on a wet road.”
You huffed, shifting in your seat, nails digging into your palms. “Unbelievable.”
Caleb sighed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
The rest of the drive passed in tense silence.
Then, instead of pulling up to your place, Caleb eased the car to a stop in front of a café. You blinked, frowning as you looked out the window. The familiar glow of the storefront sign illuminated the street, reflecting off the slick pavement.
Your fingers tightened around the door handle before you turned to him.
“Why are we here?”
Caleb leaned back, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “What do you mean?”
You shot him a look. “You picked me up in the rain. I thought you were taking me home.”
His smirk returned. “I was. Then I figured we could use a detour.”
“A detour?” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Caleb, it’s late. And I’m tired.”
His smirk didn’t waver, but something softened in his gaze. “I know. But it’s been a while since we did this.”
You hesitated. The café was familiar—your spot, our spot, once. You hadn’t been back since everything ended.
“You could’ve just taken me home,” you murmured.
“I could have,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But you would’ve shut the door in my face the second we got there.”
Your jaw tightened. “…You don’t know that.”
He arched his brow. “I do.”
You wanted to argue. You really did. But the truth of it settled uncomfortably in your chest. He did know you. Even after everything. And worse, you knew he was probably right.
Caleb studied you for a beat before his expression softened further. “The coffee’s on me,” he added lightly. “You can even get any pastry you like.”
The rain had softened to a steady drizzle by the time Caleb shut off the engine.
You stared at the café through the windshield, its warm glow spilling onto the wet pavement.
This was a mistake.
You should’ve said no. Should’ve insisted he take you home, unbuckled your seatbelt, and walked away without looking back.
Yet, you sat there, gripping your sleeve, hesitating.
Caleb sighed, then suddenly leaned over, reaching past you.
You tensed. “What are you—”
The click of your door unlocking cut you off, and before you could react, Caleb was stepping out into the rain. Your brows furrowed. Was he just going to walk around and open the door for you?
But then he lifted his hand.
The air around you shifted, and a barely visible barrier shimmered to life above the car. The rain that had been pouring relentlessly now slid off an invisible shield, leaving you completely untouched.
You blinked before scoffing. “Must be nice having an Evol.”
Caleb smirked, opening your door. “Jealous?”
“A little,” you admitted, stepping out carefully, the space between you suddenly feeling too small. “Would’ve saved me from carrying an umbrella everywhere.”
He let out a low chuckle. “Or from getting caught in the rain in the first place.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t comment. The sidewalk was slick, puddles reflecting the glow of streetlights. The air smelled like damp pavement and coffee, the warmth of the café just a few steps away.
When you guys reached the entrance, Caleb lowered his hand, and the shield dissolved like it had never been there. He pulled open the door and gestured for you to step inside.
You hesitated for only a second before walking past him, the scent of coffee and nostalgia wrapping around you like a ghost.
“Guess not much has changed.”
Your throat tightened. “No.”
The barista, Lily, behind the counter, looked up, recognition flashing across her face. She hadn’t seen you in months—not since everything ended—but she still remembered.
“Hey,” she greeted with a small smile. “It’s been a while.”
Caleb smirked. “Yeah. Thought I’d bring her back.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist, but you ignored it, turning your attention to the menu overhead, as if you didn’t already know what you wanted.
Caleb leaned in slightly. “Still take it the same way?”
You shot him a look. “Why do you care?”
His lips twitched. “Humor me.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah.”
Caleb turned to the barista. “Two of those, and she’ll also take…” He looked at you expectantly.
You sighed. “A blueberry scone.”
He smirked. “She’ll take a blueberry scone.”
The barista rang up the order, and before you could reach for your wallet, Caleb was already sliding his card into the reader.
You narrowed your eyes. “I could’ve paid.”
“I know.” He grabbed the receipt. “But I said it was on me.”
You huffed but didn’t push further, taking the coffee when he handed it to you.
The café wasn’t crowded, just a few people scattered at tables, lost in their own conversations. It would’ve been so easy to pretend this was just another night, just another casual outing—
But it wasn’t.
Caleb nudged your arm, pulling you from your thoughts. “Come on.”
He led you to a table in the corner. Your table.
The moment you sat down, an uneasy weight settled in your chest. You traced the rim of your coffee cup, the steam curling between you. Across from you, Caleb leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lazily against the table.
“You’re quiet,” he noted.
You met his gaze. “I have nothing to say.”
His lips twitched. “That’s a first.”
You rolled your eyes and took a sip of your coffee, letting the warmth ground you. But it didn’t stop the thoughts circling your mind.
Why did he bring you here?
Why now?
Why does it still feel easy with him?
“You’re thinking too much.”
Your fingers stilled around your coffee cup. “And you’re still assuming you know what I’m thinking.”
He smirked. “I don’t assume. I know.”
You scoffed, leaning back against your chair. “Enlighten me, then.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying you the way he always had—like he was peeling back layers, reading between every breath, every hesitation. “You’re trying to figure out why we’re here. Why I didn’t just take you home.”
Your grip on the cup tightened.
Caleb took a sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
You exhaled sharply, placing your cup down a little too firmly. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sit there all smug like you still know me.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Do I not?”
You hesitated.
He was baiting you, as he always did. And the worst part? He was right. He did know you. Knew you well enough to bring you here, to order your drink exactly the way you liked it, to pick up on your hesitation before you even voiced it.
And yet, that only frustrated you more.
You sighed, rubbing your temple. “You should’ve just taken me home.”
Caleb hummed, taking another sip of his coffee before setting it down. “I know.” He leaned back, eyes never leaving yours. “But I wanted to talk to you first.”
Your stomach twisted.
There it was.
The thing you had been waiting for—the reason you were here.
You swallowed. “About what?”
His gaze softened just slightly, the amusement in his eyes giving way to something quieter.
“You.” His voice was steady, deliberate. “Me.”
Your fingers curled around your cup. Careful.
Caleb didn’t look away. “Whatever this is—whatever it’s always been.”
Your breath hitched. You let out a quiet scoff, breaking eye contact. “There’s nothing anymore.”
He was silent for a moment, just watching you. Then, as if weighing his words, he exhaled. “Do you really believe that?”
You didn’t answer right away.
“I have to,” you finally said, voice quieter now.
His jaw ticked, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “Then why are you here?”
You stiffened. “You brought me here.”
He shook his head once. “You could’ve said no.”
Your gaze snapped to his. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”
His lips curved slightly, though there was no amusement behind them. “You always have a choice.”
The weight of his words settled between you, thick and suffocating. The café buzzed with quiet chatter around you, but none of it reached your ears.
Finally, you inhaled sharply. “What do you want from me, Caleb?”
His fingers tapped absently against his cup as if considering his answer. But when he finally spoke, it was quiet. Certain.
“I want you to come back.”
Your breath stalled.
A dry laugh escaped you. “Back? Back to what, exactly?”
He didn’t hesitate. “To me.”
You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “You can’t just say that like it’s simple.”
“I never said it was simple,” he admitted. “But it’s the truth.”
You looked away, pulse hammering in your throat. “It’s too late.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Is it?”
You hated the way he said it—like he already knew the answer. Like he could see right through every flimsy excuse you were trying to hold onto.
Your fingers tightened around your cup. “You don’t get to show up and expect everything to go back to the way it was.”
His voice was steady. “That’s not what I expect.”
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Then what do you expect?”
A pause.
“I expect you to be honest with yourself.”
You hated the way your stomach twisted at his words. The way something deep inside you lurched forward despite every wall you had built.
You exhaled, shaking your head. “This is a mistake.”
Caleb held your gaze. “Maybe. But it’s ours to make.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You could feel it—the pull, the weight of something inevitable pressing down on you. Every logical part of you screamed to shut this down.
But it was already too late, wasn’t it?
Your grip on the cup loosened, your resolve crumbling piece by piece. Then, finally, exhaustedly, you sighed.
“…Fine.”
Caleb didn’t rush it.
He let the silence settle, let the weight of your surrender sink in. The moment you said “Fine,” he knew it was over—you had already lost, even if you didn’t realize it yet.
Leaning back in his chair, he took his time, watching you with that same knowing look, fingers drumming lazily against his coffee cup. You were trying so hard to act unaffected, eyes locked on the table, but your grip on the ceramic was tense.
You were waiting—for what, exactly? The regret? The anger? The second thoughts?
None of it came.
Caleb exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. You always made this harder than it needed to be.
Without another word, he pushed back his chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. Your shoulders tensed as he stood, rounding the table with slow, deliberate steps.
Not stopping. Not hesitating.
He moved in, closing the space between you, his presence overwhelming as he braced one hand on the back of your chair, the other resting against the table. His body caged you in, shielding you from the rest of the café, from the world beyond this moment.
You sucked in a sharp breath.
Trapped.
His scent washed over you, pulling you under like a riptide. The heat of him, the sheer certainty in his movements, sent your pulse into chaos.
“Say it again,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous.
Your brows furrowed. “What?”
“That you’re staying.”
You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at you to push him away. To fight.
But you didn’t.
Your lips parted, barely forming his name. “Caleb—”
That was all he needed.
His fingers brushed along your jaw before tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch was slow and deliberate, but there was nothing soft about it. His grip was firm, possessive.
Like he was claiming you.
“You don’t regret this,” he murmured, the words barely a whisper, right before his lips crashed against yours.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful.
It was deep, demanding—a possession.
Caleb kissed you like he was proving something, like he was erasing every ounce of distance you had tried to put between you. His lips moved against yours with precision, drawing you in and breaking down every last barrier you had left.
Then his tongue slid past your lips, coaxing, teasing, taking.
The taste of coffee and something purely him flooded your senses, dizzying and intoxicating. He was relentless, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, drawing out a soft gasp that he swallowed like he owned it.
His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you feel it to remind you that there was no escaping this, no running from him or this pull.
And you—God, you kissed him back.
It was your undoing.
Your fingers curled into his hoodie, gripping it tight, like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. His other hand slid to the nape of your neck, holding you there, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
The café, the hushed conversations, the rest of the world—gone.
There was no fight left in you. No walls.
Only him. Only Caleb.
When he finally pulled back, lips barely brushing against yours, his breath was uneven, his voice thick with something raw, unspoken.
“Knew you wouldn’t leave.”
Your chest rose and fell rapidly, lips parted, breath stolen.
And then he saw it.
That flicker in your expression—not defiance, not reluctance.
Surrender.
Your grip on his hoodie loosened slightly, but you didn’t push him away. Your lashes fluttered, your gaze flickering to his lips for just a second too long, and that was all the confirmation he needed.
Caleb’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. His thumb traced along your jaw, a silent I won.
this is phenomenal work muse!! can't believe i missed it. best yandere writer ever!! i genuinely loveeee how you embodied caleb so well and made the dialogue flow so smoothly!!!! AND THE MANIPULATION TACTICS BEING SO SMOOTH AND LIKE SOOO CALEB genuinely amazing.
imagine hes so pussydrunk that he ends up spilling the beans when they finally do it 😶🌫️ and reader's like "wdym saw me jerking off? 🤨"
also the doctor reference, the panty sniffing, and dr phil mention had me gigglingggg 😭
i love this so much. also im setting my new bar for men and love with bunny apples because holy shit that was romantical ♡♡♡ sending you one million bunny apples for this literary greatness 😍
