The one who left… and came back
♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne & Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: abandonment, angst, emotional devastation, soft groveling, implied nsfw (fade to black), reunions, regret, comfort, HEA ♡ a/n: They left. No warning. No goodbye. Just silence and the echo of something that once felt safe.
Caleb
He didn’t leave a note. Didn’t call. Didn’t say I love you. Just disappeared like a ghost in the night—like he never existed in the first place.
No records. No signals. No closure. The Farspace Fleet classified everything. You screamed. You begged. You waited. And then, when it broke you completely, you tried to let go.
You stopped checking the door. You stopped leaving your comm on. You stopped imagining what you’d say if he ever came back.
Because you knew he wouldn’t.
Until tonight.
You open the door barefoot, in the oversized Farspace hoodie he left behind— and he’s standing there. Soaked to the bone. Bruised knuckles. Split lip. One dog tag around his neck. The other? Clutched in his hand like a lifeline.
His eyes meet yours, and for the first time since he vanished, you see the truth: He never wanted to go. He just didn’t know how to come back.
“I didn’t know how to come home,” he chokes out, voice hoarse.
“But I kept trying. Every goddamn day.”
And then he drops. To his knees. In front of you. Head pressed to your stomach like he’s praying. Like he’s searching for proof that you’re real and breathing and still his. His arms wrap around your waist so tight it hurts.
And you don’t pull away.
You drop to the floor with him. Wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Feel him shaking under your hands.
He sobs—quiet, guttural, broken. And you cry, too. Not because you’re sad. But because the worst part is over. He’s here. He’s yours. He’s alive.
You help him out of his jacket. His shirt. His boots. He lets you—like he's afraid if he moves too fast, he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again.
You guide him to the bedroom. He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire way.
And when you lie down, he doesn't rush. He touches you like you’re sacred. Fingers trembling, lips brushing against the inside of your wrist, your jaw, the scar on your hip. No teasing. No possessive growls. No control.
Just a soft, desperate whisper:
“I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve come home sooner.”
You pull him closer. Bury your face in his neck. And he sinks into you like a man who’s been starving for years.
What happens after? That’s between you and him. But the room is warm. The sheets are tangled. And the only sound is two heartbeats slowly finding rhythm again—together.
You never needed a grand apology. You just needed him.
And now that he’s home, you’re never letting go.
Xavier
Xavier didn’t leave because he stopped loving you.
He left because loving you had consequences. Because the last time he failed to protect someone he loved, it tore his world in half.
And this time— you were too close. Too vulnerable. Too precious.
He chose silence over goodbye. Erased his trail. Cut contact. Not because he didn’t care— but because he cared too much.
And for a while… you waited. You tried to believe he’d come back. That maybe there was a reason. That maybe he was alive.
But the days passed. And he didn’t.
Until one night, long after you stopped looking— you hear a knock on your door.
Soft. Hesitant. Like he’s not sure he deserves to be on the other side of it.
You open it, heart already pounding— and he’s there.
Rain-soaked. Exhausted. Hair longer. Expression unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes are haunted.
Like he’s been seeing ghosts for months. Like he never stopped dreaming about this moment.
“I didn’t know if I should come back,” he says—quiet. Almost apologetic. “But I… couldn’t stay away.”
He doesn’t step inside until you move. Doesn’t touch you until you reach for him. And even then, he hesitates.
Because Xavier’s never been good at reunions. He’s only ever known loss.
But when you whisper his name—just once— his whole body folds.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day he left.
And when you wrap your arms around him, his tremble is barely contained.
He doesn’t say much that night. He doesn’t need to.
Because when he finally touches you, it’s with reverence. Like you’re made of something fragile. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he’s not gentle enough.
There’s no rush. No desperation. Just… presence.
The kind that says I’m still yours, if you’ll still have me.
Later, under the covers, he holds you with both arms like a shield— forehead pressed to yours. Fingers brushing your waist. Your name murmured once. Then again. Then again.
It’s not forgiveness he’s asking for. It’s permission. To stay. To be loved. To try again.
And when your hand finds his, threading your fingers together, he finally lets himself believe it:
He came back.
And this time— he’s not leaving.
Rafayel
Rafayel disappears like it’s an art form.
No chaos. No drama. Just a slow retreat. A quiet door. A whisper of salt in the air.
One day, he was beside you in bed—fingers tangled in your hair, sketching lazy lines against your spine.
The next? Gone.
Phone off. Studio locked. Socials silent.
And what’s worse—he left behind everything but you.
Paintings. Dozens. Hundreds. All of you. All moments he never told you meant something.
You swore you wouldn’t go looking. That if he wanted to vanish, you’d let him.
But when a friend mentions an island. A rented shack. An exhibit that never opened— you go.
Because you have to. Because even if he doesn’t want to be found… you still love him.
You find him just before sunset. Alone on the beach. Knee-deep in the tide, sketchbook soaked, hair wild, shirt unbuttoned like he forgot how to live like a person.
And when he sees you— he smiles.
But it’s not real. It’s tired. Cracked. Fragile.
“You found me,” he says, voice too calm. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want to.”
You don’t say anything. You just step forward. He doesn’t stop you.
You slap him. Hard.
Then grab both sides of his face and kiss him harder.
He stumbles back into the waves. Laughs—hoarse and aching— and lets you.
When you pull away, eyes glossy, chest burning, he finally looks like he feels it too.
“I painted you like I’d never see you again,” he whispers, hands trembling. “I thought if I could just get it right—one perfect version of you—I’d stop missing you so much.”
That night, he brings you into the studio.
Every wall. Every canvas. Still you.
Sleeping. Laughing. Crying. Smiling. Moments you didn’t know he remembered. Moments you forgot.
He says he didn’t mean to hurt you. He just… broke. And couldn’t stand the idea of you watching him unravel.
“I love you in every shade,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek like a brushstroke. “But I didn’t think I could be enough for you without ruining the picture.”
You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again.
Slower this time.
And when he lifts you onto the nearest canvas-covered table— you let him take his time.
There’s no rush. No performance. Just the sound of his breath catching when you say his name.
He touches you like you’re the only masterpiece he ever got right.
And when the lights fade, and your bodies tangle under linen sheets and salt-slick air, he whispers:
“Don’t leave in the morning.”
“Not yet. Stay until the paint dries.”
Zayne
Zayne always knew how to disappear cleanly.
No confrontation. No dramatic exit. Just... absence.
His toothbrush missing. The spare mug gone. His favorite sweater folded neatly on the couch, like a memory waiting to be grieved.
At first, you thought it was a mistake. That something had gone wrong. You called the hospital. He wasn’t on the schedule. You tried his comm. Straight to silent.
And when you went to his apartment— the locks had been changed.
He hadn’t been taken. He’d left. On purpose.
And it broke something in you you didn’t know could break.
You told yourself you’d stop waiting.
But every time the floor creaked in the hallway, every time the wind rattled the window— you still turned, half expecting to see him standing there with that clinical calm and those eyes that never said what they felt.
And then one night— you open the door to take out the trash, and he’s there.
Soaked from the rain. Collar turned up. Medical gloves half-pulled off in his pocket.
He looks thinner. Like he’s been eating guilt for months and calling it survival.
“I didn’t think I’d make it back,” he says quietly. “Didn’t think I should.”
Your heart stutters.
He doesn’t ask to come in. Doesn’t beg.
He just stands there— a surgeon used to saving lives, now hoping you might save his.
You let him in. Of course you do.
He moves through your apartment like he still knows it— like he never let himself forget.
You don’t ask why he left. Not yet. You just stand in front of him until he finally breaks.
And when he does— it’s not loud. It’s a tremble in his voice. A crack in the dam.
“There was a hit out on me. I thought they’d go after you to get to me. And I knew if I saw you again—if I heard you— I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
You reach for his hand. He flinches, like he doesn’t think he deserves to be touched. But he doesn’t pull away.
Your fingers curl around his like a lifeline.
And for the first time in months— he exhales.
Later, when he’s in your bed again— he doesn’t move fast.
He undresses you like a ritual. Not to seduce. But to reconnect. To memorize. To apologize.
Every kiss is soft. Every touch careful.
He runs his hands down your body like he’s checking for damage— like he’s still a doctor, and you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever had in his care.
“I never stopped loving you,” he whispers, lips brushing your shoulder. “I just thought loving you put a target on your back.”
You cup his cheek. Guide his forehead to yours.
And in that quiet, breathless moment, you remind him:
“I was never safer than when I was with you.”
There’s no more distance after that.
Only closeness. Softness. Breath on skin. And the feeling of Zayne holding you like a man who forgot how it felt to be wanted—and is learning all over again.
He’s still scared. But now he’s not running.
Because you’re here. And this time, he knows where he belongs.
Sylus
Sylus doesn’t do goodbyes.
He leaves like a warning— no softness, no questions. Just an empty apartment, a locked comm, and a single line scribbled in sharp black ink:
don’t follow me.
And so you didn’t.
You wanted to. Every day. But Sylus doesn’t ask for help. He dares people to survive without him.
So you did. Barely.
You stopped looking. Stopped waiting. Stopped hoping.
And then— months later— you wake to a knock on your door.
Slow. Deliberate. Like it’s not just knocking—it’s asking for permission to be real again.
You open it. And there he is.
Sylus. Drenched in rain. Hair darker, expression dull. Wearing black like a shadow that never left.
He looks at you like a man seeing sunlight for the first time in weeks. Then down. Then back up. And says:
“Tell me to go, and I will.”
You don’t. You can’t.
Your throat is too tight. Your heart is too loud. And your hands—already reaching for him—shake with the weight of every word you never got to say.
So he steps inside. And for a minute, neither of you speak.
Just silence. And breathing. And the storm still raging behind him.
He doesn’t explain. Not right away. Not with words.
He takes off his coat. Stares at the wall like it’s safer than looking at you.
And finally— softly— he mutters:
“There were threats. I handled them. But I couldn’t have done it if you were still in the picture.”
You laugh. Bitter. Sharp.
“You mean if I knew what was going on.”
He winces. He deserved that.
“I know,” he says. “I just… I didn’t want to drag you through it. Again.”
You cross your arms. Lean against the counter. Stare at him like you’re trying to figure out if he’s still yours.
He meets your eyes. For once, no deflection. No smirk. Just a question:
“If I said I regret it— every second I was gone— would that change anything?”
You kiss him before he can say another word.
Not because you’ve forgiven him. Not yet. But because the pain means something. Because the ache is real. Because you still love him— and you need him to know it before he fades again.
He kisses you back like he never expected this. Like you’re a miracle he doesn’t know how to hold.
And when you guide him to the bed— there’s no smugness. No clever remarks. Just him, trembling slightly, as he says:
“I kept my hands clean this time.”
“I wanted to be able to touch you without feeling like a liar.”
Your hands cup his face. Thumbs trace the tension there. And you whisper:
“Then prove it. Show me you’re still mine.”
He does.
Gently. Carefully. Like you’re glass he never thought he’d touch again.
And in the quiet after— when your bodies are tangled, your fingers linked— he doesn’t say I’m sorry. He says:
“I won’t disappear again. Not unless you tell me to.”
You pull him closer.
“Then you’re staying.”
And he does.