𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war.
𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — please note that this is a civilization thousands and thousands of years ago, so they probably aren't as socially accepting.. you are also of arabian and hellenistic heritage. normally i am ambiguous of how i describe the protagonist of my stories, but i'll be a bit more focused on my details in this story. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE TRIGGERS PLEASE BE MINDFUL. i will also put a DISCLAIMER of any non consensual stuff or any triggering events that may end up happening PRIOR to the actual scene. (obviously it will not be frequent thing)
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — PROLOGUE | next chapter
this will be a bit short. its the prologue— so its going to just go over a little tid bit of how everyone is going to be and you can see how the atmosphere is.
the morning is soft with silence.
sunlight filters through the sheer drapes like it’s hesitant to enter, golden dust suspended in the hush. your room smells faintly of rose oil and crushed figs, of silk warmed by the sun. servants move quietly around you—gentle hands braiding your hair, smoothing the folds of your linen dress, adjusting the golden clasp at your shoulder. you don’t speak. neither do they. it’s an old, practiced ritual. the preparation of a daughter for something unspoken.
you watch yourself in the polished bronze mirror. not a girl anymore, not quite a queen. something in between. something uncertain. how were you feeling? you felt dreadful. to be a pawn was never a good thing. a knock at the door. soft, like you can hear misery through a pounding. then a murmur. “his majesty is waiting.”
your sandals smack softly against the stone as you walk, heart quiet but heavy. the hallway stretch long, filled with mosaics that tell stories of your ancestors—men who conquered, the women who waited. you walk past them like a ghost. your father is standing near the open colonnade, among the atrium, staring out at the city below. his toga catch in the breeze like banners. he does not turn when you enter.
“you sent for me,” you say above a whisper, as the chamber echoed your voice. he nods once. his voice is as it always is— stoic. weathered by experience.
“rome has made an offer. emperor caleb xia would like your hand in marriage”
you say nothing. the wind picks up. it carries the scent of figs and pomegranates— your favorites. you stand, stiffened. is this from the emperor himself, or his senate?
“you’ve always understood the weight of your position,” he continues, still not looking at you. “this isn’t punishment. it’s legacy.” you wonder if he’s speaking to himself.
“and the emperor?” you ask softly. “do you trust him?” he couldn’t even lie if he tried. your father turns, finally, eyes sharp and tired all at once. “no. but alliances are not built on trust. they are built on necessity.” he steps closer, and for a moment, he is not a king, but your father. his hand rests on your shoulder, not heavy, but firm. “you will do what must be done,” he says. “as we all have.” you nod. because what else is there to say? no? what the hells would even happen if you said that? with an even heavier heart, and a tight lip, you bow slightly, before turning heels and walking back to your chamber.
later, when you return to your chambers, you unpin your hair with trembling fingers and stare at the mirror again, and when you look up to the mirror, your tears fall. you realize this may be the very last time you could have your peace to yourself— at least for a while. you weren’t a woman basking in the sunlight anymore. laying near the ravine with your closest friends. you were a pawn.
the air inside the tent tastes of iron and dust.
outside, the murmurs of the camp never sleep—shields being oiled, blades checked again and again, men speaking low in the hush of an almost-won war. the sky beyond the canvas is the color of smoke, the kind that clings to your skin long after the fires are gone.
caleb stands alone over the war table, eyes fixed on the parchment map that bears the scars of too many campaigns. lines drawn and redrawn. cities conquered. rivers crossed. this battle will end tomorrow, and with it, resistance in the east.
he doesn’t smile. he never does. victory is expected of him. and expectations are chains dressed as crowns. a soldier enters, bows low. news of the enemy’s retreat. talk of surrender. a whisper, almost offhanded, like it doesn’t matter:
“a formal alliance is being discussed in the senate—nabira’s hand in marriage. her daughter.”
caleb says nothing at first. he does not lift his head. just another treaty. just another crown to bind with rome. how many women were given to him for this reason? he couldn’t count the amount of attempted alliance and leverage thrown at him. a mere woman’s soul is the price of not being taken and pulled apart? no. no, this would be different.
“what’s her name?” he asks, not because he cares.. just to know what name history will one day try to stitch beside his. the soldier hesitates. then: “they don’t speak it aloud, not yet. only that she is.. magical…shadowed... her father guards her like a secret.”
caleb’s gaze lingers on the edge of the map, where nabira is inked in faint gold. a kingdom on the edge of empires. he says nothing else, and neither does the soldier, and after a couple beats skip, the soldier leaves.
caleb stays there a while longer, the quiet pressing in as he glides his fingers across the map, calculating to himself. he knows better than to believe in fate. but still—he wonders what kind of woman is hidden behind a crown, guarded like a blade, spoken of only in quiet corners of powerful rooms. was she formidable? he wonders. his heart races at the slightest at the thought of you.
and he wonders what kind of man he will need to be to win your loyalty. surely not with war? with silken drapes, and golden gifts. will he need to throw lavish expenses to win such an even more lavish heart? he was thinking too hard— he doesn’t even know a god damn thing, and this was distracting him.
shahanshah - king of kings / emperor (persian. pronounced sha-han-sha)
the night air in parthia was cool, the scent of myrrh drifting through the royal palace gardens. shahanshah sylus stood alone beneath the towering date palms, his thoughts far from the usual state matters. the sky stretched dark above him, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds, but there was little peace in his mind tonight. the soft footsteps of an approaching figure broke the silence. the emissary bowed deeply as he came closer, careful not to disrupt the stillness. “shahanshah,” the emissary spoke, voice low and respectful. “we’ve received word from the princess' brother. the decision has been made.” sylus didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. his voice, when it came, was quiet but sharp.
“what decision?”
“the marriage… it’s been arranged. the princess of nabira will marry emperor caleb of rome.”
sylus paused, his fingers tightening on the edge of the stone column beside him. he hadn’t expected this development, not so soon. but your father had always been pragmatic, and in these times of shifting alliances, a marriage to rome made sense—at least politically. still, the news stung.
“and the princess?” sylus asked, his voice colder than it had been moments before. “was she consulted?” it was a quick quiet, the emissary hesitated. “she… was informed. the decision was her father’s. from what i understand, she did not take it well. there were tears, and anger.”
sylus absorbed the information quietly, his gaze never leaving the view before him. he knew this was coming. the union of rome and nabira had been hinted at for months, but hearing it was another matter entirely. he didn’t think that your father really had the balls to actually pull through.
“her brother– the diplomat, he must have known this was coming,” sylus said, a small frown pulling at his lips. “why send the message to me now?”
the emissary nodded. “her brother… he has long worked with you, shahanshah. he is a trusted ally in trade, and he wanted to ensure you heard it from him directly. he also believes this marriage could open doors for more favorable dealings between parthia and nabira.”
sylus turned now, finally facing the emissary. his red eyes were hard, calculating. unreadable. the emissary shifted his posture.
“so this marriage is as much about trade as it is about politics?” sylus asked, voice laced with an edge. “but what of the princess? does she have no say in the matter?”
“her father has made the decision. the princess is caught in the web of diplomacy. her brother… i believe he tried to shield her from the worst of it, but ultimately, the decision rests with the king.”
sylus’ jaw clenched, and his mind raced. the political situation was delicate, but this… this felt different. he feels as if he’s seeing a life slip from its freedom.
“what does her brother say?” sylus pressed. “is he pleased with this marriage?”
the emissary hesitated again. “he does what is best for nabira. but it is clear he does not want to see her in the hands of rome. he worries for her.”
sylus’ lips tightened in thought. he had always known your brother had his eyes set on securing an advantageous position for nabira, but this marriage would change everything. the alliance with rome would tilt the scales of power in ways that were difficult to predict. an insurmountable amount of money would be handed over to the most powerful empire in the world. the silk road would bloom into something more.
he straightened, his voice firm as he turned back toward the emissary, “tell her brother that i expect an update—soon. and i will not forget what this means for parthia. if rome wants nabira so badly, they will have to deal with us.”
the emissary nodded and bowed deeply before taking his leave. as sylus watched him depart, his thoughts lingered on you. you were bound by duty, but he knew that the chains of politics could break, and alliances could shift.
“she may not have a say now,” sylus murmured to himself, staring into the night. “but nothing is final until i decide it is. and i will make sure that, in the end, she has her freedom.”
Notes: sorry for dying I’m back now, I got sick, and I hate this respectfully I will write a better piece once I’m feeling better.
Warning: mentions of dead deers, Beast!Sylus.
The first time you saw Sylus, you thought you were going to die.
Not because he attacked you. No—he stood still at the edge of the clearing, wings half-folded, steam rising from his nostrils. His skin shimmered like obsidian, black horns curving back over a crown of tangled white hair. He was… massive. Nearly seven or more feet of muscle, talons, and silent, menacing power.
He approached one day while you were outside, picking some carrots from your little farm outside of your cottage house.
And he dropped a dead deer at your feet.
Just—thump. Right there. Legs curled awkwardly, neck broken, but it was still warm.
You stood frozen, eyes flicking from the deer to the dragon-man and back again. He said nothing. Just stared, red eyes unblinking, tail twitching like he was waiting for something.
“…Do you… want me to cook it?” you asked weakly.
He blinked. Once. Then turned and vanished into the trees.
The second time, it was gold.
He didn’t make a sound at dawn. You just stepped out of your cottage one morning and there it was: a heap of raw gold nuggets and coins, like someone robbed an entire mountain.
You stood on the porch with your tea, staring at the glittering pile and blinking hard.
“…Is this a trap? Or maybe—maybe the forest spirits finally accepted my offerings of mushroom stew.”
You knelt down to inspect the coins. They were ancient. Some of them had runes you didn’t recognize. One had a dragon engraved on it. You poked it.
A low growl rumbled behind you.
You jumped, turning to find him again—towering, hulking, silent. Red eyes fixed on you.
“You again?” you whispered. “Okay, this is… this is getting a little weird.”
He stepped closer. You backed up.
“Did you lose this?” you asked, pointing at the gold. You knew how much dragons like treasures or shiny things, and getting barbecued by a dragon was not on your to do list this morning. “I can… help you carry it back?”
He stared. Then, slowly, he said, “Take it.”
You hesitated. “I mean, I guess I could keep a few—”
His wings twitched. “Take it.”
“…Okay.”
You picked up one coin.
He exhaled hard through his nose, clearly unimpressed. With a frustrated snort, he turned and walked off again, stomping like the very earth offended him.
The third time it happened, it was rocks—shiny ones. Polished quartz, opal, raw moonstone, the kind of stones that sparkled like water under moonlight. You found them lined across your windowsill one morning, arranged carefully as if someone had studied where the light hit best.
You sighed, fingers brushing over the smooth surfaces
“This again…”
The forest was silent behind you—but not for long.
A rustle. Then heavy, deliberate footsteps. Heat crawled up your spine before you even turned.
And there he was.
Sylus.
Towering, wings partially unfurled, horns gleaming in the dappled light. White hair tangled from wind and weather. Red eyes, burning like coals, locked on you.
He stood still. Staring.
You stared back, heart stuttering in your chest. “You again…”
He didn’t speak, not at first. He just nodded to the rocks with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.
“You brought these?” you asked, voice unsure.
He exhaled heavily, a deep sound from the pit of his chest. Then, in that low, growling voice, he said,
“Take them.”
You hesitated, brows furrowing. “They’re… beautiful, but why do you keep bringing me things? The deer, the gold, now these—”
“You not… understand?” he asked slowly.
You scratched the back of your head, awkward. “Understand what?”
He stared at you, expression unreadable, and then sighed—deeply. He looked down, broad shoulders slumping just a bit. Like a man who had tried very hard to follow the sacred rites of his kind and was now at the end of his rope.
Was he really this doomed?
“You are human,” he muttered. “But… pretty.”
Your cheeks flushed. “Um… thanks?”
He looked up again, eyes intense. “Good scent. Good eyes. I like your laugh.”
That only made it worse. Your heart kicked up in your chest.
“I brought prey. I brought gold. I brought treasure. I make nest warm. You live in it. You eat. You make funny noises when happy.” He stepped closer, voice rough, sincere. “I protect you. I fly over your roof at night. I scent-mark the trees so no male gets close.”
“You… what?”
He blinked once. “You are my mate.”
You froze.
“M-Mate?”
“Yes.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. A hundred things crashed into each other in your brain. The gifts. The constant watching. The deer. The way he always appeared when you left your cabin too far behind.
“Wait,” you said softly. “The deer was… a courtship gift?”
He nodded.
“And the gold?”
“A dowry.”
“…The rocks?”
“For your nest.”
“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “I’ve been accidentally accepting your… your dragon proposal this whole time.”
His tail flicked. “Yes.”
You groaned, covering your face. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I am dragon,” he said, almost stubborn. “I bring gifts. You are meant to understand.”
You peeked at him between your fingers. “Well, we’re very different, because I just thought I was being haunted by a very generous forest spirit.”
His nostrils flared. “I am not a spirit. I am Sylus. And I chose you.”
Your chest tightened at how… earnest he sounded. There was no guile, no smooth charm. Just raw, beast-like devotion. He’d been courting you the only way he knew how. And you’d been accepting everything without a clue.
“You said I’m your mate,” you said carefully. “But what if I don’t feel… ready for that?”
His eyes flickered. “Then I wait.”
You blinked.
“I do not take,” he said. “I give. Always. Until you give back.”
You stared up at him. “Even if it takes years for me?”
“I live long. I can wait.”
Your heart felt too big for your chest.
Then you reached out—slow, cautious, and brushed your fingers over the back of his hand.
His breath caught.
“…I’m not saying yes,” you whispered. “But I’m not saying no.”
His wings twitched slightly, his tail curling around your porch like a barrier. You half expected him to roar or make some triumphant noise, but instead He lowered his head to your hand, and pressed his warm, scaly forehead to your palm.
A growl, low and soft, rumbled from his throat.
It sounded like a purr.
Weeks later…
You sat on your porch, legs tucked under you, a blanket over your lap. The shiny stones had been arranged into a little circle beside you. A bowl of soup sat nearby.
A shadow passed overhead, followed by a familiar gust of heat and wind.
Sylus landed quietly for someone his size. He approached slowly, claws tapping the wood.
“You are back” you smiled.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out something small—clumsy, handmade. A necklace you’d woven with leather cord, threaded with one of the moonstones he’d brought.
You held it out, and he stared, surprised.
“You said dragons give. But I want to give something too.”
He took it, slowly, like he thought it might disappear. His claw curled around it carefully.
Then, with deep reverence, he tied it around one of his horns.
“I will never remove it,” he said.
You laughed softly and leaned back against his warm side as he sat beside you.
You still weren’t sure where this path would lead.
you should promote safe sex in ur fics, so teens know what to do
FIRSTLY, NO.
I write what I want, and if I decide to mention a condom or two in fics ( which I have done ) then I will. To make myself clear, I've been real nice about not being an asshole about who follows me - I don't have the time to go through everyone and make sure they have ages in their bio.
So, lets make this real fucking clear
I do not write for minors, I write for adults. If you're a minor on my blog, fuck off. I don't want you exposed to the shit I write because its not for you its for ADULTS.
That should be enough but I know some of ya'll won't get the fucking point. I am not responsible for you, I write what I do for ADULT grown ass women. I do not write to be your sex ed teach, I do not write to encourage you on how to do shit when you're older ( gross ). Enjoy being a kid for a little while longer and when you're 18 you can enjoy all the fucking smut you want IDFC, but I don't want you on here a day sooner than that. A lot of the stuff I write isn't good representation of what love is, esp my dark fics and I don't want anyone romanticizing. What I write is my form of therapy, I write for me and I don't wanna have anyone believing that its okay.
I am not responsible for you consuming media that just isn't for you.
It's true I can't stop you, thats obvious and I'm not fucking stupid. If you have any respect for me as an author ( I doubt a lot of you do tbh ) then you'll listen to me and respect my wishes.
to put this on stricter terms because you went easy on this anon, no offense but fanfiction is not a public health pamphlet. it is not the job of fic writers to provide comprehensive sex education in their stories, especially when the tone, genre, or character dynamics don't naturally allow for that. if you're looking to learn about safe sex, that's a conversation for school, family, healthcare professionals, or actual educational resources — not a fic tagged “#watersports” and “#monsterfucking"
writers can choose to include or exclude safe sex for any number of reasons — narrative, emotional, cultural, character-based — and that's not irresponsible. stop placing the burden of sexual education on writers who are here to tell stories, not teach curriculum.
also, “so teens know what to do” is a deeply uncomfortable justification to push for safe sex content in fanfiction. once again, fanfiction is not a how-to manual. it’s not written to instruct minors on how to have sex, and it absolutely should not be expected to.
it’s one thing to value representation of safe sex. it’s another to demand that writers teach teenagers how to have sex through fiction. if your concern is that teens are learning about sex through fanfic, the problem isn’t the fic. it’s the lack of accessible, shame-free, comprehensive sex education in the real world. don't do this to fic authors.
synopsis : It doesn’t matter who loved him first. It doesn’t matter who loves him now. The truth is, none of you ever really had him—not fully. Not honestly.
content : adultery, affairs, don’t read if you are sensitive
now playing : Meet Me in Amsterdam - RINI
“It’s me. I’ll be at your place in ten.”
The line cuts before you can say a word.
Before you can stop him.
Before you can stop yourself.
You lower the phone slowly, as if delaying the inevitable might change the ending.
But it never does.
It’s always him.
It’s always been him.
Xavier.
You press the device to your chest, as though it can quiet the war inside you, but your heart is already spiraling—spinning in soft blue hues and pale gold strands that feel like sin.
You clutch the hem of your shirt, fists trembling.
“This can’t keep going,” you whisper.
And yet you know it will.
Because you’ve never been strong enough to let him go.
You’re the secret tucked into the folds of his life, the name he doesn’t say when he comes home, the body he returns to in the hours that don’t belong to anyone else.
You’re not his.
You never have been.
Not really.
He belongs to someone else.
Xavier’s marriage is a ring you never dared to touch, a name you can’t bring yourself to ask about.
You pretend it doesn’t exist when his fingers trace your spine, when he presses soft kisses into your shoulder, when he breathes your name like it’s a promise.
But it isn’t. It never has been.
You tell yourself you didn’t choose this. That you were dragged into the wreckage of his affection like a moth to flame.
But the truth is—your heart has always knelt for him.
Even when it shouldn’t have.
You still remember the way he looked that night—the first night. Blue eyes dimmed with regret, lips parting like he wanted to apologize for something he hadn’t even done yet.
And maybe that should’ve been your warning.
Maybe you should’ve run.
But you stayed. You always stay.
Even when it breaks you.
Even when you are nothing more than the pause between his vows.
Even when he’s still hers.
Because somewhere in the quiet, when his head rests against your chest and he whispers half-truths into the dark—you believe he’s yours.
Just for a moment.
And that’s enough to ruin you all over again.
—•
You stand with the door open.
And there he is—Xavier, leaning against the frame like the weight of the world has begun to settle into his bones.
His shoulders are slouched, not from defeat, but from exhaustion. Still, he holds himself with that quiet, princely grace he’s never quite managed to shake. Not even now. Not even here.
Your heart stutters.
A silent betrayal.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely more than a breath.
You step aside without a word, letting him in. The door clicks shut behind you, and your hand lingers on the lock longer than it should.
Fingertips pressed against cool metal, head bowed. Like maybe if you stay like that long enough, this won’t be real.
But it is.
It always is.
You feel the weight of his eyes before you hear his steps. The way his gaze crawls up your spine, deliberate and lingering, like it’s memorizing the shape of your silence.
He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.
And still, he comes closer—carefully, almost reverently. As if this isn’t something that should ache.
As if this isn’t betrayal, and you aren’t already hollowing yourself out to make room for a man who was never yours to begin with.
Then his arms slip around your waist.
You flinch, just barely.
But he pulls you in anyway, like muscle memory, like this has always been his place to return to. His chin dips into the crook of your neck, nose buried in your hair as he exhales, deep and shaky.
“I missed you,” he murmurs.
The words are a wound.
You close your eyes. You force your body to soften, to let him hold you—like the curve of your spine hasn’t bent too many times under the weight of this secret.
And he holds you, gently, desperately, as if that could fix it.
As if his arms could stitch together the parts of you that cracked the moment you said yes to being the other woman.
You smile. Or something like it.
A quiet, fractured thing.
Because what else can you do?
Let him pretend. Let yourself pretend.
Just for tonight. Just this once.
As if dignity weren’t already dust at your feet.
He begins to trail kisses along your neck—soft, familiar, undoing you with every press of his lips. Your breath hitches, sharp and involuntary.
You reach for his arm, fingers wrapping around it—not to pull him closer, but to pull away.
“I can’t,” you whisper, voice barely holding together.
He stills.
His arms fall to his sides, hesitant, lingering in the space between wanting and retreating. His eyes find yours, and they’re softer than they have any right to be. “Okay,” he says. But even as the word leaves his mouth, he takes a step forward.
You step back. A reflex.
Desperation tightens in your chest—not for him, but for yourself. For the last fragment of dignity you’ve been guarding like glass in your palms.
It’s slipping. You can feel it.
He moves again.
“Just tell me,” he murmurs, another step.
Your back hits the door.
You press your palm out, a weak barrier between you and him. “Xavier—” your voice cracks.
And he’s there. Inches away.
He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.
But the air shifts. Thickens. His hand reaches up, gently curling around your outstretched one as if to steady it. As if to steady you.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.
The words unravel in the space between you. A challenge. A plea.
And you want to. God, you want to. You want to tell him to walk away, to go home to the life he built with someone else.
To leave you with at least this much—your silence, your pride, the echo of your better judgment.
But then he looks at you like that.
With that slow, honeyed gaze. With that voice like velvet slipping through your ribs.
And suddenly you’re back there—years ago, heart in hand, loving a man who only saw you when it was convenient. Who only reached for you in shadows.
You don’t tell him to stop.
You never do.
Because part of you still believes that if you let him close enough, maybe this time, he’ll stay.
And when he closes the distance between your lips, the world stills.
You forget how to breathe.
Forget how to think.
So you don’t.
You simply let it happen.
You let him in—again—despite the way your heart claws against your ribs in protest. Despite the ache that never really leaves, only hides beneath moments like this.
His hands find you slowly, reverently. They trace the curve of your waist, glide across the flat of your stomach, brush along your arms—memorizing what he already knows by heart.
And your body, traitorous as ever, moves with him.
Your arms lift, winding around his neck like they always do, like they were made for this fall. And fall you do—headfirst into the familiar ruin of him.
Into love.
Into want.
Into the kind of lust that tastes like guilt but feels like home.
You surrender, again and again, to the abyss that is him.
You lay your head against his chest, the rise and fall of his breath steady beneath your cheek—soothing, dangerous. Your own breathing has only just begun to slow, though your body still trembles faintly from the things he did to you.
Things you can’t say aloud. Things that live only in the quiet hum between stolen moments and regret.
You listen to the rhythm of his heart.
Steady. Unbothered.
Like this was nothing. Like this was everything.
His fingers draw soft, idle circles against your bare skin—slow, hypnotic. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t bring peace. Just more weight.
You don’t look at him.
You can’t.
Not even when he pulls you closer like it means something. Not even when he whispers against your temple,
“So beautiful…”
like he’s speaking a truth, not just rewriting the lie of this affair.
You keep your eyes fixed on the hollow of his collarbone, lips parted in silence.
Because if you look at him now, you might never be able to look away.
But Xavier—always gentle, always cruel in the softest of ways—lifts his hand to your cheek. His palm warm. Reverent. Mocking.
He tilts your face toward his, coaxing your gaze to meet his own. And there it is—that soft smile. The one that disarms you.
The one that pretends this isn’t a slow undoing. As if he isn’t unraveling your dignity thread by thread and calling it love.
As if your self-respect isn’t already splintered across the floor beneath your feet.
As if your mind isn’t screaming kick him out,
while your traitorous heart clings to the fantasy of a man who was never yours to keep.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
And for a moment, you nearly laugh.
Because how do you say everything?
Everything is wrong.
Everything is cruel.
Every kiss he leaves on your skin is a betrayal you’ve learned to crave. Every tender whisper another nail in the coffin you keep burying your better judgment in.
Every night he stays, every breath he takes beside you—it’s all a sin.
An unforgivable, deliberate sin.
But you don’t tell him that.
You smile instead. A hollow thing. A mask you’ve worn too many times.
“Nothing,” you whisper.
Because your heart—faithless and pathetic—wants him to stay.
Wants him, still.
Always.
“I’ll be back soon.”
It sounds like a promise, but you know better than to hold it in your hands. It isn’t a vow—it’s a transaction. A whispered lie dressed in affection.
An illegal exchange between a man who belongs to someone else, and a woman too foolish—too willing—to say no.
You nod anyway. “Okay.”
He smiles. Of course he does.
His fingers thread through your hair, slow and familiar, before trailing down to brush your cheek. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—gentle, almost reverent. As if that small tenderness can sanctify all the ways he’s ruined you.
And just like that, he’s gone.
He disappears into the dim hallway of your apartment complex, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of his touch and the echo of words that never meant anything.
And you?
You stay.
Still.
Barefoot on cold tile, your body marked by his presence, your pride scattered at your feet.
You watch as he fades into the night, back into the life he never intended to leave. Back into the arms of the woman who gets to love him in daylight. In truth. In full.
While you remain here—unseen, unheard.
Helpless and sinful.
A secret dressed in silence.
You pull the covers to your chest, curling onto your side as if the blankets could shield you from the truth of it all.
Your eyes sting, wet with unshed tears, and your shoulders feel heavy—worn down by the shame and guilt you carry like a suitcase you never set down.
“I need to stop this.”
The words leave your mouth like a prayer. A plea. A lie.
Because who are you kidding?
You won’t.
You can’t.
And worse than that—you don’t even want to.
—•
“The total will be $48.53,” the cashier says brightly, her voice cutting through your haze.
You nod, wordless, handing over a crumpled fifty. The change is pressed into your palm, forgotten almost instantly as you clutch your bag of groceries and offer a polite smile.
You turn toward the exit, steps light, mind elsewhere—somewhere quieter.
But then you stop.
Dead still.
Just beyond the sliding doors—her.
His wife.
The woman he comes home to. The one with his last name, his mornings, his full, unhidden love.
And she’s looking straight at you.
Not past you.
Not through you.
At you.
Your breath catches.
Your pulse roars in your ears, and suddenly the bag in your hands feels too heavy. Like shame has weight. Like guilt has shape.
And for a moment, the world holds its breath with you.
The soft clinking of cutlery and quiet chatter fills the restaurant around you, but it all feels distant—muted, like sound underwater.
Your hands tremble as they wrap around the porcelain cup, drawing what little warmth you can from the tea. You don’t lift it to your lips. You just hold it, as if the motion alone can steady you.
Across from you, she sits. Composed. Calm. A cup of coffee cradled in her hands like it’s second nature.
Neither of you has spoken since sitting down.
The crepe she ordered rests untouched beside her, the whipped cream beginning to melt, pooling slowly at the edges like time running out.
It’s all unraveling—quietly, politely, painfully.
“I’ve known since that night,” she says softly, almost like an afterthought.
She takes a sip of her coffee, and you’re struck—not by the words, but by the calm in her voice. The unbearable stillness. As if she’s practiced this moment a hundred times in the mirror before finally stepping into it.
But you see it.
God, you see it.
The faint redness at the corners of her eyes, the way her lashes look damp. The exhaustion in her spine, just barely noticeable in the way her shoulders droop. And that smile—still there, still perfect—only now it feels like glass. Thin. Breakable. Screaming.
She’s holding herself together so quietly, so painfully.
You bow your head, eyes fixed on the untouched tea in your hands. Shame spreads like a bruise across your chest.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
And it’s not enough.
It never will be.
“Don’t be,” she says gently, picking up her fork. “You and I both know it wouldn’t fix anything.”
You nod—small, ashamed. The gesture feels like penance. Like a child caught doing something they can’t undo, sitting in silence while the consequences settle around them.
She takes a bite, chews slowly, then glances up at you.
“How long?”
The question hangs there, deceptively simple. But something in her tone, in her eyes, tells you she isn’t asking about the affair.
She’s asking about you.
About the feeling. The why beneath the what.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You hesitate, the truth caught like a splinter in your throat. You don’t deserve her grace. You don’t deserve her voice still soft.
But still, you answer.
Quietly.
“Since college.”
And the shame deepens—because even now, after everything, she’s still asking about your heart.
She doesn’t respond right away.
Just lowers her eyes to her plate, the fork paused between her fingers as if the admission settled somewhere deeper than she expected. Or maybe, she always knew.
You wonder if she’s tracing back the years in her head.
Wondering when he started looking at you the way he used to look at her.
If he ever stopped.
The silence stretches between you, thin and fragile. You grip your cup a little tighter, not because the tea has gone cold—but because you have.
She finally exhales, a sound so soft you almost miss it.
“I thought so,” she murmurs. Not bitter. Not angry. Just tired.
You want her to scream.
To curse you.
To ask why.
But instead, she lifts her gaze, and there’s only sorrow there. Not for herself. Not for him.
For you.
“You loved him first,” she says. Not a question. A realization.
Your throat tightens.
It doesn’t matter who loved him first. It doesn’t matter who loves him now. The truth is, none of you ever really had him—not fully. Not honestly.
“I shouldn’t have,” you manage, voice cracking under the weight of guilt. “But I did.”
And she smiles.
Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just sadly. Like someone who’s been living inside a heartbreak long before you ever stepped into it.
“I think,” she says slowly, “that’s the most honest thing either of us has said all day.”
She sets her fork down, untouched food pushed aside, and looks at you one last time.
“I don’t hate you,” she whispers, and somehow, that’s the cruelest mercy of all.
Because you do.
You hate yourself enough for the both of you.
She lets out a soft chuckle—gentle, unexpected. “Thank you. For being honest.”
And somehow, that hurts more than anything she could’ve screamed.
Your head dips lower, eyes fixed on the table as the guilt claws its way up your throat, thick and burning. It sits there—unspoken, unbearable—just like everything else you never had the courage to say.
Just then, the door swings open—and there he is.
Xavier.
He stands at the entrance of the café like he hadn’t just been the center of a quiet war. As if he hadn’t been split between two women sitting at the same table, breathing the same grief.
His eyes move to you first—always to you first—and then to her.
And the shift is immediate.
The air thickens. The stillness sharpens. Your breath catches somewhere between shame and something dangerously close to longing.
She doesn’t flinch.
She turns her head slowly, meets his gaze with a calm you know she’s had to fight for.
Xavier hesitates. Just for a second.
And in that second, you see it—the flicker of guilt, the fear, the weight of everything unspoken.
Then it’s gone.
He walks over like nothing’s wrong, like he wasn’t the reason everything is.
And you?
You sit there, tea cold, spine stiff, throat lined with remorse.
Because this is the moment you realize—love doesn’t always look like choosing.
Sometimes, it looks like walking in too late.
She clears her throat—light, deliberate. A warning bell in the stillness.
Xavier has just settled into the seat beside her.
Of course, beside her.
Where he belonged.
“I’m not leaving my husband,” she says, voice calm, but resolute—like she’s drawn a line in the sand and dares him to cross it.
Xavier’s head snaps up to her, eyes wide, stunned into silence.
And you… you look at him too.
Even now. Even here, tangled in the wreckage of what should never have been, you search his face like it holds an answer. Like it might offer you something more than borrowed nights and regretful touches.
Maybe, just once—you want him to look at you and choose.
Not in secret.
Not in silence.
But truly.
And still, he says nothing.
You nod—once, faintly.
There’s no fight left in you now. Only resignation, curled deep in your chest like smoke after a fire.
Your chair scrapes softly against the tiled floor as you rise to your feet. The sound feels too loud in the silence the three of you share. You smooth down the front of your clothes, more out of habit than necessity, then lift your gaze—not to him, but to her.
“I’m sorry,” you say again, and this time, your voice doesn’t tremble.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod. She just watches you—like she understands that this, finally, is the goodbye you both needed.
You don’t look at Xavier.
You can’t.
Because if you do, you’re afraid your resolve will break.
Afraid that some desperate, buried part of you will still beg.
So you keep your eyes on the door.
And when you walk away, you do it with your head high and heart in pieces—leaving behind the man who never chose, and will never choose you.
—•
“Y/N, these just came in for you.”
You glance up from your desk, the numbers on your screen blurring as a bouquet is set gently in front of you—roses, soft and bright.
Your fingers hover before you take them, delicate in your hands like something from another lifetime. A small note peeks from between the stems.
I hope to see you smile more, it reads, scrawled in messy, hopeful handwriting.
You already know who sent them.
Your eyes lift across the room to where he sits—Rafayel. The handsome new hire with warm eyes and a smile too easy for a world like this.
He offers a small wave, a tentative grin.
But your heart doesn’t move.
It doesn’t stir.
It’s silent.
You rise slowly, holding the bouquet like it’s made of glass and ghosts. And then, without a word, you cross the room and place it carefully on his desk.
“Thanks,” you say, softly. “But I’m okay.”
You don’t meet his eyes. You don’t owe him that.
You pick up your files, your steps quiet as you make your way toward the conference room. Back to routine. Back to numb.
Because you’ve loved too deeply once.
And it left you hollow.
You’re done chasing after the shape of something that never stays.
You’re done with love.
Or rather, the twisted parody you convinced yourself it was.
synopsis : You were kids once—mud-streaked promises, pinky swears, laughter echoing through summer nights. He said he’d never change. He lied.
content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus
part one
He hadn’t meant to walk through the door.
He told himself he wouldn’t. Told his mom he had things to do—anything to get out of sitting at that table again. In that house. With you.
But somehow, his feet still led him there. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was something he didn’t have the language for.
And when you opened the door—
He forgot how to breathe.
You looked different. Not in the way people mean when they say that.
You looked distant.
Like the girl who used to knock on his window was a lifetime behind you.
Like he was just someone you had to be polite to.
And he supposed he was.
He slipped inside quietly. Sat at the table like he still belonged there.
But he didn’t.
Everything looked the same—your mom’s dishes, the chipped ceramic bowl in the center, the floral napkins folded at every plate—but it all felt off. Tilted. Like stepping into a memory that no longer fit right.
When your mom brought him a plate and smiled like nothing had changed, he nodded.
“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,”the words felt foreign in his mouth.
“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “You practically grew up with Y/N.”
And that’s when it started.
The tightening in his chest.
He glanced at you. Just for a moment.
You flinched.
It was subtle—barely noticeable to anyone else—but he saw it. The small twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes dropped to your soup like it suddenly demanded your full attention.
It was like watching a bridge collapse that he had spent years pretending was still standing.
He said nothing.
What could he say?
That he missed you? That he was sorry? That every time he saw your name on his phone, he wanted to respond, but the guilt sat so heavy in his stomach that he couldn’t even move?
He didn’t know how to explain the fear. The way he’d watched himself become the person he swore he’d never be—and then chose to stay silent because it was easier than admitting he’d already lost you.
The table erupted into laughter. Stories from childhood. The time he’d fallen from the treehouse. The brownies you once insisted had magical powers. The mud monster incident in the front yard.
You didn’t laugh.
You smiled, a tight little thing that didn’t quite reach your eyes. And then you went quiet again.
He stared at his plate.
He wanted to leave.
But he couldn’t.
Not when you were sitting across from him.
Not when every second was another echo of the past he didn’t know how to let go of.
Then your father said it.
We’re moving.
And the world tipped on its axis.
Your mother’s hand smoothed over your hair, pride in her voice as she said you’d gotten a full scholarship.
That you were leaving.
That this place—this table, this town—would soon be behind you.
His mother turned to him, smiling. “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”
His head lifted.
And your eyes met his.
He saw it all in a heartbeat.
The hurt. The history. The question.
Do you still care?
He wanted to tell you that he never stopped caring.
That he didn’t know how to say it anymore without sounding like a lie.
That everything he’d pushed down, buried under pride and fear and time, was clawing its way to the surface now that you were slipping through his fingers.
Instead, he swallowed it down.
“‘Grats,” he said.
Barely above a whisper. As if the word itself tasted like ash.
He didn’t dare look at you again.
Because he knew—deep in the pit of his chest—that if he did, he might fall apart.
—•
“Welcome to your first class of Art History…”
Your new lecturer’s voice droned somewhere in the background, muffled and distant, like it was coming from underwater.
You barely registered the words as you sat in your seat near the window, head tilted slightly, gaze fixed on the unfamiliar skyline outside.
New city.
New campus.
New beginning.
And yet, you felt hollow.
The kind of hollow that textbooks couldn’t fill. The kind that sat quietly in your chest, not loud enough to break you—but present enough to remind you of what once was.
Class ended in a blur—names you wouldn’t remember, voices that didn’t belong to anyone yet.
You gathered your books and slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping through the crowded hallway without a word.
Your new home wasn’t far. Your parents had moved again—closer this time, just ten minutes from the college. They said it would make the transition easier.
You weren’t sure if anything could make it easier.
The sun was beginning to set as you stepped outside, casting the sky in shades of orange and soft gold.
You walked slowly, letting the light press against your skin, letting it warm the spaces inside you that still ached when they remembered.
It had been a year.
A year since you stood on that sidewalk. Since Sylus looked at you like he might say something—but didn’t.
Since you told him you were moving on.
You tilted your face toward the sky, breathing in the evening air.
The light touched the rooftops like it was trying to hold onto something.
It was a day like this when you last saw him.
You wondered, fleetingly, where he was. What he looked like now. If he still wore that stupid smirk when he didn’t know what to say.
If he still wasted his time chasing things that didn’t matter.
If he remembered you.
If you were still just someone.
Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration in your pocket. You reached for your phone, swiping right without glancing at the screen.
“Hello?”
“Y/N!”
You flinched slightly, pulling the phone a few inches from your ear at the sudden volume. You smiled despite yourself.
“Jeez. Watch it, my ears,” you murmured, soft amusement lacing your tone.
“Sorry!” your old friend laughed on the other end, her voice familiar, grounding.
Then another voice came through, gentler.
“Hey. How’s your first day?”
Zayne.
You felt your expression soften, your gaze dropping to the pavement as a shy smile pulled at your lips.
“Yeah, it was great,” you said dryly. “New faces and strangers. Always fun.”
They both chuckled, and you could almost see them, hear them as if they were beside you again—back in that hallway, leaning against lockers, teasing each other before the world changed.
And just like that, the ache in your chest didn’t feel quite as heavy.
Not gone.
But not unbearable, either.
You kicked at the pebbles scattered beneath your shoes, the crunch of gravel beneath your steps grounding you as your thoughts drifted—uninvited—back to that night.
The night where the ache finally spilled over.
The night where your heart stopped pretending it was fine.
You hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of him. Not like that.
But Zayne had caught you anyway, steady and quiet as your knees buckled beneath the weight you’d carried alone for too long.
You remembered the way he didn’t flinch when your tears soaked into his shirt.
The way he said nothing as you gripped the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.
The movie you were supposed to see faded into irrelevance. You never even made it to the ticket booth.
Instead, he led you to a nearby park, settled you gently onto a weathered bench under a flickering streetlamp, and disappeared for a moment—only to return with a popsicle.
Your favorite flavor.
You didn’t even know he remembered.
He didn’t ask.
Didn’t push.
He just sat there, beside you, his presence soft and unwavering. The kind of comfort that didn’t need words to mean everything.
Your fingers curled around the cold plastic wrapper, eyes still stinging as you looked up at him through the blur.
“I’m sorry, Zayne,” you whispered, voice thin and barely there.
You didn’t elaborate.
You didn’t have to.
He understood.
I can’t love you. Not when a part of me is still grieving someone who let me go too late.
He looked at you for a moment, quiet.
And then he smiled. Gentle. Knowing.
“I know,” he said softly.
And that was it.
No bitterness. No disappointment.
Just a boy sitting beside a girl whose heart was still in pieces—offering her something sweet to hold onto, even if it would melt between her fingers.
“Zayne and I are moving some stuff into our new apartment,” she said over the phone, her voice bright with barely-contained excitement.
You smiled to yourself, already picturing her bouncing around the living room with energy she couldn’t contain, while Zayne—patient and unbothered—quietly did all the heavy lifting.
“I’m happy for you guys,” you said, and you meant it.
Not long after that night at the park—the night you fell apart in Zayne’s arms without needing to explain—something between them had shifted.
It was sudden.
So sudden, in fact, that when they told you they were officially dating, you’d nearly dropped your cup. Your jaw had hit the metaphorical floor and stayed there for a solid minute.
But you weren’t bitter.
Not even a little.
You were surprised, sure. But not hurt. Not jealous. Just… oddly relieved.
You were happy for them.
Truly.
They deserved something soft. Something steady.
And as for you—
You were still learning how to carry the ache without letting it define you.
You were still learning how to grieve Sylus in the quiet moments—without clinging to what never had the chance to become anything more.
Now, there was no pressure. No guilt curled beneath your ribs whenever Zayne looked at you a little too long.
No unspoken tension waiting for answers you didn’t have.
Just space.
To breathe.
To feel.
To heal.
And maybe that, in its own quiet way, was progress.
“I can’t believe you’re not going to college,” you sighed teasingly into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as your steps echoed down the quiet street.
On the other end, she scoffed without missing a beat.
“I’m going to be an influencer. Don’t need a degree to go viral, babe.”
You laughed, the sound soft, fond. “Sure. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous.”
You could practically hear her salute through the phone, the way she probably struck a dramatic pose in the mirror while doing it.
You smiled.
These were the moments that felt easy—untouched by everything you’d left behind.
“Okay, I’m almost home,” you murmured as the familiar building came into view, its windows catching the last blush of evening light. “Miss you guys. Talk soon.”
Their voices overlapped in a mix of muffled Okays and Good lucks, and then—
Silence.
The call ended.
And you were alone again.
But for once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.
Just… different.
A stillness that came after the storm.
“Honey, how was your first day?” your mom asked as you set your bag down on the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh.
She placed her cup of tea aside and moved toward you, arms already wrapping around your shoulders before you could answer.
Her embrace was warm and familiar—steady in the way only a mother’s could be. She pulled back just enough to ruffle your hair.
You groaned. “I spent two hours on that.”
“Oh, look at you,” she teased, smiling. “Already talking back to your mother.”
You watched as she moved around the counter, opening the fridge with that habitual grace as if this home wasn’t new and she knows exactly where everything was.
She pulled out a small plate and set it in front of you.
Cheesecake.
The good kind.
She leaned on her elbows across the counter, her expression playful as she wiggled her brows.
“So,” she said, voice laced with mischief, “any cute college boys I’ll be meeting soon?”
You scowled, grabbing your fork and taking a bite without answering.
“Mom. Don’t be gross.”
She laughed—soft and easy, like it was her favorite thing in the world to tease you.
And maybe it was.
A small part of you was grateful for it.
Because after everything, this—your parents, home, cheesecake—felt safe.
And you were learning to find comfort in the small things again.
“Class was ‘aight,” you said with a shrug, leaning your elbows on the kitchen counter. “Though… I do miss our old place.”
It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.
You missed more than the house.
You missed the memories carved into its walls.
The boy with silver-white hair who used to chase dandelions with you, laughing breathlessly as they floated just out of reach.
The front porch swing at his house, where you’d both sit cross-legged and argue over who cheated at checkers.
The warmth of late afternoons and the way time used to feel like it belonged to you.
But you didn’t say any of that.
You didn’t say his name.
Didn’t admit that sometimes, when the wind caught the edge of your sleeve just right, it felt like you were still back there—still ten years old and unaware that people grow apart even when they promise not to.
You weren’t going to admit you missed him.
Not out loud.
Some feelings were quieter than words.
And some losses hurt more when spoken.
—•
He didn’t plan to pull you away.
He didn’t even know what he’d say.
He just saw you—standing there, laughing beside someone else—and everything inside him twisted. Like something old and raw had been torn open again.
So he did what he always does.
He acted without thinking.
He dragged you behind the school like a coward looking for somewhere to hide his guilt.
You yanked your hand away the moment you stopped. Your voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
“What the hell?”
He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Trying to memorize the shape of your anger.
You looked…
God, you looked like everything he used to know.
“You can’t just—”
“Can’t just what?” he cut you off. Not because he didn’t want to hear it.
But because he already knew.
He knew what he’d done.
He just wasn’t ready to hear it from your lips.
Then your finger jabbed into his chest.
“Don’t act like you don’t know why.”
Your voice was shaking.
So was he.
“You don’t get to stand here and play victim. You don’t get to act like you weren’t the one who walked away.”
And you were right. Every word.
Still, he stood there. Still, he said nothing.
For a second, just a second, the air shifted.
You looked at him like you used to. But not with love. Not anymore.
With grief. With betrayal. With the kind of pain that comes from being forgotten.
“How long has it been?” you demanded. “How many years? How many nights have I spent alone just because you couldn’t bother to reply?”
He wanted to say something. Anything.
But his throat closed around the truth.
He saw every message.
He wanted to reply.
But the longer he stayed silent, the harder it became to come back.
And he hated himself for it.
You turned away. He thought you were done.
But you weren’t.
“Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”
He snapped out of it then, stepped closer before the shame could pin him in place.
“You’re not them,” he growled, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
You couldn’t have been further from the truth.
You scoffed. “Then what am I, Sylus?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Because what were you, really?
The girl he thought about every time his phone lit up with a message he didn’t answer.
The one he still checked the window for at night out of a habit he never broke.
The only person who ever made him feel like more than just a name passed around by people who liked him for what he wasn’t.
He wanted to say everything.
That’s what you were.
You were everything.
But the words lodged themselves in his throat, too sharp to speak.
And then—
A laugh, loud and careless, broke through the clearing.
A group of guys rounded the corner, the familiar cadence of their voices cutting into the quiet like a blade.
One of them spotted Sylus, grinned.
“Yo, Sylus,” he called, his eyes flicking to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”
You turned to Sylus, and in that instant, he felt your stare land like a weight on his chest.
Waiting. Again.
You were always waiting for him to say the right thing.
And he?
He was always too scared to give it.
So the smirk slid onto his face—automatic, defensive, false.
He heard himself say, “No she’s… just someone.”
The moment it left his mouth, he knew.
He knew he’d just ripped something fragile to shreds.
He knew your silence would come next—not because you had nothing to say, but because you had finally given up.
Your laugh was quiet. Not amused. Not bitter. Just… tired.
“Just someone, huh?” you said, voice light but hollow. “I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”
Then you stepped around him.
And he didn’t stop you.
Not because he didn’t want to—
But because his friends were still there. Because his mouth was still twisted into that damn smile.
Because he didn’t know how to reach for you without unmaking himself in front of everyone.
So he stood there.
Frozen.
They kept talking, teasing him, nudging his shoulder like none of it mattered.
But he didn’t hear them.
Didn’t move.
Because his eyes were still fixed on your retreating figure.
And for the first time in a long time, Sylus felt something shatter—quietly, irreversibly—inside him.
You weren’t his anymore.
He wasn’t sure you ever were.
But more than that now, he wasn’t even sure he had the right to miss you.
His friends clapped him on the back, loud and oblivious. “Come on, man—coach wants us there for the farewell speech.”
He opened his mouth to protest, to stall, to say not now—but they were already dragging him forward, laughter echoing in his ears like static.
The clearing faded behind him.
You were gone.
He turned once, just over his shoulder, hoping for a glimpse—one last look—but all that met him was the emptiness where you used to stand.
Still, he felt the eyes on him. Expectation. Performance.
So he straightened up. Let the smirk slide back into place like armor.
“Alright,” he said, voice light.
And just like that, he followed them inside.
Leaving the truth—and you—behind.
That night, he lay in bed, phone in hand, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light.
Your contact was still there.
Still saved under the name Kitten.
Still untouched.
Still yours.
His brow furrowed, thumb hovering just above the call button—so close. Too close.
He stared at the name like it might say something first, like it might make the decision for him.
But he didn’t know what he would say if you answered.
Didn’t know if he even had the right.
I’m sorry felt too small.
I miss you felt too late.
So he didn’t call.
His hand fell away, fingers curling into a fist before he shut the screen off and tossed the phone across the room, where it landed with a dull thud.
The silence that followed was louder than anything.
His hands clutched the hoodie you had returned, the fabric wrinkled from how tightly he held it.
It still smelled faintly like your room—like something warm, like something that used to feel like home.
He exhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat as he stared down at the worn cotton, the one thing you’d kept—until now.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, cursing himself.
Cursing the silence.
Cursing how easy it had been to become everything he once swore he wouldn’t.
Because somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your friend.
And started being a stranger who hurt you.
“I don’t need it anymore.”
You had said it so clearly, so firmly—like a full stop at the end of a sentence he’d refused to read for years.
But he heard it.
Not just the words, but everything underneath.
The years of silence. The weight of being forgotten. The way your voice trembled just enough to betray what you still hadn’t said.
And he saw it too.
The way the light in your eyes dimmed—not from anger, but from exhaustion. From the kind of pain that doesn’t scream, only lingers.
His chest ached.
His hands flew to his face, fingers tangling in his hair as he let out a shaky breath.
“Fuck,” he whispered into the silence, voice cracking.
He should’ve stopped you.
Should’ve said something—anything.
But he hadn’t.
And now the only thing he could do was sit with the echo of your goodbye.
“You think we’d still be friends when we go to high school?”
Your voice echoed in his mind, soft, hopeful, laced with the kind of innocence that didn’t know what distance felt like yet.
The streets were empty now, save for the dull pound of his footsteps hitting the pavement. He ran—not toward anything, but away. From the weight. From himself.
Back then, he’d linked his pinkie with yours without hesitation.
“I promise,” he’d said. “We’ll still be friends.”
A car honked somewhere in the distance, jarring him back for a breath.
“I won’t turn into a jock,” his memory added, almost bitterly now.
A door creaked open across the street. A light switched on in someone’s hallway.
And then it hit him. The one memory louder than all the others.
“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”
His pace slowed.
His breath caught.
He hadn’t realized what you meant in the moment. Hadn’t heard the quiet fracture in your voice, the way your eyes didn’t meet his when you said it.
But now?
Now he knew.
You weren’t used to being ignored.
You weren’t born expecting to be left behind.
He made you that way.
With every unanswered message.
Every silence.
Every time he turned away when he should’ve held on.
He made you used to him being gone.
And now that you were leaving—
He had no one to blame but himself.
And now, he was left with nothing but regret.
Heavy. Constant.
The kind that clings to your ribs, that colors every corner of memory in a dull, aching gray.
He’d told himself he wouldn’t see you again.
That maybe it was better that way.
He didn’t deserve another chance—not after the silences, the shoulder shrugs, not after he said you were ‘just someone.’
But then—
He turned the corner.
And there you were.
Just standing there.
Dressed in jeans and that lazy, thrown-on t-shirt—like you always wore on weekends when he used to show up at your door with a half-burnt DVD and snacks neither of you ended up eating.
His breath caught.
Everything else stilled.
You hadn’t seen him yet.
And he let himself look. Just for a moment.
God, you were still you.
But different now. Lighter, somehow. Not because you weren’t hurting—he knew you were—but because you had made peace with the hurt.
Moved through it.
Past him.
Then your eyes met his.
It was like being cracked open in silence.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough, uncertain—like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
“H–Hey.”
You blinked, glanced away, and suddenly the sidewalk was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“How long?” he asked. It came out too fast.
You rubbed your neck, the way you always did when you were nervous.
“A week.”
A week.
Seven days before he would never see you again, never hear your voice or even get the chance to make things right.
Seven days where you would finally be rid of him.
And he hated that he couldn’t stop it.
But he nodded. Looked down.
“I—” you started, and he straightened.
You paused, choosing your words with care.
“I don’t care about all that anymore.”
His heart stuttered.
You looked at him when you said it—really looked. And he knew.
You meant it.
And that hurt in a way he didn’t know how to name.
“I’m going to move on now,” you added, voice quieter. “A new life and all that.”
He wanted to say don’t.
He wanted to reach for you.
To take it all back. To beg.
But the words never made it past his throat.
“I hope you get all the things you want in life, Sylus.”
And you smiled. Soft. Final.
Then you lifted your hand, gave him a small wave, and stepped aside.
Let him pass.
Let him go.
He turned to watch you—hoping, foolishly, that you’d glance back.
But you didn’t.
Because you were no longer waiting.
You were no longer his.
And he…
He stood there long after you disappeared from view, aching in the quiet, wondering if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for the way he lost you—
Not in one moment,
But in all the ones where he stayed silent.
“Sylus, I’m open!”
The sharp squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym, followed by the rhythmic thud of a basketball against polished wood.
“Thanks,” Sylus muttered, tossing a quick pass before jogging toward the bench.
He collapsed onto it, chest rising and falling with every breath, sweat clinging to his skin like second skin. A bottle of water was thrust into his hand. He took it without a word, downing half of it in seconds.
It had been a year.
A year since you left—without goodbyes, without a backward glance. A year since you walked out of his life and took the sun with you.
His teammate plopped down on the floor in front of him, breath ragged, staring up at the ceiling.
“You’re killing it today,” he said between pants. “I can barely guard you. You’re a machine.”
Sylus let out a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just small.”
“Fuck off,” his friend laughed, tossing a towel at him.
Basketball had become his refuge. Since the day you left, Sylus threw himself into the game like it was the only thing holding him together.
Hours bled into days in the gym. He skipped college applications, skipped birthdays, skipped chances at moving on.
This was simpler.
This was better.
At least on the court, he didn’t have to think about you.
His friend peeked at him from the corner of his eye, the laughter fading as something more serious took its place.
“You still haven’t contacted her, huh.”
It wasn’t a jab. Just an observation. But it hit harder than any shove on the court.
Sylus stilled.
The bottle in his hands crinkled slightly under his grip. Sweat dripped down his temple, trailing along his jaw as he stared at the floor.
“No.”
Quiet. Like a confession. Like he was finally admitting to something he couldn’t undo.
His friend let out a breath, not surprised. “You should’ve just told her from the start, man.”
There was no malice in his voice. Just the kind of tired honesty that came from watching someone spiral.
He looked at Sylus then, more gently this time. “Hate to say it, but… I told you so.”
Any other day, Sylus would’ve rolled his eyes, thrown a towel at his face, maybe cracked a joke about height.
But not this time.
This time, he didn’t say anything.
Because this time, he knew.
He knew his friend was right.
He glanced at his friend—same look on his face as that day on the bleachers. The day he saw you across the court, laughing with Zayne like you didn’t used to be his.
Sylus let out a breath, low and quiet. “I know,” he murmured.
His friend huffed a short laugh, standing as he offered a hand. “Come on. Break time’s over.”
Sylus finished the last of his water, the plastic crumpling in his grip. Then he took the hand, let himself be pulled back into the court.
Where it was easier to run than to feel.
—•
Sylus dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud before sinking into the couch.
The sun had already slipped past the rooftops, leaving the living room in a soft, fading gold.
He leaned his head back against the cushions, muscles aching, the weight of the day settling into his bones.
“Sylus has been doing great! He’s actually trying out for a local team soon—”
His mother’s voice echoed down the stairs, light and proud.
He cracked one eye open to watch her descend, phone pressed to her ear, smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of him.
She always spoke like that. Like he was doing just fine.
Like he hadn’t spent a year trying to outrun everything he never said to you.
Sylus sat up slightly when his mother gave his leg a light tap, where it lay stretched across the coffee table.
“What about Y/N? How’s she doing over there?” she asked casually, her voice bright.
But the moment your name passed her lips, something in him stilled.
His ears perked up, almost involuntarily, and he found himself leaning in just a little—just enough to catch the faint sound of your mother’s voice through the speaker.
“She’s doing well. First day went great, she’s upstairs studying now—”
That was all he caught. But it was enough.
Enough to stir something sharp in his chest.
He didn’t know if he should be relieved, knowing you were okay. Or heartbroken, knowing you were okay without him.
You’d moved on. Quietly, gracefully. Just like you always did.
And yet his heart twisted all the same.
Soon, he was lost in thoughts of you.
Did you still look the same?
He pictured you—brows furrowed, hunched over your desk with a pen in hand, sketching or scribbling notes the way you used to.
The soft light of your room casting shadows on your cheek, hair tied up in that lazy knot you always wore when you were focused.
Were you smiling now?
Were you lighter—freer—now that he wasn’t in the picture?
He swallowed hard, the thought settling like lead in his chest.
Maybe you were happy.
Maybe you were better off, now that you no longer had to carry the weight of loving someone who didn’t know how to hold you right.
“I’m just saying, man—if you hadn’t let Colin’s bullshit get to you, you wouldn’t even be in this mess.”
His friend’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, cutting through the silence of Sylus’ room.
Sylus didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the mirror across from him, at the fading polaroid tucked into the frame—
You, smiling. Him, slightly out of focus beside you, hand on your shoulder.
He exhaled, voice low. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”
There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “Yeah, well… there’s no point sulking over it now. It’s been a year.”
Sylus flopped onto his bed, the mattress creaking beneath him as he pressed the phone to his ear. His friend’s voice carried on, unfazed.
“I mean, weren’t you the one who said you promised her? That you’d never be like the others? Then you got into high school and suddenly, being one of the cool kids mattered more.”
Sylus’s jaw tensed. “Hey, cut me some slack, will you?”
A scoff crackled through the speaker. “Dude, I’ve been cutting you slack. Any less and I would’ve dragged your sorry ass to Y/N’s front door years ago.”
Sylus grunted, thumb hovering before he ended the call. The phone fell beside him on the bed with a soft thud as he dragged both hands down his face.
His friend was right. He didn’t need to hear it again to know.
Somewhere along the way, his pride had started speaking louder than you ever did. His image, his place, his need to belong—it all started to matter more than how you felt.
And the worst part?
He knew.
He’d known for a long time now.
But knowing didn’t change anything.
Not when you were already gone.
His eyes drifted to the hoodie draped over the bedrest—the one he had once given you, the one you threw back at him that day without a word.
It still sat there, untouched.
The scent of your home had long faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of his room. Only a faint trace of something remained—something like old warmth, something like grief.
Just memories now.
Faded fabric, frayed edges, and the weight of promises he never kept.
And in that stillness, with nothing but the echo of your absence clinging to the walls, Sylus finally whispered the words he should’ve said years ago.
“I’m sorry.”
Soft. Barely audible.
Meant only for the ghost of you that still lingered in the room.
But it’s too late for apologies now, isn’t it?
Too late for words to fix what silence already broke.
synopsis : You met him when you were children—shy, innocent and full of dreams. Now, you weren’t so sure if he was the same person anymore.
content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus
“Hey, dude. Looks like Y/N is talking to someone.”
The voice came from somewhere behind Sylus, half amused, half smug, as if it were meant to sting.
He lowered himself onto the bleachers without looking back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So what?”
But when his gaze drifted across the field—almost involuntarily—his breath caught.
There you were.
On the opposite side, sunlight tangled in your hair as you laughed at something some guy—some forgettable boy—had said. He leaned a little too close.
And you… you didn’t lean away.
The smirk faltered.
His fingers curled into fists on his lap as he turned back to his friend, expression smooth, voice cool.
“She can do what she wants.”
But the words tasted like ash.
You can most definitely not do what you want.
—•
You barely managed to draw in a breath when your back slammed into a locker, the metal echoing a hollow clang down the hallway.
Blinking, you looked up, only to find the all-too-familiar crimson eyes locked onto yours, strands of white hair falling messily over his brow.
His grip was tight—desperate, even—fingers pressing into your arms like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“Sylus,” you spat his name, your voice shaking more from confusion than fear. “What the hell?”
He didn’t speak at first, jaw clenched. You watched the storm move behind his eyes, red glowing under the flickering hallway lights.
Anger, yes. But beneath it—something else. A tremor.
“Who was he?”
Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“That guy,” he hissed, his voice low. “Who was he?”
Your eyes narrowed. “None of your damn business.”
You shoved him off, harder than necessary, and he stumbled back a step—not from your strength, but from the surprise of it.
Of you not yielding. Not anymore.
His face twisted with something unreadable before he looked away, his voice brittle as he muttered, “Fine.”
Then he turned, the hallway swallowing him whole as he walked away without looking back.
And you stood there, the ghost of his grip still lingering on your skin. You breathed in, shallow, like it might ease the tightness in your chest. But it didn’t. It never did.
Your heart was a knot of old memories, unraveling too fast to gather.
You remembered a boy who used to knock on your door holding Tupperware full of food, cheeks red from the cold, smile too wide for his face.
“We brought extra,” he’d say, lifting the foil-covered tray. “Mom says you should come over, too.”
You were ten, shy, new in town, and he was the only light you knew in this strange neighborhood. You’d whispered, “Sure,” and he’d grinned like you’d given him the world.
Back then, he’d sit with you for hours building forts out of pillows or sharing snacks during movie nights in your living room. He’d laugh so loudly it made your parents chuckle from the next room.
But then the years passed, and so did something between you.
First, he stopped knocking. Then, he stopped answering your texts. Pretended not to be home when he clearly was—curtains moving, lights flickering, silence too intentional.
Time moved without permission. And now, in your final year of high school, the boy who once brought you dinner and made you laugh until your stomach hurt had become a stranger wearing the same face.
A boy wrapped in the shell of someone you once trusted—louder now, cockier, swarmed by friends and girls and empty laughter.
He had become exactly the kind of boy he once promised he’d never be.
You stared after him for a moment longer, chest aching with something that didn’t have a name.
Then you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, blinked away the burn behind your eyes, and walked toward your next class.
Some things aren’t worth chasing.
Even if they once were everything.
—•
Your pen paused mid-sentence the moment you heard your mother’s voice float gently through the crack of your bedroom door.
“Sylus’ parents are coming over for dinner,” she said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.
You looked up, blinking as the words settled slowly into your chest. They didn’t sting—not right away. They just lingered, like something unfinished. Something forgotten until now.
You turned in your chair to face the door, brows pulling together. “What’s the occasion? It’s been a while.”
She stepped inside, her expression soft with nostalgia, the kind that lived in the corners of her smile. She crossed to your bed and sat down, smoothing out the blanket with idle fingers.
“Well, Sylus’ father was sick for a while,” she said gently. “Now that he’s better, your dad and I thought… maybe we’d invite them over. Just to celebrate. Like old times.”
Old times.
Your eyes dropped back to the open page in front of you, though the words had stopped making sense minutes ago.
You swallowed and gave a quiet nod.
“Okay,” you murmured.
“Just dinner,” she added, as if to soothe something in you she hadn’t realized had been stirred. “A little wine, a little catching up. Don’t spend the whole evening with your nose in a textbook, honey.”
You didn’t answer, not really.
She reached over to ruffle your hair in that familiar way—gentle, affectionate, unchanged—and you let her, even as your body tensed beneath her touch.
You whined softly in protest, and she chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple before rising to leave.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And suddenly, the quiet felt too loud. Too sharp.
You sat still for a long time, the pages of your notebook blurring before your eyes.
Your thoughts drifted—unwelcome—to the boy with silver-white hair and crimson eyes. The one who used to steal olives off your plate.
The one who stopped knocking.
You hadn’t seen him in your house in years.
And now he was coming back, like nothing had changed.
Like your silence hadn’t grown into distance.
Like your memories hadn’t grown heavy with time.
You weren’t sure which version of Sylus would walk through the door tonight—
The boy who once made you laugh until your sides hurt,
Or the stranger who now looked at you like you were just another face in the crowd.
You weren’t sure if you missed the way he used to look at you—or the way you used to look back.
Either way, part of you already knew—
This night wasn’t going to be easy.
Rising from your chair, you walked toward the bathroom, each step echoing more than it should. The hallway stretched before you like a memory you weren’t ready to face.
—•
Your footsteps padded softly down the stairs, the wood cool beneath your soles.
The house was quiet, bathed in the pale gold of a setting sun that streamed through the living room windows.
Your father sat on the couch, glasses perched on his nose, fingers moving steadily across his laptop keyboard.
He glanced up when he heard you, smiling gently as you slumped down beside him with a tired sigh.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in that familiar, grounding way. “Aren’t you excited for your final school year?”
You let out a groan, head tipping back against the cushions. “I don’t even know where I’m applying for college yet.”
He chuckled, the sound warm, yet tinged with something else—something you couldn’t quite place.
Then his eyes lit with a hint of mischief as he leaned forward slightly.
“Well,” he said, tapping at his laptop, “I have a surprise for you.”
You blinked, shifting to look at him. “Huh?”
He turned the screen toward you. “We’re moving.”
The words landed before you even registered what was on the screen. Your gaze drifted down to the email displayed there:
We’d be delighted to fund your child’s education at **** College.
You read it again, slower this time. Your heart gave a faint stutter.
“The company’s transferring me,” he explained, voice softer now, more careful. “I tried to decline—told them about your studies, that your friends were here. But…”
He trailed off, watching you.
But. The unspoken things always sat louder in the silence.
You swallowed. The couch felt too solid beneath you now, too familiar for what was being asked.
A new place. A new school. An entirely different life.
And somewhere in that fog of uncertainty… Sylus.
Would he even care if you left?
You nodded absently, eyes still fixed on the glowing screen. “When?”
“End of this term,” he said gently. “Then you’d start freshman year there.”
You tried to smile. Tried to make it seem like you weren’t thinking about the hallway locker, or the way his voice had dropped when he asked who that boy was.
You tried not to think about how long it had been since he looked at you the way he used to—like you were home.
Because maybe…
Maybe this was the universe’s way of saying it was time to let go.
“That’s nice…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, the weight of it still settling on your shoulders.
Before the quiet could thicken, the doorbell rang—sharp, bright, and far too normal for the way your world had just shifted.
Your mother peeked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Y/N, honey, could you get that?”
You nodded, already moving toward the door.
You pulled it open with a practiced smile, one you hadn’t worn in years but still remembered how to shape.
“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Qin,” you greeted softly.
Mrs. Qin’s face lit up the moment she saw you. She stepped forward immediately, arm linked gently through her husband’s as she reached to cup your cheek, just like she used to when you were small.
“Oh, darling,” she beamed. “Look how much you’ve grown.”
You ducked your head slightly, a shy smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness in your chest. “Yeah… it’s been a while.”
Mr. Qin chuckled beside her. “Practically a grown woman now,” he said warmly, giving your shoulder a light pat. “Tell me—should I start worrying about you stealing hearts yet?”
It was the kind of teasing that might’ve made you blush, once. The kind Sylus would have rolled his eyes at before elbowing his father and dragging you away.
But this time, you noticed it immediately.
The absence.
He wasn’t with them.
No tall frame leaning in the background, no flash of silver hair or tired smirk, no sidelong glance as if he couldn’t decide whether to speak to you or ignore you altogether.
Just the two of them. And silence behind.
You hesitated, your smile flickering at the edges. “Is—”
You caught yourself, the question dying on your tongue.
You didn’t ask. You already knew.
“Come in,” you said instead, stepping aside.
Mrs. Qin walked past you, her perfume still the same—soft, floral, familiar. “It’s so lovely to be here again,” she said, her voice wistful. “Feels like nothing’s changed.”
You didn’t have the heart to tell her how wrong that was.
Mr. Qin followed her in, chuckling. “Well, maybe one thing’s changed. Our boy seems to think he’s too grown up for family dinners these days.”
There was a lightness in his voice, but you heard the note beneath it.
And your heart sank—quietly, invisibly.
You closed the door gently behind them, the evening air fading as it latched shut.
And in that stillness, you felt it again—
The empty space where Sylus should have stood.
Where he used to stand beside you.
But not tonight.
Not anymore.
Everyone had begun to settle into the dining room, familiar laughter echoing against the clink of plates and the scent of warm food curling in the air.
Your parents and the Qins greeted each other with fond smiles and soft embraces, voices threaded with nostalgia.
You lingered near your seat, about to ease into it, when the doorbell rang again—sharp and unexpected.
Your brows furrowed as you glanced toward your parents. “Are we expecting someone else?”
The question hung there for a beat too long.
Your mother paused mid-pour of wine, exchanging a glance with your father. Across the table, Mr. and Mrs. Qin looked just as puzzled. Four heads shook slowly.
“No, we aren’t,” your father said.
You were halfway seated before you stood again, the unease too subtle to name.
“I’ll go check. Probably just the mailman running late.”
You offered it casually, brushing invisible lint from your sleeves as you turned away.
But something tugged in your chest—a quiet pull of instinct or memory, you couldn’t tell.
The hallway stretched ahead, dimmer than before. Your footsteps were soft on the hardwood floor, and for a fleeting second, you felt the weight of time pressing against your back—like the house itself was holding its breath.
You reached for the door, heart ticking just a little faster.
When you swung open the door, the breath caught in your throat before you could even stop it.
Because standing there—leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just slammed you against a locker earlier today, like he hadn’t vanished and left you behind—was Sylus.
His silver-white hair had grown out a little since you last really looked at him, falling in loose strands across his brow. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, posture easy, casual… cocky.
That same crooked smirk played on his lips, the one he wore now like armor.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, amused—like this was all some inside joke you weren’t in on.
For a moment, all you could do was stare.
Because no matter how much he changed, how much he morphed into this version of himself that you barely recognized, some part of you still saw the boy with the tray of brownies.
The boy who once said he hoped you’d be friends.
You blinked, collecting your breath as if it had betrayed you.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” you managed, tone quieter than you meant it to be.
He shrugged. “Decided last minute.”
Of course he did.
Typical Sylus—always appearing when you’ve just begun to convince yourself you’re fine without him.
You stepped aside, not trusting your voice, not trusting yourself.
He brushed past, the cold air following him like a shadow—like the past you thought you were done mourning.
And as he walked through the doorway like it meant nothing, like he hadn’t once meant everything, you realized—
This night was going to hurt in ways you weren’t prepared for.
“Boy, I thought you said you weren’t joining us,” Mr. Qin said with a laugh as Sylus eased into the empty chair beside him, sliding in like he belonged there.
You sat down across from him, stiffly, your movements careful. Too careful.
Your mother chuckled from the kitchen doorway. “It’s alright. I prepared enough for an extra.” She set down a new plate and cutlery in front of him with the same warmth she always used to.
“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,” Sylus said, turning to her.
She waved him off with a grin. “Nonsense. You’re always welcome here—you practically grew up with Y/N.”
Your spoon paused mid-air.
That sentence settled over the table like dust.
Across from you, Sylus tilted his head slightly, eyes catching yours with that same knowing smirk he wore like a second skin.
You forced a smile, brittle at the edges. “Oh, yes. Of course.”
You dropped your gaze to your bowl, the surface of the soup trembling slightly from the tremor in your hand. You tightened your grip around the spoon and took another sip, hoping the warmth would do something—anything—to soften the knot in your chest.
Mrs. Qin’s voice rose, sweet and reminiscing. “They used to be so adorable as children, weren’t they?”
Your father laughed, shaking his head. “I remember having to patch up Sylus’ knees every other week when they’d run around out back. That treehouse incident? God, we thought he broke something.”
The table bloomed with laughter—gentle, nostalgic, painfully sincere.
You couldn’t bring yourself to join in.
Each memory laid out like that, stripped and served like something sacred, made your heart sink further beneath the floorboards. These were the moments you used to cherish.
Now, they felt like ghosts with kind faces and cruel timing.
Sylus didn’t say much. But he didn’t have to.
He just watched you—calm, unreadable, amused by your discomfort. And maybe, beneath that smirk, something else lingered.
Something quieter. Sadder.
But you didn’t look long enough to know for sure.
The conversation rolled on, voices growing louder with warmth and wine. But all you could feel was the silence building inside you, folding in on itself like paper.
The boy from your memories was gone. And yet—he was sitting right across from you, in your home, eating from your mother’s dishes, still chasing laughter from your past like it meant nothing had changed.
But everything had.
You had.
So did he.
As the laughter slowly faded, the clink of cutlery and glasses giving way to a lull in conversation, your father took a quiet sip of wine, then cleared his throat.
“We’re going to be moving soon,” he said.
The words dropped like a stone into still water.
Sylus’s head turned immediately. His easy posture didn’t change—but under the table, his fists clenched, so tight his knuckles paled.
Mr. Qin set his glass down with a soft thud, brows lifting. “Oh? Another company transfer?”
Mrs. Qin leaned toward your mother, her voice tinged with gentle disappointment. “Aw, that’s a pity.”
“We can keep in touch,” your mom said, offering a warm smile as she reached out to squeeze Mrs. Qin’s hand—one of those quiet gestures only old friends shared.
But even through the hum of old laughter and clinking glasses, you felt it—that subtle shift.
The way silence braced itself, waiting for something to fall apart.
Sylus hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.
Then your mother turned to you, smoothing a hand over your hair with pride warming her tone. “Y/N here will be attending school there. Full scholarship.”
You glanced down, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of eyes on you.
“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” Mrs. Qin beamed. Then, turning to her son, “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”
For a moment, Sylus looked like he hadn’t heard. Like his mind had gone somewhere far away.
Then his gaze lifted, locking with yours across the table.
It was quiet, that look. Quiet and strange and heavy in the worst way.
Your breath hitched.
He blinked once, slowly, and nodded—almost imperceptibly. There was something hollow in the motion. Something tired. As if he was surrendering.
“‘Grats,” he said, voice low. Barely above a whisper.
And for the first time that night, the cockiness faded from his face.
What remained was something else—something like grief.
—•
Your room was quiet—too quiet.
The kind of quiet that pressed into your skin, the kind that made you aware of every small sound.
The steady hum of the air conditioning, the occasional creak of old floorboards, the scratch of your pen dragging across paper as you copied notes you’d already memorized twice over.
Behind you, Sylus sat on the beanbag, his tall frame folded awkwardly as his fingers toyed with the strings of his hoodie.
He hadn’t said a word since you left the table. Just followed you up the stairs like a shadow, heavy and uninvited.
You hadn’t wanted this.
You had told your parents you needed to study—an excuse they accepted without question, though your mother, in all her well-meaning cluelessness, had smiled and said, “Oh, Sylus should join you. We wouldn’t want him bored to death with our adult conversations.”
You’d scowled inwardly, biting back every protest that rose to your tongue.
Instead, you’d smiled. Tightly. “Okay.”
You hadn’t looked at him once.
Your fists had curled at your sides the moment his footsteps followed yours down the hallway.
Now he sat there, breathing the same quiet air, unraveling the tension you’d tried so hard to knot away.
You stared at your notes. The words blurred together.
Then you sighed—a little too loudly.
Behind you, you heard the subtle shift of fabric. Sylus stilled. You could almost feel his eyes on your back.
His mouth opened, then closed.
Like he was about to say something. Like the silence between you was too heavy now to ignore—but he didn’t know how to lift it.
You didn’t turn around.
Because if you did, you weren’t sure what you’d find on his face.
And you weren’t sure what yours would show in return.
Your breath hitched—damn it—when you heard the shift of fabric behind you.
Then footsteps. Quiet, hesitant.
Each one heavier than the last.
You didn’t look up.
Didn’t even blink.
Your eyes stayed glued to your notebook, even though the words on the page had started to blur into nothing.
“So,” he said, voice low—rougher than before. “You’re going away.”
He said it like he was still trying to believe it. Like the words sat heavy on his tongue and tasted like loss.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you murmured, scribbling something down that didn’t mean anything.
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Stifling. It filled every corner of the room, curling around your lungs.
Then he cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry. About the hallway.”
You raised an eyebrow, your grip tightening around the pen.
Still, you didn’t look at him.
That’s what he was apologizing for?
Out of everything—every unanswered message, every broken promise, every quiet moment where he looked through you like you were just air—that’s what he chose?
“Don’t worry,” you said, the words slipping out too bitter, too raw. “I’m used to it anyway.”
You didn’t mean to sound that hurt. But you did.
And Sylus… Sylus looked like he’d just been punched in the chest.
He exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Your pen stilled mid-stroke.
This time, you turned.
You turned slowly, deliberately, and looked up at him—at the boy who once knew you better than anyone else, now standing there like a stranger wearing pieces of your past.
“It means exactly what I said,” you replied, your voice hard, brittle. Your glare cut through the tension like glass.
Sylus blinked, visibly thrown. As if he hadn’t expected you to fight back. As if he was the one hurting.
The gall of it made you scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.
Of course he looked wounded.
Of course he flinched at the edges of your anger, like you were being cruel for daring to hold him accountable.
And for a split second, you hated how beautiful he still looked even when he was stunned into silence.
You hated that a part of you still hoped he’d give you something real. Something honest.
But Sylus had always been too good at building walls—
And you were always the one left outside them.
You could see it—the slow turn of gears behind his eyes, the struggle to piece together something, anything, that would make this moment easier.
His mouth opened, then closed, words faltering on the edge of his lips before they ever saw the light.
But it was too late for words.
Without warning, you stood. The chair scraped against the floor, sharp in the stillness. You looked him in the eye—really looked—and for a second, neither of you breathed.
And in that breathless space between glances, you searched his face—not for answers anymore, but for closure.
Whatever you were hoping to find… it wasn’t there.
You moved past him without another word and crossed the room. Opened your closet. Your hand found it immediately—the faded hoodie tucked in the back, the one he gave you all those years ago.
“Helps with the nightmares,” he had murmured once, when your voice had trembled over the phone at 2 a.m.
“It smells like you,” you had whispered, holding it tight to your chest.
But now, it was just another ghost in fabric form. A threadbare monument to a friendship that had been slowly unraveling for years.
You tossed it toward him without ceremony.
He caught it clumsily, eyes narrowing in confusion as he looked down at it. Then at you.
His brows drew together. “Why are you—”
“Take it back,” you said, quiet but steady. “I don’t need it anymore.”
There was more beneath those words—so much more.
You didn’t need it.
You didn’t need the comfort it used to bring.
You didn’t need the boy who gave it to you.
You didn’t need him anymore.
But you didn’t say any of that aloud. You didn’t have to.
Because Sylus’s expression faltered the moment he understood. His fingers gripped the fabric tighter, like he wanted to hold on to something—anything—but it was already slipping.
He stood there in your room, hoodie in hand, the silence thick between you.
And for once, he had no smugness to hide behind.
Just the look of someone realising too late what he had lost.
“Thanks for having us. Y/N, lovely to see you again,” Mrs. Qin said warmly, wrapping you in a soft hug that smelled faintly of lavender and memory.
You returned it gently, the smile on your lips practiced, steady.
Behind her, Mr. Qin chuckled, patting your shoulder. “Good luck with your future studies, young lady. Make us proud.”
You murmured your thanks, the words catching faintly in your throat.
Sylus stood a few steps away, quiet and withdrawn, shoulders hunched slightly like the night had grown too heavy for him to carry.
He kept his gaze on the ground, avoiding conversation, avoiding you.
Your parents stood on either side of you, waving as Mrs. Qin offered a cheerful, “We’ll see you soon!” and your mother called after her, “I’ll be sure to call!”
They got into the car, voices muffled behind closed doors, the engine humming softly into the stillness of the night.
Your parents turned to go back inside, chatting quietly between themselves, and you started to follow—until something made you glance over your shoulder.
And there he was.
Through the glass, seated in the back of the car, Sylus was staring at you.
Not smirking.
Not smug.
Just looking—like he was trying to memorize your face, like he already knew he wouldn’t see it like this again.
His expression was unreadable. But his eyes… they looked a little too lost for someone who had always pretended to be so sure of himself.
You met his gaze one last time.
There was so much you could have said.
So much he never did.
But instead, you let out a quiet sigh—one that trembled more than you wanted it to. Not for him. Not anymore.
You turned, the weight of his stare clinging to your back like a question that would never be answered.
—•
“Oh, boy—I’m so worried about my results,” your friend groaned beside you, clutching her books like a lifeline.
You chuckled softly, shifting the weight of your own books against your chest. “I’m not. I studied hard for this.”
The hallway buzzed around you, filled with post-exam chatter, slamming lockers, laughter echoing off walls. The air smelled faintly of summer, freedom just at the edge of everyone’s fingertips.
Your friend shot you a playful look. “That’s because you’re a nerd.”
You grinned, but before you could reply, her expression shifted, like something had just clicked into place.
“Oh! Are you still talking to Zayne?”
You froze mid-step.
Zayne.
The name felt like a gentle knock against your heart—familiar, soft, and suddenly distant. You blinked, the hallway noise fading for a second as you pulled out your phone.
One missed call.
“Shit,” you whispered, thumb hovering over the screen. You hadn’t replied. Hadn’t spoken to him since that day on the bleachers. It had completely slipped your mind.
Your friend laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Oh my god, Y/N the heartbreaker.”
You rolled your eyes and swatted at her, quickly typing out a message.
‘Hey, sorry—been busy studying. Let’s meet up after school?’
You barely had time to second-guess it before your screen lit up with a reply.
‘It’s okay. Sure. See you at the café.’
You let out a quiet breath, relief loosening your shoulders.
Your friend glanced at you, teasing glint still in her eyes as you both started walking again.
“Why don’t you just tell him you’re not into him?” she asked as you reached your lockers.
You shrugged, avoiding her gaze as you opened yours. “Because we’re not like that. We just got close after he helped me with econ.”
You began stacking your books away, trying to keep your tone neutral.
She scoffed behind you. “Right. Friends who text good morning, share inside jokes even I don’t understand, and look at each other like you’re the only two people in the room. Sure, Y/N.”
You shot her a glare over your shoulder, but didn’t argue. Because what was there to say?
Zayne was a good friend. He’d never pushed. Never pried. And in a time when you were still quietly mourning a boy who no longer looked at you the same way, Zayne had shown up without asking for anything in return.
You met him sometime after that summer—after you stopped going over to Sylus’s house, after the silence between you and your childhood friend turned permanent. Zayne had sat next to you in calculus when no one else had wanted to partner up.
He never asked about your past. You never asked about his.
Things just… clicked.
And for a while, it was nice. Simple. Easy.
But as you slid your locker shut, you couldn’t ignore the twist of guilt curling beneath your ribs.
Because maybe, somewhere deep down, a part of you had only clung to Zayne to fill the space Sylus had left behind.
And maybe—just maybe—you were still doing it.
Not out of cruelty.
But out of the desperate need to not feel forgotten.
“So, where are you—” your friend’s sentence faltered, her voice trailing off as her eyes fixed on something behind you. Her fingers curled around your shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.
You blinked, confused. “What?”
Then you turned.
And froze.
Sylus was walking down the hallway, weaving through the crowd like it wasn’t even there. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, jaw tense, eyes locked on you—like the rest of the world had fallen away.
He stopped right in front of you. Didn’t glance at your friend. Didn’t say hello.
Just, “Let’s talk.”
Casual.
Like he hadn’t been avoiding you for years.
Like he hadn’t watched you walk away from him without ever calling you back.
You stared at him, jaw clenched. “What is there to talk about?”
His gaze didn’t falter, but his voice grew quieter. “Can you not be difficult right now?”
You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “I’m difficult?”
His expression flickered—just for a second. Then he looked to your friend, acknowledging her presence with a brief glance, before turning back to you.
“Fine,” he muttered.
Then he reached forward and grabbed your wrist—not harsh, not painful, but firm. Like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on.
You barely had time to react before he tugged you with him down the hallway.
Your friend stood there, stunned, watching you disappear into the tide of students.
When you reached the quiet clearing behind the school—the one where no one ever really wandered during breaks—you yanked your hand from his grasp like it burned.
Air rushed into your lungs as if you’d forgotten how to breathe.
“What the hell, Sylus?” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. Anger laced with something more fragile underneath.
He stopped a few feet away, hands still in his pockets, shoulders rising and falling with the weight of everything unspoken. His expression was unreadable, eyes too still.
“You can’t just—” you started, running a hand through your hair, pacing half a step before turning back to him, heart racing.
“Can’t just what?” he cut in, voice low and tight.
And there it was again.
That edge in his tone. Like he was the one who’d been hurt. Like he couldn’t understand why you were angry—why you’d ever be angry.
You stared at him, stunned for a second.
But the words?
They were already rising in your chest like a storm.
You jabbed a finger into his chest, hard. “Don’t act like you don’t know why.”
Your voice shook, not from fear—but from the weight of every word you’d never been given the chance to say. Your eyes burned, red-hot and unrelenting.
“You don’t get to stand here and play victim,” you hissed. “You don’t get to act like you’re the one who was left behind—when you were the one who walked away.”
For a moment, his expression cracked.
Just a flicker.
The mask slipped, and beneath it—there he was. The boy you used to know. The one who used to sit beside you at lunch and knock on your door with homemade muffins and a lopsided grin.
He looked like he’d just been kicked.
But you didn’t stop.
You couldn’t.
“Do you even know how long it’s been?” your voice rose, trembling with grief you didn’t know how to hold anymore. “How many years I’ve waited for you to show up again? How many nights I stared at my phone, wondering if you’d just say something—anything?”
He went still.
Silent.
His head lowered, eyes cast to the side, jaw tight like he was trying not to let anything slip through the cracks.
You turned away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, then spun back to face him. The words came tumbling out, bitter and helpless.
“Was I not good enough for you?” Your voice broke. “Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”
That’s when his eyes snapped to yours. Something flared behind them.
He stepped forward.
“You’re not them,” he said, barely above a whisper.
It sounded like a confession.
You scoffed, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “Then what am I, Sylus?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
And he said nothing.
No excuse.
No explanation.
Just silence.
Because even now—especially now—he still didn’t have the words.
You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a moment, the anger unraveled, leaving something raw and helpless in its place.
“Well?” you whispered, voice low and brittle.
One word. That was all you needed.
One answer. One truth.
But he stood there, unmoving, mouth parted like the words were there, caught in the back of his throat—too fragile or too damning to say.
And you realized, with a hollow sort of clarity, that this was always how it went.
You waited.
Waited for him to show up.
Waited for him to speak.
Waited for him to care enough to stay.
And you hated it.
You hated how familiar this ache had become.
How you were always reaching, always hoping, always waiting—for a boy who never knew how to meet you halfway.
“Fine.”
The word slipped out on a breath, quiet and frayed at the edges. You exhaled, blinking fast as the tears threatened to spill.
“I get it,” you said, voice trembling. “I really do.”
You turned to go, the ache pressing against your chest like a closing door. You were done waiting. Done hoping.
“Wait, I—”
His voice caught behind you, reaching—but not quite enough.
But before he could finish, a group of students rounded the corner, their laughter echoing too loudly in the stillness. One of them spotted Sylus, grin spreading like gasoline to flame.
“Yo, Sylus,” the guy called, eyes drifting to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”
You turned, slowly.
Looked at Sylus.
Waited.
For a second, he looked back at you. Something uncertain flickering in his gaze.
And then—it was gone.
The smirk returned. That old, familiar armor snapping back into place. The kind of expression that kept people at a distance. The one he wore when he didn’t know how to feel anything real.
“No she’s,” he said, voice light, casual. “Just someone.”
Just someone.
Your breath hitched, and you almost laughed—almost.
Because of course he’d say that.
Of course he’d reduce you to nothing in front of his crowd.
You stared at him for a beat longer, letting the sting settle in your bones.
Then, with a scoff and a bitter smile curling at the corners of your mouth, “Just someone, huh? Well. I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”
And you turned, walked away without looking back. Not this time. Not again.
He should’ve stopped you.
Should’ve said something—anything.
But he didn’t.
He stood there, frozen, as his friends clapped him on the back, laughing, teasing.
And still, his eyes followed your retreating figure, even long after you were gone.
—•
“So,” your dad said as he sank into the couch beside you, stretching out with a groan, “what do you wanna do in your last summer here, kiddo?”
You looked up from your sketchbook, pencil paused between shading strokes. The question lingered in the air like dust caught in golden afternoon light. You tilted your head, thoughtful.
“I don’t really know,” you murmured. “Maybe hang out with some friends… Zayne’s been bothering me about going to the movies.”
Your dad chuckled, reaching over to ruffle your hair before standing up again. “Zayne’s a good kid,” he said, already walking toward the hallway. “You should bring him over for dinner sometime.”
Then he winked.
You groaned, wrinkling your nose. “Dad, gross.”
His laugh echoed back to you as he disappeared down the hall.
You turned your attention back to your sketchbook, dragging your pencil gently over the paper, shading the delicate wings of a butterfly. Lines and curves took shape beneath your hand, and you let out a quiet sigh.
It had been nearly two weeks since the clearing.
Since the last words spoken between you and Sylus.
Since just someone.
The days had blurred since then—final exams, end-of-year photos, hallway laughter that didn’t sting anymore.
You’d spent those days with Zayne, sitting on the bleachers and dreaming out loud about the future. College. Change. Anything but the past.
And slowly, Sylus had begun to fade.
A little more each day.
His name didn’t sting as much now.
You had your answer, after all. He gave it to you, plain and cold.
You weren’t as important as you thought.
You were just someone.
Someone he had outgrown.
And maybe that hurt. Maybe it would always hurt, just a little.
But you didn’t care. Not anymore.
You were leaving this town.
You were going to study art history.
You were going to build something new—something that didn’t trace back to him.
Your phone buzzed beside you.
You glanced at the screen.
‘I got us tickets. 7 p.m. Don’t be late.’
You smiled, soft and small. Rolled your eyes.
‘When have I ever been?’
Sliding off the couch, you made your way to the bathroom, the rhythm of familiarity steadying you. The shower was warm, the steam curling like comfort around your shoulders. You dressed, grabbed your bag, and headed toward the door.
“Dad, I’m heading out!” you called into the house, already pulling on your shoes.
A beat later, his voice echoed faintly back, “Okay!”
You smiled as you closed the door behind you.
The porch steps felt lighter beneath your feet.
The summer air smelled like new beginnings.
And you walked toward the theatre—skipping a little as you went.
But then… your footsteps slowed.
As if pulled by muscle memory rather than intent, you found yourself pausing in front of a house that once felt like a second home.
His house.
Sylus’.
Your eyes drifted toward the front yard, overgrown in places now, the grass curling at the edges of the walkway. But you didn’t see weeds or time.
You saw mud.
Splattered shoes. Dirty hands. Giddy chaos.
You saw yourself, younger, wilder, laughing so hard your sides ached.
“I’m the mud monster!” you’d screamed, arms flailing as you lunged toward a smaller Sylus, who let out a dramatic, fake shriek and ran. His laughter had echoed through the summer air, filling every corner of the yard like sunlight.
Your chest tightened.
You shook your head and started walking again, trying to leave it behind.
But then your gaze caught again—on the porch this time.
The swing.
Still there. Still creaking faintly in the breeze, swaying back and forth like someone had just left it.
You stopped again.
You could almost see it—the two of you sitting side by side, pinkies linked like a vow only kids believed in. His shoulder brushing yours as the swing rocked lazily beneath you.
“I promise,” he’d said back then, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll still be friends. I won’t turn into a jock.”
He’d laughed—boyish and unguarded—before nudging you playfully. “If you promise you won’t become a mean girl.”
You’d snorted, flicking his arm. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Me, a mean girl? That’s terrifying.”
You could almost hear it again—the innocence, the hope. The sound of two hearts that thought they’d always beat beside each other.
But that was a long time ago.
The swing creaked.
The porch sat empty.
And the boy who once made you promises now barely remembered how to say your name without making it hurt.
You blinked the memory away, swallowed hard, and turned back toward the road.
The past wasn’t your home anymore.
And it was time to stop standing in its yard.
You were just about to turn the corner onto the main road, heart light with the thought of the evening ahead—when you stopped dead in your tracks.
Because there he was.
Sylus.
The very boy you had promised yourself you were done thinking about.
The ghost of every half-spoken word and every memory you tried to bury now stood, very real, very solid, right in front of you.
He towered above you like he always had, but something was different.
Red eyes met yours—still sharp, but dulled now. Hollowed out by something you didn’t recognize. Or maybe… something you did.
His hair was tousled, styled but undone, like he’d been running. Like this wasn’t where he intended to be—but he ended up here anyway.
You couldn’t speak.
Neither could he.
The silence stretched between you, trembling with everything you hadn’t said.
And then—his voice, quiet. Rough. Almost like he forgot how to use it.
“Hey.”
You blinked, breath catching.
“H-Hey,” you replied, and your voice felt too small, too tight in your throat.
Suddenly, your shoes were fascinating. You stared down, shuffling your feet slightly, hand rising to rub at the back of your neck, anything to ground yourself.
“How long?” he asked, the question breaking through the stillness like a pebble tossed into water.
You looked up, slowly. The question caught you off guard, though you knew exactly what he meant.
“A week,” you answered, soft but honest.
He nodded. Just once. Looking down like he couldn’t quite meet your eyes anymore.
“I see.”
Two words. So simple. So heavy.
The kind of heaviness that comes when it’s already too late.
You glanced down at your phone, checking the time.
Zayne was probably already at the theatre.
You hesitated for a moment, then looked up at Sylus again—at the boy who once felt like your whole world and now stood in front of you like a closed chapter you hadn’t quite finished reading.
“Hey, look, I—” you started, the words catching for a beat before you steadied them with a breath.
Then you offered a small smile, one that didn’t tremble this time.
“I don’t care about all that anymore.”
His head snapped up.
His eyes searched yours, wide, startled. There was something in them—shock, disbelief, and something softer you couldn’t name. Maybe regret. Maybe relief. Maybe it was both.
“I’m moving on,” you said quietly. “A new life and all that.”
You tucked your hands into your pockets, suddenly shy. “I just… I hope you get everything you’re looking for, Sylus.”
For a moment, the world seemed to pause around you.
Then, gently, you raised your hand in a small wave.
I swear in so many fics Zayne just swoops in and I love that for him. The assuming man in the corner waiting for any chance he gets. As he should honestly
‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!
Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.
“Use me.”
word count = 8.5k
i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3
also, i finally got to write the scene i wanted to 😭—took me over 10k words to get here but ugh finallyyyy
part 1 | masterlist
Peace has never felt more profound. Wrapped in the quiet hush of evening, the cool hum of the air conditioner, and the soft duvet cocooning your body, the weight of the world loosens its grip. The storm of thoughts, the heaviness pressing against your ribs—it all quiets, dissolving into the stillness.
Only when left alone, surrendered to the depths of sleep, do you finally feel light. Free. At ease.
But of course, peace was never meant to last. Not when you agreed to this trip.
Three knocks at the door. A soft beep of the lock.
“Yn? Are you still sleeping?”
MC’s voice pulls you from the haze of slumber, gentle but insistent. The mattress dips slightly as she steps closer.
You groan, turning away from the sound, but she only huffs.
“It’s already seven. You haven’t eaten anything all day.” Concern laces her words as she reaches out, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. A soft smile tugs at her lips. “You’re not burning up anymore.”
Blinking against the lingering blur of sleep, you rub your eyes, squinting up at her.
“Mhmm,” you mumble, barely coherent.
The tension in her shoulders eases at your response, the worry fading as a familiar brightness returns to her face.
“Here—eat.” She sets a bowl in your hands, warmth seeping through the ceramic. Steam rises, carrying the scent of something unmistakably familiar.
Dark green seaweed sways in golden broth, delicate strands floating between pieces of soft tofu.
Your brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”
“Caleb made it.” She grins. “He was adamant about you finishing every last drop, so you better eat up.”
The words settle heavily in your chest.
You know this dish.
It’s the same soup you once made for him when he was too sick to get out of bed, voice hoarse, fever clouding his mind. The same one he had groggily murmured was the best thing he had ever tasted.
The warmth of the memory seeps in before you can stop it.
Back then, his voice had been hoarse, barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion.
“Caleb, you should eat.”
“Mmnh… not hungry…” He mumbled, shifting away from the dish in your hands, cheek pressed against the pillow.
You huffed, exasperated but unwilling to let him get away with it. “I promise it’ll make you feel better. Seaweed soups are the best for colds. Trust me.”
It took a few more tries to convince him. A few more weak protests before you had enough.
“Bzz, the airplane’s coming!” You guided the spoon toward his lips, making an exaggerated motion.
A smile flickered across his face, slow and lazy, before it stretched into something wider. “Pfft—Stop acting like I’m five!”
His laughter was bright, warm. It tugged at your heart in ways you didn’t want to admit.
“You’re acting like one, so I must treat you as one,” you countered, puffing your cheeks. “Now open up!”
His shoulders shook from suppressed giggles, but he relented, raising a mock defensive hand. “Okay, okay! Pfft—”
His laughter was cut off by a fit of coughs, his body curling in on itself slightly. Your expression immediately shifted, a deeper frown settling between your brows.
“Stop playing around. This is my secret recipe. It’ll stop you from starting another pandemic,” you scolded, pushing the spoon toward him again.
He groaned, but finally obeyed, letting the warmth of the soup settle in his mouth.
His eyes widened, lips parting in surprise.
“You weren’t joking,” he muttered, almost in awe. “This is really good.”
Fatigue seemed to lift slightly from his face, a softness settling in its place.
“See?” You huffed, victorious.
But then—his gaze softened in a way that made your heart skip a beat.
“Thank you, shortcake,” he murmured, reaching up with sluggish movements to ruffle your hair. His touch was light, absentminded. Familiar.
Your heart had tugged—just slightly.
Now, staring at the same soup, the warmth of the past curling in your chest like a ghost of something you no longer recognize, you swallow down whatever unspoken feeling rises in your throat.
“Well?” MC grins, nudging you. “Eat up before it gets cold.”
You hesitate, just for a moment, then lift the spoon to your lips.
It tastes the same.
And yet, somehow, it doesn’t.
You take another spoonful, swallowing the warmth down along with the lump in your throat.
MC, oblivious to the thoughts stirring in your head, plops down beside you, stretching her limbs dramatically.
“God, today was exhausting,” she groans, tilting her head back. “I swear, if I have to redo that crying scene one more time, I might actually start sobbing for real.”
You hum absentmindedly, stirring the soup with your spoon.
“And Caleb—ugh, don’t get me started on him. He seemed really out of it today.” she continues, rolling onto her side to face you. “Like, he kept missing his queues, kept dazing in the middle of the shoot. Kept asking me if you ate, made me go shop for the soup’s ingredients with him, double-check the soup, even told me it was your favorite like I didn’t already know that.”
Your hand stills over the bowl.
MC doesn’t notice.
She sighs dramatically, propping her head up with one hand. “He even snapped at me earlier. Like, Caleb snapped at me. Can you believe that?”
You glance at her, arching a brow. “What did he say?”
She huffs. “I was teasing him, you know? Asking if he’s finally realizing he’s in love with you or whatever. And he just looked at me—like, seriously looked at me—and said, ‘She’s sick, Michaela.’ Like, what?”
Something sharp presses against your chest, but you don’t acknowledge it.
MC groans again, stretching her arms before flopping back onto the bed. “I get it, though,” she sighs, rolling onto her side to face you. Then, without warning, she grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly.
“I was worried sick about you too, Yn.” Her voice softens, the teasing gone. “Don’t go fainting like that again, okay? You gotta tell me if you’re too tired. I need you to be okay.”
You stare at her, her fingers warm against yours, grounding you in a way nothing else has. The weight in your chest—the anger, the ache that’s been gnawing at you since this trip began—fades, just a little.
Because this is MC.
Bright, infuriating, golden MC, who always means it when she says she cares.
And you love her for it.
You love her.
You always have.
So despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the way the world has been tilting under your feet—you smile.
“Yeah,” you murmur, squeezing her hand back. “I know.”
Her lips curl into a grin, her eyes gleaming like the sun itself. And just like that, just for a second, the world feels a little lighter.
“Anyways, enough about that. You need to catch up on all the drama you missed today. And—”
She launches into a rant, animated as ever, filling the room with stories of the ‘earth-shattering’ events you somehow survived without.
Somewhere between her exaggerated retellings and her scandalized gasps, you find yourself laughing.
And just like that, the fatigue melts away.
You only realize you’ve finished the soup when MC casually plucks the empty bowl from your hands, setting it on the table without missing a beat.
She keeps talking, her words tumbling out in a steady, animated stream—until they don’t.
You notice it immediately.
The slight stutter. The way her voice falters mid-sentence. The way her fingers suddenly fidget with the loose threads of the blanket. The way a soft, barely-there pink dusts her cheeks.
Your brows furrow slightly. “MC?”
She clears her throat, forcing a casual laugh. “Sorry, I just—uh—” she waves a hand, trying to dismiss whatever just flustered her, but you catch it. You always catch it.
The way her lips press together. The way her eyes flicker away, focusing anywhere but you.
Suspicion creeps in. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“MC.”
She groans dramatically, covering her face with her hands before peeking through her fingers, her voice dropping ever so slightly.
“It’s just—I was practicing lines with Sylus today, and—”
She hesitates, the words caught somewhere between reluctance and amusement.
Your brows lift.
Sylus?
Of course, you know he’s popular. You’ve seen the way girls linger around him, how they find excuses to talk to him. But MC?
Your lips part slightly, but before you can say anything, something else creeps in—unbidden.
The warmth of his body on the tip of your fingers.
The sharp scent of rain clinging to his skin.
The steady grip of his hand, pulling you away from the storm.
The way he leaned against the wall, damp silver strands falling over his eyes, a towel draped over his shoulders, sharp and unbothered.
The quiet turn of a page, his presence steady, grounding, when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.
You swallow.
The memories pass in a flash, leaving behind something you don’t quite understand.
MC doesn’t notice your silence. She groans again, shaking her head.
“Ugh, never mind. It’s not a big deal,” she mutters, but there’s a warmth on her face she can’t quite hide.
Your lips twitch.
“Oh my god,” you gasp dramatically, eyes widening as you lean in closer. “Are you blushing?”
MC swats at you with a pillow, groaning into her hands. “I said never mind!”
That only makes your grin widen.
“No, no, this is important information,” you tease, nudging her shoulder. “MC, do you have a crush on Sylus?”
She groans even louder, flopping onto the bed in defeat.
“Shut up, Yn. My character has a crush on his character. I’m just way too immersed in the acting!”
You laugh, the sound light, genuine.
•
The next few days go by like a blur.
You wake up to MC’s blaring alarm.
You get ready.
You practice your part.
You film.
You watch MC film.
You watch her cheeks flush a little more in scenes she shares with Sylus.
You watch their characters develop.
You eat.
You listen to her rants.
You enjoy the sunset, alone.
You sleep.
Like clockwork, everything plays out like it did yesterday.
And just like everything else, he is on replay, too.
His voice weaves itself into your routine, persistent and unrelenting. A teasing remark over breakfast. A lazy greeting when he passes by. A nudge here, a comment there. Always casual. Always acting as if nothing happened.
“Still mad, shortcake?”
“Damn, I didn’t know you had this much endurance. Impressive.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
You don’t respond.
“Was today tiring?”
You don’t acknowledge him.
“Are you hungry?”
You don’t even look at him.
“Someone’s making a full-time career out of dodging me.”
It’s almost comical, how hard he’s trying to act like things are fine. Like you didn’t stand there, glaring at him with every ounce of anger you could muster just a few nights ago. Like you weren’t left in the rain, stranded in a memory of him choosing her, again.
But that’s Caleb. Always brushing things off, playing it cool, making it seem like nothing ever really matters.
And maybe if you weren’t still seething, it would’ve worked.
And to an extent, maybe it has.
Because the desperation in his eyes seems to seep out a little more with every interaction.
And when he leans a little too close one afternoon, when his fingers brush against your wrist as he tries to catch your attention, your heart still skips. But the scene of that night haunts you. The line cutting, her laughter, his tender eyes looking at her. So you snatch your hand away, sharp and final.
The laughter in his eyes dims, if only for a second.
“Damn. Harsh.” His playful tone faltering a little.
You don’t answer.
And after each of these interactions, your eyes always somehow find its way to the man lingering on the side. And more often than not, you meet his gaze. His ruby eyes pierces through you with a smug smirk plastered on his face.
Oh how much you hate that smug face of his.
It’s a look that says he’s watching. That he’s amused.
Like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. Like he already knows how this game ends.
You tear your gaze away, but it’s too late. That smirk is already burned into your mind, curling at the edges of your thoughts, creeping under your skin.
Sylus never says much. He lingers—always just far enough to be uninvolved, yet close enough to witness everything.
Though every single time, he holds your gaze just long enough to let you know that he sees you.
And maybe that should feel comforting.
Maybe it should make you feel like you’re finally being seen.
But with him—with the way his eyes glint like he’s one step ahead, like he’s entertained by something you don’t even understand yet—
it doesn’t feel like comfort.
It feels like a warning.
•
“Hey! Can someone grab more drinks?”
“On it!” you shout.
Being done with all of your scenes, you try to help out around the set where you can. You walk away from the beach and to the parking lot where the tents and coolers are set under the trees’ shades. The bickers and chatters fade into the heat as you approach the swaying canopy. The air is heavier here—thicker, still carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen but now mixed with the plasticky cool of stored ice.
You crouch by one of the coolers, popping the lid open, letting a gust of chilled air wash over your arms.
The silence here is different.
Less alive, less buzzing.
You should be relieved.
But instead, all you can hear is the echo of their voices.
“She’s pretty good at acting,” someone says.
“She does her job well,” another agrees.
“We should’ve given her another role. She could’ve pulled off a character with more significance.”
“Nah, I don’t think so. She acts well, but she doesn’t shine. Not like her.”
You exhale, pressing your lips together.
Something inside you tenses.
The other laughs in response. “Of course, I wasn’t comparing her to Machela. Their auras are very different. One’s the main character, the other’s a decent supporting. You can’t compare them.”
Your brows knit together.
You keep your hands still, your breath steady. You don’t react, don’t turn, don’t acknowledge the way the words settle against your skin like grains of sand—light and fleeting, but impossible to shake off
It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.
They’re just opinions, just talk.
You don’t care. You’ve never cared.
You know your role. You know your place.
And yet—your gaze betrays you.
Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flicker to the beach, to her.
MC stands effortlessly at the center of it all, bathed in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by the main characters, the ones who make the scene come alive.
Even among them, she stands out.
She doesn’t try to shine, she doesn’t try to call for attention—she just does.
And then there’s you, just there.
Blending so well into the background that no one even notices you listening.
You swallow, pushing away the uncomfortable weight creeping up your throat.
A breeze stirs the trees, making the tents flutter. You reach into the ice, grabbing a handful of cans, the cold biting against your fingertips.
You exhale, force your shoulders to relax, and do what you always do.
You shake it off. You move.
You quickly grab as many drinks as you can hold and hurry back to the set.
“Who wants water?” Your voice bright, easy.
You step back onto the sand, the heat pressing down on your skin, the voices of the crew and cast swelling around you once more. The coolness of the shade lingers faintly on your fingertips, already fading as you carry the drinks back.
But the words silently follow your trails.
“Oh my god, you’re a life saver!”
MC’s voice snaps you out of it as she practically lunges for one of the cans in your hands, tearing it open like she’s been stranded on this beach for days. She presses it to her cheek, sighing dramatically.
“I’m dying,” she groans, tipping her head back for a long gulp. “Why did I agree to film on a beach? Who thought this was a good idea?”
Before you can answer, another shadow falls over you.
A shift in the air. A presence that arrives so smoothly, so effortlessly, that you don’t even notice until he’s already there.
Sylus.
He reaches out and plucks a drink from your hand, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing the condensation-slick surface.
Then—he opens it.
The sound is sharp against the hazy heat, a crisp hiss that barely lingers before he tips the can back.
And you watch.
The way his throat moves as he drinks, slow and deep, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The way a bead of sweat drips from his temple, trailing down the sharp line of his jaw, catching in the dip of his collarbone before disappearing beneath his shirt.
For a second, the world feels too slow.
When he lowers the can, he’s already looking at you.
“What?” he says, voice smooth, amused, a smirk tugging lazily at his lips. “Not for me?”
Your face immediately scrunches up.
Not a word leaves your mouth, but the reaction is enough.
Sylus chuckles, taking another sip like he’s entertained by something only he understands.
Then, just as effortlessly as he arrived, he turns and walks off, the warm breeze ruffling through his hair, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace of cool metal and salt air.
Silence settles between you and MC.
It takes you a second to notice it—the fact that she hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word.
You glance at her. The red dusting her face. The way she presses her lips together, eyes darting everywhere but where Sylus just stood.
Something tugs at your chest.
A feeling—small, unclear, curling at the edges of your ribs like an itch you can’t quite scratch.
You don’t exactly understand it, nor do you want to.
So you push it down, bury it deep, shove it away before it can take shape.
“Oh,” you hum, forcing a smirk on your lips.
MC immediately stiffens. “No.”
“Ohhh.”
“No, no, no!” She flails her hands in front of her face like she can physically push the accusation away.
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not!”
“You totally are.”
She lets out a strangled noise, shaking her head so fast her hair whips around her shoulders. “I—I’m not crushing!” she wails, throwing her hands up. “I’m just—ugh, it’s the next scene, okay?!”
You pause.
The next scene.
The kiss scene.
With Sylus.
You blink, then grin. “That’s what you’re nervous about?”
MC groans, dragging a hand down her face. “He’s so annoying,” she grumbles. “How am I supposed to do this with someone who just—oozes arrogance?” She gulps down the drink in her hands, turning away.
“Try not to melt, yeah? Would be real awkward if the crew had to scrape you off the floor after this.” A playful voice interrupts your conversation.
Caleb.
He strides toward the two of you, effortless as always, plucking a can from your hands and popping it open with a crisp hiss. His smirk is there—light, teasing, the same one he always wears when he’s messing around.
But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
His gaze flicks to the spot where Sylus had just been.
Something in his jaw tightens.
Others might have missed it, but you know him too well. You’re well too accustomed to watching him, seeing all his micro movements when he interacts with MC.
His fingers curl just a little too tightly around the can, knuckles faintly stiff.
Still, he plays it off.
“So,” he drawls, turning back to MC, forcing that smirk back into place. “How long are you gonna make us suffer through this? You practicing, or are we just skipping to the part where you swoon?”
MC snaps to attention, the red still fresh on her face. “I don’t—shut up.”
Caleb clicks his tongue, mockingly thoughtful. “Huh. So defensive. Makes you wonder.”
“You wonder too much,” she fires back, narrowing her eyes.
“Nah,” he grins, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I just have an eye for lost causes.”
And then, before she can dodge, he presses the cold can against her cheek.
MC yelps, jerking away. “Caleb—what the hell!”
“Thought you were overheating,” he muses, completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t want you fainting before the big scene.”
MC glares, rubbing at her cheek like he’s personally offended her. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Still a better option than him.”
MC groans. “Are you seriously insulting Sylus right now?”
“I’m just saying,” Caleb shrugs, casual. “The guy looks like he bites.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re gonna let him lick your face in front of all of us.”
“It’s a kiss, you idiot—”
“Same difference.”
Before MC can strangle him, the director’s voice cuts through the chatter.
“Alright, places, everyone! Let’s run the scene.”
MC freezes.
The teasing dies.
Caleb hums. “Uh-oh. That’s your cue.”
She exhales sharply, smoothing down her clothes like that’ll somehow fix her nerves.
“Don’t overthink it,” he says lightly, taking another sip. “It’s just a scene, right?”
MC glares at him, muttering something under her breath before stomping toward the set.
His eyes follow her form, watching her go.
Caleb’s smirk lingers, but it’s hollow now—more muscle memory than anything else.
Then, without a word, he crushes the empty can in his fist.
You don’t say anything.
You just stand there, staring at the crumpled metal in his hand, feeling the weight of everything he isn’t saying.
The sharp crunch of aluminum still lingers in the air when you finally take a step back, about to turn away—
But before you can, his hand grabs your wrist.
Firm. Unrelenting.
Your breath catches.
“Come here,” he mutters, low, rough, before pulling you with him.
You barely have time to react before you’re being led away from the crowd, past the chatter, past the cameras and the blinding sun.
He doesn’t stop until you’re tucked into the shadows of a secluded corner, hidden behind a wall where no one can see.
Only then does he let go.
Only then does he turn to you, dark eyes burning with something too raw, too intense.
“How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks.
The words hit the air, heavier than they should be.
You blink. “What—”
“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice is frustrated, breath uneven. “I know I messed up. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”
He stops himself, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s barely holding something together.
Then, before you can move—
His hands press against the wall, caging you in.
Not touching you. But close.
Too close.
His scent fills your senses—something warm, sharp, unmistakably him.
“You can’t convince yourself to hate me with every fiber of your being, wouldn’t you agree?” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less desperate. “I’ll eventually find a way to make things right. As long as…” he pauses. His breaths are shuddering.
Your heart stutters.
“You’re by my side,” he whispers.
His eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting—
And then, softer, rougher—
“Please.”
A breath.
“I need you now more than ever.”
The words sink into your skin, settle into your chest, and God—
It hurts.
Because you know.
You know this isn’t about you.
Not really.
Not in the way you want it to be.
He’s frustrated. He’s angry. Not at you—but at something else, at someone else, at the way things are slipping through his fingers.
And here you are.
Pulled into the scene like always.
Here to fill in the gaps.
Here to be the character he needs in this moment.
Your throat tightens.
Your fingers curl into fists.
You don’t shove him away.
You don’t give in, either.
You just look at him.
At the tension in his jaw. At the way his chest rises and falls just a little too fast.
“Action!”
The director’s voice rings out.
Like a snapped thread, Caleb pulls away.
Your attention shifts
And you see it.
The perfect scene unfolding before you.
The setting sun drenches the world in gold, soft and warm, casting a glow over the sand, the ocean, the two figures at the center of it all.
MC and Sylus.
MC in the center, like always.
Sylus’s hands rest on her waist, firm but careful. His fingers trace along the curve of her back, pulling her closer, into him, into his world. His head tilts, his smirk faint, unreadable—like he’s in control of every beat of this moment.
MC leans in.
Slow, hesitant, shy.
Like a girl falling into the gravity of a man she can’t escape.
The light catches the soft parting of her lips, the uncertainty, the delicate trust in her expression.
Sylus’s fingers tighten, and he closes the distance.
Their lips brush—light at first—before she melts into him, hands lifting to his chest.
It’s effortless.
Beautiful.
The kind of moment people will remember.
The picture-perfect romance.
A story falling into place.
Your stomach twists.
It’s not the kiss itself that gets to you. It’s the way the scene feels like fate, the way it’s framed, the way the world seems to bend itself around her like she was always meant to be at the center.
Like everything happens for her.
And, as if to prove your point—you gaze shifts.
And you see Caleb.
He’s watching the scene.
Watching her.
His breaths are coming even more uneven than before.
Not obvious, not noticeable to most.
But, caged between his arms, you see it.
The way his chest rises just a little too fast, the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, the way his jaw locks so tightly you swear he might break something.
And your chest burns more than ever.
You hate it. You hate everything about this.
You hate how, no matter what happens—this world, this story, this entire thing, bends itself around her.
That all of you—you, Caleb, and even Sylus— are just pieces in the grand design of her narrative.
That no matter where you stand, no matter what you do—
MC is the one the light falls on.
She is the one everything happens for.
She is the one whose all her wishes come true.
You hate it. You hate how you’re just here.
Always here.
Always playing a role in someone else’s story.
And you hate it most that your eyes are turning green looking at her.
That the jealousy creeping up your throat, curling tight in your chest, isn’t just about the scene or the way Sylus or Caleb seem to orbit around her.
It’s about the way the world chooses her, time and time again.
And the fact that you’re bitter about it—
That you feel this way at all—
God, you hate it.
“You don’t need me, Caleb.” your voice much weaker than you want it to be.
You push him out, and quickly turn away, walking off, leaving the beach, the golden sunset, the picture-perfect scene.
And if Caleb calls after you—you don’t hear it.
You don’t want to.
•
The night air presses against your skin, cool but not enough. Not enough to wash away the tension in your chest, not enough to erase the way your own voice had echoed back at you—
The long walk you took should’ve made you feel lighter.
You should feel relieved.
But you don’t.
Instead, the weight follows you, pressing against your ribs with every step, every breath, every slow drag of the tide pulling at the shore. The muffled sounds of the set fade behind you, swallowed by the darkness of the beach.
Only when you get closer to the resort do you start hearing the music.
It starts as a distant thrum, pulsing faintly through the heavy night air. A low bassline reverberating from somewhere ahead, blending with the sound of crashing waves. It takes a second to register, for your feet to slow, for the familiar heat of it to sink in.
The afterparty.
It’s inside the main house, a sprawling beachfront villa that serves as the cast and crew’s retreat after long filming days. The windows glow golden and inviting, the silhouette of moving bodies visible through the sheer curtains.
You hover near the doorway.
Inside, the world is warmer, hazier, looser.
The weight of the evening still sits heavy on your shoulders, but no one else seems to notice. No one else cares.
People are sprawled across couches, tucked into booths, pressed against walls, drinks in hand, faces flushed from alcohol and laughter. The lighting is low, a mixture of dim lamps and fairy lights strung along the ceiling, flickering against the glass like trapped fireflies. The scent of spilled liquor, cheap cologne, and the lingering trace of bonfire smoke fills the air.
MC is somewhere in the center of it all.
You see her immediately.
Perched on the arm of a couch, grinning, draped in warmth and attention, her head tilting back in laughter as someone hands her another drink. She looks effortless, as if the day never happened, as if the weight of the scene she filmed with Sylus didn’t still cling to her like it does to you.
She glows.
Like she always does.
And for the first time, you don’t want to be anywhere near her.
Not tonight.
You turn away, slipping past the clusters of people, past the thrumming energy, and find a quiet corner.
A small table sits against the wall, lined with bottles, a stack of plastic cups haphazardly placed beside them.
You grab one.
Then a bottle.
The first drink goes down too fast. The second burns, but you barely react. The third is easier, a slow warmth spreading through your limbs, seeping into your fingers, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts.
You lean back against the wall, fingers wrapped loosely around the cup, and watch as the night moves on without you.
MC is spinning, giggling, spilling half her drink as she sways to the music. Someone reaches for her waist, catching her just before she loses her balance. Caleb.
He’s there, as always.
Steadying her, teasing her, watching her.
You tip your cup back, draining the rest of your drink.
The music swells, the bass thrumming against your skin. The alcohol curls deeper into your system, warm and heady, numbing the part of you that still feels too present, too aware.
You don’t want to be aware.
You just want to sit here in this corner, where no one is watching, where no one is expecting anything from you.
And for a while, you do.
Drink after drink, until the night feels softer at the edges, until the sound of laughter no longer feels like it belongs to a world you can’t touch.
But then, a loud clap pierces through the room and the music lowers.
The music lowers.
“Alright, listen up! It’s time to bring some romance to life!”
The energy shifts.
People perk up, some groaning, some cheering, all of them gravitating toward the center of the room.
You barely react, swirling the last bit of alcohol in your cup.
But then, you hear it.
“Seven minutes in heaven, baby! Who’s in?”
Your fingers tighten around your drink.
MC perks up immediately, eyes gleaming with the kind of reckless excitement that only comes with being several drinks in.
Caleb groans, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning.
Meanwhile, you simply sigh as your gaze falls back to the cup in your hand.
Because of course it’s this.
Of course this night, like everything else, will find a way to make her the center of it.
“We’re going to spice things up a little bit,” someone announces over the music, their voice dripping with amusement. A cup filled with rolled-up pieces of paper rattles in their hands as they shake it for emphasis.
“Instead of randomly drawing two names, only one name will be called.”
A pause. Anticipation thickens the air, curious murmurs rippling through the crowd.
The person smirks. “Once that name is called, you’ll be given ten seconds to either volunteer yourself or—” they tilt the cup teasingly, “your friend to be their partner.”
A wave of excitement rolls through the room. Some people cheer, some groan, some exchange knowing glances. A few shove their friends forward, already laughing at the thought of throwing them into the game.
The first name is drawn.
Someone calls it out, and there’s a brief, charged pause before someone steps forward, dramatically throwing their hands up. The crowd erupts as they disappear behind the door, laughter and wolf whistles chasing after them.
Then another name.
And another.
Each round follows the same pattern—a pause, then cheering, then the shuffle of two people slipping into the closet.
Some stumble back out minutes later, flushed and breathless, met with hollers and teasing. Others laugh it off, shaking their heads, grinning like they’ve just escaped something ridiculous.
The alcohol, the music, the flickering lights—everything feels looser, bolder, dipping further into recklessness with each passing round.
People egg each other on, nudging shoulders, calling out names before they’re even drawn, spurring the night forward like a challenge.
And then—
Another name is pulled.
The voice rings loud over the noise.
And your heart stops.
“Yn!”
Heads turn. Conversations pause. A slow wave of curiosity and anticipation ripples through the crowd as people glance around, searching for you.
“There she is!”
A pair of hands grab your wrist before you can even think about running.
Laughter spills around you as you’re dragged through the throng of people, the heat of bodies pressing in from all sides. Your pulse spikes, the alcohol in your system making everything feel sluggish yet sharp all at once—like you’re wading through a dream you can’t control.
They stop right in front of the closet.
Someone swings an arm over your shoulders, grinning.
“Sooo,” they drawl, their voice dripping with mischief, “who’d like to partner up with her?”
A beat of silence follows.
A moment—thick, expectant.
And then—
The crowd parts.
The shift is subtle at first, a presence cutting through the sea of bodies, slow, unhurried, inevitable.
Then you see him.
He steps forward with the kind of effortless confidence that demands attention—shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his fitted black slacks, the faintest smirk curling at his lips.
The room reacts before you do.
A low hum of interest, a few knowing whistles, someone muttering “Oh, shit.”
And God, does he know what he’s doing.
His stride is measured, each step slow and deliberate, the kind that makes you feel like he’s taking his time just to make a statement. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows along his jawline, highlighting the sculpted edges of his face—the messily tousled silver hair, the piercing crimson eyes that lock onto yours like a brand.
He doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t waver.
Just watches you as he approaches, like he’s already decided—like this was never even up for discussion.
Then, finally—
He stops right in front of you.
Too close.
The warmth of him seeps into the space between you, a contrast to the cool scent of his cologne—something crisp, dark, dangerous in a way that makes your stomach twist.
He tilts his head, the movement slow, teasing.
“What?” his voice is smooth, low enough that only you can hear. “Not for me?”
The words slam into you like a punch to the gut—because he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s enjoying every second of it.
The room erupts around you, people whooping, clapping, some downright losing their minds over the fact that Sylus fucking Qin just stepped forward for this game.
You swallow.
Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your pulse spikes, heat curling at the edges of your skin—not just from the alcohol, not just from the intensity of his gaze, but from the sheer presence of him.
Your eyes flicker around the room, anxious of all the cheering going on. Though, it lands on her. On MC.
Your breath catches.
She is staring. Not laughing. Not cheering like the others.
And for the first time tonight, she looks shocked.
Like this wasn’t supposed to happen.
Like this wasn’t part of the story she had in her head.
Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your spine.
However, you were quickly pulled out of your daze when someone claps you on the back, pushing you forward.
The crowd cheers louder and the closet door swings open.
Darkness yawns before you.
Sylus steps forward first, his hand brushing against your lower back as he guides you inside. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done this before. Like he’s leading you somewhere only he understands.
The door clicks shut.
And the world is swallowed whole.
The music, the voices, the party—it all fades, muffled by the thick wooden walls, leaving only this.
Only him.
Your breath comes uneven, your pulse a heavy drumbeat in your ears, because suddenly, the space around you feels too small. The darkness presses in from all sides, thick and stifling, and the only thing clouding your senses—
Is him.
Sylus leans back against the door, his presence unshakable, his scent thick in the air.
Woody. Dark. A hint of spice laced with something richer, smokier.
Cigar musk and worn leather. Something dangerously smooth, something that lingers.
You can’t see him, but you feel him.
Feel the warmth of his body just inches away. Feel the gravity of him, the way he takes up space without even trying.
The realization of your positions slams into you, sharp and sudden, sending heat curling through your stomach.
You take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go—the closet is too small, too tight, too suffocatingly intimate.
A chuckle. Low, amused, sinful.
“Already nervous?” His voice is pure velvet, thick with the kind of arrogance that makes your stomach tighten.
You swallow, your fingers twitching at your sides.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Mm.” He hums, unconvinced.
The air between you is loaded, heavy, charged with something you don’t know how to name.
And then—
A shift.
A quiet creak of leather. A faint rustle of fabric.
He moves.
Closer.
You don’t even hear him step forward, don’t see him in the thick darkness—but you feel it. The way the space tightens. The way his heat licks at your skin, close enough to touch.
Close enough that if you just reached out—
A warm breath skims along your jaw.
You freeze.
Not touching. Not yet. But so close it doesn’t even matter.
Your own breath hitches, and that’s when you feel it—
His smirk.
You can’t see it. But you can feel it.
The way the air shifts between you, the way the silence stretches, the way his head tilts just slightly, like he’s waiting.
Like he’s playing with his food.
The muscles in your stomach tighten.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice dipping even lower, more intimate, like a secret meant only for you. “Not used to being this close to me?”
Your fingers curl into fists, nails biting into your palms.
And God, you hate him for this.
For the way he gets under your skin without even trying.
For the way he makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous, something uncontrollable, something that might swallow you whole if you let it.
The air between you is charged, electric, the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too hot, too tight.
A low chuckle erupts from his chest, its vibrations reaching yours. He leans down towards your ear, his breath tickling your skin.
“Use me.”
The words hit the air like a match against gasoline.
Your breath catches.
A smirk curves against the dark. He knows.
Of course he knows.
“Use me to make him jealous.”
Your stomach tightens, heat spreading through your limbs like liquid fire.
You swallow. “That’s—”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” His voice dips lower, a soft, taunting hum, stepping closer, just enough that you catch the faintest trace of clean linen and something sharp beneath it.
You hate that your pulse spikes.
You hate that he’s right.
You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how effortlessly he peels you open without even touching you.
You part your lips to deny it, but—
“Or,” he muses, tilting his head slightly, voice edged with something wicked, something dangerous, something that makes your knees feel weak—
“If you’d rather make it more interesting…”
A pause. A shift. A fraction of movement, barely there—
But you feel it.
The brush of his breath against your skin, the slow, unbearable closeness.
“…Use me to make her jealous.”
Your breath stutters.
He sees it.
He feels it.
And the slow, lazy smirk that tugs at his lips—it’s lethal.
Like he’s already won.
Like he knows exactly what buttons he’s pushing.
Like he’s daring you to say yes.
Your fingers curl into fists. Heat rolls beneath your skin, something dangerous, something reckless.
You should tell him to fuck off.
You should shove him away.
You should—
But you don’t.
Because in this moment, in this dark, stifling space—
You don’t know what you want more.
To prove him wrong.
Or to let him be right.
Perhaps it’s the pain you’ve been swallowing for months, the way it’s settled deep in your ribs, pressing against your lungs like a bruise that refuses to fade.
Perhaps it’s the alcohol, heavy in your bloodstream, loosening your grip on restraint, making you weak to the things you never let yourself touch.
Or maybe—maybe—it’s the way your stomach twists at the memory of her face.
MC’s wide, stunned eyes. The sharp sting of betrayal flashing across her features.
And as much as you hate it, as much as that look should send you crumbling—
Some twisted part of you puffs.
Some part of you, buried beneath layers of resentment, self-doubt, and the endless role of being cast in the background, thrives on it.
Because for once—for once—she is not the one standing in the center of the world.
For once, you have something she doesn’t.
And maybe it’s wrong. Maybe you’ll hate yourself for this later.
But right now—right now—
The weight of Sylus’s heat against you, the scent of smoke and clean linen and something sharp curling into your senses, pressing into the empty spaces inside you—
It’s stopping you from thinking straight.
And when his lips part, when his breath brushes over your skin, when the last thread of tension pulls taut between you—
You stop thinking altogether.
Because before you can second-guess yourself—
You grab him.
Fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, yanking him down, crashing into him like you’ve lost control of gravity itself.
Heat.
Pressure.
It is all you can feel.
His lips crash against yours, and everything ignites.
Your lips slowly move, and his follow suit. You can feel the smirk on his lips.
That damned smirk.
But your mind is wiped clean as soon as he tilts his head, the kiss turning hungrier. The tension builds, unraveling into something desperate, something heavy, something neither of you have the willpower to stop anymore.
Sylus lets out a low, dark chuckle against your mouth, but you swallow it whole.
He recovers quickly—of course he does—because the moment you give in, he’s already taking.
His hands slam against the wall behind you, pinning you between him and nothing else, his body pressing in, heat bleeding through his clothes and onto your skin.
The kiss is rough, deliberate, his lips moving against yours with slow precision, dragging, teasing, tasting.
Like he’s memorizing you.
Like he’s proving a point.
Your breath shudders when he bites, just enough to sting, just enough to make your knees buckle.
You hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Hate that he’s making you melt so easily.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, gripping him tight, using it as leverage when you press your body flush against his.
A sharp inhale from him.
A brief pause.
His fingers dive into your hair, twisting, tugging, tilting your head back as his mouth slants over yours, harder this time.
Deeper.
His other hand slides down, skimming over your ribs, tracing heat into your skin through your clothes before settling at your waist.
Firm. Possessive.
You don’t even realize you’ve been backing up until your back hits the closet wall and he presses in, caging you there, forcing you to feel every inch of him.
Your head spins.
The alcohol, the heat, the weight of him—it’s too much. But not enough.
A low groan rumbles deep in his chest when you tug at his hair, nails raking lightly against his scalp.
And then, his lips break away from yours—just barely, just enough to breathe against your mouth, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his swollen lips.
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he murmurs, voice thick, husky, laced with something dangerous.
You exhale, your own lips tingling, your chest rising and falling too fast.
“Shut up.”
His teeth flash in the dimness, his breath hot against your lips.
Your grip tightens on his shirt, but it does nothing to steady you.
Sylus moves slowly—deliberate, like he’s savoring this moment, like he has all the time in the world to watch you unravel.
His hands dip beneath your shirt, fingers curling against your waist, his touch cool against the heat of your skin.
You shudder, a sharp inhale betraying you as his fingers start to move—slow, teasing strokes, tracing along the sensitive dip of your spine, mapping you out like he’s memorizing you by touch alone.
His mouth hovers just over yours, his breath fanning against your lips, his smirk felt more than seen in the heavy darkness.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice a low hum of amusement, his fingers pressing just slightly harder into your waist.
You bite your lip, hating the way your body responds to him, the way his touch burns through the fabric of your self-control.
“I’m not shaking.”
Sylus laughs, a deep, satisfied sound, his grip flexing slightly—his thumbs skimming just beneath the curve of your ribs, fingertips lingering dangerously close to places they shouldn’t be.
“Sure,” he muses, tilting his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Then—he shifts.
A slow, taunting drag of his mouth, skimming along the curve of your jaw, down to the edge of your throat.
You swallow hard, your pulse thundering beneath his lips.
“You still thinking about them?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something dark, coaxing, his fingers spreading wider, pressing into the dip of your lower back, pulling you flush against him.
The sharp heat of his body bleeds through your clothes, overwhelming, intoxicating, making it impossible to focus on anything other than him.
His mouth brushes against your neck—just barely, just enough—and a low, approving hum vibrates from his chest when he feels your breath catch.
“Good,” he whispers, voice dark with satisfaction.
His hands trail higher, warmer, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, his touch searing against your bare skin.
His fingers splay over the curve of your spine, pressing in just enough to make you arch, just enough to remind you that he has full control of this moment.
“You know,” he murmurs, lips grazing against your throat, voice thick with amusement, “when I said to use me…”
His hands continue their slow ascent, fingertips tracing along the delicate line of your ribs, slipping under the thin strap of your bra, his knuckles brushing dangerously close to places that would mean no turning back.
“I was talking about simply making it seem like we did something.”
He pauses.
A teasing smirk curls against your skin.
“Didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”
Your breath stutters.
A sharp mix of heat and indignation surges through you, twisting deep in your stomach, because he’s playing with you.
Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and he loves every second of it.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tighter, a silent warning, a desperate attempt to keep yourself together.
He just chuckles—low, dark, sinful.
“Getting shy now?” His voice is all arrogance, his hands still skimming, still testing, still pushing you to the edge of losing control completely.
You hate him.
God, you hate him.
But you hate yourself more for the way your body leans into him, for the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze your pulse, for the way his heat drowns you whole.
And the worst part?
He knows.
He always knows.
His lips ghost over your skin, the smirk never leaving.
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice velvet-smooth, “if I slipped my hands a little lower, would you stop me?”
Your stomach flips.
Your grip tightens.
But you don’t answer.
And that silence is exactly what he needs.
Sylus hums, a low, knowing sound, his fingers tightening against your spine, dragging heat along your skin as they trail downward again—slow, teasing, excruciating.
And then, his lips move, lower—tracing just barely along the column of your throat, hovering, not quite touching, not quite giving in.
“No protest?” His voice is mocking, rich with amusement and something darker, something heavier.
His fingers skim along the waistband of your jeans, just a whisper of pressure, enough to send a jolt through your system, enough to make your nails bite into his shirt, into his skin beneath it.
Your pulse hammers, every muscle in your body coiled so tightly you swear you might snap.
His breath brushes against your ear, soft, deliberate, taunting.
“Still not stopping me?”
You should.
You should.
But your body betrays you, tilting into his touch, into his heat, into the danger of him.
Sylus hums, a deep, satisfied sound, his fingers hooking onto the waistband of your jeans—
A knock shatters the daze you were in.
Loud. Sharp.
The closet door rattles slightly.
“Time’s up, lovebirds!” someone calls, muffled through the wood.
Everything freezes.
Your breath catches.
Sylus doesn’t move, not immediately.
For a long, tense second, his fingers linger—just barely pressing into your skin, his body still flush against yours, his lips hovering just over your jaw.
Though slowly, deliberately, devastatingly—he pulls back.
Just enough for you to breathe again.
Just enough to make you ache from the loss.
Sylus stretches, rolling his shoulders lazily before throwing you a look that’s pure, wicked satisfaction. He runs his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s still tasting you there.
The door finally swings open, and light floods in.
His voice is low, smooth as silk, but dripping with mocking amusement, he whispers before he steps out of the closet—
TW for this chapter: some angst, reader displaying destructive behaviour just like with her ex-girlfriend, death, grieving or lack of it, themes of obsession and possessiveness
Don't worry, it's packed with a lot of fluff as well
AN: I will not apologise for my favouritism of Zayne.
WC: 6.2K
Masterlist
When the days are rough, he finds himself staring at the photo of the young girl. His eyes trained on her smile. The smile he failed to cherish too late.
The smile he’ll never see again.
~~~
He doesn’t really care much for birthdays.
But his family does. Many find it funny how such a stoic kid can belong to outgoing and extroverted parents. He wonders the same.
The party is in their backyard, his parents wanted something extravagant but his wishes won in the end. It was easy to pull the ‘it’s my birthday’ card, he doesn’t ask for much often so he gets what he wants on the rare occasions he does.
Banners are strung up everywhere. His mother’s work. She’s also put balloons everywhere and decorated everything. Despite his wishes she had gotten a bouncy castle. He felt he was too old for it but his classmates seemed to enjoy it. He wasn’t close with the people in his year level, he didn’t know how to be friends with them and they saw him as cold.
He doesn’t have to be a genius - though he is - to see that none of them want to be here. They give him strained smiles while their parents stand behind them, the reason as to why his classmates have been forced to attend. He almost feels bad for them.
They all disperse into their own groups after telling him a half-assed ‘Happy birthday’ and thrusting their gifts into his hand. He tosses the gifts to the pile, not interested in the contents. He’s more than happy to stay at the side, book in hand. It’s on the reading list for an upcoming subject and he likes to be prepared.
Besides, the actual people he wanted couldn’t make it. Caleb had a school trip and Mara was down with food poisoning. She had called him in tears, letting him know she couldn’t make it this morning with promises to make it up to him. Though a little disappointed, he wished her a well recovery and told her not to worry. That just left-
“Happy birthday, zayniee.”
You.
It left you.
You’re wearing a cute jumper, blue ombre in colour. He remembers when you had started knitting it. You’ve paired it with a black skirt and black tights. You’re wearing earrings in the shape of blue ribbons. You look cute. You’re smiling at him softly and there’s a rectangle box in your hands. It’s wrapped in brown paper with an ice blue ribbon and a card on the box. He’s intrigued.
You hand him the box and he takes it. Instead of tossing it like the rest, he keeps it on his lap.
You take the seat next to him, your legs don’t reach the floor so you settle for swinging them. “I’m sorry the others couldn’t make it. They felt bad.” He can’t imagine Caleb feeling sad for missing his birthday. He has no idea why the rascal didn’t like him. “It’s fine. It can’t be helped.” You just give another soft smile.
The two of you sit in comfortable silence as he continues reading his book.
“Oh, is that Monomania?”
He glances at you. “You’ve read it?”
“Yeah, I got bored one day. I liked it, the author did well balancing the themes of obsession and going too far but it also fell flat in many areas.”
He hums, an invitation to continue. “You want a small spoiler about the ending?” you ask. He turns to you and contemplates for a second before agreeing.
“You won’t like it.”
“Like what?”
“The ending.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s more of a fairytale ending than the one even I anticipated.”
“Is that what you think of me? Cold?”
“Not at all. But even you can’t deny that you can be a little…logical.”
“Hmm.”
Of course you end up being right when he finishes the book the next day, a happy ending was not needed for a book like this. It ruined his morning a little. His parents didn’t notice the subtle pout on his face.
His mother calls everyone over to cut the cake. It’s ice-themed. He doesn’t like it. He feels you lean in towards him, touching each other’s shoulders. “At least it’s not a carrot cake,” you comfort him.
At least it’s not a carrot cake, he repeats in his head. It’s weird how you always seemed to know the right thing to say. You seem to understand him a lot. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.
The both of you enjoy the cake together. Your love for sweets was the biggest thing you had in common.
After, it’s time to unwrap the gifts. He doesn’t mean to be unappreciative but it's clear his classmates don’t know him all too well. He’s left with unimaginative gifts like socks or simple clothing. He’ll just donate them.
A familiar brown wrapped box sits in front of him. He unconsciously saved it for last. He’s careful with unwrapping it, you’re watching him with anticipation and the last thing needed is for him to disappoint you with his reaction. The card on the box doesn’t say the stereotypical ‘Happy Birthday Zayne’ like the rest had.
You’ve given him a coupon instead. ‘Ask [Name] to make you whatever sweet you desire’ is on it. Towards the bottom are five punch holes. He’ll have to be careful with his decisions. Your sweets are on a whole other world on their own, he’ll have to savour them.
He removes the wrapping, it’s a vintage record player still in mint condition. You beam at the awed look in his eyes. There’s two vinyl records underneath. “They work, don’t worry. I wasn’t sure about your music taste so I picked at random. The shop I found had many more, I’ll take you there.”
He flashes you a small smile. “Thank you,” he says softly. He’s never mentioned liking music around you or even talked about record players but the gift screams him in a shocking way.
You stare at him frozen for a second. He doesn’t realise you’re flustered when you avoid eye contact.
Maybe birthdays aren’t so bad.
~~~
“I’m surprised [Name] isn’t with you. The two of you are always attached at the hip.” When leaving for the new cafe that had opened up, the last thing he expected to happen was meeting his childhood friend again.
Mara was taller now. A hunter, he thinks feeling annoyed. She has a heart condition and chose one of the most extraneous jobs. It’s just like her. He remembers how [Name] had supported her in this endeavor. Zayne had missed you all these years. To everyone’s surprise, the two of you had become fast friends. He doesn’t understand how a warm person like you sought friendship in him but he’s glad you did. He regrets not keeping in touch.
He’s taken aback at the tears that gather in Mara’s dark brown eyes at his question. She’s grown to be a beautiful woman but his heart remains unaffected. He tries to imagine what you look like now.
Did they fight? He brushes the thought off. There’s no way the two of you would end up not friends. No the only reason he can come with for a separation is-
His eyes widened.
No. No. No.
“She’s dead.”
Mara had shown him where your grave was, right next to your parents. She’s waiting in the car while he visits you.
In his mind you had achieved your dream of being a bakery owner and were happy. It’s what you deserved.
He’s disgusted in himself. He’d run away like a coward in his childhood. He missed the extra years with you the others got. While he was busy with med school and then becoming a doctor, you were dead. You’d been dead this whole time and he had no idea.
He’ll spend the next few years just thinking. Thinking of you, of everything about you he can commit to memory. The only place you exist is in the minds of those you’ve left behind. He’ll think of missed chances and regrets. Sometimes he allows himself to fall into the what ifs, imagining a future with you that would never come to pass. These moments were rare, he only indulged in them at his weakest.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers to your grave.
It’s all he can say.
~~~
You had decided it would be best to keep your wishes to disappear to yourself. The twins would never break their allegiance to Sylus, not that you ever wanted them to. No, in the N109 zone, the only person you can fully trust is you.
You had stayed up that night and came up with a mental checklist for escape.
1. Find your own place. Not in the N109 zone.
“No,” Sylus tells you. You’re standing before him in his office. He’s not even looking at you, too busy with the paperwork in front of him. His words bring a pout to your face.
[Why not?]
“Because I said so. You’re not getting your own place. You have everything you need right here. You’re not leaving.” You glare at him and a hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. You hate that he never takes you seriously. “End of discussion.”
Taking in a deep breath - to calm the need to strangle him, it doesn’t work - you reluctantly relent. Instead you ask for something else.
[Can I go visit my brother?]
It bruises your ego to ask for permission to do anything. You’re not a child, you’re nearly the age you were when you died the first time. But the N109 zone isn’t one you can just enter and leave when you want, unless you’re someone like Sylus.
Your words stop him, he pushes away from the work on his desk. His attention is now fixed on you, his gaze leaves you on edge. Nearly two years have been spent with him and you still have no idea how to read him. It's frustrating, being able to read people has always been your strong suit, it helped with the constant manipulation you would pull. You had been happy to do his bidding without question before and now you regret the amount of control he has on you.
“Why would I do that?” he crosses his arms.
[Because it’s my brother…?]
He narrows his eyes at you.
“Why would I do that?” he repeats.
[Because I just found out he’s alive and I want to see him. Not to meet him, I’ll watch from a distance. I just have to see him with my own eyes.] You give him a pleading look. He sighs and looks away, taking a few seconds to agree before looking at you again.
“Fine,” he reluctantly agrees. “But you know the ordeal by now. Do something for me in return.”
Ugh everything is always a business deal with him.
“Sit,” he commands, gesturing at the chairs in front of him. You do.
He takes the glasses off his face. A shame. He looked very sophisticated in them. “That doctor you mentioned, there’s still nothing on her,” every month the two of you would meet and he’d relay the information he had found out and in the last year, not even a sentence could be written down. It left the both of you frustrated.
[Do you think..]
“That we have a traitor amongst us? Yes I’m sure of it now,” he finishes the thought for you. There’s a tick in his jaw. You don’t blame him, moles are annoying to deal with normally. But here in the N109 zone finding one is like finding a needle in a haystack. Everyone is a mole here. Finding the right one will be hard.
“Don’t worry, I already have a trap settled for our little rat. We’ll find them.”
His words don’t comfort you. They meant he’d known about the mole for a while, at least long enough to come up with a plan. Before your mind can go on a tirade at your developing distaste for your boss, he interrupts you.
“Moving on, I’m sending you on your first mission.” You keep his stare. “After you come back from seeing your brother. Make sure to have no contact with anyone. No one can know you’re alive. Also remember to take your phone this time. Got it?”
Ah right. The phone he’d given you was rarely used. There was no point, all the people you communicated with lived under one roof and you all used Meph as a phone anyways.
You nod.
[Cross my heart and hope to die.]
He glares at you, not impressed.
~~~
That’s how you find yourself, staring at the mirror in your bathroom.
Sylus had given you three days to visit Ei.
The weather in Linkon will be cold so you make sure to dress up in a nice wool coat. You have a small bag with you, there’s a few outfits in there and way too many pairs of undergarments. You’re not taking any chances. There’s a key to the hotel room Sylus had booked for you in there. The problem is the very large and very visible scar across your throat. You lift your head up a little to check it out. It’s still bright red. Your finger’s trail over it. The scar doesn’t feel as thick as it used to be but it’ll draw attention. You decide to take a scarf with you.
You still haven’t decided on how to feel about it. On one hand, it’s frustrating not being able to talk. It gets in the way of your everyday life. Even if you can sign now, many people don’t understand it so you have to carry a tablet around. Your torturers/killers had taken so much from you that it doesn’t hurt emotionally that they’ve taken your ability to talk as well. On the other hand, you’ve gotten used to not speaking. No longer do you remember what you sound like.
Ah, well. No point dwelling on it.
Sylus will show you how to leave the N109 zone. The way he does.
~~~
You feel like an imposter being back.
You had once built a life here but that’s been gone for a long time. You no longer have a place here.
First order of business is to visit the library, after you check into your hotel of course. The looks you receive all go ignored. You’re not humble about them, you’re aware of your beauty.
You peruse the selection of books but none of them interest you. Sylus already had a vast collection and you weren’t interested to add to them. You weren’t here for the books either. No, you were here for the computers.
You walk over to one and set your bag on the table. Sitting down, you turn it on. A book and a pen are retrieved from the bag. The purpose of your visit is to look for places available. A simple one bed will do. Hell, you’ll even take - you shudder at the thought - a studio. You browse through all the available properties, noting their addresses down.
Maybe if Sylus hadn’t proven time and time again he can’t be trusted then you would have accepted his ‘no’ without fighting. But, you have to look after yourself first. Besides, the small act of rebellion soothes you, you had grown a bit too complacent. He’ll find out, Sylus has too many ways of tracking you. The very phone he had given you which was currently in your bag for one. Mephisto for another, the city was loud and filled with people, everything is noisy so you have to really concentrate to hear the bird. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be following you.
Second order of business is the graveyard, flagging down a taxi, you show the driver the address written on your book.
You walk by your own gravestone and you try your best not to register your parents’. You’re not ready. You stand before the gravestone you’re here for.
Caleb Xia.
He really died.
You hadn’t been there.
He was dead.
And you weren’t there.
Some friend you were. Your mind remains oddly blank as you stand in front of him. It’s not like you can even say anything to him. Not even the lies that easily roll off your tongue. You turn to leave.
Third order of business.
Akso Hospital.
~~~
Zayne doesn’t believe in ghosts.
Not when his coworkers tell each other stories of those that took their last breath in the hospital, now doomed to forever roam the grounds. Not when Mara would tell him “spooky” stories to try and freak him out (it never works, he has no idea why she hasn’t given up).
So then, why is there a ghost standing in front of him?
The woman standing before him looks just like you - a grown up version of you. The rational part of him tries to answer, it’s just a coincidence that they look similar. It’s just a coincidence that the lady is standing right in front of the hospital room where your brother currently resides.
Just a coincidence.
There’s no way you’re alive. There’s no way its you wearing that long black winter coat with the black scarf around your neck. The coat practically swallows the woman up, nothing about her body can be seen. It’s not you because you hated keeping your hair long. It’s not you because you'd never sport that dead emotionless look on your eyes. It’s not you because you loved sleeping and you would never have eye bags that huge.
It can’t be you.
As a doctor, he’s treated a variety of people, especially those who have experienced trauma. But his mind (heart) can’t accept the way you look. He never thought he would see you so broken. Just what have you gone through all these years?
The doctor in him is screaming. Yelling to stop standing there and fix you.
He watches silently, frozen, as you contemplate entering the room. Your hand remains on the door handle, the window in it showing you the view of your brother inside. Eiden hasn’t noticed you, he’s fast asleep. The image of his rest calms you down. It’s a good thing he can still sleep peacefully.
The ghost looks painfully human as she steps away from the door. You still haven’t made a single sound, even your steps are quiet. He sees you close your eyes for a few seconds, your hands come up to rub your arms, an effort to ground or comfort yourself. When they reopen you look more focused. You’ve made up your mind on something when you sharply turn and end up looking right at him.
He sees your eyes widen in shock. In realisation. He can no longer convince himself you’re a ghost or another woman, there’s no denying it. It’s you.
The two of you remain frozen where you stand. Neither party makes a move. Neither of you speak either.
You break the moment by running away.
He watches as you leave him again.
~~~
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Zayne wasn’t supposed to be working but when is a doctor’s schedule reliable? You saw him listed as Eiden’s doctor and you weren’t even surprised. No matter how hard you try to stay away from the main cast, your fate seems to be thread right through theirs. Fuck. You should’ve made a plan just in case. When has anything in this horrible world gone right for you???
You try to look for a taxi. Hell you’ll even break into a car if you have to. Anything to get out of here.
Your mind is unreliable in moments of panic. Every thought is dramatised and the actions you end up taking go too far. You’ll come up with a simpler solution later but by then the damage will often be done leaving you with regrets.
Oh my god, I should just kill myself. Yup, that’ll fix it.
The last thing you wanted was to see Zayne again. He’ll tell everyone, you can’t have that.
I should just kill him then!
Before you can enact terrible crimes, your psychotic thoughts are thankfully halted at the hand on your shoulder.
You shove your shoulder away, stepping back until there’s a good distance between you. Zayne sees the fear in your eyes and his movements stop.
“It’s you,” he finally says in awe.
You can’t look him in the eyes, there’s too many things in there for you to decipher.
“[Name],” he calls out again. That gets your attention. It’s been so long since you’ve heard another say your name. Even after Sylus found out your real identity, he never acknowledged the name. As far as the world knows, [Name] is dead.
He tries to take a step towards you but your eyes are trained on him, when he notices the dread on your face, he stays in place.
“Please…just don’t leave,” he begs. It’s so uncharacteristic of him but you’ve always been weak to a pretty man begging.
“Just wait,” he checks his watch, “for thirty minutes. I get off work and we can talk. That’s it. I only want to talk.” The desperation in his voice freezes any hesitation in your mind. Memories rush in your head, the two of you had been so close once. He’d never done you wrong.
[Only if you promise you won’t tell anyone.] It’s a gamble whenever you sign, fifty percent in your favour, either the person knows the language or they don’t. But if there’s one person you’d think did know, it would be Zayne. Besides, your hands are far too shaky to write.
As expected he looks surprised at the movement of your hands. “Why are you…” he notices the ‘don’t ask’ expression on your face. “Fine. I won’t tell anyone if you wait,” he clears his throat and gathers himself. His voice is clearer when he speaks again. “There’s a cafe down the street, wait for me there. It’s going to rain soon,” he hands you his credit card. His eyes show relief when you take it. His phone beeps and when he checks it you know he’s needed. You won’t let him choose between his responsibilities and you so you relent.
[I’ll be waiting.]
He gives you a small smile, there’s a thousand questions on his face that he doesn’t ask.
~~~
Zayne watches you through the glass of the cafe.
You’re sitting at a two-person table. There’s an empty coffee cup in front of you, its warmth long gone. You haven’t ordered any food which worries him. He’d never known you to give up free food.
All his previous attempts of envisioning you grown up fall spectacularly against the real deal. The lashes on your eyes that he wants to count individually. The blemishes on your face have him wanting to know how they got there. The long nails you have that seem almost inhuman have him intrigued. Every part of you tells a story he desperately wants to know but it’s a tale you’re not ready to divulge.
Maybe you’d rather have Mara around. Zayne isn’t the type of person people go to for comfort. He understands that. He can’t give you what you need.
But, fuck, he’s going to try. For you.
You take notice of him when he enters the cafe. Instead of going straight to you, he walks over to the counter. You watch him confused at the action until he returns with two plates. One has a strawberry shortcake and the other is a chocolate cherry tart. Your eyes lit up at the sweets and he suppressed the laugh bubbling in his throat. He notices your focus on the shortcake and places it in front of you.
None of you say anything, simply picking up your spoons and digging in. Then, like it's second nature, you pick your plate up and Zayne does the same, you put the shortcake in front of him and he gives you the tart. Neither of you can help the wide grins you bear when you realise what you both have done. An old memory resurfaces in your mind.
The five of you are currently on your way to the park, walking through the town. It’s a nice sunny day and none of you had anything going on so why not enjoy each other’s company?
Calen, Mara and Eiden are at the front, talking animatedly with each other. You and Zayne are walking behind silent.
“What do you think [Na-” Mara cuts her own words off when she looks back to you and realises that neither you or Zayne are there. The three of them retrace their steps and find the both of you by the bakery, your faces nearly pressed up against the glass.
“They’re at it again,” Caleb says, annoyed. “Why were we even surprised,” Eiden comments. Mara can’t help but watch on in jealousy. You were her friend, it’s her you should be doing stuff like this with.
“Those weren’t there last week,” you let Zayne know, two pairs of eyes trained at the batch of desserts displayed through the glass. “You’re right.” The two of you waste no time entering.
“C’mon,” Caleb grabs the wrists of the two people by his side, leading them away. “We’ll come back for them, they’re in their own world now.” At least he won’t have to share Mara with you today.
Zayne and you have developed a ritual of sorts. Since you’re both just children, you can’t buy all the sweets you’d like to. Each of you only carries enough money for a singular sweet on your person. So, you each order a different one and share. You order a sachertorte while he gets the mille-feuille.
The both of you sit down and only take two bites. The first to taste the desert and the second to confirm if it is actually good. You groan at the thick chocolate and moisture of the cake, “It’s really good.” Zayne has to be careful with his, it’s made of puff pastry and can easily crack. “The custard in this is perfect,” he lets you know. You swap your plates around and try the second one.
The lecture you’ll end up getting from your parents about having too many sweets is worth it.
The smiles don’t wear off as you reminisce.
There’s the smile he looked for in each passing person.
The both of you just stare into each other’s eyes, the words of the others in the shop blur out. The comfortable silence you often shared with him in your childhood returns, two pairs of eyes do all the talking. You break the contact by blinking and that breaks him out of his stupor.
“I..” his words trail off as he overthinks what he’s going to say. You try to give him a comforting smile.
“I won’t ask about what happened. I won’t ask about why you’re not speaking either just…” your breath hitches at the look he gives you, mixed with desperation and yearning. “Let me examine you. Then I’ll be at ease.”
Your gaze falls over the empty coffee cup as you consider his words. [I don’t do well with hospitals…or doctors really.]
“That’s fine. We can go to my place,” he negotiates.
You should say no. You should walk out of here and never come back to him, your mind screams at you.
But it’s Zayne. The same Zayne who had left when he hurt the girl he cared about, Mara, not able to deal causing pain to someone he loved. The same Zayne who became a cardiologist to try and make it up to her.
At your discomfort, a smile adorns his face. “I’m glad to see at least something hasn’t changed,” he muses.
You shoot him a confused look. He pauses, a look of contemplation in his eyes, wondering if he should continue his thought. He does.
“When we were kids you hated being taken care of, even by your family. Almost like you didn’t believe you deserved it,” he explained. “It didn’t stop you from caring for everyone else though.”
You didn’t think anyone noticed your guilt.
There’s a gentle flick to your forehead, snapping you out of your thoughts. You look up at him in awe. “Many are not fortunate to have those who cherish them, so stop running,” his voice is in a whisper, soothing as always.
Ironically, he speaks nearly the same words you had to Caleb. You were always the biggest hypocrite you’ve met.
[Okay.]
~~~
The ride to his place is silent.
True to his word, it starts to pour heavily. You worry for Mara when you can hear thunder. Is she still afraid of it? Your gaze is out the window, committing each image to memory. Fauna and flora were scarce in the N109 zone but they flourish here in Linkon city. It’s nice to see. Linkon city looks so alive compared to what you’ve become used to.
Zayne opens the door for you as you get out of the car. His house is just what one would expect of him. White and black are the primary colours. Everything is placed neatly and organised in a fitting manner. It still feels like a home, you can tell the place is cherished.
“Come to my office,” he leads you into a room. He gestures for you to sit at the chair by his desk and you do.
His hand reaches for your scarf. “I’m going to take this off now. Is that okay?” You nod and wait with bated breath as he works on removing it, gently pulling out any hair tangled in it. His gaze is like steel when he sees the scar. You stop breathing all together when his fingers trace over it before removing them completely, his hand clenched into a ball by his side. Even his anger is silent.
[It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt at all. I’ll speak again, don’t worry.] You don’t like seeing him like that. His eyes soften at your words. Only you would try and comfort him about your injury. He kneels before you, hands reaching your left one. He looks over the injury he had caused. He doesn’t have to speak for you to hear his thoughts. You pull your hand out of his.
[Not your fault.]
“How did you stop me that day?”
When you don’t make a move to sign, he sighs. Another secret…
“Neverm-”
[If I knew I would tell you. Truth is my body moved on its own that day. I haven’t done it since then.]
“Ah.”
You can’t help the giddiness as you look over the boy you used to know. He’s become a man now, he’s become the Zayne you used to squeal over. Part of you misses the chubbiness he had in his face but the other part appreciated the sharp look he has now. He’s grown even more taller, and his clothes do a bad job of hiding the muscles underneath. And - oh wow- his eyes are so beautiful. You could look at them all day and never be bored.
Due to his stoicism, many like to paint him as a cold and indifferent person. You yourself thought he’d be like that with you, that his kindness was only reserved for the MC. You had been proven wrong every step of the way. You know better now.
That unlike his evol, Zayne is warm. Not in the way of body temperature or even his outward personality. He was warm in the way he adores animals. In the unique way he shows his care. In his touch. In the way he’d always been careful to never hurt your feelings growing up. You could go on about him all day. None of these things were noticeable at a first meeting with him, maybe even the second but you’re glad he let you in so you could learn them.
You have no doubt that he’s an amazing doctor. His patients must feel so lucky knowing that their physician will advocate for them and has their back. There are only four people that restore your faith in humanity and he’s one of them.
Without thinking, your hand reaches out and cradles his face. He lets out a gasp at the contact before engulfing your hand with his and leaning his face into your hand further. His eyes close and the peaceful expression on his face does not help the erratic beating of your heart.
“I’ll make some tea. Would you like that?” He’s staring at you so earnestly as he kneels, your hands still touching. You lick your suddenly dry lips, all too aware of how his eyes follow the muscle. You nod. This was getting too intimate. He lets go of your hand and stands up. “I’ll be back,” he says.
You decide to survey his office while you wait. The chair you’re sitting on is comfortable. What catches your attention is the bookshelf mounted on the wall. You stand up and walk over to it. Your fingers trace over the spines.The books on it are mostly medical journals and none of them interest you. You stop before an item, one very familiar to you.
A record player.
You remember how frantically you had gone into every shop you came across, looking for a fitting gift. To your luck, you came across a shop with vintage goods. There had been many, in various colours but you thought Zayne would appreciate the dark wood one. The record player was small enough to carry in one’s arms. You picked out two music tracks to go with it. To your utter relief he had loved the gift.
The shop had become a regular place to go with Zayne. It had a variety of vinyl records as well but they were expensive. The two of you would save up for them one by one. You helped him amass quite a collection.
“You noticed it,” his words don’t surprise you. His steps in the kitchen and the noises of him preparing the tea were all clear to you, so was him making his way back. He’s holding a tray with two steaming cups on it. He sets it down on the desk and walks towards you.
[I can’t believe you still have it.] He shoots you an incredulous look. “Of course I did. I make sure to keep it in good condition as well.” He goes over to his desk, pulling out a drawer. The record in his hands is one you know very well. All the artists on these records were unknown to you and this record is no exception. Except for the fact that you ended up becoming a huge fan of the artist. It’s a classical melody. The notes are simple but are so hauntingly beautiful. It’s engraved into your heart.
[It’s our song.]
“Yes it is.”
He places the record onto the player. Familiar music begins playing. You close your eyes to take it in, your head bopping to the tune. Zayne watches as you do the same notion you had when he first played the record. It’s soothing that some old parts of you still remain.
When your eyes open, you stare in shock at his outstretched hand. His cheeks glow with a red hue.
“Indulge me.”
Please.
You stare at his palm.
What are you thinking, Zayne? She’s not ready for something like-
You place your hand in his.
He stares in awe at the flustered look you have. It’s him that’ll need a heart transplant if you keep this up.
Your fingers lace together and he uses the momentum to gently pull you closer. His other hand goes on your lower back while you keep yours on his upper arm. You push your face into his chest as you sway together, you can’t handle looking into his eyes. You dance for a while completely unaware of the turmoil in his mind.
You feel his face move closer to your head. He places a tender kiss to the side of your head. Everything you’ve been holding in seems to break. He holds you tighter when he feels you shake, the wet of your tears decorate his neck. His hand caresses your head over and over again. It’s comfort at its best.
“I’m here,” he whispers against your head. “Let it all out.” It kills him inside how much you seem to need this. How he can’t even hear your cries. It’s fine, he’ll take whatever you give him.
Later, Zayne carries you to his bed. You had cried in his arms for nearly an hour until you passed out from the exhaustion. He lowers you onto the bed, making sure to take the coat off. Pulling the duvet over you, he sits down by your side and examines your face. Your eyes were puffy from the tears but it looked like you really needed this.
As much as he doesn’t want to, he gets up to leave. His movement is stopped by a hand on his wrist. ‘Stay,’ you mouth at him. You push yourself to the other side of the bed, patting the spot you were previously on. He gets on and settles in. You give him a sleepy smile and doze off.
He doesn’t sleep.
Watching you is enough.
You should’ve left. You should’ve gotten into a car and drove off. You should not have stayed. Because you’ve given a very desperate man a taste of you and he’s not letting you go now.
Tag List: @serenity-loves-red @crimsonmarabou @reni502
Includes: isekai-reader, non-MC-reader, mentions of death, obsessive behavior, unhealthy behavior, mention of death, violence, death, canon-divergence
Yan!Sylus who was completely thrown off guard when a random woman appeared at his home base. Who was even more surprised when the video footage showed her literally just appearing there.
Yan!Sylus who is unamused by your attempts to give an altered version of the truth to avoid the upcoming existential crisis. Who uses his aether core to find the truth for himself.
Yan!Sylus who is blown away to learn that you died, that you were from another world, that his world was a game where you were from, that you knew him both from his past and present life, and that because despite your knowledge, you cared for him. Not a fangirl crush, but genuine care.
Yan!Sylus who convinces himself that he has to keep you here. What if his enemies got a hold of you and got valued information his weaknesses? And you knew about his sorceress; he could learn more about her from you.
Yan!Sylus who takes into account your strenghts and weaknesses and decided to give you a small administrative job in Onychinus. Who's vaguely surprised by your dedication and efficiency. Who starts gaining some respect for you despite how weak and average you are.
Yan!Sylus who grows more... dissatisfied the more he learns about his sorceress from you. She reincarnates forever yet doesn't retain any memories of her past lives? She's had several lovers who's also chased her across lifetimes? In this life (the main game), her interest in him revolves around learning about the Aether Core in her body? How... displeasing.
Yan!Sylus who sends Mephisto earlier than normal to look after MC now that he can identify her. Who sees her with the other love interests and interrogates you about them. Who, after learning that they are the other lovers she's had over time, can't help but feel a bit of despair - what was his one life with her versus these other men who know her so intimately?
Yan!Sylus who watches you integrate into his inner circle. You enjoy Luke and Kieran's company, even when their pranks and personalities can be a bit much for you. And you adore Mephisto, giving him treats and trinkets while petting his plating and feathers.
Yan!Sylus who grows a bit frustrated when you are much more reluctant to grow closer to him. He's seen your desires, he knows you care for him want him, why do you push him away?
Yan!Sylus who through subtle maniputation coaxing manages to get you to open up a bit more. Who learns the little things that you like and what makes you who you are. Who finds that rather than making you more boring, seems to add to your charm.
Yan!Sylus who comes home after having a rough day with annoying people. Who is surprised when you see him in such a state and don't rush off to give him space like you normally do. Who is shocked when you offer to help him.
Yan!Sylus who finds his chin on your shoulder, his head cradled in your arms, and your fingers running through his scalp. Who finds your words of reassurance and comfort sooths a part of his soul he didn't know needed it. When has anyone ever held him so tenderly?
Yan!Sylus who finds himself craving that warmth, that unconditional love. Who finds himself seeking you out and opening up to you in hopes that you would show that side of you to him again. Who hopes that he can become that person to you.
Yan!Sylus who finds this opportunity when he finds you crying to yourself. Who holds you as you confess that you miss your old life, that you feel like you're betraying them by enjoying your life now. Who caresses your head as you share that you fear waking up and finding this to be an absurd coma dream... or not waking up at all.
Yan!Sylus who tries to ignore the pang he feels at your words as he comforts you. You shouldn't feel guilty about being happy here you shouldn't want to leave. You're only hurting yourself by wanting something you have no way of knowing how to achieve it you can't go back, he couldn't stand it.
Yan!Sylus who becomes your source of comfort when you feel homesick, when you have nightmares of waking up dead. Who feels a small thrill of having you so vulnerable to him.
And yet... you still keep your distance. Refuse to get close to him the closeness he wants. Why?
Yan!Sylus who finally finds MC in the N109 Zone, just as you said he would. Who notices that once he tells you this, you begin to withdraw again, to become distant why why why. When questioned, you tell him you don't want to disrupt the story if only you knew how much you already had.
Yan!Sylus who doesn't listen to your advice about being gentler or friendlier with MC. Who treats her like he does in the normal game maybe a bit harsher. Who tries whatever he can think of to force the memories back, frustrated with the situation between her and you.
Yan!Sylus who thinks about his love with Miss Hunter. It’s always surrounded with violence and selfishness. But with you… you’re gentle and giving. Even knowing everything he is, you accept him and treat him with a kindness he’s never known. Perhaps…
Yan!Sylus who finally manages to have her in his home, only to find you can be found nowhere. It's like you're avoiding him when he needs your comfort the most. Who feels like he's going insane.
Yan!Sylus who finally confronts you about your distance. Who is shocked (though he shouldn't be) to find out that you're avoiding him because you don't want to complicate things between him and Miss Hunter. You reason that trying to insert yourself in a love story you don't belong in isn't fair to anyone including yourself.
Yan!Sylus who demands to know what you want. Who uses his Aether Core again to see what you truly desire. Who sees that you want him, but you want him to be happy. That you think he's happiest with Miss Hunter. That you see yourself as less than her and undeserving of him.
Yan!Sylus who insists that you’re wrong, that you’re absolutely incredible in your own way that you make him happy. You smile and accept his words, but it’s clear you don’t believe him. Well, he’ll make you believe him…
Yan!Sylus who kills MC. Who takes back his soul. I suppose the dragon’s curse ended up coming to pass, didn’t it? Who makes her death look like an accident - innocent crossfire in the N109 Zone.
Yan!Sylus who knows you know what must have happened. After all, Miss Hunter is the main character of this story. She’s not supposed to die yet. And his mourning period was far too short for his beloved.
Yan!Sylus who knows he doesn’t have to worry about you running. The N109 Zone is a death wish without his protection. And the rest of the world won’t be accepting of someone with no records, no history, nothing. Whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with him.
Yan!Sylus who is unafraid of the consequences of his actions. He’ll regain your affection eventually. And he doesn’t fear what could happen if the Hunter’s Association, the Farspace Fleet, or her myriad of mythical lovers find out about the truth of Miss Hunter’s death. He’ll take them on and burn them to the ground. He’d pay the price over and over again to have you.
Yan!Sylus who doesn’t need his sorceress because he found his treasure.
This is my first time writing something like this so I’d appreciate any feedback (as long as it’s constructive)
The flabbers that have been absolutely gasted by the fact Sylus just game ended MC. What happens? Do the other Li’s know? Does she just respawn and start over? What a concept
‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!
Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.
“Had you paid a little more attention, you would’ve known I hated the thunder too.”
word count = 5.2k
i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over 🥺
part 1 | masterlist | part 4
The choir of rain showering down envelops your whole world. Holding yourself close, you hug yourself away from the constant roar of the thunders.
You did not notice the man watching— his gaze lingering on the drenched rag of a person curled up on the roadside.
Another roar tears through the sky, clawing at your chest, sending tremors down your spine. With each shallow breath, you silently pray for the nightmare to be over, to wake up under warm covers in the safety of your own room.
He probably saw the state you’re in—the haziness in your unfocused eyes and the way you blink, once, twice, sluggish and distant. A sigh leaves his lips as he kneels down to your level. With one gloved hand holding his helmet, the other lightly flicks your forehead.
The flick is light—too light for the weight crushing your chest, yet enough to tether you back to reality and bring some focus back into your gaze.
You slowly raise your gaze, meeting his crimson orbs. Unwavering. Sharp. Studying.
His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, not quite concern.
“You look like hell,” he states as he tilts his head, studying you like you’re an amusing puzzle.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your lips tremble, but no words form.
Sylus exhales, slow and deliberate—not quite a sigh, but something close.
“Can you get up?”
Silence. Only the sound of the rain, the low hum of the storm, and the quiver of your breath fill the air.
He clicks his tongue, running a hand through his drenched silver locks before shaking off the excess water. Then, without a word, he drops his helmet onto your head, fingers swift and practiced as he secures the strap beneath you chin
The sudden weight startles you. But before you can react, you’re lifted.
A sharp gasp catches in your throat as his arms hook effortlessly around you, pulling you up from the cold ground and onto the sleek leather seat.
He swings his leg over the bike, boots steady against the pavement. The engine purrs beneath you, low and commanding.
“Hold tight.”
The words are simple. A command. A warning.
Your hands instinctively clutch his waist, gripping the fabric of his jacket. The sudden yank pushes you flush against him.
But through the turmoil of it all—through the howling wind, the biting cold, the chaos swallowing the whole world as you ride through the roads a little too fast—beneath your fingers, beneath the soaked fabric,
he’s warm.
The contrast is sharp. The world untamed, screaming, tearing everything apart. The situation rushes past you, too quick, too unreal.
Through it all, you—fractured, weightless, drowning— hold onto him— steady, unshaken—like he’s the only rope tying you to reality.
•
“What’s your room number?” he asks as the bike comes to a stop and the deep rumble of the engine fades.
By the time you’ve returned to the resort, the campfire is long gone—reduced to nothing but damp coals and the ghost of laughter lingering in the air.
People scattered, rushed towards shelter, their hurried footsteps splashed against puddles. The storm has chased everyone indoors.
Except for you and him.
You’re still clutching onto him, fingers curled around the fabric of his jacket. The lingering warmth of his body beneath your touch feels foreign.
“Well?” Sylus’s voice cuts through the silence.
You blink, realizing you haven’t answered.
Your lips part, allowing a light whisper to leave your lips.
“409.”
Without a word, he starts walking.
Perhaps it’s because you did not want to be left alone in the darkness of the night again, or perhaps it was because the sudden loss of warmth prompted your body to move on its own.
You trail behind him through the dimly lit halls, the faint hum of electricity buzzing through the silence. Water drips from your clothes, leaving a trail behind as you shiver against the cold air-conditioned corridor.
You steal a glance at him. Sylus walks ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, completely unfazed. As if he didn’t just find you curled up on the side of the road, as if you’re not drenched and shaking beside him.
The two of you stop in front of your door.
You fumble for the key card, fingers trembling slightly, though you’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from everything that’s happened tonight.
“Shh, don’t be scared.”
Soft coos seep through the door.
“I’m here, pipsqueak. I’m here.”
Soft giggles follow the gentle whispers.
“You’ve always stayed with me on days like these, holding me just like this whenever there were thunders.” Her voice is small and fragile—like something meant to be cherished, protected.
Your fingers hover the doorknob, frozen in place.
The storm rages on, harmonizing with the soft giggles on the other side of the door.
You stood there paralyzed, your mind too tired to register whatever it is that your heart is going through.
Sylus leans against the doorframe, watching you hesitate. Waiting.
“So? You gonna go in, or are we just standing here all night?” He finally asks, voice low and edged with amusement.
Your lack of response earns slow exhale from him.
Before you can fall any deeper, before you can drown in the ache clawing at your chest—he moves.
His hand wraps around your wrist, firm and unyielding.
You flinch, eyes finally snapping to him.
He doesn’t say anything—just turns, walking, dragging you with him.
Away from the door. Away from them.
“Sylus—“ Your voice is barely above a whisper, but he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t loosen his grip.
And deep down, you were glad he didn’t.
You let the warmth of his hand anchor you, let the storm swallow everything else, and let the laughter behind the doorframe fade into nothing.
•
Sylus doesn’t stop walking until you’re deep inside the quiet halls of the resort, the sound of rain and thunder fading into the background.
His grip finally loosens as he stops in front of a door.
Without looking at you, he pulls out his key card and swipes it. The lock clicks open.
“Get in.” His voice is flat, low—an order, not a request.
You linger by the doorway, water pooling beneath your feet.
Sylus exhales sharply for the nth time that night, raking a hand through damp silver strands, sending droplets scattering to the floor. Then, without warning, he grabs a towel from the bed and throws it at you.
It smacks against your chest, snapping you out of your daze.
“Shower.”
You blink up at him. His crimson eyes don’t waver.
His jaw ticks. Another sigh, this one slower, controlled.
More is tossed at you.
A shirt. A pair of sweatpants. His clothes.
They land in your arms, warm, freshly laundered, carrying the faintest trace of him—clean, sharp, and something unplaceable.
Your fingers tighten around the fabric.
“You’re soaked. You’ll get sick.”
It’s not concern. It’s a fact. A simple statement.
When you still don’t move, he clicks his tongue, tone dipping into something dangerously close to impatience.
“Either you go shower, or I’ll throw you in there myself.”
That finally makes your feet move.
You clutch the clothes tighter against your chest and step past him, disappearing into the bathroom.
The door clicks shut behind you.
And only then do you finally exhale.
The warmth of the shower does little to soothe the tightness in your chest, but at the very least, it washes away the lingering cold from the rain, the exhaustion clinging to your skin like a second layer.
When you finally step out, damp hair sticking to your neck, Sylus is exactly where you left him—leaning against the dresser, one knee bent, a towel draped over his head. His silver hair peeks through, darkened by water, stray strands clinging to his forehead. He’s slow with his movements, lazy almost, dragging the towel through his hair before ruffling it out with one hand.
For the first time, you actually look at him. Not just a passing glance, not a flicker of acknowledgement,—but really look.
At the way the dim light carves shadows along his jawline—the cut of his jawline, the slight furrow in his brow, the way droplets trail down his collarbone before vanishing beneath the black tank clinging to his build—damp and unforgiving, outlining lean muscle and sharp edges.
There’s something effortlessly sharp about him, something dangerous in the way he simply carries his frame.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his gaze flickers up, sweeping over you. Unbothered. Knowing. Like he’s caught you staring.
“Like what you see?” his voice drips with lazy amusement.
You blink, heat creeping up your neck before you compose your features.
“What is there to like?”
His smirk deepens, crimson eyes flickering with something teasing.
“You really are a shortcake.” He smugs as his gaze roams your body. “Looks like my clothes are trying to swallow you whole.”
You glance down. The oversized shirt hangs loosely off your shoulders, the hem brushing against your knees. The sweatpants are cinched at the waist, tied hastily to keep them from slipping.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not my fault you’re built like a damn tree.”
Sylus snorts, shaking his head as he runs the towel over his hair one last time before tossing it onto the chair. “Move.”
He brushes past you, the scent of clean linen and faint sandalwood trailing behind him. The door clicks shut a second later, leaving you alone in the room.
For a moment, you simply stand there, staring at the empty space he left behind.
Then, with a slow, heavy breath, you make your way to the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight, soft and warm—a stark contrast to the cold pavement you were curled up on just hours ago.
You sink into it, pulling the blankets over yourself, letting your body finally rest.
But sleep never comes.
Even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs, your mind refuses to quiet.
The storm still lingers beyond the windows, faint rumbles reverberating through the walls. Every moment from tonight replays, over and over again—
The laughter at the campfire.
Caleb’s dismissive jokes.
Caleb’s warmth, his head rested on your lap as the sun sets.
His voice, gentle, whispered—“I’m here, pipsqueak. I’m here.”
And the way the line cut before you could even finish your cry for help.
Your grip on the blanket tightens.
It’s pathetic. How much this hurts. How much he still has a hold on you, even when you know better.
You force yourself to listen to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom, gripping into your own palm like doing so could lull you to sleep.
The blanket feels too heavy. The air, too thick.
You shift onto your side, curling in on yourself, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the ache sitting heavy in your chest.
The shower stops, and a moment later, the bathroom door opens.
Sylus steps out, towel draped around his neck, silver hair still damp, a few strands clinging to his skin. The scent of clean linen and something sharp, something distinctly him, fills the space.
He says nothing, nor does he acknowledge you.
Instead, he crosses the room in that effortless, unhurried way of his, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair before grabbing something from his bag.
You watch from the corner of your eye as he settles into the chair beside the bed, flipping the book open like he’s done this a thousand times before.
Like you’re not lying there, curled up in his clothes, drowning in the silence between you.
Like this is just another one of his quiet nights.
The pages turn, slow and steady, the faint rustle of paper weaving into the distant cries of thunder.
Still, the way the thunder rumbles through the sky, rolling and crackling so close, makes your body tense on instinct. You will your breathing to steady, to calm. But your hands won’t stop trembling.
It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid.
The sudden change from the steady rhythm of pages turning to the faint tap of his fingers against his phone screen causes your brows to furrow in curiosity. You crack an eye open just enough to see him searching something up. His expression remains as impassive as ever, his crimson gaze flicking across the screen, scanning whatever article he’s pulled up.
Then—without warning—he gets up, grabs your blanket, and yanks it off you.
“H-Hey—!” You barely have time to react before he moves, fast and measured, rolling you over onto the bedspread like you weigh nothing.
“What the hell are you—“
He ignores you. Ignores your flailing arms, ignores your indignant protests, and swiftly tugs the blanket around you, tucking you in so tight you can barely move.
You blink, completely stunned. You stare up at him, utterly dumbfounded, as he looks down at you with a face that is, somehow, completely unbothered.
“What the fuck is this?”
Sylus simply plops back down into his chair, cool as ever.
“It’s what they say helps cats with anxiety attacks.” He gestures vaguely towards his phone. “Something about mimicking the feeling of safety.”
Silence. You blink at him.
Once.
Twice.
His lips twitch—just slightly. “You’re welcome.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“What kind of dumb—this isn’t even—“ You wiggle, struggling against the tight wrap of the blanket. “Sylus, let me out.”
“No.
“Sylus.”
“They say chin scratches can also help calm cats down,” he smirks. “Would you want that too, kitten?”
You open your mouth to retort, but another loud crack of thunder cuts through the room. Your breath hitches before you can stop it.
Silence engulfs the room once more.
He flips to another page in his book.
“Do you hate it that much?” his eyes never leaving the words in front of him. “The thunders.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, hating the way your hands still tremble against the blanket.
“No.”
Sylus hums, the sound low, almost skeptical. He flips another page.
“Convincing. Really.”
You would never admit it, but the tight wrap of blanket around you created a protective barrier between you and the world.
Or perhaps it is the steady rhythm of his breathing. The calm, unshaken presence beside you.
Your eyelids grow heavier.
The storm still lingers outside.
But here, in this quiet space, it’s bearable.
And before you realize it—the world turns dark.
•
Your eyes shoot open.
The room is steeped in deep blue, the quiet hum of dawn settling over the world. The storm has long passed, leaving behind only the faint scent of rain lingering in the air.
You instinctively look around, your pulse quickening as the memories of last night rush in like a relentless wave.
The chair beside the bed is empty. The book he was reading is gone.
He isn’t here.
A strange feeling settles in your chest—one you don’t have the energy to name.
You push yourself up, the oversized fabric of his clothes slipping loosely around your frame.
Right. You need to go.
Sliding off the bed, you grab your things, moving as quietly as possible. The last thing you need is anyone seeing you sneaking out of a room that isn’t yours.
The hallways are eerily silent, save for the distant rustle of the ocean breeze slipping through an open window. You slip into your own room unnoticed, the door clicking shut behind you.
MC is still asleep, curled beneath the blankets, her breathing slow and steady.
You exhale, body weighed down with exhaustion as you strip out of Sylus’s clothes, replacing them with your own. The fabric is warm, familiar.
Sliding your phone onto the charger, you finally crawl into bed, slipping under the covers beside MC.
She stirs slightly, shifting at the dip in the mattress, but doesn’t wake.
The silence stretches, the soft rhythm of her breathing lulling you into something close to peace.
You close your eyes.
•
You’re jolted awake by MC’s sudden exclaim.
“Oh my god, Yn!”
Your eyes snap open, the soft haze of sleep vanishing in an instant. MC is hovering over you, her phone clutched tightly in one hand, her brows furrowed in concern.
“Where the hell were you last night?!” she demands, voice a mix of worry and exasperation. “I called you like, a million times! I was this close to going out and looking for you—” She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. “But, you know… how I am with thunders.”
You blink, mind sluggish, body too drained to react.
MC huffs, shoving her phone in your face. “Seriously, Yn. I was worried sick!”
You squint at the screen, barely making out the endless stream of missed calls and texts before you sigh, rubbing a hand down your face.
“Sorry,” you mumble. “I—”
What are you even supposed to say?
That you got caught in the rain? That you collapsed on the side of the road? That Sylus found you?
That you spent the night in his room?
Your throat tightens.
MC sighs, finally pulling back. “I swear, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one day.” Her expression softens, the frustration fading into something quieter. “You okay?”
The concern in her voice makes your chest ache.
You force a small smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
MC watches you for a moment before nodding. “Alright. But don’t ever do that again, okay? If something’s wrong, you tell me.”
You nod, though you don’t say anything.
She plops back onto the bed, stretching her arms over her head. “Anyway, we have a long-ass day ahead of us. Let’s get moving before they start filming without us.”
You hum in agreement, pushing yourself up despite the weight still clinging to your limbs.
The moment your feet touch the floor, a faint dizziness creeps in, but you shake it off.
Today is going to be long. You just have to get through it.
MC chatters away as she gets ready, pulling out outfits and rummaging through her bag. She seems to have let go of last night’s worries, and for that, you’re grateful. You don’t have the energy to explain anything right now.
By the time you both leave the room, the sun has fully risen, painting the sky in warm golds and soft blues. The air is fresh, carrying the lingering scent of rain, but the storm from last night feels like a distant memory—like something only you remember.
When you arrive at the set, the atmosphere is already buzzing with energy. Crew members are setting up, actors are going over their lines, and the director is barking out instructions.
MC quickly joins the main cast, slipping into her role with ease, leaving you to find your own place among the side characters.
“Action!”
The day begins.
It’s hectic—far more chaotic than yesterday. Since most of the key scenes are scheduled to be filmed today, there’s barely a moment to breathe between takes.
You go through your role automatically, delivering lines, hitting your marks, going where you’re needed.
And yet, through the commotion, you can feel him.
“Action!”
You can see him in the crowd, practicing and discussing his lines.
You can see him placing his hand on MC’s head, telling her it’s okay she messed up her part.
“Action!”
Every now and then, between takes, you can see the way his eyes land on you, a certain look that you can’t quite place your finger on.
And every now and then, during any short break he can muster, you can see the way he tries to approach you.
But the simple thought of him makes you sick to your stomach.
“Yn—”
You slip away.
“Where were y—”
Someone calls you over before he can finish.
“Why didn’t you pick—”
Another take is called, forcing him back into position.
Every conversation dies before it can even begin, and you make no effort to change that.
You don’t want to face him yet.
You can’t.
“Action!”
Fortunately, the day is kind enough to be relentless, dragging you from scene to scene, making it easier to ignore the weight of his gaze, the questions lingering between you.
But as the hours pass, the sun burns hotter, the air grows heavier, and a dull ache creeps into your skull.
It’s subtle at first, just a faint throbbing behind your eyes.
“Action!”
Your limbs feel heavier, your head foggy, the world tilting ever so slightly.
You swallow, forcing yourself to focus.
It’s nothing. Just exhaustion. Just the heat. Just the fact that you spent last night soaking wet in the cold for hours.
“Action!”
You push through.
A hand reaches for yours.
“Hey—are you oka—“
“I’m fine, Caleb.” You snap, finally turning to face him, snatching your touch away from his.
You look over his shoulder to find MC waving for him.
“MC’s looking for you,” you state, turning away just as quickly.
“You don’t look—“
The set sweeps him away once more.
The heat is unbearable. It sticks to your skin, clings to your lungs, burrows into your skull with a relentless pulse. Every sound around you—voices, instructions, the scuffling of feet on set—blurs into a distant hum.
“Action!”
You should sit down. You should stop.
But you don’t.
You push through, following the motions, forcing your body to move despite the dull, throbbing ache radiating from your temple.
The sun beats down harder.
Your limbs feel heavy. Your vision swims.
Something is wrong.
“Act—“
A sudden shift—the ground tilts beneath you.
The world spirals. Your stomach churns—everything is slipping too fast.
And then—a firm grip catches your wrist.
Through the haze, crimson eyes lock onto yours, sharp and assessing.
You don’t understand how, don’t understand why— but subtly, nearly imperceptibly—the sharpness in his eyes narrows, just slightly.
His grip tightens.
“It’s not called a dance if there’s no one to catch you when you dip,” a teasing smirk crawls up his face.
You narrow your eyes, a frown following closely.
“Let me go,” you demand, pulling your hand from his. To your dismay, he does not budge.
Sylus hums, tilting his head slightly, his crimson eyes flickering with amusement.
“Let you go?” He scoffs lightly. “Sweetheart, you nearly face-planted in front of half the set. If it weren’t for me, you’d be eating sand right now.”
A flush of heat creeps up your neck—whether from frustration or fever, you don’t know.
“But it did look like you were throwing yourself into my arms just now…”
Your jaw tightens. “I wasn’t—“
“You were.” He grins, lazy and insufferable, before tapping his temple. “Don’t worry, I’ll be generous and let you blame it on heat exhaustion. But next time, try asking before you faint dramatically into my arms, yeah?”
A scoff pushes past your lips, hot and irritated. “I didn’t—“
He cuts you off again, eyes narrowing in mock thought. “Actually, should I be offended? You didn’t even call my name. Isn’t that what damsels in distress do?”
He shifts his grip to hook an arm securely around your waist, pulling you closer as your knees wobble.
You slap at his arm. “I can stand just fine.“
“Sure.” He drawls the word out, clearly not convinced. “If by ‘just fine’ you mean ‘barely upright and just one second away from proving me right.’”
Your glare sharpens, pushing his body away from you. However, your body betrays you as your knees struggle to find balance, causing you to lean just slightly into his hold.
Sylus smirks.
“You love proving me right, don’t you?”
You groan. “Just let me go, Sylus.”
Before he can answer, another presence looms in.
“Yn.“
The teasing weight of Sylus’s words vanishes in an instant.
You tense.
The air shifts—sharp, tight, suffocating.
Sylus’s smirk doesn’t falter, but the amusement in his eyes dims, replaced with something much more calculating.
“I’ll take it from here.”
Caleb takes a step forward, his expression unreadable—but his tone isn’t.
“Let go.”
A muscle in Sylus’s jaw twitches as his gaze sweeps over Caleb, the amusement curling at his lips deepening.
“That’s funny,” he muses, low and almost thoughtful.
Caleb’s eyes darken. “I said, let go.”
Sylus tilts his head slightly, gaze dipping back to you.
“Mm.” His voice drops lower, amusement flickering at the edges. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
The tension snaps tight between them—like a drawn blade, waiting to be swung.
You exhale sharply, yanking your wrist away from Sylus. Caleb’s presence itself is enough to push you off the edge, adding the tension between the two and your head splitting in half definitely does not help.
“I’m fine. I can walk. You two have scenes to film—go do that instead of hovering over me,” you mutter, your glare shifting between them.
Neither of them move.
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Seriously. I just need some rest. Go.”
Sylus studies you for a beat longer, then— with an infuriating smirk, he raises both his hands in a mock display of surrender.
“Whatever you say, kitten.”
He steps back, turning without another word. But, even if you’ve just known him for a few days, you’re well too accustomed to that glint in his eyes. He’s entertained—like he just witnessed something far more amusing than it should be.
You roll your eyes, turning to leave—only to find Caleb following closely behind.
You stop in your tracks.
“Caleb.”
“You’re sick,” he states simply, as if that explains everything.
You let out an exhausted sigh. “I just need a nap. The sun’s too hot. You have a job to do. Go.”
“I’ll take you to your room.”
You groan. “I don’t need you to—“
“Yn.”
Something in the way he says your name—low, quiet, edged with something almost like a puppy left alone—makes your breath hitch.
You swallow, annoyance and fatigue surfacing your expression.
“Fine. Do whatever you want.”
You start walking. Caleb falls into step beside you, silent. The set bustles behind you, voices and movement filling the space. But between you and Caleb, the silence is louder.
The walk back is slow. The ground beneath you feels unsteady, your legs sluggish with exhaustion. The day had been merciless—your body drained from the heat, the lingering weight of last night clawing at your bones.
“I didn’t,” you murmur.
“You almost did.”
You finally reach your door, the cool AC left running inside brushes away a part of your exhaustion.
The door clicks shut behind you. You turn to face him, arms crossed.
“Alright. You walked me back. You can go now.”
Caleb doesn’t move. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets. “Kicking me out already?” he says with his usual playful tone, a grin plastered on his face.
“Out.”
Caleb sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just—why didn’t you say anything? You looked like you were about to collapse back there.” He slowly approaches you, placing one hand on your forehead and another on his. “You’re burning up.”
A deep frown crawls up your face, annoyance filling your senses. You swat his hand away, taking an unsteady step backwards.
“Get out, Caleb, I want to be alone.”
His eyes widen ever so slightly, taken aback by your response. A soft chuckle slips past his lips—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, okay, I’ll leave. Right after I tuck you in.”
You let out a sharp breath, exasperated, but too drained to argue. Caleb takes a step closer, reaching for the blanket, but you snatch it before he can.
“Caleb—“
“You didn’t answer my calls.” The shift is almost imperceptible. His voice is steady, but there is an edge to it—like he is holding something back. His jaw is tense, something unreadable flashing behind his violet eyes.
Your breath catches for half a second and you grip on the blanket tightens, but you school your expression. “My phone was dead.”
“Where were you last night?” His voice is still too calm. Too measured.
You exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose, exhaustion pressing into your skull. “Caleb—“
“Do you know how long I spent looking for you?” his tone is lighter than it should be, laced with something almost amused—but his eyes, his stance, the slight clench of jaw betray him. “I ran through the rain like a desperate idiot, calling for your name like a lunatic, only for you to act like I don’t exist the next day?”
His voice isn’t desperate. It’s frustrated.
You don’t know what to say to that. Instead, you let out a dry laugh, shaking your head.
“Yeah? That worried? Sure, Caleb. Sure,” you pause. “Do you expect me to be grateful?” sarcasm drips from your words.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” his eyes narrow.
“No? Then what are you saying?” You cross your arms, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Because I remember calling you. I remember my hands shaking so bad I almost dropped my phone. I remember hearing your voice and thinking, ‘finally.’” Your throat tightens. “And then I remember you cutting the line.”
Caleb stares at you, his expression unreadable.
“I was in the middle of god knows where, drenched like a drowning dog, kneeled down on the road next to some fucking dumpster,” you continue, voice shaking despite yourself. “But it wasn’t a great time. You were busy.” A humorless laugh leaves your quivering lips.
His jaws ticks.
“You know how MC is with thunders,” he says, voice quieter now. Almost defensive. “But as soon as she fell asleep— I didn’t think—“
“Exactly.” Your words are barely above a whisper. “You didn’t think. Had you paid a little more attention, you would’ve known I hated the thunder too.”
Something in his face shifts. His breath catches. For the first time since you met him, he looks like he miscalculated.
The silence is thick, suffocating. His gaze lock onto yours, searching—for what you weren’t sure.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, looking away. His hand grips the doorknob, knuckles paling slightly.
His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I didn’t know.”
A bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah. You didn’t.”
He remains there for a second longer, a shadow of something you can’t quite place flickering behind his eyes. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself, pressing a hand against your temple as a dull ache throbs inside your head.
“I’m very—very—tired,” you continue, voice barely above a breath. “So just… let me rest, Caleb.”
His jaws tightens. He shifts his weight, like he wants to say something—like there’s something sitting heavy on his tongue—but in the end, he exhales through his nose, slow and steady,
His voice, when he finally speaks, is quiet. Strained.
“…Get some rest, then.”
His fingers twitch at his sides. He slowly place his hand on your head, ruffling it softly—the way that has always brought butterflies to your stomach. His violet eyes flicker, scanning you—your unsteady stance, the way you press against your temple, the exhaustion settling deep in your features. Something flashes behind his gaze. But just as quickly, it’s gone.
He takes a step back. Then another.
He tilts his head slightly, studying you one last time—not with amusement, not with his usual lazy charm or playfulness, but with something much quieter. Much heavier.
“Try not to sleep through dinner, shortcake.” His usual grin flickers at the edges, forced, strained, before turning his heel.
Story Warnings: Hidden Baby Trope, Exes to Coparent to Lovers
Summary: He’s not the type to get jealous, but this bothers him. Zayne can’t believe that three years after your breakup, you have a husband and a two-year-old. You easily moved on while you were the only consistent thought in his mind.
I’m so excited. I love the secret kid trope more than I should. Something so raw about a s/o disappearing for whatever reason only to realize a child they never knew about is alive and well, not knowing them either.
in a war-torn world where survival is a privilege, you never expected to become the object of a feared colonel’s obsession. but as whispers of his lost love haunt your every moment and bullets become the least of your worries, you realize that falling for him might be the most dangerous battle of all.
➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader
➤ genre. heavy angst, smut, historical au, 18+
➤ tags. colonel!caleb, nurse!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, war times, unrequited love, profanity, violence, loveless sex, explicit smut, mentions of sexual assault (not from caleb), obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, injuries, blood, killings, morally gray dynamics, death. themes contain material that are heavy and disturbing—reader discretion is strongly advised.
➤ notes. 8.3k wc. divider by thecutestgrotto. this is heavily inspired by my other gojo fic s.o.s and the manhwa my beloved oppressor :) couldn’t stop thinking about this au for caleb that i had to just write it :’D reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
➤ next. 002 the colonel’s saint | colonel caleb playlist
The world above was long dead. Ruins of cities stood as monuments to a past civilization, swallowed by the aftermath of World War VI. Beneath the surface, buried in a labyrinth of steel and stone, was where the remaining humanity clung to survival. Here, Colonel Caleb was both a savior and a nightmare—a man whose presence alone sent shivers down the spines of even the most battle-hardened soldiers.
But he was not just any soldier—he was the fleet’s best fighter pilot, a legend in the skies before the war even forced them underground. Even now, when the remnants of humanity relied on aerial supremacy to hold off their enemies, Caleb was the one they turned to. The one who led the most dangerous missions, who never failed, who returned even when others didn’t.
You have loved him for as long as you could remember.
You were a humble nurse, stitching together broken bodies, whispering soft reassurances to the wounded. Your duty was simple yet relentless, saving as many lives as you could with the limited resources and skill at your disposal. You weren’t the best, nor did you claim to be, but you were one of the few who refused to surrender to despair, even as the war bled your world dry. While others faltered under the gravity of endless suffering, you endured. And after a year of tending to fallen soldiers and civilians, you remained steadfast. You were the only one among your female colleagues who hadn’t lost herself to the horrors of war.
That was how you met him.
Caleb was the fleet’s toughest and most formidable leader. He was unyielding and merciless to those who dared cross him. Even with his own people, he remained strict, and his resolve never wavered even in the face of devastating losses. But the night he staggered into the private ward, wounded and bleeding out, you were the first to reach him. You ensured he was cared for, your hands steady as you fought to keep him alive.
“You’ll make it through the night, sir.” You could still remember the desperation in your voice as you tightened the tourniquet around his broken arm, fighting to stop the bleeding. “I’ll make sure of it.”
He lay there, teeth clenched, body tense with pain, every breath labored. “If I die, I die.”
“No!” you shot back, your grip firm with determination. “Not tonight. You will live. We’re rooting for you, sir. The people need you.”
They said falling in love during wartime was a surefire path to heartbreak. Yet, meeting Caleb, seeing beyond his striking exterior, and loving him despite the battles—both on the field and within—was a fight you willingly embraced. You surrendered yourself to him without hesitation, and in return, the hardened soldier who was weary from war found solace in you. He called you the prettiest nurse in the ward, but to him, you were far more than that. You were the one thing he never saw coming.
You were the apple of his eyes.
But, of course, the other nurses didn’t take kindly to that. They resented how you had unknowingly ruined their chances with him, and even more so, how an undeniable favoritism began to surface. While they were left to sleep in rusty bunk beds, you were the one Caleb brought to his private quarters, where the sheets were soft, the air was warm, and food was abundant.
It was easy for them to judge. After all, rumors spread like wildfire about the nurse who shared the colonel’s bed. The gossip wasn’t confined to just the nurses; it reached the soldiers who eyed you whenever you passed, their gazes lingering with knowing smirks as if fantasizing what their colonel saw at night. Even the older civilians bore disapproving glances whenever they saw you. Their silent verdict was clear as day. You were seen as a woman who had traded her virtue for privilege. A harlot draped in a white uniform. A disgrace hiding behind the pretense of care.
You weren’t sure if Caleb knew about it, but it was impossible not to. He simply didn’t care because he had an entire nation to think about. Clearing your name was the least of his concerns. And you knew it. After two years of serving as a war nurse, when night fell, you were simply the woman Caleb claimed as his. A common-law partner, nothing more. He never made promises, never told you that you were the only one in his heart. Because you weren’t. That space belonged to another—the woman he had truly loved. The woman he had lost to war.
His wife.
You tried. You tried to live with the ghost between you, tried to endure the way his fingers sometimes trembled against your skin, as if remembering someone else. You tried to pretend that when he held you, it was because he wanted you, not because he needed something to numb the ache inside him.
But love, when unreciprocated, was a slow and agonizing death.
And all you could do was live with it for as long as you were with him.
Because one day, you knew he could love you the same. And one day, when the war ends, you would be in his arms, building your life together with your kids playing freely and no longer living in fear.
For now, you had to endure what came your way. There are no saints in war times, and patience was a virtue at times like these.
The sharp scent of antiseptic filled your nose as you moved swiftly through the underground ward, checking pulses, changing dressings, and murmuring reassurances to the wounded who groaned in pain one after another. It was just another day in the relentless cycle of war, patching up soldiers only to send them back out to die.
Then you heard him.
Colonel Caleb’s commanding voice felt like an alarm to everyone in the ward as he strode down the hall, flanked by his army of men. You weren’t even looking, but you could picture the way they walked, with Caleb at the front, exuding effortless authority, and the others keeping pace just slightly behind him.
“The turbine failed mid-air,” one of his officers reported. “Preliminary analysis suggests a mechanical fault. Possibly a lubrication issue in the main rotor bearings.”
“Or sabotage,” another interjected grimly.
Caleb didn’t slow his steps. “Has the wreckage been recovered?”
“Scouts are en route, sir. We should have an assessment within the hour.”
“Too late,” Caleb muttered. “If they hit us now, we’ll have one less bird in the sky. Reassign Squadron Echo to cover the eastern perimeter. Deploy anti-air artillery in sector four, and keep the missile launchers primed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Just then, a distant explosion rumbled aboveground, rattling the dim lights overhead. You even had to hold onto one of the cabinet doors to steady yourself. A fighter jet had gone down.
“Damn it.” One of the officers pulled out a small tablet, scanning over the mission logs. “Pilot’s confirmed dead. They’re already moving in on the wreckage. We need reinforcements at the north trench.”
Caleb barely hesitated. “Send Private Halloway to the front lines.”
“Roger that.”
His words were sharp and clinical. No emotion. Just another name spoken into a void, another body to be thrown into the fray.
Your hands stilled over a soldier’s bandages. Halloway. You recognized that name.
The same Halloway who had leaned a little too close when you handed him his rations. The one who had brushed a stray lock of hair from your face and smirked, murmuring something about how the battlefield could use more beauty like yours. The kind of beauty that he fantasized at night.
And now he was being sent to die.
A strange thrill coiled in your stomach. Caleb had heard about it. Or he might even have seen. It was a foolish and delusional thought, dangerous even, but you clung to the fact that this was surely his way of claiming you.
As his group passed, your pulse quickened. You turned slightly, letting your gaze linger on him. Tall. Unshaken. Unreachable. This was your man. He was yours and you were his.
You smiled as soon as he saw you, just a little, as if sharing a secret only the two of you understood.
But Caleb didn’t stop. He simply looked away. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his expression unreadable, and in a matter of seconds, he was gone. Nothing more than the cold air that he often carried.
~~
Steam curled in the dimly lit room as you stepped out of the shower, water forming in rivulets against your skin. The underground base was always cold, but in Caleb’s quarters, the warmth always stayed. Not just because he had his own luxury of a fireplace, but because the warmth also included faint traces of him in the air, in the sheets, and in the ghost of his presence.
Not that it mattered. You were just emotional because he hadn’t been here in three days.
Sighing, you wrapped a towel around yourself, already resigning to another night alone. But just as you reached for your comb, the door swung open with a slow and deliberate creak.
You froze.
Caleb stood in the doorway, his uniform dusted with dirt and gunpowder. His sleeves were rolled up, veins prominent on his forearms and tension coiling in his stance. His gaze flicked over your damp skin, bare shoulders, the towel barely clinging to your body.
You let a small smile play on your lips. “You finally remembered where your bed is?” you teased, stepping closer. “I was starting to think you found another.”
He didn’t respond. Just shut the door behind him with a quiet click.
And the thick, suffocating silence stretched as he began removing his shoes. You took this moment to clear your throat. “I heard about Halloway,” you murmured, tilting your head. “People are saying you sent him to a death sentence.” A pause, then a knowing smile. “Did you do that for me?”
The shift was instant. And it wasn’t what you pictured in your head.
Before you could react, Caleb was in front of you, his body pressing you back until your spine hit the cold wall. His hand gripped your jaw firmly, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. They were dark, smoldering, and unreadable. This was the version of Caleb that everyone was afraid of.
“You worried ‘bout him?” His voice had a dangerous edge lacing each word.
While you, your breath hitched, fingers curling into the towel. “N-No.”
“You think I didn’t hear?” His grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make you gasp. “The way he talked to you? The way you smiled at him? Handsome guy, isn’t he?”
You denied everything he was saying. You knew one of his officers had been feeding him information, but they seemed twisted to make you out as someone you weren’t. Were they trying to turn him against you? “No, darling. That’s not true. In fact, I can’t even stand him.”
His lips curled, but there was no humor in it. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, Y/N.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. “And if I catch you entertaining anyone else again, I won’t just send them to die.”
A shiver ran down your spine—fear, thrill, or perhaps something darker twisting deep inside you. His warning did what it was supposed to do: to scare the hell out of you. But the most dangerous part was how much you enjoyed it all.
And then, before you could even form a response, he pushed you towards the bed.
By the time you looked back at him in surprise, he was already unbuttoning his shirt, looking at you merely as an object of his desire. “Strip off,” he growled, face rigid as ever. “The past few days were damn stressful. Been thinkin’ of you naked all day.”
And so, your nightly duties began. Caleb demanded his reward, and you were too foolishly in love that you surrendered to him without hesitation.
Because as unhinged as his obsession seemed, it ignited something deep within you. The thought of Caleb claiming you as his prize, something he craved at the end of each brutal day, sent the most passionate fire through your veins. That the same man who barely spared you a glance in daylight was the one who burned with desperation to have you all to himself at nighttime.
“I missed you,” you whispered as you slowly unraveled your bare body in front of him, dropping the damp towel on the floor. Not once did you break eye contact, and it was the sexiest thing you had ever experienced in your life.
As for him, he had already rid himself of his clothes. They were a pile on the floor, discarded lazily as he pinned you down. First, he went for your lips. Completely devouring, savoring your taste, and dominating every inch of your mouth. The moment his tongue connected with yours, he deepened the kiss—a little too rough, too desperate that you could barely breathe.
“M-My love,” you gasped, the only time he allowed you to catch your breath was when he was positioning himself between your legs. And then he crashed his lips onto yours once more, enjoying how you moaned against his lips, exchanging warm breaths as he explored your mouth. The kiss was so intense that you barely noticed the feeling of his hardened member pressing against your leg. It felt huge and hard as a rock, a clear sign that he had been wanting a good release for the past few days. And you? You were crazy about it. You had seen his member plenty of times before, but nothing excited you more than feeling it inside.
That wasn’t his agenda for now, though. He took his sweet time trailing kisses along your collarbone, leaving purple marks around your neck, before he feasted on the same breast he had been kneading for more than a minute. You could feel your back arching as your body naturally responded to his touch, with your own hand guiding him to massage your other mound. He nibbled on the nipple, sucking and licking around the nub, then moving to give the other the same amount of attention.
He was like a hungry beast that hadn’t eaten for weeks. With the way he squeezed your tits together and running his tongue along the cleavage, you could already feel yourself dripping down there.
“C-Caleb.”
“Hm?” He didn’t pull away. Instead, he crawled down, spreading your legs apart, and eyeing the swollen lips that he was about to demolish. “Wet already?”
You nodded, looking down at him and watching as he pressed his fingers along the slit, sliding and circling his digits on your entrance. “Mmh—that’s…”
“Be patient now,” he mocked, “Aren’t you so needy?”
That was true, but how could you help it? How could you not want him inside if you could see him stroking his pulsing cock while he was using his other hand to play with your clit? Just when you thought you couldn’t go crazier, he eventually sucked his digits to taste your slick, then he returned them back to your entrance, only this time, entering without warning.
“A-Aah!”
His fingers alone could make your legs shake, and whatever he was reaching for inside you was making you weaker by the second. You were a moaning mess under him, hands clenching on his sheets for dear life as he fingered your cunt like there was no tomorrow. It was only a matter of seconds until you disintegrated in front of him—your legs trembling as your fluid released itself in a series of squirts.
Embarrassed as you may be, it was what Caleb wanted to see.
And he didn’t let you rest before he was already positioning his crotch on your face, his hand holding his cock in place as he slapped his swollen tip against your lips. “My turn,” he spoke in a low voice, smirking as you wrapped your shaky hand around his shaft and let your tongue swirl around his bulging pink head. You could taste the precum on his tip, licking every corner and every ridge under, from his balls back to his tip before you swallowed him entirely.
“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, pulling your hair as you bobbed your head on his cock, enveloping the warm walls of your mouth around his member as if you were milking him of his cum. Your eyes welled with tears as you fought the urge to gag despite feeling the tip of his cock repeatedly hitting your throat. Each and every moan he released made you more determined to please him, to be called a good girl, to be wanted.
You could feel it. With how his cock was twitching inside your mouth, he was about to explode. But he didn’t let it happen. Everything happened in a span of a second when he pulled his member from your mouth before opening your core and slamming his cock into your pussy.
His thick, hard cock stretched you open without mercy. And he didn’t slow down or savor the time. He was ramming into you, hands holding your hips in place while your tits bounced wildly. Caleb’s sweat was starting to trickle along his toned upper body, his abs now glistening as he continued to pound into you endlessly.
“I’d fuck you everyday like this if I can,” he grunted, each word came out raspy. “You like that?”
“Y-Yes! A-Aaah!” You struggled to form coherent words as he hit your sweetest spot at each hard thrust. “C-Caleb.”
The walls were thin. But surely, the colonel’s private quarters would have some sort of soundproofing, otherwise it would be embarrassing how loud the skin-slapping and squelching noises you two were making. It didn’t help that you were practically screaming as Caleb started increasing his speed as he chased his climax. Your walls were clenching around his girth, milking him of his load that he soon spurted inside of you.
You were in a battle of catching each other’s breaths as he pulled out, watching his cum seep out of your cunt before he plopped on the bed next to you.
“Take the pill as soon as you wake up,” he ordered, laying on his back as he closed his eyes. His chest rose up and down as he eventually caught his breath.
But you remained a ragdoll beside him, your lower body still twitching from the intense orgasm and muscle memory. “O-Okay.”
The night was supposed to end romantically. It was supposed to be you and him cuddling and declaring your love for each other, but the thought of him only using your body to relieve himself was torture to your mind. You convinced yourself it meant something more, something deeper.
But the hard truth was, you were only there to fill the silence.
You traced lazy circles over his bare chest, your voice soft yet full of devotion. “I’m all yours, Caleb. Only yours.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I know.”
~~
The next morning, the bed beside you was cold.
You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing against the empty sheets where Caleb should have been. But there was nothing—no warmth, no lingering presence, just the stark reality that he hadn’t even stayed.
But you told yourself you just had to get used to it and that Caleb would come wanting you again at night. Like he always did. And so, biting back the hollow ache in your chest, you forced yourself up, got dressed, and headed to the mess hall for breakfast.
The moment you stepped in, you felt it.
Eyes. Watching. Judging.
The low murmurs didn’t stop as you walked past the rows of civilians, soldiers, and nurses, pretending not to notice the whispers that followed you. You kept your chin up and sat down with your tray, forcing yourself to eat the stale bread despite the tightness in your throat.
You had no illusions about what they were saying. They all thought they knew what you were or what you did. Caleb’s woman. His plaything. And after last night, they had even more reason to talk.
But you had work to do.
By midday, you were back in the ward, slipping into your role as if nothing had changed. Patients needed tending to, and you weren’t about to let their petty gossip stop you.
At least there was something to occupy yourself with. They brought in a new soldier to the base, barely back from the front lines if you could add. His face was gaunt, sunken with pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he lay on the cot. His leg was in ruins—shattered bones, torn muscle, the kind of injury that didn’t fully heal in wartime.
You approached him carefully, offering a calm, practiced smile. “I’m here to help—”
His reaction was instant. It was as though you were the trigger to a ticking time bomb. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, snapped to you, and before you could blink, his hands already shot out, grabbing at you with a strength you didn’t expect.
“You—!” he snarled, his fingers digging into your arms, nails raking against your skin as he yanked you forward. “You whore—you whore!”
You gasped, struggling against his grip, but he was fueled by pain and rage, his voice hoarse with accusation. “Ow! P-Please!”
“You ruin men like us! You—you—get innocent soldiers sent to die!” His nails scratched at your cheek, his grip tightening as he shook you. “You’re the reason Halloway’s gone—!”
The words hit like a slap, but before he could do more, hands were on him. And on you. Other soldiers rushed in, prying him off you, restraining him as he thrashed against the cot.
“Stand down, soldier!” one barked.
You stumbled back, breath coming fast, your skin stinging where he had just scratched you.
But the worst part wasn’t the pain.
It was the way the nurses across the ward just watched. Their gazes were cold, as if saying you deserved it. Not a single one had moved to help.
You couldn’t understand the hostility. Couldn’t fathom why people looked at you with such disdain. If it had been another woman in your place, would they have treated her the same? All you had done was love a man—nothing more, nothing less. You weren’t trying to hurt anyone. You simply fell in love.
But as you locked yourself in the bathroom, staring at your reflection while washing the bloody scratches from your cheek, that was when the realization struck.
They didn’t respect you because Caleb never had.
Not once had he claimed you in public, never shown his affection where others could see. He had never treated you like someone worth honoring, never given you the respect you deserved. And if the leader of this war-torn world didn’t respect you—why would anyone else?
The thought alone made your eyes well with tears, but you quickly washed them away. No. You refused to doubt. He loves me. He’d even kill for me.
A sudden knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. You opened it hesitantly, only to find Simone standing there. The only female soldier with a rank high enough to command real respect. At first, you assumed she was just waiting for the restroom, but the way she looked at you said otherwise.
“You got a minute?” she asked, her tone cool and unreadable.
You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah… sure.”
~~
The storage room was cold and dimly lit by the single flickering bulb overhead. Dust clung to the forgotten crates, and the faint scent of metal and oil lingered in the air. Hardly anyone came here as it was a place for old supplies and broken equipment, not whispered conversations.
And yet, here you were, in the only room without surveillance.
Simone leaned against one of the crates, arms crossed as he narrowed her eyes at you. “You need to end things with Caleb.”
You stiffened instantly. “Excuse me?”
She sighed, rubbing her temples as if she had already anticipated your reaction. “This thing between you and him, you know it isn’t healthy. Not for you. Not for him.”
You scoffed. Who does she think she is? “You don’t know anything about us.”
“I know more than you think,” she shot back. “I know what kind of man Caleb is. What he’s become.”
You folded your arms, defensive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that he cares about me.”
“Cares about you?” Simone let out a humorless chuckle. “Do you even know what he’s done? How many men he’s killed just for looking at you?”
Your lips parted, but no words came out.
“Five soldiers. And counting,” she continued coldly. “Some he sent straight to the gas chambers. Others? He had them tortured in ways I wouldn’t even wish on our enemies. And all because they made the mistake of mentioning how beautiful you are.”
You felt the blood drain from your face. “B-But that’s because he wants to protect me. That’s just how he loves.”
Simone watched you carefully before she sighed again, her voice softening this time. “This isn’t love, Y/N. You don’t know Caleb… I don’t even know if he’s capable of loving again.”
What does she mean?
“He wasn’t always like this,” she continued, almost nostalgic as if he had seen another version of Caleb that you hadn’t. “Before the war. Before his wife died. He was kind. Gentle. A man who knew the difference between power and cruelty.” She hesitated, then admitted, “She was my colleague. And my friend. Caleb’s childhood sweetheart, his true love, and his whole life. He loved her sincerely, so much so that he was fighting to make the world better for her. Not destroy it. But seeing him right now, she would’ve hated what he’s become.”
Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Everything she had just mentioned shot a bullet straight to your heart, but you refused to let it kill you. You refused, denied. No!
“You can’t replace her,” Simone added, her words cutting through you like a knife. “No matter how much you try. So I suggest you leave him before it destroys you.”
~~
The door to Caleb’s private quarters slammed open as you stormed inside, your blood boiling, your mind a haze of rage and betrayal. You couldn’t stop Simone’s words from echoing in your head even if you tried hard enough. You can’t replace her. She’s his true love. His whole life.
“No.” Adamantly did you shake your head. “Stop.”
He loved her sincerely. And still does.
Your breath came in ragged gasps as you yanked at the blankets, overturned chairs, kicked over the table. The frustration inside you was begging to be released, and destruction was the only thing that made sense. How could you get extremely jealous over a dead person? You laughed in your head. She was dead. She was gone. Good for her. But despite the constant reminder to yourself that the woman you were jealous of didn’t exist anymore, you knew that you could never erase the fact that you would still never amount to her. And you hated it. You hated her!
In your rage, you didn’t even realize you had grabbed one of his jackets from the pile of discarded uniforms until something tumbled out of the pocket.
A necklace.
It landed with a soft metallic clink against the floor. It was a simple chain, worn with age, with two wedding bands strung together. Your stomach twisted as you picked it up, seeing the engraving was delicate but unmistakable. It had Caleb’s name and hers.
Your hands trembled.
She was still here. She had never left. Not in his heart, not in his mind. He carried her with him, even now, even after all the ways he had made you believe you were his.
Something inside you snapped, as though you were a madwoman who had finally lost her sanity. Like Caleb always said, that ‘there are no saints in wartimes’. So, what was stopping you from going all out? She needed to be destroyed. She needed to be forgotten. In your desperation to search for more pieces of her, you lurched toward his drawers, pulling them open and shoving things aside. Your promise to never touch his things? Forgotten.
That was when you saw a wooden box, hidden beneath neatly folded uniforms.
You yanked it out, prying it open with shaking hands—only to find it stuffed with letters. Some yellowed with time, others crisp as if he had reread them over and over. Her handwriting. Her words. Her love, immortalized in ink.
My Dearest Caleb,
If I close my eyes, I can still see you standing on the shoreline, hands in your pockets, pretending you’re not waiting for me. But I always knew. You were never good at hiding how much you loved me.
Are you eating well? Have you been sleeping? I know you’ll lie if I ask you in person, but in a letter, you can’t hide from me. And I worry, darling. I always do.
I miss the way you hold me before you leave. I miss the way you kiss my hair, thinking I don’t notice how long you linger there. I miss the way you look at me like I’m the only thing in this world worth coming back to.
Sometimes I wonder… do you know how much I love you? Do you feel it, even when we’re apart? I hope you do. I hope it’s enough to keep you warm when the nights are cold, to keep you safe when danger is near.
Come back to me soon, my love. The house is too quiet without you. And when you do, I’ll be right here, waiting. Just like always.
Forever yours,
Your wife
A strangled sob tore from your throat.
You didn’t think. You couldn’t. You just couldn’t.
Through hot tears and reckless fury, you grabbed the box and flung it into the fireplace without regard. All her letters spilled out, each and every one of them catching flame within seconds. And you didn’t hesitate to throw the necklace soon after, letting it vanish into the fire with a dull shimmer.
You stood there, watching the flames devour every trace of her. Of them.
“You’re gone,” you let out a mirthless laugh, wiping the tears that followed after. “You’re gone! Leave him alone!”
Your entire body trembled at the thought, your chest undulating in heavy breaths. Then, as if realizing what you had done, you collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly at the fire.
The anger was gone.
Replaced by the terrifying thought of what Caleb would do when he came home.
~~
The FY-26 cut through the sky like a phantom with its sleek titanium frame reflecting the nautical glow of the setting sun. It was the most powerful fighter jet in the fleet; faster, deadlier, a mechanical beast designed for war. And only one person from the DAA was given the honor to pilot it.
Caleb gripped the throttle, voice steady as he spoke into his comms. “Specter-01 to Specter-02, enemy reconnaissance spotted at 2 o’clock, altitude 15,000 feet. Adjust trajectory and prepare for engagement.”
“Copy that, Specter-01,” came the reply of his fellow fighter pilot. “Visual confirmed. Awaiting further orders.”
Caleb’s gaze flicked to the horizon, where a lone aircraft hovered in the distance. He could hear the chatter of enemy comms scrambling to react, but for a moment, his focus drifted.
Below him, a small, crescent-shaped island came into view. His grip on the controls instantly tightened.
He knew this place.
The memory surfaced like a ghost from another life—of a time when war wasn’t all he knew. When he had taken her here, flying low so she could see the crystalline waves shimmering under the sun. He had told her to look down, to read the words he had carved into the sand earlier in the day.
"Will you marry me?"
He could still hear her laughter, the way it had crackled through the radio before she screamed yes over the comms, her excitement drowning out all other noise. His adorable pipsqueak. Her beautiful smile, her sparkling eyes…
Caleb exhaled sharply, forcing himself back into the present. “I miss you, my love.”
That was a lifetime ago. She was a lifetime ago.
His eyes darkened as he thought of his new reality—you. You weren’t her. Not in the way you spoke, the way you carried yourself, the way you looked at him with that foolish devotion. But maybe… maybe he should stop pretending that it mattered.
Maybe he should just settle with what he had left.
You were still there waiting for him. A woman who, despite all odds, loved him with reckless abandon. The same woman who cried on the night he was on his deathbed, doing everything in her might to make sure he lived. And though he could never give you what he once gave another, he knew you’d still smile, even just from the smallest things.
A glance. A touch. A mere kiss from him, and your entire world lit up.
His hands flexed against the controls.
“Specter-02, engage the target. I’m circling back to base.”
Because tonight, maybe he’d give you something to smile about.
~~
The moment Caleb stepped into his quarters, he could tell something was wrong.
The air alone was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, an unusual warmth persisting as dying embers crackled weakly in the fireplace. His gaze swept over the room—furniture askew, drawers flung open, papers and personal belongings scattered across the floor. His gut twisted. It was like a crime scene. Like something vital had been gutted from this space.
Then, his eyes landed on you.
Curled up on the floor, body trembling, and your arms wrapped around yourself like a feeble shield. Your shoulders shook through stifled sobs, but the moment your tear-streaked face lifted to meet his gaze, everything inside him snapped.
His heart slammed against his ribs, a foreign pressure crushing his chest as his vision tunneled straight to the fireplace.
No. No, no, no, no!
It was as if his vision blurred, as if there was a deafening ringing overtaking his ears as he stormed forward, shoving past the mess to get to the source of his rage. The flames had long since died, leaving behind nothing but fragile wisps of ash. But even in its destruction, he recognized what it used to be.
Burned letters.
A melted necklace, the twisted remains of two rings fused together.
The last pieces of her.
His wife.
His breath left him in a sharp, ragged exhale, his lungs refusing to pull in air as scorching rage flooded every nerve in his body.
“You,” he seethed. Your name didn’t even make it past his lips. The word was a knife, laced with something lethal, something beyond fury. His boots pounded against the wooden floor as he closed the distance between you, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. “I’d fucking kill you! What the fuck have you done?!”
You flinched, your body recoiling as if his voice had physically struck you. “Caleb—”
“Shut up!” His hand shot out, gripping your arm down to the bone, yanking you up with enough force that your legs nearly gave out beneath you. “Do you have any fucking idea what you just did?”
“I—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t thinking straight—” you choked out, shaking your head frantically, eyes wide with panic.
“Didn’t mean to?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound so devoid of warmth it sent chills down your spine. Before you could react, he was already shoving you back against the nearest wall, his arms caging you in, his breath hot with rage as it fanned against your skin. His eyes were cold, piercing, murderous, menacing.
“You burned her letters, our rings,” he said, each syllable aiming to intimidate you. “Destroyed the only damn thing I had left of her! And for what?!”
Tears spilled down your cheeks as you tried to shake your head, tried to explain, but your throat was too tight, your breath too uneven. Caleb’s gaze alone was enough to make your entire body tremble. But you had to try. “I was hurt, Caleb,” you finally sobbed, the words tumbling out like a plea. “I—I just wanted you to forget her. I wanted you to see me!”
“Forget her?” His jaw clenched. His grip tightened on your wrist, the pressure just shy of bruising. “You think you could ever replace her? You think you have any fuckin’ right to want anything from me? That you could be anything more than a pathetic substitute?”
The words sliced through you like a blade, carving through every delusion you had ever let yourself believe.
Yet… you had nothing left to lose.
“I love you,” you whispered, broken, desperate. “Caleb, I love you… Please. I’ll be everything you need. I’ll offer everything I have and more. Just… just forget about her.”
For a terrifying second, you thought he might actually hit you.
But then, just as fast as it came, he wrenched himself away from you, staggering back as though you were the thing poisoning him. It hurt. It hurt like hell to see the way he rid himself of you as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers itching to wreck you.
“...Caleb.”
“...I’m sorry, Caleb.”
“...I love you, Caleb.”
No matter how desperately you fought to win his heart, his voice remained eerily calm when he finally spoke.
“Get the hell out of my sight.”
You stood frozen, barely able to process the words. “B-But—”
“I said GET THE FUCK OUT!” His roar thundered through the room, rattling your entire being like an insect in a heavy storm.
You swallowed down the sob threatening to rise up your throat, willing yourself to move—to breathe—as you staggered toward the door. Your fingers curled around the handle, and for a split second, you let yourself hope for him to stop you. To say something. Anything.
But all he did was stare at you with a gaze so cold, so hollow, it made your heart cave in on itself.
And then, his final words were more merciless than you thought.
“You wanna play with fire?” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll throw you out into the front lines soon enough. See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”
A strangled gasp left your lips, your vision blurring with fresh tears.
You couldn’t breathe.
You couldn’t think.
And for the first time since you met him, you realized that no matter how much love you poured into him, Caleb had none left to give.
~~
He stayed true to his words.
The front lines were nothing short of hell. Explosions tore through the sky, painting it in hues of orange and black. The ground trembled beneath relentless bombardments, screams of the wounded and dying mixing with the fusillade of gunfire. It was chaos. It was pure, unfiltered war.
And you were in the heart of it.
Thrown into the battlefield as nothing more than a discarded afterthought, yet you worked tirelessly, tending to the broken, the dying, the ones who begged for mercy even when there was nothing left to give. Blood soaked your uniform, stained your hands, and for the first time since you had arrived at this forsaken place, you realized Caleb was never coming to rescue you. That this wasn’t as simple as temporary punishment where he could rescue you back to the base the moment he saw that you had already paid for your sins.
You had been foolish to think otherwise. Because the punishment was greater than the crime.
Day after day, you watched the planes soar overhead, wondering if one of them carried him. If maybe, just maybe, he’d glance down and remember you. That he’d order someone to retrieve you, to take you home.
But no one came.
Not even him.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse—the enemy arrived.
You barely had time to react before the camp was raided, soldiers storming in with brutal efficiency. Screams filled the air—nurses, wounded soldiers, no one was spared. You tried to run, but hands—so many hands—gripped you, dragging you with them.
“No, please!” you sobbed, thrashing, digging your heels into the dirt. “Someone, help me!”
But the only response was the harsh, guttural laughter of the men dragging you away. You didn’t understand their language, but you understood them. The way their dark, hungry eyes lusted over your trembling form. The mocking smiles curling their lips. The way they spoke to each other, like you weren’t even human.
Like you were property.
One of them cupped your chin, tilting your face up with a sickening grin. “She’ll do nicely,” he murmured in a thick accent.
Another joined in on the amusement. “A fitting pastime for the long nights ahead.”
A fresh wave of panic crashed over you, bile rising in your throat as you began to foresee your fate in their hands. Your fate as the enemy’s new plaything.
“No—NO!” you shrieked, thrashing harder, your nails clawing at their arms. “Caleb! S-Someone, please!”
But no one came.
No one ever came.
That was when your real nightmare began.
They dragged you to their camp, a place so desolate, so devoid of mercy, that it made your previous suffering look like a fleeting dream. There was no hope here. No salvation.
Just pain.
The foreign army passed you from one to the next like you were nothing more than a worn-out relic of war. Their touch was greedy, using your body at their convenience, their grip bruising as they took what they wanted. They stripped you off everything; clothes, dignity, sanity. Sanity. Where is God in all of this?
Your mind drifted, escaping to anywhere else but there. You imagined a different life, a different fate. But the pain kept pulling you back. The jeers, the mocking laughter, the cruel hands that touched every inch of your skin reminding you over and over again that there was no escaping this. You felt dirty, felt disgusted of your own flesh, felt sick that you had to wake up each day living for only one and one purpose alone.
You stopped counting the days.
Stopped screaming when they came for you.
You had nothing left.
Their cruelty settled deep within your bones, your spirit breaking piece by piece until all that remained was a hollow shell of who you used to be.
And the worst part?
He never came.
Caleb, the man who once whispered possessive threats in your ear, who swore no one else could have you, who claimed you as his prize—had abandoned you to this.
It was almost laughable. Truly spectacular.
As you lay on the cold, your body too battered to move, you allowed yourself to accept the truth.
He never loved you.
He never would.
~~
Before you were a war nurse, you once interned as a nurse at Akso Hospital. Life was peaceful then. Even as whispers of an impending world war grew louder, there was an unshaken belief that your nation was too powerful to fall. No one dared to wage war on the strongest nation in the world.
That was the world you knew—quiet, bathed in golden light. You stood in the familiar white halls of the medical facility, the place where it all began. Where you trained. Where you dreamed of making a difference.
Dr. Zayne stood before you, his crisp uniform as pristine as ever, his silver-rimmed glasses reflecting the medical abstract he had on hand. He had always been composed and steady. A true professional that you looked up to. He was the best cardiac surgeon there was, and everyone in the same field dreamed of working with him. Of becoming like him.
“You're ready for this,” he said, adjusting his gloves. “The war will test you, but your hands—” he reached out, taking yours in his own, running his thumb across your palm—“were meant to heal.”
You gripped his hands a little tighter. “What if I can’t save everyone?”
He thought for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh. “You won’t,” he agreed. “But you will save someone. And that will always matter.”
You felt your chest tighten. “Thank you for being a good mentor, Dr. Zayne. I hope to see you again someday.”
The golden light around him began to fade, his figure growing distant, hazy, slipping through your fingers.
“Good luck, Y/N.”
It was the chilling air that woke you up from your dream. The icy breeze seeped into your bones, deeper than any wound, any bruise, any violation. Every inch of you ached, skin marred with purple and black, lips split and dry. Your body was no longer your own. It was something broken, something discarded.
You barely had the strength to keep your eyes open and every breath was a struggle as your ribs protested with each inhale. The faint scent of blood and sweat lingered around you, suffocating you. Killing you.
Somewhere in the distance, you heard voices—a noise.
A sharp crack split through the air, followed by a scream—short, cut off, wet. Then another. And another.
Gunfire.
Shouting.
The heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground.
You tried to move, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. The exhaustion of everything they had done to you pinned you down. Your pulse was sluggish, your vision swimming, but you could hear it—him. And the distinct roar of his rage. Perhaps it was your hallucination. After all, you had already lost your mind from this war.
But one of the soldiers outside, his voice barely rising before it was cut off—a sickening gurgle of a sound, as if something sharp had torn straight through his throat. Gunfire erupted in rapid succession, followed by panicked shouts, orders barked in a language you barely understood, only for them to be silenced just as quickly. A storm was tearing through the camp. A massacre.
Then, the door was kicked open. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the moonlight.
You held your breath.
The familiar combat boots. The bloodied gloves. The cold, murderous gleam of his eyes.
Caleb.
Your lips parted—half in disbelief, half in something uglier. Because now, after everything, after you had finally accepted that he was gone, he was here. His gaze was fixed on you, and something in his features cracked as he took in your state. Bruises. Cuts. The torn remains of your uniform that barely covered your violated body. His fingers twitched over the trigger of his gun.
Slowly, he took a step forward. And when he finally reached you, he knelt, his bloodstained hands brushing against your trembling form as if to confirm that you were real.
Why? Why now, Caleb?
You let out a broken sob, your body giving out as you collapsed into him, while his arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly and desperately.
It was for the first time since meeting him where he genuinely, unselfishly took you in his arms with fragile care. “I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m here now. I’ve killed every single one of ‘em for you,” he said in a tone so affectionate you almost wondered if it was a dream. “I’ll take you home. No one’s gonna touch you ever again. I promise.”
The irony, however, presented itself the moment Caleb touched you. Because rather than feeling a sense of relief in his own way of apologizing, a deep, all-consuming dread wrapped around your bones instead.
Because this wasn’t salvation. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a return to a different kind of prison.
Your battered body trembled in his grip as his presence, something you once ached for, now loomed over you like a cruel joke. You thought being here—being dragged through hell, used, and discarded—was the worst fate imaginable.
But, no.
The true horror was returning to Caleb.
Because you knew now. You finally understood. There was no future for you. Not in his arms. Not in this world. And the look in his eyes, that dangerous, unhinged gleam that he would never let you go. You were only going to submit yourself to a never ending cycle. Of pain. Of being unloved.
So before he could react, before he could drag you back into the nightmare of his possessive grasp, your trembling fingers wrapped around his gun.
His own gun. His own weapon.
For the first time, his cold, calculating gaze faltered, widening in shock as you tore it from his holster with the last of your strength. “Y/N—”
The barrel was already pressed to your temple. His hands lunged for you, fast, too fast—
BANG!
The world stilled.
Your body swayed before a slow, almost gentle descent to the ground. Caleb caught you before you could hit the dirt, but warm blood seeped between his fingers. His hands, the same hands that had killed and destroyed, now shook as they cradled you. “No! NOOO! Y/N!”
But it was too late.
You smiled with your red-stained lips. “You deserve to live a life where the women you love—” you coughed, blood bubbling at the edges of your lips as you said your last words, “leave you.”
I feel like this story pierced my heart and stole some of my light. The way words cannot express how painful and devastating this was to read in the best of ways, I’ve recently had to remember my own SA experience and this was very cathartic for me. Thank you.
synopsis : Bound by lifetimes, you love him in silence—ever unseen, ever aching—while he chases a destiny that isn’t yours.
content : angst, references to both of zayne’s myth cards, non-mc!reader
w/n : this was originally a request but I decided to write this a little differently. hope you still enjoy :D
You had always been there.
Not just beside him. With him.
Bound not by chance, but by something older.
Deeper. Crueler.
You were his confidante. His companion. The shadow that stitched his jagged edges back together when the world carved him into pieces.
You loved him in ways that rewrote you.
Bent for him. Broke for him.
Sacrificed yourself at the altar of his happiness, even when it meant bleeding from wounds he never saw.
Because every time the ache grew too loud, every time doubt clawed at your throat—
All it took was a look.
Those dark locks falling over his brow like spilled ink.
And his eyes—hazel, burning like dying embers at dusk—
God, they undid you.
You tried.
Tried to love him in silence. Tried to convince yourself that was enough.
But at some point, you found yourself on your knees, fists clenched, cursing the stars for tying you to a man who was never meant to be yours.
No matter how hard you loved.
No matter how long you waited.
Still—you stayed.
You weathered the lifetimes.
You sewed together the shattered pieces of him, even when he looked through you like you were nothing but a whisper from another world.
You learned to live with that pain.
To carry it quietly.
To love him without hope.
You remembered them all—not because you were chosen, but because you were cursed to.
“Zayne…” you whispered now, reaching out to touch his crystallized hand, fingers trembling. A shimmer of warmth passed from your skin to his, softening the frost that coated him.
His Evol always surged like this when the memories overwhelmed him—especially when it was about her.
Your eyes climbed to his face.
Still, frozen in grief.
Then, slowly, his lashes fluttered. He stirred. His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
“I’m okay… I just… needed to see her again.”
You nodded. Sat beside him without a word.
Above you, the tree branches swayed in the wind, leaves rustling like the whisper of time passing.
You didn’t want to ask.
But you needed to.
For your own heart’s sake.
“Is she worth it?”
The silence stretched.
And when he finally met your eyes—those same eyes you loved like a prayer—
You already knew.
“I would give up forever,” he said, voice quiet and sure, “just to hold her.”
Something in you cracked, then.
But you still smiled. Small. Gentle.
Even as your heart shattered like glass beneath your ribs.
The door clicked shut behind you, the familiar chime of the automatic lock humming through the quiet. You kicked off your shoes with a tired sigh.
From the hallway, a soft mewl greeted you.
Astra.
She brushed against your legs, weaving figure-eights as you bent down, your fingers carding gently through her fur. “Missed me?” you whispered.
She purred in reply, trailing after you as you trudged to the couch. You collapsed into it, limbs heavy from the day, exhaustion pooling beneath your eyes.
Your hand continued its slow rhythm across her back, and she curled beside you, content.
But your mind was far from present.
It drifted—back to the dream.
Or memory. Or something in between.
You remembered the way the cool wind felt against your body, the way the sky stretched in endless blue above the grass-covered mountain.
And the ring.
Slipping cool and weightless onto your finger.
You had looked at it—then at him.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmured.
And Zayne…
He smiled down at you, eyes warm, hand reaching up to pat your head with a fondness that made your chest ache even now.
“Only you,” he said, “can be up in these mountains with me.”
You grinned at him. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he replied.
But promises—promises were fragile things.
You blinked back into the present and stood slowly, making your way to the bedroom. Your doctor’s coat slipped from your shoulders and landed carelessly on the floor as you passed by the framed photos—snapshots from med school.
You and Zayne, younger then, smiling over textbooks and scrubs.
Your eyes caught on the certificate on the wall.
Surgeon.
A title you earned with blood and sleepless nights.
But none of it mattered in the dream.
Not when you saw her.
“Zayne, she’s…?” you had asked, pointing toward the girl behind him.
He followed your gaze and nodded. “I found her at the bottom of the mountain,” he said simply. “She helped heal Bai Ze.”
Only then had you noticed the limp in the white sheep trailing behind them. You knelt, brushing its soft wool as it nudged your hand.
And then—
You looked up.
And everything shifted.
He wasn’t looking at you.
He was looking at her.
And in that fleeting silence, in the way their eyes met—
You realized something you had never wanted to.
You didn’t belong.
Not anymore.
The next part came in fragments.
“Doing this will end your life,” you hissed, your voice trembling as you stood behind him.
He turned slowly. His face was unreadable.
“I know,” he said. “But it’s the only way she lives.”
You stared at him.
“What about me?”
Your voice cracked with it. The pain. The betrayal.
He looked down.
And said nothing.
That was all the answer you needed.
You nodded once, quietly. “I see.”
And you turned away.
You never looked back.
The last time you saw him—your beloved, your husband—he wasn’t flesh and blood anymore.
Only light.
A single radiant beam disappearing into the mountains.
Your breath caught in your throat as the memory shattered.
Steam clung thickly to your skin, fogging up the bathroom mirror. The shower still ran behind you, its hiss dull and distant.
You stood there, motionless.
Trying to remember what it felt like to be loved.
And what it meant to let go.
—•
Sunlight filtered in through the half-closed blinds of your office, casting slanted lines across the clutter of reports and confirmation slips strewn haphazardly over your desk.
You let out a quiet sigh, setting your pen down and pressing your hands against your face, exhaustion pooling behind your eyes.
You didn’t hear the knock.
Didn’t register the soft footsteps until a quiet voice pulled you from your haze.
“I brought cake.”
Your head snapped up.
Zayne stood at the doorway, eyes calm, a faint crease of concern between his brows. In one hand, a plastic bag rustled faintly with the promise of sweetness. In the other—your usual coffee, and a milk tea.
Your gaze lingered on the drinks before returning to his.
“Zayne,” you breathed, rising from your chair as you began tidying the papers on your desk, trying not to look too flustered by his sudden presence.
He stepped forward, wordlessly setting the drinks down with practiced ease, the plastic bag rustling softly in the quiet room.
“How’s the patient in the west wing?” he asked, voice low as he leaned slightly against the edge of your desk.
You opened the cake box with childlike eagerness, the sweet scent instantly lifting the weight from your shoulders. “She’s okay,” you replied, picking up a fork. “Her MRI came back clean, but I’m keeping her in for observation. Just to be sure.”
He nodded, humming thoughtfully as he took a sip of his milk tea.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was familiar. Comfortable.
Like the two of you had always spoken more through glances and gestures than words.
But the feeling returned—quiet, gnawing, familiar.
That dull ache in your chest, like fate was whispering—no, screaming—that he was never meant to be yours.
You bit your lip, the taste of sugar still lingering on your tongue.
“How is she?”
Your voice came out softer than intended, but steady. Controlled.
She—the girl who stirred something in him.
The one who made his Evol flicker without warning.
The one who belonged in the spaces you so carefully carved yourself into.
Zayne glanced up at you, his expression unreadable.
You kept your gaze on the cake, pretending to be occupied, but your fingers had gone still.
“How is she?” you asked again, more firmly this time—because you needed to hear it, even if it shattered you.
Zayne cleared his throat, standing a little straighter. “She’s away for a mission,” he said, then took another sip of his drink as if the answer meant nothing. As if it didn’t cleave something open in you.
You nodded, eyes flicking away.
And suddenly, the room felt too still. Too quiet.
The air thickened with everything unspoken.
You finished your cake in rushed bites, barely tasting it. “I need to do my rounds,” you said, voice far too bright, smile pulled a little too fast across your lips.
He didn’t stop you.
Just watched as you grabbed your coffee and turned on your heel.
The hallway outside was cooler, but it did nothing to ease the nausea coiling in your stomach.
You felt sick.
Because no matter how hard you tried,
you would never be her.
Your hand braced against the cold wall, trying to steady yourself as your breath came in shallow waves.
“He is not meant to be yours.”
The voice echoed—low, knowing. Maybe it was just the part of you that finally stopped pretending.
“Stop,” you whispered, shutting your eyes tightly, as if the darkness behind your lids could muffle the sound.
But it didn’t.
“He will never be yours.”
Your chest ached. Your fingers curled into a fist against the wall.
Then why am I always here?
But the silence that followed had no answer.
—•
You lay still in bed, cocooned beneath your blanket, as moonlight spilled through the slats of your blinds, painting quiet silver patterns across your room.
Astra perched atop the cabinet, her gaze steady—silent and ever watchful.
You turned your head toward her, then away, because you knew that look. The kind that saw through everything, even the things you refused to name.
You had watched him pine for her in every life.
Why should this one be any different?
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket as your thoughts drifted—slipping through cracks in time.
You remembered a coffee shop in another universe.
Where laughter smelled like cinnamon and hope tasted like burnt espresso.
Where he sat across from you, eyes too gentle, heart too torn.
And you—foolish and aching—had pushed him toward her.
You remembered another life.
The one where she died in his arms—again and again. And you were always there, the ghost in the background, stitching him back together each time.
You remembered that tower.
The one where you stood beside him at the edge of it all, the sky ablaze and the world crumbling beneath your feet.
You had held his hand as he bled out the last of his strength for her sake.
And even then—
Even then, his eyes searched for her.
Not you.
Never you.
And still, you died with him.
Because you didn’t know how not to.
The shrill sound of the doorbell cut through the stillness like a blade, jolting you upright from your bed. You clutched your blanket, heart thudding, instinct already propelling you forward.
You didn’t need to check.
You knew it was him.
Your footsteps were quick, uneven against the floor as you rushed to the door. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the handle, breath catching in your throat.
And then—
You opened it.
Zayne stood there.
Barely.
His Evol had flared again—ice creeping violently from his fingertips up to his neck, frost tracing sharp veins along his jaw. He looked as if the cold had consumed him from the inside out.
“Zayne!”
You caught him as he collapsed forward, his weight folding into your arms like a crumpled page. Your knees nearly buckled, but you held firm.
Your hands flew to his neck, cradling the frozen skin there, pouring the warmth of your Evol into him in desperate waves. “What happened?” you asked, voice taut with panic.
But you already knew.
It was her.
It was always her.
And still, you pressed closer, anchoring him with your touch, ignoring the way your chest ached—splintered open like it always did when he came to you like this.
Not as a lover.
Not even as a friend.
But as a ghost chasing the shadow of someone else.
Your thumbs brushed his icy skin, the pain on his face so familiar it made your throat close.
You hated this part of yourself.
The part that would still set herself on fire just to thaw him out.
Even knowing—
He would never look at you the way he looked at her.
Not in this life.
Not in the last.
Not in any of them.
And still—you held him.
Because it was the only way he ever let you close.
You pulled him inside, the cold from his body seeping into your own as you struggled to keep him upright. The door clicked shut behind you with a hollow finality.
Astra emerged from the hallway, her paws pattering softly against the floor. She mewled, distressed, circling your feet as you guided Zayne to the couch.
You cradled him gently, your Evol still working to warm his frozen skin, but your patience had long begun to fray.
“You need to stop this,” you hissed, your voice sharp, low, breaking at the edges.
He didn’t respond.
Just looked away, eyes heavy with guilt—or worse, with nothing at all.
Like he couldn’t bear to face you.
Or simply didn’t care to.
And that hurt more than you wanted it to.
Because you were always the aftermath.
The one to pick him up when the cold became too much.
The one who held him while he grieved her, again and again, until his Evol nearly killed him for wanting something he could never keep.
Your fingers trembled against his jaw, still pouring heat into his veins even as your own heart chilled.
How many more times would you do this?
How many more times would you save him—
Just for him to return to someone else?
“God damnit, you can’t be with her—can’t you see?”
Your voice cracked, trembling on the edge of a scream as your hands pressed against his skin, Evol flaring. Heat surged from your palms, melting the ice that clung to his body like a second skin.
The frost hissed as it gave way, turning to droplets that clung to his collarbone and slid down, but he still didn’t speak.
His gaze shifted—hardened.
But silence was his answer.
It always was.
And that silence was louder than any confession.
Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face, because you knew—God, you knew.
It wasn’t his fault.
None of it ever was.
He was shaped—for her.
Molded by the stars, stitched into fate’s design, every fragment of his soul angled toward hers.
And he didn’t even know.
But you did.
You were the one who remembered.
Who carried the burden of memory through every life.
The one who watched, always from the outside, always the afterthought—
As he searched for her, found her, lost her, broke for her.
And you—
You were the one who stayed.
The one who died with him in towers, bled beside him in war, cradled the pieces he left behind when she was gone.
You sacrificed yourself over and over—
Just to keep them together.
And now, in this life, you still reached for him.
Still begged for a sliver of something he was never meant to give.
The ice cracked beneath your touch, but the ache in your chest only deepened.
Because no matter how fiercely you burned, he would always chase the one who lit the match.
After a while, the storm passed into stillness.
Neither of you spoke.
He lay on the couch, his breathing steady now, though the tension never left his shoulders. You sat curled on the floor beside him, cradling your scarf against your chest like it could somehow hold you together.
Moonlight spilled across the room, casting him in soft, ghostly hues. You looked at him—his face drawn in weariness, in silence, in a thousand unspoken things.
Your voice broke through the quiet.
“What’s going to happen when I’m not there to help you?”
It was barely a whisper, but it echoed loud in the stillness.
He turned his head slowly to look at you, expression unreadable, the shadows swallowing whatever emotion lingered in his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said simply.
And somehow, that made it worse.
You sighed, gaze dropping to your hands, then to the floor.
Because he didn’t know.
Because he never thought about a life without you—
While all you ever did was imagine his without her.
Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them, blurring the edges of his face as you turned toward him once more.
“Zayne.”
His name trembled on your lips.
Your voice cracked, raw from everything you’ve swallowed down across lifetimes.
“I can’t keep doing this anymore.”
For a second, something shifted in his eyes—concern replacing the indifference, like he’d finally heard the weight beneath your words.
He sat up slightly, brows furrowed, the beginnings of panic flickering in his expression.
“What do you mean?”
But you couldn’t look at him.
Because if you did, you knew you’d shatter.
You had carried him through frost and fire.
Loved him quietly in the background of someone else’s story.
And now your heart—
It was tired.
So very, unbearably tired.
“I’ve loved you for so long,” you whispered, and your knees buckled beneath the weight of it.
The truth, unspoken for so many lives, finally spilled from your lips like a confession too long buried.
Zayne’s eyes widened—just a fraction—as he shot up from the couch to catch you, his arms steadying you before you could fall. His hands were warm now, thawed by your touch, but yours trembled beneath the pain.
“But all you ever think about is her,” you choked, the words clawing their way out of you. “All you ever do is rush into danger, even when it’s killing you.”
Your eyes, rimmed red with unshed tears, locked onto his.
“I’ve always been here,” you said, voice breaking.
“Can’t you see me?”
And the silence that followed felt unbearable—
Because you already knew the answer.
He could hold you.
He could worry for you.
But love—
Love was something he’d already given away.
And there was nothing you could do about it.
No spell, no plea, no lifetime strong enough to rewrite the way the stars had carved your fate.
Because even if you tried—
Even if you screamed loud enough to shake the heavens,
In the next life, and the one after that,
Perhaps until the end of time—
You would still love him.
Still chase after the echo of a man who would never turn around.
And you would still be destined to hurt.
For him.
You sank to the floor, your legs giving out beneath the weight of everything you had carried for lifetimes. The confession hung in the air like smoke—something scorched and lingering.
Zayne knelt with you, his hands hesitating before they found your shoulders, tentative and unsure.
You could feel the warmth in them now, finally, but it didn’t reach the part of you that had always longed for something deeper.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
And you hated how much it still meant to hear it from him.
How even now, that single word could crack something open in you.
You looked up at him, tears clinging to your lashes. “You don’t understand,” you whispered. “You never have.”
He didn’t deny it.
He just sat there, silent.
And that silence broke you more than any rejection ever could.
He swallowed hard, eyes dark and unreadable.
“I was always there,” you said. “Even when she wasn’t. Even when you forgot my face. I chose you.”
His brows furrowed, his expression shifting—pain, guilt, something almost like grief flickering across his features.
“I didn’t know,” he murmured.
“I know you didn’t,” you said bitterly, a tear sliding down your cheek. “But that doesn’t make it hurt less.”
He reached for you again. This time, you didn’t pull away.
His arms wrapped around you carefully, like he was afraid you might shatter in his hands.
You leaned into him despite everything, because you didn’t know how not to. Because some part of you still ached for the comfort of him, even if it wasn’t love. Even if it was just this.
“I don’t know why I keep coming back to her,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s something broken in me.”
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. “But I know I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for you.”
You closed your eyes at his words, tears slipping free as he pressed his forehead against yours.
It wasn’t what you wanted.
It wasn’t love—not in the way you needed it.
But it was something.
A thread in the unraveling. A hand in the dark.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “I need to let go,” you said softly.
That brick took my teeth and my splattered my skull right into the pillow. That was soul-crushing to read man, well done. Absolutely love the way Zayne just doesn’t even fathom the idea that he’s crushing someone whilst climbing on top of them just to see her.
The next morning, the two of you acted as if nothing had happened when your parents came back from their getaway. Their cheery smiles were met by shiny yet fake grins, you and Caleb being affectionate and in love. They made endless comments about how the two of you looked so good together, that your mother was always rooting for you and Caleb to get together as teens and cried about it when he died (he explained that his death was fake for DAA reasons, your parents didn’t press further into the matter).
They offered for the two of you to stay another night, to spend some time in Linkon together and visit the places you loved as a kid. Caleb knew you hated the idea by the way your voice went up an octave. He effortlessly made an excuse that you agreed to come with him to a Farspace Event, that it was unavoidable as a Colonel and his trusty translator.
So, they waved you away and the two of you kept up the facade that you are a couple in love, who cannot keep their hands off of each other, and watched as the image of your parents disappeared from the train’s window.
As soon as they were gone, you dropped the facade and put your headphones on, drowning out the outside world while you nursed a headache from the emotional stress. Caleb kept your hand in his, though, and watched as your face showed cracks for the first time that day.
It wouldn’t be the only time it happened.
To you, life had lost all of its color. Sure, you loved Caleb and wanted to continue your relationship with him. He has proven to you that he will choose you, make the time and effort to pursue you despite the people in your lives trying so hard to keep you apart.
There is still one raincloud that hangs over your head, though. It’s big and is a deep gray color, holding in all of the unanswered questions, anger, and sadness that has rooted itself inside of you. It hovers over the blooming apple tree in your heart. No fruit has come from the tree yet, its life still too young to support anymore weight than it can.
The cloud taunts the tree. It absorbs all of the sunlight that it tries to get, forever rejected the nourishment the tree needs to thrive. It also baits the tree into thinking that it will receive water, a necessity for it to survive. It holds all of the water inside itself, refusing to let go.
The tree begins to wither. It’s once healthy branches begin to turn dry, ready to snap under the pressure or from a forceful gust of wind.
Life at home was fine. You and Caleb remained together, usually opting to spend the night in his apartment instead of yours. You went about your day as usual, translating important documents and even occasionally being called upon to translate live for a high ranking official’s mission. The routine became monotonous, though.
You wake up beside Caleb and share a peck on the lips before getting ready for the day. He made breakfast while you made the bed and cleaned up any messes either of you made the previous night. You stood next to each other while you brushed your teeth. Caleb changed into his Colonel’s uniform while you slipped on one of your office outfits, your own uniform as Caleb likes to call it. You help him with his tie while he pushes your hair out of your face and flattens out the wrinkles of your shirt.
It’d be quiet while the two of you got ready. Usually, you’d be asking Caleb about his plans for the day and you’d share yours. The two of you would share hundreds of happy kisses and pecks on the cheek, always trying to sneak another one in before you have to leave. Now, though, the rooms are filled with a deafening silence, the echoes of your last giggles and shared whispers vanishing from existence.
Once at work, you’d part ways with a small wave, going through the front doors while he parked the car and went through his own entrance. When the two of you left for the day, he would pick you up right outside the building’s doors and drove to whoever’s apartment was called upon that day.
On the weekends, days that you had off, you would run out for groceries while he handed any Colonel business that needed his attention. Your phone dinged throughout the day, texts from Caleb asking you where you are and what you’re doing littering your phone screen. You always answered truthfully but your messages were dry, lacking any excited exclamation marks or funny emojis that would make the two of you giggle later that night.
While you folded laundry, your mind would drift out into space, the insecure thoughts from before floating into your consciousness, your fingers tightly gripping Caleb’s weathered DAA shirt.
The cloud that hangs above your head grows.
Some days, Caleb would stop by the translators sector just to see the smile on your face, but it was nowhere to be seen, your face stoic while you typed away on your computer. When your gazes met, your smile only lasted for a couple of seconds before it vanished, your boss stacking a tall pile of papers onto your desk.
You began to bring work home. Once your boss caught wind of your relationship with Caleb, they thought it would be poetic justice (or just plain bullying) to give you some more work for dating far above your rank and importance. Funnily enough, you began to miss Darryl and the shit he used to give you about being late. Caleb’s face always fell when you got into his car. His eyes would immediately latch onto the papers in your hands, watching as you struggled to piece together the dialect of a language you aren’t used to.
Caleb knew that those nights would end with you working until the moon is about to leave the night sky. He stayed up with you, though, and fell asleep with his chin on your shoulder while you sat on his lap. The low light of the lamp was enough to illuminate the page. You scribbled the deciphered language onto a blank page and yawned throughout the night, mentally exhausted beyond belief.
You weren’t too mad about the workload. It helped you avoid having tough conversations with Caleb. Instead, you helped him learn new words in languages he can barely understand, speaking to him in full sentences while he tried his best to ask you where the library is. It kept things lighthearted despite the two of you knowing that the current solution is a bandaid over a bullet hole.
“Do you want me to take the leftovers?” Your co-worker, Alivia, asks one day.
You stare at the box in front of you. Inside sits countless of papers and documents that are blacked out with only a few words here and there to decipher. A task like this would take you a week to complete and that’s is you pulled all nighters and lost a few hours of sleep.
A break, though? It sounds nice.
“That would be amazing, actually,” you breathe out, already feeling the weight and stress from Oliver’s last minute assignment slip off of your shoulders.
“Of course! You deserve a break too. It’s unfair how you always get the short end of the stick,” Alivia swipes the box off of your desk, placing it on her own. She glances at the clock on her desk and looks back to you. “Go home. I’ll cover you if he says anything. Just go and get some rest this weekend, okay?”
You nod, a genuine smile spreading across your face, and gather your belongings. There’s only a few more hours left of the work day but a break would be everything and more. Without looking back, you rush out of the doors and into the cool air.
The sky is dark, a rainstorm slowly coming in. The weather has been so unpredictable lately. Some days it is bright and sunny with high temperatures and the next it is thundering and raining, threatening to down the floating city. The wind chills your skin. You hug your jacket closer to your body, ready to find a taxi when your phone rings. You don’t even need to look at the caller I.D. to know who it is.
“Caleb,” you answer, teeth clattering from the cold wind, “what’s up?”
“Where are you going?” his voice is filled with concern with a hint of possessiveness. It make you shiver from just how quick he learns about your work life.
“Alivia told me to go home. I thought I’d go to your place and take a nap there. Your bed is better after all,” you add a chuckle to the end of your sentence. You know that it’ll disarm Caleb’s sudden protectiveness. You know him just as well as he knows you. “I can always go to my—”
“No! It’s okay. I could use a nap too,” Caleb chuckles over the phone but his laugh immediately dies when the door to his office opens. “What is it?” his voice is now muffled and you can hear him place the phone against the desk.
You sigh and walk away from the doors and towards the street. The phone is trapped between your ear and shoulder while you attempt to hail a taxi. Caleb’s Colonel voice comes out and you suddenly miss his happy tone. A gust of wind brushes past you, chilling you even more. Maybe this is Mother Nature’s way of telling you that you’re an ice cold bitch.
“I’ll have to see you later. I’m sorry, pretty bird,” Caleb sighs into the phone.
“That’s okay. Why don’t you bring home dinner? Let’s have a night in where we don’t do anything,” you calmly suggest, finally getting a taxi’s attention. The white car pulls up to the curb and you get inside, smiling at the driver, telling him the address.
“Are you sure? I can always cook something. Your favorite!” you hear him move things around on his desk.
“It’s okay. I’m craving that place you showed me anyways,” you shrug.
The world begins to move around you. The taxi slowly moves with traffic but you don’t care. You just need some time for yourself, to be alone and reset your body so you can get out of this funk and move on from the night of your friend’s wedding. It isn’t fair to you or Caleb to have something as silly as miscommunication hold you back from being happy together.
Well, you certainly thought it to be something you could easily get over. You never have been the best at guessing things like this.
When you enter Caleb’s apartment, your phone has been blown up with Caleb checking in on you, seeing if there was anything he can do to help you feel better or if he needed to leave work early. You texted back reassurances, the guilt of your resentment towards her and his relationship eating away at your conscience.
You laid in his bed, wearing one of his many oversized and comfortable shirts, and scrolled through your phone throughout the hours. It felt good to mindlessly scroll through stupid videos and read through peoples arguments over the stupidest things. Your mind was distracted and you didn’t think about the things that have been weighing you down.
You laugh at a video of penguins falling over. You cried at the video of a dog sitting at its owner’s grave. You save a recipe that you think Caleb would be great at making. You roll your eyes at some dude bro who thinks that a woman’s reproductive system looks like a satanic goat.
Hours pass you by and the sun sets in the distance, leaving the room in complete darkness except for the lamp that you turned on not too long ago. Its light is warm, very orange. It carries across the room, the blue light from your phone cutting through the orange with ease, the two colors splitting your face evenly. You roll to your other side in bed, plugging your phone in before it can die.
Engrossed in your own world, you don’t even notice Caleb walking inside the bedroom, already shrugging off his jacket, hanging it in the closet. He smiles at you. The sound of your quiet laughs and giggles make his heart feel full again. It brings a warmth to his chest, one he hasn’t felt in awhile, and begins to shed the skin of his Colonel persona.
“Whatcha laughin’ at, pretty bird?” Caleb asks, a smile on his face.
You gasp and sit up in bed, covering yourself with the dark gray and blue sheets of his bed. Once your eyes land on him, you relax and let out the tension that filled your lungs. Caleb laughs and slips on comfortable clothes, crossing the room and slipping underneath the covers beside you. In one fluid motion, Caleb scoops you up and onto his lap, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Ohhh, I see. You’re laughing at videos of baby animals. Very cute, very cute,” Caleb muses with a smile, nuzzling his face into the side of your neck. He gently presses kisses to your neck and you let out a quiet sigh, closing your eyes. “Did you sleep well?”
“I couldn’t,” you admit. You place your hands on top of Caleb’s, feeling all of your worries begin to slip away and out of your mind. “I think I need my boyfriend to help me.”
“Do you?” his tone is teasing yet is so smug at the same time. “Well, I’m here now aaaand I brought dinner.”
“Did you?” you ask with a smile. Caleb nods. You push him away from you and slip out of bed, the covers hindering your movement. Caleb laughs and watches as you scramble outside of the room and towards the kitchen where two white bags sit.
You open them up to reveal an immaculate sight: two big bowls of ramen accompanied by all of the side dishes imaginable. Caleb walks from behind and reattaches himself to your body. He leans into you, catching a glimpse of your smile.
For once, it’s genuine. It is the first smile, one that is real, that he has seen from you never since the wedding. A piece of him aches. He knows that you’ve been stuck on that day, that you haven’t been able to fully process or say what it is that you need and want to say. He’ll be there when you’re ready, though. He will never leave you to go through that alone, especially because some of your hidden anger is directed at him. Rightfully so, of course.
Neither of you bring it up. You eat dinner together and talk about Caleb’s day, even going as far as to see if you could translate a few documents for him one of these days.
It felt…nice. The temporarily relief from avoiding the elephant in the room. The two of you pretend it isn’t there, basking in the awkwardness of uncertainty and things left unsaid. Caleb smiles at you, you smile at him, and the two of you ignore the heavy raincloud that floats over your head. The counter you sit at looks more and more like an executioners block with the cloud ready to chop your heads off.
You watch as Caleb cleans up the dinner mess. He brushes all of the crumbs off of the counter and into the trash can, casually throwing away the plastic bags and bowls that came with the meal. You sit at the counter and watch, chin propped up on your hand as he moves around the kitchen with a relaxed grin on his face.
Guilt washes over you. His smile is so genuine, so pure and good. He’s smiling because of you and you’re sitting here pretending like you don’t want to yell and scream at him for not telling you anything. You want to grab his head and scream at him for making you feel so insignificant in the past and cry in his arms because there truly is no way for you to hate him.
All you see is man who is trying his best to play the game called life. Maybe you shouldn’t hold so much anger towards him and the people in your life. Maybe you should forgive but never forget.
“Why are you starin’ at me like that?” Caleb disappears from your vision.
You blink at nothing and feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you off of the stool and into his arms. You gasp and feel your legs dangle off of the ground, Caleb’s forearms wrapped around your stomach, holding you up. He leans backwards and pulls you back with him. He walks around, chuckling to himself, as you hang there, unable to do a damn thing to stop him. You cross your arms over your chest, already having accepted your fate, and watch as he carries you back to his bedroom.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Caleb kisses the back of your neck. He doesn’t give you time to answer, either, before jumping onto the bed, smushing you beneath him.
With a face full of mattress and Caleb’s full body weight keeping you trapped below him, you accept the bittersweet taste of your death: suffocation by smothering. You had a good run! You did a lot of things, which was fun, even got to date the man of your dreams for a bit there even though it has been angsty as hell so far. You wouldn’t change a thing about it!
Okay, maybe you would change a few things, but who’s really counting, anyways?
Caleb rolls onto his back, bringing you around with him. You dramatically gasp for air, body moving up down down as Caleb laughs. You place your hands on top of his and stare at the ceiling, not making an effort to move your hair out of his face.
“I’m tired,” you say. Caleb nods in agreement. “I think I’m going to sleep right here…”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. The mattress I’m on may be a bit lumpy—”
“Lumpy?!”
“—and it may smell like sweat and jet fuel—”
“Is this pick on Caleb day?”
“—but it’s comfortable enough for the night.”
“Oh, well, that’s good then,” Caleb squeezes his arms around you, literally taking the breath out of you, “because I just love it when I have my girlfriend’s hair in my face throughout the night. Truly splendid!”
You roll your eyes and try not to laugh, sucking in a deep breath when he releases you. You slip off of him and take your usual side in the bed, looking out the floor to ceiling windows. A small yawn leaves your mouth. Caleb adjusts himself behind you and pulls you close to him.
A silence finally falls between the two of you. Is it time? Are you ready to confront him? To ask him all of the questions that have died on your tongue before you got the chance to say them?
The dark rainclouds pass the windows, Caleb’s apartment building splitting the forces of nature with ease. You fixate on a particularly dark spot. It slowly passes by, taking its time to look back at you. If you didn’t know any better you’d think that a bolt of lightning would be shot at you as a punishment for all of the animosity that clings to your heart.
Caleb’s hand is warm against your skin. It stays at your stomach, gently caressing your skin, before it moves up between your breasts. He flattens his palm against your chest. He feels each and every one of your heartbeats. He feels as it quickens from his touch, giving away any kind of nonchalance you wanted to wear. His forearm remains stuck between your breasts. If he were to move his hand further up, he could choke you with ease.
“The clouds look cool,” your attempt at starting a new conversation doesn’t go unnoticed. You swallow the lump that forms in your throat. Caleb nods. You can feel his purple eyes watch you instead of the clouds. “I think you’re the one looking at me now.”
“We haven’t had much time together lately,” Caleb is quick to respond, “we’re busy people.”
“Are we?” you whisper to yourself. Caleb heard it, though. There truly is nothing you can keep from him.
A long sigh leaves his lips. You feel his forehead press into the back of your neck, his breath against your back. You shudder and place your hand on top of his. The clouds outside grow darker. Your eyes gloss over, the urge to cry hitting you like a train. You remain still, though, forever silent in your moment of doubt.
“Can we…” Caleb’s voice cracks. Your heart aches. You close your eyes, holding back frustrated tears. “Let’s not, tonight, okay? We were having such a good time.”
“Agreed,” you breathe out.
“Great,” Caleb pulls you closer to him, draping the bed’s sheets over your connected bodies.
It had been the first good night in awhile. Why would you want to spoil such a blessing with your own stupid thoughts and destructive behavior?
“It’s late, babe, let’s sleep,” your words fill in the silence. Caleb nods, yawning right on cue.
You know sleep will come easy for him with you in his arms. You also know, though, that sleep will continually tease you throughout the night, never letting you fully grasp it.
Caleb always looks stressed when he sleeps. You always thought that sleep was the great reliever, a place where every person can find solace after a long day of stress. Unfortunately for Caleb, it seems like even in sleep he cannot find peace. You can’t help but feel bad for him. He already goes through so much as the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel and deals with the undiscovered parts of the Deepspace Tunnel. You just wish that one day he will be able to sleep peacefully.
Even in the darkness of his bedroom, safely secured in his muscular arms, you can’t help but feel like Caleb is holding something back from you. The lingering feeling beckons at you, drawing you in closer and closer with the possibilities that there is an invisible barrier separating the two of you. Staring at the underlying tension in his brow makes you question what is going on inside his mind.
If you could, you would break open his skull to get to where his thoughts are hidden. You would dig through the blood and rip apart his brain, finding the locked away thoughts and memories that have been left unsaid, finally solving the mystery that keeps you up at night. You’d take away all of the bad memories and leave only the good for him to relive.
Then again, erasing someone’s memories is a cruel thing to do.
You slowly sit up in bed, his dark gray sheets pooling at your hips. Caleb immediately stirs in his sleep, eyes flying open and fixating on you. The moonlight is gentle against your skin as you gaze outside the window, curtains drawn open since you wanted to watch the clouds pass you by before you slept. There is a slight patter against the window. Raindrops collide with the reinforced glass, its quiet lullaby suddenly making you feel like you’re trapped inside a cage.
“Are you okay?” Caleb’s voice captures your attention. He remains in bed, the tips of his fingers already moving against your skin in a soothing manner.
“Yeah,” you nod, forcing a small smile onto your face, “I just woke up. Need to stretch out my body.”
Under the veil of darkness, Caleb memorizes the way your face twitches, picking up on the way your eyes remain on him despite your attention being elsewhere. There’s something in your eyes, a question that has been smothered on your tongue, hidden behind your teeth, never to escape.
Does he want to know what you’re thinking? What it is you are questioning now?
“Do you want to go for a walk?” your question surprises him.
He tilts his head back. Caleb’s purple eyes burn into yours, leaving your question unanswered. Tension slowly seeps into the air. You peel your eyes away from his and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, pushing away and heading towards the bathroom. Thunder booms from outside the window. Caleb sighs and covers his face with his hands. A quiet groan leaves his lips as he forces himself out of bed.
Ever since the wedding, things have been weird between the two of you. You had begun to pull away from him and Caleb was losing his mind, unsure of what he needed to do or say to make things right. You told him that you were fine, that you held no ill will.
Uncertainty and his fear of the unknown burned the back of his brain and it made him careless in his missions to the Deepspace Tunnel. People were injured and lives were on the line, but his mind could only think of you and the sad look that overtook your face whenever he looked away.
It’s the same look you wear on your face now. The bathroom lights are low, just barely awake as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Movement from behind you catches your attention. You look at Caleb’s reflection, watching as he settles himself against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. You suck in a breath.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Caleb’s voice has lost its rasp and the tiredness that hangs in his voice, “why are you wanting to go for a walk?”
“Can’t sleep,” you shrug nonchalantly and turn back towards the mirror, pushing your hair behind your ears and out of your face.
“What about work?”
“It’s the weekend so I’m off,” you avoid his gaze in the mirror, trying to wake up your body so it can keep up with your mind.
Caleb falls silent again. All he can bring himself to do is watch as you untangle the knots in your hair before drawing it back into a low bun, nothing special. When you turn to leave the bathroom, you turn into Caleb’s bare chest. You look up at him, noticing the shadowed bags under his eyes. You reach up and cup his cheek, the man immediately leaning into your touch.
“You should stay back and sleep,” your words are quiet.
He shakes his head. He reaches up and wraps his fingers around your wrist, pulling his face away from your touch. His touch isn’t warm but cold, his metal fingers hidden beneath its disguise. He gently kisses the palm of your hand, a gentle sigh escaping his lips. Your cheeks heat up but you fight away the feeling, not wanting him to persuade you to go back to bed, to rot next to him while you watch the clouds pass the cage that keeps you inside.
“Let’s walk,” Caleb matches your volume, his purple eyes flickering to yours before he drops your hand, turning around to get changed. You follow him, quick on his tail, and glance outside.
The rain slowly begins to pick up outside. Thunder and lighting grows closer. You approach the window, placing your hand against the chilled glass. The world below is shielding by a cloud.
“Maybe we should stay inside,” you say, eyes focused on trying to see the ground. Caleb groans, frustrated. Your body tenses and your posture stiffens. “The weather picked up.”
“Pretty bird,” you turn around and see Caleb, already in sweats and a jacket, “you just said—”
“I know, I’m sorry—”
“So you don’t want want to go on a—”
“—no we can! It’s just that the weather—”
“So now you don’t want to?”
“No! Yes! Fuck, I don’t even know anymore! Let’s go for a walk,” you push past him and reach for one of your hoodies that sits in a bag you packed not too long ago. Caleb stops you, though, and instead hands you one of his hoodies with a long sleeve shirt. You turn around and watch as he helps slip your shirt over your head, replacing it with the tight long sleeve and hoodie. Once the hood is brought over your head, his purple eyes flicker to yours.
“It’s cold,” he sharply says. He takes your hand and guides you out of the bedroom, entering the dark living room and kitchen areas. You struggle to keep up with his long strides, feet fumbling over each other. Caleb grabs an umbrella that sits by the door and exits the apartment, pulling you with him.
The small journey to the outside world is awkward and tense. Caleb’s grip on your hand is tight, annoyance prominent inside the tension in his jaw, the way it’s clenched as he guides you through his apartment building. The yellow interior lights are easy on your eyes and are dim enough to keep the outside world dark, avoiding any kind of light pollution it may have. A single person works in the lobby, sitting at the desk while you and Caleb pass to leave.
“Hey!” they call out, “The weather is pretty rough—!”
“We know!” Caleb and you bark at the person in sync.
Caleb presses the button next to the lobby door and it slides open, a gust of wind hitting the two of you just as you exit. You slip the umbrella from his hand and open it, holding it out for him. He watches you with a close eye, the wind pushing around your hair, the tip of your nose already cold. He takes the umbrella and laces your fingers with his, weathering the storm together as you male your way to a dimly lit path nearby.
You wrap an arm around Caleb’s torso and stay close to him, face smushed into his chest. Raindrops fly with the wind, smacking against the material of the umbrella. It shields the two of you the best it can. Caleb picks up his pace and you’re practically jogging at his side.
“Caleb!” you shout over the sound of rain and wind. He doesn’t look down, simply walking through the rough weather as if it’s nothing.
Just a couple meters away sits a lit gazebo that sits in the middle of courtyard that’s right beside Caleb’s building. The rows of flowers try to fight against the wind, hanging on by the strength of the plant’s stem, a few petals flying away. Once you reach the gazebo, you push away from Caleb, turning your back to him. He drops the umbrella and it slides across the floor to where your feet are.
“Tell me,” Caleb begins, his voice raised to be over the howling wind, “what did I do wrong?”
“You didn’t do anything,” you counter. The flower bushes that surround the gazebo hit and scrape against the wood. The petals threaten to fly off of the stems, getting lost in the wind. The dark rainclouds descend towards the ground, placing you and Caleb in the middle of its destructive force.
“Bullshit. There’s something going on inside that head of yours. You barely smile anymore and you always bring work home! There’s no time for us anymore!” Caleb walks closer to you. He looks at the back of your head, your hair dry and his hood damp. You don’t even turn to face him, which only annoys him some more. “We haven’t had sex—”
“So this is about sex!?” you snap, finally turning around to look at him. The wind screams from around you. “You’re worried about getting your dick wet again, right? Want me to get down on my knees and suck your dick? Will that make you feel better?!”
“No! Dammit! That’s not—” Caleb groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, “that’s not what I meant and you know it!”
“Then what is it, Caleb? Hm? Are you actually worried about me,” you poke his chest, knowingly poking the bear, “or are you just trying to cover your back so this doesn’t blow up on you at the end of the day?”
“What are you talking about?!” Caleb raises his voice to combat the thunder that sounds from around the gazebo. You roll your eyes and turn your attention to the world over his shoulder, looking at the environment get beaten up by the storm.
The dark raincloud that once hung above your head has touched land. It has finally decided that the apple tree, something that managed to grow in the rough terrain of your heart, deserves water. It deserves to have its thirst quenched, to let the cold water touch the dry, green leaves, to moisten the ground that surrounds it.
Truth and honesty are ideals that every relationship should have. It is the fertilizer within the soil that many apple trees like your own are buried in. You forgot that step, didn’t you?
“What did I do? Did Zayne say something to you at the wedding?” Caleb steps towards you but you take a step backwards, your ankle meeting the wood of the gazebo’s railing.
You scoff and look away, crossing your arms over your chest. Even the thought of looking into his eyes makes you feel nothing but dread and utter devastation. Caleb’s back stiffens. His purple eyes run up and down your body; you give him all of the telltale signs that he’s right and that you’re hiding something from him.
Caleb steps forward, trapping you. You look up at him with big and wide eyes. He’s the predator that’s just caught his prey, your pretty little face begging for mercy. He can go easy on you, sure, let you slip out of the net he’s caught you in. You can recover from your mistake by peppering kisses all over his face. He’ll forget all of the misgivings that have been through his way, he can forgive the fact that you believed something that Zayne said instead of asking him directly about it.
“What did he say?” Caleb’s voice teeters between desperation and being demanding. He lowers his head, his purple eyes training on yours with a darkness you haven’t seen before. Your body goes cold. Goosebumps scatter across your skin. “Tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” you breathe out, your breath coming out in the form of a plume. “What Zayne said doesn’t matter.”
“Clearly, it does,” Caleb places his hands on the wooden railing behind you. His nose grazes against yours. Your breaths mix into one. You close your eyes, unable to look at him. He presses in further, his body against yours, demanding and present. “Tell me.”
“He said that you’ve been texting her the whole time,” Caleb’s body tenses against yours while you speak, “he said that I will forever be second place in your heart. That you’ll always go to her her first rather than find me. That I don’t deserve you.”
Caleb slowly draws himself away from you. His eyes go dark, cold. The space between you feels like no man’s land, a place where neither of you want to meet in the middle. His tall frame dominates yours, towering over you with ease and with an unspoken authority over you. You are at his mercy.
“Go on,” he says in a low tone.
“Zayne said he loves me. He always has. That I haven’t been able to see it because I’ve been so preoccupied with you,” you continue.
Hurt flashes across his face when you say the word love, a word that he thought he had full control over when it comes to you. Jealousy spreads across his chest. You fall silent. Thunder booms from behind you. Neither of you react.
“What did you say back to him?” Caleb narrows his eyes at you.
“I said that him and I are alike,” you force the words to fall out of your mouth. Caleb’s eyebrow perks up. “We both love someone who will never be able to fully love us back.”
A bitter taste spreads across Caleb’s tongue. Looking down at you, he can see the defiance and hurt in your eyes. You are trying so hard to hold it together, to not cry and break from underneath the pressure. Your walls slowly reinforce themselves, the workers inside your mind resuming construction as you build them taller than you have before. They are now covered with a fresh layer of ice, closing out any warmth that you were once able to find within Caleb’s embrace.
“How about you, Caleb?” your voice is strong against the howls and cries of the wind. The screams from gusts of air don’t dissuade you. You remain strong in your path, knowing that at the end, only destruction will be left. “Is there anything that you wish to tell me?”
Caleb tears his gaze away from yours. The dark gray clouds cover the moon, taking up the entire night sky. The umbrella he brought out hits the wooden perimeter, clicking every couple of seconds, ticking away the time. He moves to the gazebo’s entrance, wanting to walk down the few steps and escape into the night, to get away from the conversation that slowly chips away at your relationship and individual sanities.
“What are you hiding from me?” you ask from behind. His broad shoulders stare at you, his back mocking. You can’t help but feel like you’re being laughed at, being teased for the way you feel. You tried to look past the revelation that Zayne gifted to you, brushing it off as nothing but a simple misdirection to throw you off your rhythm but now, standing here and watching Caleb begin to pull away from you, it feels like Zayne had been right the whole time.
You’re even second place when it comes to figuring out the truth, a third and unwanted person in a relationship that doesn’t even involve you.
“Talk to me, Caleb!” your voice is drowned out by thunder. Caleb turns around and his purple eyes immediately go to your fists that are balled at your sides. Your nails bury themselves into the palms of your hands. The pain is a nice distraction from the confusion in your mind. The thunder sounds like bombs are being dropped. “I told you the truth, why can’t you do the same?!”
“That’s not fair,” Caleb shakes his head, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“Isn’t it?” you huff out a breath of air, crossing the distance to stand in front of him. “Do you know what it is like to sleep at your side, Caleb?” your voice cracks, “Do you know what it is like to have to hold you at night when you have another nightmare?”
“Pretty bird,” Caleb breathes your name out like it is a prayer.
“You cry in your sleep, Caleb. You cry and you hold onto me as if someone is going to take me away from you! You always avoid answering me question when I ask you what’s wrong and you never take me up on your offer to talk about it!” Tears begin to flow down your cheeks, bottom lip trembling. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head! I don’t know how I can help you or what I need to do to stop the nightmares! I hate seeing you in pain! I hate hearing you cry as soon as I leave the bed!”
Your hands fly to your face and your fingers begin to furiously wipe your tears away. Caleb reaches out to console you but you smack his hands away, placing a good amount of distance between the two of you.
“You cry out her name, Caleb!” you scream the words over the wind and thunder. Lightning flashes across the night sky, thunder immediately cracking after. The loud boom makes your ears ring. “You cry out her name when I’m right next to you! That’s how I know I’m second place! That’s how I know you are hiding something from me! And it fucking hurts to know that I will never be able to see that side of you. I feel so helpless when it comes to you, Caleb! You have all of the answers when it comes other than me and yet I barely know a thing about what happened!”
“I…” Caleb stammers, his voice falling silent. “I can—”
“Explain?” you cut him off. He blinks at you, his eyes now glossy. “Go ahead, Caleb. Explain. I’ll wait.”
“You know I can’t,” Caleb’s voice is low and is filled with such shame that it makes you want to scream and cry.
The raincloud has drowned the tree. Its soil, which was once too dry, is now diluted from the weight of history and purposefully hidden memories. The water level rises above the ground. The tree is now submerged beneath the water, unable to catch a break in the unpredictable weather cycle.
You suck in a breath, the back of your hand flying to your mouth, covering it. Hidden secrets and questions are now out in the open. They taunt Caleb, snickering at the pain that flashes across his chest. He stares at the back of your head, watching as your shoulders slump over, your body succumbing to the sadness that weighs you down.
“Maybe we…”you breathe out. Caleb’s eyes fill with tears. He clears the distance between you and takes your hands in his, shaking his head.
“Don’t…don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Caleb silences you. the man reaches up and wipes away the tears that fall from your eyes. He shakes his head but you nod, looking into his irritated eyes.
“I need a break,” you finish your thought.
“No, you don’t. We can work through this!”
“I’m tired Caleb,” you sigh.
“I am too but that’s okay!”
“I need to clear my head.”
“Tell me what to do then. Tell me what exactly you need me to do for you to come back to me. What is it? Please, pretty bird, I…I can’t be away from you!”
“Caleb,” you stop him. You hold his hands and squeeze them, unable to bring yourself to look at him. Not now, at least. “I need to be alone.”
It looks like Caleb was just shot ten times and was told to walk it off. He has been shot, has survived an explosion, has been stabbed before, sliced from another man’s knife while working. He was gone through watching his fellow soldiers fall, their planes being shot down during a dog fight. He has been experimented on, picked apart by Ever and Professor Lucius. He has had his memories ripped away from him, hidden in the depths of his mind, and is clinging to the remnants of what is left.
And yet you wanting to be alone, to be away from him, is the one thing that hurts the most.
A single tear rolls down his cheek, eyes strained and hands holding onto yours like you are about to step out of his life forever.
“I-I can’t,” Caleb stammers. His trembling voice pierces your heart.
Are you a bad person? It sure feels like you are. How could you put him through so much turmoil? And yet, how dare he hide his past life with her from you? He has had the chance to explain, to tell you why they will forever be connected until the end of their lives, but he hasn’t. Caleb has remained silent, only offering apologies and pleas for you to not leave him instead of an explanation.
Perhaps truth and honesty are not fertilizer. Maybe they are sharp axes ready to chop the tree down, to destroy all of the progress that you have made. It is a weapon that only threatens to smother the spark that once shined so brightly between you and Caleb.
“A break can be a good thing,” you try to reason with him, “gives us time to realize what is important in our lives. It can give us direction—”
“You are the most important thing in my life,” Caleb interrupts. He captures your cheeks between his hands, making you look up at him. “Don’t do this…please. At least stay the night, sleep on it, and we can talk about it in the morning, okay?”
Caleb’s purple eyes burn into yours. The wind pushes his hair out of his face, his lips slightly chapped from the wind. His cheeks are stained from tears just like yours and his hands tremble against your skin. You slowly inhale, the ice cold wind helping cool your body down from the heat of your anger. A lump forms in your throat.
“Okay,” you breathe out, nodding, “I need to be alone, though. I’ll stay out here for just a bit longer.”
“I’ll stay with you—”
“Just go back inside, Caleb,” you pull away from him and cross your arms over your chest, stepping away. You wipe away your tears, knowing that what you are telling him is nothing but a white lie, “I’ll be up there soon.”
You need to do what you do best. Run away. Hide. Pretend as if your world isn’t falling apart from around you and give yourself the time to be a broken person before returning to the face of the earth.
And Caleb? Caleb is the fool who believes you.
He comes up from behind and hug you. It’s a small gesture that rips your heart apart. It makes you drive the knife into his chest even deeper, the hilt of the blade now pressed against his chest.
Then he’s gone. He walks through the ravenous rain on his own and even left the umbrella behind for you to use. Just as he steps through the apartment doors, you stop a cab and get inside, heading for your home.
Bzzrt. Bzzrt. Bzzrt.
Your phone shimmies across the top of your desk. You stare at it, eyes tired with purple eye bags sunken into your skull. The phone stops for a brief moment. A sigh exits your mouth, closing your eyes. The buzzing begins again.
You know exactly who the messages are from. You know exactly what it is that they say and you don’t even want to waste the time and energy to check. You’ll get the same messages later tonight as well then the whole process will repeat itself in the morning.
You would be lying to yourself, though, if you said you didn't miss the way he hugged and kissed you in the morning.
Caleb was not handling the break well, like, at all. He was a mess. He knew that he shouldn’t have left your side that night. A piece of him know that you were going to run away, just like you did in high school and at the wedding. You would call it a calculated retreat whereas Caleb would call it a surrender.
You avoided him at work, which he respected. It didn’t stop him, though, from driving behind the bus you took to and from work, watching as you moved in and out of your apartment so he knows that you’re safe. Caleb also kept tabs on you at work, watching you through the security cameras as you smiled and laughed with other people. People who aren’t him.
Caleb passed you in the hallways of the Farspace Fleet’s Administrative building. Your eyes always met, even if it were just for a second, and it gave Caleb the motivation he needed to stay string, to let you come to him. He knows that if he were to bombard you, it’d only make you want to run further away, back into Linkon where he lives.
Caleb used up all of your sticky notes during the time you stayed away from him. He left you notes on your desk, telling you that you looked beautiful that day and that he misses you. Some of them even asked if you were ready to talk to him, to have dinner and let him explain what he’s been trying to protect you from.
You always said no. A simple text that ended with his colorful sticky notes being crushed under your fist, tossed into the trash for the janitor to take out later in the night.
It’s okay, though, if it is space you need, he will give you space. If you need to take a moment for yourself and realize that he has all of the answers you need, the truth that you crave, then so be it. He will not be the one who stops you.
Well, that is what he told himself to feel better about the whole situation.
He knows that it is not fair to you to keep you in the dark about his and her’s past with Ever. The wounds, though, still feel fresh to him from his early childhood. He works with one of the men in charge of his experimentation, playing a game of cat and mouse to see who can outmaneuver the other. It’s a game that, quite frankly, he’s grown tired of but knows that the end will never come.
Caleb wants to tell you all about it. He wants to unload the weight of turning you away from the darkest parts of his past and mind. He also doesn’t want you to try and carry that burden with him, to try and alleviate some of the pain that heel feels everyday. He already lives with the constant remind of his metal arm, his bones forever trapped underneath the layers of wires and metal. He has sacrificed so much already to not let the professor and Ever win…it’s why he won’t let you near it.
It pains him to know that you are out in the world and are completely on your own. He should be there to help you, to stop you from making any mistakes. It’s why he has waited so long for you. He let the days pass him by, allowing time to slip through his fingers.
He acted like he was fine, that he was okay. He pretended that he got a full night’s worth of sleep even though he stared out the window, hoping that you would walk through the doors at any moment.
He stares at you through the CCTV footage, wondering if you have come to realize that you hold the leash that’s connected to his dog collar. You stand from your desk, phone in hand, and exit the translator’s offices. He follows you throughout the building. You cross down a few hallways, staring at your phone screen. You press the button to an elevator and step inside.
Caleb sits up at his desk. The see through tablet remains in his hands as he stands. He slowly walks towards his office door, his dark brown hair falling into his eyes as he clicks through the multiple different feeds, trying to find you. It is only when he notices that you have come to his floor that he realizes that you are coming to find him.
The Colonel rushes to his desk, placing the tablet in the top drawer of his desk. He places his cap on his head, fixing his ling jacket in the reflection of the window, making for sure everything is in place and is perfect because he refuses to give you anything less than. Not anymore, at least.
There is a knock at his office door. He clears his throat and snaps his fingers, a hologram projection of the Deepspace Tunnel flashing to life. He glances towards the door and tightens his tie one last time.
“Come in,” he beckons with a slightly gentler tone than usual.
Caleb does not look in your direction, instead focusing on the projection in front of him. When the door closes and he hears the click of your shoes grow closer to him, he turns, taking in your tired appearance. He opens his mouth to say something but can’t bring himself to say it. He knows that you have already chastised yourself for it. There is no need for him to add to that grievance.
“Hi, pretty bird,” Caleb is the first to speak. You lean against his desk, looking around the clean office. When your eyes meet his, your body relaxes before tensing up once again.
“Caleb,” you breathe out, crossing your arms over your chest, “you need to stop texting me.”
“Why? I want to make for sure that—”
“I”m okay?” you finish his sentence for him. He nods and inches closer to you. He reaches out, his gloved hand diverting at the last second to rest on the desk beside you. You shudder from his sudden closeness, his familiar cologne disarming your weapons. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I’m afraid that I will never not worry about you,” Caleb whispers. He looks down, noticing the way you hold onto yourself for dear life. His eyes flicker to yours, leaning in. He reaches up and grazes your cheek with his gloved fingers.
You suck in a breath. His touch is electrifying against your skin, igniting flames under your skin, burning with the desire to hold him in your arms and to cry together.
“The General offered me a job,” your words cause his hand to move away from your face, “I think I’m going to take it.”
Caleb knows exactly what the General’s job is. He has been granted permission, alongside Ever, to meet with other countries and discuss the Toring Chip. Many of the countries they are going to speak the languages that you just happen to know and are proficient in. If Caleb didn’t know any better, he would have thought that the General specifically made the job positing with you in mind after the peace summit.
The trip is going to take approximately four months to complete, spending a hefty amount of time in every country, meeting with their leaders and the highest ranking officials in their army. There was sure to be talks outside of the Toring Chip. Minerals, weapons, peace treaties, and alliances are sure to be talked about with you in the center of it all.
Caleb offered to go. He immediately contacted the General and told him that if he needed an extra man, that he is there to help. The General laughed and told him not to worry, that he already has plenty of men coming alongside him and to focus on the Deepspace Tunnel instead of unimportant politics.
Chills run down Caleb’s spine. You look up at him with a determined look in your eyes but Caleb knows that there is something inside your consciousness that is pushing you to run away from him. He wishes that you would have looked the other way when the General offered you the position.
“It’s a great opportunity for me, Caleb,” you breathe out, already sensing the underlying anxiety that forms in the back his mind. “It will give them the chance to see that I am more than a desk job…”
“You don’t need their validation for that,” Caleb quickly counters. “You are more than this entire building. You’re better than them. You don’t need to prove anything.”
“What else can I do? It’s either translating for the Fleet or teaching languages in school,” you suck in a breath, your tone sharp, “I’m stuck where I am and this is going to get me out of it.”
“Then let me take care of you. Stay with me, don’t go with them,” he places his hands on your waist.
“You’re acting like I’m going to be gone forever,” you let out a small laugh, placing your hands on his chest, “it’s just four months.”
“A lot can happen in four months,” Caleb’s gaze burns into yours.
“What are you so afraid of?” your question is bold and daring. “Don’t lie. I think we’ve done enough of that lately.”
“I don’t want you to leave me,” Caleb breathes the words out as if they are powerful enough to hurt you. “I think that if you accept the job, it will worsen our relationship and push us further apart than we already are.”
His words, while sharp, hold his truth. A piece of you knows that what he’s saying is true, that if you were to leave your relationship won’t recover. The space would have become too much. The distance just unbearable.
Are you doing this on purpose? Are you purposefully ruining the only good thing in your life?
You swallow the rest of your spit in your mouth, looking up at Caleb. He sighs and presses his forehead against yours. You close your eyes, taking in his closeness and the way his skin feels against yours. Caleb leans in and pecks your mouth, his lips lingering for a few seconds.
“I love you. Please, don’t go,” Caleb whispers.
Silence fills the room. He silently draws in a breath, eyes closed as he waits for your answer.
“Okay,” you whisper, “I won’t go. For us.”
A smile instantly spreads across Caleb’s lips. He pulls you off of the desk and into his arms, kissing the top of your head as you bury your face into his chest. His heartbeat comes to a slow, the adrenaline rush leaving his body. You relax into him, missing how tight his embraces always are. He pulls away and looks down at you, cupping your cheeks between his hands.
“Thank you,” Caleb says. You nod in return, a small smile forming on your face before it disappears.
“I should go tell him my decision, then,” you peel away from Caleb, your hands lingering on each other. He nods and watches as you move back to the door, an unsettling feeling resting in the back of his mind the further you get from him. “Can I…come over tonight?” You ask as you reach the door. “We have a few things to talk about.”
“Of course,” Caleb nods, “I’ll make your favorite for dinner.”
“That sounds nice,” your smile turns real. It makes Caleb’s heart skip a beat. You open up the door to his office and leave, heading down the hall from which you came.
Caleb is happy that you agreed to stay. He will make for sure that life is not boring for you, to help you shimmy up the ladder among your fellow translators. Whatever it is that he needs to do, he’ll make sure it happens. He will do anything for you and your happiness, even if it means blackmailing a few Fleet officers to make for sure you get the best jobs possible instead of being stuck at your desk.
His skin tingles. A sharp pain flashes through his modified arm. His purple eyes move back to the door, the General’s voice creeping into his head. He remembers his phone call with the high ranking official, trying to weave through the conversation to find what it is he needs.
“We’ll take good care of her,” the General told him from over the phone before he hung up.
We’ll take good care of her.
Caleb freezes.
The Toring Chip…four months…different countries…Ever has different buildings in different countries, Caleb knows this first hand from being one of the professor’s favorites.
The job targeted you.
He stares at the door, his heart beginning to pound inside his chest. He forces his feet to move, rushing towards the door. He bursts through, catching the attention of a few adjuncts and lower ranking officers. He stops a secretary from walking by, looking down at them.
“The General. Is he on location today?” Caleb demands, his purple eyes cold and dark.
“Y-Yes! I think his plane is about to take off!” the woman quickly responds, scared by Caleb’s dark demeanor.
The Colonel doesn’t waste another second. He rushes towards the elevator, pressing the button that leads to the tarmac on the top of the building where the General and other officials come in and out of. His boot taps against the floor. The elevator smells of your perfume. It only makes him more anxious.
The elevator doors slide open, a gust of wind hitting Caleb’s face as he bursts out of the door. He shields his eyes from the glaring sun, noticing that there are one too many clouds in the sky for comfort. He rushes across the black top, the soles of his shoes scraping against the coarse material.
Am aircraft’s engine roars to life. The machine whirrs, huffing out bursts of hot air and exhaust from the engines. The sound captures Caleb’s attention. His eyes focus on a few dark figures inside the aircraft. Professor Lucius stands inside, leaning into his cane. On either side of him stands two Fleet soldiers, guns in their hands. They look down at the aircraft’s open door.
You and the General stand in front of each other. Your back is to Caleb. The Professor’s eyes move to focus on the Colonel, who stands from across the tarmac. A sick smirk spreads across his face. The General smiles at you, though, and he nods, turning around before moving back up the ramp of the plane. You turn around.
Your eyes meet Caleb’s. You are just about to take a step towards him when the two soldiers who stand beside Professor Lucius move.
They walk towards you.
Caleb begins to run, his feet slamming against the ground. He watches as your face contorts from pain, your hadn’t shooting up to your neck where a syringe was just plunged into your skin. You wobble around, looking at the soldiers before circling around once again.
Caleb screams your name but it is muffled out from the screams of jet engines and planes. Your vision blurs, hand extended out, reaching for him, before your world turns to black, body going limp. A solider picks you up and carries you inside of the plane. The aircraft’s door slowly closes, clicking shut just as Caleb reaches its vicinity.
The aircraft pulls out of its spot. It rolls down the black asphalt, pulling away from Caleb. The plane picks up speed and lifts into the air just as it reaches the edge of the building. Caleb sprints after it, fighting against the gusts of wind from the engines. He uses his Evol to glide through the air, reaching out for you and the plane. He flies across the sky, a mere black speck compared to the aircraft.
But it’s too late. You and the aircraft are out of his reach, disappearing behind fluffy white clouds, out of Caleb’s reach.
please drop a like, reblog, & comment!! i love see what you all have to say <3
Summary: You didn't think being a dragon would ever be a problem. And yet, with your childhood friend Sylus and yourself as the last hunted dragons, you wondered how you would be able to live.
Words:3130
Author's nonsense: I thought about the idea of the reader being with Sylus since the beginning, and there we are. Careful, some spoiler from his Myths I guess. Might have another chapter, or even more. I was thinking of doing the same with Rafayel as the God of Tide and his Lemurian!Reader. Please tell me your thoughts. It's been a long time since I wrote something.
Chapter II ->
You have always been curious about humans.
Since you were a little girl, you always would sneak up to the very last hills, the frontier between your home and the immense city of Philos. You would hear the children laugh, some looked as tall as you, some older… Sometimes, you would try to dance like them, you couldn’t understand how they could do such a thing, it seemed like you lacked rhythm.
Most of the time, you weren’t alone in your little escapade.
“It isn’t funny anymore. You‘re too easy to find.” A young voice called out to you.
You stopped your disastrous dancing, turning to your only friend since you’ve been born. A white-haired boy with eyes that looked like rubies. He tilted his head to the side, his tail moving in a lazy pattern behind him.
A dragon, just like you.
You took his hand and tugged him toward you, showing him the festival that had seemed to take place in the village, far away from you.
“ Look, Sylus!”
That was the name you gave your friend, of course he had his own name, a dragon name that his parents gave him. But you had decided one day that you would call him Sylus. You wanted to have a human name so that one day you could go to where the humans lived and maybe… Meet new friends.
Sylus had rolled his eyes at you, not understanding why you were so curious about humans but accepted. You both have been tied to the hips since you were born, which made both of your parents laugh, teasing you if you were to be each other's mates.
Which you both said: Never.
” Let’s try to dance like them.”
You took his hands while looking toward the village, squinting your eyes to see how the people were moving. You really didn’t understand what you were supposed to do, but you were excited to try.
You moved your foot on one side, then the other. Were they just swaying ? You looked at Sylus, who was looking at your feet, trying to copy what you were doing. You both were looking down, trying to understand what you were supposed to do with your feet. You both were so focused that even your tails had stopped moving.
“ No, no, Sylus, your feet had to move to the right!”
”They’re definitely moving to the left.”
You both struggled with your feet, trying to lead whatever dancing you were doing. In the end, the two of you ended up falling on the ground. You groaned before jumping on Sylus, trying to pin him on the ground. He smiled at you before pushing you off him and pinning you on the floor while you struggled.
You both played fight, using your claws, tails and even horns to try to win your so called ‘fight for dominance’.
It seemed like you were more in sync for fighting than dancing.
After a few battles, who ended in a tie, you lay on the ground, panted breathlessly. You turned your head toward Sylus with a big smile as he sat next to you, as breathless as you.
“Sylus, let’s sneak into the village.”
Sylus looked at you with a raised eyebrow, you knew him, and you could see he seemed interested in your propositions. But your friend wasn’t one to give in to you so easily…
“ What do I win in this?”
” Being with me?” You smiled at him, trying to look as harmless as possible even with your fangs in display.
” Go alone.”
You scoffed as he smirked at your reaction. You sat up and looked at the sky, your tail moving behind you in quick motion, showing how reckless you were feeling. Your foot was stomping on the ground while you bit on your claws.
You didn’t want to go alone, but you truly wanted to see that festival… Why were the humans moving on the music? How did they know how to move? What was going on there?
You stopped fidgeting when you felt Sylus’s tail moving against yours. You turned your head toward him, seeing his eye shining as he stared at you. You tilted your head, waiting patiently for him to speak.
He sighed before standing up.
”Alright, but if I see something of value, I’m taking it first.”
You squealed in delight, your tail wagging behind you so fast, it hit Sylus’s side multiple times. He didn’t say anything, just smirked as he followed you, his own tail wagging in a more subtle way.
As you both approached the village, Sylus tugged you behind him. He stared at you for a full minute, making sure you understood that he was the one leading you. You rolled your eyes at him but stayed behind his small back. You looked above his shoulder, your eyes shining as you saw the people dancing.
How could they do that?
You peeked at Sylus’s profile and almost laughed as you saw his gaze focused on the golden necklace a lady was wearing. You could feel his tail slowly wagging against your leg.
Maybe you could steal it and offer the necklace to Sylus? He always loved gold, after all.
Your thoughts stilled when you heard a voice raising above the other. You tilted your head and saw a girl that looked like your age, singing while dancing with a boy. Your eyes couldn’t tear themselves from the happy duo. They were dancing in sync, never missing one step… you guessed.
”We can do better.”
You turned your face to Sylus, who was looking in the same direction as yours just a moment ago. He turned his face toward you with a confident smirk and took your hand. You both looked at the dancing duo before trying to reciprocate the same gesture.
You still didn’t understand the rhythm, but you giggled as you realised you were doing better than when you were up the hills. Sylus smirked at you before spinning you in the air.
You clapped your hand on your mouth to muffle your happy laugh, but your eyes were shining with delight, and your tail was moving happily behind you.
While the people around you were dancing, laughing in the light, you were doing the same, invisible to anyone, hidden in the shadow. While the dancing duo was in the light, dancing perfectly without messing a step, you and Sylus were hiding your giggles in the shadows, head butting or stepping on each other’s feet.
After a while, the people seemed to go to their house. You still wanted to enjoy this moment but the people who were making the music were leaving and after thirty minutes, the place was deserted. You pouted but gasped as Sylus tugged you in the middle of the plaza with a happy smirk.
You tilted your head as he bowed in front of you with a mocking smile. You realised he was mimicking the men who asked other ladies to dance. You took the pan of your skirt and bowed down to him, not before sticking your tongue at him.
He took your hand and made you spin with a bit too much strength, making you trip on your feet and fall on the floor. You lifted your head and looked at a confused Sylus before he burst out laughing.
You grinned before jumping on him, trying to make him fall.
Unaware to the both of you, a girl was looking at you, watching you and Sylus fight in a harmless brawl. The petite girl tilted her head as your laughters echoed in the plaza as you avoided Sylus’s tail.
She had never seen such a dance, but it looked pretty.
You turned your head to the side, as Sylus tried to catch you, and you froze as your eyes met the girl’s. She was the one who had sung and danced with the other boy. Sylus tackled you on the ground with a proud smirk, but he quickly followed your gaze and froze like you.
The three of you were not moving anymore. You could hear her heartbeat, which was way calmer than yours or Sylus’s.
Your dragon friend whispered in your ear, his eyes never leaving the girl’s form.
” We have to go. Quickly.”
You felt Sylus standing up, but as you sat up, the girl approached you with curiosity. You could hear him growling trying to intimidate the girl, but you quickly stopped him and stood up. you walked toward the girl, and you both looked at each other.
She was a human. A real human..
She wore a lot of jewelries, you were almost tempted to take some for yourself and Sylus. You could see her looking at you, maybe it was the first time she saw a dragon..? You felt Sylus’s tail wrapped around your ankle, trying to tug you closer to him.
The girl approached her hand toward your face, but Sylus took her wrist in her hand, his claws digging in her wrist, snarling at the girl whose face turned from curious to afraid.
” Don’t touch her.” He growled at her, his eyes shining with anger. Before you could try anything, you saw a flash of light going straight for you. You were projected away from Sylus and the girl, your back hitting the wall so hard it cracked behind you.
” Don’t touch her, fiend.”
You fell on your knees, your back hurting so much you felt like your wings were going to come out. You lifted your head toward the newcomer and realised he was the boy who had danced with the girl. He was in front of her, a sword in his small hand, pointing it at Sylus‘s direction, who was now in front of you, snarling at the two humans.
Sylus’s tail was moving frantically behind him, his posture ready to attack if needed. You quickly stood up , not wanting to show any sign of weakness to the boy, even after being smashed on the wall by… By what ? What did he use ?
You looked around and realised with fear that some people started to open their window to check what was going on in the plaza. You tugged Sylus’s tail toward you, whispering urgently.
” Let’s go Sylus… Quickly.”
”He hurted you.” He snarled, his anger seeming to multiply at the mention of you being hurt. You tugged him once again as you saw men coming out of their house with swords. You were quickly encircled.
Sylus was hiding you behind his back, snarling at any human who tried to take a step closer to the both of you. You could see that your friend was scared, but he wasn’t showing any sight of weakness to the men who tried to slash at him.
You snarled at the humans, trying to help Sylus, but your friend wasn’t having it. Each time he deemed you moved too close to the dangerous crowd, he tugged you behind you once more, keeping you behind his back.
You turned your eyes toward the girl, who was in the boy’s arms. She was looking at you, seeming so fused and terrified. An adult came to her and asked if she was injured if you hurt her. Your eyes widened, your blood boiling from rage as you saw her nod and pointing at you and Sylus’s direction.
Oh.
You jumped from Sylus back and ran toward the girl with your claw, ready to show her what was a real injury. But as you were ready to claw her face, you felt a sword penetrate your shoulder and pinning you on the floor.
The boy was staring at you with blue eyes, cold as ice. You tried to take off the blade, gasping as pain made your head dizzy. You heard Sylus call for you while the girl cried for the boy who seemed ready to kill you. You could see in his eyes that you were nothing more than a beast to get rid of.
” Xavier!”
You didn’t have the time to react before a roar came from the sky. You lifted your eyes and smiled in relief as your father in his dragon’s form dived toward the village, breathing fire on the houses. You gasped as the boy - Xavier - took his blade from your shoulder and ran to the girl, bringing her with him.
You looked around as the men were burning to ashes as your father roared once more. Sylus kneeled in front of you, looking at the blood pouring from your wound. You could see his panicked face but you couldn’t hear anything. You closed your eyes, feeling comforted in the warmth of your father’s fire.
You winced when you felt your father take you in his talons with Sylus and flew away from the village.
You opened your eyes and looked as You observed the festival’s decoration burning. the once happy village getting burned down to crisp. You turned your eyes toward Sylus who was looking at the village with disgust.
You winced when your father dropped you carefully on the floor. You raised your head as he took his humanoid form staring down at you and Sylus.
” Do your horns grow inside your head? Did it break anything in your brain?” Your father asked you, his tail moving calmly behind him even though you could see the anger and worry in his eyes. Sylus, and you didn’t answer. How could you? “ Go to the den. I need to make sure Philos’s guards won’t be knocking on our door.”
You watched your father leave, your tail hanging low. You hated seeing the disappointment on your father’s face…
” Look.”
You turned your head toward Sylus and gasped as he put a golden necklace in your palm. You lifted the jewelry, your eyes observing it with bliss. It was a golden chain with a star on it. You turned your head toward Sylus, dying of curiosity.
” When?”
” It belonged to that boy… Before he ran, I managed to take it from him. Don’t think he noticed it… but at least we have our first treasure.” Sylus smirked at you as you held the necklace. You took the golden star and threw it away. You purred as you put the necklace around one of your horns.
” How do I look?”
“ Better.”
You smiled as you realised Sylus had once again managed to make you feel better. You both snuggled together, your tails slapping each other when one was being too much.
You both thought your everyday life would be like this.
But what you didn’t expect was the Philos’s kingdom to make a purge of all the dragon. You didn’t expect to see your parents being murdered, screaming at you to run, while you plead for their life. You didn’t expect Sylus to save you as tears leaked from his eyes as he told you that his parents were killed too.
You didn’t expect to be the two last dragons remaining. You didn’t expect to cry while you and Sylus tried to cut your horns to look more like humans. You didn’t expect to kill a guard who was getting ready to kill Sylus.
You didn’t expect the both of you to become the most dangerous dragons that ever lived.
You didn’t expect to become a curse for the humans' realm.
“Still thinking about the past?”
You opened your eyes and looked at Sylus. Long gone was the small little dragon you used to tackle on the ground. He was towering over you, his features were sharp, his body was…
You shook your head before standing up from a pile of gold you had just brought back to your den. You stood up in front of Sylus.
You were smaller than him, but you were taller than the average female’s human. Your body had turned into a woman, you could see your reflection in water and… you wondered if you were attractive enough.
You were used to see disgust in people’s faces when they saw you or Sylus, which you couldn’t understand, the more you grew, the more you looked at your dragon childhood friend in another way. His arms, his back, his eyes, his lips… you wanted to claim him.
But how do you claim someone ?
And even if you knew, did Sylus want you the same way you wanted him. You still wrestled together. It was more interesting and exciting since you both had acquired more power.
Yet, you couldn’t help but clenched your legs when he was dominating you, his red eyes boring holes in you, daring you to challenge him. And sometimes you thought you could see a new glint in his eyes when you would bare your neck to him, admitting defeat.
You squealed when you felt him tug at your tail. You slapped his hand with a hiss, looking at his mocking smirk. He crossed his arms against his torso, raising one eyebrow.
” Did you not hear me?”
“ I tried to.”
You closed your eyes when you felt his hand going through your hair, putting another ornement on your horn. You purred without controlling yourself, seeking his warmth.
” You’re spoiling me…”
”So you can hear me. It seems like someone is going to come to kill us.” He whispered as he looked at you, making sure the jewelry wasn’t going to fall. You lifted an eyebrow, an ambushed smile on your lips. He smirked at your face, leaning toward him. “ How should we kill this one? It seems like this is a strong soldier that will fend the fiend…”
You tapped your lips while circling him in a predatory way that made him Smirk, his tail moving on the floor. You whispered in his ear, your hand sliding toward his chest.
”Let them think they have a chance…” You nipped at his ear, shivering at his deep growl. Was he affected by you or the thought of killing another assassin? You felt his tail wrapped around your ankle, squeezing tightly.
”And how do you want it to happen?” He whispered, his head tilting toward you. You smiled at him as you murmured your plan in his ear. You both planned your fun, not noticing how your bodies leaned against each other, starving for the other’s skin. You both didn’t realize how your tails wrapped themselves together, how your hips seemed to always seek his, how his hand never left your skin, how your lips were too close to his when you were whispering.
The next day would be another win for you, that is what you both believed.
And yet,
The next day would be the day Sylus and yourself would be sealed.
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