He wasn’t built to feel. You weren’t meant to find him.
A wounded knight from a collapsing dimension crashes into your quiet life.
He doesn’t trust you. He doesn’t speak much. But he stays.
ABOUT | Reverse isekai. Cold steel meets warm hands. Wounded code. Violet eyes watching from the dark. Rainy nights on unfamiliar ground. Trust built in inches, not words.
TAGS | Sci-fi myth. Soldier out of time. Emotionless isn't empty. Soft domestic tension. Slowburn with edge. Obedience fractured. Comfort offered and refused.
WARNINGS | Graphic injury descriptions, Blood and mild body horror (cyborg/mechanical elements), Implied past violence & betrayal, Slow emotional recovery, Emotional repression, Themes of survival, isolation, and learning humanity
NOTE | hihi this is a sneak peek of my next work teheeee!
CHAPTERS (to be released soon)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ᯓ★
coming soon...
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★ sneak peek down below ★
His arm rose steadily, elbow locking as the blade angled upward. The tip traced the air between you, closing the distance with chilling care, until it came to rest directly beneath your jaw.
It stopped there, an inch from your throat. Maybe less.
You did not realize you had stopped breathing until your chest began to burn. The weapon hovered impossibly close. Heat radiated from it and pressed against the fragile hollow beneath your jaw.
Your pulse hammered there, exposed and frantic, each beat a reminder of how easily it could all end. You told yourself not to move. The thought came sharp and panicked, cutting through everything else.
Any shift or flinch would be enough for the blue edge to bite. The image rose unbidden in your mind. The precision of the strike. The speed. The terrifying cleanliness of it.
The next seventy-two hours are an exercise in calculated invisibility. You turn avoidance into a clinical science, mapping the hospital’s circulation like a vascular system to ensure your path never intersects with his.
You start taking the service stairs, the concrete echoing with the frantic rhythm of your pulse, just to avoid the possibility of a thirty-second elevator ride where the air might grow heavy with his scent. You arrive twenty minutes early for shift changes, hovering in the back of the briefing room, shielding yourself behind the taller residents.
Whenever his hazel-green gaze begins its habitual sweep of the room—that subconscious search he always does until he locates you— you drop your head, buried in a chart you’ve already read three times.
It’s exhausting. But what’s worse is the view from a distance.
You see them through the glass of the observation gallery. Zayne is standing at the scrub sink, his long, elegant fingers moving with rhythmic precision under the water. The intern stands at the sink beside him, her head tilted, hanging on the low, resonant murmur of his voice as he explains the nuances of a coronary bypass. He doesn’t look at her; he never does, but he doesn't pull away when she leans in to see his technique. The proximity is a blade, twisting slowly in the space between your ribs.
By the fourth morning, the exhaustion of being a ghost has left you raw. You’re in the records room, a cramped, windowless space smelling of old paper and ozone. It’s the one place he never goes.
You’re reaching for a physical file on the top shelf, your fingers straining, when the heavy door hissed shut behind you. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to. The air becomes charged, thick with the scent of winter frost and that expensive, understated cologne that has haunted your dreams for three nights.
"The step-stool is in the corner," a voice says.
It’s low, vibrating through the small space, hitting the back of your neck like a physical touch.
Zayne.
He doesn't move to help you. He stays by the door, his shadow stretching across the floor until it touches your heels. The silence stretches, agonizingly long, broken only by the hum of the overhead lights.
"I checked the surgery logs," he says, his voice devoid of its usual clinical detachment. It sounds strained, like wire pulled too tight. "You’ve swapped three of your rotations this week. You’ve opted out of every consult where I’m lead. You’re eating lunch at 10:00 AM in the basement cafeteria."
You finally drop your arm, the file still out of reach. You keep your back to him, your shoulders rigid. "I’m prioritizing my caseload, Chief. I didn't realize you were keeping a ledger of my meal times."
"I notice when the sun doesn't rise," he retorts, the metaphor sharp and unexpected.
You hear the soft thud of him leaning his back against the door, barring the only exit. The rhythmic click-click-click of his pen begins — a frantic, uneven sound that betrays the calm of his posture.
"Look at me," he commands. It isn't a request; it’s the voice of a man who is losing his patience and his composure in equal measure.
You turn slowly, your hip bumping against the metal shelving. He looks... tired. There’s a shadow of frustration in the corners of his eyes that wasn't there before. He’s still holding that pen, his thumb white-knuckled against the clicker.
"Is this about the intern?" he asks bluntly. "Because if you have concerns about her medical aptitude—"
"Her 'aptitude' is clearly your priority," you interrupt, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. "I’m just staying out of the way of the 'new perspective' you’re so fond of lately. It’s more efficient, isn't it? One student at a time?"
Zayne takes a single step forward. The records room is so small that one step puts him directly in your personal space. He towers over you, his presence suddenly overwhelming, trapping you against the cold metal of the shelves.
"Efficiency has nothing to do with why she is there," he hisses, leaning down until his face is inches from yours. You can see the ring of frost-blue in his irises. "And it has nothing to do with why I’ve spent three days hunting you through this hospital like a man possessed."
His hand leaves his side, hovering near your waist, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the radiant heat of him through your scrubs.
"Tell me what you want," he whispers, his voice a jagged edge of desperation. "Tell me to send her back to the university. Tell me to stop teaching. Tell me to stay away from you if that’s truly what you want—but stop disappearing."
The air in the cramped records room feels like it’s being sucked out of a vacuum. Zayne’s hand finally closes the distance, his fingers not grabbing, but grazing the fabric of your scrubs at your waist—a touch so light it’s agonizing. He leans in further, his shadow completely enveloping you against the cold metal shelves.
"I don't care about the university’s 'prodigy,'" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a jagged, private register that makes your breath hitch. "I care that the only person in this hospital who actually challenges me has decided I no longer exist."
His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second— a lapse in his legendary restraint so uncharacteristic it feels like a physical blow. You can feel the steady, rhythmic heat of his chest, see the slight tremor in the hand he has braced against the shelf behind your head.
You find your voice, though it’s thin and dangerously uneven. "You didn't seem to notice my 'existence' when she was taking notes on your entry angles, Zayne. You seemed perfectly... occupied."
"I was waiting," he breathes, his face now so close his nose brushes yours, "for you to say something. For you to get angry."
The "Chief" is gone. In his place is a man vibrating with a quiet, icy desperation. He tilts his head, his eyes darkening as they lock onto yours, and for a heartbeat, the world outside the records room ceases to matter. The smell of winter and sterile cedar is overwhelming. He begins to lean in, his movements slow, giving you every second to push him away, but your hands are curled into the front of his lab coat, pulling him closer instead.
His breath is warm against your skin, a stark contrast to the frost he usually carries. His eyes flutter shut, his forehead almost resting against yours—
Clack-clack.
The door handle rattles violently. The electronic lock chirps—a red light flashing as someone swipes an unauthorized badge outside.
"Dr. Zayne? Are you in there?" It’s the intern. Her voice is muffled but unmistakable, chirpy and persistent. "The Chief of Surgery said I might find you here. I have those longitudinal studies you mentioned. I thought we could go over them before the 2:00 PM bypass?"
Zayne’s eyes snap open, the frost returning to his gaze with a vengeance. He doesn't pull away immediately; instead, he lingers for one more agonizing second, his thumb brushing against your hip bone through the thin scrub fabric.
"One minute," Zayne calls out, his voice instantly reverting to its sharp, crystalline authority. But he doesn't move. He stays trapped in your space, his jaw tight as he stares down at you, his chest rising and falling in a way that suggests he’s fighting for control.
He leans down, his lips ghosting past your ear. "This," he whispers, a low threat that makes your toes curl, "is far from over."
He steps back, the sudden rush of cold air where his body was making you shiver. He smooths his lab coat with a sharp, practiced motion and reaches for the door.
The click of the lock sounds like a gunshot in the tiny room. As the door hisses open, the transition is instantaneous. Zayne’s posture shifts, his spine turning to steel, his expression smoothing into a mask of glacial professional indifference.
The intern stands there, tablet hugged to her chest, her eyes wide and scanning. "Oh! Dr. [Y/N], I didn't realize you were in here too. I was just telling the Chief—"
You don’t hear the rest. The blood is roaring in your ears, a deafening pulse that makes your skin feel too tight for your body. The phantom sensation of Zayne’s thumb against your hip is still searing through your scrubs, a brand you’re sure the intern can see.
We almost... he was going to...
The realization hits you with the force of a physical blow. You need air. You need a different floor, a different building, a different life where Zayne Li doesn't look at you like you're the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Excuse me," you blurthe out, your voice sounding thin and alien to your own ears.
You don't wait for a response. You shoulder past the intern, your arm brushing hers with enough force to make her stumble back a step. You don't look at Zayne. You can't. If you catch even a glimpse of that frost-blue gaze, you know you’ll break apart right there in the hallway.
"Wait, Dr. [Y/N]—" the intern starts, her voice tinged with a mix of confusion and burgeoning suspicion. "The Ward B charts—"
"Ask the Chief," you throw over your shoulder, your pace quickening into a near-run. "He’s the one with all the answers."
You round the corner, ducking into the nearest stairwell and letting the heavy fire door slam shut behind you. The silence of the concrete shaft is immediate. You lean your back against the cold wall, sliding down until your knees hit the floor, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
Your heart is a frantic bird trapped in your chest. Just seconds ago, his breath was on your lips. His scent, that intoxicating mix of winter and cedar, is still clinging to your skin, mocking your attempt at distance. The "slow burn" has officially turned into a wildfire, and you’re the one standing in the center of the brush.
You press your cool palms to your burning cheeks, trying to steady the tremor in your hands. You had spent days building a wall, brick by professional brick, and Zayne had dismantled it in less than two minutes with nothing but a whisper and a ghost of a touch.
How are you supposed to walk back onto that floor? How are you supposed to look at him over a surgical table or across a nurses' station?
—
The following twelve hours are an exercise in surgical-grade repression. You move through the sterile, white-washed corridors of Akso Hospital like a high-functioning machine, your posture so rigid it feels as if your spine might snap under the weight of your own performance.
You keep your eyes locked onto your tablet, your gaze tracing the jagged peaks of heart monitors and the dry data of fluid balances as if they were the only things keeping the world from tilting off its axis.
But your mind is a traitor.
Every time a pneumatic door hiss-slides open, your heart doesn't just skip; it stops. You don’t see the nursing staff or the gurneys; you see the heavy, hazel-green darkening of Zayne’s eyes as they drop to your lips in the records room.
Every time the scent of industrial disinfectant hits your nose, your brain aggressively replaces it with him, that intoxicating, localized atmosphere of winter frost and cedar.
You can still feel the phantom heat of his thumb pressing into the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your scrubs, a searing, invisible brand that makes your skin prickle with every step you take away from him. You find yourself staring at the back of your own hands while you scrub in, obsessively remembering how close you were to tangling your fingers into his hair and shattering the "Chief’s" composure once and for all.
Zayne, for his part, is a ghost you can’t exorcise. He doesn’t speak to you. He doesn't even grant you the mercy of a glance during the afternoon consults. But you feel him. You feel the air crystallize the moment he enters the ward, a sharp, piercing chill that tells you exactly where he is standing.
From the periphery of your vision, you catch the glint of his glasses in the glass-walled observation gallery, his gloved hands resting on the rail, his gaze anchored on the back of your head with a heavy, unyielding intensity while you adjust a patient's IV. He isn't teaching the intern; he is tracking you, a silent, predatory measurement of your heartbeat that suggests he is perfectly aware of the "professional" wall you are frantically trying to rebuild.
By the time the shift ends, the exhaustion of the deception has left you hollow. You reach the parking garage, the subterranean air damp and smelling of cold concrete and old exhaust. You’re fumbling with your keys, your breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches, when a familiar, localized frost sweeps through the humid garage air, sharper and more biting than the wind outside.
You stop dead, your thumb frozen over the unlock button. Leaning against the massive concrete pylon beside your driver-side door is a silhouette that has haunted your vision for seventy-two hours.
Zayne.
He has shed the sterile white armor of his lab coat. In its place, he wears a dark, tailored wool overcoat that makes him look like a permanent fixture of the shadows. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, his posture deceptively still, but the silver glint of his glasses catches the amber glow of a security light, pinning you where you stood.
"The shift ended forty-five minutes ago," he says. His voice is a low, resonant vibration that seems to travel through the concrete floor and settle deep in your bones.
"I had paperwork to finish, Chief," you say, your voice a fragile thread of professional steel that threatens to snap. "There was no reason to leave early."
"Reason," he repeats, the word sounding like a bitter, frost-bitten oath. He steps away from the pillar. He doesn't rush; he moves with agonizing, predatory deliberation, his boots striking the pavement with a slow finality until he is standing just outside your personal space.
"Is that why you’ve spent the last ten hours treating me like a contagion? Swapping shifts, ducking into stairwells… it's inefficient and, frankly, beneath your capabilities."
The exhaustion of pretending finally snaps. You whirl on him, your keys jangling in a shaking hand. "Maybe I’m just tired of the view! Why are you even here, Zayne? Go find your 'prodigy' intern. I'm sure she's still in the library waiting for more of your 'academic' focus."
Zayne’s jaw tightens, a sharp muscle leaping in his cheek. He takes a single, lunging step forward, invading your space so completely you are pressed back against the cold glass of your car window.
"Is this about the intern?"
"It's about everything! It's about you acting like I was just another chart on your desk after... after what almost happened in that records room! You didn't even say a word to me for three days. You just moved on while I was left wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing—if I was the only one who couldn't breathe!"
"I didn't move on!" Zayne's voice rises, a rare, jagged roar that echoes through the empty garage like a gunshot.
He slams his hand against the concrete pillar behind your head, the impact vibrating through your skull. He is hovering over you now, his chest heaving under the heavy wool of his coat, his hazel-green eyes wide and burning with a raw, unfiltered intensity you have never seen. The "Ice Giant" is gone; there is only a man who looks terrified by his own honesty.
"I’ve spent ten hours explaining surgical nuances to a girl who isn't you, just so I wouldn't have to face the fact that I missed you so much it felt like a physical infirmity," he confesses, the words spilling out as if they’ve been clawing at his throat.
"You think I ignored you? I spent my entire shift counting the seconds until I could see your shadow through the glass. I spent every consultation looking for you in the back of the room, desperate to catch even a glimpse of your face just to keep my focus steady."
He leans in further, his forehead nearly touching yours. You can feel the heat of his breath, frantic and warm against your lips. "You are always in my head, even when I am trying to save a life. Especially then. I didn't acknowledge you because if I looked at you for more than a second, I would have walked away from that intern and every single patient in this building just to find a way to be alone with you again!"
The shock hits you like a physical blow. You stare up at him, your lips parted, watching the way his eyes search yours for any sign of a retreat. You start to say something, a protest dying in your throat, but Zayne doesn't wait for a response.
He closes the distance with a starved, desperate hunger.
The kiss is a violent collision, a tidal wave of suppressed longing breaking all at once. Zayne’s hand snaps to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep into your hair to pull you upward, while his other arm hooks around your waist to crush you against his chest. He kisses you with a wrecked intensity, his mouth hard and demanding, as if he’s trying to reclaim every second of the last three days you spent apart.
You melt into him, your hands clawing at the lapels of his heavy coat, matching his desperation with a frantic energy of your own. Your world narrows down to the biting cold of the garage and the scorching heat of his mouth. A low, jagged groan vibrates in his chest, a sound of pure surrender. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue tracing your lower lip before surging inside, claiming you with a possessiveness that leaves you lightheaded.
When he finally pulls back, his breath is coming in ragged, shallow gasps against your skin. His glasses are slightly askew, his hazel-green eyes dark and blown wide with a vulnerability that makes your heart ache.
A sharp, dizzying flush creeps up your neck, coloring your cheeks a deep, betraying crimson. You stare up at him, your lips slightly parted and eyes wide with a shock so profound it feels like your heart has momentarily forgotten its rhythm.
"You..." you breathe out, the word barely a whisper. Your brain is frantically trying to reconcile the "Ice Giant" with the man who just kissed you with a hunger that felt like an ending and a beginning all at once.
His hand is still anchored at the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing the heated line of your jaw with a slight, telltale tremor. He watches the way the blush stains your skin, his expression softening into something so tender it’s almost painful to look at.
"I’ve wanted to do that," he breathes, the words a jagged, private vibration that seems to rattle deep in his chest, "since the very first moment I saw you... and realized I was never going to be able to look away again."
Morning arrives in layers rather than moments, seeping slowly into your awareness instead of snapping you awake. The pale light outside filters through the thin gap between the curtains and spreads across the walls in a muted wash of gray-gold that makes the room feel suspended in time.
Your body feels heavy beneath the blankets, every limb sluggish, as though gravity has doubled overnight, and for a few quiet seconds you don’t move at all, choosing instead to breathe shallowly and take inventory the way you always do when you’re unsure of yourself.
The faint pressure behind your eyes, the dryness in your throat, and the lingering warmth under your skin that tells you the fever has broken, but not fully released you yet.
The apartment is silent, and that is what makes your thoughts stir.
You remember pieces before you remember.
The low hum of the lamp. The faint scrape of a chair against the floor.
The sense of being watched, not in a way that made your skin prickle with discomfort, but in a way that steadied you, that made the room feel anchored, as if someone had decided nothing bad would be allowed to happen while you slept.
Your brows knit faintly as you stare at the ceiling, your mind circling the memories cautiously, afraid that pressing too hard will make them dissolve. You remember his presence more than his face, and the weight of it alone is enough to make your chest tighten in a way that feels dangerously close to longing.
Slowly, you turn your head.
The chair by your bed sits empty now, its back catching a sliver of morning light, as if it hasn’t held something monumental only hours ago. No coat draped over it. No shadow lingering nearby. Just furniture.
You swallow, your throat tight.
For a moment, you tell yourself it must have been the fever, that the sickness has a way of softening reality and stitching moments together into something gentler than truth. That the careful touches and the quiet vigil were your mind’s way of comforting itself.
But then you shift slightly, and your fingers brush your hair near your temple.
You stop breathing.
There is nothing visibly different there, no ache, no soreness — just the ghost of sensation, like the echo of fingers smoothing back a loose strand and tucking it away with care.
Your heart stutters, then starts to race.
The realization settles slowly, spreading through you with equal parts warmth and unease, because with it comes the understanding that he stayed longer than he needed to, that he crossed a line, and that you didn’t pull away. You hadn’t even wanted to.
You sit up carefully, the blanket slipping from your shoulders, and scan the apartment as if expecting him to materialize from the quiet. The kitchen catches your eye immediately.
The counter was cleared of its usual clutter, and the dish towel was folded with methodical care beside the sink. On your nightstand, a bottle of water waits within easy reach, its cap loosened just enough to make it simple to open, a small consideration that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have language for.
He thought about you, even after he left.
Your phone vibrates softly against the wood, the sound startling in the stillness, and your gaze snaps to it before you can stop yourself. The screen lights up, illuminating the room just a fraction brighter.
Zayne.
Seeing his name does something dangerous to your pulse, something that makes your stomach dip and your thoughts scatter. The timestamp tells you he messaged hours ago, early enough that you know he must have been at work already.
How are you feeling this morning?
That’s it. No acknowledgment of last night. No mention of the chair, the blanket, the touch you’re still not sure you’re allowed to remember. Just concern wrapped in the same restraint he wears like armor.
You stare at the message for a long moment, your thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.
Did he mean for you to remember? Did he hope you wouldn’t?
Does he know how deeply that single question unsettles you?
You press the phone lightly against your chest, closing your eyes as your thoughts tumble over one another, because part of you wants to ask everything at once.
How long he stayed, why he stayed, whether that touch was real or something you imagined into existence, and another part of you is terrified of the answers.
But beneath all of it is a quiet truth you can’t ignore anymore.
Whatever this is between you and him, it has already changed into something fragile and charged. And now that you’ve felt it, you’re not sure how to pretend it didn’t happen.
You don’t answer right away.
Your thumb hovers over the screen again, the faint reflection of your face staring back at you from the glass.
Finally, you type.
Still alive. Head feels like it’s being punished, though.
You delete the second sentence. Re-type it. Delete it again.
You settle on something safer.
Better than last night. Thank you.
You hesitate, then add one more line, your pulse quickening as you hit send.
I think.
The message delivers almost instantly, the tiny checkmark appearing before you can second-guess yourself. You set the phone down beside you, exhaling slowly, your fingers curling into the blanket as if to anchor yourself.
It buzzes again, not even a minute later.
Drink water slowly. There should be medication on the counter. Take it after you eat.
Your brows knit faintly. Eat?
You glance toward the kitchen again, and sure enough, beyond the half-open door, you can make out a covered container resting neatly on the counter, positioned dead center. Even from here, you can smell it faintly.
Your chest tightens, unexpectedly.
You didn’t have to do that.
You type, even as your body is already shifting, feet sliding over the edge of the bed to touch the cool floor.
The reply comes a few seconds later.
I know.
That’s all he says. No justification. No dismissal. Just a simple acknowledgment that feels far more intimate than any reassurance could have been.
You move slowly into the kitchen. The container is warm beneath your fingers when you lift the lid, steam curling upward in a soft plume that fogs your vision for a moment. Inside is porridge, pale and thick, studded with soft vegetables cut into careful, uniform pieces — carrots, greens, something herbal you can’t quite place. It smells clean and comforting.
Of course he cooked.
The thought makes your lips curve faintly before you can stop yourself.
You eat perched on the edge of the counter, spoon moving slowly, each bite settling gently in your stomach, grounding you more than you expected. It tastes exactly like the kind of meal someone makes when they know your body needs care more than indulgence, and that realization stirs something warm and unsettling low in your chest.
Your phone buzzes again.
Text me if you feel worse, or if you don’t.
You huff a quiet breath of a laugh at that, shaking your head as you type back.
Is that a medical instruction or a personal one?
There’s a longer pause this time. Long enough that you imagine him standing somewhere sterile and bright, coat immaculate, expression unreadable as he considers his words.
When the reply comes, it’s brief.
Both.
You stare at the screen, heart beating a little too fast now, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the food or the medicine settling in your stomach.
And for the first time since waking, the confusion eases just enough to leave behind something else entirely.
Anticipation.
You exhale slowly and set the phone down, turning your attention back to the bowl in front of you, though your appetite has shifted into something else entirely. The porridge has cooled slightly, the steam no longer rising in soft curls, but the warmth still lingers in each bite. You eat anyway, and you're more aware of yourself. The way your shoulders have relaxed, and how the heaviness in your chest has changed shape into something lighter.
—
The hospital feels different when you walk through its automatic doors again, not because anything has changed, but because you have. The antiseptic tang in the air, the muted hum of monitors, the low chatter of staff moving through the corridors, the soft squeak of sneakers against polished floors.
All of it presses against your senses with a new sharpness, a clarity you didn’t have when your body was heavy with fever and fatigue. Your heart beats a steady rhythm now, muscles no longer aching, mind alert, but beneath it all, there’s a quiet undercurrent, a lingering pulse of memory from the days you spent in bed, the faint echo of him watching over you, the way he stayed just out of reach yet entirely present.
You move down the hall toward the cardiac unit, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder and tugging your long jacket tighter around you. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, sharp against the low background murmur of the nurses’ station, and for a moment you pause, just a fraction, taking it all in. The organized chaos, the familiar smells, the rhythm of a place that feels like home even in its relentless intensity.
And then you see him.
Zayne.
Across the station, hunched slightly over paperwork, pen moving deliberately over the forms, posture perfect, expression sharp and composed as always. Even from this distance, you notice the subtle curve of his jaw, the way his shoulders hold their own quiet authority, the faint shimmer of light on his glasses. Your chest tightens, just slightly, a flutter you haven’t felt in days.
His gaze lifts, locking with yours. No smile yet, but that slight, promising curl at the corner of his mouth makes your breath hitch. You straighten up, taking a small, anchoring step closer, pulled toward him by something far deeper than duty.
You close the small distance between you, each step measured, feeling the familiar hum of the unit around you — the soft chatter of colleagues, the distant beep of monitors, the shuffle of carts — but all of it fades slightly under the pull of him. Your hand brushes against your bag strap more tightly than necessary, grounding yourself, steadying your pulse that’s suddenly too loud in your ears.
He looks up again, this time fully aware, and the faint crease between his brows softens just enough to make your chest tighten. There’s a pause, a fraction of a second that stretches long.
“I'm back,” you manage, voice small but steady, forcing a casual tilt to your tone, though your stomach flutters at the sound of him hearing your voice.
“Yeah,” he says, simple, clipped, almost clinical, but there’s a softness under it, the tiniest pull in his lips that wasn’t there before. He tilts his head slightly, observing.
“You look… better.”
Your pulse stutters. “I feel better,” you admit, the words slipping out more honest than you intended. “Thanks… for, you know, everything.”
For a fleeting second, his professional guard drops, his gaze turning warmer and more intense than he usually allows. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, visible only because you’re watching him so closely.
“I’m glad,” he says finally, voice low, letting the weight of it hang between you. There’s a rhythm to the silence that follows, the kind of quiet that carries meaning without a single word.
"So," you start, your fingers fumbling with your bag strap, "did the unit fall apart without me? Or did chaos reign in my absence?"
He tilts his head, a brow arching as a faint smirk tugs at his mouth. "Chaos?" he echoes, his voice low and teasing. "Calling this place chaotic... that’s a bit hyperbolic, don’t you think?"
You snort, the sound shattering the tension. He glances at you, caught between annoyance and amusement. "Hyperbolic?" you grin. "You’re really critiquing my vocab the second I get back?"
For the first time all morning, a genuine smile breaks through. "Precision is important," he says. His tone is clipped, but he leans in just enough for his hand to brush your sleeve.
You blink, startled by the contact, and take a half-step back to keep your cool. "Right. Because nothing says 'professionalism' like nitpicking the staff."
He lets out a low, surprising chuckle.
"Don't let it go to your head," you add playfully, even as your heart flutters.
"Too late," he murmurs.
Before you can retort, he lifts his hand in a fluid, practiced motion. With a deft click of his fingers, he flicks the blunt end of his pen against the center of your forehead. The contact is light, hardly more than a tap, but it’s enough to make you blink in surprise.
His eyes lock onto yours, warm and sharp at the same time, like he’s holding something back but no longer trying to hide the affection behind it. He doesn't pull his hand away immediately; for a fraction of a second, the pen lingers there, a physical bridge between his professional space and yours.
Then he glances down at the paperwork in front of him, tapping the pen thoughtfully against the desk, though you realize he’s still watching you, still aware of every breath you take in a way that makes your chest thrum. But before you can find your voice, before you can say something that might give too much away, he breaks the spell.
He lets out a faint, huffed breath of amusement, tucks the pen into his pocket, and turns away.
“Get to work,” he says over his shoulder, his voice regaining its usual cool composure, though the ghost of that smirk remains. “The ‘chaos’ won’t manage itself.”
You stand there for a second, the spot where he tapped you still tingling, watching him walk down the hall with that steady, rhythmic stride. By the time you find a witty comeback, he’s already disappeared into a patient’s room, leaving you alone with a racing pulse and a very frustrated smile.
—
The hospital cafeteria is a chaotic symphony of clattering trays and the exhausted hum of the lunch rush. You’re sitting across from Kira, picking at a salad you’re too distracted to eat. The phantom sensation of the pen flick from earlier still feels like a warm brand on your forehead, a secret pulse that refuses to quiet down.
“Okay, forget the mystery meat,” Kira whispers, leaning so far across the table her ID badge dips into her dressing. “Look. 12 o’clock. Entrance.”
You follow her gaze, and your heart does a sharp, jagged stutter.
Zayne is walking in, his stride as measured and commanding as ever. But he isn’t alone. Tucked almost perfectly in his shadow is a woman in a crisp, brand-new lab coat. She’s striking with her hair pulled back in a sleek, no-nonsense knot, clutching a leather-bound tablet like it holds the secrets of the universe.
She’s talking animatedly, gesturing toward a file in her hand, her face tilted up toward his with an expression of pure, unadulterated admiration. Zayne is listening, actually listening, his head tilted slightly in her direction as they move toward the coffee line.
“Who is that?” you mutter, the words feeling tighter in your throat than you intended.
“The new surgical intern,” Kira says, her eyes darting between you and the pair. “Word at the nursing station is she’s some kind of prodigy. Top of her class, three publications, and she specifically requested Zayne’s rotation to study his ‘unrivaled clinical precision.’”
As they reach the counter, the girl laughs—a soft, bright sound that seems to cut through the cafeteria noise. Zayne doesn’t laugh back, but he reaches for a cup, his hand steady, and says something low that makes her nod fervently.
Then, as if sensing the weight of your gaze, Zayne’s head turns.
Across the crowded room, through the steam of coffee and the blur of white coats, his eyes lock onto yours with startling clarity. There’s no "clinical mask" in this moment; his gaze is sharp, dark, and unsettlingly direct. It’s the look of someone who knows exactly where you are at all times, regardless of who is standing next to him.
The intern notices the break in his attention and follows his line of sight, her curious eyes landing on you. You expect him to look away, to return to his lecture on "precision," but he doesn't.
Instead, the corners of his mouth twitch. Slowly, he lets a genuine smile break across his face - small, private, and filled with the same teasing warmth from the hallway. It’s a look that completely ignores the girl at his side, a silent message sent directly to you.
“Oh my god,” Kira breathes, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. “He just smiled. At you. In public. While the ‘prodigy’ was mid-sentence.”
The heat in your cheeks is instantaneous, a sudden, blooming warmth that has nothing to do with the humid cafeteria air. You jerk your gaze back down to your tray, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Whoa,” Kira whispers, her fork still suspended in mid-air. “You’re actually blushing. Like, full-on, medical-emergency blushing.”
“I am not,” you hiss, taking a frantic, too-large sip of your water. You focus intensely on a single piece of wilted lettuce, trying to drown out the memory of that smile. The way it had been meant only for you, even with a literal prodigy standing right next to him.
“You totally are,” Kira teases, a delighted glint in her eyes. “And he’s still looking. I can feel the frost melting from here. If that intern has any brains at all, she’s currently wondering why the Chief just turned into a human being for five seconds.”
You don't dare look up. You can practically feel the weight of his stare, heavy and steady, anchored to you across the room. It’s a silent, persistent pressure that makes the "professional colleague" label feel thinner and more fragile by the second.
“Let’s just eat,” you mutter, though your appetite has completely vanished, replaced by a fluttering, nervous energy. “I have a double shift and zero interest in being part of a cafeteria spectacle.”
“Spectacle?” Kira snorts, finally taking a bite of her sandwich. “Honey, that wasn't a spectacle. That was a declaration.”
You keep your head down, pushing a stray carrot around your plate, but every nerve ending is tuned to the sound of his footsteps. You can hear the rhythmic, heavy tread of his expensive loafers against the linoleum, a sound you’d recognize anywhere, approaching the middle of the room.
Beside him, the intern’s voice is a constant, eager chirping, but Zayne’s responses are short, hummed acknowledgments.
“They’re sitting,” Kira narrates in a low, breathless play-by-play. “Two tables over. Facing us. Well, he’s facing us. She’s got her back to you.”
You wait a beat, counting to five to steady your breathing, and then, as if just casually checking the time on the wall clock, you let your eyes drift upward.
He’s already settled in. He’s sitting with his back straight, one arm draped casually over the empty chair next to him, a posture that’s uncharacteristically relaxed for the hospital. He isn't looking at the girl. He isn't looking at his coffee.
He’s staring directly at you, his chin tilted up just a fraction. When your eyes finally meet his again, he doesn't look away. Instead, he lifts his coffee cup in a slow, mocking "cheers" gesture, the ghost of that smirk returning to his lips. It’s a challenge. A silent, public continuation of the teasing from this morning.
“Oh, he is definitely doing that on purpose,” Kira giggles, nearly choking on her water. “He knows you’re watching. He’s putting on a show.”
The intern turns slightly, trying to see what has captured the Chief’s attention so completely, but Zayne shifts his weight just enough to block her view, keeping his focus narrowed entirely on you.
---
The next few days settle into a grueling, rhythmic test of patience. The new intern has become Zayne’s permanent shadow. Everywhere he goes, she is there. She was only a few years younger than you, polished and brilliant, fitting into Zayne’s world with a seamless ease that made your chest tighten.
You’re standing by the coffee station, trying to ignore the dull ache in your lower back, when you overhear two nurses whispering near the breakroom door.
“Did you see them in the trauma bay?” one murmurs, leaning in. “The way she anticipates his next move without him even saying a word? It’s like they’re in sync.”
“I know,” the other adds with a wistful sigh. “They look so cute together. Like a power couple from a medical drama. Same 'genius' energy. It just makes sense.”
You let out a sharp, involuntary scoff, snapping the lid onto your coffee cup with a bit too much force. The nurses jump, glancing at you with wide, guilty eyes before scurrying away. Cute? You think, your grip tightening on the cardboard sleeve.
There is nothing "cute" about clinical efficiency, and there is certainly nothing cute about the way she’s been hanging onto his every word.
From the nursing station, you watch them through the glass of the consultation room. Zayne is leaning over a set of scans, his posture rigid and commanding. The girl stands exactly one pace behind him, clutching her tablet, nodding at every clipped sentence he utters. At one point, she leans in closer to point at a shadow on the film, her shoulder nearly brushing his.
Zayne doesn’t pull away. He just continues his technical explanation, his voice a low, clinical drone that doesn't reach you, but her smile does. Bright, eager, and full of a budding "admiration" that makes your chest tighten.
She’s just an intern, you tell yourself, ferociously clicking through a patient's lab results.
She’s a ‘prodigy.’ Of course, she’s hovering. It’s a prestigious rotation; anyone would be this focused.
“If she gets any closer, she’s going to be part of his surgical team by osmosis,” Kira murmurs, leaning against the counter next to you. She doesn't even look up from her clipboard, but her voice is dripping with mischief. “I heard she brought him a specific blend of tea this morning because she noticed he ‘prefers earthy undertones.’ Earthy undertones, (Y/N). Can you believe it?”
You grip your pen a little tighter. “It’s professional networking, Kira. She’s ambitious. It’s a good trait for a surgeon. I'm sure Zayne appreciates the... efficiency.”
“Right,” Kira snorts. “And I’m the Chief of Medicine. You’ve been staring at the same lab report for ten minutes. I’m pretty sure Mr. Henderson’s potassium levels haven't changed since you started fuming.”
You sigh, finally dropping the pen. You try to justify it. Zayne is the Chief; it’s his job to teach. But the memory of his pen tapping your forehead just days ago feels increasingly like a fever dream compared to the cold, professional wall he’s maintained while this girl absorbs his every word.
The consultation room door hiss-slides open. They walk toward the station, Zayne leading with that long, effortless stride.
“Dr. Zayne,” she says, her voice bright with academic fervor, “the way you handled the sub-aortic stenosis earlier… the precision was unlike anything in the literature. I’ve been taking notes on your entry angle.”
Zayne reaches the counter, his presence suddenly saturating the air around you. He doesn't acknowledge her praise. Instead, his gaze sweeps across the station, bypassing the monitors and the other staff, until it lands on the side of your face.
The intern isn't deterred. She steps closer to him, holding up her tablet. “I was wondering if we could review the bypass scans from this morning? I have a few theories on the recovery trajectory.”
There’s a beat of silence. The intern is looking at Zayne. Zayne is still looking at you.
Finally, Zayne speaks, his voice low and devoid of its usual clinical edge. “The scans are in the database. Review them yourself. Efficiency isn’t just about speed; it’s about independent thought.”
The girl’s smile falters. “Oh. I just thought since you were heading to the office—”
“I’m staying here,” Zayne interrupts. He doesn't look at her once. “Go finish the discharge papers for Ward B.”
The intern hesitates, her eyes flickering between Zayne’s profile and your bent head, before she nods and retreats. Zayne doesn't move. He leans against the counter, his hip inches from your hand. He doesn't say anything at first, just taps his pen against the wood in that steady, secret rhythm.
“You’ve been remarkably quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a private, resonant vibration. “Even for someone trying so hard to look busy.”
You don't look up.
You save your chart with a final, sharp click. “Some of us have to be,” you say, your voice clipped. “Unlike the ‘prodigy,’ I actually have a ward to run. I don't have time for theories on entry angles.”
You stand up abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor. Zayne shifts, his body tensing. “Wait—” his voice is low, catching on a note of rare urgency, his hand reaching out as if to catch your sleeve.
But you’re already stepping around him. “I’ll be in Ward B,” you add over your shoulder.
“Since your intern is busy with paperwork, someone has to actually check on the patients.”
You disappear around the corner before he can finish his sentence.
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
author note: omgeeee?? i wonder what's going to happen... tehee
That thought stayed with you, settling into the quiet space he left behind. Something like that, something so vast and consuming, should have changed everything. The sky should have dimmed. The ocean should have stilled. The world should have paused, if only for a moment, to acknowledge what had been lost.
But morning came as it always did.
Light spread slowly across the horizon, soft and indifferent, filling the room in pale gold. It touched the same surfaces, the same walls, the same quiet corners. Outside, the city stirred to life. Cars moved along familiar roads. People spoke in passing, their voices blending into a distant, constant hum. Somewhere, someone laughed.
Everything continued.
Nothing broke.
And that was what made it unbearable.
Because you were no longer the same.
At first, the absence felt distant, almost unreal. It was as if your mind had not yet caught up with what had happened. You moved through your days in a quiet daze, completing routines without thinking about them. You spoke when spoken to. You nodded at the right moments. You smiled when it was expected.
But none of it reached you.
It felt like you were slightly out of place, like you were standing just a step outside your own life, watching it continue without you fully inside it.
The memories did not fade.
They came to you without warning, interrupting ordinary moments in ways that felt almost cruel. You would be in the middle of a conversation, half-listening, half-responding, when suddenly you would remember the exact way his voice sounded when he said your name.
You would be walking down the street and catch a glimpse of water, a reflection in a window, and your chest would tighten as the memory of being submerged, of breathing where you shouldn’t have been able to, came rushing back.
Sleep offered no escape.
If anything, it made it worse.
You dreamed of him often, but they were not soft or comforting dreams. They were too vivid, filled with details your mind could not have invented on its own. You would wake up with the feeling of his hand still lingering against yours, the phantom warmth refusing to fade even as reality settled back in.
There were nights when you did not go back to sleep.
You would sit up in bed, staring into the dark, trying to ground yourself in the present, trying to remind yourself that this life was different.
That he was not coming back.
You heard his voice.
It came in the middle of something ordinary.
You were standing at the kitchen counter, your fingers wrapped loosely around a mug that had already gone cold. Morning light filtered through the window, soft and pale, settling across the surface in quiet lines. The room was still except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside.
The sound was so clear that it did not feel like a memory. It did not echo or blur at the edges. It was exact, shaped with the same quiet familiarity you knew too well. The same tone. The same steadiness. The same way it settled into the air like it belonged there.
Like he belonged there.
You froze, your grip tightening slightly around the mug.
For a moment, you did not move. You were afraid that if you did, the sound would disappear, that it would break apart into something less real.
Then you turned.
The kitchen was empty.
The chair was still out of place. The window was still half open. The light had not shifted. Nothing had changed.
There was no one there.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing into the space where his voice had been.
Your chest tightened.
You stood there a little longer than necessary, your gaze fixed on the doorway as if something might still appear, as if you had simply been too early.
Nothing did.
You exhaled slowly and turned back, setting the mug down with careful precision. You told yourself it was nothing, but it did not feel like nothing.
Then came the ocean.
You saw the way the water moved when he was there. You saw the way the tide shifted, as if something deeper responded to him. The waves seemed to soften around him. Their rhythm changed, not dramatically, but enough that you always noticed.
It had never felt like a coincidence.
And then you remembered his hand.
The warmth of it felt almost real.
You could feel the weight of his fingers closing around yours, steady and grounding. There had never been urgency in the way he held you. There had only been certainty, as if he knew the moment mattered and chose to hold it carefully.
That’s the memory that stays, because it felt like it should have been permanent. But it wasn't. Now, you only hold onto the memory of the end. It was distinct, and it was final.
You remembered the moment just before he left, when something in the air would shift. It was subtle, almost impossible to name, but you always felt it. The world would seem to pause, just for a second. Your chest would tighten, as if you already understood what was coming.
You would reach for him.
And then he was gone.
It was never gradual. It was never gentle. It was always immediate, absolute, and complete. One moment, he was there, and the next, there was nothing.
Only absence. That was what stayed with you, the space he left behind.
In the beginning, it was too much to carry.
At some point, the grief changed.
It did not lessen, not in any way that felt obvious, but it changed into something quieter. The sharp edges dulled just enough that you could breathe through it, just enough that it stopped feeling like it would consume you entirely.
You started to notice things again.
Small things at first. The warmth of sunlight through your window in the morning. The sound of laughter that you did not have to force yourself to respond to. The comfort of routine, of knowing what your day would look like and moving through it without feeling like you were constantly bracing for something to break.
It felt strange, almost wrong.
Like you were betraying something by allowing yourself to exist without that constant ache at the forefront of your mind. And slowly, you began to understand that moving forward did not mean leaving him behind. Little by little, you stopped waiting.
It happened gradually, so quietly you did not notice it until it had already settled into place. The trips to the ocean became less about expectation and more about familiarity. You still went often, still stood at the shoreline and let the sound of the waves fill the silence, but the tightness in your chest began to ease.
You no longer searched the water. You simply looked at it and accepted it for what it was.
There was something grounding in that, something steady and unchanging that you could rely on even when everything else felt uncertain.
You began to build a life that did not revolve around loss.
You focused on the things in front of you, the things you could touch, the people who were present and real in ways that did not disappear without warning. You invested time into your work, into relationships, into moments that existed entirely in this lifetime.
And for the first time, it felt like enough.
There were still moments, there always would be.
Moments where something caught you off guard, where a memory surfaced so clearly it felt like you had stepped back into a different life entirely. Moments where you wondered what it would feel like if he were standing next to you, if things had been different, if the ending had changed.
You stopped letting those moments break you. They became part of the quiet, enduring space he held in your life, something to be embraced rather than denied.
By the time years had passed, you were no longer the same person who had stood at the shoreline waiting for something that would never come.
You were stronger in ways that were not immediately visible, steadier in a way that came from having lived through something that had once felt unbearable and finding that you could still stand on the other side of it.
You remembered everything, and you were still whole.
That was the difference.
You no longer broke under the pressure. Instead of ending in despair, your story continued with you living.
──
You find yourself retracing old steps almost unconsciously. The seaside evening, full of soft wind and distant birds, seems surreal, acting merely as a soft-edged backdrop to your thoughts.
Your feet carry you to the shoreline without thought, your eyes fixed on the water where it stretches. The ocean has always been steady, a presence that never questions you, that never demands anything but your company.
Tonight, though, it feels different. There is a subtle pull, almost imperceptible, like the tide itself is guiding you.
The sky has shifted into deep sapphire, the last threads of sunlight vanishing below the horizon. The air is cooler now, brushing against your skin and carrying the faint scent of salt and wet sand.
You pause, letting your toes sink into the damp sand, the grains giving softly under your weight. Your gaze drifts over the rolling waves, watching the water fold into itself, dark and vast. And then you see it.
A glint.
It is small, half-buried, almost invisible where the tide has receded. You tilt your head, squinting, thinking it might be a shard of glass or a piece of driftwood. But something about it lingers in your awareness, a subtle insistence that you cannot ignore.
You step closer. The cold rush of water encircles your ankles, retreating and returning in gentle pulses. Your hand hovers for a moment, suspended in the air, fingers brushing the surface before you finally bend down.
The chill bites at your skin, but it barely registers as you reach through the shallow water, feeling the shifting sand beneath.
Then your fingers close around it.
The pendant is unmistakable, slipping into your palm with the weight of familiarity. Damp and cold, its chain is slightly tangled, and the gem at its center catches the faint light, sending a muted shimmer across your hand. It is unreal to hold it again, a fragment of something you thought lost forever. Your chest tightens, breath catching in a way that is both startling and grounding.
A warmth spreads through your hand, subtle at first, curling along your wrist, threading up your arm, and settling deep within your chest. It is quiet, steady, familiar. Your fingers instinctively clutch the pendant closer, as if it alone can anchor the rest of you.
And then you hear it. The rhythmic, wet slap of footsteps against the tide-washed sand, followed by the soft, familiar click of his jewelry. They stop just behind you, close enough for you to feel a shift in the air and the faint, unmistakable scent of sea salt and expensive iris.
The ocean’s roar seems to pull back, turning into a muted hum to make room for his presence. You do not turn immediately.
Your breath slows, catching the edge of his scent as you savor the silence before the inevitable. The tension isn't sharp, but it’s more patient, like the space between a question and an answer that has been waiting a lifetime to be heard.
You turn, and the world seems to stall. He is standing just a few feet away, the coastal wind catching the loose fabric of his shirt, but he remains perfectly still.
He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he simply watches you, his gaze heavy and unwavering. There is a raw, quiet intensity in his eyes, a look that carries the weight of every day he wasn't there.
For a long moment, the only thing moving is the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes you in, his dark eyes searching yours as if memorizing the person you’ve become in his absence.
Your hands tremble slightly, fingers twitching as if to reach out and confirm he isn’t a trick of the mist or a cruel hallucination born of longing. You can’t speak. The words are trapped behind the sudden tightness in your throat, and for a moment, you forget how to move. The sheer impossibility of his presence crashes over you, leaving you submerged in a wave of disbelief that makes the very ground beneath your feet feel unsteady.
The heavy tension snaps the moment he tilts his head, a stray lock of hair falling over his eyes.
"You're staring," he says, his voice smooth and teasing, though it carries a slight tremor he can’t quite hide. A small, lopsided smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, the one he wears when he’s trying to act nonchalant about something that actually matters deeply to him.
"I know I’m a masterpiece, but usually, people at least say 'hello' before they start memorizing my features."
He takes a leisurely step forward, closing the gap until the scent of iris is overwhelming. He sticks his hands into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders in that way that makes him look both elegant and incredibly bored.
"Honestly? Not even a 'welcome back'? I traveled quite a long way, you know. My shoes are ruined, the humidity is doing terrible things to my hair, and I’m fairly certain a seagull judged me three miles back."
Despite the jokes, his eyes remain fixed on yours, bright with a sudden, nervous spark. He’s waiting for you to break the silence, his playful mask held up like a shield against the sheer weight of the moment.
You don't wait for another quip or a dramatic complaint about the salt air. The shock finally snaps, replaced by a desperate, grounding need to prove he is solid. You lung forward, closing the few feet between you in a blurred second.
The impact of the hug jolts him, cutting off whatever witty remark he was about to make. Your arms wrap around his neck, and for a heartbeat, he stands frozen with his breath held and shoulders tense. Then, with a shaky, muffled exhale against your hair, he collapses into the embrace. His arms lock around your waist, pulling you so flush against him that you can feel the frantic, rapid thud of his heart through the fine fabric of his shirt.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his fingers digging into the back of your coat as if he’s terrified you’ll dissolve back into sea foam if he lets go. The playful facade is gone. There is only the weight of him, the heat of his skin, and the low, broken vibration of his voice near your ear.
He pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands sliding from your waist to cup your cheeks with a sudden, aching tenderness.
His thumbs trace the line of your cheekbones, wiping away any stray moisture with a touch so light it’s almost hesitant. He searches your eyes, his own shimmering with a mixture of relief and a quiet, shimmering sorrow.
"You haven't changed at all," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum that vibrates through your skin. "And yet..." He trails off, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes.
The sea breeze tosses his hair, but he doesn't seem to notice. For Rafayel, the entire ocean has narrowed down to the space between his palms. He lets out a soft, huffed laugh, one that sounds more like a prayer than a joke.
"I spent the whole way here practicing what to say. I had at least three different dramatic entrances planned. But now that I’m looking at you..." He shakes his head slowly, his forehead coming forward to rest gently against yours. "I’ve forgotten every single word."
The sound of the waves grows louder, the cold foam of the tide finally swirling around your ankles, but you don't move. You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, your voice coming out as a breathless, fractured whisper.
"How, Rafayel?" Your hands grip his forearms, feeling the solid heat of his skin. "How are you here? I saw... I thought..."
The question hangs in the salt air, heavy with the memory of his absence. For a second, his expression falters, a shadow of the deep, dark ocean crossing his features. The playful mask doesn't quite return, but he offers a small, weary smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"The sea always returns what it takes eventually," he says, his voice dropping to that melodic lilt. He reaches up, his fingers brushing a stray hair from your face with a touch that feels like a vow.
"Besides, did you really think a little thing like the end of the world or a few years of silence could keep me away? I told you once, didn't I? I will always come back."
He lets out a soft, huffed breath, his gaze turning intense. "It wasn't easy. There were... debts to be paid. But none of that matters now. I'm here because you're here. It’s as simple as that."
You don't answer at first, your focus shifting to the small, cold object you’ve been gripping so tightly.
"I found it," you say, your voice finally steadying. "Right here on the sand, just before I heard you. I thought it was gone forever, Rafayel."
Rafayel’s gaze softens as he looks at the matching piece resting against his own chest. He reaches out, his long fingers trembling slightly as he brushes the edge of the pendant in your hand.
"You found it because it wanted to be found," he murmurs, his playful mask slipping for a rare, vulnerable second. "I felt the moment you lost yours."
He offers a small, lopsided smile, one that carries the weight of a thousand years of longing. "I didn't think the tide would actually bring it back to this specific shore, right at your feet. It’s stubborn, just like you."
He gently takes the pendant from your palm, his thumb lingering against your skin. "It was calling out to mine the whole time."
He steps behind you, his shadow falling over you as he prepares to fasten the clasp. "Consider it a tether," he says, his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum near your ear. "So the next time you decide to lose something this important, the sea will know exactly where to return it."
He slides his hands forward, cupping your face and tilting your head back to meet his gaze.
Then, he closes the distance. The kiss is slow and salt-sweet, tasting of home and the end of a long, cold winter. It’s the feeling of the tide finally coming in, grounding you both to the earth. As he pulls you closer, his hands tangling in your hair, the years of silence and the weight of the abyss simply dissolve into the sound of the crashing waves.
He draws back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own. A genuine, radiant smile breaks across his face, the kind of smile he only ever saves for you.
"I'm home," he murmurs, his eyes bright with a joy that outshines the stars. "And this time, I’m staying for the entire masterpiece."
───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
author note: HAPPY ENDING THANK YOU GUYS FOR STAYING TEHEHHE i hope you enjoyed this series 🥺
⋆ to anyone who is confused, the pendant is the scale necklace, which is a manifestation of the lemurian vow. it serves as a physical anchor for the reader's connection to rafayel across their many lives. when the "dream" ends and the reader wakes up in the modern day, the physical objects from that past life, like the pendant, often vanish because the bond was broken or reset by rafayel to protect her (from sacrificing herself). rafayel still has his matching pendant with reader to maintain his connection with reader, while reader loses hers. so no matter how many times the reader "wakes up", she is destined to return to the shore where rafayel is waiting with their pendants.
idk if that helps or makes it more confusing but i hope it helped!! 🥺
In a high-pressure cardiac unit, you and Dr. Zayne Li exist within strict lines. Professional, controlled, and carefully distant. But these quiet moments begin to blur those boundaries with lingering glances, softened tones, and unspoken tension that neither of you acknowledges.
ABOUT | A slow-burn romance. Subtle tension, quiet intimacy, and restrained longing. The guarded surgeon and the nurse who begins to see through him.
TAGS | Slow burn. Doctor x nurse. Workplace romance. Mutual pining. Subtle intimacy. Acts of service. Vulnerability. Quiet romance.
I FINALLY FINISHED GLASS BETWEEN US FIC!! i’m going to be revising and editing the chapters because i was reading through all the chapters and i cant help but cringe LOL! thank u guys for bearing with me 🥰
By the time you’ve shut the door behind him, Zayne has already placed the paper bag on the counter, shedding his coat with precise movements, folding it over the back of a chair rather than letting it drape. His sleeves roll up to his forearms with a crispness that makes your stomach flip, each motion deliberate, as though even here, in your tiny apartment, he refuses disorder.
From the bag, he pulls out a bottle of electrolyte water, fever reducers, and, strangely, a bundle of fresh vegetables wrapped neatly in paper.
You frown, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders, unsure when he even had time to stop at a market.
“You need something warm. Proper food,” he says, his tone even, but softer than his usual clipped cadence. He’s already at the sink, rinsing carrots, peeling ginger with practiced strokes, like this isn’t the first time he’s done it.
You hover awkwardly near the counter, guilt bubbling low in your chest. “Zayne, you don’t have to—”
“You’re sick,” he cuts in, glancing at you briefly over his glasses. The words are sharp, but his gaze isn’t. His eyes linger on your flushed cheeks, your tired posture, the blanket slipping down one shoulder.
“Sit.”
Something in the way he says it leaves no room for argument, though it isn’t harsh — it’s firm, protective, almost quiet in its insistence. Still, your instinct wars with it.
You shift closer to the counter, pulling the blanket tighter, lifting a hand like you might take the knife from him. “At least let me chop something. I feel bad just standing here while you—”
His hand moves, faster than you expect, catching your wrist gently, fingers curling around your pulse with just enough pressure to still you. He doesn’t look at your hand, but instead he looks at you.
“No.” It’s one word, low, steady, carrying weight not just in tone but in the warmth of his grip.
“You need to sit.”
Your breath hitches. The contact lingers for only a second, then he releases you, turning back to the cutting board with seamless efficiency, as if nothing happened. But you feel it long after, your skin tingling where his fingers pressed.
You sink onto a chair, blanket cocooned around you, watching him move around your tiny kitchen like it’s his own. He dices vegetables with clean precision, drops them into a pot, adds rice and water, the faint scent of ginger rising with the first curl of steam. Every motion is purposeful, measured — as though he’s still in an operating room, except here, the life he’s tending to is yours.
You lean your chin against your palm, too tired to fight the heaviness in your limbs, but not too tired to watch him.
You think about how absurd it is. Dr. Zayne Li, immaculate heart surgeon, commander of operating rooms, standing in your kitchen stirring porridge as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And for the first time all day, your chest loosens.
“Why are you doing this?” The words slip out before you can stop them, quiet, hushed, not really meant as a challenge, but closer to wonder.
He doesn’t look up. He ladles broth over the simmering vegetables, stirs again, steam fogging the edge of his glasses. When he finally answers, his voice is even, but the pause before it is longer than usual. “Because you won’t take care of yourself properly if left alone.”
It’s teasing. Almost. But beneath it, you hear something steadier, deeper. Something he doesn’t want to name.
You don’t push. You just sit there, watching the steam rise, feeling the weight of his presence fill your small kitchen, and for the first time in days, you don’t feel quite so sick anymore.
The porridge simmers down into something thick and fragrant, the rice broken down into soft grains, the vegetables brightening the broth with color. He turns the burner low, watching it with the same intensity he would a monitor in the OR, and when he finally deems it ready, he ladles a generous portion into a deep bowl, the steam curling upward like a veil.
You shift in your chair, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, but your eyes never leave him. Every movement of his is deliberate: the careful way he sets the ladle back, the steady hand that carries the bowl across your small kitchen. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t waver. He places the bowl in front of you as though it’s something delicate, breakable, something he won’t risk mishandling.
“Eat while it’s hot,” he says quietly.
Your lips part, but nothing comes out at first. Because the way he looks at you — it’s not cold, not clinical, not even the detached precision he wears in the operating room. His hazel-green eyes are softened by the steam, but beneath the sheen of his glasses, there’s a sharpness still, directed only at you, and it makes your chest tighten.
He doesn’t walk away. He doesn’t turn back to the counter. Instead, he lingers. His presence fills the small kitchen, and you feel it before you see it. The shift in the air when he notices the blanket slipping down your shoulder.
Without a word, he reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of the fabric where it has fallen. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, almost reverent in their precision, as if adjusting a sterile drape in the operating room, except here, it isn’t a patient beneath his touch.
It’s you.
The wool slides soundlessly as he lifts it, drawing it back up over your shoulder with the kind of care that doesn’t match the simplicity of the act. His hand hovers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, fingertips grazing just above your collarbone through the thin fabric of your shirt.
The contact is fleeting, no more than the whisper of skin against cloth, but it sparks across your nerves, leaving a warmth that has nothing to do with the fever still lingering in your body.
You hold your breath, frozen under the weight of that small, careful gesture. Because it isn’t just that he adjusted the blanket, it’s the way he did it. The focus in his eyes, sharp behind the silver frames, softens only when they meet yours. The restraint in his posture, shoulders drawn tight as though holding himself back from something more. The silence stretches long between you, heavy and fragile, like glass that might shatter with the wrong word.
He withdraws finally, his hand slipping back to his side, but not before your skin has memorized the shape of his touch. And when he straightens, his expression is as composed as ever except you catch it, just for an instant, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the almost-smile he won’t allow to surface.
It was nothing. It was everything. And you can’t tell if the pounding in your chest is from your fever or from him.
When his hand finally slips back to his side, you think the moment might dissolve, but it doesn’t.
It clings to the air between you, as if the faint graze of his fingers against your collarbone left an imprint neither of you can shake. Your heart is pounding far too fast for someone who should be resting, but when you look up at him, he doesn’t move away.
Instead, he remains close, eyes trained on you with the same intensity he carries into the operating room, though the weight of it feels different here.
You lower your gaze to the bowl, steam rising in gentle curls, and force yourself to lift the spoon. The broth trembles against the silver as you blow softly, trying to calm the heat, but it’s your nerves that need steadying. The first sip slides down warm, rich with ginger and softened vegetables, and before you can stop yourself, a soft sound slips past your lips. Small, appreciative, almost a sigh.
When you glance up again, you catch him watching you.
There’s no smugness in his expression, no arrogance in his posture, only a stillness that feels unbearably deliberate, as though he’s been waiting for this exact moment. For the proof that you’re comforted, that the fever hasn’t stolen your appetite completely, that what he’s done matters.
“It’s… really good,” you murmur, your voice soft, too fragile for the heaviness in your chest.
For the briefest instant, his mouth forms the faintest curve at one corner, subtle enough that you might have imagined it if not for the warmth that flickers in his eyes, hazel and green catching the kitchen light.
“Of course it is,” he replies, even, composed, though there’s no sharp edge in his tone. If anything, it sounds gentler than you’ve ever heard from him.
You look down quickly, taking another spoonful to hide the sudden flush rising in your face, but you can feel it anyway, the way his gaze doesn’t leave you.
And with every slow bite, you realize you’re not just eating to soothe your fever. You’re eating because he made it for you. Because he’s still standing there, watching, as though your well-being is the only outcome he’ll accept.
You take another spoonful, then another, and the porridge warms you from the inside out, each bite soothing your throat, settling the unease in your stomach.
When the spoon slips clumsily from your fingers, your grip weakened by the heaviness in your hands, he catches it before it clatters against the bowl. The motion is quick, practiced, but when he places it back into your hand, his fingers wrap gently around yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Slow down,” he says, his voice low, even, carrying none of the impatience you’re used to hearing from him in the hospital.
You nod, though the heat in your cheeks has nothing to do with the fever. You lift the spoon again, carefully this time, and he shifts the bowl closer toward you so you don’t have to lean forward, the ceramic sliding across the wood in one smooth motion.
At one point, the blanket slips again from your shoulder as you move to take another sip. Without hesitation, he tugs it back up, smoothing it across your collarbone in the same deliberate way as before, the tips of his fingers brushing fabric, then your skin, and gone.
The air catches in your throat, your spoon pausing halfway to your mouth, but he only straightens the fold at your shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
You eat in silence, and the low creak of the radiator, the faint city noise pressing in from outside, feels strangely softened by his presence.
When you cough lightly, the steam from the broth catching in your throat, he doesn’t comment, only reaches for the water bottle he brought and sets it within reach, unscrewing the cap before sliding it closer to your hand.
You drink, because it feels impossible not to under that steady gaze, and when you put it down again, his eyes flicker from the glass back to your face, checking, measuring, as if every sip is something he has to see for himself.
By the time you manage the last bite, you’re not sure what’s settled deeper — the warmth of the food or the weight of his attention. You place the spoon back into the bowl carefully, almost reluctantly, and before you can push the dish away, his hand is already there, lifting it from the table with effortless precision.
“I can—” you begin, trying to rise, guilt tugging at you again.
“Sit,” he says firmly, not unkindly, his tone brooking no argument. His eyes flick briefly toward yours, and then he’s carrying the bowl back to the sink, rolling up his sleeves again as though cleaning your dishes belongs to him as naturally as closing a surgical incision.
You watch him rinse the bowl, water rushing quietly into the sink, his broad shoulders filling your small kitchen, his movements precise and unhurried. You should tell him to stop. You should insist you’re fine.
But instead you sit there, wrapped in your blanket, pulse steadying against the rhythm of his care, and for the first time in a long while, you let yourself simply be looked after.
When he finishes rinsing the last of the dishes, he dries his hands on a towel, folds it with precise neatness, and sets it back on the counter. You think maybe he’ll step back, maybe he’ll finally leave the space open for you to breathe, but instead he turns, his attention cutting straight to you again, sharp and unrelenting.
“Medicine,” he says simply, crossing the room with steady steps.
You blink, caught off guard. “I’m fine—”
His brow tightens, a subtle crease forming between his eyes. He sets a blister pack of tablets and a bottle of water on the table in front of you with a quiet thud, his expression leaving no room for debate.
“You’re not fine. Fever doesn’t disappear because you’ve eaten.”
The firmness in his voice should irritate you. The same clipped authority he uses in the hospital when you miss a detail or need reminding of a protocol. But here, in the dim light of your apartment, with the warmth of the porridge still in your stomach and the memory of his hands adjusting your blanket lingering against your skin, it feels different.
You sigh, tugging the blanket tighter around you, and take the pack from his hand. Your fingers graze his in the exchange, a fleeting brush, but it sends a flicker of heat straight up your arm. He doesn’t react, only watches as you push a tablet free and place it on your tongue.
When you hesitate before the water, he’s already reaching for it. His fingers twist the cap again, unscrewing it with the same calm precision, and he offers it to you without a word. The silence between you feels impossibly heavy as you tip it back, swallowing the pill, your throat tightening not from the medicine but from the way his gaze holds steady on you the entire time, like he needs to see the proof with his own eyes.
You set the bottle down slowly, carefully, buying yourself time to look anywhere but at him. But when your eyes finally lift, his are still there — hazel-green, sharpened by the faint gleam of his glasses, softened by something you can’t name.
“There,” he says, quieter now. “Better.”
It’s not a smile, not really, but the way his mouth eases, the way the tension in his shoulders loosens, makes your pulse trip anyway. You wonder, absurdly, if anyone else has ever seen this version of him — deliberate, careful, stripped down from the steel-edged authority he wears at work — and if it’s only you he allows to see it.
You should thank him. You should say something, anything, to fill the quiet. But the words stick in your throat, and all you can do is look back at him, your fever haze blurring the edges of your vision, your body heavier than before. The medicine, the food, the warmth of the blanket — and him. It’s too much, all at once, and yet not enough.
_____
You barely realize how heavy your body has become until he moves closer, the chair scraping softly against the floor as he rises. His shadow stretches long in the lamplight, his presence filling the small space, and when his hand brushes yours — gentle but insistent — you know he isn’t asking.
“Come on,” he says, his voice low, quiet enough to feel like it’s only for you. “You should be in bed.”
You open your mouth to argue, to insist you can manage on your own, but the look in his eyes cuts through the thought before it can form. His hand hovers near your elbow, steady but not pressing, waiting for you to move. When you do finally push yourself up, his touch slips easily into place, firm enough to keep you upright but never rough, never controlling.
The walk to your room feels impossibly long, though it’s only a handful of steps down the hall. The fever makes the edges of your vision blur, and yet the warmth at your side steadies you. You can hear the soft cadence of his breathing, the quiet scuff of his shoes against your floor, the faint rustle of his coat when his shoulder shifts close to yours.
When you reach the doorframe, you pause. The intimacy of letting him in here, this small, personal space you’ve never shared with anyone from the hospital, catches in your chest. But then he’s already easing you forward, already lowering his hand from your elbow to the curve of your back, and the weight of his palm through the fabric of your top makes it impossible to resist.
You sink down onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you. He doesn’t step back. Instead, he crouches slightly, his eyes flicking over your face with clinical precision softened by something deeper, something unreadable. “Lie down,” he says, quieter now, almost coaxing.
Your throat tightens as you shift, pulling your legs up and easing back onto the pillow. The blanket tangles around your legs until he reaches down, smooths it out with those meticulous, deliberate hands, and tucks it neatly around you. The fabric glides against your shoulders, and when he adjusts it just so, his knuckles brush the side of your neck, a ghost of touch that lingers longer than it should.
For a moment, neither of you move. He stays close, one knee pressed into the floor beside the bed, his eyes fixed on you with a steadiness that feels like it could unravel you completely. There’s no teasing now, no clinical distance, only the unspoken weight of something neither of you is ready to name.
“You’ll sleep,” he says at last, his voice low, almost a murmur. “The medicine will help.”
You swallow, the warmth of the blanket heavy on your chest, but it isn’t the fever that makes it hard to breathe. It’s him.
His presence so close, his hand still resting on the edge of the blanket near your shoulder, the faint crease between his brows as if he’s torn between staying and pulling away.
And before you can stop yourself, before you can second-guess, your lips part with a whisper
“Thank you, Zayne.”
His eyes flicker at the sound of his name, a subtle shift, but enough to make your heart stumble. Then, slowly, he nods.
“Rest,” he says again, softer now. His hand lingers for a heartbeat longer against the blanket, the warmth of it seeping into you, before he finally pushes himself to stand.
--
He doesn’t leave, not immediately. Instead, he crosses the room in three quiet, deliberate steps and pulls the chair from the corner, the one you usually bury beneath your bag and coat at the end of a shift.
The scrape of its legs against the floor is soft but distinct, a sound that makes your breath hitch even though you keep your eyes half-lidded, pretending you’re already on the edge of sleep.
When he sits, it’s with that same precision you’ve come to expect from him. His posture sharp, shoulders squared, hands folding neatly in his lap, and yet there’s a hesitation in the air, something unspoken that makes the space between you hum.
In the low wash of the hallway light spilling across the threshold, his profile is carved in shadow and pale glow, silver frames glinting with each faint shift of his head.
He doesn’t look like the man who commands an operating room here.
You tell yourself to close your eyes, to give in to the weight of fever dragging you down, but you can’t. Not when you can feel the weight of his gaze on you, like he’s tracing every rise and fall of your breath, like he’s keeping time with you.
When the blanket slips an inch off your shoulder, he notices instantly. His hand moves, tugging the fabric back into place with the kind of precision he usually reserves for sutures.
His fingertips brush your collarbone, featherlight through the thin cotton of your shirt, and it’s such a small, fleeting thing — nothing more than skin grazing fabric — but it sends heat rushing through you that has nothing to do with the fever.
You stay perfectly still, heart pounding too loudly in your chest, but your mind stirs restlessly. Because it wasn’t just that he fixed the blanket. It was how he did it. The way his hand lingered for half a breath too long. The care in his touch didn’t feel clinical at all. The restraint in his shoulders was pulled taut like a man fighting himself.
The silence stretches until you force your eyes closed again, as if that might sever the tension stringing you both so tightly.
But it doesn’t.
You still feel him. The quiet creak of his coat when he shifts in the chair. The slow exhale through his nose. The way his presence holds the room steady in a way no lamp or wall could.
You can no longer tell how long he’s been sitting there, only that when sleep finally begins to claim you, he is still there.
You are nearly gone when it happens. The faintest brush at your hairline, fingers smoothing back a loose strand, and tucking it behind your ear. The touch is so careful, so impossibly tender, that for a moment you don’t know if you’ve dreamed it.
But then the chair creaks softly as he stands, his footsteps move toward the door. He doesn’t turn off the lamp. He leaves it burning low, golden and soft.
You sense him pause at the doorframe. You don’t need to open your eyes to know he’s still there, still watching, the weight of his attention pressing against you in the quiet. It lingers just long enough to leave your chest aching, and then silence.
He is gone.
Only the faint scent of him remains in the room, and the touch at your hairline that you can’t decide was real.
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
author note: heyyy guys!! thank you for waiting!! hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter keke!!
He was never meant to be free. You weren’t supposed to care.
A captive from the depths, bound by prophecy and glass walls, collides with the fragile order of your life. You try to study him. You try to keep your distance. But when the cracks form, you choose him instead of safety.
And he never forgets.
ABOUT | Lab tanks and ocean trenches. A myth rewritten in sterile halls. The Sea God’s heart caged in steel. Sirens in the dark. Hands against glass. A bond no directive could erase. Trust that blooms in defiance of rules. Saltwater dreams that refuse to fade.
TAGS | Sci-fi mythos. Captivity and escape. Bonded souls across lifetimes. Emotional repression unravels. The ocean is a sanctuary. Slowburn intimacy. Betrayal and rebellion. Haunted dreams bleeding into reality. Angst
WARNINGS | Confinement themes, Surveillance, Threats of violence and exploitation, Graphic descriptions of flooding/breach scenes, Emotional manipulation by authority figures, Prophecy and sacrificial undertones, Intense emotional connection with themes of obsession and loss.
By the time you stepped out of the restaurant, night had already settled in.
You had eaten. At least, you must have. There were flashes of it in your memory, the sound of utensils against plates, the faint taste of something warm and salty, the way Rafayel had looked at you from across the table as if he were trying to memorize something you could not see. The conversation had been light, almost intentionally so, circling around anything that did not matter.
The air was cooler than before, brushing against your skin and pulling a slow breath from your lungs. For a moment, you lingered near the door, adjusting the strap of your bag against your shoulder, grounding yourself in the small, familiar motion.
Rafayel paused a few steps ahead, glancing back at you.
“There’s a beach nearby,” he said, his voice easy, almost casual. “It’s not far.”
You frowned slightly, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Right now?”
A faint smile touched his lips, something softer than his usual teasing. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”
You hesitated.
There were a hundred reasonable answers you could have given. You could have said it was late. That you had class in the morning. That none of this made sense.
Instead, you shook your head.
“No,” you said quietly.
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as if searching for something in your answer, then he nodded once and turned.
He simply started walking.
There was no hesitation in his step, no glance back to check if you would follow. And still, you did. Your feet moved before your mind caught up, falling into rhythm beside him as though this had already happened before, as though you had walked this path with him more times than you could remember.
The city stretched around you in muted tones. Streetlights cast soft pools of amber along the sidewalk. A car passed somewhere behind you, its headlights briefly illuminating the edges of your shadow before disappearing into the distance. The sounds of the world felt distant, dulled, like they belonged to something separate from the space you occupied together.
You did not speak.
Neither did he.
The silence was not empty. It carried weight. It settled between you in a way that made your chest feel tight, as though every unspoken thought was pressing gently against your lungs.
After a while, you noticed the change.
It was subtle at first.
The air shifted, growing cooler, touched with something sharper. You breathed in without thinking and caught it immediately. Salt. Faint, but unmistakable. It lingered at the back of your throat, grounding and unfamiliar all at once.
Then came the sound.
Soft at first, barely there beneath the quiet hum of the city. A steady rhythm, distant but persistent. It grew clearer with every step you took, until it filled the spaces between your thoughts.
The ocean.
By the time the pavement gave way beneath your feet, replaced by sand that shifted and sank with each step, the world behind you already felt far away.
The beach stretched wide in front of you, open and endless beneath the night sky. The moon hung low, casting a pale, silvery light across the water. The surface of the ocean moved constantly, dark waves rising and falling in a slow, steady pattern that seemed both calm and impossibly deep.
You slowed without meaning to.
The sand was cool beneath your shoes, uneven, forcing you to pay attention to each step. The wind moved more freely here, brushing against your face, lifting strands of your hair and carrying the scent of salt more strongly now.
Rafayel walked ahead of you, his figure outlined faintly against the shifting light of the water. His pace remained unhurried, as if he were not being pulled toward anything, but simply arriving where he had always intended to go.
He stopped at the edge of the shoreline.
The tide rolled in, reaching toward him before retreating again, leaving the sand darker, glistening under the moonlight. For a moment, he did not move. He simply stood there, looking out at the horizon, his posture still in a way that felt deliberate.
You closed the distance between you slowly.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as though something inside you already understood the weight of this place, the significance of being here with him, even if your mind had not caught up yet.
You came to stand beside him, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence against the chill of the night air.
The waves moved steadily in front of you.
You let the sound settle into you. Your fingers drifted unconsciously to the pendant beneath your shirt, pressing lightly against it. It was warm. It had been warm all evening, but here, standing at the edge of the ocean, the sensation felt stronger, more insistent.
You swallowed.
“You brought me here,” you said quietly.
Your voice felt small against the vastness of the water.
“Why?”
Rafayel did not answer immediately.
For a few seconds, he remained exactly as he was, his gaze fixed on the horizon, as if he were looking at something far beyond what your eyes could see. The wind moved through his hair, catching the short strands and shifting them slightly. The light from the moon traced along the side of his face, softening the edges but not the expression.
Then, slowly, he turned to you.
The moment his eyes met yours, something in your chest tightened.
There was no teasing in his expression now. No lightness. Whatever he had carried with him all evening had finally surfaced.
“Because,” he said, his voice low and steady, “this is the only place I can say it.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
The ocean stretched endlessly behind him, dark and alive, the sound of it filling the silence that followed.
And in that moment, standing there beside him, with the wind against your skin and the pendant warm against your chest, you understood something with quiet certainty.
Rafayel held your gaze after the words left him, as if he could not quite let them go, as if once they existed between you, they could not be taken back.
The wind moved around you in slow, restless currents, brushing against your skin and tugging faintly at your clothes, but you barely felt it. The sound of the ocean seemed louder now, each wave folding into the next with a steady, unrelenting rhythm that filled the silence he had left behind.
You did not respond right away. You could not.
The meaning of what he had said did not strike all at once. It was as if he had already lived through the outcome he was trying to prevent.
Your fingers tightened unconsciously against your palm. You became aware of your own breathing, as though your body was trying to catch up to something your mind had not fully grasped yet.
He was going to leave soon.
You turned your head slightly, your gaze drifting past him toward the ocean.
Your hand lifted slowly, almost without your permission, pressing against your chest where the pendant rested beneath the fabric of your shirt. The warmth was still there, pulsing faintly against your skin like a second heartbeat.
Behind you, Rafayel shifted.
The movement was subtle, but you felt it immediately. The faint disturbance in the air, the quiet presence drawing closer, as if he were approaching something fragile.
You turned back to him.
The expression on his face had changed.
The composure he had carried earlier had thinned, worn down by the weight of what he had said. There was something raw beneath it now, something he was no longer fully hiding. His eyes held yours with a depth that made your chest tighten further, something unspoken lingering there.
You tried to speak, but nothing came out.
He stepped closer.
The distance between you disappeared slowly, until you could feel the warmth of him again, a stark contrast to the cold air surrounding you.
His hand lifted, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before settling lightly against your wrist.
The touch was gentle.
Your breath caught at the contact.
His fingers were warm, and the pressure just enough to anchor you without holding you in place. He simply held you there, as if grounding himself as much as you.
Your gaze dropped briefly to where his hand rested against your skin, then lifted again to meet his eyes. Something was searching in his expression, something that looked almost like he was waiting for you to understand without him having to say anything more.
This was not new for him.
He had already lived this moment. Not exactly like this, but close enough that the weight of it sat easily on his shoulders. A sense of repetition.
Of something that had happened before in ways you could not fully see, but could feel pressing at the edges of your awareness. It made your chest tighten further, your breath catching again as your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your shirt.
You did not want to know.
And at the same time, you needed to.
The ocean surged louder behind him, a wave breaking closer to shore, the sound sharp and immediate before dissolving back into the steady rhythm that followed.
Rafayel’s thumb moved slightly against your wrist.
Your throat tightened as your vision blurred, your breath uneven. At the same time, he stood there silently watching, not interrupting or filling the space, which only made it worse because his quiet understanding confirmed that he already knew. He recognized the confusion, the fear, and the realization that something important was slipping away before you ever had the chance to hold onto it.
Your lips parted slightly, your voice barely forming as you finally forced yourself to speak.
“…You knew,” you managed, though it came out softer than you intended. His expression shifted, something in his eyes softening in a way that felt almost like an apology.
The answer was already there. And it settled into your chest with a weight that made it hard to breathe. He had always known. And still, he came back.
But the question formed anyway, pressing against your lips until you could not hold it back.
“What happens if you stay?”
Your voice was quieter than the ocean, but it felt louder in your chest, echoing through you in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
Rafayel did not answer right away.
The faint tightening beneath your hand where it rested against his sleeve. The subtle change in the way he held himself, as if the question had landed somewhere deeper than he expected.
His gaze dropped briefly to your hand. Then he looked back at you.
“If I stay,” he said, “you start remembering everything.”
Your grip on his sleeve tightened without meaning to.
“Everything?” you repeated, though your voice felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. His gaze did not waver.
“All of it,” he said.
The wind moved again, stronger this time, lifting your hair across your face, but you did not brush it away. You barely felt it.
A flicker of something sharp and disorienting pressed at the edges of your mind. It made your chest tighten. It made your pulse quicken. It made your fingers tremble slightly where they still held onto him.
“And that’s… bad?” you asked, though the answer was already beginning to take shape in the hollow space beneath your ribs.
Rafayel’s expression changed again.
Something pained surfaced there, something he did not bother to hide this time.
“It's going to break you,” he said quietly.
The simplicity of it hit harder than anything else he had said. Your breath faltered. For a moment, the world seemed to change slightly, the steady rhythm of the ocean behind him growing louder, as if it were pressing in closer.
You searched his face again, desperate for something to contradict it.
“You don’t know that,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction.
“I do,” he replied.
You could feel the weight of his words pressing down on your chest, sinking into every breath. Your hands fell completely from his sleeve, resting uselessly at your sides as the tears came.
One slipped first, cold and shocking against your cheek, and then another followed, each one heavier than the last. Your chest tightened with a pressure that made it hard to breathe. You did not move. You did not speak. You let them fall, letting the salt of your tears mingle, strangely, with the tang of the ocean air.
Rafayel stepped closer, and the space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth of him surrounding you. His presence pressed in, making you aware of the fragile moment between what had been and what was about to come. You looked up at him, and something in his eyes made your heart break again.
He lowered his head. Your gaze locked with his as his lips brushed yours, light at first, lingering with a softness that made the ache in your chest thrum. It was more than a kiss. It was every memory you had of him, every life you had shared without knowing it, every moment of protection, of pain, of love, and loss.
The ocean behind you, the wind that swept your hair across your face, the cold sand beneath your feet —all of it became secondary to the warmth of him, to the hold of this fleeting connection.
When he pulled back just slightly, his forehead pressed gently against yours, and you could feel the steadiness of his breathing, the heartbeat that somehow made your own feel both lighter and heavier at once. His voice dropped to a low, almost broken murmur, only for you to hear.
“I will always come back,” he whispered, his voice trembling with unspoken pain, each word heavy with regret and love. “I’m so sorry… I never wanted it to hurt you like this.”
Your lips trembled as fresh tears slipped down your face, and he reached up to brush them away, his fingers ghosting across your skin with a tenderness that made your chest ache more than any words could.
You wanted to ask him to stay. You wanted to argue, to beg. You wanted to hear him say it would be different. But you did not have the chance.
He captured your lips with his again, this time with a desperate intensity that shook through you, igniting every nerve, every pulse, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you. His lips molded against yours with a hunger that stole your breath, his tongue teasing the edges of yours, exploring the curve of your mouth like he had memorized it.
Your limbs went limp against him, your heart racing in disbelief and longing, and the chill of the night, the stiffness in your muscles, the tight coil of anxiety you hadn’t realized you carried, all dissolved completely, swept away in the raw, unrelenting storm of the kiss, leaving only the dizzying, electrifying pull of him against you.
“I will find you,” he whispered against your lips, a promise threaded with both certainty and sorrow.
And then his hands lifted slightly, cupping your face with a gentle insistence, and the world began to slip away. Rafayel’s eyes brightened, a soft luminescence spreading through his irises. The glow was not harsh. It was liquid, deep-sea blue, the kind of light that could pierce darkness without pain. Your vision blurred. The sound of the waves grew distant, replaced by the soft, steady echo of your heartbeat. Your eyelids grew impossibly heavy.
The last thing you registered was the faint scent of salt and his cologne mixed with the ocean air, the press of his chest against yours, and the quiet, final echo of his voice lingering in your ear.
“I will come back,” he said again, softly, almost as if he were speaking to the stars.
Then the night closed over you.
The ocean rolled endlessly behind him. The stars shimmered faintly above. And for now, you slept, carried away in his embrace, the memory of him seared into the deepest parts of your mind, waiting for the day you would awaken and find him again.
──
You wake to an emptiness pressing against your chest before you even open your eyes. The apartment is quiet, softer somehow, as if the air itself is holding its breath.
Your fingers go immediately to where the pendant had rested against your chest. It’s gone. It has vanished completely, leaving a hollow ache that seems to pulse with every heartbeat.
The memory of last night — the beach, the waves, the glow of his eyes — is so vivid that it's impossible to shake. You can still feel the press of his hands, the weight of him grounding you, holding you steady in the dark. The memory of his lips, lingering, presses into your mind with a sharp ache. And yet now, it feels distant
You sit on the edge of the bed for a long moment, staring at the empty space where the pendant had been, tracing its absence with trembling fingers. And yet even in that crushing emptiness, a thought surfaces. Perhaps some fragment of him remains, some proof of what was real. Your chest tightens, and almost instinctively, you know what you have to do.
You need to see him, or at least something he left behind. If any fragment of him remains in the world, any trace of his presence, it would be in his art. Perhaps one of his paintings survived.
You dress quickly and step outside. The air is sharp and cool against your cheeks, carrying a faint tang of salt and wet pavement. Each step toward the gallery feels heavy. Your pulse quickens, a tight coil of anticipation, fear, and longing twisting in your stomach.
When you arrive, the gallery is quiet. Polished floors reflect the pale morning sunlight in soft rectangles, and the faint hum of the air conditioning echoes around you. Every step feels measured, careful, as if moving too quickly could make him vanish from memory entirely. You scan the walls, the alcoves, searching for any sign of him, any fragment he left behind.
Most of the paintings have changed. Blank walls now hold new works, unfamiliar and sterile. Your chest tightens further with each passing hallway. And then you see it.
The one painting that remains.
Your breath catches. There it is. The water, the light, the tension in your hands on the blade. Every detail is perfect and alive. And in the faint reflection in the painting, you see him. The world has taken him from you, but here, in this suspended fragment, he exists.
You step closer, fingers hovering just above the frame, afraid to touch it. Your heart thuds painfully as you press your hands together over your chest, over the empty space where the pendant had been. Tears slide down your cheeks, and you do not brush them away. You let them fall, tasting faintly of salt, carrying all the ache and longing you cannot understand.
You memorize every detail: the shimmer of the water, the way the light seems to catch a faint ghost of him beneath the surface.
The soft shuffle of footsteps breaks the bubble around you. A gallery employee appears, pausing a few feet away, concern etched across their face.
“Excuse me… are you okay?” they ask gently. Their eyes flick to the painting, then back to you.
You blink at them, voice caught somewhere between words and silence.
“I… it’s just…” You swallow hard, trying to steady the lump in your throat. “It’s important to me.”
The employee nods, understanding. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Most things here change over time, but paintings… they stay. It outlasts everything else. It’s like it preserves something that’s gone.”
“…Yes. It’s like… even if he’s gone, this makes me know he really existed. That he was real.”
They step back quietly, leaving you alone again, as though giving you permission to exist in this fragile, private moment.
You step back, breathing unevenly, the ache in your chest heavy but strangely grounding. The painting pulses in your mind like a heartbeat, and for the first time since waking, you feel calm.
Somehow, this is him. Somehow, even if he is gone, even if the pendant and his touch have vanished, he has left you a fragment that cannot be erased.
Even as you step into the sunlight outside, you can still feel him there in the painting. You know, somewhere beneath the waves, beneath time, beneath everything, he will always find a way back.
───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
author note: THATS THE END BAHAHHA i do love angst and this is lowkey a sad ending... but i mean she did say that he will always find a way back 😳😳 (maybe an epilogue..?) anywhoooo thank you guys for sticking around with me and sosooos sorry for the slow updates! i loveee you guysss
Yes I want to do it it, thank you for tagging me @crimsonphantasmagoria !!
She had choices, she realizes. Countless choices. Countless opportunities, that she hadn't thought of as, but that had been choices.
I know the grammar isn't the best, I wrote this quickly, as an amorce for a potential story with multiple sotrylines possible, mind full of ideas, yesterday, it's not my best but I am trying to not cheat the game haha.
I tag @snugbuginrug, @bigriceenthusiast and @bunbun-nii. If you want, no pressure at all of course! (if anyone else, followers or mutuals wants to participate! I am forever curious to see what others create/have to say, I just had to pick a few people for the tagging, I'm trying to kick anxiety in the butt and do the tagging of other people this time. I hope it isn't a bother for those I tagged ^^')
Thank you for the tag @love4-bunny ! I love these things! Sorry it took me so long, I’ve been busy and was out of town! Mine was literally just written on the plane and it’s for the Halloween event! <3
He's not even a little sorry keeping her to himself, he'll make it up to her. She won't bee too mad, they're still going to have a happy Halloween.
I shall tag… @lunagrayheart @momocicerone @princessmishaps @kalopsiarts @fangirldag if y’all want to participate! <3
Tim goes back to his room that night and cuts open his arm.
Just a little. Enough to see.
The wound doesn't bleed red.
It bleeds clear.
tagging the boyfriend i know you've written some @crowsent and also some friends @luli-main @sunmerberrie @sleepypenz and anyone else who wants to share what they're writing because i know you wanna share come on guys pls
Tim had to blink twice to make sure his vision wasn’t playing tricks on him. Clear fluids?! Weren’t humans supposed to bleed red?! Why wasn’t his the same color??
….unless..he himself wasn’t human. And he had no idea all this time.
(Ahhhhh who else can I nominate that isn’t already tagged? Oh!! @cherimoyatea @deepspacenova @tbaluver yall don’t have to but I’d love to see your spins on this lowkey ; v ; )
Uhh, had to dig through my drafts, but this is what I worked on before I left on my infinite writing hiatus lol
"Am I a joke to you?" Despite the calmness of his voice, he was boiling inside —furious even, as he slowly stepped closer. The way his eyes locked on her sent a shiver down her spine, leaving no space for speculation when he trapped her between his arms. With her back pressed against the cold tiles, she could feel his warm breath on her face as he leaned in, his eyes so dark that she could barely see into them. "I live for you and I'd die for you— but I'm not watching you leave with some random guy, right in front of my fucking nose!"
Honestly, I don't even remember why I wrote that down, just one of my brain worms that never went anywhere, I guess. I might pick that up and web a story around it though 🤔
Oh... Last lines written... Before Fluff- and Spicytober... Uuuh... *starts to dig through her notes*
Ah! Found it!
“Already finished with your examination, Cutie?” the sunset eyes flaring with mischief and hunger, his lips drawn into a knowing smile.
But you don’t have the time to think about what to answer as you start to levitate into the air, above and away from the Lemurian. Caleb’s voice cuts through your bewilderment from behind “Alrighty, that’s enough.” Your feet get to touch the floor and after you find your balance the invisible force leaves you.
With wide eyes, you turn to the man who’s responsible for this “Caleb? Did you just...?” But you stop as you notice the darkness in the purple and pink eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Guess it’s a little teaser for the “Wake up in Linkon”-Chapter 🤭 but that’s what I worked on before October happened 😂
Tagging some writing moots: @doggiearedinu @loveanddeephistory @matcha3mochi @rafasserene
here’s the last line (mini paragraph) that i've written kekeke
"The world narrowed to the thin line of blue light at your throat and the certainty that your life rested on his restraint. One command, one adjustment of his wrist, and it would be over before you could even think to move."
i haven't posted this yet but heres a mini teaser LOL
The gallery doors gave way to the night with a soft hiss, and the outside air rushed in cooler than you expected, brushing against your skin like a welcome shock. The streetlamps hummed faintly overhead, casting warm halos across the pavement. The city moved around you in fragments—distant laughter spilling from a bar, the muted roll of tires on asphalt, the glitter of shop windows reflecting pale slices of moonlight.
Rafayel fell into step beside you, his presence steady, unhurried. He didn’t rush you or crowd your space, but every now and then, when the street narrowed, your shoulders almost brushed. The closeness made your pulse quicken, and each time you glanced sideways, you caught his profile in the light. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint sheen of violet in his short hair, the steady calm of his expression as though he had walked this street a thousand times with you already.
Neither of you spoke at first. Every step forward felt like a question waiting for its answer.
By the time the café appeared, tucked on the corner beneath an ivy-covered brick building, you almost didn’t want the walk to end. The place was unassuming, its windows fogged faintly from warmth inside, a handwritten chalkboard out front promising strong coffee and late-night pastries.
Rafayel pushed the door open, the bell above chiming softly, and gestured for you to step in first.
The air inside was warmer, laced with the scent of espresso and something sweet. The low murmur of conversation drifted from a few scattered tables, most of them occupied by students or night owls hunched over laptops. The light was dim but golden, more glow than glare, and it pooled in corners like melted amber.
“Here,” Rafayel said quietly, steering toward a table near the back.
It was set against the window, half-hidden from the rest of the café, and when you slid into the seat, you felt as though you had stepped into a pocket of stillness no one else could reach.
Rafayel set his coat across the back of his chair before sitting opposite you. For a moment, he simply studied you, as though making sure you were really there. His eyes caught the light strangely, ocean-deep with something you couldn’t decipher, and when the server appeared with menus, he barely glanced at it.
“Whatever you’d like,” he told you, the curve of his mouth faint but genuine. “Tonight is on me.”
You nodded, though your thoughts were tangled. The café felt alive with cups clinking softly, laughter rising and fading from across the room, but across the table sat the man whose silhouette haunted your dreams. Whose voice had followed you through water and darkness, whose pendant now rested like fire against your chest.
You tightened your hands together beneath the table, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. The questions pressed harder now.
Who he really was and what he really knew.
When his gaze held yours, it felt like the tide was pulling you into something unavoidable.
The server left after jotting down your order, and silence settled again at your little corner table. Not the silence of strangers fumbling for words, but something sharper, something that hummed beneath the surface like tension before a storm.
Rafayel leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the edge of the table, the other draped casually across his lap. He looked at ease, but you could see it. The faint tautness in his shoulders, the way his gaze kept returning to you, and lingering just a little too long.
He was watching you like he had been waiting for this moment.
You moved slightly, pressing your knees together under the table. The pendant in your bag pressed faintly against your thigh, and for a second, you thought you might hear its faint hum again, like it wanted to speak before you did.
“So,” you said finally, your voice low, “you bring every student here after a lecture on myths?”
His smile was subtle, but it curled with quiet amusement. “Only the ones who look like they’ve seen them before.”
The words hit like a ripple against your chest.
You froze, your breath catching, your mind tumbling back to the paintings in the gallery, the glow in his eyes when he spoke of the Sea God and his bride.
The memory of salt on your lips, cold water, violet light.
You forced a laugh, though it felt fragile. “You think I’ve seen ruins in the middle of the ocean?”
His expression softened, but he didn’t laugh. He leaned forward now, elbows resting lightly on the table, closing the space between you. His voice lowered so no one else could hear. “I think you’ve stood in them.”
Your pulse spiked. You wanted to look away, but his eyes held you still.
The warmth of the café seemed to dim around the edges, shadows drawing in close. All you could hear was the hiss of the espresso machine, the faint clink of mugs, and his words echoing too clearly in your head.
“I don’t—” you started, but your voice faltered. “That’s not… that’s impossible.”
“Is it?” he asked gently. “Or is it harder to admit that part of you remembers?”
You swallowed hard, fingers tightening together until your knuckles ached. His words felt like hands tugging at seams you had only just stitched shut.
“Why are you saying this to me?” Your voice cracked, thin and urgent. “Why me?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze flickered down to the table, to the shadows of your joined hands beneath it. Then, slowly, he looked back up.
“Because,” he said, and though his tone was steady, his eyes burned with something unguarded, “I have been waiting for you longer than you could imagine.”
The words hollowed you out.
You drew in a shaky breath, but your chest felt too tight, as if the café had shrunk around you. You searched his face for any trace of jest, but there was none. Just the unwavering certainty in his eyes, the kind that felt older than the city outside, older than the night pressing against the café windows.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
You wanted to run. You wanted to stay. You wanted answers, but you weren’t sure you could bear them.
He watched every flicker of your expression, his focus unshifting. Then he leaned closer again, his voice softer now, heavy with restraint.
“You once said you would save me, even if it cost you everything.” His gaze cut straight into you. “Do you remember that?”
Your throat closed. You shook your head quickly, as if that could undo the pull of recognition rising in your chest. “No,” you whispered. “I don’t. I… I can’t.”
But even as you denied it, you felt it. The knife in your hand, the heat of his blood, and the impossible glow of the ocean folding in around you.
You couldn’t stop trembling.
The steam from your untouched tea curled upward, blurring the space between you in pale ribbons that rose and vanished before either of you breathed them in. The scent of roasted coffee and faint citrus from the lemon slice floating in your cup hung in the air, though you barely noticed it.
Rafayel sat across from you with a deceptive ease. His posture was loose, but the slight rigidity in his shoulders betrayed it, the way he pressed his thumb once against the edge of the table as though reminding himself to stay present. His short purple hair caught the warm café lighting, turning the strands into shades of lavender and ink.
His eyes held yours without wavering.
You tightened your grip around the mug, though the heat of it stung your palms. It felt safer to focus on the burn than on the weight of his gaze.
“I don’t remember saying that,” you whispered, your voice low enough that it almost drowned beneath the hum of conversation from other tables.
He leaned forward, closing some of the space between you. His voice lowered too, as if speaking something meant only for you. “Maybe not here. But you did. You told me you would save me, even if it cost you everything.”
Your breath faltered. The words lodged in your chest like an echo you had tried to bury. Your mind reeled, tugging against itself. One part screamed this was impossible, the ramblings of a man you barely knew.
You set the mug down before your hands could betray their tremor. “Why are you saying this?” The words came out thinner than you wanted, tinged with fear and confusion.
His eyes softened, though the intensity did not fade. “Because you deserve to know that it was real. All of it.”
Your chest tightened. You wanted to laugh, to scoff, to tell him that nothing about this could be real, that you were a student sitting in a café on an ordinary weekday, not someone from half-remembered myths and drowned ruins.
But your body betrayed you.
Your heartbeat pounded like surf, and your breath stuttered as if your lungs recognized his presence before your mind could.
“You talk like you’ve known me forever,” you said, and your voice shook on the last word.
His lips curved faintly, but it wasn’t quite a smile. It was closer to sorrow. “Forever isn’t long enough.”
The silence that followed pressed close, heavy with things unsaid. The world outside the window went on, cars rushing past, students laughing in the street, the sky dimming into the first wash of evening. But inside this corner of the café, time seemed to fold in on itself.
You found yourself studying him, not just his words but the tiny, human details. The small scar that nicked the edge of his jaw. The way his lashes dipped low when he blinked, shadowing the storm in his eyes. The faint tap of his finger against the wood, measured and deliberate, as though marking a rhythm only he could hear.
Your throat ached. “If it was real… why do I only remember pieces?”
He hesitated, his jaw working before he answered. “Because you weren’t meant to carry it all at once. Memories… they can drown if they come too fast.”
His gaze flicked downward, then back up to yours. “But they never left you.”
Something in his tone made your chest ache, a resonance you couldn’t explain. You pressed your nails lightly into your palm beneath the table, just to feel something sharp, something present.
“What are you saying?” you asked finally. “That I’m supposed to believe I was—what? Some bride to a sea god?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, though his eyes betrayed no mockery. “Not supposed to,” he said softly. “But you already do, don’t you? Somewhere in you, you know.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your lips parted, your breath stalled, your pulse fluttered wild and uneven. You wanted to deny it. You wanted to demand proof. But your silence betrayed you more than words ever could.
He leaned in closer then, slow enough that you could have leaned away.
You didn’t.
His presence filled your senses. The faint salt on his skin, the low steadiness of his voice, the impossible familiarity in the way his gaze never wavered.
“You once carried my heart,” he murmured. “And I have been looking for it ever since.”
The words rooted you to your chair. Your stomach dropped, your chest constricted, and for a moment, you weren’t in the café anymore. You were underwater again, his hands on yours, light spilling out between you as if your bond had carved its way into eternity.
You blinked hard, dragging yourself back, though your heart wouldn’t slow. You felt raw, stripped open, as though he had reached into a place you had never shown anyone and simply known.
Rafayel sat back just slightly, giving you space, though his gaze never left you. His expression softened, the sharpness of his words tempered now by something quieter, more fragile. “I should not be telling you this,” he admitted. “Not here, and not like this.”
But he had. And you couldn’t unhear it.
Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your bag, toward the pendant hidden inside. The chain was cool against your fingertips, though you could have sworn it pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.
You pressed your lips together, not trusting your voice. You weren’t ready to admit how much of what he said rang true.
Across from you, Rafayel watched in silence, patient, as if he knew the storm inside you and would wait as long as it took for you to speak.
“You want to know how I know you,” Rafayel said quietly.
You froze.
The words crawled into you like cold water, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your throat tightened, but you nodded, the smallest tilt of your head.
He leaned forward again, enough that the distance between you shrank, enough that you could see the shift of light across his eyes—shades of blue and green like deep ocean shadows.
His voice lowered, quieter still, as if speaking memory itself might break it.
“In another life,” he said slowly, “I wasn’t what I am now.” His hand flexed against the table, tendons pulling taut, his jaw tightening as though the word itself left a bitter taste.
“Or perhaps I always was, but bound differently. I was trapped in a tank."
Your breath caught. The image slammed into you with violent familiarity.
White walls. Metal restraints. The flash of silver instruments under fluorescent light. For one terrifying heartbeat, it wasn’t his voice you heard. It was your own, somewhere in the dark of your mind, calling out commands, whispering reassurances, or was it apologies?
“You were there,” he said, breaking through the memory that wasn’t quite yours, yet was.
“You weren't like the others. You carried notebooks instead of blades. You watched me not with hunger, but with questions you couldn’t ask aloud.” His eyes found yours again, and you swore the café fell away around you.
“I thought you were a guard at first. A scientist like the rest. But you—” He hesitated, a flicker of emotion breaking his steady tone.
“You were different. You listened when I had no voice.”
Your chest constricted so sharply you had to set your mug down before you dropped it. Coffee sloshed, trembling in the cup. Your hands felt useless.
“I don’t remember that,” you whispered, your voice almost breaking. “Well, not fully. Just pieces of it. But—” You faltered, breath catching on the admission. “It feels like I should.”
He studied you with such intensity you almost looked away. His hands, folded loosely now on the table, bore no scars, but you imagined them pressed against glass, claws dulled by confinement, his face half-lit under sterile light.
“You tried to free me,” he said softly. His tone held no accusation. Only a memory, raw and unwavering. “Even when it cost you everything. Even when you should have walked away.”
Your stomach lurched. The pendant under your palm pulsed again, faint, steady. As if agreeing. As if reminding.
“I—” The words tore at your throat. “Why don’t I remember enough to know if that’s true?”
He inhaled, slow, deliberate, like someone steadying themselves against a rising tide. “Because you gave up remembering. You chose to take my heart into yourself. You chose to carry it when I couldn’t.” His voice lowered, quieter than the hum of the café machine.
“That bond does not let go. Not across oceans. Not across lives.”
You sat in stunned silence, your pulse thundering in your ears.
Your body wanted to deny it, to laugh at the absurdity, to call him delusional. But your soul, the part of you that had drowned and bled and dreamed of ruins under blue light, did not deny him. It recognized every word.
Rafayel’s eyes softened, though his jaw stayed tight. He tilted his head slightly, searching your face with a care that hurt to withstand. “You were never my captor,” he murmured. “You were my salvation. Even then.”
The café around you blurred again, voices and light receding until all that remained was the heat of his gaze and the wild, aching rush of your own heartbeat.
Your chest ached with the weight of his words. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t even trust your lungs to work right, every breath threatening to shatter the fragile thread of this conversation. The hum of the café faded again, falling into that suspended quiet that seemed to wrap itself around you and Rafayel whenever he leaned too close.
You tightened your grip on the mug, but it didn’t steady you. The ceramic was warm, almost hot, grounding your palms, yet your body still trembled in the chair. A part of you wanted to push away, to force air back between you, to keep this impossible story at a safe distance.
But another part of you, the part that had followed him through dreams of oceans and ruins, wanted nothing more than to lean forward and let the truth consume you.
“I keep dreaming about it,” you whispered before you realized you were speaking. Your voice was unsteady, too raw. “I thought it was just… something my mind made up. A story I was telling myself.”
Rafayel’s gaze sharpened instantly, the subtle tension in his body shifting. He leaned closer, just enough that his forearms brushed against the table, his hands unfolding slowly as though he might reach across the space and take yours. His voice was low, steady, threaded with a gravity that made your pulse stutter.
“What do you see?”
You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. Images pressed against the inside of your mind, vivid enough to sting.
White rooms. Harsh lights. A tank of water too shallow, too bright. His silhouette behind glass, hair drifting like torn ribbons, eyes meeting yours with a desperate, impossible recognition.
The scrape of a chair against linoleum. The burn of guilt in your chest. And then later, stone ruins, blue light, water pressing in from all sides, a knife flashing between your hands.
Your fingers trembled against the cup.
“You,” you breathed. “In water. Behind glass. Always looking at me. Sometimes I’m writing. Sometimes I’m… saying things I can’t remember. And then—”
You broke off, pressing your lips together. The weight of the memory, too sharp to dismiss, clawed at you. “And then I’m underwater too. And I…” Your throat closed. You didn’t want to say it out loud. You didn’t want it to be real.
Rafayel’s expression shifted. His face, so carefully composed before, softened with something devastating. His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with a grief so deep it made your chest seize. He did not interrupt you. He let the silence hang until you couldn’t bear it.
Finally, his voice came quiet and hoarse. “That wasn’t a dream.”
The bottom dropped out of your stomach.
Your heart lurched painfully against your ribs, and you drew in a sharp breath, as though the air had turned thin around you. “What do you mean?” The words came out too quickly, brittle and uneven.
Rafayel’s gaze did not falter. He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was just for you.
“What you saw wasn’t imagined. The life you lived. The life we shared. All of it is real, because it happened.”
The world tilted, just slightly. The pendant inside your bag felt like it pulsed once, as if echoing him, as if agreeing. Your fingers twitched toward it before curling back again.
“I…” You shook your head, the denial falling apart before you could form it.
The memories crowded in too vividly, too insistently. You remembered the sting of saltwater in your lungs, the weight of the blade in your hand, the way his voice had said your name under the surface as if it were the only thing he had left.
“If that was real, then…” Your voice broke. “I killed myself. I remember it. I felt it.”
Rafayel’s jaw tightened, his hand clenching against the table before he forced it open again. His eyes burned, wet with a glint that he didn’t blink away. “You saved me,” he said firmly, each word heavy with conviction. “You carried my heart when I couldn’t carry it myself. That bond is why we are here again.”
Your body shivered at the word again.
You stared at him, your throat working, trying to swallow past the flood of questions that threatened to overwhelm you. “If this is all true… then why am I here? Why are you here?”
Rafayel held your gaze so tightly it almost hurt. His lips parted, words poised on the edge of revelation. His voice dropped lower still, rough with the weight of everything he had kept unsaid.
“Because I found you,” he whispered. “And because this time—”
You waited, your breath caught in your throat, eyes fixed on his lips as if sheer willpower could force the rest of the words out of him.
But Rafayel didn’t move. His jaw locked tight, muscles shifting as though he was restraining himself physically, holding back something vast. His gaze flickered downward for the briefest moment before rising to meet yours again, but now his expression had shifted. The intensity was still there, but it was buried under hesitation, cloaked by a silence so heavy it pressed down on your chest.
“This time… what?” you asked, the question spilling out before you could stop it.
Rafayel didn’t answer right away. He looked at you, really looked at you, as if measuring something unseen. The silence between you stretched, a taut thread threatening to snap. Finally, he shook his head once, slow and deliberate.
“It’s not time,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”
The words hit harder than if he had shouted them. Your pulse thudded in your ears, uneven and frantic. Not time? Not yet? Your stomach twisted, torn between anger and desperation, between the urge to grab his arm and demand answers and the awareness that he was holding them back for a reason.
“But I saw it,” you pressed, your fingers tightening around the mug in your hands until the ceramic edge bit into your palms. “I remember things I shouldn’t. Things no one else could possibly know. And you know them too. You’re not denying it. You’re just—”
“Holding it,” he finished for you, his voice low and heavy.
“Because if I say it all now, if I tell you everything at once, it will tear you apart. You don’t deserve that.”
His eyes softened, but that softness didn’t ease the ache in your chest. It made it worse. He looked at you as though you were fragile glass, as though he was terrified of shattering you by speaking the wrong word.
Your hands trembled.
“I don’t understand. Why do I feel like I’ve lived this before? Why does it hurt so much, like I’m remembering something that doesn’t belong to me?”
Rafayel leaned back just slightly, though his gaze never left you. He exhaled, a sound heavy with exhaustion, with grief, with restraint. “Because it does belong to you,” he said, voice almost inaudible.
“You just don’t remember how.”
You felt unmoored, every anchor you had to the present moment loosening. All you could do was hold onto the way his eyes never wavered, the way he seemed to be carrying a truth so enormous it bent his shoulders beneath the weight.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to beg. You wanted to drag the rest of it out of him until the questions burning in your chest finally had air.
Your breath wavered, and for a long moment you only stared at him, every word he hadn’t said echoing louder than the ones he had. The questions gnawed at you, sharp and unrelenting, but one thought broke through the tangle.
The pendant.
Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your bag on the chair beside you. Your fingertips brushed the worn fabric, then lingered over the zipper, hesitant. Rafayel’s eyes tracked the motion, his expression unreadable, though the faintest flicker passed across his face, like recognition suppressed too quickly.
“You said I don’t remember how,” you whispered. The words tasted fragile in your mouth. “But… then why do I have this?”
You pulled the pendant out slowly, careful not to let it swing too wildly in the low café light. The delicate chain slid like water across your fingers, the metal still faintly warm against your skin despite the chill of the room. When it settled in your palm, the stone at its center caught the light. Blue with veins of silver that seemed to shift when you moved it, almost alive.
You laid it on the table between you.
Rafayel stilled. His body went utterly rigid, and though his expression didn’t break, something in his eyes did. His pupils dilated sharply, and for the first time since you met him in the gallery, he looked… undone.
The silence stretched long enough that you felt your heartbeat in your throat.
“I don’t even remember where I got it,” you said, voice cracking despite your effort to hold it steady.
“It was just there one day, tangled in my things. But I’ve seen it before. I know I have. In those dreams, or memories, or whatever they are. It’s always there. And when I touch it, it feels—”
You broke off, swallowing hard, trying to corral the rush of emotions threatening to spill.
“It feels like you.”
His gaze flicked from the pendant to your face, and then back again, as though afraid if he looked too long it would vanish. His hand twitched once on the table, restrained, claws barely pressing against the wood grain before curling into his palm again.
You leaned forward, desperate now, your voice trembling. “Tell me why I have this. Tell me what it means. Please.”
Rafayel inhaled, sharp and shallow, like he’d been holding his breath all this time and only now allowed it to escape. His jaw worked as though the words were there, straining against his teeth, but still he hesitated. His eyes, those impossibly deep ocean-born eyes, shone with a pain you couldn’t name.
Finally, his voice emerged, raw and almost broken.
“That was never supposed to find its way back to you.”
The admission sank like a weight between you, heavier than the pendant itself.
Your chest tightened, pulse hammering. “Back?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted his hand slowly, fingers trembling as though he were fighting every instinct, and stopped just short of the pendant. The air shifted in the space between his hand and the stone, charged with something you felt deep in your bones. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t have to. The light inside it pulsed once, faint but undeniable, responding to him.
Your breath caught.
His gaze lifted to yours again, raw and unshielded now, as though he could no longer keep the walls in place.
“Because it was mine. And I gave it to you.”
The café around you dissolved. The hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, the glow of overhead bulbs, all of it vanished beneath the weight of his confession.
You stared at him, the pendant glowing faintly between you, and for the first time you weren’t sure if the ground beneath your feet was entirely real.
“What do you mean, you gave it to me?” Your voice was hoarse, almost breaking.
“Why would you give something like this away?”
Rafayel’s expression shifted, conflicted, his composure cracking in small fractures he didn’t bother to conceal anymore. The light above your table haloed against his short purple hair, shadows catching in the lines of his jaw, in the faint shimmer of his eyes that no longer seemed fully human.
His hand hovered just above the pendant, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. His claws flexed slightly, trembling. For a moment, you thought he might touch it, might close his fingers over the chain and reclaim it.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he looked at you with something like reverence and something like grief.
“Because you were dying,” he said quietly. The words nearly unmade you.
You flinched back, every muscle tightening. “What?”
His throat worked once, hard, before he forced himself to continue.
“You don’t remember. Not all of it. But I do. You were slipping away, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing but this.” He gestured faintly toward the pendant, his hand falling back to the table as though the weight of it was too much to hold.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. Images you had tried to dismiss as dreams surged up—your hand gripping his, the press of glass between you, the unbearable ache of loss. You could almost feel the phantom sting in your chest, sharp and deep, though your skin bore no mark.
“You gave me this… to save me?” you whispered.
Rafayel’s gaze didn’t waver, though his voice roughened like a storm dragged over stone. “Not just to save you. To keep you. To make sure you would carry on, even if I couldn’t. I gave everything.”
His breath hitched. “And you told me—”
His voice cracked, and he bit it off, lips pressing shut as though the words themselves would destroy him if he let them out.
Your throat tightened, your body leaning toward him without meaning to. “I told you what?”
His eyes burned into yours, brimming with memories you couldn’t reach. His jaw tensed, then eased, then tensed again, like he was caught in a war with himself. The truth balanced on the edge of his tongue, heavy and fragile. You felt it in the air between you, thick with anticipation and fear.
Finally, his voice slipped out, soft but cutting.
“You said I had already given everything to protect you. That you carried my heart because I trusted you with it.” His gaze dropped, just briefly, to the pendant glowing faintly in your palm, before finding your eyes again.
“And that I believed you were worth saving.”
The world narrowed. The hum of the café blurred into static. Your fingers closed tighter around the pendant, as though afraid it might vanish if you let go.
Your heart pounded against your ribs so hard it hurt.
“Your heart,” you echoed, almost soundless. “You don’t mean…”
But you saw it in his face. The confirmation he couldn’t yet say.
He leaned back slightly, withdrawing his hand as if to pull the truth back with him. His voice steadied, though it trembled faintly around the edges. “You’re not ready.”
Frustration knifed through your confusion, sharp and hot. “Then when? How am I supposed to just pretend I didn’t hear this?”
Rafayel’s smile was small and aching, more sorrow than joy. “You won’t have to pretend. The rest will come. It always does.”
─
The night did not give you sleep.
You had stretched out on your bed, the pendant pressed against your sternum as though it might calm the frantic ache there, but your body refused to surrender. Every time your eyes closed, fragments returned—his face leaning close, his words weighted and incomplete, the low timbre of his voice when he said not here, not now.
You rolled to your side, then to your back, sheets twisting around your legs. The ceiling blurred in the dark, not from sleep but from the sheer weight of thought. Every possibility felt dangerous. If it was a lie, why did it resonate so deep? If it was truth, why did it feel like you already knew?
By the time dawn seeped pale through the blinds, your body was restless and your mind scraped raw.
The alarm on your phone buzzed at 7:15, sharp and unforgiving. You slapped it off with a trembling hand, your chest still tight from the night’s unease. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
You sat up slowly, bare feet pressing against the cold wood floor, and for a long moment you just sat there, elbows braced on your knees, fingers raking through your hair. The pendant rested warm in your palm where you had clutched it all night, as if it had fused to your skin.
Your apartment was still. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The steady tick of the wall clock. The early light spilling gold across the walls. All so normal, so ordinary.
And yet nothing inside you was ordinary anymore.
You dragged yourself into the bathroom, the mirror unforgiving in its clarity. Your eyes were rimmed red, your lips pale, your skin washed out under the soft fluorescence. You turned the faucet on, splashing cool water over your face, but even as it trickled down your neck and soaked into your shirt collar, it did not quiet the restlessness clawing beneath your ribs.
As you brushed your teeth, pulled on jeans and a sweater, filled your bag with the familiar weight of notebooks, your movements felt mechanical. Every action was something to hold onto, something that anchored you to routine, though your thoughts were everywhere but here.
Why didn’t he finish?
What did he mean?
Why did it feel like the dream wasn’t a dream at all?
You checked the time.
8:04.
Enough for coffee if you didn’t linger.
In the kitchen, the kettle hissed to life, steam curling against the windowpane. You wrapped your hands around the mug when it was ready, holding it too long before drinking, as though the heat could ground you. The pendant swung gently against your chest when you finally let it go, the chain catching light, a reminder that last night had not been some illusion spun from exhaustion.
You left the apartment by 8:30, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that made your heart stutter. The hallway smelled faintly of dust and someone’s too-strong detergent. Each footstep echoed as you descended the stairs, a rhythm that filled the silence in your head.
The morning outside was crisp, sky brushed with thin clouds, air damp with dew. You tightened your jacket and crossed the lot to your car, movements practiced but heavier than they should be.
When you slid behind the wheel, you caught your reflection faintly in the rearview mirror. A stranger looked back. A girl who should have been worrying about exams and assignments, not myths, not gods, not the weight of words she could not shake.
The pendant gleamed faintly against your collarbone.
You pulled out onto the street. The road stretched ahead, lined with trees that blurred into passing streaks of green and gold.
But no matter how far you drove, the questions stayed.
─
By the time the university buildings rose into view, pale concrete and sharp lines against the morning sky, your chest felt raw with too many questions.
You turned into the lot, navigating rows of cars with sluggish precision. Students crossed between spaces with backpacks slung across one shoulder, coffee cups clutched in their hands, voices carrying on in casual conversation. Their laughter, their ease, scraped against you in a way that made you ache. They looked untouched, unburdened.
You parked and killed the engine. For a long moment you didn’t move. The silence that followed pressed in tight, and you realized your hand had curled around the pendant again, thumb rubbing against the cool surface like it could offer an answer.
You forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Then you gathered your bag, pushed the door open, and stepped into the air that was sharp with the scent of wet pavement and cut grass.
The path to class was already dotted with students moving in clusters or alone, their voices blurring into a low hum that folded into the background. You walked among them, your pace steady but inwardly hesitant. Each footstep on the concrete walkway seemed louder than it should be, like the world was calling attention to your presence.
The campus was familiar — brick facades streaked with age, ivy climbing in thin tangles, the bell tower marking the center with its pale stone face — but your eyes snagged on details you’d never noticed before. The way the sunlight hit the windows, scattering shards of light across the ground. The way the leaves clung wet and trembling to branches, refusing to fall despite the weight of water. Everything felt heightened, as though your senses were stretched too thin.
You reached the humanities building, its glass doors smudged with fingerprints and framed by metal that glinted in the light. The lobby smelled faintly of paper and disinfectant. Students clustered near the stairwell, some scrolling their phones, others chatting about assignments. You threaded through them, your shoulder brushing a sleeve here, the strap of a bag there, though none of them looked at you.
The hallway leading to your classroom stretched ahead, lined with industrial carpeting that dulled your footsteps. Your bag shifted against your side with each step, the weight of your notebooks grounding you, though your thoughts drifted elsewhere.
By the time you reached the door, your chest had tightened again. You hesitated, hand hovering just shy of the handle, the pendant burning faintly against your skin like a secret.
You pushed the door open.
Inside, rows of desks curved around a central podium, already half filled with students settling in. The hum of voices dipped and rose in waves. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a pale wash over the room. The professor was arranging notes on the desk, his glasses perched low on his nose, his expression absentminded as he flipped through the stack.
You slipped into a seat near the middle and set your bag on the floor beside you. Your hands smoothed the edge of your notebook almost compulsively, trying to busy themselves. Around you, the room pulsed with the ordinary —zippers opening, pens clicking, laptops booting up —but beneath it all, the weight in your chest lingered.
The professor cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as he set a stack of papers on the desk with deliberate care. His eyes scanned the lecture hall, making certain the chatter had dwindled into silence before he spoke.
“Today,” he said, his tone even, “we’ll be doing something a little different. I’ve invited someone to join us, someone whose work many of you may have seen or at least heard about in recent weeks.” He paused, letting curiosity ripple through the room. “He will be helping us with today’s lecture on Lemurian mythology.”
The room stirred instantly. Students shifted in their seats, voices dropping into low murmurs. A few leaned toward each other, already speculating. You sat frozen, your pen held lightly above your notebook, ink dotting the page where you had stopped mid-scribble.
The professor turned toward the door with a small smile. “Please welcome Mo.”
The door opened.
At first, the sound was what struck you. The faint hush of the hinges, the scrape of shoes against linoleum.
But then he stepped inside.
Your chest tightened as if every bit of air had been pulled from it at once.
Rafayel.
He walked with the same quiet confidence you remembered from the gallery, unhurried but certain, as though he belonged in every room he entered. Today, his clothes were simple: a crisp shirt the color of deep charcoal, the sleeves fitted to his arms, paired with black slacks that moved cleanly with each step. His short purple hair, uneven at the ends, caught the overhead fluorescent lights and fractured them into faint streaks of mauve and violet.
Around you, the class reacted almost instantly. A girl in the front row whispered, a little too loudly, “Oh my god.” Another nudged her friend, eyes widening as though she were staring at a celebrity. Phones slid quietly onto desks, students pretending to check notifications while sneaking photos. A boy two seats over frowned in open confusion, muttering, “Wait, isn’t he the painter from that exhibit?”
Every murmur felt far away, drowned beneath the thunder of your own heartbeat.
Rafayel reached the podium with a polite nod toward the professor, his posture straight, his composure unshaken despite the attention pressing in from every corner of the hall. He waited a moment, letting the noise subside, before speaking.
“My name is Mo” he said, his voice steady, rich, threaded with something that resonated low in your chest. “Some of you may know me from my recent gallery exhibition. My work focuses on myth, memory, and the ways stories persist across time.”
Every head in the room turned toward him, caught in the quiet pull of his presence. Even those who had been distracted minutes ago now leaned forward, notebooks open, pens poised.
You couldn’t move.
Your gaze clung to him helplessly, drinking in the familiar lines of his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth, the way his eyes swept across the room before settling, inevitably, on you.
The moment his gaze found yours, you stopped breathing.
It wasn’t a casual glance. It was direct, deliberate, a thread pulled taut between the two of you while the rest of the class faded into background noise. Your pen slipped slightly in your fingers, leaving another ink blot on the page.
Around you, students exchanged looks of awe, admiration, curiosity. But none of it mattered. Not when you knew that his eyes lingered on you longer than anyone else. Not when that faint, restrained smile touched the corner of his lips, so subtle you doubted anyone else even saw it.
Shock held you still, a quiet tremor moving through your hands as the truth settled heavier than it had before.
He wasn’t just part of the gallery. He was here, in your world, in your class. And he wasn’t avoiding you. He was looking for you.
The professor stepped aside, leaving the podium clear. Rafayel adjusted the microphone only slightly, his hands steady, his movements careful in a way that felt practiced. The lecture hall had settled into silence, every student caught between awe and curiosity, but you barely registered them. Your focus was fixed on him.
He let the quiet linger for a moment, as though he wanted to command the room without words. Then he began.
“Lemurian myth,” he said evenly, his voice carrying with effortless weight, “is one of those stories that exists in fragments, half remembered, scattered across time like broken glass. We don’t have complete records. What we do have are pieces: ruins beneath volcanic strata, carvings etched into stone that has survived impossible pressure, fragments of oral tradition passed down through generations.”
His eyes moved across the hall, sweeping the rows, but every so often they returned to you. Too brief to call attention, too deliberate to mistake.
He continued, his tone smooth, his pace unhurried. “Among those fragments, the story of Romirro, the Sea God, and his mortal bride is perhaps the most enduring. Not because it was the most popular, but because it was the most tragic.”
Your fingers tightened around your pen, knuckles white.
Rafayel didn’t look at you now, not directly, but his words felt aimed like an arrow. “The Sea God was said to be powerful, beautiful, and feared. But what made him extraordinary was not his dominion over the ocean. It was his ability to love someone who did not belong to it. A mortal woman.”
Students around you shifted in their chairs, pens scratching across paper. Some leaned closer, hanging on his words, while others sat still, simply watching him. You forced yourself to write something—anything—but your hand shook enough that the letters blurred.
Rafayel’s voice deepened, threading with something heavier than mere recitation. “They say she bound herself to him willingly, though she knew it meant crossing a line no one had crossed before. That bond, that choice, changed them both. It gave her strength, but it made him vulnerable. And in the end, it was her sacrifice that kept him alive.”
The words struck like ice.
You swallowed, your throat tight, your chest constricting around a memory that wasn’t supposed to exist. His gaze flicked to you briefly, a spark in the middle of the lecture—but it carried weight enough to crush your breath.
He didn’t pause.
He didn’t need to.
“Most myths of gods end with victory, with eternal dominion,” Rafayel went on, pacing the front of the room with a steady rhythm. “But this one ends with loss. She died in his place. Or perhaps because of him. And some versions suggest her soul still carries his heart, hidden away, waiting to be returned to him.”
The class murmured faintly at that, some scribbling notes faster, some frowning as though uncertain whether it was myth or poetry.
You couldn’t move.
The chain of the pendant around your neck felt unbearably heavy, like it had just tightened against your skin. Your mind reeled to the fragments of dreams—no, memories—shoving themselves to the forefront.
The water, the glass dome, the blade. The words you had spoken
“You already gave everything to protect me. I carry your heart because you trusted me with it.”
Your breath shuddered.
Rafayel’s voice softened then, subtle but deliberate, as if lowering itself only for you. “The tragedy of Romirro is not that he lost his bride. It is that he kept searching for her long after the world declared her gone.”
He looked up. Directly at you.
This time, the glance was not fleeting. It lingered.
The lecture hall disappeared for one impossible heartbeat. There was only his gaze, unrelenting and familiar, the faintest flicker of sorrow within it, and you sitting frozen, your pen trembling in your hand, your pulse roaring in your ears.
He blinked once, then broke the contact, shifting seamlessly back into his lecture as though nothing had passed.
The rest of the class leaned forward, taking notes, asking questions, following along with the story.
But you couldn’t.
You sat there, your heart too loud, your hand pressed faintly against your chest as if to keep something from breaking loose.
Because you knew, with an ache that felt like recognition, that Rafayel hadn’t been telling the class a myth.
He had been telling you a memory.
Rafayel’s voice carried on, weaving the fragments of Lemurian myth into something almost seamless. He spoke of ruins buried under volcanic rock, of bioluminescent carvings that refused to fade, of ocean trenches where silence itself felt alive.
The students scribbled furiously, the scratch of pens nearly matching the rhythm of his words. Some stared at him openly, their expressions caught between awe and disbelief, as if they couldn’t decide whether he was a lecturer or something else entirely.
But for you, the words blurred. You caught fragments, pieces that twisted like hooks in your chest, but the rest washed over you in waves too heavy to hold. Every so often, you felt his gaze brush yours again, quick as lightning, enough to jolt your pulse without breaking his pace.
Time slipped by unnoticed until the sharp clang of the bell rang through the lecture hall.
The spell shattered.
Chairs scraped against the floor. Papers rustled. The low thrum of chatter swelled as students began to pack their bags. Yet instead of leaving, most of them moved toward the front, clustering around Rafayel with eager faces, questions spilling over each other in overlapping threads.
You sat frozen for a moment, your notebook half-filled with shaky words, your pen still between your fingers. Then, carefully, you closed it. The sound of the cover snapping shut felt louder than it should have.
You slipped your notebook into your bag and rose, adjusting the strap over your shoulder with deliberate slowness. The crowd at the front of the room was dense now, students pressing closer as if afraid to waste a second of his attention. Rafayel stood at the center of it effortlessly, his posture calm, his expression composed, answering their questions with ease. His presence held them, and the air in the room bent toward him like gravity.
You took the chance.
Head lowered, steps quiet, you began to slip out along the side aisle. The exit door was only a few strides away. Your pulse drummed hard against your ribs with each step, not from fear but from the unbearable tightness in your chest. You needed space, and something to ground you after what you had just heard.
Your hand touched the door handle.
“Y/N."
Your body froze.
The single word cut through the noise of the room, low but clear, wrapped in a timbre that you felt more than heard. Every muscle locked.
Slowly, you turned your head.
Across the room, through the crush of students, Rafayel’s gaze was fixed on you. Not on anyone else, not on the hands thrust toward him with questions or notebooks to sign.
On you.
His lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly, but his eyes burned with intent.
Your breath caught.
The chatter swelled as Rafayel’s words settled in the air. A few students actually turned in their seats to gawk at you, whispers darting like minnows across the room.
“Wait, he knows her?”
“Are they, like, together?”
“No way. She never said anything—”
You clutched your bag tighter and forced yourself to breathe, the heat rising at the back of your neck unbearable under so many eyes. You opened your mouth, meaning to deny everything, to throw up some flimsy barrier between yourself and the wildfire of speculation, but Rafayel was already moving.
He didn’t hesitate. He strode toward you, each step unhurried, controlled, as if the weight of the whispers didn’t touch him at all. When he reached you, his presence felt too large for the narrow aisle. He looked down at you, the corner of his mouth curving into something almost playful.
“Are you just going to stand there,” he asked, voice low enough to be meant for you alone, “or are you coming with me?”
Before you even thought it through, your hand moved. You grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the door. The contact jolted you, as if the floor had tilted under your feet, but you didn’t let go. You didn’t look back to see the faces watching, or the whispers already igniting behind you. All you knew was that you needed to get out, now.
The hallway beyond felt too bright, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as you strode forward. Your bag thumped against your hip, strap biting into your shoulder as you clutched it higher and walked faster, pulling him with you. Only when you reached the end of the corridor and ducked around a corner, out of sight from the classroom door, did you finally drop his hand.
You adjusted the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder and quickened your pace, determined to make it outside before anyone else spilled into the corridor. Rafayel’s footsteps, calm and steady, followed without effort, the sound of them anchoring you even as they unnerved you.
“Why did you do that?” you blurted finally, your voice low but edged with frustration.
“Calling me out in front of everyone like that? Now half the class probably thinks we…”
The words caught. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, in your face, in your throat. “That we’re something.”
You hated how shaky the last word sounded. How it seemed to tremble in the air between you, louder than it should have been.
You could feel his gaze on you, as though he was trying to decide whether to smile at your reaction or to take it more seriously.
Rafayel’s footsteps slowed until he was just behind your shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost amused, though softened at the edges.
“Something,” he echoed, deliberately dragging the word out as if he were turning it over in his mouth. “Is that really so terrible? You make it sound like I announced we were engaged.”
You spun your head toward him, your expression sharp, but he only lifted a brow in return, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in the faintest grin. The fluorescent lights caught on his short violet hair, softening it into streaks of lavender, and for one absurd moment, you thought he almost looked proud of himself.
“You think this is funny?” you hissed, though the edge in your voice faltered when you realized just how close he’d let himself drift to your side. His arm brushed yours, deliberately or not, and it sent a pulse through your nerves you didn’t want to acknowledge.
“I think,” he said smoothly, tilting his head as though he were carefully considering his words, “you worry too much about what everyone else thinks. Let them talk.”
You opened your mouth to fire back, but his smile shifted, softening, taking some of the sting out of the air. “Besides,” he added, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like a secret between you, “you look like you haven’t eaten since sunrise. And I don’t let people who grab my hand and drag me through hallways starve.”
The sudden change in subject disarmed you. You blinked, caught off guard, your steps faltering. “…Food?”
“Food,” he confirmed, his grin returning, quick and easy. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer I parade you back into the classroom so you can explain to all of them what we really are.”
The flush in your cheeks betrayed you before you could stop it. You shook your head, quickening your pace just to get ahead of him again, but his laugh followed you down the hall.
───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
author note: LONG TIME NO SEE GUYS, IM BACK!! i am currently finishing up finals and have been working, so i am sowwy for the wait!! sadly, we are about to come to an end soon.. but i love seeing your comments and support tehee🫶🏻🥺
The hostess guides you to the corner table, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood before fading as she leaves you both behind the low wooden partition.
The table is small, round, set with two places and a single candle in the middle, its flame casting restless shadows that stretch across the pale linen. The golden pools of light from the hanging fixtures above seem to carve the space just for the two of you, cocooning you in a hush that makes the restaurant’s background noise feel distant, like a muffled score playing too far away to touch.
You slip out of your jacket, folding it over the back of your chair, the fabric sliding against the leather as you settle into your seat.
Zayne doesn’t sit until you do, his posture precise, lowering himself diagonally across from you rather than directly opposite, the placement subtle but deliberate. He adjusts his cuff, the movement smooth, before resting his hand against the edge of the menu.
The waiter arrives quickly, standing poised with a notepad. Zayne orders first: pan-seared salmon with roasted root vegetables, his voice even, clipped, as though every syllable is chosen with the same care as a scalpel in an operating room.
He selects a glass of dry red wine without hesitation, closing the menu as if he had already memorized it.
When the waiter turns to you, you order grilled chicken with lemon butter sauce and seasonal greens, your voice steadier than you feel, and a glass of white wine. You pass your menu back, fingers brushing the waiter’s briefly, and when you glance up, you catch Zayne watching before he lowers his eyes to the candle.
The menus are whisked away, the table cleared to its bare essentials: two glasses of wine, a plate of warm bread between you, and the flicker of firelight restless against polished silverware.
You take your glass, turning the stem idly between your fingers, but the words press at your chest before you’ve even taken a sip.
You set the glass down carefully, aligning it with the edge of your napkin as though the precision can steady you. Your throat feels tight, your palms a little damp, but you push forward anyway.
“I should probably apologize for the other night,” you say softly, eyes flicking from the candlelight to him and then away again.
“I don’t usually get like that. I’m sorry you had to deal with me.”
Zayne doesn’t respond immediately. He lifts his glass but doesn’t drink, just lets it hover near his lips as his gaze fixes on you, sharp but unreadable. His fingers tap once against the stem before he lowers it back to the table, untouched.
“You remember that much?” he asks, his voice quiet, laced with a subtle weight that makes your heart stutter.
Your breath hitches. You tug at the hem of your sleeve, eyes falling to the flicker of the flame before forcing yourself to meet his gaze again.
“Not all of it,” you admit quietly. “Just pieces. Mostly… you helping me. Making sure I got home. I didn’t thank you properly. So… thank you.”
The silence stretches long enough that the sounds of the restaurant filter back in. The clinking of cutlery, the low hum of laughter, the muted shuffle of servers moving between tables.
And then, so quietly you almost miss it, Zayne exhales a sound that isn’t quite a laugh but close, the corners of his mouth shifting into something rare, something unguarded.
A smile.
“You did thank me,” he says evenly, though there’s a trace of warmth threading through his voice now. “Several times. Though you slurred most of it.”
Your head snaps up, eyes wide, and the heat surges to your cheeks. “I did not.”
His smile lingers. It was restrained, subtle, but unmistakable, softening the usual steel in his expression.
“You did. Repeatedly. And then you informed me that I was…” He pauses, his hazel-green eyes glinting faintly in the candlelight, clearly deciding whether to deliver the blow. His lips curve just slightly more as he finishes: “…insufferable. Again.”
You groan softly, pressing your palms against your face, muffling your words. “Of course I’d say that.”
“At least you were consistent,” he replies, his tone dry, but the look in his eyes is different now. It's more softened, lingering, as though he’s not just teasing, but holding onto the memory.
And when you drop your hands and meet his gaze again, you realize with startling clarity that this is the first time you’ve ever seen him like this.
Sharp edges curved into something almost gentle, the severity of his usual composure loosened into a quiet, nearly invisible warmth.
The realization stirs something in you that you can’t quite smother, and the steady beat of your heart feels just a little too loud, just a little too noticeable under the hush of the restaurant’s golden light.
The plates arrive steaming, the scents of lemon butter and roasted vegetables thickening the air between you until the candlelight feels like the only steady thing anchoring the table.
You wait, hands resting lightly against the linen, until Zayne moves first, his fork and knife aligning with such measured precision that even the sound of metal against porcelain is controlled.
Still, he doesn’t take his first bite until your hand finally moves, and the way his hazel-green eyes flick briefly to yours before you lift your fork makes your stomach twist in a way the wine hasn’t.
You taste your chicken, savoring the sharp brightness of the sauce, and a quiet sound of approval escapes before you can swallow it back. He hears it. You know he does, because when your eyes lift, his are already fixed on you, though his lips curve the faintest fraction.
“Good?” he asks, his voice level, softened only by the quiet gravity beneath it.
You nod, trying not to fidget. “Really good.”
His gaze doesn’t waver as he turns his fork back toward his own plate, cutting cleanly into the salmon with the kind of precision that makes even the smallest movement look deliberate.
Without a word, he lifts the piece and rests it carefully onto the rim of your plate, the motion quiet, practiced, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
His hand steadies the porcelain for a moment, fingers brushing against yours where they rest near the edge, the contact fleeting yet searing in its simplicity.
You suck in a breath before you can stop yourself, the sound caught in the space between you, and though he doesn’t flinch or pull away, the smallest shift crosses his expression: his eyes holding yours, unyielding, as if waiting to see what you’ll do with the offering he’s placed in front of you.
You lower your gaze to the salmon, the pale pink glistening faintly under the low light, and with a slow, careful motion you bring your fork to it, tasting the bite he’s set in front of you.
It’s delicate, buttery, almost too rich to match the tension stretching between you, but you feel it anyway, the way his attention doesn’t stray even as he lifts his own glass, as though your reaction to something as ordinary as food matters more than the meal itself.
You murmur that it’s good, quieter than you mean to, and when you glance up, you catch the faintest, fleeting curve of his mouth, a shadow of a smile that lingers only long enough to make your chest ache with how rare it is.
From there, the conversation softens, settling into a rhythm that feels unexpectedly easy. He asks small, precise questions about your residency schedule, about the cases you’ve shadowed, about whether you’ve actually taken a day off in the last three months.
Though his tone is as level as ever, there’s a subtle warmth threading through it, a patience you’ve never heard in his voice before.
You find yourself answering with more honesty than you intend, telling him about the nights you stay awake reading cases until your eyes burn, about the way you worry you’ll never measure up in the long run, and though you try to laugh it off, he doesn’t let it pass.
His gaze sharpens, cutting through your deflection, and he tells you in that calm, certain way of his that effort like yours is not wasted. You feel the words settle deeper than they should, not because of what he said, but because of who it’s coming from.
By the time the plates are cleared and the last of the wine glasses emptied, the restaurant has grown quieter, the steady hum of voices thinning to a low murmur as tables empty around you.
The candles burn lower, their light catching on the rim of his glasses, throwing a faint gleam across his composed features as he slips his coat back on. You do the same, pulling your long jacket close around you as the two of you step out into the night.
The night air feels brisk against your cheeks, carrying with it the faint tang of rain, the damp pavement shimmering like black glass under the soft wash of streetlamps.
You hug your jacket tighter around yourself as the two of you move down the sidewalk, the silence thick but not uncomfortable, every sound magnified: the sharp rhythm of Zayne’s polished shoes against the wet concrete, the softer scuff of your boots, the faint brush of your sleeves whenever the distance between you narrows.
You pull your phone from your pocket, thumb brushing over the screen as you bring up the rideshare app, half a distraction, half a defense against the weight of his presence beside you.
“I’ll call a cab,” you murmur, your voice quiet but steady, the glow of the screen painting your fingers pale.
Zayne stops. His stride halts with the kind of precision that makes the silence stretch even longer, and when you look up, his gaze is already fixed on you, hazel-green eyes faintly illuminated by the halo of a nearby streetlight.
His expression is unreadable, but his words leave no room for argument.
“No,” he says simply, firmly, like it’s the final word in a consultation. “I’ll drive you home.”
You start to protest out of politeness, out of instinct, out of the desperate need not to assume too much from him but the sharp line of his jaw and the deliberate steadiness in his voice stop you.
“I can manage—”
“You don’t need to manage,” he interrupts, his tone softer now but no less decisive. “Not tonight.”
Your chest tightens at the way he says it. It wasn't condescending, not dismissive, but with an edge of something gentler, something you’ve only just started to recognize. The fight drains out of you before you can muster another word.
He’s already reaching into his coat pocket, keys glinting briefly as he draws them free, the faint jingle oddly grounding in the still night.
When he turns toward the car parked a little further down the street, you hesitate for only a second before following.
His pace is unhurried, every line of his posture controlled, and yet you notice the way he glances back once, the faintest flicker of his gaze checking to see that you’re keeping up. I
t’s so subtle you almost miss it, but it sends a flicker of warmth through your chest that leaves you unsettled.
At his car, he opens the passenger side door for you without a word, the gesture almost old-fashioned in its formality, and yet when you slide into the seat and sink back against the cool leather, you feel the weight of it — the care hidden in the simplicity. He leans in briefly, the faint scent of clean linen and antiseptic clinging to him as he adjusts the seatbelt across your chest, the buckle clicking into place with a sound that makes your breath catch.
For one suspended second, his face is close enough that you can trace the hard line of his cheekbone, the faint gleam of his glasses, the way his mouth presses into its usual firm line, and yet there’s a flicker in his eyes.
When you turn your head to look at him, really look, you catch him watching you in return, and the moment stretches too long to be dismissed.
You’re the one who breaks it, pulling your gaze away, staring out at the shimmering pavement beyond the windshield, your pulse still racing.
He closes the door carefully, not letting it slam, and a moment later, the driver’s side creaks open as he settles into his seat, the engine humming to life beneath you both.
For a brief second, the dashboard lights catch on his features, softening them, drawing out the faintest shadow of something unguarded in his expression.
—
The ride is quiet, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but weighted, stretched taut between the two of you like an unspoken agreement not to break it.
The soft hum of the engine, the occasional sweep of tires over damp asphalt, and the faint whisper of the heater fill the car, but each sound seems only to amplify the rhythm of your own heartbeat.
You keep your gaze angled toward the window, watching the blur of streetlights streak across the glass, but you can feel him beside you. The steady presence, the composed stillness, the rare softness in the way he glances toward you at red lights when he thinks you’re not looking.
When he pulls into your street, the car slows, headlights washing over the familiar outline of your building. The tires crunch against the wet curb as he eases the car into a stop, shifting into park with a motion so smooth it’s almost soundless.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The engine idles quietly, a low vibration humming underfoot, while the night outside hangs still and cool, the street empty save for the faint glint of rain on the pavement.
You finally turn toward him, offering the quietest of smiles, your voice low and cautious. “Thank you. For driving me home.”
His hands remain on the steering wheel, fingers resting in a loose curve, but his eyes shift toward you. The glow from the dashboard reflects faintly in the green of his gaze, sharpening the intensity that holds you pinned in place.
“You shouldn’t thank me for something that should be obvious,” he says, and though the words are plain, there’s an edge to them.
You swallow, unsure what to say, unsure whether to laugh or nod or break eye contact, but then his voice softens, lower, deliberate.
“I don’t like the thought of you trying to make your way home like that. Alone.”
It lingers between you, the admission, understated but clear, cutting through the careful restraint he always holds around himself. The weight of it makes your chest tighten, the air suddenly too thick, and you realize you’ve been holding your breath until the rise of his brow reminds you to let it out.
You murmur a quiet, “I would’ve been fine,” though even you don’t believe it, not with the faint tremor in your voice.
His mouth curves, not into a full smile, but the faintest shift at the corner, a rare crack in his composure that makes your pulse stumble.
“You always think you’re fine,” he says, and for the first time, the teasing lilt in his voice is unmistakable. His gaze lingers longer than it should, softer than you’ve ever seen it, and in that silence, you realize he’s not just referring to tonight.
The quiet expands again, neither of you moving, the interior of the car suddenly too small, too charged, until you force yourself to unclip your seatbelt with a sharp click. You reach for the door handle, though your fingers hesitate against it, and for a fleeting second, you almost wish he’d stop you.
Instead, his voice cuts through the quiet, steady, low. “Get some rest,” he says, and though the words are simple, the way he says it is almost like an order, almost like a plea.
You nod, pushing the door open, the rush of cool night air breaking the spell just enough for you to step out.
He waits until you’re standing on the sidewalk, until you turn toward the building, until you glance back just once to see him still watching.
His hands rest on the steering wheel exactly where they were, his posture still perfect, but his eyes, even from this distance, even in the shadowed glow of the dashboard lights, look softer.
Softer, and entirely on you.
And though you can’t hear it, though he would never say it aloud, there’s an ache in his gaze, a silent wish tucked into the stillness of his frame.
If only you knew how much he wanted you to linger. If only you knew how badly he wanted to reach across that space, to stop you from walking away, to ask you to stay just a little longer.
But instead, he sits where he is, composed as ever, letting you go because that’s what restraint looks like on him, and because you don’t yet see the storm he’s holding back.
—
The morning drags you awake with the heavy weight of sickness pressing into your bones, the dim gray light filtering through the blinds making it clear that the world has moved forward without you.
Your head throbs with a relentless ache, each pulse echoing behind your eyes, and your skin feels too hot and too cold all at once. You try to sit up, only to sink back down as a wave of dizziness rolls through you, forcing you to breathe shallow and slow until the room steadies again.
The phone on your nightstand glows faintly, its screen fractured by morning notifications, and just the thought of reaching for it makes your arm feel like it’s moving through water.
Still, you know what you have to do.
With trembling fingers, you dial the hospital, your voice hoarse as you tell the charge nurse that you won’t be in today. The words scrape against your throat, each syllable laced with guilt— the kind of guilt that comes from knowing you’re leaving your team short, that your absence will be felt.
You hang up and let the phone fall against the sheets, the relief of permission battling with the gnawing unease of letting go.
For a moment, the silence is thick, broken only by the shallow rasp of your breathing. Then the phone buzzes, a faint vibration that seems louder than it should in the stillness of your bedroom. You blink, pull it close, and the screen lights your face with a name you weren’t expecting at this hour.
Zayne.
The text is simple, precise, the way everything about him is.
Are you alright?
Your heart stutters in your chest, skipping in a way the fever cannot account for.
He doesn’t waste words, doesn’t soften them with unnecessary flourishes, but the question itself is enough to unsettle you.
He knows. He noticed.
Somehow, without being told, he reached through the distance and asked. You stare at the message, your thumb hovering uncertainly over the screen, torn between answering quickly and taking a moment longer just to let yourself feel the weight of being asked.
The light from the phone glints faintly off the curve of the sheets, off your damp hair spilling over the pillow, and you realize that even in your feverish haze, even here alone, his presence has found a way to reach you.
Your thumb hesitates over the keyboard, the fever making it hard to think straight, but eventually you type out a reply that feels safe, professional, the kind of answer that won’t betray the way your pulse is still unsteady.
I’m fine. Just a fever. I called in sick today.
The message sends, the little bubble sliding up the screen, and you drop the phone onto the sheets as if distance will help loosen the tension coiling tight in your chest.
You close your eyes, hoping he won’t answer, hoping this was just a fleeting check-in, but the buzz comes almost immediately, startling you.
What have you eaten?
You let out a soft, incredulous laugh, the sound muffled in the pillow. Your body aches, your throat burns, and here he is, asking the kind of question no one else ever remembers to ask. You start typing, then erase it, then type again.
Haven’t yet. Don’t have the energy.
The response is instant, almost too fast, as though he’d been waiting for your answer.
I’ll send something. Stay in bed.
You sit up a little, blinking at the message, your brows knitting as you stare at the words.
He doesn’t phrase it as an offer. He doesn’t even ask. It’s directive, firm but not unkind. It's the same tone he uses in surgery when there’s no room for hesitation.
Your chest tightens with something that isn’t fever, something sharper, heavier, and entirely unwelcome in its intensity.
A second buzz follows before you can type back.
Broth. Tea. Ginger. Nothing heavy.
You sink back into the pillows, your phone balanced against your chest, your heart thudding in quiet disbelief. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
You want to argue, to insist you can manage on your own, but you know that’s a lie.
And even if it weren’t— the truth is, you don’t want to fight him on this. Not when part of you is grateful. Not when part of you feels seen in a way that unsettles you more than the fever.
By the time the delivery arrives, the doorbell cutting through the haze of your sleep, the scent of ginger and warm broth filling the apartment feels like proof of something you can’t yet name.
Dragging yourself toward the door, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the hallway mirror.
Hair tangled and damp against your temples, eyes glassy, skin pale and overheated all at once.
When you open the door, there’s no one there, just a neatly placed paper bag resting on the welcome mat, the faint curl of steam escaping from the top.
You glance down at it, heart knocking harder than it should, because somehow this is worse than if he had been standing there himself.
The absence makes it intimate in a way you can’t explain. He thought of you, ordered this, ensured it arrived here, all without needing acknowledgment.
Carrying the bag inside, you set it on the counter, fingers trembling as you unpack the containers.
Broth, still warm enough to fog the lid. Herbal tea, the cup double-wrapped to keep the heat. A small container of ginger cut into clean, neat slices. Nothing heavy, just as he’d said. It’s practical, efficient, and thoughtful.
You lower yourself into a chair, spoon in hand, and find your throat tightening before the first sip even reaches your mouth. It isn’t about the food, though the warmth seeps into you like medicine. It’s about the fact that someone saw you and didn’t hesitate to steady you.
That someone was him.
And as much as you want to tell yourself not to read into it, you can’t ignore the way it makes you feel.
When your phone buzzes again on the table beside you, you don’t reach for it right away. You just sit there with the steam curling up into your face, broth cradled between your hands, heartbeat loud in the silence. Because some part of you already knows it’s him. And some part of you isn’t sure if you’re ready to see what he’ll say next.
The phone buzzes again, a small vibration against the wood of the table, pulling you from the warmth of the broth you’ve been nursing. For a moment you stare at it like it might bite, the screen lighting up in the corner of your vision but your body reluctant to move, as though reading it will make whatever’s written there too real.
Finally, you reach for it, fingers hesitant, and swipe the screen.
Zayne.
The name alone makes your breath catch, and then the words appear — short, precise, like him, but threaded with something you can’t quite name.
Eat slowly. Don’t try to rush it. Let me know if you need anything else.
Your thumb hovers over the glass, caught between the instinct to reply immediately and the urge to savor the fact that he sent it at all. The message itself is simple, practical even, the kind of thing he might say during rounds about a patient — but here, directed at you, it feels different.
Personal. Protective. Almost tender in a way that makes your chest ache.
You set the phone down again, pressing your palm against the table to ground yourself, but your mind is already racing. He didn’t have to send another message. He didn’t have to order the food in the first place. He didn’t have to notice you at all this morning, yet here he is, carving out space in your day even from a distance, as though your well-being is something he refuses to leave unattended.
You type and erase three different replies before settling on the safest one you can manage.
Thank you. I’m eating now. The soup’s good.
You stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, your chest tightening with the ridiculous thought that it sounds too bare of what you really want to say — that his gesture touched you more than it should have, that the fact he noticed you were gone this morning has been echoing in your mind since you woke.
But before you can overthink it into oblivion, you hit send and toss the phone onto the couch cushion beside you, burying yourself under the blanket again as if that small motion could hide your nerves.
His reply comes faster than you expect.
Good.
Just one word.
Nothing else.
Yet when you read it, your lips curl into the faintest, traitorous smile, because even with so little, it feels like him. Curt, efficient, but leaving you with the certainty that he’s still thinking about you.
—
By the time night falls, your fever has cooled to a dull ache, though your limbs still feel heavy as lead and your head swims whenever you stand too quickly. You’ve spent the entire day drifting in and out of shallow sleep, curled up in the half-light of your apartment, the hum of the heater filling the quiet like a low, steady pulse. The city outside is alive again — muted sounds of traffic bleeding through the windows, the occasional horn, the faint rumble of the subway underfoot.
You’re just beginning to think about making tea when a knock at the door startles you upright.
You pad across the floor, tightening the blanket around your shoulders, half-dreading, half-hoping, and when you open the door, the sight waiting there steals the rest of the air from your lungs.
Zayne.
He stands there in his long black coat, collar turned neatly up against the chill, silver-framed glasses catching the faint glow of the hall light. His hair is still perfectly in place, though there’s the slightest crease at the corner of his shirt collar, as though he came here straight from work without stopping. In his hand, a paper bag you immediately recognize as from the pharmacy down the street.
His eyes meet yours, steady, clinical at first — and then softer, lingering, scanning the flush on your cheeks, the blanket clutched at your chest, the way you’re blinking at him like you can’t quite believe he’s real.
“You didn’t answer when I called.” His voice is quiet, controlled, but threaded with something weightier, almost taut.
“I thought I’d check.”
And before you can find words or decide whether you’re mortified or secretly grateful, he’s already stepping inside.
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
author note: heyyy guys!! thank you for waiting!! ive been kind of prewriting the next few chapters, so that you guys won't have to wait!
thank you for the tags LOVE you guys and hit me up on my disc for a kiss: @gojodickbig @fayerie @sugurusladyknightt @fear-is-truth
currently reading: haha who reads lol...
last song: cowboy gangster politican - goldie boutilier
last film: superman
last series: overcompensating
sweet/savory/salty: spicy i make my own rules
tea or coffee: anything with caffeine to keep me going
working on: getting over this gosh darn cold that wants to keep me shackled in my bedroom
✦ nine no pressure tags my loves: @prosypepper @joemama-2 @letteremi @hellowoolf @redrrem @getouyuri @eraserbread @nialovessatoru @kunareads
waahh ty for the tag beloveds!!! @teataglia @evergreen-endo @maruflix @hojoslutoru <3
currently reading: king of envy by ana huang (i'm such a slow reader..)
last song: hands on you by austin george
last film: httyd (rewatch)
last series: fma! (just finished the tv series. wanna go watch the movies and the brotherhood series next yippee)
sweet/savory/salty: ALL !!!! depends on my mood though
tea or coffee: tea only if it's milk tea, and coffee only if it's not too bitter (i've cured from caffeine addiction but i've been slowly getting back to consuming it...)
working on: a summer writing event and possible kinktober fics 😓
no pressure tag 🏷️ @dawns-breath @killergee @justwinginglife @kissagii @deathbynini @iluocha @soratonin @fig-parfait @fittsysart + anybody who'd like to join ^^
OMG I just realized I never finished this lmao. Adhd brain. I love these tag games.
Currently reading: ummm nothing atm but I wish I had the motivation to finally finish the book I’m nearly done with which is Rule of Wolves from the Shadow and Bone series (I highly recommend).
Last Song: Wantchu by Keshi
Last Film: Kpop Demon Hunters
Last Series: Oh boy. I have so many I'm watching at the same time. Currently watching Gachiakuta, Betrothed To My Sister's Ex, The Fragrant Flower Blooms With Dignity, April Showers Bring May Flowers, KN8, To Be Hero X, The Summer Hikaru Died, and newly just started Recovery of an MMO Junkie.
Sweet/Savory/Salty: I like all of them but separately, I don’t like when they’re mixed.
Tea or Coffee: tbh neither, I’m a juice girlie. Could go for a nice lemonade. Or a smoothie. I really just like fruit.
Working on: making progress in Disney Dreamlight Valley. Fic wise? I'm not consistently working on anything cuz my brain has no motivation atm, but I do have a fuck ton and I mean a fuck ton of WIPs in my WIP Graveyard that I tend to every now and then.
No pressure tags: @ehviepls @irandial @pin-k-ink
why am I so shy now lmao, idk, I feel like I don't talk to that many people so I don't have 9 people to tag
Currently reading: nothing in particular actually. I’m in full writer’s mode 😂 so my own WIPs if you will 😣
Last song: uhm... I had an earworm from Soda Pop: My daughter found K-Pop-Demon-Hunters and I watched it together with her 😂
Last film: uhm... Yeah... See answer above 😂
Last series: I haven’t watched one on my own recently (again full writers mode)
Sweer/Savory/salty: depends actually but I tend to crave salty atm
Tea or coffee: both! I’m greedy 😂 I’m a coffee addict from morning till noon and a tea enjoyer later in the day. My hubby always serves me one for my LaDs playing time after my daughter sleeps 🥰
Working on: my spicytober list and the next chapter for the Linkon Story.
The distance between you and him was not far, but it stretched in your mind like a corridor that had no end. Every step you took seemed to echo louder than the last, the sound of your shoes tapping against the polished wood floor magnified until it almost drowned out the murmur of voices around you.
People were still lingering near the doors, shrugging into coats, exchanging quiet comments about brushstrokes and myths. But to you, their presence felt blurred, like figures painted in the background of a canvas that was not meant for them.
Your focus narrowed until it was only him.
Rafayel—no, Mo, as he called himself now—remained near the podium. He no longer spoke to the staff member; instead, he toyed with the edge of a folded sheet of paper, rolling it between his long fingers. His hands were striking in the light, calloused but elegant, with faint ridges along the knuckles like he had held weight that left its mark. His nails were short, well-kept, but his fingertips bore the faintest stains of ink or charcoal.
His short, violet hair caught the light of the gallery’s overhead fixtures, strands shimmering faintly as he bent forward. A shadow curved along his jawline, and for a moment, you thought of the water again, the glow, the silhouette you had seen in the dark.
You clenched your hands against your sides. Your fingers itched to reach for the pendant buried in your bag, to clutch it tight as if to ground yourself, but you forced them still. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, the shallow hitch in your breath, the rapid drum of your heart as if your body already knew the truth your mind was still terrified to name.
The air grew thicker the closer you came.
Your steps slowed, almost against your will, as though hesitation had wrapped itself around your ankles.
Doubts rushed in, a tide threatening to pull you back
What if you imagined it? What if the pendant was nothing more than a coincidence?
What if you walked up to him and shattered the fragile line between dream and reality, only to be left with nothing but embarrassment?
But then you remembered his eyes. The way they had met yours across the room, steady and unyielding, like he had been waiting. That memory pressed against your ribs, urging you forward again.
You inhaled slowly, the air dry in your throat, and forced your legs to move.
The last few steps felt like crossing a threshold. The voices of the gallery-goers dimmed. The rustle of coats and footsteps faded into a muted hum.
You were aware only of him, the way his shoulders shifted as he closed his folder, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the glint of the hidden chain that you knew was there beneath his shirt.
You stopped just short of him, your shadow brushing the edge of his.
Your palms were damp, your pulse an unsteady thrum in your ears. The silence between you was heavy. It was as if the air itself held its breath, waiting to see what you would do next.
You opened your mouth once, but no sound came out. Your throat had gone dry, as if the simple act of forming a word was too heavy. He was closer now than he had ever been outside of dreams, outside of blurred memory, and the nearness of him made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite name.
He must have felt you there, lingering just behind him, because his head turned slightly before you even found your voice. His gaze caught you again, and for a heartbeat, you forgot the gallery, the noise, even the ground beneath your feet.
It was just his eyes, steady and strangely familiar, locking onto yours.
“Hi,” you managed at last, though the word was barely more than a breath.
His lips curved into the faintest smile, small but undeniable, as if he had been expecting you. “Hello,” he said, his voice low, warm, carrying an accent you couldn’t place, something fluid that curled softly at the edges of the syllables.
You stared at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to stitch together composure, but the chain around his neck glinted as he shifted, and your eyes darted to it before you could stop yourself. The pendant lay half-hidden beneath the dark collar of his shirt, just visible enough for recognition to spark like lightning through your chest.
You forced yourself to look back up quickly, afraid he might notice, but when your eyes met his again, you swore there was something knowing in his expression.
As if he had seen where your gaze had gone.
As if he wanted you to notice.
“I—” you began, your voice trembling against the silence. You tightened your grip on the strap of your bag, grounding yourself.
“Your paintings… they felt… familiar.”
His smile deepened, subtle but unmistakable, and for a moment it looked as though light flickered across his face, though it might have only been a trick of the gallery lamps.
“Familiar,” he repeated softly, tasting the word as if it carried a secret.
Something in the way he said it made your pulse skip.
Your throat was tight. “Yes. Especially the one in the water. The figure holding the blade.” You felt yourself tremble, but forced the words out anyway. “I’ve… I’ve seen it before. Not here, or in books. Somewhere else.”
You thought his expression might shift in surprise, but it didn’t. Instead, the edges of his eyes softened. His smile faded, not gone, but replaced with something deeper.
“And where was that?” he asked softly. His tone carried no judgment, only a quiet insistence, like he was pulling at a thread and waiting to see if you would unravel.
The truth screamed in your chest. In my dreams. Beneath the ocean. With you. You wanted to spill it, to demand that he confirm it, to say out loud that the impossible had been real. But the words caught on the edge of your lips.
“I don’t know,” you said instead, your voice a whisper, a confession you couldn’t name.
For a moment, nothing happened. He simply looked at you. And yet in that silence, you felt something shift. It was as if the air thickened between you, filled with things unsaid. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, but you swore he was studying not just your face but everything behind it—the way your chest rose unevenly, the tremor in your hands, the flicker of disbelief in your eyes.
Finally, his lips curved again, but slower this time, touched with melancholy. His storm-grey eyes lingered on yours as if he were holding back entire oceans.
“I’ve been waiting for someone to say that,” he murmured.
Your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.
The world around you blurred, reduced to his voice, his gaze, the faint shadow of a pendant that glimmered at the base of his throat where his collar shifted. Your fingers twitched against your bag, aching to lift the chain inside, to match it against the one he hid.
You wanted to ask everything all at once. Who are you, really? How do you know this? Why do I remember things I’ve never lived? But your tongue refused to move, and instead, you found yourself staring at him, caught in a current that refused to let you go.
He leaned a little closer, not enough to invade, but enough to lower his voice so only you could hear. “If it felt familiar,” he said quietly, “then you are not imagining it.”
The words landed like an anchor. You couldn’t breathe.
You blinked once, and in that moment, you knew you were trembling, not from fear, but from recognition that your life had already begun to split apart at its seams.
The room tilted around you, the paintings on the walls suddenly distant, blurred, as if submerged behind glass. Every sound felt muted, half a world away.
All that remained sharp was him.
You couldn’t look away from him. His eyes held you there, steady, unwavering, as if daring you to acknowledge the truth you had spent years unknowingly circling.
And somehow, without realizing it, the rest of the gallery had begun to thin out. Voices retreated into the far corners, fading into indistinct hums. Footsteps scattered toward the exit. Yet you and Rafayel stayed where you were, near the podium, suspended in your own orbit.
He shifted first, tucking the folded paper into his pocket with slow, deliberate movements, as though every action was calculated to keep your attention. Then he nodded toward a quieter alcove of the gallery, half hidden by the angle of a marble pillar.
“Walk with me?” His tone was gentle, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent beneath it. Not a request. An invitation.
You nodded before your mind could catch up with your body. Your throat was too dry to answer, so you followed.
The alcove opened into a narrower hallway lined with three smaller canvases, each lit by a single spotlight. The rest of the gallery’s bustle seemed to fade out behind you. The walls were muted cream, the floor polished stone. Your footsteps echoed faintly in the hush.
Rafayel stopped in front of one of the paintings, though his gaze wasn’t on the art. It was on you.
The canvas beside him depicted a figure submerged, hair floating upward like seaweed, their outstretched hand reaching toward a shadow beyond the frame. A chill traced down your spine when you looked at it. You swore the brushstrokes captured the same desperation you’d felt in dreams you couldn’t explain.
Rafayel didn’t glance at the painting. His storm-grey eyes stayed on yours, sharp but softened at the edges, like they had waited centuries just for this moment.
“Tell me,” he said quietly. “When you looked at them… the paintings… what did you feel?”
You swallowed hard, heat rising in your chest. His question was simple, but the weight of it pinned you in place. Your hands tightened around your bag strap. “Like I wasn’t looking at something new. Like I was remembering something I’d already lived.”
The admission left you breathless. You hadn’t planned to say it out loud, but it slipped out raw and unpolished.
Rafayel’s eyes flickered, not with surprise, but with something deeper. Recognition.
His lips parted, then closed again, as if he were measuring his words. His hand shifted slightly at his side, fingers curling once before relaxing. You could feel the restraint in his movements, the way he wanted to step closer but held himself back.
Your heartbeat thundered. The air felt heavier, almost electric. “Does that sound crazy?” you asked, the words trembling.
“No,” he said, and his voice was steady, resolute, unyielding. His gaze deepened, the violet flecks in his grey eyes catching the light like sparks beneath water. “It sounds… inevitable.”
The word struck you like a current, running through your veins. Inevitable. Like this was not an accident. Like he was not a stranger.
You parted your lips to ask what he meant, ask what he knew, ask if he had seen the same dreams, but he stepped forward before you could. The distance between you shrank, just enough for you to see the faint tension in his jaw, the subtle tremor of breath leaving his chest.
“There is something,” he said, softer now, as though speaking it aloud risked unraveling everything. “Something I think you already know. You’ve always known, haven’t you?”
Your pulse roared in your ears. Your throat tightened around words that wouldn’t form. He was looking at you not like someone meeting for the first time, but like someone searching for recognition, desperate to find it.
He took a step closer, closing the space so subtly no one else would notice. His voice dropped low, a razor hidden in velvet, and when the words left him, they were meant for you alone.
“You said I had already given everything to protect you. That you carried my heart because I trusted you with it.”
The words trembled in the air, fragile yet unyielding. His eyes searched yours, not for recognition, but for remembrance. For the piece of him you still carried without even knowing. His breath caught, a soft, unsteady sound.
“And do you know what that did to me?” His voice was quiet, but it pressed against you with the force of the tide.
“To give you everything, and still… to lose you. To wake in the dark and feel the hollow where you should have been, and to keep waiting anyway. Always waiting.”
His throat worked as though the next words hurt to say. “You were the only one who made the silence bearable. And even when you were gone, even when you forgot, I could never let go of you.”
The sorrow in his voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was endless, patient, and devastating. The sorrow of someone who had carried you through lifetimes, who had lived in the shadow of an absence only you could fill.
Your breath faltered. The edges of the gallery seemed to blur, voices thinning into little more than a hollow hum against the pounding in your ears. His words threaded into you like fine needles, stitching a wound you hadn’t known was open. Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to reach for him, to anchor yourself against the grief he carried. But your body stayed frozen, as though any movement might shatter the fragile weight of the moment.
You swallowed, but the tightness in your throat barely eased. There was so much you wanted to say. Apologies that lived in your bones, questions that clawed at your chest, a desperate denial that this sorrow belonged to you. Yet the words would not come. All you could do was hold his gaze, trembling under the unbearable pull of recognition you could not explain.
Rafayel’s gaze softened, though the grief did not leave it. His lips parted slightly, as though there was still more he wanted to give you, more he wanted to reveal. You could feel the swell of words balancing on the edge of release, the faint tremor in the air between you like the held breath before a confession.
You leaned forward, imperceptibly, your chest tight, your pulse roaring. The question rose to your lips before you could stop it, a whisper, trembling.
“What... are you trying to tell me?”
He inhaled sharply, and in his eyes, you saw it. The decision to tell you everything. His mouth began to form the words, low and breaking, but—
“Mo.”
The sound of his borrowed name cracked the moment. The manager’s voice, firm but not unkind, carried across the gallery. It sliced through the fragile thread binding the two of you, and everything inside you lurched as if a tether had been yanked too soon.
Rafayel closed his eyes for the briefest second, the kind of silence that spoke of a lifetime lost in a single heartbeat. When he opened them again, his expression was composed, but his eyes still burned with the promise of what he hadn’t said.
The manager reached them, her expression clipped. “We need to wrap this up. The gallery director wants you for the closing remarks and press photos. They’ve been waiting.”
Rafayel’s hands clenched once at his sides, the faintest fracture in the calm mask he wore. He exhaled slowly, as if forcing air through lungs that resisted, and straightened with a composure that looked rehearsed.
His eyes found yours again, and this time, there was no polite distance in them.
Still, he didn’t move. His body leaned almost imperceptibly toward you, as though some invisible tether refused to let him go. His lips parted, and in a voice pitched low enough that only you could hear, he murmured, “This isn’t the end. You know that.”
The words coiled through you, quiet but unshakable, carrying the weight of something he could not yet say.
The manager’s hand brushed his arm, insistent but not forceful. That touch seemed to break the standoff. Rafayel exhaled again, his jaw tightening, and finally straightened.
But he lingered. Even as he nodded politely to the manager, even as his shoulders shifted to turn, his eyes stayed locked on you.
And then he turned, walking away with the manager at his side.
You stood there, rooted, your chest rising and falling too fast. The alcove felt colder without him in it, emptier, though the painting at your side still glowed faintly in the spotlight.
Your fingers drifted to the pendant inside your bag. The chain was warm against your skin, impossibly so.
You weren’t imagining it. You couldn’t be.
──
You left the gallery in a haze. The world outside felt too sharp, too loud, too bright. Evening had deepened into a pale lavender sky, and the city lights blinked awake one by one, but you could barely see them. His voice had not left your ears.
You carried my heart because I trusted you with it.
The words dug in, heavy and immovable. They belonged to another life, another self, yet he had spoken them to you as if you had whispered them yesterday. You replayed the moment over and over.
The way his eyes had burned with recognition, the tremor hidden beneath his composed voice, the sadness that almost broke through.
You walked slowly, as though each step was an afterthought. Cars rushed by, horns echoed, strangers brushed past you on the sidewalk, but it all blurred together. You were underwater again without even meaning to be, breath caught somewhere in your chest.
When you finally reached your car, your hands trembled on the keys. You sat there for a long moment, unmoving, watching the reflection of streetlights ripple across your windshield.
The drive home felt unreal. Traffic lights glowed too bright, each one haloed with a faint silver blur. Every time you blinked, you thought you saw something swimming at the edges of your vision, shadows that rippled and disappeared before you could focus.
At your apartment, you dropped your bag on the couch and leaned against the door, chest rising and falling too fast. The silence felt different tonight.
You touched the pendant. It was always warm.
That night, sleep didn’t come easily. When it did, it dragged you under like a riptide.
You dreamed again.
It was broken, jagged, fragments of memory spliced together. You saw yourself standing in the temple ruins again, water curling around your waist, bioluminescent coral burning at the edges of your vision. Rafayel was there, reaching for you, his eyes wide with desperate longing. You reached back, only to feel cold steel in your hand.
A blade.
And then you were watching yourself stab your own chest again, blood diffusing like dark ink in the water, Rafayel’s scream echoing through the abyss.
You woke gasping, clutching your shirt, your skin slick with sweat though the room was cold. Your chest hurts. It was not a sharp pain, but an ache.
A phantom wound.
You lie back, staring at the ceiling, your heart pounding. The edges of the dream clung to you like wet cloth. You wanted to dismiss it as imagination. But you couldn’t anymore.
Because this time, when you turned your head to the nightstand, the pendant was glowing faintly in the dark.
You couldn’t look away from the pendant. The glow was faint, almost hesitant, like a heartbeat caught between worlds, but it was enough to hollow you out from the inside. You pressed it into your palm, desperate to feel only the chain, the coolness of metal, the ordinary weight of jewelry.
Sleep was impossible after that. You drifted in and out, caught between waking and drowning, every time feeling the echo of arms around you, the whisper that had once steadied you in the dark
I’m here.
By the time morning came, your eyes ached from half-dreams and your body felt bruised from the inside out. The sun spilled pale light across your floor, warm and indifferent, as though nothing had changed. But you knew.
Everything had changed.
You pulled yourself up, forcing your body through the motions: shower, clothes, bag slung over your shoulder. You avoided the mirror because you didn’t want to see the reflection of someone who was no longer certain where the boundary between dream and memory truly lay.
Still, as you locked the door behind you, a thought followed you down the hall and into the day.
You needed answers.
And no textbook, no lecture, no late-night search would be enough.
The only person who could give you those answers was Mo.
The man who was not supposed to know you.
The man who already did.
──
You told yourself you would bury it.
It was easier that way. Easier to fold the pendant back into the deepest pocket of your bag, to pretend it wasn’t there, to pretend it wasn’t burning softly against your skin every time your hand brushed against it. Easier to put one foot in front of the other and let routine dictate the shape of your morning.
Campus buzzed as if nothing in the world had shifted. Students spilled across the quad, coffee cups in hand, their laughter bright and unshaken. The air was crisp, the sun sat high, and the chatter of a thousand conversations rose and fell in familiar cadences. For a while, if you forced your focus hard enough, you could almost convince yourself you were part of it.
Almost.
You found a seat in the lecture hall, letting the rhythm of your professor’s voice wash over you like white noise. You took notes without absorbing the words, underlining phrases mechanically, letting the ink scratch across paper as though the act of writing itself could keep you tethered. But every so often your pen would pause, hanging in midair, your eyes catching on the pendant-shaped outline in your bag.
Every so often, you thought of him.
The way he had looked at you. The way his words had cut straight to the marrow.
You tried to argue with yourself. That Mo was just a man, a talented painter with a knack for myth. That your dreams were dreams, nothing more. That the blur between memory and nightmare was simply exhaustion and wishful thinking.
But your chest still tightened when you remembered the heat of his gaze, the way his voice had dropped so only you could hear: You carried my heart.
The words replayed, unbidden, over and over again. They clung to you through the rest of the lecture. They followed you down the stairs, through the echo of your own footsteps in the hallway, into the crowded quad where the world spun on unbothered.
By the time the sun dipped toward late afternoon, painting the sky in low bands of amber and violet, you had stopped lying to yourself.
Your feet carried you before your mind fully admitted it.
The city felt louder than usual as you walked, each car horn and crosswalk signal grating against your nerves, each stranger’s voice slicing into your thoughts. You moved quickly, almost frantically, weaving through the crowd. The pendant burned heavier in your bag with every step, as if it knew where you were going before you did.
The gallery rose into view with its tall glass windows and muted banners flapping gently in the breeze. Tonight it wasn’t buzzing with a crowd. Only a handful of visitors lingered on the steps, some slipping inside, others exiting with brochures tucked beneath their arms.
You stopped just short of the door, your pulse hammering in your ears.
This was ridiculous. You could turn around right now. You could pretend this had never happened. You could tell yourself tomorrow would be easier if you just walked away.
But the moment your hand brushed the pendant again, tangled in its chain, you knew the truth. You couldn’t.
You pushed the door open.
The familiar cool air of the gallery swept over you, carrying with it the faint smell of varnish and old canvas. The lighting was softer than on the opening night, dimmed pools of gold illuminating the paintings while the rest of the gallery was wrapped in a hush of shadow.
Your footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor as you stepped further inside. The gallery was quieter than you expected, only a few scattered visitors lingering near the far walls. Their murmurs floated like background static, easily swallowed by the cavernous hush of the space.
You scanned the room once, carefully, your eyes moving across every pool of golden light and every canvas haloed in its glow. You expected him—half-hoped, half-feared—to be standing there in plain sight. He wasn’t.
Your pulse quickened.
You moved slowly, your fingers trailing lightly along the strap of your bag as you walked past the first row of paintings. Each canvas blurred, the details slipping through your attention no matter how much you tried to focus. The glow of colors bled together: waves painted in layered indigo, ruins framed in coral hues, and figures that looked like echoes of something you had seen before. But your eyes weren’t really on them. They kept darting, searching.
Where was he?
You turned down the side aisle, your shoes soft against the marble floor. A nervous warmth pooled at the base of your neck. You exhaled through your nose, steadying yourself, and leaned closer to one of the smaller works—a rough sketch of ruins beneath rippling light, its paint strokes uneven and hurried. You tilted your head, studying the marks as though meaning might reveal itself if you just stared long enough.
That was when you felt it.
The faintest brush of warmth against the shell of your ear, so soft and sudden it prickled along your skin like static.
“Looking for me?”
The voice was low, threaded with amusement, and so close it did not feel like sound at all, but vibration—something that sank into your bones rather than floated in the air.
You startled, a soft gasp escaping before you could stop it. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you turned, slow and unsteady, like someone bracing to face a storm.
And there he was.
Rafayel had leaned in so close that his presence swallowed the space around you. His face hovered inches from yours, so near the tip of his nose nearly brushed against your own. You could feel the heat of his breath as it ghosted across your cheek, warm and steady, every exhale landing like a touch.
Your body went rigid, with the kind of stillness that only came when you knew movement would break something fragile. The rest of the gallery fell away, dimming until it was only the two of you suspended in that unbearable nearness.
Your gaze locked on his, unable to tear away. His eyes were pools of shifting depth, blue and green layered with flecks of light, like sunlight piercing through storm-tossed water. They were too close, too consuming, pulling you into their current until you forgot how to breathe.
You became aware of the smallest things. The curve of his mouth tugged into a faint smile, restrained yet edged with mischief. The way his short purple hair caught the overhead lights, uneven streaks of lavender and mauve glinting as if each strand had been brushed with color by the ocean itself. A few pieces had slipped forward, resting just at his brow, and your hand twitched with the sudden, reckless urge to push them back.
The space between your noses narrowed further, a thread so thin it could snap with the smallest shift. You breathed him in without meaning to, salt-tinged and clean, like air swept fresh from the sea.
Your lips parted.
And then just as your pulse climbed too high, just as your chest began to ache from holding still so long, he moved back.
The withdrawal was deliberate, slow enough that you felt every fraction of distance return. He straightened with quiet precision, reclaiming the space he had stolen, and the cool air rushed in between you, a sharp contrast to the warmth he left behind.
You inhaled hard, almost shakily, as though your lungs had been released from some invisible hold.
His eyes lingered on you even as he leaned away, unhurried, his focus unbroken. There was no apology in his expression, no dismissal either. Only intent, carved into the quiet of his gaze, as if he had given you a glimpse of what lay beneath and then chosen, purposefully, to pull it back.
You were left rooted where you stood, caught between relief and disappointment, your pulse still racing, your hands twitching at your sides as if they didn’t know whether to reach out or stay still.
The gallery around you returned, voices and footsteps echoing faintly in the background, but the space between you and Rafayel remained charged, alive, heavier than before.
You were still caught in the undertow of his words when Rafayel shifted, his body angled closer, his voice almost a whisper. “I shouldn’t tell you here,” he said. “Not with so many eyes around us.”
You felt your throat tighten. “Then tell me where,” you whispered back, the words trembling before you could stop them.
His smile flickered, softer now, though it never quite reached his eyes. “You are braver than you think,” he said quietly. “Even to ask me that.”
The compliment landed like a touch, subtle and searing, leaving your chest tight. You tried to answer, but the air between you had thickened, your own thoughts slowing under the weight of the moment. He studied you carefully, like he was searching for something beneath your skin, as though one wrong glance might break the fragile thread stretched taut between you.
Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your bag, where the pendant lay hidden, its weight pulling at you like gravity. Rafayel’s eyes followed the movement, and for a second, you thought you saw recognition flash across his face. His gaze sharpened, but instead of reaching for it, he looked back up at you, and what you found in his expression made your stomach twist.
He was holding something back.
You forced yourself to break the silence. “Why does it feel like you already know me?” The words cracked, half-plea, half-demand.
His jaw flexed, the faintest fracture in his composure. He leaned in until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, his voice slipping between the thrum of your heartbeat. “Because I do.”
The answer hit harder than you were ready for. You stepped back instinctively, your heel brushing the edge of the rug beneath the display. The room tilted—not literally, but it might as well have—and you grabbed at the nearby pedestal for balance. He didn’t move to steady you, but his eyes followed the motion with a sharp, unreadable intensity, as though he wanted to but stopped himself.
“Tell me how,” you whispered. “Tell me why.”
Rafayel exhaled slowly, the sound laced with restraint. “If I told you everything now, you would not believe me. Or worse—you would believe me too much.” His gaze dropped for the first time, to the floor, his lashes shadowing his eyes. When he looked back up, something raw flickered through him, like grief disguised as patience. “And if you remembered what I remember, it would break you.”
The words hollowed you out. You swallowed hard, your pulse wild and uneven. You wanted to shake him, to demand he stop speaking in riddles, but the weight of his voice left you pinned where you stood.
Rafayel’s eyes lingered on yours, unbroken, as if he were weighing something in the silence. The hush of the gallery pressed around you, softened footsteps echoing distantly from other visitors, but none of it touched the space you shared.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he shifted first, his expression gentling. The tension in his jaw softened into something almost teasing, though the intensity never left his eyes. “Walk with me?”
Your brows lifted faintly. “Now?”
A smile touched the corner of his mouth, subtle but undeniable. “Unless you have somewhere else to be. There’s a café a few blocks away. It’s quiet. Let me treat you.”
The words were simple, but they landed heavier than they should have, as if he had been carrying them for longer than this moment.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, the weight of his invitation settling into you. The gallery lights, the faint hum of air vents, the muted shuffle of strangers—they all felt dimmer against the pull of his gaze.
“All right,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
Something flickered across his face then, so quick you almost missed it—a flash of relief, of satisfaction, of something deeper he wasn’t ready to name. He nodded once, decisive, then extended a hand, not to touch but as though the gesture itself anchored the promise between you.
The distance between you no longer felt impassable.
And together, you began to walk.
───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
author note: heyyy guys thank you all for waiting!! school has been manageable, so i will definitely be writing a lot more hehe! thank you guys for being patient 🥺🥺🥺
The distance between you and him was not far, but it stretched in your mind like a corridor that had no end. Every step you took seemed to echo louder than the last, the sound of your shoes tapping against the polished wood floor magnified until it almost drowned out the murmur of voices around you.
People were still lingering near the doors, shrugging into coats, exchanging quiet comments about brushstrokes and myths. But to you, their presence felt blurred, like figures painted in the background of a canvas that was not meant for them.
Your focus narrowed until it was only him.
Rafayel—no, Mo, as he called himself now—remained near the podium. He no longer spoke to the staff member; instead, he toyed with the edge of a folded sheet of paper, rolling it between his long fingers. His hands were striking in the light, calloused but elegant, with faint ridges along the knuckles like he had held weight that left its mark. His nails were short, well-kept, but his fingertips bore the faintest stains of ink or charcoal.
His short, violet hair caught the light of the gallery’s overhead fixtures, strands shimmering faintly as he bent forward. A shadow curved along his jawline, and for a moment, you thought of the water again, the glow, the silhouette you had seen in the dark.
You clenched your hands against your sides. Your fingers itched to reach for the pendant buried in your bag, to clutch it tight as if to ground yourself, but you forced them still. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, the shallow hitch in your breath, the rapid drum of your heart as if your body already knew the truth your mind was still terrified to name.
The air grew thicker the closer you came.
Your steps slowed, almost against your will, as though hesitation had wrapped itself around your ankles.
Doubts rushed in, a tide threatening to pull you back
What if you imagined it? What if the pendant was nothing more than a coincidence?
What if you walked up to him and shattered the fragile line between dream and reality, only to be left with nothing but embarrassment?
But then you remembered his eyes. The way they had met yours across the room, steady and unyielding, like he had been waiting. That memory pressed against your ribs, urging you forward again.
You inhaled slowly, the air dry in your throat, and forced your legs to move.
The last few steps felt like crossing a threshold. The voices of the gallery-goers dimmed. The rustle of coats and footsteps faded into a muted hum.
You were aware only of him, the way his shoulders shifted as he closed his folder, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the glint of the hidden chain that you knew was there beneath his shirt.
You stopped just short of him, your shadow brushing the edge of his.
Your palms were damp, your pulse an unsteady thrum in your ears. The silence between you was heavy. It was as if the air itself held its breath, waiting to see what you would do next.
You opened your mouth once, but no sound came out. Your throat had gone dry, as if the simple act of forming a word was too heavy. He was closer now than he had ever been outside of dreams, outside of blurred memory, and the nearness of him made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite name.
He must have felt you there, lingering just behind him, because his head turned slightly before you even found your voice. His gaze caught you again, and for a heartbeat, you forgot the gallery, the noise, even the ground beneath your feet.
It was just his eyes, steady and strangely familiar, locking onto yours.
“Hi,” you managed at last, though the word was barely more than a breath.
His lips curved into the faintest smile, small but undeniable, as if he had been expecting you. “Hello,” he said, his voice low, warm, carrying an accent you couldn’t place, something fluid that curled softly at the edges of the syllables.
You stared at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to stitch together composure, but the chain around his neck glinted as he shifted, and your eyes darted to it before you could stop yourself. The pendant lay half-hidden beneath the dark collar of his shirt, just visible enough for recognition to spark like lightning through your chest.
You forced yourself to look back up quickly, afraid he might notice, but when your eyes met his again, you swore there was something knowing in his expression.
As if he had seen where your gaze had gone.
As if he wanted you to notice.
“I—” you began, your voice trembling against the silence. You tightened your grip on the strap of your bag, grounding yourself.
“Your paintings… they felt… familiar.”
His smile deepened, subtle but unmistakable, and for a moment it looked as though light flickered across his face, though it might have only been a trick of the gallery lamps.
“Familiar,” he repeated softly, tasting the word as if it carried a secret.
Something in the way he said it made your pulse skip.
Your throat was tight. “Yes. Especially the one in the water. The figure holding the blade.” You felt yourself tremble, but forced the words out anyway. “I’ve… I’ve seen it before. Not here, or in books. Somewhere else.”
You thought his expression might shift in surprise, but it didn’t. Instead, the edges of his eyes softened. His smile faded, not gone, but replaced with something deeper.
“And where was that?” he asked softly. His tone carried no judgment, only a quiet insistence, like he was pulling at a thread and waiting to see if you would unravel.
The truth screamed in your chest. In my dreams. Beneath the ocean. With you. You wanted to spill it, to demand that he confirm it, to say out loud that the impossible had been real. But the words caught on the edge of your lips.
“I don’t know,” you said instead, your voice a whisper, a confession you couldn’t name.
For a moment, nothing happened. He simply looked at you. And yet in that silence, you felt something shift. It was as if the air thickened between you, filled with things unsaid. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, but you swore he was studying not just your face but everything behind it—the way your chest rose unevenly, the tremor in your hands, the flicker of disbelief in your eyes.
Finally, his lips curved again, but slower this time, touched with melancholy. His storm-grey eyes lingered on yours as if he were holding back entire oceans.
“I’ve been waiting for someone to say that,” he murmured.
Your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.
The world around you blurred, reduced to his voice, his gaze, the faint shadow of a pendant that glimmered at the base of his throat where his collar shifted. Your fingers twitched against your bag, aching to lift the chain inside, to match it against the one he hid.
You wanted to ask everything all at once. Who are you, really? How do you know this? Why do I remember things I’ve never lived? But your tongue refused to move, and instead, you found yourself staring at him, caught in a current that refused to let you go.
He leaned a little closer, not enough to invade, but enough to lower his voice so only you could hear. “If it felt familiar,” he said quietly, “then you are not imagining it.”
The words landed like an anchor. You couldn’t breathe.
You blinked once, and in that moment, you knew you were trembling, not from fear, but from recognition that your life had already begun to split apart at its seams.
The room tilted around you, the paintings on the walls suddenly distant, blurred, as if submerged behind glass. Every sound felt muted, half a world away.
All that remained sharp was him.
You couldn’t look away from him. His eyes held you there, steady, unwavering, as if daring you to acknowledge the truth you had spent years unknowingly circling.
And somehow, without realizing it, the rest of the gallery had begun to thin out. Voices retreated into the far corners, fading into indistinct hums. Footsteps scattered toward the exit. Yet you and Rafayel stayed where you were, near the podium, suspended in your own orbit.
He shifted first, tucking the folded paper into his pocket with slow, deliberate movements, as though every action was calculated to keep your attention. Then he nodded toward a quieter alcove of the gallery, half hidden by the angle of a marble pillar.
“Walk with me?” His tone was gentle, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent beneath it. Not a request. An invitation.
You nodded before your mind could catch up with your body. Your throat was too dry to answer, so you followed.
The alcove opened into a narrower hallway lined with three smaller canvases, each lit by a single spotlight. The rest of the gallery’s bustle seemed to fade out behind you. The walls were muted cream, the floor polished stone. Your footsteps echoed faintly in the hush.
Rafayel stopped in front of one of the paintings, though his gaze wasn’t on the art. It was on you.
The canvas beside him depicted a figure submerged, hair floating upward like seaweed, their outstretched hand reaching toward a shadow beyond the frame. A chill traced down your spine when you looked at it. You swore the brushstrokes captured the same desperation you’d felt in dreams you couldn’t explain.
Rafayel didn’t glance at the painting. His storm-grey eyes stayed on yours, sharp but softened at the edges, like they had waited centuries just for this moment.
“Tell me,” he said quietly. “When you looked at them… the paintings… what did you feel?”
You swallowed hard, heat rising in your chest. His question was simple, but the weight of it pinned you in place. Your hands tightened around your bag strap. “Like I wasn’t looking at something new. Like I was remembering something I’d already lived.”
The admission left you breathless. You hadn’t planned to say it out loud, but it slipped out raw and unpolished.
Rafayel’s eyes flickered, not with surprise, but with something deeper. Recognition.
His lips parted, then closed again, as if he were measuring his words. His hand shifted slightly at his side, fingers curling once before relaxing. You could feel the restraint in his movements, the way he wanted to step closer but held himself back.
Your heartbeat thundered. The air felt heavier, almost electric. “Does that sound crazy?” you asked, the words trembling.
“No,” he said, and his voice was steady, resolute, unyielding. His gaze deepened, the violet flecks in his grey eyes catching the light like sparks beneath water. “It sounds… inevitable.”
The word struck you like a current, running through your veins. Inevitable. Like this was not an accident. Like he was not a stranger.
You parted your lips to ask what he meant, ask what he knew, ask if he had seen the same dreams, but he stepped forward before you could. The distance between you shrank, just enough for you to see the faint tension in his jaw, the subtle tremor of breath leaving his chest.
“There is something,” he said, softer now, as though speaking it aloud risked unraveling everything. “Something I think you already know. You’ve always known, haven’t you?”
Your pulse roared in your ears. Your throat tightened around words that wouldn’t form. He was looking at you not like someone meeting for the first time, but like someone searching for recognition, desperate to find it.
He took a step closer, closing the space so subtly no one else would notice. His voice dropped low, a razor hidden in velvet, and when the words left him, they were meant for you alone.
“You said I had already given everything to protect you. That you carried my heart because I trusted you with it.”
The words trembled in the air, fragile yet unyielding. His eyes searched yours, not for recognition, but for remembrance. For the piece of him you still carried without even knowing. His breath caught, a soft, unsteady sound.
“And do you know what that did to me?” His voice was quiet, but it pressed against you with the force of the tide.
“To give you everything, and still… to lose you. To wake in the dark and feel the hollow where you should have been, and to keep waiting anyway. Always waiting.”
His throat worked as though the next words hurt to say. “You were the only one who made the silence bearable. And even when you were gone, even when you forgot, I could never let go of you.”
The sorrow in his voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was endless, patient, and devastating. The sorrow of someone who had carried you through lifetimes, who had lived in the shadow of an absence only you could fill.
Your breath faltered. The edges of the gallery seemed to blur, voices thinning into little more than a hollow hum against the pounding in your ears. His words threaded into you like fine needles, stitching a wound you hadn’t known was open. Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to reach for him, to anchor yourself against the grief he carried. But your body stayed frozen, as though any movement might shatter the fragile weight of the moment.
You swallowed, but the tightness in your throat barely eased. There was so much you wanted to say. Apologies that lived in your bones, questions that clawed at your chest, a desperate denial that this sorrow belonged to you. Yet the words would not come. All you could do was hold his gaze, trembling under the unbearable pull of recognition you could not explain.
Rafayel’s gaze softened, though the grief did not leave it. His lips parted slightly, as though there was still more he wanted to give you, more he wanted to reveal. You could feel the swell of words balancing on the edge of release, the faint tremor in the air between you like the held breath before a confession.
You leaned forward, imperceptibly, your chest tight, your pulse roaring. The question rose to your lips before you could stop it, a whisper, trembling.
“What... are you trying to tell me?”
He inhaled sharply, and in his eyes, you saw it. The decision to tell you everything. His mouth began to form the words, low and breaking, but—
“Mo.”
The sound of his borrowed name cracked the moment. The manager’s voice, firm but not unkind, carried across the gallery. It sliced through the fragile thread binding the two of you, and everything inside you lurched as if a tether had been yanked too soon.
Rafayel closed his eyes for the briefest second, the kind of silence that spoke of a lifetime lost in a single heartbeat. When he opened them again, his expression was composed, but his eyes still burned with the promise of what he hadn’t said.
The manager reached them, her expression clipped. “We need to wrap this up. The gallery director wants you for the closing remarks and press photos. They’ve been waiting.”
Rafayel’s hands clenched once at his sides, the faintest fracture in the calm mask he wore. He exhaled slowly, as if forcing air through lungs that resisted, and straightened with a composure that looked rehearsed.
His eyes found yours again, and this time, there was no polite distance in them.
Still, he didn’t move. His body leaned almost imperceptibly toward you, as though some invisible tether refused to let him go. His lips parted, and in a voice pitched low enough that only you could hear, he murmured, “This isn’t the end. You know that.”
The words coiled through you, quiet but unshakable, carrying the weight of something he could not yet say.
The manager’s hand brushed his arm, insistent but not forceful. That touch seemed to break the standoff. Rafayel exhaled again, his jaw tightening, and finally straightened.
But he lingered. Even as he nodded politely to the manager, even as his shoulders shifted to turn, his eyes stayed locked on you.
And then he turned, walking away with the manager at his side.
You stood there, rooted, your chest rising and falling too fast. The alcove felt colder without him in it, emptier, though the painting at your side still glowed faintly in the spotlight.
Your fingers drifted to the pendant inside your bag. The chain was warm against your skin, impossibly so.
You weren’t imagining it. You couldn’t be.
──
You left the gallery in a haze. The world outside felt too sharp, too loud, too bright. Evening had deepened into a pale lavender sky, and the city lights blinked awake one by one, but you could barely see them. His voice had not left your ears.
You carried my heart because I trusted you with it.
The words dug in, heavy and immovable. They belonged to another life, another self, yet he had spoken them to you as if you had whispered them yesterday. You replayed the moment over and over.
The way his eyes had burned with recognition, the tremor hidden beneath his composed voice, the sadness that almost broke through.
You walked slowly, as though each step was an afterthought. Cars rushed by, horns echoed, strangers brushed past you on the sidewalk, but it all blurred together. You were underwater again without even meaning to be, breath caught somewhere in your chest.
When you finally reached your car, your hands trembled on the keys. You sat there for a long moment, unmoving, watching the reflection of streetlights ripple across your windshield.
The drive home felt unreal. Traffic lights glowed too bright, each one haloed with a faint silver blur. Every time you blinked, you thought you saw something swimming at the edges of your vision, shadows that rippled and disappeared before you could focus.
At your apartment, you dropped your bag on the couch and leaned against the door, chest rising and falling too fast. The silence felt different tonight.
You touched the pendant. It was always warm.
That night, sleep didn’t come easily. When it did, it dragged you under like a riptide.
You dreamed again.
It was broken, jagged, fragments of memory spliced together. You saw yourself standing in the temple ruins again, water curling around your waist, bioluminescent coral burning at the edges of your vision. Rafayel was there, reaching for you, his eyes wide with desperate longing. You reached back, only to feel cold steel in your hand.
A blade.
And then you were watching yourself stab your own chest again, blood diffusing like dark ink in the water, Rafayel’s scream echoing through the abyss.
You woke gasping, clutching your shirt, your skin slick with sweat though the room was cold. Your chest hurts. It was not a sharp pain, but an ache.
A phantom wound.
You lie back, staring at the ceiling, your heart pounding. The edges of the dream clung to you like wet cloth. You wanted to dismiss it as imagination. But you couldn’t anymore.
Because this time, when you turned your head to the nightstand, the pendant was glowing faintly in the dark.
You couldn’t look away from the pendant. The glow was faint, almost hesitant, like a heartbeat caught between worlds, but it was enough to hollow you out from the inside. You pressed it into your palm, desperate to feel only the chain, the coolness of metal, the ordinary weight of jewelry.
Sleep was impossible after that. You drifted in and out, caught between waking and drowning, every time feeling the echo of arms around you, the whisper that had once steadied you in the dark
I’m here.
By the time morning came, your eyes ached from half-dreams and your body felt bruised from the inside out. The sun spilled pale light across your floor, warm and indifferent, as though nothing had changed. But you knew.
Everything had changed.
You pulled yourself up, forcing your body through the motions: shower, clothes, bag slung over your shoulder. You avoided the mirror because you didn’t want to see the reflection of someone who was no longer certain where the boundary between dream and memory truly lay.
Still, as you locked the door behind you, a thought followed you down the hall and into the day.
You needed answers.
And no textbook, no lecture, no late-night search would be enough.
The only person who could give you those answers was Mo.
The man who was not supposed to know you.
The man who already did.
──
You told yourself you would bury it.
It was easier that way. Easier to fold the pendant back into the deepest pocket of your bag, to pretend it wasn’t there, to pretend it wasn’t burning softly against your skin every time your hand brushed against it. Easier to put one foot in front of the other and let routine dictate the shape of your morning.
Campus buzzed as if nothing in the world had shifted. Students spilled across the quad, coffee cups in hand, their laughter bright and unshaken. The air was crisp, the sun sat high, and the chatter of a thousand conversations rose and fell in familiar cadences. For a while, if you forced your focus hard enough, you could almost convince yourself you were part of it.
Almost.
You found a seat in the lecture hall, letting the rhythm of your professor’s voice wash over you like white noise. You took notes without absorbing the words, underlining phrases mechanically, letting the ink scratch across paper as though the act of writing itself could keep you tethered. But every so often your pen would pause, hanging in midair, your eyes catching on the pendant-shaped outline in your bag.
Every so often, you thought of him.
The way he had looked at you. The way his words had cut straight to the marrow.
You tried to argue with yourself. That Mo was just a man, a talented painter with a knack for myth. That your dreams were dreams, nothing more. That the blur between memory and nightmare was simply exhaustion and wishful thinking.
But your chest still tightened when you remembered the heat of his gaze, the way his voice had dropped so only you could hear: You carried my heart.
The words replayed, unbidden, over and over again. They clung to you through the rest of the lecture. They followed you down the stairs, through the echo of your own footsteps in the hallway, into the crowded quad where the world spun on unbothered.
By the time the sun dipped toward late afternoon, painting the sky in low bands of amber and violet, you had stopped lying to yourself.
Your feet carried you before your mind fully admitted it.
The city felt louder than usual as you walked, each car horn and crosswalk signal grating against your nerves, each stranger’s voice slicing into your thoughts. You moved quickly, almost frantically, weaving through the crowd. The pendant burned heavier in your bag with every step, as if it knew where you were going before you did.
The gallery rose into view with its tall glass windows and muted banners flapping gently in the breeze. Tonight it wasn’t buzzing with a crowd. Only a handful of visitors lingered on the steps, some slipping inside, others exiting with brochures tucked beneath their arms.
You stopped just short of the door, your pulse hammering in your ears.
This was ridiculous. You could turn around right now. You could pretend this had never happened. You could tell yourself tomorrow would be easier if you just walked away.
But the moment your hand brushed the pendant again, tangled in its chain, you knew the truth. You couldn’t.
You pushed the door open.
The familiar cool air of the gallery swept over you, carrying with it the faint smell of varnish and old canvas. The lighting was softer than on the opening night, dimmed pools of gold illuminating the paintings while the rest of the gallery was wrapped in a hush of shadow.
Your footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor as you stepped further inside. The gallery was quieter than you expected, only a few scattered visitors lingering near the far walls. Their murmurs floated like background static, easily swallowed by the cavernous hush of the space.
You scanned the room once, carefully, your eyes moving across every pool of golden light and every canvas haloed in its glow. You expected him—half-hoped, half-feared—to be standing there in plain sight. He wasn’t.
Your pulse quickened.
You moved slowly, your fingers trailing lightly along the strap of your bag as you walked past the first row of paintings. Each canvas blurred, the details slipping through your attention no matter how much you tried to focus. The glow of colors bled together: waves painted in layered indigo, ruins framed in coral hues, and figures that looked like echoes of something you had seen before. But your eyes weren’t really on them. They kept darting, searching.
Where was he?
You turned down the side aisle, your shoes soft against the marble floor. A nervous warmth pooled at the base of your neck. You exhaled through your nose, steadying yourself, and leaned closer to one of the smaller works—a rough sketch of ruins beneath rippling light, its paint strokes uneven and hurried. You tilted your head, studying the marks as though meaning might reveal itself if you just stared long enough.
That was when you felt it.
The faintest brush of warmth against the shell of your ear, so soft and sudden it prickled along your skin like static.
“Looking for me?”
The voice was low, threaded with amusement, and so close it did not feel like sound at all, but vibration—something that sank into your bones rather than floated in the air.
You startled, a soft gasp escaping before you could stop it. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you turned, slow and unsteady, like someone bracing to face a storm.
And there he was.
Rafayel had leaned in so close that his presence swallowed the space around you. His face hovered inches from yours, so near the tip of his nose nearly brushed against your own. You could feel the heat of his breath as it ghosted across your cheek, warm and steady, every exhale landing like a touch.
Your body went rigid, with the kind of stillness that only came when you knew movement would break something fragile. The rest of the gallery fell away, dimming until it was only the two of you suspended in that unbearable nearness.
Your gaze locked on his, unable to tear away. His eyes were pools of shifting depth, blue and green layered with flecks of light, like sunlight piercing through storm-tossed water. They were too close, too consuming, pulling you into their current until you forgot how to breathe.
You became aware of the smallest things. The curve of his mouth tugged into a faint smile, restrained yet edged with mischief. The way his short purple hair caught the overhead lights, uneven streaks of lavender and mauve glinting as if each strand had been brushed with color by the ocean itself. A few pieces had slipped forward, resting just at his brow, and your hand twitched with the sudden, reckless urge to push them back.
The space between your noses narrowed further, a thread so thin it could snap with the smallest shift. You breathed him in without meaning to, salt-tinged and clean, like air swept fresh from the sea.
Your lips parted.
And then just as your pulse climbed too high, just as your chest began to ache from holding still so long, he moved back.
The withdrawal was deliberate, slow enough that you felt every fraction of distance return. He straightened with quiet precision, reclaiming the space he had stolen, and the cool air rushed in between you, a sharp contrast to the warmth he left behind.
You inhaled hard, almost shakily, as though your lungs had been released from some invisible hold.
His eyes lingered on you even as he leaned away, unhurried, his focus unbroken. There was no apology in his expression, no dismissal either. Only intent, carved into the quiet of his gaze, as if he had given you a glimpse of what lay beneath and then chosen, purposefully, to pull it back.
You were left rooted where you stood, caught between relief and disappointment, your pulse still racing, your hands twitching at your sides as if they didn’t know whether to reach out or stay still.
The gallery around you returned, voices and footsteps echoing faintly in the background, but the space between you and Rafayel remained charged, alive, heavier than before.
You were still caught in the undertow of his words when Rafayel shifted, his body angled closer, his voice almost a whisper. “I shouldn’t tell you here,” he said. “Not with so many eyes around us.”
You felt your throat tighten. “Then tell me where,” you whispered back, the words trembling before you could stop them.
His smile flickered, softer now, though it never quite reached his eyes. “You are braver than you think,” he said quietly. “Even to ask me that.”
The compliment landed like a touch, subtle and searing, leaving your chest tight. You tried to answer, but the air between you had thickened, your own thoughts slowing under the weight of the moment. He studied you carefully, like he was searching for something beneath your skin, as though one wrong glance might break the fragile thread stretched taut between you.
Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your bag, where the pendant lay hidden, its weight pulling at you like gravity. Rafayel’s eyes followed the movement, and for a second, you thought you saw recognition flash across his face. His gaze sharpened, but instead of reaching for it, he looked back up at you, and what you found in his expression made your stomach twist.
He was holding something back.
You forced yourself to break the silence. “Why does it feel like you already know me?” The words cracked, half-plea, half-demand.
His jaw flexed, the faintest fracture in his composure. He leaned in until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, his voice slipping between the thrum of your heartbeat. “Because I do.”
The answer hit harder than you were ready for. You stepped back instinctively, your heel brushing the edge of the rug beneath the display. The room tilted—not literally, but it might as well have—and you grabbed at the nearby pedestal for balance. He didn’t move to steady you, but his eyes followed the motion with a sharp, unreadable intensity, as though he wanted to but stopped himself.
“Tell me how,” you whispered. “Tell me why.”
Rafayel exhaled slowly, the sound laced with restraint. “If I told you everything now, you would not believe me. Or worse—you would believe me too much.” His gaze dropped for the first time, to the floor, his lashes shadowing his eyes. When he looked back up, something raw flickered through him, like grief disguised as patience. “And if you remembered what I remember, it would break you.”
The words hollowed you out. You swallowed hard, your pulse wild and uneven. You wanted to shake him, to demand he stop speaking in riddles, but the weight of his voice left you pinned where you stood.
Rafayel’s eyes lingered on yours, unbroken, as if he were weighing something in the silence. The hush of the gallery pressed around you, softened footsteps echoing distantly from other visitors, but none of it touched the space you shared.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he shifted first, his expression gentling. The tension in his jaw softened into something almost teasing, though the intensity never left his eyes. “Walk with me?”
Your brows lifted faintly. “Now?”
A smile touched the corner of his mouth, subtle but undeniable. “Unless you have somewhere else to be. There’s a café a few blocks away. It’s quiet. Let me treat you.”
The words were simple, but they landed heavier than they should have, as if he had been carrying them for longer than this moment.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, the weight of his invitation settling into you. The gallery lights, the faint hum of air vents, the muted shuffle of strangers—they all felt dimmer against the pull of his gaze.
“All right,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
Something flickered across his face then, so quick you almost missed it—a flash of relief, of satisfaction, of something deeper he wasn’t ready to name. He nodded once, decisive, then extended a hand, not to touch but as though the gesture itself anchored the promise between you.
The distance between you no longer felt impassable.
And together, you began to walk.
───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
author note: heyyy guys thank you all for waiting!! school has been manageable, so i will definitely be writing a lot more hehe! thank you guys for being patient 🥺🥺🥺
